Of Ballrooms and Biscuits

Regency Period Romance 

Featuring: Gray, Nick, and Female Button  

Grayson Black was not a rake.

This was, many of the ton considered, a regretful flaw in the Earl of Wacker’s otherwise enticing personage. Reformed rakes were of course known to make the best husbands, and ambitious mamas despaired at his conspicuous absence from scandal sheets. If Lord Black kept a paramour, he did so discretely. If he drank to excess, it was never at balls. Gambling hell proprietors winced at his unprofitable presence, for Lord Black never gambled more than he could afford to lose, and he lost very rarely.

Grayson Black was, for lack of a more prestigious adjective, dull.

This trait which made him unremarkable, however, made him inimitably marriageable. Not for the most in-demand debutants, of course—those glittering, hardened diamonds hunted for aforementioned rakes, dashing and oh-so reformable. But to girls on their third or even (perish the thought!) fourth season? There was no more promising, if unexciting, potential suitor than the Earl of Wacker. Because, in addition to being dull, Grayson Black was nice.

He danced with wilting wallflowers, and escorted elderly dowagers to dinner with a patient smile. His conversation sometimes came across as stilted during dinners, but what more could one reasonably expect from a man who preferred (genuinely preferred, rather than being forced into seclusion by creditors) to live at his country estate instead of in London? Any wife would surely follow him to social exile, of course, which was another reason that Grayson Black fell somewhat low on the list of promising matches despite his admittedly fine features and Davidian jawline.

And if the word most commonly used in conjunction with Lord Black was “unobjectionable,” well, there were far worse descriptors. Take the Earl’s best friend, for instance, the rakish, reckless, hellish, disreputable, dastardly, and utterly charming Marquis of Hyacinth. Lord Nicholas Wiseman was the ton’s most dangerous darling, sought after by single, and oftentimes married, ladies as much for his wicked personality as for the dukedom he stood to inherit. Polite Society (where “polite” meant “rich and titled”) failed to quite comprehend the friendship between the two men: one, a rake of first water; the other, a mild-mannered bumpkin. But then again, Polite Society never espied Lords Black and Wiseman when they were alone, as they were now, drinking brandy in Nicholas’s study.

“You won’t marry her, then?” Nick asked, morosely staring at the bottom of his empty glass yet too lethargic to refill it himself. “T’would make my life easier, y’know.”

Grayson reached for the decanter, rolling his eyes at his friend’s forlorn expression. “I’m not marrying your sister in order for you to avoid taking her to balls. God’s blood, Nick, she’s only eighteen!”

“Alas, old enough to wed.” Nick thrust out his glass for Grayson to refill. “And it won’t only be balls. My mother insists that I accompany them to Almack’s. Almack’s! Until Ellery snares a husband, my nights shall be filled with simpering misses and tepid lemonade.”

“I hardly think either will kill you,” Grayson noted dryly.

Nick glowered at his friend before throwing back his brandy. “My mother, however, might, should I attempt to ‘neglect my duty’ as escort.”

“Regardless, you’ll need to find an alternative escape.”

Nick groaned. “We’d be brothers, if you and Ell married. Don’t you want to be my brother?”

“Not particularly.” In truth, Grayson already considered the Marquis to be family, and had ever since the two studied together at Oxford. Right now, he refused to admit as much, sensing that, in Nick’s inebriated state, any expression of fraternal affection would be taken as a request for his younger sister’s hand in marriage.

“You’d like her, Gray,” Nick insisted. “Ellery, that is. She’s smart. Doesn’t simper.”

Implication: the chit was a bluestocking. While Gray personally found intellectual women to be enjoyable conversationalists, he possessed no desire to become betrothed to one whom he’d never met. He refilled his own brandy then Nick’s once-again empty glass.

“To your sister, may we never meet,” Gray said, raising his glass in the air.

“To my sister, may she quickly wed.”

Their cups clinked together in a salute to bachelordom, both too distracted and drunk to notice a concurrent click as the door to Nick’s study softly shut.

*****

In the nearby hallway, Ellery clenched her fists. She hadn’t seen Nick’s friend, only overheard their conversation through the cracked-open door, but no doubt Lord Black’s face was as repugnant as his snobbish personality.

A nuisance, was she? To be hastily pawned off by her brother to another equally self-important man. Why, he’d offered her to Lord Black before she even officially debuted! As if she were a racehorse or a bloodhound, to be relinquished after losing a hand of piquet. Rage frothed inside her. Given Nick’s egregious behavior, she was half-determined to remain a spinster for life simply to spite him.

Part of her did want to marry, to have the kind of love shared by her father and mother. But she didn’t want to find a spouse right away, before she even had time to find herself. Now that she was finally in London, she wanted to experience the city. To visit the British Museum, and witness Edmund Kean preform on stage. If she chose to wed, it would on her own schedule, after she’d enjoyed her fill of society life.

One thing she swore: her future husband would most certainly not be Lord Grayson Black.

*****

Six months later, Ellery had visited the British Museum and applauded Kean on stage multiple times. What she had not done, much to Nick’s chagrin, was wed. Nor had she ever been formally introduced to Grayson, due to Grayson’s determination to never attend a party where she was also present in order to discourage Nick’s persistent flight of fancy about a match between his sister and best friend (which Nick became increasingly inclined to suggest the longer Ellery remained unwed), and due to Ellery’s own contrivance to avoid the Earl whom had unknowingly insulted her. With the season concluding and no potential engagement in sight, Ellery and Grayson continued to doggedly avoid each other.

