by Joan Smith
“Well upon my word, that is mighty fine of you, milady. Did you hear that, Dotty? How would you like to bend your knee to Queen Charlotte, eh?”
“I would be scared stiff,” Dotty replied.
“You will be bored stiff, I promise you,” Helen informed her. Then she turned and spoke to Bolton in a low voice. Miranda thought she heard the words “Alfred Hume.”
When the tea was finished, Lady Bolton said, “I am taking Miss Ffoulkes-Hazard to show her the family portraits in the small gallery, Max. You will look after the ladies for me.”
He rose with a challenging eye. “Let me take her, ma’am. You won’t want to abandon Mrs. Hazard.”
She noticed that simple “Hazard,” and thought Max was a fool to let the woman know he had discovered her stunt. “That necessary, dear. Helen can entertain Mrs. Ffoulkes-Hazard.”
“The whole name is such a mouthful we often just ourselves Hazard,” Mrs. Hazard said, with red climbing up neck.
“I insist on conducting the tour,” Max said. “Don’t worry, Adelaide, I shall make sure she sees the picture of Jeremy. I expect that is why she is being shown that wall of inferior artworks.” He turned to Dorothy. “The better family portraits are in the gallery at South Winds, the family estate in Hampshire.”
“If you insist,” Lady Bolton said, smiling through clenched teeth.
‘‘I do.”
“Take Lady Wetherby with you. She would like to see the pictures.”
“It was my intention to invite her to join us,” he said, holding out his hand to her. He squeezed her fingers and gave her a conspiratorial smile as she put her hand in his.
She sensed some private rancor between him and Lady Bolton, and wondered why the dame wanted her to accompany him and Dotty. The only explanation she could find was that she was to play propriety, which hardly seemed necessary when the study was only two doors away.
As Bolton had said, the pictures were inferior. Stiff likenesses of his ancestors in historical costume hung in rows around the four walls of the rectangular room.
“Which one is Jeremy?” Dotty asked, her eyes moving quickly along the age-dimmed portraits.
“That is Jeremy in the place of honor at the far end of the room, just between the windows.”
They all walked forward to study the picture of a young man standing beside a bay mount. It was done in the style of Gainsborough. The young man stood in an idealized country setting, with misty trees behind. As Gainsborough had died in the last century, it was obviously not the work of that master. Miranda didn’t recognize the signature.
She thought Jeremy was a handsome looking fellow, but with a petulant mouth. His auburn hair fell in a lock over a high forehead. He stood with his right hand on the horse’s head, his other hand holding a crop. The shoulders of his blue jacket were broad, tapering to a narrow waist. The dotted kerchief at his throat lent him a casual air.
“There he is, Lady Bolton’s pride and joy,” Bolton said.
Dotty examined the picture, then turned to study Bolton. “He doesn’t look much like you,” she said.
“Why should he? He is no blood relation to me. He is my stepmama’s son by her first husband. I had only one brother, and he is dead.”
“What is his family name?” Dotty asked.
“West. Jeremy West. I expect you will be meeting him next spring, if not before.” After a frowning pause, he added, “Probably before. Yes, almost certainly before. What do you think of him?”
Dotty looked up at Bolton shyly from the corner of her eyes. “I always preferred dark haired gentlemen,” she replied.
Miranda had never seen Dotty flirt before, but she was certainly flirting now. And Lord Bolton was not displeased with her effort either. He smiled and bowed, taking the compliment in his stride. He was obviously used to such speeches.
“What good taste you have, Miss Hazard. I, on the other hand, have nothing against blonds,” he said, his eyes just flickering over Dotty’s blond curls. Then he turned to Miranda and added, “Nor have I anything against sable curls. I own I admire ladies of all sorts and sizes and complexions.”
“You are easy to please. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding a wife,” Dotty said, and laughed archly as she took his arm to leave.
Bolton waited until Miranda joined them. “I have two arms,” he pointed out, nodding at his free one.
“And I have two feet. I don’t need assistance, thank you,” she said, but she said it playfully. “You two go ahead. I want another look at Jeremy’s portrait. He reminds me of someone. I can’t think who.”
