by Erica Ridley
Distant cousins or not, Lady Roundtree would have no truck whatsoever with a companion who did not know her place.
Nora lifted her chin. She didn’t expect a baroness to be friends with her. Nora just needed to keep her post for the next six to eight weeks. She didn’t mind at all if her cousin never thought of her as anything more than the help.
If the baroness even thought of her at all.
To Lady Roundtree, Nora was no more noticeable than the molding around the ceiling. Which meant she was privy to all sorts of scandalous information about personages she’d never meet firsthand.
Some duke had compromised some debutante in a closet. Someone else had been spotted attending a salacious masquerade. Someone else had run off to the Scottish Highlands. Each tale was more riveting than the last. During their afternoon carriage rides in Hyde Park, Lady Roundtree gossiped about every single soul they passed with gleeful attention to detail.
As a break from her habit of designing richly drawn fashion plates, Nora had begun to sketch little cartoons of all the overheard stories for fun. She sent the best ones home to her brother with little, painstakingly drawn captions. The last one she’d dubbed The Lord of Pleasure, after an earl who apparently made matrons and debutantes alike swoon with palpitations at the mere glimpse of his golden curls. She grinned at the fanciful notion.
Sketching, whether in her head or on paper, was not only the best way to keep sane as she traversed the upside-down world of the beau monde, but also a way to document the humor she spotted in each situation. The foibles, the hypocrisy, the boundless riches, the decadent feasts, the thousand-and-one ways that High Society differed from life back home.
She reminded herself to direct her focus to her patroness.
“Bryony Grenville?” the baroness was saying to the lady on her left. “I vow, were that chit less skilled with a violin, she would not receive invitations to soirées like this one.”
Nora straightened with interest. The Grenville siblings were a frequent subject of gossip among the baroness and her friends, but they had not put on one of their famous musicales in the week since Nora had arrived in London, so she had yet to put faces to the names.
She leaned forward to whisper to Lady Roundtree. “Which one is Bryony?”
The matron on the baroness’s other side sent Nora a look sour enough to curdle milk. “I daresay you are in no position to speak ill of your betters.”
Nora’s face heated with embarrassment. She faced forward again without meeting anyone else’s eyes. Curse her tongue. She hadn’t spoken ill of Bryony Grenville or anyone else. She’d simply asked who the others were gossiping about.
And yet the point held true.
The Grenville siblings and everyone else who had received an invitation to the ball were indeed Nora’s betters. She knew it as well as they did. Farm girls like Nora did not belong among them as anything other than a servant.
Nor was she complaining.
It wasn’t even difficult work. She’d been granted every comfort and more: delicious meals, new gowns, an entire stack of sketchbooks. In return, all she had to do was keep Lady Roundtree happy… and keep herself quiet. Being as bland as the woodwork was literally the job.
A companion was like a bell pull—silent and unnoticed, except when given a sharp tug.
Help the baroness in and out of her wheeled chair? Yes. Fetch lemonades and pour tea and ring for extra laudanum? Yes. Indulge in gossip or anything even peripherally related to scandalous topics?
Absolutely not.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered to Lady Roundtree when the other pinch-faced matron wasn’t looking.
“Oh!” the baroness gasped with a glance over her shoulder. “And quite well you should be, Winfield! Humiliating me like that. You are not paid to gossip.”
Nora nodded tightly. She would do better. This post was too important.
“But since you asked…” Unable to help herself, the baroness pointed her fan toward the doors leading to the garden. “That’s Bryony Grenville walking past the terrace with her brother. She’s the chit with the bone-straight hair. Her mother never could get it to hold a curl. Mr. Grenville is the gentleman with the unsightly stain on his elbow.”
No.
It couldn’t be.
Nora followed the line of the baroness’s painted fan straight to the handsome gentleman she’d been speaking with earlier.
It was.
A week’s worth of overheard gossip came flooding back as Nora picked through her memory for scraps of information about the handsome lord.
He played the pianoforte at his family’s musicales. He was well-acquainted with—and well-liked by—all his peers. He had not yet taken a wife. His first name was Heath. Not that someone like Nora would be first-naming anyone in the ton.
Especially not a man like him.
Mr. Grenville was known as a problem-solver. The sort of gentleman fabulously wealthy folks summoned when there was a scandal that needed hiding. He was also heir to a barony. When he inherited the title, he would become Lord Grenville rather than a plain mister. He was important.
Definitely not the sort of gentleman one’s paid companion should be baptizing in lemonade.
“Over there are the Blackpool brothers and the Duke of Wellington,” the baroness continued, directing the tip of her fan toward various personages in the crowd. “You recognize the earl who just walked in, don’t you? That’s Lord Wainwright. Or, as some choose to call him, the Lord of Pleasure.”
Nora blinked at the uncanny coincidence.
Well, bother. It seemed the caption she’d sent home to her brother wasn’t nearly as original as she’d thought. Thank heavens she’d sent that sketch away. She’d hate for anyone to stumble across one of her silly drawings and think she was attempting to spread gossip. Especially since it could cost her post.
