скачать книгу бесплатно
“Now, you must excuse me. I have some correspondence that will not keep.” Blakemore opened the office door and beckoned to his secretary. “Radcliff, see Winston down to the ladies, will you?”
“Yes, my lord.” Edgar rose from his desk and hurried around it, bowing as he came. “This way, Lord Winston.”
“Now, now, Radcliff.” Blakemore chuckled in his inimitable way. “I know Winston is your cousin, and you are his heir. When we are in private company, you may call him Winston.” He eyed Winston. “With your permission?”
“Of course.” Winston punctuated his assertion with an amiable pat to Edgar’s shoulder. “My cousin is a friend who is closer than a brother.”
“Indeed.” Blakemore’s eyebrows arched, then furrowed. “Well, then, carry on.” He turned and disappeared into his office.
Edgar waved away Winston’s apologetic grimace. “How did it go?”
“I think he said I am to accompany him, but it was rather indirect.” He searched his mind for some way to interpret the earl’s remarks. “He did say I should marry.”
“Then let us begin the pursuit. This way to the drawing room.” Edgar marched across the carpeted anteroom with the bearing of a footman. Always the perfect servant, even though he would have had the title after Father’s death had Winston not been born. As always, Winston was humbled by his cousin’s lack of self-importance. Somehow he must find a way to elevate his standing in Society.
As they descended the wide staircase to the first floor, passing giant portraits of Blakemore ancestors and other English nobility, the babble of feminine voices reached their ears.
“Ah. Lady Blakemore’s guests.” Edgar snickered. “A gaggle of giddy geese, if ever I heard one.” He glanced at Winston as if seeking his agreement.
Winston shrugged, unsure of what to think. In this moment of uncertainty, Edgar was no help at all, especially when he nudged Winston forward. “Enjoy yourself, cousin.” Then he scurried back up the broad stairway.
Neither did the blue-liveried footman at the drawing-room door offer any help, for his face was a blank page.
“I believe Lady Blakemore is expecting me.” He tried to sound severe, but his voice cracked as if he were a twelve-year-old boy. Did every young aristocrat suffer such difficulties during his first year in London Society? Or was it merely the uncertainty of what lay beyond this door with all of those ladies?
The old footman’s blank facade remained in place. “Yes, milord.” He opened the door and announced, “Lord Winston.”
Winston forced his feet over the threshold. The instant he entered, silence swept over the room, and a dozen or so mostly older ladies’ faces turned in his direction, eyes sparkling with interest. A certain young lady, the only one he had hoped to encounter, directed her gaze toward the cold white hearth, clearly indifferent to his arrival.
* * *
Catherine could barely make out Lord Winston’s reflection in the shiny silver vase beside her, but the view was sufficient to reveal he was looking her way with some degree of chagrin. Good. She would remain properly aloof until she had secured his interest.
“Gracious, Winston.” Lady Blakemore moved toward him. “You gentlemen always claim that we ladies talk overlong, but you and Blakemore have prolonged your discussion into my meeting time.” She lifted a gloved hand toward him. He took it and executed a perfect bow over it.
“My apologies, madam.” Winston did not sound flustered, but the warm color of his cheeks indicated some high feeling. “Another time, then?”
“Oh, no,” cried one of the ladies, Lady Grandly, if Catherine was not mistaken. “We must have a gentleman’s opinion about our fetes, mustn’t we, ladies?”
A chorus of indistinguishable but agreeable remarks filled the room. Catherine swallowed a laugh to see Lord Winston backing toward the door.
“I hardly think...” He held up his hands in an attempt to ward off two other ladies, to no avail. Each seized an arm and almost dragged him into the room.
Where had they learned their manners? Catherine’s mother would be horrified to see such behavior. Perhaps members of London’s haute ton had their own set of social rules. The two older ladies drew the baron to a long settee in the center of the room and across from Catherine. She slowly turned to face him so as not to seem as eager as the others for his presence.
Yet he stared at her with a helpless, hapless expression in his eyes. Could it be a plea for her help? She offered a brief consoling smile, but quickly sobered. A companion must never attempt to compete with eligible young Society ladies such as the Misses Waddington, each of whom took a seat at Lord Winston’s side. One cast a cross glance at Catherine, and she stared down at her folded hands, forbidding her temper to rise. She was the daughter of Comte du Coeur, a French nobleman equal to an English earl, and she had precedence over these two spoiled daughters of a mere English baron. For now, she must play the part of a nonentity. Yet with the French nobility who had remained loyal to Louis all the rage among the English aristocracy these days, those silly girls would be appalled over their own rudeness to her if they learned who she was.
“Ladies, please.” Lady Blakemore stood in the center of the room, her arms crossed. “Do release poor Winston to whatever business he must attend to.”