“Try Lady Bolton. He has her sulky expression.”
“But Helen is lovely!” Dotty exclaimed.
“I meant his mama, Adelaide, actually. Yes, Helen is lovely. There can be no argument there.”
Miranda lingered a moment after they left, wondering why Lord Bolton had insisted on showing them the portraits. Had he hoped to be alone with Dotty? It was Adelaide who had suggested that Miranda accompany them. He had not actually flirted with Dotty, but he had more or less encouraged her to flirt with him. There was no doubt as to why Lady Bolton had suggested the tour. She wanted to put Jeremy forward. Bolton couldn’t quite hide his dislike of both Jeremy and his mama.
It was harder to distinguish how he felt about Helen. He didn’t seem to dislike her as much, but he showed no particular affection for her either. What a strange, uncomfortable household it must be to live in.
She wondered why the ladies didn’t set up their own house, or a flat at least. In a rich family like that, surely there was no shortage of money — was there? She assumed Bolton was rich, but perhaps he was not so well to grass as she believed. Many noblemen squandered their fortunes away. And if that was the case, then of course he would be looking for an heiress
Chapter Seven
“Now what was the point of dragging us over there and not having a soul to meet us?” Mrs. Hazard asked, when they were at home in their own saloon. She had eased her feet out of her slippers and was wiggling her toes.
“I believe she wanted to put Jeremy forward,” Miranda suggested.
“Aye, it’s the money she has in her eye, depend upon it. And he a younger son! My Dotty can do better than Lord Jeremy, I hope.”
“He’s not even a noble younger son,” Miranda pointed out, knowing her friend’s love of a title. “Lady Bolton mentioned she was married before, you recall. Jeremy is her son by her first husband, Mr. West.”
“So he hasn’t even a handle to his name! Heaven knows I am not the poor sort of creature who puts any store by such things, but for the size of Dotty’s dowry, I think she deserves better than Mr. West. She may go to the devil. It was kind of her to offer to sponsor Dotty next Season, but if the price is Mr. Jeremy West as a son-in-law, I shall decline. Much better to stick with Lord Bolton.”
Dotty, who had been listening to this discussion with only mild interest, as if it had nothing to do with her, suddenly said in a dreamy voice, “Lord Bolton is ever so nice.”
“What kind of a title would my Dotty have if she took him?” Mrs. Hazard asked Miranda.
Miranda, less certain that Lord Bolton was Dotty’s for the taking, replied discreetly, “Lord Bolton is an earl. When he marries, his wife will be a countess.”
Her hint went unnoticed. “And with a tiara in her curls for grand parties,” Mrs. Hazard beamed. “How would you like that, Dotty?” Dotty didn’t bother to reply. “Would I have a handle to my name?” her mama inquired.
“No, ma’am. For that, you would have to marry a titled gentleman yourself. And it wouldn’t be hard for you to do either.”
Mrs. Hazard laughed and slapped her knee and said she might offer for one of the royal dukes, if they weren’t all so demmed ugly. “We’ll find some well-greased gentleman for you too, Miranda. I shall put you forward with Mr. Hume.”
“No, please don’t! Why does everyone push Mr. Hume at me. I do not care for him in the least. I much prefer — that is --” Sh
e came to a flustered stop, trying to think of some gentleman other than Bolton that she could mention.
Mrs. Hazard shook her head in commiseration. “You prefer Lord Bolton, of course. Who would not? But it’s pretty clear he has my Dotty in his eye. He was most particular in his attentions.
Nothing personal, Miranda, but you are a widow of a certain age and very small fortune. Bolton will be looking a little higher on the shelf for a match. And now I shall go upstairs and have a liedown to prepare for the party this evening. You ought to have Rosie do your hair up in papers, Dotty. Your curls are wilting.”
After Mrs. Hazard had picked up her slippers, she said in a casual-seeming way. “Oh, by the way, Lady Bolton mentioned something about a person’s background being checked before she can be presented at court. I thought it better to get that Ffoulkes business out of the way now and told her to put Dotty down as Miss Hazard. I wouldn’t want Queen Charlotte to know I was fudging. Thank goodness Lady Bolton didn’t ask any questions.”