“The lord of what, again?” she asked, in case she had heard incorrectly.
“Pleasure,” the baroness repeated and tittered behind her fan. “Don’t ask me to show you the caricature everyone is talking about. It’s not fit for common eyes. My friends must have sent me at least ten copies before noon. So droll, with Wainwright looking positively baffled as swooning henwits drop like flies at the very sight of him.”
No.
No, no, no, no, no.
This could not be happening. Goosebumps raced across her flesh, a cold sweat chasing in their wake.
“Lord of Pleasure” was Nora’s drawing.
A popular earl had a horrid new nickname thanks to a few strokes of her pen.
Chapter 2
For the first time all Season, Heath Grenville found himself intrigued.
As the premier scandal-fixer of the upper classes, little occurred in London without his awareness. As heir to a title, a graduate of both Eton and Oxford, and a gentleman who regularly put his dancing slippers to good use, Heath was long-acquainted with everyone even peripherally related to the beau monde.
Today, he had been surprised by a stranger.
The beautiful young lady he’d bumped into near the refreshment table possessed a face no gentleman alive could forget. And yet Heath could not place her. Nor could he understand how it had taken all evening to notice her.
With her soft pink gown and lustrous red curls, she more than stood out from the sea of pastel hopefuls. Wide blue eyes, blushing cheeks, lips a perfect, dusty rose…
“Who are you looking for?” his sister asked.
Heath started and forced his attention back to Bryony.
“Nothing,” he said quickly. “No one. Do you want some lemonade?”
“I don’t even want this ratafia.” Bryony sent her cup a baleful glance. “I wish ladies were the ones who retired for port. Have you picked a bride yet?”
“Not yet.” An image of glossy red curls filled his mind.
Heath had not introduced himself because he had been embarrassed he did not already know the young lady’s name. The ton was so insular that new
blood was always a ready source of gossip among its members.
A new crop of debutantes? The patronesses of Almack’s would have already decided the girls’ fate before they took their first curtsey. Relatives on holiday or old friends from out of town? The happy occasion would have been boasted about for weeks before the visit even transpired.
His heart thudded. He had not overlooked a wallflower, had he?
In alarm, he swept his horrified gaze about the perimeter of the dance floor.
As elder brother to three sisters, Heath took wallflowers’ enjoyment of public functions very seriously. He had witnessed long ago the mortification that came from staring longingly across a crowded ballroom for six excruciating hours, only to leave with one’s empty dance card hanging limply from one’s wrist.
After he had dried his sister Camellia’s tears, Heath had made it his sworn duty to ensure even the shyest of wallflowers at least bore his name on their dance cards. Not out of pity, but because he assumed every young lady was secretly a force to be reckoned with.
“Have you seen Cam anywhere?” he asked Bryony.
She shook her head. “I think she faked a megrim so she could stay home and practice.”
Probably. Their talented sister Camellia might be quiet in a party environment, but she had the biggest singing voice in all of England.
In fact, all the wallflowers Heath had befriended over the years possessed unique personalities well worth getting to know. If the dandies and young bucks couldn’t be bothered, more fool them. Heath would not make that mistake.
Except he had, had he not? He’d let the red-tressed goddess go without ascertaining her name or securing a spot on her card. And in doing so, he seemed to have lost the intriguing young lady entirely.
“Why aren’t you dancing?” he asked his sister.
“I’m bored with the company,” she answered honestly. “There is only so much one can say about the weather and how lovely the cucumber sandwiches are tonight. I keep hoping to stumble across someone interesting.”
Heath had done precisely that—and then allowed her to slip away. He clenched his jaw.
His set had been promised, and he would never disrespect a waiting woman by failing to promptly present himself for a waltz. But now that he was free…
He scanned the ballroom. After two hours of nonstop dancing, he had few sets left in which to get to know the young lady. If he could determine where she was. Or who she was. He could kick himself for his oversight.
How was he meant to secure a proper introduction when he didn’t even know who to ask?
“Have you seen a woman with red hair and a pink dress?” he asked his sister.
Bryony’s eyes laughed at him. “A beautiful woman with red hair and a pink dress, I presume?”
He gave her a flat look.
She took pity on him. “A debutante?”
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I don’t think so. She seemed older than you are. Perhaps Dahlia’s age. Or Camellia’s.”
“A beautiful spinster with red hair and a pink dress?” Bryony asked slyly. “The horror!”
Heath regretted having broached the topic with his sister.
Pretty women didn’t just materialize out of thin air. She must be someone’s daughter or sister or friend. She also had to be connected to someone Heath knew well. Otherwise, how would she have secured an invitation to Lord Carlisle’s ball?
Carlisle! Of course. Heath’s shoulders relaxed. The earl would know the names of all of his guests. Carlisle and his countess famously wrote every invitation together. Brilliant. The mystery would be solved in no time.
He glanced about the ballroom in search of his hosts. Ah. There they were, swirling in each other’s arms in the middle of the dance floor. His lips curved into a smile. He was glad to see them dancing. They deserved the happiness they’d found in each other. Tonight’s fête to celebrate their home’s recent renovation to its former splendor was merely the cream on the puff pastry.
