by Diana Quincy
“The judgment of society is meant to keep women from reaching their full potential,” said Pamela Grenfell, a pale sliver of a woman with a hand at her graceful, long white neck. “It’s just as Mary Wollstonecraft says.”
“Her thoughts are quite astounding in their directness,” Willa said.
“But true, nonetheless,” said Pamela. “Take your situation as an example. Just because you were seen at an inn in the company of the future Earl of Bellingham, your reputation is damaged.”
Willa sipped her tea to hide her discomfort. Yet the frankness of these discussions was what drew her to these women.
“And there is no stain on Bellingham,” said Octavia. “Now there’s a cad, if there ever was one. It’s completely unjust.”
“The Duke of Hartwell does not seem to mind her reputation,” Flor said with a naughty grin.
“Do tell.” Eyes wide, Pamela tilted her head toward Willa. “Is Hartwell courting you?”
“Of course not.” Her cheeks heated. “His Grace called once, but that is because he and Camryn are the oldest of friends.”
“They danced a waltz at Almack’s,” Flor said dreamily. “He is very appealing.”
“His Grace?” Octavia frowned. “He is a frightening sort if you ask me.”
Willa resisted an immediate urge to defend the duke. “Why do you say so?”
“Everyone knows he has an uncontrollable temper,” said Octavia. “He thrashed Bellingham almost to the death when they were at university.”
Pamela nodded. “My brother Freddie was a year behind them. He says Hartwell almost got sent up for it.”
“Why would he do such a thing?” Willa asked.
“According to my Freddie, Hartwell would never say what triggered the beating.” Pamela placed her cup in its saucer with a delicate clink. “Bellingham has always maintained Hartwell was jealous because he was only a second son while Bellingham stood to inherit an earldom.”
Flor shook her head. “I can’t imagine that man being jealous of anyone. He carries himself as though he owns the town.”
“According to Freddie, Hartwell was superior to Bellingham in every other way—in their studies and physical pursuits,” Pamela said.
“At least that part of the story is easily believed.” Willa could not imagine Hartwell assaulting someone out of jealousy. If true, it did not speak well of his character.
Pamela held out her cup. “More tea, if you please. It is excellent.” Willa obliged somewhat absentmindedly—her thoughts busy with the animus between Hartwell and Augustus.
“This is heavenly,” Pamela said between sips of tea. “You truly could sell it. Willa’s talent at blending tea could be a way for her to support herself without depending upon a man. So why should she not be able to do it?”
Octavia leaned forward to put her empty tea cup on the table. “I’ll tell you why. Because society prefers to keep women helpless and under the control of men.”
Willa had never thought to sell her blends. “Oh, I just mix tea for the pure pleasure of it.”
“You could call it Heavenly Tea,” Flor said thoughtfully. “It would see a fine profit, to be sure.”
Willa smiled, a little uncomfortable with the thought of trade. “Camryn has put aside a most generous portion even if I never marry. I’ve no need of income if I live modestly.”
“But there are those who do.” Octavia gave Flor a meaningful look. “Are you thinking what I am thinking?”
Excitement shone in Flor’s eyes. “That’s an excellent idea. It could work.”
Willa glanced between the two women. “What could work?”
“You see,” said Flor, leaning in toward Willa, “there is a little coffee house that we sponsor.”
Willa glanced around at the expectant faces focused on her. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“It’s sort of our little secret,” said Pamela. “Our families would not approve.”
Willa’s eyes rounded in shock. “Are you in trade?” she asked incredulously. Like her, these women had no need of funds. Not only was Flor’s father an earl, but Octavia’s was a viscount, while the death of Pamela’s husband had left her comfortably settled.
“Not exactly.” Flor patted her hand. “We help support the coffee shop to give work to women of the lower orders.”
“Wives whose husbands have died, or fallen women with children,” added Pamela.
“They work at the coffee house so they can earn an honest living without having to sell themselves,” said Octavia. “All women should be able to work to help keep their families.”
