Louise M. Gouge
Page 2
He clenched his jaw. If this ball were not so important to his career, he would leave. But one simply did not leave the marquess’s ball before supper. Perhaps he should give up his quest for the evening and find an old dowager to dine with. He had always appreciated the wisdom of the older generation, and most of them seemed to find his company agreeable, as well.
“Ah, there you are, Winston.” Lady Blakemore accosted him near the refreshment table. “I must ask a favor of you.”
At last Providence smiled upon him. “Of course, my lady.” He bowed over the tall countess’s hand, eager to do her bidding. Her husband was the very diplomat with whom Winston hoped to serve in France. He would gladly dance and dine with her. “Ask what you will, and I shall do it.”
She took his arm and, rather than move toward the dance floor, drew him toward a dark-haired young lady seated near the wall and staring down at the skirt of her light green gown. “Winston, this is Miss Hart. I promised her the young men would be lining up to dance with her, but she has not been asked to stand up for a single set. Do save me from being a liar.”
“Lady Blakemore!” Although the young lady did not look up, Winston could see that her cheeks had turned a deep pink.
Pity welled up inside him. Obviously this poor girl was the countess’s hired companion and did not have the makings of any nobleman’s wife, much less a diplomat’s. But surely one gentleman in this room could show her a little kindness and courtesy without granting her too much consequence or harming his own interests. With no one else to fill that office, he held out his hand.
“Miss Hart, may I have the honor of this dance? You see, I have lost my partner to another gentleman, and only you can rescue me from utter mortification.”
Gasping, she looked up sharply and stared at him.
For an instant, he could not breathe as a new sort of shock slammed into his chest. Never in his three and twenty years had he seen a more exquisite female face. A perfect oval, with a fetching widow’s peak, though he doubted this young lady was a widow. Sparkling dark brown eyes fringed by long black lashes. He had never before noticed any lady’s eyelashes. A faint pink blush of chagrin remained on her ivory cheeks, and her full, smooth lips invited— But he would not think such an inappropriate thought.
She placed her hand in his and slowly rose. Again shock pummeled him, for the graceful ascent of her slender form lifted the top of her thick, smooth coiffeur to perhaps three inches short of his own height of almost six feet. Miss Hart was by far the most elegant, dare he say regal lady he had ever set eyes upon. He stood staring, unable to move until she gazed up at him soulfully and smiled.
“I thank you for your gallantry, Lord Winston. Perhaps we shall rescue each other from mortification.” The music of her dulcet alto voice settled into him like the purr of his favorite cat.
*
Catherine could hardly control her laughter. Attracting Lord Winston’s interest was far easier than she had ever imagined. Spending her entire life in the country, she’d had little to do with gentlemen of her station, for when Mama married an impoverished French comte fleeing the Reign of Terror, her family had not entirely welcomed the alliance. Further, she had never counted her appearance as her best asset, for she was too slender, and her unusual height often brought more disdain than admiration.
But Lord Winston’s awestruck expression and obvious approval revealed a certain guilelessness at odds with the arrogance he had displayed at Monsieur Angelus’s academy this afternoon. In fact, she had to admit she admired him in return, at least in a physical sense. His height exceeded hers by perhaps three or four inches, and his impossibly curly blond hair had been coiffed with care, unlike the sweat-dampened coils he had sported after their match.
With a wave of her fan, she made a show of dismissing her feigned chagrin over Lady Blakemore’s comment regarding her lack of dance partners. Her employer had no idea that Catherine had refused several invitations. Of course, Society decreed that once a young lady refused an offer from one gentleman, she must not accept another for the entire evening. But after they all turned their backs on Papa, she had little care for Society’s dictates.
Although the dancers were assembling, the baron did not move, but continued to gaze at her, a half smile on his finely sculpted lips.
She nodded toward the dance floor. “Shall we?”
He cleared his throat. “Yes, of course.” As he led her to the floor, the smile that lit his entire face gave him a charmingly youthful appearance.
Now a giddy feeling stirred within Catherine, but she forced herself to remember why she was here. This man—she would not think of him as a gentleman—was not some innocent, harmless soul. He was responsible for the destruction of her family. Even now, Mama, Lucien and Isabella lived under the constant threat of being thrown out of Mama’s ancestral home, all the while suffering the indignities heaped upon the relatives of a suspected traitor and assassin.
With great difficulty, Catherine forced her mind to the present, forced her hand to relax in Lord Winston’s gentle grasp as they joined other guests for a country dance. At the end of the line, he released her to stand opposite with the other ladies as more couples continued to join them. The music began, and the couple at the top of the line set out on a lively pattern of steps, weaving in and out of the lines as they moved from one end to the other.
During the dance, conversation with the baron was impossible, for everyone had to pay attention to their own movements. So Catherine spoke with her eyes. Not as the silly, simpering girls flirted outrageously with their targeted gentlemen, but with shy glances and half smiles, as if she were thanking him for his gallant rescue. She could not fail to notice that his returning glances held a surprising amount of kindness.