“Indeed,” dear old Mrs. Parton huffed. “You must not delay him from his work.”
“But Parliament does not meet today.” Lady Grandly gazed fondly at her two daughters, the girls sitting on either side of Lord Winston. “So his business cannot be too pressing.”
A second baroness, plump and handsome in her old age, added, “We must convince Winston to attend the assembly at Almack’s tonight, mustn’t we, ladies?”
Again the room buzzed with agreement. Catherine stifled another laugh as Lord Winston’s color deepened. How could such a wicked man blush? No doubt it was due to his fair coloring. She had always pictured Papa’s accuser as being cool and calculating, utterly in command of himself and able to send a man to his death without a qualm. Perhaps even a ladies’ man. Lord Winston seemed to possess none of those qualities.
“Tut-tut.” Lady Blakemore, tall and regal, tapped her fan against her open palm. “Release the poor gentleman. I have an errand for him, so you must not imprison him any longer.”
“At your service, madam.” Lord Winston stood so abruptly that one of the Miss Waddingtons nearly fell into the spot he vacated.
Catherine had to bite her cheeks to keep from laughing. Apparently the baron was oblivious to his own charms. All the better for her plans.
* * *
Winston grasped Lady Blakemore’s call to service like a lifeline. “How may I assist you, madam?”
The countess’s jaw dropped slightly, and she batted her eyelids. “Ah. Well. It is not a matter that will interest these ladies. Would you be so good as to follow me out?” She stepped over and gripped his arm, propelling instead of leading him toward the door.
The footman inside the room opened the way for them, and the countess shoved him through the portal, leaving behind muted cries of disappointment.
Winston did not know whether to be flattered or irritated. Where were these ladies last night at the marquess’s gala, when he could not find a supper partner until the last minute due to all the uniforms in the ballroom? Ah, the mysteries of women.
Once outside in the foyer, Lady Blakemore waved him to an occasional chair beside a small table. “Sit here.” She disappeared back into the drawing room.
He sat on the brown tapestry-covered chair, not relaxing in the slightest. Had the countess merely meant to rescue him, she would have sent him on his way. But now he had no choice but to wait for whatever she had planned.
Within thirty seconds, she reappeared, Miss Hart trailing behind her. Winston’s chest tightened. He did not care for being manipulated, if that was what Lady Blakemore was doing. But then, was he not contradicting himself? Had he not brought Mrs. Parton’s landau so he could take the young lady for a drive if all went well?
“Winston, Miss Hart must run an errand for me. I saw that you brought Julia’s landau. Would you be so good as to drive her?” The countess’s face revealed no guile, but her eyes did have a certain brightness about them.
“Madam, I should be honored to do your bidding.” Most errands were the work of footmen, but after she had rescued him from the bedlam of her drawing room, he would not complain. “Miss Hart.” He bowed to her and offered his arm.
“Lord Winston.” She curtsied and placed a hand on his arm, but gave him no smile. Turning to the countess, she said, “Before we go, my lady, perhaps you should tell me what you would have me do.”
“Oh.” Lady Blakemore blinked. “Why, I... Hmm.” She tapped her chin with a long, tapered finger and stared off for a moment. “Why, flowers, of course. You must go to Mr. Lambert’s flower shop on Duke Street and order several large bouquets of flowers.”
Now Miss Hart blinked. “Flowers?”
“Why, yes, my dear. We must have flowers for the supper table this evening.” More blinking, along with a tilt of her head. “We always require fresh flowers when having guests.”
“Forgive me, my lady.” Miss Hart’s lovely face crinkled with confusion. “I thought we were dining alone this evening. Who is your guest, if I may ask?”
“Why, Lord Winston, of course.” The countess turned a beaming smile on him. “You seemed unenthusiastic about attending Almack’s tonight, so I thought I should provide you with an excuse to decline. What better way to avoid the assembly than to have supper with us?”
He chuckled, then laughed aloud. “So you would have me fetch flowers for the sole purpose of entertaining me?”
“What a clever boy you are.” She patted his cheek. “Now run along. And if you decide to take a turn around Hyde Park after going to Duke Street, I believe the rain will hold off for another few hours.”
In spite of the warmth creeping up his neck due to her overly maternal gesture, he marveled at her ability to create such a scheme so quickly. With both Lord and Lady Blakemore pushing him toward Miss Hart, he had no choice but to go along with it. The drive in the park was his plan all along, and their approval seemed the confirmation he needed. If all went well, supper tonight would be an added benefit. If not, he could always beg off.
“Madam, I thank you.” He placed a hand over Miss Hart’s, which still rested on his arm. To his surprise, she did not seem to share their merriment, if her frown and lifted chin were any indication of her temperament. Perhaps this would not be the pleasant outing he had anticipated after all. This business of courting was thoroughly confusing to him. Was it his responsibility to cheer her? Or hers to amuse him?
