An Inconvenient Beauty

by Kristi Ann Hunter

  “I was simply taking the shortest path to the terrace. I find myself in need of air.” And with that statement he’d marked himself the veriest dolt to anyone who was actually thinking about what he was hearing. While going through this pack of people might have been the most direct path from wherever he stood, five steps to the right would have taken him around it much more expeditiously.

  Fortunately, most people didn’t listen too closely at a ball.

  “The crush is dreadful tonight.” She fluttered her fan and looked up through her lashes.

  It was no such thing, but Griffith wasn’t going to correct her. “Are you in need of air as well? Shall I escort you to the terrace?”

  She glanced at the lines forming on the dance floor, people setting up to start the next set. Griffith wasn’t about to make that offer unless the danger to Isabella grew significantly.

  Lady Alethea said nothing about the dance, though, and set her hand on his arm. “I would be honored, Your Grace.”

  As Griffith led the brunette viper out of the circle, he looked at Isabella. With the altercation over, men were jostling each other once more for the chance to claim her for the dance, but Isabella was watching Griffith, her expression unreadable. Griffith turned away, too afraid that if he looked much longer he’d attribute feelings he wished her to have instead of things that were evident.

  Near the doors, spring air rushed to greet them, comforting despite its warmth.

  Lady Alethea’s grip on his arm tightened as they approached the door. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather dance?”

  Griffith looked from the lady to the very long string of dancers lining up on the floor. Isabella and her partner had taken the spot at the head of the dance. She would be determining the pattern for the dance unless someone of greater social power took the head in the next moment or two.

  Should he choose to approach the floor, he could no doubt claim that spot for himself and his partner. It was what Lady Alethea obviously wanted, and Griffith couldn’t help wanting to maneuver her into as uncomfortable a position as she was trying to pin Isabella in. “I could perhaps consider taking up the foot of the lines.”

  Her eyes widened and her mouth went slack. “But it stretches the entire length of the ballroom. It could be ten minutes before it reaches the foot.”

  “Yes.” He squeezed his eyebrows together and looked over the dancers. “How dreadful it would be to wait. Especially if your partner was too absorbed in ensuring he knew the steps to speak while you waited.”

  Obviously the potential embarrassment of having him stand up with her at the foot of the dance only to ignore her was stronger than the hope of actually being the first unrelated female to dance with him, because Lady Alethea cleared her throat and stepped out onto the terrace.

  He let her go, stepping onto the terrace enough to say he stepped through the door, but making sure he maintained a non-gossip-inducing distance between him and the lady. A scattering of other people stood on the terrace. None of them were paying attention to the newest couple to wander outside.

  How long did they have to linger outside before returning to the ballroom? Was his fix permanent, or would she return to trying to diminish Isabella’s reputation?

  Her smile looked shy as she turned to look at Griffith over her shoulder. The woman really was beautiful. She would make a lovely subject for a painting, but Griffith had always found her rather irritating. The fact that he had just committed himself to several minutes in her company proved that Isabella had motivated his tolerance of certain annoyances to change.

  “Are we to be silent while we take the air, then?”

  Griffith bowed his head in her direction. How insolent could he be and still claim to be a gentleman? He didn’t want to abandon Lady Alethea, but he didn’t want her getting any ideas either. “Of what do you wish to speak?”

  She looked a little bit startled, but recovered quickly and took two steps closer to him. “We could speak of the weather . . .”

  “It’s a pleasant night.”

  “. . . or the ball . . .”

  “One of the less crowded ones thus far this Season.”

  “. . . or your family.”

  “They are well.”

  Lady Alethea fell silent as she turned to look into the darkness.

  The terrace overlooked a paved work yard between the kitchens and the stables, so lights had only been placed on the balcony itself. Plants lined the railing, giving it the illusion of overlooking an outdoor garden, but beyond the greenery lay darkness. Even the stars had disappeared behind a thick haze.

