The Birth of Blue Satan Read Online Free PDF Page B

ballroom, Hester had for once indulged herself in daydreams of a more fanciful sort.
    Well , she sighed, as the minuet drew to a close. There’s no harm in dreams, as long as I don’t allow myself to believe in them .
    Isabella’s escort, Sir Harrowby Fitzsimmons, his long, black wig trailing below the shoulders of his embroidered puce coat, was mincing his way to Mrs. Mayfield’s side, his partner’s tiny hand rested lightly in his. His fatuous gaze shifted often from Isabella’s face to those of the gentlemen they passed. Clearly the other men’s envy added to the lightness in his step.
    All eyes had turned to watch Isabella’s progress through the room, naturally drawn to the sight of golden curls, radiant cheeks, and a more than generous bosom spilling over the bodice of a damask gown. Mrs. Mayfield had spared no expense on Isabella’s ball dress, her cunning eye knowing just the hues to enhance the effect of Isabella’s natural charms. Tonight’s pale pink, with her smooth, white skin and her lovely blue eyes, made her appear a delectable confection of softly spun sugar, sure to be sweet to the tongue.
    Returning Isabella to her mother’s side, Sir Harrowby paused to make her a perfect bow while raising her fingers to his lips.
    “Mrs. Mayfield,” he said, in his arch voice. “I protest, I vow! My enchanting partner informs me that I must surrender her to you, for she insists that his Grace of Bournemouth has claimed her for the next dance. I implore you to use your kindness in my behalf and persuade her to forsake his Grace, or she will surely break my heart.”
    Isabella giggled, her ringlets bounced, and she tapped Sir Harrowby with her fan. “Why, sir, your pretty speech has given me such a blush, his Grace will think I’ve been out in the sun.”
    “Fie, Sir Harrowby!” Mrs. Mayfield exclaimed. “You have a silver tongue, sir, and you mean to sway my little girl yet. But you must not, you know, for you would do her great harm if you was to make her offend his Grace.”
    Beneath her aunt’s bantering was a harsher note. Hester knew it for a warning. Mrs. Mayfield would never consent to Isabella’s marrying a mere baronet if she had any chance of catching a peer, and Isabella’s odds in that direction looked remarkably high.
    Since her first appearance at Court, Isabella had turned the head of more than one young gentleman, including Sir Harrowby’s cousin, the Viscount St. Mars, who for the past two months had appeared the clear favourite for her hand. Handsome and wealthy, and in line for an earldom, Gideon Fitzsimmons had fulfilled all of Mrs. Mayfield’s dreams—until the Duke of Bournemouth, a man of fifty, with his headier title already secured, displayed an interest in the race.
    Isabella seemed delighted with her current partner, although she was not above throwing his rivals in his face. Sir Harrowby had the perfect combination of manners and address, minute attention to his garb, and (to Hester’s way of thinking) complete lack of mental spark to appeal to Isabella’s tastes. If she longed to hear insipid verses and naughty jokes, Sir Harrowby would be more than willing and able to oblige. But to win her, he would have to do better than claim, as he had throughout the evening, that King George was thinking of conferring a Household office upon him.
    Hester had not yet gone to Court. Mrs. Mayfield said she did not own a gown that was fine enough to pass the Beefeaters’ scrutiny. Still, she had heard the gossip that said his Majesty had been shockingly slow in making his appointments. Since his grand procession from Greenwich to Westminster last September, he had kept much to himself, refusing to fill the most important posts with Englishmen. Instead, he had surrounded himself with the dozens of Germans he had brought from Hanover, his two German mistresses, two Turks whom he had made grooms of the bedchamber, and a dwarf who seemed to fill no purpose at all.
    Unable to speak