Page 9 of A Murder, a Marquess, and Miss Mifford
Squaring his shoulders, which sported a dark dinner jacket of fine merino-wool, Freddie made his way toward the gathered Mifford clan. Miss Mifford stood in the company of an older woman with fading blonde hair, wearing a rather gaudy dress, and a diminutive elderly lady in a mob-cap and spectacles. Freddie was wondering how he might insert himself into their circle--for though he had conversed with Miss Mifford, they had not officially been introduced--when the Duke of Northcott and his new wife materialised at their side.
That would do, Freddie thought cheerfully; he was acquainted with Northcott from both Eton and their shared club, White's.
Just as Freddie was pondering how he might insouciantly draw the duke's attention, his wife elbowed him in the ribs and nodded her head, quite obviously, in Freddie's direction. Northcott first winced, for the duchess had put enormous effort into elbowing him, then turned and caught Freddie's eye.
"Lord Chambers," Northcott drawled, as Freddie neared, "Nice to see you amongst polite society for a change."
"One has to venture outside White's every now and then," Freddie agreed, "Lest one forgets what is and isn't acceptable behaviour in front of the ladies."
Both men guffawed a little, amused by their true masculine nature, until the duchess cleared her throat impatiently.
"Ah, yes," Northcott--to Freddie's surprise--looked chastised; the duchess must crack a hard whip, he surmised, "Allow me to introduce my wife, Lord Chambers. I don't think you've met?"
The duke introduced his new duchess, followed by her mother--who fluttered her eyelashes and smiled manically at him--then the duchess' two sisters, Miss Mifford and Miss Eudora Mifford.
Freddie did a double-take at the final name offered to him, for from a distance he had assumed the youngest Mifford girl--who wore a mob-cap over her hair, was bundled up in several heavy shawls, and was carrying a cane--to be an elderly lady.
"My sisters are experiencing their first season in town," the duchess said, once the lengthy introductions had been made. She smiled, slightly less manically than her mother, at Freddie and waited for him to respond.
"Is that so?" Freddie glanced at Miss Mifford, who looked rather mutinous at having to engage in polite conversation with him, "Then it behoves me to ask them both for a dance."
"Oh," the duchess rushed, "You don't need to ask themboth, Emily will do."
The duchess gave her sister an indiscreet shove, and Emily stumbled forward. Northcott, Freddie noted, was trying to hide an amused smile behind his gloved hand, but was failing miserably. His wife's matchmaking machinations were about as subtle as a knock to the head from Gentleman Jackson, but there was an honest earnestness to the duchess that Freddie found endearing--as though she simply wished everyone to be as happy as she so obviously was.
"Miss Mifford," Freddie bowed elegantly, "Shall I lead the way?"
"Please," Miss Mifford replied in the affirmative, though her tone told a different story.
Freddie gallantly promised the group that he would return the young lady in one piece after the dance--causing Mrs Mifford to swoon at his gallantry--and led the young lady away to the dance-floor.
"You do not seem best pleased, Miss Mifford," Freddie observed, as they waited by the side of the floor for the current set to come to an end.
"Of course I'm not," she answered, with surprising honesty, "If you had an elder sister and she pushed--literally pushed!--you in front of a gentleman whose head was already swollen enough, without having ladies thrown at him, would you be best pleased?"
"My head is not swollen," Freddie replied, though he did allow himself a rueful smile, "Well, it's notthatswollen. It was clear as day that you did not wish to dance with me, so do not worry that I think you in love with me--you made it very clear last night that you are not."
"Emphatically not," Miss Mifford confirmed, before frowning a little as a thought struck her, "If you knew that I did not want to dance with you, then why did you ask me?"
"BecauseIwished to dance withyou," Freddie smiled, for it was the truth, "And it delights me a little to torture you. I don't know what that says about my character, but I suppose that is of little concern when you already hold me in low regard."
Miss Mifford opened her mouth, as though to chastise him, but the set they were watching had come to an end, and there was a kerfuffle as the next set of dancers sought to replace them. Glad that the commotion meant he would not have to listen to another lecture on his own hubris, Freddie took Miss Mifford's hand and led her to a trio of couples whom they would join for a Quadrille.
The dance was a quick one, with much interchanging of partners, which further saved Freddie from any of Miss Mifford's ire. Her annoyance with him vanished the moment they began to dance; Miss Mifford gave the impression of someone who was having tremendous fun, and she smiled generously and laughed often as she was whirled from partner to partner.
She was, Freddie guessed, when not in his company, a very cheerful and pleasant soul.
Her enjoyment was charming, for the fashionable set usually made a great show of finding everything--even dancing--tired and dull. Amongst some members of theton,expressingennuiwas a competitive sport.
When the music ended, Freddie felt a pang of regret, but he held out his arm for Miss Mifford to take and returned her to her family as promised.
"Until we meet again, Miss Mifford," Freddie said, holding those blue eyes a fraction longer than was entirely proper.
Not that the duchess or Mrs Mifford minded his mild impropriety, both women were all pink blushes as they bid Freddie goodbye, only Miss Eudora scowled at him owlishly from behind her spectacles.
Freddie took his leave and returned to aimlessly circling the ballroom, stopping occasionally to speak with acquaintances. He kept one eye on Lady Hardthistle at all times, but she was mercifully occupied, speaking with the other grand doyennes of society, or occasionally harassing the young folk, like poor Mr Fitzgibbons and his friend Mr Bunting.
As the night wore on, Freddie became increasingly restless. His dance with Miss Mifford was to be, he feared, the highlight of his evening. Even the thought of escaping for a sneaky tumbler of brandy and a cheroot at his club could not pull him from the vague feeling of emptiness which had settled upon his soul.
