Everyone was talking, but in polite, well-modulated tones; it was a pleasant, relatively informal gathering.
That said, he hadn’t missed the implication that Cleo was present more or less under duress, her attendance being a mandatory requirement of her living in Clarges Street unchaperoned. Yet she’d been welcomed warmly by Geoffrey and Maude Cranmer and seemed genuinely relaxed and at ease in their company and that of most of the others there. But if he wasn’t mistaken, beneath her outward equanimity, there was a thread of tension; over what, he had no idea.
“What-ho!” Anthony Cranmer, a youthful third cousin who, along with his sister, Georgia, had been chatting amiably with Michael and Cleo, looked across the room. “Looks like tea’s being served.” He glanced at Michael. “Shall we fetch the cups?”
“By all means.” With a smile, Michael waved Anthony on; after exchanging a quick glance with Cleo, he followed.
Seated behind a tea trolley, Maude was dispensing cups and saucers to the gentlemen who had dutifully gathered. Michael and Anthony chatted with others as they waited in line.
He and Anthony were returning, each bearing two cups and saucers, when a pair of middle-aged matrons swept down on Cleo. That she was their target was obvious; the pair barely noticed Georgia.
Even though he was several yards distant, Michael sensed Cleo stiffen. Nothing about her demeanor changed, yet she’d tensed.
“Well, my dear Cleome.” The woman in the lead—a Mrs. Herbert, if Michael recalled correctly—was built like a battleship and had a voice like a drill sergeant. “Dare we hope that your presence in town in this season is due to some social engagement, and you are no longer wasting your time in your father’s office?”
“On the contrary, ma’am.” Cleo’s tone was admirably even. “I’m in town because this is where the office is, and I am in charge.” She turned to Michael as he regained her side and offered her a cup and saucer. She accepted; balancing the saucer in one hand, she raised the cup and sipped.
Anthony handed Georgia her cup with an arched brow—clearly asking if she wished to move away—but Georgia’s lips set; she took her cup and determinedly held her ground.
Anthony, a small smile on his lips, settled beside his sister to observe whatever was to come.
Unhurriedly, Cleo lowered her cup and returned her attention to Mrs. Herbert. Michael was relieved to see both matrons already had saucers in hand; he didn’t want to have to offer to fetch them tea and miss the exchange.
He, too, sipped, aware that Mrs. Herbert was eyeing him and Cleo with faint puzzlement. The second matron, a Mrs. Winston, appeared a milder, less aggressive sort, but from the avidness in her gaze as she sipped and watched, she was likely to be the greater gossip.
Eventually, Mrs. Herbert said, “I had rather thought…” Then she rallied and, determined, swung her gaze to Michael. “Lord Michael, I’m sure you have an opinion on young ladies involving themselves in business affairs.”
He smiled and lowered his cup. “Indeed, I do, Mrs. Herbert. In this modern age, with a queen on the throne and her consort so interested in new developments, the world has changed, and much of what was once frowned upon is now a new frontier.” He glanced smilingly—approvingly—at Cleo. “For myself, I’m beyond grateful that Miss Hendon was at the helm of the Hendon Shipping Company when I walked through the doors, seeking information. With her understanding of the commercial world, she has been and continues to be of invaluable assistance.” He looked at Mrs. Herbert and beyond her to Mrs. Winston. With his genial façade firmly in place, he stated, “You and Miss Hendon’s wider family must be proud to count such a talented lady among your number.”
Mrs. Herbert blinked owlishly. “I…well—yes, of course.” Her brow furrowed. “I hadn’t quite thought of things in that way.”
“Would you say, my lord,” Mrs. Winston put in, “that gentlemen with an eye to, as you put it, new frontiers might, indeed, prefer young ladies whose interests, at least broadly speaking, parallel their own?”