  After a few moments she stiffened her shoulders and turned his way once more. “Perhaps you should choose a topic, then.”

  He considered shrugging but decided it would be verging into rude instead of arrogant and eccentric. “I’ve nothing to discuss. We have stepped out for the air.” He took an exaggerated deep breath. “Air is silent.”

  It was obvious that she wanted to give him a setdown, to berate him for treating her in such a way, only she had nothing to compare it to. He had, until very recently, been most elusive at social functions. A silent giant hulking around the edges, speaking at length only to those he knew well. How could she know this wasn’t the way all of his conversations went? She risked insulting a duke to imply otherwise.

  Music and the murmur of voices flowed out the doorway. Another group of people stepped outside and two couples stepped back inside.

  The rudeness of his silence disturbed him, so he started telling her about the latest improvements made to his agricultural efforts. It was supremely boring, but at least he was talking to her.

  Through it all, Lady Alethea stood there, not wanting to give up his attentions but clearly miserable in the keeping of them. It was sad, really. He enjoyed being a duke, was thankful God had blessed him with such a position, but he wasn’t sure he would like it so much if he hadn’t been born to the position, if everything done from the moment he first breathed hadn’t been done with the knowledge that he would one day be the duke.

  But why women seemed to be so desperate to become a duchess baffled him. Didn’t they know how much pressure it was? His mother worked harder than anyone he’d ever seen. Of course, she had in many ways been doing the job of two, but Griffith’s wife, whoever she may be, could certainly find herself in a similar position. God had not promised Griffith a long life.

  He wasn’t going to delude himself that he personally was the draw. As Lady Alethea had so perfectly demonstrated, most of the women didn’t know him at all.

  “You don’t really expect a lady to know about drainage ditches and—what did you call them—fallow fields?”

  Griffith lifted a brow at the sly smile and the coy tilt of her head. Pearls and feathers stood out in her brown hair, completing the delicate picture.

  “My apologies. I did not see how idle discussion of topics neither of us cares about was a meaningful use of our time.” His mother would have pinched his ear if she’d heard such a statement. Not because it had been overly rude to Lady Alethea but because it implied that she’d never taken the time to teach him proper social graces.

  The song ended and another began.

  Lady Alethea glided past him with her nose in the air. “I am stepping inside. Perhaps I can find someone more amenable to dancing.”

  “That shouldn’t be difficult.”

  She frowned at his quip but moved on into the room. There were two men at her side in moments, and she was soon making her way to the dance floor.

  Griffith stayed outside, watching the bodies swirl on the other side of the window. Isabella was easy to find.

  Courting her wasn’t going to be easy. Obviously, traditional methods weren’t going to work.

  He leaned against the window frame and started to think.

  Chapter 24

  Griffith rubbed his hands hard over his face as he stepped from the House of Lords chamber into the vestibule. It had to be nearly midnight, and he was exha
usted. He’d planned to go by Lady Oakmere’s musicale tonight, but given that the visiting opera singer was sure to have completed her arias by now and Griffith was so tired he was willing to consider taking a nap on one of the lobby benches, it was probably best he head home for the night.

  Even if Isabella was in attendance and socializing after the musicale’s completion, he wouldn’t do his suit any good in his current condition. He’d spent the past week trying to come up with unique ways to win her attention, as well as attempting traditional methods, and everything had come up short.

  “Your Grace!”

  Griffith winced and considered not stopping. There were, after all, others in the building who could answer to the honorific. The fact that the footsteps rushing toward him indicated he was probably the intended recipient was something he could easily be convinced to overlook.

  Lord Pontebrook came to his side in a rush and adjusted his pace to match Griffith’s. “Your Grace.”

  Griffith nodded in acknowledgment but was afraid to speak lest he let out the yawn building in his throat.

  “I can’t thank you enough for the invitation to Riverton. Splendid week in the country.”

