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Wimpleton’s Christmas Ball

Mayfair, London England

15 December 1820

Half of eleven o’clock

Jason leaned a shoulder against a wall adorned with Chinese silk damask wallpaper. Birds and blossoms covered the wall in shades of pale aqua-blue, peachy pinks, and saffron. The paper was a bit busy for his taste.

He flicked his pocket watch closed after determining the time had come for setting his plan in motion. Acquainted with few of those in attendance, it had been easy to stick to the shadows and corners—to remain unobtrusive and inconspicuous until the moment was right.

In point of fact, that wasn’t precisely accurate.

At least a dozen females had boldly assessed him in the manner a horse breeder might eye a possible stud for his broodmares. Females needn’t be scantily clad and sauntering the docks or loitering near the countless unsavory pubs and gaming dens to have a harlot’s heart beating within their breasts.

The difference was, the unfortunate women prostituting themselves on the streets had little recourse. The perfumed and powdered Society ladies who readily offered up their voluptuous charms did. But because only the former did so for a fee, she was degraded and demeaned.

Jason made a slow sweep of the ballroom with his gaze. The rise and fall of chatter and laughter blended with the orchestra. Elegantly attired women, dripping in jewels and swathed in silk and satin, circled the sanded ballroom floor with regal gentlemen, almost all wearing identical evening black.

Across the room, Grandmother sat busily chatting with her cronies. She pointed her hand-painted, black lace-edged fan toward a portly dandy stuffed into an orange ensemble better suited to forty years ago. He ought to have chosen black like most of the other gentlemen present. All the fellow needed was a towering wig and a heart-shaped mouche on his face to appear a complete fopping coxcomb.

Suddenly, the intimate little group erupted into peals of laughter.

Jason didn’t want to know what his grandmother had said to send her compatriots into fits of the giggles, but he could well guess.

He’d wager his small fortune the gentleman’s unfortunate choice of wardrobe combined with his spindly legs and round torso had him relegated to a citrus fruit—an orange or tangerine, or perhaps a tropical fruit such as a papaya.

Not one of Grandmother’s coconspirators was a day under seventy. All appeared to be having a grand time poking fun at several other dandies or ladies who’d made a poor choice in dress this evening.

Jason was acquainted with Allen Wimpleton, his hosts’ son, and he hadn’t had to press his friend hard to ensure he received an invitation to tonight’s ball. It seemed London’s holiday season couldn't officially begin until the Wimpletons launched the festivities with their annual Christmastide ball. It was a much-anticipated event amongst le beau monde.

The ball heralded the distinction of boasting at least one couple becoming betrothed every year since its inception nearly three decades ago.

He and Grandmother had only been here an hour. She’d insisted on arriving fashionably late—a trend he thought perhaps was more popular thirty years ago than presently. Since setting aside her mourning weeds, Grandmother had attended balls, routs, assemblies, and the like with the eagerness of a first-Season debutante.

Jason had often pondered just how controlling and restrictive his grandfather had been. Grandmother wouldn’t discuss him nor anything about her deceased husband. Nonetheless, her features hardened around the edges, and a slightly haunted shadow dimmed the sparkle in her brown-eyed gaze whenever the dead earl was mentioned.

Jason was glad she was determined to live the remainder of her life to the fullest. Just last night at dinner, she’d announced that she was considering whether she might take a tour of the continent.

“I wish to see something of the world before I die, Jason.”

Not by herself, by God. And not with only Myrtle as her companion. Maybe his mother would agree to accompany her. She and Father were expected from America any day now.

It took him somewhat by shock to realize how protective he’d become of his grandmother in the last year and a half. He sincerely worried about her and was concerned she was overdoing it since her recent ill-health. She only managed evening activities by taking a several hours long nap beforehand. Tonight, she’d slept until eight, when her maid had awoken her and dressed her for the ball.

A grin edged Jason’s mouth up on one side.

She was resplendent in vivid poppy-red and gold tonight. He vowed an entire flock of parrots had given up their plumage for her coiffure. Her evident happiness caused a swell of emotion behind his ribs.

He didn’t know much about his grandfather, but if his delightful, big-hearted wife and kind, soft-spoken daughter were happier with the sod removed from their lives, Jason didn’t need to know more. The previous Earl of Darlington-Pope had been a tosspot.

Just as Jason had determined to seek out Lenora, a trio of resplendent dames sailed past and spied him lurking near a column. They looked him over from head to toe.

“Isn’t he that American sea captain?” the rounded lady with prominent front teeth lisped sotto voce.

“Hmm,” another with enough bosom exposed a stork might nest in her ample cleavage mused. She trailed her tongue over her lower lip and stared boldly at Jason’s groin. “I don’t care what country he’s from, only how skilled he is with his sword,” she purred.

He cringed inwardly, put off by her attempt at bold seduction.