Winning Miss Winthrop

by Carolyn Miller

  The music shifted, and he performed the movements mechanically. Dancing with such a quiet partner had benefit, as the lack of conversation allowed his thoughts to roam free. But perhaps it was not wise, as he could not help but compare tonight’s masque with the last he had attended, three years ago.

  Such foolish hope that had made his heart and feet fly. Dancing with her had been a dream, holding her in his arms fueling visions for the future. Then when they moved outside—

  Enough! He shook his head at himself. The music signaled the end of that dance, and he escorted his partner back to her grateful parents. Somehow he was caught in the rush to the floor for the next dance, one that allowed much exchanging of partners, as he danced with a parade of princesses, carnival characters, and those dressed in the costumes of nationalities ranging from a Scottish highlander to a Turkish sultana. Just as he was wishing he had refused to come, his partner twirled off and was replaced by a señorita. In red.

  He held out his hand. She took it in her gloved one. “Good evening.”

  She glanced up. Gasped. “G-good evening, sir.”

  He led her through the first movement. Another shy debutante, dressed beautifully but too provocatively for her years. “There’s no need to be frightened. I promise not to eat you.”

  A smile wisped across her lips as her eyes, half hidden behind the mask, met his again, dark, soulful, mysterious. “Promise?”

  His heart thudded. No debutante would dare make such a comment. No wonder Carmichael had been entranced.

  He studied her carefully. The dark head was now bowed, a pearl comb holding a froth of lace in her hair. Small, perfectly shaped ears wore the only other ornamentation, save for her necklace and the spangles in her dress. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  “Si, señor,” she replied in husky tones. “And you?”

  “Oui,” he said, joining in with her game. “Parlez vous francais?”

  “Non.” Her lips curved.

  He echoed the motion, even as he felt a faint tug of recognition. She was definitely not the shy debutante he had initially thought. Who was she? They moved around the set, together, then apart. He noticed his mother studying them, her arms crossed, one hand flicking her lace fan back and forth, as if waiting for something to occur.

  “My friend danced with you earlier.” Jon nodded to where Carmichael now danced with Julia. “The chevalier there. He said you ran away. Will you run from me, too?”

  “No, señor.”

  Their gazes connected, something tightened across his chest. Wisps of memory begged to be recalled. He exhaled. “Please, señorita, can you tell me if we have met before?”

  “No, señor.”

  “You cannot, or we have not?”

  Her smile widened.

  Before she could respond, the dance led her away to curtsy to the next man, during which Jon could appreciate her figure, her gown clinging to her curves—

  “Lord, help me,” he muttered, averting his eyes. He should not be entranced by the señorita. Miss Beauchamp was his intended and alone should occupy his thoughts.

  But when he finished the dance, having released his partner to her chaperone, Jon could do nothing save search for the mysterious lady in red. He found her, half hidden behind a pillar, watching the dancing, a slight wistful droop to her lips. “Here you are.”

  “You are observant, señor.” Her lips lifted in one corner.

  He chuckled, and snagged the attention of a passing footman. “May I offer you some refreshment? A glass of punch, perhaps?”

  “I would prefer lemonade, sir.”

  Jon stilled, peering closer at the señorita. He had known a young lady whose dislike of mixed drinks had led to many a whispered conversation and laughter—and almost to the altar. Her eyes were bright behind her mask, her lips, stained pink, held a quirk of mischief.

  “Pardon, señor, is there a problem?”

  “You … you remind me of someone.”

  “Me, señor? I am nothing but a poor girl.” She stepped back, away from the candlelight spilling from the chandelier.

  If it was her … His heartbeat quickened. “Tell me, what are your favorite flowers?”

  A beat. “I do not know why this should concern you.” She glanced away.

  “I should think lilacs, or perhaps the lily?”

  “No.” Her smile flashed. She stepped away, her fan waving rapidly.

  “Perhaps a rose? ‘For a rose by any other name should smell so sweet.’ I wonder at your name, señorita.”