After she left, Dotty turned to Miranda. “I have noticed you are fond of Bolton, Miranda. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I feel I ought to tell you what he said this afternoon, when we were going to the saloon after looking at the pictures.”
Miranda came instantly to attention. “What? What did he say?”
“He said he was not interested in marrying a widow. He said it right out in so many words. I know he likes you. Indeed he seems quite partial, but I cannot think his intentions are honorable. It would be only an affair. Gentlemen think widows are fair game, you know.”
Miranda’s first reaction was disbelief. Not of Bolton’s intentions — that was easy to believe — but that he would blurt them out to Dotty. He was much too suave for that. She must have said something to him, teased him about dangling after herself. Yes, it might have happened like that, because Dotty would not make up such a story. She even looked rather sorry at carrying the tale.
“If that is true, about an affair, then are you sure he would do for you, Dotty?” she asked.
“I know you would never do anything like that, Miranda. And if he gets to dangling after some other widow who would, I think Mama and I between us could handle him.”
Miranda didn’t think anyone could handle Lord Bolton once he set his mind to something. It was painful to hear he had no serious interest in herself, but she was grateful that Dotty had told her. Miranda had felt an instant attraction to him, and the feeling did not lessen on closer acquaintance. It was best to nip it in the bud, before she went tumbling into love. Now she knew the worst, and would be on her guard against his insidious charm.
She needed every ounce of protection, because his behavior at Lady Comfort’s assembly that evening left no doubt that he wanted her for his mistress. Mrs. Hazard, as usual, insisted on going early. It was over an hour before Lord Bolton strolled in, between sets. He looked all around the room, and as soon as he spotted Miranda and the Hazards, who were surrounded by fortune hunters, he came toward them.
“I fear you are too late for the next dance, Lord Bolton,” Mrs. Hazard said. “Dotty’s card is full for the next set, but she has left one blank for you.”
Dotty proffered her book and he scribbled down “Bolton,” murmuring that she was too kind to think of him.
As soon as Dotty retrieved her book, she was accosted by another suitor. Bolton turned to Miranda. “And is your book also full for the next set, Lady Wetherby?”
“I fear it is, milord,” she had the satisfaction of replying.
Without waiting for her to show him her book, he reached out and took it. He glanced at it, scribbled his name down for the waltzes, and “refreshment parlor with Bolton” for the next set after that, then handed it back to her with a cocky, conspiratorial grin.
Miranda’s heart gave a lurch when she read the entry. Despite her caution, some part of her was gratified at his interest, yet now that she knew his intentions, she was also angry at his highhanded tactics.
He watched as her emotions played on her lively face. When she looked up, he gazed deeply into her eyes and said, “That was encroaching of me to be sure, but I intend to waltz you off your feet, ma’am. You will require a rest and a glass of champagne to recover.”
She took the pencil and struck out the second entry. “You will find I am not quite that easily bowled off my feet, milord. I shall give you the waltzes as you are a good dancer, but you must allow me to choose my own time and companion for refreshments.”
He graciously bowed his capitulation. “Your wish is my command, Lady Wetherby. But I wouldn’t be in a hurry to fill in that next set after the waltzes, if I were you. It is to be a country dance to let the youngsters, who are not allowed by the despots at Almack’s to waltz, have their day. The older ladies usually choose to sit it out.”
“Older ladies?”
His lips quirked in a bold grin. “Age, like so many things, is relative, n’est-ce pas? Of course you seem young to Hume, but folks of our age, yours and mine, know the scrambling about of a country dance is for the infantry. “ She just looked, with fire smoldering in her eyes. “That will teach you to strike my name off your card,” he said, and went to find another partner for the coming set.
Miranda’s temper was not improved to see him choose a striking redhead. She asked Lord Robert, with whom she was dancing, who the lady with Bolton was.
“That’s Lady Halton, a high flying widow. Lovely, isn’t she? She has just given her latest patron, Lord Musgrave, his congé. All the bucks are vying to capture her. She’s a friend of Helen, Bolton’s sister-in-law.”
