by Erica Ridley
Heath’s eyes widened. That was indeed the crux of the matter. He needed to have her in his arms.
He was in love.
The floor seemed to tilt about him at the realization. He had known they were more than compatible, suspected their trajectory would not end with a single kiss, but he had not realized his future was already predetermined. Love. So what was he meant to do about it?
His blood quickened. Make room, of course. Not just in his heart, but in every aspect of his life.
Heath dismissed his valet and glanced about his dressing chamber, mentally rearranging items and furniture to accommodate the addition of a wife. His heart sang at the thought of her pert red curls brightening up his bachelor quarters.
With luck, soon there might be no room in the armoire for Heath’s shirts and waistcoats because it would be overflowing with pastel pink gowns instead.
His chest thumped.
He wasn’t just imagining her as his wife. He was realizing how happy it would make him. The two of them, together. Not in secret. Not musicless dances and stolen kisses. A marriage full of passion and art and waltzes that led to… even more passion. Not in brief snatches, but for the rest of their lives.
Don’t bollocks it up, Maxwell Gideon had said. Wise words from a wise man. Heath would have to do this right.
In this, at least, there was a path one could follow. Miss Winfield was far from the expected sort of attachment, but that did not mean Heath could not proceed as he’d always imagined.
Before one spoke of one’s feelings to a lady one hoped to someday court, the first step was to secure permission to do so. Under normal circumstances, the girl’s father would be the one to address. In this case, Heath would be forced to ask permission from the closest thing Miss Winfield had in town to an official guardian.
Once permission to formally court her was secured, Heath would take her to meet his family. If his parents and siblings did not oppose the match, he would be free to express his feelings to Miss Winfield.
That permission would undoubtedly be the biggest hurdle.
He sent a carefully worded letter off to his sister with the instruction that his footman was to wait for an immediate reply.
Heath did not wish to tip his hand. Lady Roundtree liked him, but she was also unpredictable. And even if she granted his petition, he would still need to convince Miss Winfield to present herself at the Grenville home to be inspected and judged.
He did not wish to put her through anything distasteful. On the other hand, Miss Winfield felt the same passion for her family as Heath felt toward his. He had no doubt she would sacrifice anything if it would aid her grandparents. Just like he would have to do if his own family feared irreparable harm from such an unprecedented alliance. Miss Winfield would go away, and they would never again meet.
But Heath suspected the resulting hole in his heart would be with him the rest of his life.
As soon as his footman returned, Heath dashed out of his town house to his carriage and made haste to call upon Lady Roundtree.
When he was shown into the front parlor, the baroness was alone. He squared his shoulders. Unusual or not, this would have to work.
“Mr. Grenville!” Lady Roundtree flapped her hands at him in excitement. “What an unexpected delight! I’m afraid I just sent Miss Winfield to change from her morning gown to her afternoon gown, so she won’t be able available to join us for nigh half an hour. Have you come to discuss the case?”
Heath took the wingback chair closest to the baroness’s settee, and leaned forward. “I’ve come to discuss Miss Winfield.”
“I see.” Lady Roundtree’s blue eyes grew crafty. “I wondered how long it would take.”
Heath blinked. “Pardon?”
She waved a hand. “Go on, go on. What have I to do with the matter?”
Heath cleared his throat. “I should properly be directing this inquiry to Miss Winfield’s grandfather.”
“And I hope you make the trek.” Lady Roundtree lifted a cup of tea. “They don’t get many visitors.”
“Better than that: I intend to bring them here.” Heath had already thought it over. “Any family of Miss Winfield’s must also be family of mine. They will want for nothing.”
Lady Roundtree glanced up from her tea. “How fortuitous. I could use a new bonnet.”
“Pardon?” Heath said, then forged ahead when the baroness motioned for him to keep talking. “I am formally requesting permission to court Miss Winfield.”
“You are asking me to be a paid employee’s guardian and duenna?” Lady Roundtree glared down her nose at him.