Again she thrust away such generous thoughts. This afternoon she had seen his true heart as they fenced. In the fierce glare in his gray-green eyes, she could see that he would gladly have killed her in a real duel, just as he had, in effect, murdered Papa’s reputation. Now she would use his obvious admiration to win his affection while she searched out the secrets that would destroy him and acquit Papa.
A nagging memory surfaced. When she was a child, her governess had read her wonderful stories of heroic people in the Old Testament. While she had always imagined herself a Ruth or a Deborah, this evening the only biblical woman who came to mind was the temptress Delilah, who wheedled from Samson his deepest secret so his enemies could defeat him. For the first time in her life, she wondered whether Delilah’s actions had actually been justified.
*
Winston did not much care for dancing, but the exercise was a necessary evil for social, and therefore political, purposes. Yet for the first time in his life, he was enjoying a dance. Miss Hart kept glancing at him in the most charming way, her lovely dark brown eyes twinkling in the ballroom’s bright candlelight. Soon it was their turn to wend their way down the line, threading in and out between the other dancers. Once they successfully reached the bottom, she offered him a triumphant smirk, and he returned a little bow. Perhaps he should reconsider this matter of dancing.
Still, the set lasted far too long. He was eager to become better acquainted with her and discover her family connections. Upon further thought, he considered that as Lady Blakemore’s companion, no doubt she was an impoverished lady of good family. No lady hired a companion of inferior birth, for such a woman would not be permitted into the drawing rooms of the aristocracy. Once Winston discovered Miss Hart’s pedigree, he would know whether or not to launch a pursuit.
At last the music ended, and the guests applauded, then proceeded to the dining room two by two in order of precedence, led by the marchioness on the arm of a duke.
Winston bowed to his partner. “Miss Hart, I consider myself the most fortunate of men that you will be my dinner companion this evening.” He was not experienced in flattery, but apparently he had chosen the right words, if the lady’s smile and blush of pleasure were any indication.
He quickly withdrew. “Forgive me. Did I cause you pain?”
Her eyes widened briefly, then she leaned close to him and whispered soberly, “If you promise not to tell anyone, I will confess that I was cruelly wounded today.”
“What?” Winston stopped abruptly, staring down at her as rage rose in his chest. “Who would dare to harm you?” This called for swift and severe punishment. “You must permit me to call upon this person to account for his actions.”
Now she laughed. “Do you like cats, Lord Winston?”
For a moment, he could not grasp her meaning. Then understanding dispelled his anger. “Ah, I see. You encountered a disagreeable feline.”
She tilted her head and smiled. Great mercy, she did have a striking smile. What would it be like to see that beautiful expression every day of his life?
No, it was far too soon for such thoughts. He must not be drawn in by mere looks, which he often speculated had been Father’s undoing when he wed Mother. He cleared his throat. “To answer your question—” he resumed walking, and she easily followed his lead, as if they had often walked together “—yes, I do like cats.” His moment of enjoyment was cut short by a worrisome thought. “I am certain you are aware that cat scratches can lead to serious illness. Did you treat the injury?”
Again, her eyes widened, and she looked away with a frown. “Oh, yes.” Another glance, another smile, and his heart tripped. “Do let us forget it.”
He would be pleased to offer his physician’s services to examine the wound, but that would suggest that Lady Blakemore had neglected her companion’s health. “As you wish, Miss Hart.”
They descended the wide, elegant staircase to the vast second-floor dining hall. Once there, and hoping to find two empty chairs near someone of influence in the diplomatic corps, Winston searched around the long table.
“May I assist you, milord?” A footman in red livery extended a gloved hand toward two vacant places.
“Will this suit you, Miss Hart?” Winston noticed the vibrant curiosity in her dark eyes. Perhaps this was her first formal outing with Lady Blakemore. And perhaps for just this one evening, he could forget his ambitions and do all in his power to ensure a pleasant experience for the lady at his side.
“Oh, yes. I thank you.” She smiled at the footman who was pulling out her chair.
Winston made a mental note to explain to her that she need not acknowledge the footman. The best servants were those who received their orders and performed their duties as if almost invisible. Acknowledgments often embarrassed them. But such schooling would come later, should there be a later for himself and the young lady.
In the next chair, Lord Rettig lounged, goblet in hand, but offered them only a brief glance before sipping his wine.
Warmth crept up Winston’s neck. Like him, Rettig was a baron, one with no special distinctions that qualified him to give his equals the cut. Before the footman could finish pulling the chair out for Miss Hart, Winston held up his hand to stop him so that he might test the waters.
“Miss Hart, may I present Lord Rettig.” If the baron did not rise for the introduction, he would instruct the footman to find them another place.
Rettig did not rise. He merely looked the lady up and down through his quizzing glass—a despicable practice meant to put inferiors in their places—and yawned.
“Ah, yes. Lady Blakemore’s…companion.” His tone dripped with disdain, and his lips curled into an arrogant sneer. He turned decidedly away to his own supper partner, a lady Winston did not know. Nor was an introduction forthcoming.