“Octavia rented out the shop and supplied it to begin with, but it isn’t making sufficient money to support itself,” Flor explained. “And the cost of both tea and sugar is rather high, which makes matters even more difficult.”
Octavia nodded. “I cannot continue to support it indefinitely. It must turn enough of a profit to pay the rent, wages, and supplies. And if we are made to relocate the shop, that would drive up costs considerably.”
“Why would you move the coffee house?” Willa asked.
“The landlord, Mr. Webb, has raised the rent twice. Now he informs us that someone intends to purchase the building,” Octavia said. “And that the buyer will wish to make use of the entire building for his own business concerns.”
“That’s where your tea comes in.” Excitement infused Flor’s words. “It would help considerably with expenses if we sell your special blends, both to partake of at the shop and to carry home. No one would ever have to know where it came from.”
Willa couldn’t help feeling flattered. The idea of sharing her blends with a wider circle of people held great appeal. Although the excitement in the room was contagious, she struggled to hold on to reason. “But what if we are discovered? It would be the scandal of the season.”
“We shall just see to it that we are never discovered,” said Flor, her voice resolute.
Willa pondered the possibility. “I could use my pin money for supplies so no one need know.”
Flor’s face lit up. “Then you will do it?”
“It is a worthwhile cause.”
Octavia clapped her hands together. “Excellent!”
The more she thought about it, the more she warmed to the idea. Her expertise with teas could be more than a hobby; it offered a way to do something of real purpose. Excitement bubbled up in her. “I will do it,” she said her tone growing more decisive, a sense of freedom billowing up inside of her. Here at last was one aspect of her life that she could take control of. “Where do we start?”
The talk turned to how much tea would be needed and how it would be packaged. They decided Pamela would arrange for a discreet member of her household staff to deliver the tea to the shop. As the hour grew late and her guests prepared to take their leave, it occurred to Willa that the reading group had not discussed a single book during their meeting.
She cast an appraising eye over her new friends. “This is a most unusual Ladies Reading Society.”
Pamela brushed a farewell kiss over Willa’s cheek. “And we are most happy to have you join us.”
Closing the door behind them, she turned around to find Addie coming down the hallway polishing an apple on her sleeve. “Why are you smiling?”
Willa straightened up. “Is it a crime to smile?”
Addie’s eyes narrowed. “If I did not know better, I would say you are up to something.”
“Me?” She reached for the apple and took a bite. “Do not be ridiculous. You are the adventurous sister.” She handed back the apple. “The most exciting thing I’ve done all week is host the Ladies Reading Society.”
Addie rolled her eyes. “True enough. Between all that reading and your tea blending, you really can be quite the bore.”
Feeling almost giddy, Willa suppressed the urge to giggle. “Quite right.”
Addie bit into her apple and chewed slowly. “So why you do look like the cat who ate the cream?”
&nbs
p; “I cannot say.” She sailed past her sister with a secret smile. “Read into that what you will.”
…
Willa smoothed out her pale pink dress as her maid put the finishing touches on her hair. Her unruly chestnut curls were in an upswept style, with some tendrils left loose to frame her face, softening her features, although there was nothing to be done about her overly large mouth and eyes. She certainly would never have her sister’s delicate looks.
Still, she’d taken extra care with her appearance this evening and tried to convince herself that it had nothing to do with the Duke of Hartwell being on the guest list. A tap on the door sounded, followed by a beaming Addie.
“Are you quite ready? Mother is asking for us in the drawing room.” Addie actually glowed with happiness now that she’d found Race again. She looked as though she could float away at a moment’s notice. “You really do look so lovely,” Addie said.
“Pish, posh.” Willa turned to kiss her sister on the cheek. “It is you who are beautiful.”
They were interrupted by a tap at the door. A footman appeared when Willa bid that he enter. “My lady, Mr. Smythe says there is a package you would like sent out?”
She swallowed hard. What unfortunate timing for him to appear at the same time as Addie. Hoping her sister would not suspect anything, she said in an off-hand manner, “Yes, thank you.” She pointed to the sizable package containing the tea blends she’d prepared for the first delivery to Pamela. “Please take it to Lady Grenfell.”
