The Reluctant Husband by Madeleine Conway

type—quite the reverse. Her memory was of a shambolic, almost ragged boy who favored black, emulating Hamlet, taking to mourning on his wedding day. Immediately, her eyes scanned the floor in search of a darkly dressed figure.
    She could identify no likely candidate, but her eye was caught by a man leaning against a doorway at the far end of the huge ballroom. He wore the clothes of two centuries earlier, in the style of followers of the cavalier King Charles I. He was clean-shaven, with long black hair which spilled over a high lace collar onto the shoulders of his pewter velvet jacket, fastened with tiny buttons and slashed to reveal white lawn beneath. His three-quarter-length trousers, tucked into black boots of Spanish leather, were of the same stuff as the jacket. Idly, he swung in his right hand a wide-brimmed hat of black felt adorned with a single scarlet plume.
    The fellow reminded Cecilia powerfully of a portrait she had seen, although she could not quite remember where or when. He seemed to be watching her, but her attention was then distracted as another young gallant, wearing lurid, particolored hose and a green-and-red-checked doublet, invited her to dance. She stepped onto the floor with her Florentine dandy and in her effort to recall the variations of the quadrille as practiced in Paris, forgot all about the elegant Royalist at the other end of the room.
    It took some time for Ormiston to track down his host. Finally, as the flow of guests slowed, he took the opportunity to question his friend.
    â€œThe girl in Egyptian dress, with the head of a lioness. Do you know her?”
    â€œI can’t remember. Who did she come in with?”
    â€œA Royal naval officer and a Viking lady with a spear.”
    â€œI don’t know them. The Viking lady was a friend of my mother’s, but I can’t tell you more than that. I remember the lion-goddess, certainly, but I hadn’t realized she came with the admiral and his wife.”
    â€œNo name, then?”
    â€œNo, I’m sorry. She speaks superb French, though, your lioness.”
    â€œShe isn’t French?”
    â€œI don’t think so. There is some sort of accent there, although, of course, there was not much time for me to establish where she might have come from.”
    â€œAnd the naval officer really is English?”
    â€œOh yes! A man of a certain age who is prepared to wear the domino, but no other form of disguise. I think he may be an admiral. I can inquire of my mother, if you wish.”
    â€œNo, it doesn’t matter. I’ll soon find out if she is from England.”
    â€œSo you are in hot pursuit? What of your lovely principessa ? Or was she a contessa? No pining for the Italian nobility now?”
    Ormiston smiled, looking predatory rather than amused. “Since you show yourself so able, I shall leave you to your speculations, my dear friend.” He absented himself in search of the object of his interest.
    The viscount was certain that the young lady was the same girl who had so captured his imagination in the Bois de Boulogne. There was something in the way she moved, something in the line of her neck and chin, something in the way she held herself that persuaded him of her identity. And some other impulse, quite foreign to him, was forcing him to seek her out against all his instincts and calculations. Buchan would have been astonished, perhaps even delighted, since the Scot felt that his pupil, while apt, would never achieve greatness as an artist until he unleashed his own passions.
    Until now, Ormiston had dismissed his teacher’s words as nonsense, for ardor had always struck him as beneath a gentleman. Casual insouciance and competent ease seemed much more admirable attributes to the viscount, and he strove in all things for detachment and unflappability. Now, though, he knew he must find the girl, speak with her. If he had followed the thought through, it would have taken him inexorably