Michael decided he approved of Mrs. Winston. “I believe, ma’am, that that’s increasingly likely to be a consideration going forward. If a lady is to support a gentleman’s endeavors, then that’s going to be much easier and more effective if the lady understands what the gentleman’s business is about.” Smiling slightly, he inclined his head. “My family has always prided itself on being at the forefront in such matters—we’ve found it pays.”
Mrs. Winston nodded in apparent seriousness, even though her eyes were twinkling. “That is certainly the Cynsters’ reputation, my lord.” She swung her attention to Georgia and Anthony, directing several questions their way, then she tapped Mrs. Herbert’s arm. “Come, Edna—let’s leave these young people to get on with their modern lives.”
With a surreptitious wink for Michael, Mrs. Winston towed a rather deflated Mrs. Herbert away.
Anthony and Georgia grinned and excused themselves.
As they moved away, Cleo sighed and glanced at Michael. “Thank you. Some, like Winnie—Mrs. Winston—are supportive, but most feel my interest in business, and even more my active involvement in running the company, is…well, not to put too fine a point on it, faintly disreputable. Very definitely unladylike and, of course, largely to blame for my unwed state.”
He shrugged. “As I said, times have changed, and such perceptions need to be updated. Progress, as the Prince Consort so frequently declares, is upon us.” A footman approached, collecting the empty cups and saucers. “Here”—Michael reached for hers—“let me relieve you of that.”
Cleo wasn’t surprised when, in groups of two and three, more of the ladies descended on her and Michael. She tensed, expecting the usual disapproving comments about her chosen occupation, but—whether distracted by Michael or alerted by Winnie—today’s queries were more curious and far less judgmental than usual.
Of course, they were also wondering why Michael—Lord Michael Cynster, no less—was there, by her side. His glib response that she was assisting him with a matter of business was accepted, but, she suspected, not actually understood. She had to admit she found that amusing.
All in all, as the minutes rolled by, she discovered she was enjoying herself—or at least, she was finding the ordeal much less trying than usual. And it was obvious who she could thank for that.
From beneath her lashes, she glanced at him, standing by her side and, with easy affability, deflecting the almost-impertinent questions. She wondered how much of what he’d said earlier reflected his personal view.
She seized a moment between interrogations to ask, “You said it was the done thing in your family for the males to find their own niche occupation-wise. What about the females? Are they encouraged to pursue interests of their own? What about your sister? What are her interests?”
He looked down, met her eyes, and allowed her to see the amusement in his. “The females of my family need no encouragement to forge their own path. They ask for no permissions, but simply claim such freedom as their birthright. As for my sister, Louisa has carved out a niche of her own choosing. She’s widely regarded as the true successor to the mantles my grandmother, the dowager duchess, and her bosom-bow Lady Osbaldestone have carried for the past forty or more years.”
When she opened her eyes wide, requesting further clarification, he grinned. “Among the haut ton, at any given time, there are ladies who are considered the final arbiters of all things, because they are ultimately the repositories of all knowledge. Of all the rumors and whispers and private dealings—everything that happens within the ton, they know and, largely, understand. They are the ultimate controllers of the machine that is the haut ton—theirs the hands on the levers. My mama, as Papa’s duchess and Magnus Anstruther-Wetherby’s granddaughter, is definitely a grande dame, but neither she, nor even Drake’s mama, the Duchess of Wolverstone, quite reach the pinnacle of power that my grandmama and Lady Osbaldestone long ago attained.”
“Yet Louisa does…whatever that means?”
He nodded. “I don’t understand it myself, but it’s something along the lines of ‘knowledge is power.’ You need a certain type of mind to absorb everything—every current and past fact—about the haut ton, and then keep everything clear in your mind, ready to be accessed and used as needed.” He paused, then said, “Knowing Grandmama and Lady Osbaldestone, and knowing Louisa, it’s as plain as day. She will be—perhaps already is—as powerful within the ton as they.” He met her eyes. “Although it’s possible not everyone has realized that yet.”
“So that’s her…chosen occupation, as it were?”
“Yes. And it’s one she’ll do very well with.”