He stared back. “I…”
“I accept.” She refilled her cup. “But since I am chair-bound, we will have to divide the duties. I will be Winfield’s guardian and Captain Pugboat can be her companion.”
Heath wondered if the baroness had been drinking whiskey with her tea. “That is to say, you give your formal permission? At least until I can speak with her grandfather?”
“Congratulations,” Lady Roundtree spooned sugar into her cup. “You have both made an excellent match.”
“Miss Winfield hasn’t agreed to anything yet,” Heath reminded her. “Now that I have permission, I must only wait for the perfect moment to ask for her hand.”
Lady Roundtree arched her brows. “Is that all?”
Very well, it was not all. It was just one step toward the right path. Heath ran a hand through his hair.
Before he and Miss Winfield could pursue a courtship, he would need to take her—and her chair-bound chaperone—to meet his family. Trepidation crawled down his neck.
Heath’s jaw tightened. Meeting Miss Winfield would either convince his family of their compatibility… or prove once and for all that love would never be more important than one’s duty.
He straightened. “Do you have plans for the afternoon?”
“I’ll cancel them.” Lady Roundtree put down her teacup. “What do you have in mind?”
A yip and the patter of tiny paws sounded from the corridor.
Captain Pugboat sailed into the parlor, his wrinkled belly sliding on the freshly waxed floor. In a trice, he collided with the center carpet. Rather than right himself, he rolled with his paws toward the ceiling and twisted his spine merrily from side to side as if scratching his back on the baroness’s Axminster carpet had been his plan all along.
Miss Winfield entered the room at a more sedate pace. Her eyes lit up at the sight of Heath.
His heart skipped. He hoped she could not detect his inner battle on his face.
“Ring for our coats and bonnets,” Lady Roundtree said.
Miss Winfield blinked. “Where are we going?”
The baroness sent raised eyebrows toward Heath.
He bowed to Miss Winfield in greeting. “To call upon my family, if you would be so kind.”
“Of course,” she said hesitantly.
Splendid. After Heath had sent a private word to his youngest sister warning of their possible arrival, Bryony’s immediate reply had insisted she and the others cared far more for his happiness than any incidental damage to the family’s reputation.
That was all well and good, but Heath’s sisters did not rule the Grenville household. He had no wish to hurt Mother. And he could not disappoint Father.
When they arrived at the Grenville town house, all three sisters loomed over the butler’s shoulder. Even Camellia, who no longer lived at home, must have rushed across Mayfair in her husband’s fastest conveyance so as not to miss the moment.
“Where’s Mother?” Heath whispered to his siblings.
“In the parlor preparing tea for Lady Roundtree.”
“I love tea.” The baroness brightened. “Wheel me in.”
Heath shooed his sisters out of the way to make room for Miss Winfield and the entourage of footmen required to lift Lady Roundtree’s wheeled chair up the steps and into the house.
“I had meant to perform introductions in a parlor like civ
ilized people rather than crowded about the front stoop like heathens,” he began with a darkling glance at his sisters.
They smiled back at him angelically.
“But since we are all here,” he continued, “Hoydens, it is my distinct privilege and absolute pleasure to present Miss Eleanora Winfield. Miss Winfield, it is my dubious honor to introduce you to the three most mule-headed, intelligent, and embarrassingly nosy sisters a brother could ever have.” He gestured at each in turn, starting with Camellia. “Lady Wainwright, Miss Dahlia Grenville, and Miss Bryony Grenville.”
Miss Winfield dipped an immediate curtsey as her cheeks flushed rosy pink. “How do you do?”
“What is better, a waltz or a minuet?” Dahlia fired back in lieu of reply.
Clearly discombobulated, Miss Winfield stammered, “Waltz?”
“Ratafia or sherry?” Bryony demanded.
Miss Winfield shot a bewildered glance over her shoulder at Heath before answering, “Sherry?”