  The fan stopped waving. “Señor, please excuse—”

  “Violets?”

  Her gaze snapped to meet his.

  His heart kicked. It had to be. He stepped closer. “Catherine?”

  She shook her head. “Excuse me, sir.”

  And with a twirl of her skirts she was gone.

  Jon moved to hurry after her, but a touch on his arm gave him pause.

  “Leave her,” Mama murmured.

  He exhaled. “You know that was Miss Winthrop?”

  “I certainly did not expect to see her. Nor, it must be said, did I expect to see her looking quite so …” She waved a hand dismissively.

  Dashing? Intriguing? Beautiful? Any word would fit.

  “Well,” his mother continued, “you seemed to be having quite a time with her.”

  “I was not sure it was she.”

  “And if you were?” Her look was piercing.

  He had no answer.

  In some ways it had felt like coming home, a reversion to the ease and familiarity he remembered of years ago, where one would catch the unsaid, finish their sentences, laugh with the unspoken jest. In another, he felt a mix of dread and anticipation, the excitement of the unknown, the potential, the tremulous hope.

  Why had she come?

  His mother frowned. “I do not know quite what Julia sees in her. She’s such an odd creature.”

  His soul burned in protest. He forced calmness into his voice. “Miss Winthrop is not odd, Mother.”

  She stared at him. “I meant Julia, dear boy.”

  The noise of the ballroom, the rush of people, filled his senses again. He pushed to his toes, but still the mysterious señorita remained elusive. His soul strained to find her, to speak with her again, to perhaps finally ascertain if the spark he’d sensed was simply his vain imaginings or something more. “Mother, please excuse—”

  “Where is she?” Jon turned to see Carmichael attended by his sister. “Come, old man, I saw you talking with the lovely señorita but a few minutes ago.”

  “You mean Miss Winthrop?”

  Carmichael’s jaw sagged. “That was she?”

  “Catherine was here?” Julia said. “Mother? Why didn’t you tell me? Where is she?” She looked about eagerly.

  “She has gone.” Jon’s voice sounded flat, even to his own ears.

  “But how did she come? It was not with the general. He came with her aunt, and look”—Julia nodded to the exit—“they are now leaving.”

  His gaze tracked to the exiting duo. Duo, not trio.

  Julia gasped, her eyes widening. “You don’t think—?”

  His heart drummed loudly, as Carmichael chuckled, and said the words he didn’t want to hear.

  “The naughty minx! She’s come alone.”

  Catherine hastened through the Assembly Room’s vestibule. She had set out to leave as soon as Aunt Drusilla had begun her farewells; experience said it would take another ten minutes before she retrieved her cloak. But in pausing for a final look at the dancing, Mr. Carlew had stopped her, and she’d reveled in the delight of old banter—making her late. She had to hurry. She pulled the hood of her domino lower and rushed down the front steps. Though some might have suspected, she still could not afford widespread recognition.

  “Ahoy, there, lass. Dinnae be running away.”

  Catherine glanced to her right. A group of soldiers, their uniforms somewhat tattered, stood eyeing her. She shivered. Glanced to her left
. Dim alleys beckoned.

  “Come on, lass. We just want a word.”

  A bottle clanked. Footsteps scurried behind.

  Lord, help me!

  The footsteps picked up speed. Her pulse’s tempo outpaced them. She hurried towards the darkness, her breath coming in gasps. “Dear God!”

  “Excuse me, miss?”

  The voice, vaguely recognized, made her slow. Glance up. Stop. “Major Hale?” She pulled her mask away for a better look. “Oh, it is you!”

  “Miss Winthrop?” He blinked. “What the deuce are you doing here?”

  “I …” she glanced over her shoulder, and shivered. The soldiers remained, watching, leering.

  “My sister,” Hale said loudly. “Foolish girl. Thought I’d gone home.”

  There was a chorus of grumbles and the men retreated.

