Page 4 of The Cornish Bride

The major looked miffed. “Damn you, Chatham, pushing in. I was here first.”

Ysella ignored the spat and wrote down Chatham’s name on her dance card, and with a smile for the venerable major, added his name as well. Whereupon she became aware of a growing crowd of young men surrounding them, all of them clamoring for an introduction and to be included for a dance. This was better than the ball last year at Denby Castle. Not only were the young men eager for her attentions slightly older and more sophisticated than the sons of the Wiltshire gentry, but they were also better looking.

She was just adding yet another name to her card when her mother hove into view with Cousin Marianne and Charlotte in tow. They rather had to shoulder their way through the throng to reach Ysella.

“Ysella, there you are,” Mama said, bestowing her most withering frown on the gathering of beaux, but most particularly on the captain. “You should not have left poor Charlotte alone like that. You must think before you act, my dear.”

Captain Featherstone stepped forward and made a bow. “Lady Ormonde.” He smiled at her as he rose. “I would know you anywhere for your lovely daughter is cast in your image. Had I not known better, I’d have taken you for Miss Carlyon’s older sister.” He smiled. “Allow me to introduce myself. Captain Oliver Featherstone of the West London Militia, at your service.”

Mama didn’t alter her expression of disapproval by one iota. Not a woman to be swayed by casual flattery. Ysella wanted to giggle but suppressed the urge.

Captain Featherstone seemed unfazed by Mama’s matronly disapproval though. “Might I call upon you tomorrow at Ormonde House?”

Mama wanted to say no. Ysella could feel it in every pore of her body. But manners dictated that she should say yes. With no hint of welcome on her face, Mama bowed her head in acquiescence. “That would be most pleasant, but not before one, please, Captain Featherstone.”

Ysella glanced at Charlotte, who’d pulled her muslin shawl about her body as though in an effort to protect herself from the gaze of the crowd of eager young men. Not that any of them were looking at her. They only seemed to have eyes for Ysella. Inspired by her promise to be nice to Charlotte, and still guilty after her discovery that her teasing had been viewed as bullying, the conviction that she could do something helpful for her cousin came over Ysella. “This is my dear cousin, Miss Fortescue,” she announced with a cheery smile for the assembled crowd of young men. “I’m sure all you young gentlemen would love to dance with her as well as with me.”

Charlotte’s face took on a mulish expression and the shawl tightened as some of the more polite young men turned their attention to her.

Mama’s face became even more disapproving.

Ysella frowned. What had she done now? Surely helping to fill Charlotte’s dance card was to be smiled upon?

Lieutenant Chatham made Cousin Charlotte a smart bow. “Miss Fortescue, might I trouble you to put my name on your dance card?”

Charlotte shot a pleading glance at her mother, who moved in for the kill. “Of course you may, young man. Charlotte. Get out your card and pencil.”

The next glance that came from Charlotte was for Ysella, and it was not a pleading one. With her brows set in a heavy scowl, she consented, under her mother’s strict supervision, to writing down the names of half a dozen young men on her card, all the while shooting death stares at Ysella.

The music for the next dance began, and Ysella, with a cheery smile for Mama and Cousin Marianne and not even a glance for Charlotte, twirled off onto the dance floor with the lieutenant.

A determination to discover more about Oliver Featherstone seized her. And, as the lieutenant knew him, this gave her the perfect opportunity to employ her interrogation skills.

“How long have you known Captain Featherstone?” she asked, deciding not to beat about the bush, as she and the lieutenant came together and danced a figure.

The young man seemed somewhat put out that she wanted to talk about his friend. “Wouldn’t you rather tell me about yourself?” he asked, setting a hot hand in hers.

Determined not to be distracted, Ysella shook her head. “I am so boring. All I’ve ever done is live in the country with my mother and brother. Whereas you brave soldiers must have many exciting stories to tell. And although you are scarcely older than I am, the captain looks as though he has some years of service you could tell me about.”

The lieutenant frowned as they parted, and when they came together again, he heaved a deep sigh. “It’s only the London Militia, you know. Not one of Wellington’s crack regiments.”

Ysella smiled her sweetest smile. “On the contrary. You have a vitally important role to play. My brother has told me so concerning our Wiltshire Militia. It is beholden upon you brave men to defend the country and our lives while the main force of our armies is on the continent with Wellington himself.” She dimpled. “Just in case the French turn up on our doorsteps.”

The young man colored at the lavish praise, even though she’d been aiming it at Featherstone and not him. He probably didn’t realize that. “I’ve only known Featherstone a year, since I took up my commission.”

“My mama would want to know what sort of a family he comes from,” Ysella said, deciding her wisest move was to discover everything Mama would want to know, lest a disagreement might arrive in the near future. She might need ammunition to hurl back.

“And you wish to know that too?”

Ysella nodded. “And why not? Does he have what my brother would call prospects?”

Chatham laughed. “I daresay. I believe his father is a bishop. I doubt you can get much more respectable than that.”

A bishop. The thought of the captain having been brought up in a religious household surprised Ysella, but would no doubt mollify Mama and Kit somewhat. He had such an air of… what? Of nothing mattering to him. Not religion or politics or what a girl’s mother thought of him. That warm feeling around her heart descended into her stomach and made it give a little flip. No son of a bishop should possess the air of latent excitement she’d sensed in the captain. With unusual perspicacity, she concluded he could only be a disappointment to his father. And a delight for a young girl with a romantic heart.

Major Hamilton, when it was his turn to escort her onto the dance floor, proved a little more helpful. “His father is the Bishop of Bath and Wells,” he told Ysella during the moments the dance brought them together. “I believe his mother is dead and he has one sister, younger than him. He’s a damned good soldier.”

“Does he have… is he attached to a particular young lady?” Ysella asked, coloring as the words came out, not at all sure how to couch such an enquiry.