Addie eyed the package with interest. “What is in it?” she asked after the footman departed.
A guilty ache stirred in Willa’s stomach. Although lying did not come easily to her, she forced herself to answer in the same easy manner as before. “Just some books we are exchanging.”
“I should have known.” Addie groaned. “You are such a bluestocking.”
She gave an inward sigh of relief. “Shall we go down then?”
Addie paused, her demeanor turning more serious. “Willa, are you certain this is all right for you?”
“Of course. I am beyond thrilled for you and Race. I see the way he makes you feel.”
“Still, because of my betrothal you have to receive his swine of a brother. Has Bellingham called again?”
She resisted the urge to shake out the growing tightness in her shoulders. Augustus had tried to see her twice since arranging Addie and Race’s betrothal. The first time, she’d had the good fortune to be out with Flor. When he called again, she instructed Smythe to tell him she was not at home to callers. “If you are referring to Augustus, yes, he has called, but I have not received him. Nor do I intend to in the future.”
Addie bit her lip in a familiar nervous gesture. “I’ve placed you in a terrible spot.”
“Nonsense. I am no longer a young silly girl. I have no interest or remaining feelings for Bellingham.” Hearing the words spoken aloud made her realize how much she truly meant them. Carrying the weight of the scandal all these years had exhausted her. She finally felt ready—eager even—to put it behind her.
“I cannot abide the man.” Addie wrinkled her nose. “He is far too well pleased with himself. I should think his neck would hurt from constantly sticking his nose in the air.”
Willa suppressed a genuine laugh. “Addie, you mustn’t say things like that. We are liable to giggle all through dinner.”
Addie’s left brow rose up into a devilish arch. “Just imagine what the ton will say about those ill-raised Stanhope girls.”
Willa slipped her arm through Addie’s to guide her toward the door. “Now, let us go enjoy ourselves. This is your betrothal celebration. You must not concern yourself with my feelings a moment longer.”
Addie smiled, seeming convinced for the moment that Willa meant what she said. “Well, then, by all means, let us join our guests. They must have arrived by now.”
Trying to calm the uneasy feeling that lingered in the pit of her stomach, Willa followed her sister out the door. It dawned on her that the nerves had nothing at all to do with Augustus Manning and everything to do with the perplexing and strangely compelling Duke of Hartwell.
Chapter Five
Hart noticed the moment Willa and her sister entered the room. The man he assumed to be Horace Manning did as well. Bellingham’s younger brother lit up at the sight of his betrothed, immediately leaving his brother’s side to go to her and offer his arm. They seemed an unlikely couple. The girl’s petite, refined looks stood in sharp contrast to her betrothed’s thick muscled body and rough-hewn features.
He barely noticed the golden-haired sister even though her fragile features and delicate frame were the ton’s ideal of female loveliness. She paled in comparison to the full lushness of Willa’s earthy appeal—a mere nymph in the shadow of a robust goddess.
Hart’s gaze flitted back to Bellingham, who stood by the fireplace chatting with Cam, one elbow propped on the mantle, a glass of sherry in his hand. It had been years since he’d laid eyes on the man. Gus took a long drink and his silvery eyes locked on Willa as she glided across the room to join a group of ladies on the sofa.
She carried herself magnificently, shoulders drawn back, chin lifted, spine erect. Her blush pink gown enhanced the pale rosiness of her perfect complexion and the high-waisted style of the gown, with a satin bow tied just under her breasts, showcased an impossibly perfect bosom. His chest burned at the way Bellingham’s gaze lingered over her curvaceous form. A familiar, intense jolt of dislike for the man hit him anew. He couldn’t help wondering if there was any truth to the insinuation the earl had bedded the icy beauty. He couldn’t envision it. The bounder wouldn’t be present, in the company of Willa’s family, if such an outrageous allegation were true. Cam, standing next to Bellingham, caught his eye and waved him over.