“I haven’t seen your mystery lady,” Bryony said, “but I adore watching the Carlisles. Don’t they make a beautiful couple?”
They made a happy couple, which in Heath’s estimation was far better than beauty. They were obviously in love. What more could a man desire?
Not that he would dare voice such romantical thoughts aloud. Especially not in front of his family. Mother’s endless pleas for him to quit wasting time with wallflowers and take a proper bride were insufferable enough already.
As if he didn’t know the rules! Whomever Heath chose as his future baroness must come from the best family, with the impeccable decorum and breeding, and be completely above reproach in every way. Et cetera. Et cetera.
Of course he would comply with such societal dictates, not just for his title’s sake, but for his own. Just as soon as he found the right woman.
Mother might fear her son’s tastes too liberal, but the truth was, Heath’s wife-hunting standards were even more exacting and rigid.
They had to be. As a gentleman who had dedicated his life to ameliorating other people’s disasters, Heath could not risk wedding the wrong woman himself. The idea made him shudder.
“Mother has been preaching at me again,” Bryony said. “Be honest. Is my hair’s inability to hold a curl the reason I haven’t found true love?”
“Maybe,” he replied. “Or it could be emblematic of your complete lack of attention to every other concession to fashion. I’m always surprised when a lady’s maid gets you to sit still for more than five minutes.”
“Why does my fashion have to match anyone else’s?” Bryony pointed out reasonably. “All these other girls look just like each other, and it hasn’t helped them ensnare your heart.”
True enough. After more than a decade of such functions, Heath had yet to find the woman he wished to have at his side for the rest of his life.
It wasn’t that he sought physical perfection. Or even to increase the barony’s social ties by marrying the daughter of an earl or a duke.
Heath cared less about external traits like titles, and more about the caliber of the woman inside. Only someone completely aboveboard—whose heart and ethics he could trust implicitly—would do. Someone who would never embarrass his family with a scandal. All other conditions were secondary.
And in the meantime, he was perfectly happy to dance with wallflowers. Who knew? Perhaps the shyest debutante in the room would be the one to steal his heart.
At the other side of the large chamber, a flash of pink and red caught his eye. He straightened.
There. His mystery woman. Reentering the salon from one of the side passages.
“Found her,” he murmured to his sister.
“What are you waiting for?” She jabbed him with her elbow. “Go.”
He glanced over his shoulder. The current waltz was still underway. There was no time to arrange a formal introduction. What if the young lady had been summoning her carriage? His jaw tightened. He had to catch her now before she disappeared completely.
Heath sliced through the crowd in pursuit.
“We meet again,” he said as soon as he reached her side.
She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it just as suddenly. Her head tilted in bewilderment. Wide blue eyes studied him as if memorizing every aspect of his person. “Did you just run through the crowd?”
“Yes. No.” Dear God, what if he looked a fright? Heath cleared his throat. “Perhaps I strolled a touch hurriedly.”
“I see.” Her deep blue eyes stared back at him as if she did indeed see far more than he had intended.
“Let us start anew. I am Mr. Grenville.” Heath made an extravagant leg. “Would you be so kind as to let me know your name?”
Rather than curtsey in return, she took a step back. “You have me confused with someone else, my lord.”
“How can I, when I haven’t the slightest inkling who you are?” he asked reasonably.
At least, he hoped he could still count on r
eason. He had never witnessed a debutante fail to curtsey after an introduction. Much less retreat backward, as if heirs to baroncies were to be avoided at all costs.
He did not close the gap. His goal had been to befriend, not frighten her.
“May I know your name?” he asked more gently.
“Eleanora Winfield,” she mumbled, the words almost too soft to hear.
“Miss Winfield.” Heath gave an even deeper, more elegant bow. “It is my delight and honor to make your acquaintance.”
She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously.
This was not going well at all.
Heath smiled back at her winningly. Perhaps she was even shyer than any wallflower he’d ever met. What could he do to put her at ease? He took stock of what he knew so far.
Her name was Eleanora Winfield. Including one’s first name in an introduction was usually an indication that one was a younger sister. Heath’s sister Camellia was Miss Grenville, the next eldest was Miss Dahlia Grenville, the youngest Miss Bryony Grenville. Using first names to differentiate sisters was standard practice, particularly when all three were present.
Yet he was not at all certain that was why Miss Winfield had done so. After all, if he had no idea who she was, how could he possibly confuse her with her siblings?
And then there was the curtsey. Or lack thereof.
It had been rude not to offer at least a perfunctory bend of the knee. Rude as well to completely ignore his initial request for her name, under the odd circumstances.
Yet the pretty wallflower was not sneering at him in disgust or anger, but instead wore a rather adorable expression of utter confusion. As if she were uncertain why he would wish to introduce himself to her at all.
There. That was a matter easily resolved. He would give her a good reason.
“The orchestra has only just begun this set,” he said with his most engaging smile. “If you haven’t another name already promised on your card, perhaps you would do me the honor of taking a turn about the dance floor with me.”