  Catherine released a deep breath. “Thank you, Major Hale.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  She glanced up at her protector. Upper room lights revealed the melancholy lining his face. “Sir, forgive me but you do not seem well.”

  “I …” He threw a hand through his hair. “How can I be? When all is …”

  “When all is what, Mr. Hale?” The hopeless look on his face thickened her throat. “Sir, you seem troubled.”

  “Troubled? Oh, if it was merely that. I … I am in agony.”

  “Sir, you have friends.” She placed a hand on his arm. “Mr. Carlew—”

  “He is not my friend.”

  She drew back. “But … Julia?”

  “What has she said?” he asked eagerly.

  “Sh-she seems most concerned for you.”

  “She is an angel.”

  Major Hale and Julia? Oh, no.

  “Did you see her tonight? Never has she looked lovelier. If it were not for that brother—”

  That overprotective big brother.

  Slow dread crept over her, prickling her skin. Something made her look up, look over her shoulder, back at the Assembly Rooms—

  To see Mr. Carlew, the viscount, and Julia standing on the front steps, staring in their direction. Behind them stood Lady Milton.

  Nausea slid through her stomach.

  “Look at them, judging.” He snorted. “Poor Julia doesn’t have a chance.”

  “But, sir—”

  “Come. Tie your mask back on. We should go.”

  Before she was caught, and had to explain. After asking her direction, Major Hale took her hand, and soon they were twisting through the back alleys to Gay Street. She glanced up, could see the general’s coach turn at the corner.

  Panic hurried her movements. She raced up the steps, opened the door. Thank God it remained unlocked! “Th-thank you, sir.”

  “When may we speak?”

  She had to get rid of him! The coach rumbled closer. “T-tomorrow morning? At Debenhams?”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  She nodded, eased the front door shut, and hurried up the main stairs to her room. She closed and locked the door, stripped off the garments, and slipped into bed. Below she heard a soft murmur of voices. Moments later, she heard steps creak outside in the hall, waiting a long moment before creaking away again.

  She huddled under her covers, heart racing, mind spinning with the events of the night: the music, the lights, the costumes, the dancing. Mr. Carlew, his soft words, the light in his eyes, his hand holding hers, the stirring of sweet memories. Conscious of so much.

  Conscious of one thing.

  She was now hostage to Hale’s demands.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FİVE

  “HOW COULD SHE?”

  Julia’s white-faced question continued to haunt Jonathan, long after they had returned to Camden Place and she had rushed off to bed.

  By mutual consent they had not told Mother about what they’d seen. He felt sure she would soon learn all; Lady Milton would see to that. He would tell Mother tomorrow, but right now could not find the words. For Julia’s words echoed those in his heart. How could Catherine do such a scandalous thing? It was one thing to have thought a young lady might throw off the conventions of mourning to attend a masquerade; it was quite another to do so without proper chaperonage—to attend in the company of a known rake!

  “I think we’re both in need of some restoration,” Carmichael said, picking up a decanter.

  “Not for me.” His brain felt too foggy already.

  Carmichael poured himself two fingers of whiskey and sank into the seat opposite. A blissful kind of silence—or was it numbness?—filled the room, drowning out the clatter in his mind.

  “Well! That was an eventful evening.” The viscount gave a flash of a grin. “I have to say I no longer think a mouse is quite the right description for her.”

  Images of her sensual dress, her painted lips, her flirtatious manner arose, stirring desire, stirring confusion. Was it possible he had been fooled all this time? Were the rumors circulating around Bath concerning her fast ways that he’d dismissed as wickedness actually true?

  “She was … nothing like I’ve known.”

  Except that wasn’t really true. He’d known her like that. Had even once encouraged her in her self-assuredness. But how had this turned so badly? Leaving him feeling furious, frustrated, bereft?

  “Well, I know its not the usual thing for a mourning miss, but I’m glad she got the chance to have a little fun. After all, she won’t get much chance with the general.”

  “He seemed to be enjoying himself.”