“Do join us,” he said when Hart neared. “Bellingham, you remember Grey Preston?”
Something hard flickered in Bellingham’s eyes when he turned to Hart—likely the memory of the incident during those last days at Cambridge. “Preston,” he said in a most droll tone. “How unexpected.”
Hart swallowed his distaste. “Bellingham.”
Cam’s careful gaze shifted between the two. Even he had no idea what had triggered the beating. “Old Grey here has come into the title. He’s His Grace now, Duke of Hartwell.”
Those steel gray eyes remained carefully empty of expression. “My felicitations.”
“Which means Hartwell outranks us all now,” Cam continued. If Hart didn’t know better, he’d think Cam was needling the earl on purpose. “Quite a switch from the old days, wouldn’t you say, Bellingham?”
“Indeed.”
Amused, Hart downed his drink. “Cam had little hope for a title and I had no expectation of one of at all.” Despite his ambivalence about carrying his brother’s title, he could appreciate the irony of their reversed statures. Gus had lorded his high rank over all of them back then. But now, even Cam as a marquess outranked Bellingham.
It seemed to take great effort for Gus to twist his lips into something resembling a smile. “And now you have the greatest of expectations.”
After Cam excused himself to greet the newest arrivals, Hart turned to Bellingham. “So Gus, you’ve finally come into the title that you’ve coveted for so long.”
“Yes.” Bellingham’s focus shifted back to Willa. “My father’s death was a great loss.”
“I’m sure you felt it keenly.” His eyes followed the same path as Bellingham’s. “She’s a little out of your depth, wouldn’t you say?”
Bellingham’s stony gaze returned to Hart. “Beg pardon?”
“Lady Wilhelmina. You aim high.”
Bellingham’s left brow inched up. He studied Hart with renewed focus, as one might assess a formidable adversary. “You’re acquainted with the lady?” The man’s tone still suggested disinterest, only now deliberately so.
“She’s exceptionally lovely. But considering what I know of your true tastes, I would
n’t think her to be your type.”
For an instant, undisguised loathing glowered in Bellingham’s eyes. “You know nothing of my tastes.” His tone turned easy. “Really, Hartwell, bucks will be bucks. If you’re referring to that matter with Erskine, it was a passing amusement and nothing else.”
“I doubt Erskine would agree.”
“He was weak.” Bellingham made a dismissive motion with his hand. “What are you doing here, Hartwell? You are not often out in society.”
“Perhaps I am in search of a duchess.” Noting the way Bellingham’s fingers whitened around his glass, he gave a lazy smile and cast a slow, deliberate look in Willa’s direction. “It is well past time I set up a nursery.”
Bellingham followed his gaze. “Have a care where you tread, Hartwell. Things are not always as they appear.”
“Your continued acceptance in polite society is certainly proof of that.”
Bellingham’s jaw twitched. “Have you declared yourself to her or made your intentions known to Camryn?”
Hart studied the amber liquid in his glass. “Perhaps I intend to.” He took a slow drink. “I can scarcely believe my good fortune that such a rare diamond remains on the marriage mart.”
Bright circles of color appeared on each of the earl’s cheeks. “Are you certain of that?” Bellingham ground out. “I gather you are not in town much.”
“No, I am recently returned from India.”
A cold smile. “Of course, I had heard you went to India to find your fortune. Was it to your liking?”
“Enormously so.”
“Why am I not surprised a life of trade among savages would suit you.”
“If anyone would know about savagery, it would be you.” Hart was not ashamed of his business concerns. His considerable fortune was something he’d earned, unlike the dukedom. In many ways, he still thought of his dead brother as the true Duke of Hartwell. Michael had only been gone for a year and he often still felt like an interloper inhabiting someone else’s birthright.
Camryn’s butler appeared in the doorway to announce dinner.
“Duty calls. I must escort our hostess in to dinner,” Hart said, happy to deliver a tacit reminder that Bellingham ranked well beneath him now. As the highest titled gentleman in the room, it was the duke’s duty to escort the dowager marchioness into dinner.