  “The party was my mother’s doing. I shall pass along your regards.” He wouldn’t, but Lord Pontebrook would never know that.

  “Splendid. Splendid.” He looked at Griffith out of the corner of his eye as they crossed the lobby outside St. Stephen’s Cathedral. “My daughter, Frederica, has talked of nothing else since we returned.”

  And that was the purpose for this uncomfortable walk through the parliamentary building. Lord Pontebrook wanted to know why Griffith wasn’t visiting his little girl anymore. “I’m glad she enjoyed the trip. It was a pleasure to have all of you in attendance.”

  Griffith almost choked on the words. Why did they have to tell so many lies simply for the sake of social propriety? Why was it such a bad thing if he honestly told Lord Pontebrook to begone because Griffith was irritated with the entire family?

  “There’ve been quite a few men pounding down my door this year.” Lord Pontebrook laughed. “But then you know how that goes.”

  “Indeed.” Was there a point to this? Because there was certainly a limit to his patience tonight, and he’d much rather use it on something that actually mattered.

  The viscount cleared his throat. “Of course, very few of them have been by for Frederica.”

  Griffith highly doubted any of them had been by for Frederica this Season, aside from himself. She wasn’t exactly encouraging anyone’s attentions.

  “Then again—” a nervous laugh preceded the man’s wiping his hands along the sides of his coat—“it only takes the right man to come knocking. Not all the best ladies inspire crowds. Some palates are more refined.”

  Could Griffith say indeed again, or would that be considered rude? Did he care? “Indeed.”

  The nervous laughter grew tighter. “You’ve been by to see my girl this Season, haven’t you?”

  He had, though his attentions had quickly drifted elsewhere. Griffith narrowed his gaze at Lord Pontebrook and came to a stop on the outside steps of the building. Obviously, the viscount was unaware of Griffith’s change in affections. It was an advantage Griffith would be a fool not to use.

  “She and her cousin seem to spend a great deal of time together.” Perhaps he could use Lord Pontebrook’s ambitions while still satisfying his own need for complete honesty in his dealings.

  “Yes, yes. Isabella’s like the, uh, little sister Frederica was never blessed with. That’s why I was so happy to offer my home and support for her first year out. Young hearts need guidance, you know.”

  Griffith arched an eyebrow, wondering what sort of guidance the other man meant. Because from what he’d seen, Lord Pontebrook’s guidance had involved lying about her age, manipulating her attachments, and pushing her in uncomfortable directions. Had he ever once taken the girl to a garden for a purpose other than a garden party?

  “And where are Miss St. Claire and her cousin spending their time, now that we’ve returned from the idylls of the country?”

  Lord Pontebrook beamed, and it made Griffith’s stomach roil. “They’ve the energy of an entire militia, I tell you. Seeing the sites of London during the day and gracing the ballrooms in the evening. Tomorrow it’s the opera. Lord Ivonbrook keeps a box, you know. I think they’ve plans to see the Royal Academy before that.”

  An easy enough place to while away his day as he waited to ambush his prey. “’Tis good for her to be able to see some culture after growing up so close to Scotland.”

  He watched Lord Pontebrook closely, looking for any sign that Isabella might be in danger from his almost negligent care. There was none. All he could see was a self-absorbed man who couldn’t fathom the idea that Griffith’s intent might not match Lord Pontebrook’s hope.

  Another man joined them then, allowing Griffith to make his good-byes and climb into his carriage to go home. Griffith didn’t care overly much about art. If he saw something he liked, he put it in his home. Most of his collection had been acquired by a very art-conscious duchess a couple of generations ago. He’d commissioned portraits of the family, and his sister Georgina had added a sweeping painting of Riverton to the walls, but other than that, he’d left them as they’d hung for years.

  And yet he found himself mentally rearranging his schedule for the next day. He’d look at art all day long if it meant he could spend the day with Isabella.