  “But not with her.” Carmichael swallowed his drink and eyed him. “It’s all a little messy, isn’t it, old man?”

  Jon inhaled, working to overcome the spike of anger prompted at his friend’s words. Why did he have to look at a fellow quite so perceptively?

  His mother returned, her wig off, now draped in a wrapper. “Julia seems a little down.”

  He bit back a sarcastic comment, thankful for his friend who mentioned something about the sad lack of dancers. “Perhaps that was the problem tonight, Lady Harkness.”

  “Perhaps.” Her keen green eyes shifted to him. “And you, Jon? What reason might you give for your sister’s shifting spirits?”

  “I could not say.” Would not say. He had unnerving suspicions but until he learned more he could say nothing. Yet. “She has been mercurial of late.”

  “True.” She glanced between them. “Am I interrupting something? Is there perhaps more to this than I know?”

  He swallowed a sigh. “Tomorrow, Mother. I will tell you tomorrow.”

  She frowned. “There is nothing of concern for tonight?”

  Not so long as Julia remained in her room all night. “No. Go to sleep, Mother. Sweet dreams.” He kissed her cheek, waited as she left the room, then resumed his slumped posture in the chair.

  “I do not envy you, old man.” Carmichael placed his glass on the side table. “What will you do?”

  He could not answer as the worries whirled within. He must talk with Julia; must talk with Hale. Must speak with Catherine. His heart panged.

  “She is your cousin, is she not? Sorry, third cousin. You are now the head of your family, so I suppose you must speak with her.”

  “I should go tonight.”

  “And do what? Demand to see her? Demand an explanation? How would that help?”

  “At least I’d know she arrived home safely, and wouldn’t be—” Cursed with anxiety, worried about threats to her virtue, imagining the worst, helpless in his fear.

  Carmichael shook his head gently. “You cannot go. If it really was Miss Winthrop, then she has obviously slipped out without others knowing, and is most likely now tucked up in bed. And for all his reputation, you cannot really see Hale harming her in any way, can you?”

  “Well …”

  “And storming in there demanding to see her would only set you up as possessing an interest far beyond that of a cousin, and might raise questions over your motives, old man.” A beat. “Unless you truly do hold interest in her beyon
d that of a cousin.”

  “Third cousin.”

  At the sound of his friend’s soft laughter Jon looked up. Met the too-perceptive gaze once more. Felt the tips of his ears burn. He hastened to say, “Perhaps the general—”

  “She obviously did not care to seek his opinion, just as he did not seem too mindful of hers. You know, it really puts me in mind that perhaps they are not so attached as you suppose.”

  “Carmichael,” he gritted out.

  “Do you growl at your shareholders as you do your friends? It is a wonder you have any of either, the way you carry on sometimes. I am simply trying to be helpful.”

  “Or simply trying.”

  Carmichael laughed. “That’s the spirit.” His amusement faded, his eyes now shaded with something akin to understanding. “But you do need to speak with her. And find Hale.”

  “Where would he be?” Panic clawed up his throat, pushed him to his feet. “What if he leaves? What if he”—he swallowed bitterness—“compromises her?”

  His friend’s face softened with sympathy. “Tomorrow, old man.”

  Jon nodded, his heart weighted with dread. Tomorrow.

  Too close, and yet too far away.

  Catherine rose early, heavy-eyed, the lack of sleep making her movements slow, but she could not linger in bed and risk Bess discovering her nighttime activities. She lifted the Spanish gown, now dry, from where she’d hung it in front of the fire last night. She’d waited an age until she was sure Aunt Drusilla had gone to bed before commencing her ministrations, damping out the stains, cleaning the fan, the mask, and domino. They were now ready to be returned, but the gloves would have to wait for later. She would just hope Aunt Drusilla did not require her gloves any time soon.

  She carefully laid the pieces under the bed, thankful the valance hid them from view—and that regular cleaning meant no dust motes lived there to give away her endeavors. She tiptoed to the door, unlocked it, and then crept back to bed, thinking over the previous evening.