The slow dance of formalities began. It appeared that the fair young man was Adrian Drummond, Lord Kinloch, from Argyll, and that his companion was Mr Nicholas Cameron of Strathdene Castle in Sutherland. Emma blushed and stammered at them. The lowly companion was introduced as an afterthought. Nick and Adrian had spent the early part of the evening discreetly inspecting those young women present whom they had not seen before. As usual they had found little to please them. Nick indeed had gone so far as to mutter to Adrian, “I don’t think much of the current crop of beauties if this is the cream of it.”
Adrian had replied dolefully, “Lord, yes. Mother is going to be disappointed again. Not one of them is a patch on Kitty.”
His cousin could not but agree with him, and when their mutual relative, the Marquis of Exford, had come up to them saying enthusiastically, “There’s a pretty little filly here tonight that I think you two rogues ought to meet. That is, if you’re both determined to marry, which Kinloch here says that you are,” Nick had groaned, “Let him speak for himself—I’m in no great hurry to acquire a leg-shackle.”
Exford smiled mockingly. “They’re taking bets in the clubs that both of you will be hooked by the Season’s end. If you really meant what you said, Cameron, I’ll lay a few pounds on you not being reeled in. Let me know if you change your mind.”
Nick was not sure that he cared for being the subject of gossip and bets made by bored and light-minded men. Adrian, however, had smirked a little, much as he was now doing at Emma.
“Charmed to make your acquaintance,” he was saying, and he was not being completely untruthful. She was after all one of the best of the poor crop which he had so far encountered, being blonde and pretty if a touch pale. He thought that if he married her, providing himself with an heir was not going to be too difficult a task. Exford had also told him on the way over that she had a useful, if not a grand, portion.
Not of course, that that mattered overmuch. Owning half of Scotland—only the Duke of Sutherland was richer than Adrian—meant that he was able to indulge his fancy where a bride was concerned.
Athene realised from Emma’s flutterings that she was finding this gorgeous specimen overwhelming: he was so different from the callow young men whom she had met at Assembly dances at home. When he bent down from his great height and said softly, “I am already claimed for the first few dances, Miss Tenison, but I should be enchanted if you would stand up with me in the quadrille,” she went an unlovely scarlet, looked frantically first at Athene and then at her beaming mama, before saying, “You do me too great an honour, Lord Kinloch.”
“Not at all,” he swiftly, and gallantly, replied. “It is you who are doing me the honour, Miss Tenison.”
At this, Emma blushed again and agreed to stand up with him. Satisfied, Adrian said, still gallant, “You will forgive me, I trust, if I leave you now. I must find my partner for the next dance. I shall be sure to visit you in good time for ours.”
Nick said to him when they strolled away to find their partners, “I thought that she was going to faint when you asked her to dance. Are you sure that you wish to pursue such a shy creep-mouse? I will allow that she is pretty enough for you, but she would not be my choice for a wife.”
“Oh, I like ’em shy,” said his cousin, “while you, you dog, like them talkative and striking—or in need of assistance in some way. I half-thought that you might have offered the companion a turn on the floor—it must be a great bore to stand up all night watching out for her charge.”
“You mean grey-eyed Pallas,” said Nick. “One can only just detect the colour of Miss Filmer’s eyes under that horrendous cap. She has a good figure, though, and by the cut of it she is not much older than her charge. Odd, that.”
“Pallas?” queried Adrian, puzzled. “I thought that Emma’s father said that her name was Athene.”
Nick laughed. It was patent that if Adrian had learned anything about the mythology of the ancient Greeks while he was at Oxford he had promptly forgotten it. “Athene was the goddess of wisdom in the ancient world,” he said, “and one of her names was grey-eyed Pallas. She had an owl as an attendant, too. I wonder if Miss Filmer sports one.”
“Should think not,” complained Adrian, “not much use at a ball, owls. Nor at the theatre, either,” he added as an afterthought. “You do come out with some weird things, Nick.”
Behind them Mrs Tenison was busily reproaching Emma for being so backward in welcoming Lord Kinloch’s advances.
“I wonder at you, child, I really do. A handsome young man of great fortune makes a fuss of you and all that you can do is blush and stutter. Here is your great chance. Be sure to talk to him if he chooses to talk to you, and if he wishes to meet you again then by all means accept any invitation he cares to make.”
“But I really do feel sick, Mama,” faltered Emma. “It is very hot in here—and he is so…so…”
She wanted to say that Adrian frightened her because he was like a prince in a fairy tale and surely he could not be interested in a country girl like herself.
Athene, listening to this, wondered why Mr Tenison did not defend his daughter a little. She thought wryly that if Lord Kinloch had asked her to dance with him she would have accepted his offer with alacrity—charming alacrity of course. While she felt sorry for Emma, she could not help feeling impatient with her. Now had the dark man, Nicholas Cameron, offered to stand up with her she could have understood her charge’s reluctance.
She had not liked the assessing way in which he had looked at them. He had even examined her carefully—not that he could tell what she really looked like beneath her appalling turn-out. Was it possible that this whole business was a great mistake? How in the world was she ever going to be able to charm anyone while standing like an ill-dressed scarecrow, mute behind her unkind patroness?
Emma said again, “I really do not feel very well, Mama,” to which her mother replied angrily, “Stuff, Miss Tenison, stuff!”
Mr Tenison put in a gentle oar. “Do you not think that you ought to take note of what our daughter is telling you, my dear?”
His wife turned on him angrily. “No, indeed, Mr Tenison. You ought to be aware of her whim-whams by now. It is time that she grew up. I do not hear Athene whining and wailing about her situation. If we give way to Emma every time she whimpers we might as well not have visited London at all.”
Mr Tenison subsided, and no wonder, thought Athene. He said not another word until Lord Kinloch returned with Nick in tow. He had cajoled him into offering the companion a turn on the floor. “I need to get to know the family better,” being the bait he had offered his cousin. “It would be as well to have the young dragon on my side.”
Nick had refrained from pointing out that judging by the dominant mother’s behaviour the whole family would be on his side if he began to court Emma so that there was no need to humour the companion. But for all his good looks and self-assurance Adrian was basically modest.
In any case the poet Burns had once written that “the best laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley”. Those of Adrian and Mrs Tenison certainly did. Adrian had scarcely had time to bow a welcome to Emma before she sprang to her feet, and face grey, fled from the ballroom, her hands over her mouth, wailing gently.
Mrs Tenison sprang to her feet also and charged after her. Athene was about to follow, but Mr Tenison now also standing