“I see.”
When Mr. Hume asked her for a set, she wrote his name in for the country dances after the waltzes, to show Bolton a lesson. “Older ladies” indeed! She was not that old! Yet she was no longer young either. It was the grain of truth in it that annoyed her. As the evening progressed, she saw Bolton not only standing up with Dotty, but taking wine with her and Mrs. Hazard, and apparently enjoying himself very much, to judge by his lively expression.
Miranda was in no good mood by the time the waltzes began. She was of half a mind to go to the refreshment parlor and pretend she had a headache, but the waltz was her favorite dance. And besides, to cancel their dance would give it too much significance. Bolton appeared at her elbow just as the first note was struck.
“Ah, good! I was afraid you would already have chosen another partner to show me a lesson. I was unavoidably detained.”
“Having a hard time landing a mistress, are you?” she asked, with an air of ennui to hide her chagrin.
“Au contraire. Having a hard time avoiding their importunities. The ladies are not all so demure as your charming self, milady. Shocking how loose London morals have become while I was away,” he declared, but with no trace of shock. Indeed his tone denoted more approval than anything else. She read a challenge in his voice when he continued, “I’m glad you have kept yourself sequestered at Hornby Hall, all chaste and modest, Lady Wetherby.”
Was he trying to goad her into professing a lack of modesty in her past behavior? She leveled an ironic stare at him from her clear, green eyes. “I’m sure chastity is of great importance to you, milord,” she said.
“What’s got your tail up your back?” he demanded inelegantly. “I have gone to considerable pains to weasel my way into favor with your chaperon by protecting Miss Hazard for you. I am bound to say, Lady Wetherby, you are not performing that duty so diligently as I expected. I could have used your help when Cleary was trying to whisk her out of the ballroom for what he chose to call refreshments, but I doubt his refreshments came in a glass. In his carriage is more like it.”
Miranda suffered a pang of conscience. She had hardly glanced at Dotty all evening, except to notice when she was with Bolton. But Dotty was with her mama, and Mrs. Hazard had been warned to watch out for Cleary and Lord Warnville.
“Did you manage to rescue her?” she asked.
“Yes, at some danger to my own sa
fety. As a hardened old veteran, I shouldn’t complain of danger, but I do insist on receiving my reward.”
In the blinking of an eye, while she was watching him, his expression softened to tenderness. It was as if a mask had fallen from him, revealing a younger, more innocent man beneath. His voice, when he spoke, was gentle. “Come, I have been waiting all evening for our waltz,” he said, reaching for her hand.
This sudden transformation threw her into confusion. He held her hand tightly as they went to the floor. And when he swept her into his arms, she forgot all the wise precautions she had been planning to take. It felt strange and a little wicked to be held in a man’s arms, with the warmth of his hard chest heating her body. Their legs brushed intimately as he whirled her around the room.
She felt he was holding her a little more tightly than decorum decreed, but she didn’t ask him to loosen his grip. Life was too short to spend in constant worry. She needed this brief respite from reality. That’s what the waltz was for her, when she danced it with such a partner as Lord Bolton. Cares were left behind as she floated on a cloud of make believe, with a prince charming gazing at her as if she were a marvel, as if he loved her.
Perhaps he did, in a way. If she were higher born, he might offer her marriage. At least he liked her enough to want to make her his mistress. She was quite sure of that. He would not say such things to her if he didn’t. She listened like one in a dream as he told her his feelings and wishes, in a velvet soft voice that echoed with sincerity.
“The moment I saw you across the room last evening, Lady Wetherby, I knew you were the one. I felt I had known you for a thousand years — or a thousand nights, as if our souls were old friends. I had nearly given up hope,” he said wistfully. “Truly, I was about to retire to South Winds and set up as one of those tiresome ‘improving farmers,’ boring his neighbors with talk of marling and mulch. Truth to tell, I am a little inclined that way.”
“You, a farmer,” she said, and laughed. “It is easier to picture you as a soldier, leading a fearless band into battle.”