Winston fisted his hands at his side, longing to strike that sneer from Rettig’s face. But Father’s scriptural admonition echoed in his mind. Be slow to wrath, my son. For the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God. He took a quiet, deep breath and addressed the footman. “I think we would prefer—” He surveyed the table for another pair of empty chairs.
“Oh, do let us sit here.” Miss Hart blinked her lovely eyes and leaned close to him, sending a whiff of rose-scented perfume his way. “The Dowager Lady Beckwith, on your left, is a dear old soul, though a bit deaf.” Her whisper fanned over his cheek and sent a pleasant sensation down his neck. “Perhaps we can make her evening enjoyable.” She nodded toward the lady’s partner, a rakish sort obviously more interested in the pretty young miss on his other side.
Winston’s heart lightened at Miss Hart’s kindness. “Yes, of course.” How generous and even diplomatic of her to think of an old woman’s enjoyment rather than her own.
As the footman resumed his attempts to seat them, the dowager viscountess looked up and gave Miss Hart a beneficent smile. “Ah, there you are, Kitty. I was hoping to see you this evening.”
Beside him, Miss Hart jolted.
Chapter Two
Catherine could barely withhold a gasp. Ancient Aunt Beckwith had not seen her since she was fourteen and, being senile even then, had paid her little attention. Confusion still lingered in her pale blue eyes, almost as if she had no idea where she was. Catherine should have taken the opportunity to escape her scrutiny. But she could not bear to see the old dear abandoned, for all intents and purposes, by her supper companion, a gentleman whose duty it was to engage her in polite conversation throughout the meal. Yet if Aunt Beckwith truly recognized Catherine—unlikely but possible—she could expose her deception.
Even now, Lord Winston questioned her with one raised eyebrow, and she grasped for some way to deflect his curiosity and redeem her plans against him. She offered a slight smile, a ladylike shrug, a tiny shake of her head, and he nodded his understanding. How easy she found it to lie to him without saying a word. Guilt gnawed at her conscience, but to silence it, she pictured dear Papa suffering exile in some unknown place. Now she must continue to brazen her way through this situation. She leaned toward Aunt Beckwith’s good ear.
“Good evening, Lady Beckwith. May I present Lord Winston?”
“Winston? Winston?” Aunt Beckwith studied him up and down. “My gracious, such a tall young gentleman, and so handsome, too.” She reached out a bejeweled hand, and he gallantly kissed it. “Very much like your grandfather in his youth, if I recall him correctly. Many a young gel set her cap for him and no doubt will for you, as well—that is, if you are not already married.” She winked at him, then stared at Catherine. “Now, who is this young lady with you?”
Catherine’s knees almost buckled with relief. As she had those six years ago, Aunt Beckwith rarely kept a thought for more than half a minute.
Lord Winston glanced at Catherine, and a kind smile lit his face. “Lady Beckwith, may I present Miss Hart?”
“So pleased to meet you, Miss Hart.” Aunt Beckwith patted the chair next to her. “Now do be seated so we can eat. I am fair to starving.”
Catherine released a quiet sigh of relief, but caution warned her against relaxing too much. At any moment, those pale blue eyes might sharpen with recognition, and all would be lost.
*
Winston made certain Miss Hart was comfortably seated, then took his own chair. Lady Beckwith’s confusion about Miss Hart did not put him off in the slightest, nor did her mistake about the gentleman she referred to as his grandfather. Having an elderly father had given Winston an appreciation of older people, both for the wisdom they imparted and, in Father’s case, their godly character. Perhaps this evening presented an opportunity for him to learn something interesting. He was already well pleased to observe Miss Hart’s kindness to the lady, a useful trait for a lady’s hired companion. Or a diplomat’s wife.
No, it was far too soon for such a thought. He must employ some of that patience Father had tried to impart to him. Pedigree was an indispensable trait in his choice of a wife, and he must not forget that.
While they engaged the elderly lady in conversation about the hot summer weather, an army of footmen served the
first course, which consisted of a thick, creamy asparagus soup and an entrée of stuffed trout and small meat pies. Once Winston and Miss Hart determined just how much to raise their voices so Lady Beckwith could hear them, they settled down to a comfortable, if unproductive, evening. For now, he must abandon his ambitions, for not one person within the range of proper conversation could advance his diplomatic career.
The elderly dowager, loquacious in the extreme, thrice repeated a story about the time pigs invaded her rose garden. Winston bore the repetitions with good humor, helped by Miss Hart’s lively interest in each telling. His esteem for her increased, especially when the dowager continued to call her Kitty. Without so much as a blink of an eye or word of contradiction, she permitted the doddering old Lady Beckwith to think she was the late Lord Beckwith’s great-niece. Surely such grace would stand her in good stead as any gentleman’s wife.
As the meal progressed to a lavish second course of venison, lobster and a variety of vegetables, Winston found himself admiring Miss Hart’s artful manners, which were worthy of a duchess. Despite her gloves, he could see that her fingers were long and tapered, and she wielded her cutlery with grace. Perhaps she played the pianoforte, a useful skill for any lady.
Lady Beckwith nodded off between the second course and dessert, giving Winston and Miss Hart a few moments of private conversation while the servants cleared and reset the table.