“That seems rather appropriate for a duke’s daughter.”
“Indeed. Just as your chosen occupation is appropriate for you. It’s founded on and builds on your inherited strengths—just as with Louisa. Just as with my cousin Lucilla, who has taken over her mother’s position as Lady of the Vale in Scotland, and as for Prudence Cynster, she sees herself as her father’s natural successor, running his stud outside Newmarket—and trust me, no one is about to argue with her over that, not even her father.”
She held his gaze for an instant, then smiled. “No wonder your views are…updated.”
He grinned, then others joined them, including Maude, and Geoffrey strolled up with several of the older men. Gradually, the group split into two—the men talking business and the ladies, somewhat to Cleo’s irritation, concentrating on upcoming family events. She would much rather have been with the men. Much rather have been by Michael’s side, gaining a better understanding of his business ideas and facilitating his interaction with Geoffrey and the others, all of whom she knew well.
The enforced separation chafed, but there was no opportunity for her to relocate, not without calling too much attention to herself.
Eventually, people started to leave. As the company thinned, Cleo found herself standing by the bow window, for an instant alone with their hostess.
Maude leant closer. “My dear,” she whispered, “I’m so thrilled for you, and your parents will be, too.” Maude’s eyes, alight, were fixed on Michael, standing with Geoffrey and several other men, all apparently engrossed in some detailed discussion.
Cleo inwardly sighed, but she’d known Michael’s presence would inevitably lead to such speculation. “He came because he was interested in meeting Geoffrey.” She made her tone definite, faintly insistent. “Michael wants to learn more about Geoffrey’s area of business.”
Maude looked at her—searched her eyes, her expression. Then Maude gripped her arm. “My dear, if furthering his understanding of the import-export business was his only interest, then a gentleman such as Lord Michael Cynster would have made an appointment to speak with Geoffrey at his club. I don’t deny Lord Michael has such an interest, but to brave a family afternoon tea for no other reason…?” Maude briefly shook Cleo’s arm, then with a twinkle in her eye, released her and said, “I think you underestimate the scope of his interests, my dear.”
So saying, Maude swanned off, leaving Cleo staring across the room at Michael. Hmm. While one part of her insisted Maude was being fanciful, her more rational side observed that Michael had spent most of his time by her side, deflecting any implied criticism of her rather than pursuing Geoffrey; it had been Geoffrey who had approached and drawn Michael aside.
More, there were Michael’s comments about gentlemen such as himself finding ladies with shared interests more supportive of their life’s ambitions, as well as his family’s acceptance that ladies, too, needed to find their own purpose in life. And, now she thought back over the recent exchanges, although he’d discouraged any queries about him having a personal interest in her, he hadn’t denied having such an interest.
Unbidden, memories of the kiss they’d shared in the dark of the previous night rose inexorably and filled her mind. Her lips tingled. She recalled the powerful, dominant emotions—the passion, the desire, the outright lust—that had captured them both and driven them…she felt the echoes even now and fought to quell a shiver.
To her, that kiss had been eye opening in its depth, its power, its promise. Had it struck him in the same way?
She couldn’t believe it had. She knew his reputation; he was an aristocratic hedonist, an experienced lover of high-born ladies. With all the ton’s beauties to choose from, why would he fix his eye on her? She really couldn’t compete.
Even if she wanted to.
Yet there he stood, having readily endured an entire afternoon of her family’s curiosity.
Was Maude right? Was she—Cleo—being willfully blind?
Perhaps. Perhaps not. But Maude was undeniably correct in one respect: Michael had to have had some reason other than his interest in business to have been moved to accompany her and willingly spend his Sunday afternoon being quizzed by her family.
Before she could dwell on what his ulterior motive might be, he and Geoffrey stepped away from the others in their group. Still chatting with each other, they strolled toward her.