Camellia stepped forward. “Cream first or jam first?”
“Jam,” Miss Winfield replied emphatically.
“You’re in.” Camellia looped her arm through Miss Winfield’s, and led her toward the rear sitting room. “We’ve made a place for you at our gaming table. Do you know how to count cards?”
Heath stepped into their path. “Now that Miss Winfield has been properly vetted, might she at least meet our parents before you abscond with her?”
A flicker of sympathy flashed across Camellia’s eyes.
Heath had his answer.
Father did not deem the occasion important enough to attend.
No matter. Heath ignored the twist in his heart. Father might bear the title, but Mother was the one who ran the family.
Heath offered his arm to Miss Winfield. Perhaps this was a boon. He would not have to worry about what Father thought of Heath being the next Grenville to break societal rules, after all. The baron was unlikely to take notice.
The five of them piled in behind Lady Roundtree and her footmen and streamed into the parlor.
When Mother greeted Lady Roundtree like the old friends they were, and spared not a glance toward Miss Winfield, Heath realized his sisters must not have informed their mother of the true purpose of today’s visit.
Perhaps that was a boon as well. He would introduce Miss Winfield to his mother, then give the extended family some space to get to know each other before causing an uproar with an official announcement.
“Mother, I would like to present Miss Eleanora Winfield. Miss Winfield, this is my mother, Lady Grenville.”
Miss Winfield executed a perfect curtsey.
Mother flashed a preoccupied smile and returned her focus to her conversation with Lady Roundtree.
“Now can we steal her away?” Bryony stage-whispered. “Mother won’t stop talking about hair ribbons for at least another hour.”
Heath offered his elbow to Miss Winfield before his sisters could deprive him of the privilege.
“Have you ever tossed half a deck of playing cards in someone’s face?” he asked politely.
“Just my brother’s,” she replied with a startled laugh. “But only because we didn’t have a whole deck.”
“She’s perfect!” Dahlia exclaimed and gave a little twirl in excitement.
They ushered her into the sibling sitting room.
“Heath invented the game,” Bryony confided. “But we made it better.”
Within moments of taking her seat at the gaming table, Miss Winfield was parrying words with the others and hiccupping with laughter as if she had been part of the family forever.
Heath’s pulse skipped. His future bride wouldn’t have to try to fit in—she already did. The afternoon quickly flew by.
“Guess what I have,” Camellia called in singsong.
“Not spades,” Dahlia groaned as cards fluttered about her head.
“I’m out.” Heath tossed his cards face down and leaned back in his chair to spend the rest of the round watching Miss Winfield’s animated expressions.
He had always believed it impossible to ever find a “perfect” woman. He couldn’t have been more wrong. Miss Winfield had been right in front of him all this time.
“Ha!” Bryony exclaimed as she scooped up a pile of hairpins they’d been using to wager. “Father would be so proud.”
“And Mother would disown all of us,” Camellia said with a laugh.
Heath winced at the reminder. His mother would only be the first in a long line of aristocrats who would be shocked to discover he’d “taken up with a commoner.” Not all of them would be pleasant or conceal their disdain. Until he inherited the title, Heath would not even be able to use that to protect Miss Winfield from vitriol. Their opinions would be harsh.
But Heath was not interested in marrying the beau monde. He wished to wed Miss Winfield.
If he, his family, and Miss Winfield could present a united front…
Then it wouldn’t matter what anyone else thought.
Chapter 23
Nora could not recall the last time she’d had so much unbridled fun. Heath and his siblings had her in tears of laughter.
That she constantly confused the sixes with the nines did not matter. The object of the game seemed less about winning and more about tossing cards in one’s opponent’s face when they failed to match suit.
It was exactly the sort of game one might expect bored siblings to invent some drizzly afternoon when it was too wet to go outside. Indeed, the cards seemed more likely to be in the air than to be in any person’s possession.