Their orbits would have never crossed, were it not for their shared love of biscuits.

Lady Cowper’s ball was the final Grand Event of the season. There would continue to be smaller events in London, of course, but most families of note planned to retire back to their country estates for the summer. As one such, Grayson found himself obligated to attend lest he insult the ton’s most powerful (and vindictive) hostess. Ellery attended because Nick insisted it was her last chance to find a beau and thus save him from needing escort her around next year, since their father, the Duke, eschewed London entirely in order to personally manage his lands and tenets.

So it was that Ellery Wiseman and Grayson Black, exhausted with having their toes trodden by their respective dance partners, each found themselves in Lady Cowper’s kitchen, the ballroom refreshments having long since been reduced to crumbs scattered across silver platters. They both escaped after the Vienna Waltz, although Grayson, having the longer legs, arrived below stairs first.

Mrs. Branham, Lady Cowper’s cook, wrung her hands, distraught that she had nothing remaining but shortbread to serve such a prestigious guest.

“I adore shortbread,” Grayson assured the cook, which was true.

Ellery arrived soon after, only to discover that her plan to escape the sweaty ballroom for sweets had already been commandeered. She quickly ducked a curtsy, cheeks burning.

“Apologies!” she stuttered. “I wasn’t aware—that is, I didn’t expect to find—”

Gray couldn’t help but take pity on the flustered girl (nor fail to note how fetching she looked in her green muslin dress). He held out his plate.

“Shortbread?” he offered.

Her face snapped up to meet his. A lush fringe of lashes framed wide eyes that twinkled with repressed mirth despite the impropriety of their meeting. Gray suddenly felt as though he had gone a round at Gentleman Jack’s and had the wind knocked out of him.

“Thank you,” the girl said.

“For what?” he asked dumbly, entranced by the way her eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled.

“For the shortbread,” she reminded him, selecting a piece off his plate. “As well as your silence, I hope. It’s not very proper for a young lady to accept shortbread from strangers.”

“You have my utmost discretion.” Gray struggled to tear his gaze from her mouth as she bit into the shortbread. “It is, after all, superior shortbread.”

“It truly is.” The girl gave a small moan of bliss as she finished the biscuit. “I should return,” she admitted reluctantly. “I didn’t expect anyone else to be here, and without a chaperone—”

Gray looked around and realized that Mrs. Branham had indeed left, most likely to try and scrounge up other sustenance for the upstairs ballroom, seeing as noble guests were becoming so hungry that they intruded upon her realm. Distracted as he’d been by the girl’s delight when consuming the biscuit, he hadn’t noticed the cook leave.

“Of course,” he said. Then, unable to think of anything else that would delay the girl’s departure, which he realized he did wish to delay, he blurted out, “Do you dance?”

She laughed at him.

****

If gossip spread that Ellery fled ballrooms in search of snacks, she wouldn’t be able to find a husband even when she decided that she finally wanted one. Prudence dictated that she should have departed the moment that she caught sight of the fair-haired man with piercing blue eyes and crumbs dusting his lower lip. But then he’d grinned and offered her a biscuit, and she’d always had a weakness for shortbread and handsome smiles.

Ellery hadn’t meant to snicker when he asked if she could dance. It had been in the height of rudeness to do so. But his question was so asinine, yet so earnestly expressed, that she couldn’t help but be in equal parts charmed and amused.

“We are attending a ball,” she said. “It would be extremely irregular if I didn’t know how to dance.”

“Yet I met you in the kitchens,” he noted, “which is already irregular. Is it so misguided that I might conclude that you wished to avoid trampling some poor suitor’s feet? Or perhaps your betrothed’s?”

Despite knowing that propriety required that she take offense at his forthrightness, Ellery only smiled. “I am not engaged,” she said. “And I’m a marvelous dancer.” The last sentence may have been a slight (or perhaps more than slight) exaggeration, but it was a lady’s prerogative to advertise herself.

The stranger grinned. “Good.”

She blinked. “Which part?”

Instead of answering, the man set aside his plate and stood. “We can’t return together, obviously,” he said. “Not without creating a scandal.”

“A scandal over shortbread,” Ellery mused. “How absurd.”

His grin widened. “Would you object if I requested an introduction? Surely, we must have a mutual acquaintance, Miss . . .”

“Wiseman,” she boldly provided. “Miss Ellery Wiseman.”

His hand caught on the kitchen table as if to steady himself, and his breath audibly whooshed from his lungs. “Miss Ellery Wiseman,” he repeated.

Ellery cocked her head to the side. “Is something the matter?”

“No. That is—no. Nothing is the matter. I’ll stay down here and give you time to return.”

“Oh.” She tried not to be disappointed by his suddenly chill dismissal. “Alright.”

He called out to her as she turned towards the stairs. “Don’t forget! You promised me a dance.”

Ellery bit her lip to keep from grinning as she cast a look back his way. “I didn’t, actually,” she teased. “After all, sir, we still haven’t been formally introduced.”

“An oversight on my part which will be swiftly rectified,” he replied.

****

Back in Lady Cowper’s ballroom, Nick struggled not to crow with victory. Instead, he kept his expression schooled to detached disinterest as Gray marched across the ballroom.

“I would like an introduction to your sister,” Gray said grimly when he neared.

Nick dropped his jaw in feigned shock, as if it hadn’t been his subtle suggestion whispered into two sets of ears that had sent his sister and best friend down to the kitchen. Then he smiled and clasped Gray on the back.

“About time,” Nick said. “About damned time.”