Both smiling, they halted before her, and Michael said, “Mr. Cranmer—Geoffrey—and Maude are entertaining an investor acquaintance, who is visiting from Philadelphia, for dinner this evening, along with his wife and two children. Geoffrey has suggested that you and I should join the company.”
“It would be a great favor if you could manage it,” Geoffrey put in. “Mr. and Mrs. Hepworth are older than Maude and I, but that’s not the problem. It’s their children I’m concerned about—a son and daughter in their later twenties. Closer to your age than to our brood, who I would prefer not to have at the dinner table.” Geoffrey and Maude’s children were still in the schoolroom. “I confess I’m at a loss as to how to properly entertain the younger pair. However”—Geoffrey glanced at Michael—“as Cynster here is especially interested in the prospects for import-export trade with our ex-colonies, I was hoping to entice the pair of you to come to our aid.”
Michael’s brown eyes held an almost boyish plea. “It really seems too good an opportunity to pass up—to get a feel for such trade from the other side, so to speak.”
She fully understood his reasoning. In her mind, she heard again his comments regarding the benefits of ladies who knew enough to comprehend their gentleman’s business interests. Both men were waiting in transparent hope; it was clearly her decision to make. She nodded. “Yes, of course. I’m happy to assist and…” She glanced at Michael.
“And of course, I’ll escort you here tonight.” The quality of his smile, the way it lit his eyes, suggested unalloyed satisfaction.
Cleo studied that smile and had to wonder if, as Maude had suggested, he had more than one motive—more than one goal in play. He was clearly seeking insights into trade with the Americas; what other insights might he be hoping to gain?
An unanswerable question; she was quite sure he wouldn’t tell her even if she was so bold as to ask.
The others had all left. They were the last guests remaining.
Geoffrey had turned to inform Maude of his good news—that Cleo and Michael would be dining with them that evening and would assist with the younger Americans.
Cleo was still studying Michael’s face, and he was still returning her regard.
His expression altered slightly, growing more serious—his gaze more intent. Memories of that illicit kiss swirled, rising in her mind.
She blocked them out and forced herself to glance away. Her gaze fell on the clock on the mantelshelf. “Heavens—it’s almost five-thirty!” She turned to Maude. “What time?”
“Given the season and that our guests are Americans,” Maude replied, “I’ve said seven in the drawing room, and we’ll go in at seven-thirty.”
Cleo nodded and glanced at Michael. “We need to go if we’re to dress for dinner and get back in time.”
His smile returned, and he half bowed, waving her to the door. “Our carriage awaits.”
Cleo touched fingers with Maude, then stretched up an
d planted a kiss on Geoffrey’s cheek; of all her many relatives, she liked them the best. “Until later.”
As on Michael’s arm she walked out of the town house and down the steps to where his carriage waited, she hoped that an hour or so away from him would allow her senses to properly settle, enough for her to gain some clearer perspective on whether he might, in fact, now harbor some romantic interest in her—and, if so, what her response should be.
* * *
“No, not that one.” Cleo frowned at the mauve silk evening gown her maid, Jilly, was displaying for her approval. “That’s too…”
Uninspiring. Not me. It was a lovely gown, but she would never feel confident in it.
Jilly just looked at her; the mauve creation was the third gown Cleo had vetoed.
She stood in her corset and petticoats and mentally cataloged her wardrobe. As a lady who rarely went to balls and dinners—who rarely gave a thought to her appearance at all—her choices were limited.
“The green figured silk,” she eventually decided. Yes, that will do.
Jilly pulled a face and returned the mauve silk to the wardrobe. The mauve gown was new and in the latest fashion; the gown in green was more than a year old. “Are you sure, miss?” Jilly asked from the depths of the wardrobe.
Was she?
She was supposed to entertain foreigners; the Hepworths’ daughter was, very likely, far more au fait with the latest fashions than Cleo would ever be—so no point trying to compete on that score. Cleo set her chin. “Yes, quite sure.” She’d rather feel confident than fashionable, especially with Michael present.
An Irresistible Alliance Page 16