Nora loved that the Grenvilles had never stopped playing it in favor of more grown-up games like Whist or Casino. This was no true competition, but rather an excuse for family to spend time with each other.
“Are you going to the balloon launch next month?” Camellia asked her siblings.
Dahlia shook her head. “Faith and Chris are going, which leaves me on boarding school duty.” She turned to Bryony. “Care to come play your violin for a few hours?”
“I’ve an engagement, but I’ll make it up to you,” Bryony promised. “New bonnets for all the girls.”
Dahlia’s eyes shone. “That will be a wonderful treat.”
Nora’s astonished gaze bounced between them as they conversed. How wonderful it must have been to grow up a Grenville! So much love, so much wealth, so many siblings. Their home seemed like heaven.
As the eldest—and beleaguered sole male—Heath could have adopted an authoritarian attitude toward his younger sisters, or ignored them completely. Instead the clan quite obviously were the best of friends.
“How goes the new dancing instructor?” he inquired.
Dahlia brightened anew. “Do you miss your post? One can always make room in the schedule for more dancing.”
Nora sighed at the obvious love they shared.
Of course Mr. Grenville would be amazing with his family. When wasn’t he splendid? She would not have fallen in love with the man if he were not.
Reality crept in from the shadows. As much as she would enjoy laughing around this table with them forever, the Grenvilles were not her family. This was not her home. She did not truly belong.
Their stories proved it.
“I despise soirées,” Bryony groaned. “Please don’t make me go.”
“You love soirées,” Dahlia corrected. “You hate being forced to submit to five hours of hot tongs before Mother concedes defeat to your inability to hold a ringlet.”
“Nora’s curls are the perfect compromise,” Camellia put in. “Neither stick-straight nor sausage curls.”
“We can’t all be as gorgeous as Nora,” Bryony grumbled. “Perhaps she could go in my place.”
“Or just teach you how to arrange your hair,” Dahlia said dryly, with a wink in Nora’s direction.
Her lungs froze. Since coming to London, Mr. Grenville had been the first non-relative to respect her as a person, and thus far the only person to treat her as if s
he were an equal.
Until today. Now there were three more people acting as though Nora were one of them.
She could scarcely believe her turn of fortune.
Her fingers shook as she clumsily shuffled the cards and set them back in the middle of the table. When the top half slid to the side, she quickly righted it.
No one mocked her. No one even noticed; the Grenvilles were too busy teasing one another.
“Do not go to that masquerade,” Camellia told Bryony emphatically. “Look what happened to me.”
“Or do.” Dahlia gave Bryony a conspiratorial grin. “Look what happened to Camellia.”
“Nora would never attend such a party,” Camellia scolded her sisters.
“Nora may have attended so many that she’s become bored with scandalous masquerades altogether,” Dahlia countered.
“What’s this?” Nora’s mouth dropped open in mock outrage. “When did I get dragged into your nonsense?”
“When you walked in the front door,” Bryony replied, eyes twinkling.
Dahlia offered Nora a commiserating pat on the shoulder. “It’s what we do.”
“You’ll get used to it,” Camellia added with a laugh. “It’s not like we ever change.”
“You ought to consider changing,” Mr. Grenville grumbled. “How’s a gentleman to uphold his sterling reputation with you three miscreants in the family?”
“Upholding reputations is your job, not ours,” Bryony pointed out with an innocent flutter of lashes. “My job is to make you work for it.”
“Mine, too,” said Dahlia with a grin.
“Mine, too,” Camellia agreed. “Now can we get back to the game?”
Mr. Grenville burst out laughing. “I think I won ten minutes ago.”
“Didn’t see it, so it didn’t happen.” Bryony lifted the top half of the newly shuffled deck and began to deal. “Double your wagers, ladies.”
Camellia widened her eyes. “Why, Miss Bryony Grenville. Ladies don’t wager.”
“That’s right,” Mr. Grenville said sternly.
Dahlia tossed a gold sovereign onto the table. “I’ll wager Heath loses.”