  “Why are we here again?” Isabella trudged up the circular staircase behind Frederica, a thin booklet in her hand.

  “Because if we stay home Father will make us visit with someone horrible, and if we go to a coffee shop we’ll have to sit with someone horrible.” Frederica reached the top of the stairs and, with a wide smile on her face, turned to watch Isabella climb. “Any of the men who are already here came to escort someone else and won’t be able to approach you. It’s the perfect opportunity for a bit of peace.”

  Isabella craned her neck back as she entered the cavernous room at the top of Somerset House. The Royal Academy had filled every possible inch of wall space with paintings. From floor to ceiling, they were so close together that the frames laid against and on top of each other.

  No wonder they’d made her buy a guide book. And with more than one room similarly adorned, she and Frederica could easily spend hours looking through the artwork. The visit suddenly seemed inspired.

  “Might I suggest you start with the painting of the hackney? It’s remarkably uninspired, and your opinion is destined to rise from there.”

  Isabella spun to find Griffith standing right behind her, hands clasped against his lower back, dark brown coat topping a golden-yellow waistcoat. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking at something beautiful.”

  His direct green gaze focused on her and not any of the surrounding art, sending heat coursing through Isabella’s cheeks. She glanced at Frederica, but her cousin seemed enthralled by a rather disturbing painting of a donkey and an old woman. She looked back at Griffith and mumbled, “Thank you.”

  A single brow lifted as if mocking her for assuming he meant her, even though he obviously had.

  She cleared her throat. “And where is this hackney painting?”

  “Over here, near the floor.” He offered her his arm and then stopped by Frederica to offer his other before leading them around to a nearby section of paintings.

  After inspecting the hackney, they moved on to portraits of several people no one knew, a scattering of landscapes, some of which were quite breathtaking, and even a depiction of a scene from the Bible.

  They strolled around until they entered the hall of statues. A lone artist sat in the corner sketching a statue, but the room was otherwise empty.

  Frederica strolled off, looking consumed by the need to inspect a carving of Apollo shooting his bow and arrow.

  Isabella wasn’t sure if she wanted to thank her cousin or strangle her.

>   “I met with the gardener at Hawthorne House. He told me the orchids are doing quite well this year.”

  “You have a gardener for your city house?” Of course, there had to be gardeners somewhere in the city, but Isabella had never thought of anyone hiring them personally. Everything seemed to be so hard and paved over.

  “He doesn’t work only for me, but yes. There’s a conservatory in Hawthorne House and a small green area behind the house.”

  “And he’s growing orchids?” Isabella had seen orchids, though not very often. People in her area of Northumberland tended to be happy if they managed to grow enough grass for their sheep. There’d been one time she’d been in Scotland at the right time to see a massive cluster of purple orchids. She’d stayed until the sun went down, watching them sway in the breeze.

  “Yes.” He glanced at her and then down at his toes before fixing his gaze back on the bust of one of the generals. “They’re doing rather well.”

  She said nothing. It wasn’t as if she could invite herself over to see them. Even if he extended the invitation, would she take it? She’d never seen the inside of Hawthorne House, so had never been able to picture herself there. At Griffith’s side. Starting a new life.

  Perhaps she would be better off if that remained something she was unable to imagine.

  She walked a bit down the room, both to separate herself from Griffith’s side and to have something to do. A row of busts stretched along the wall, ranging in size from life-size to a rather enormous sculpting of His Majesty. She cocked her head to the side and looked down the row. “Do you think the rest of the body is really that much harder to carve?”

  “I think it is probably more that the rest of the body is unimportant.”

  Isabella laughed and threw Griffith a skeptical look. “You should try to take a day and not use your legs.”

  “You should come by Parliament. I’ll show you plenty of examples of working legs and nonfunctioning heads.” Griffith looked down on her with a smirk.

  The laugh Isabella couldn’t contain bounced around the large room, echoing off statues and windows and relieving more than a little of the tension.