Or would they merely tolerate each other while dancing to Lord and Lady Blakemore’s tune?
Chapter Five
Catherine wanted desperately to give vent to the laughter bubbling up inside her. Could Lady Blakemore see her struggle? Lord Winston’s sudden frown indicated he did not. Pretending to be aloof was proving to be more difficult than she had anticipated. With every deep breath taken to stifle her mirth over her employer’s clever machinations, she reminded herself of her family’s pain. And then there was the matter of going for a drive with this man who had destroyed their lives. Would he protect her on the rough streets of London, should the need arise? Of course, she could take care of herself with the proper weapons in hand, though she doubted any swords or pistols were available in Mrs. Parton’s landau. But to what sort of man had her employer just entrusted her safety?
A footman was sent for Catherine’s bonnet and parasol, another for Lord Winston’s hat and cane. Once Catherine had donned her bonnet, Lady Blakemore eyed her critically.
“That will do very nicely. Now run along, my dears. I must return to my guests.” The countess walked back toward the drawing room, the footman opened the door and her ladyship disappeared within.
“Shall we go, Miss Hart?” A hint of doubt colored Lord Winston’s tone, but she refused to look at him as she took his arm again. His well-formed face and superior height were all too alluring, and she must not fall for his charms. Curiously, one of those charms was his apparent oblivion to his own handsomeness. She would have to find a way to use that.
“Yes, my lord.” She forced a subservient tone into her voice.
To her surprise, he sighed as he led her to the stairway down to the ground floor. There he waved to his driver, who steered Mrs. Parton’s horses out of the line of carriages circling the fountain in front of the mansion. Without a word, Lord Winston handed Catherine into the pristine white carriage with tooled leather upholstery. She chose the seat with her back to the driver.
“Miss Hart, I insist upon your taking the opposite place.” The firmness in his voice sent an odd sensation skittering across her shoulder.
“Yes, my lord.” She moved to the seat facing front, considered the right of those of a superior rank. By giving it to her, the baron showed extraordinary courtesy.
Once in place opposite her, he said, “To Mr. Lambert’s on Duke Street, Toby.”
“Yes, my lord.” The driver echoed Catherine’s very tone, and she hid a smile.
Lord Winston sighed again, this time with a hint of annoyance.
As they rode from the grounds, Catherine viewed the estate’s many beautiful flower beds, noting that Lady Blakemore might easily have provided her own bouquets for tonight’s supper. Catherine could only conclude that God was smiling down on her plot against Lord Winston. Otherwise, why would such a reputable couple work so hard to provide her with opportunities to be in the baron’s company?
The sun peeked out from behind the clouds, then hid again, and a fine mist sprinkled over the carriage and its inhabitants. Although Catherine raised her parasol, the humidity quickly began to wilt her muslin gown. She reached up to touch her hair, but not a curl had appeared in the few strands she had left free from her bonnet. The baron, on the other hand, seemed to sprout curls from beneath his tall black hat even as she watched.
“Shall I put the top up, milord?” The moment the driver asked the question, the rain ceased, and the sun reemerged, shining its warmth upon the travelers.
“It seems that we may leave it down.” Lord Winston eyed Catherine. “That is, if the lady has no objection.”
“None, my lord.” Brushing dampness from her skirt, she stared down at her lap and bit her lower lip to hide a smirk. She could hear his huff of annoyance.
“Miss Hart, it is not necessary for you to address me in that manner.” His eyes blazed, and his lips thinned. “Furthermore, I think you know it. Last night we enjoyed an agreeable supper together, and unless I have offended you in some way, your subservient demeanor is nothing short of insulting.”
Now Catherine permitted him to see her smirk. “Yes, my lord.”
He tilted his head to the side and stared at her, disbelief registering in his intense green eyes. Then his jaw dropped, and a smile formed on those sculpted lips. “Ah. I see.” He returned a smirk and relaxed against the back of his seat. “If that’s the way you wish to play, I am game. En garde, my lady.”
Her heart stilled. Had he guessed that she was the “young man” who had crossed swords with him only yesterday? But his eyes twinkled with mirth, and she knew she had him. They would not engage in swordplay, but rather wordplay. And she had every intention of winning.
* * *
Whatever her pedigree, the lady possessed an amusing wit. To his disadvantage, Winston had never learned to exchange clever quips. Father had been a righteous but grave gentleman, and Winston had always tried to emulate him. Yet since receiving his writ of summons from the House of Lords and making his pilgrimage to London, he had discovered that one could find humor in certain situations without committing sin. With Lord and Lady Blakemore being above reproach, perhaps he could trust their Miss Hart to help him learn how to laugh more often.
“Why, Lord Winston, I am shocked.” Her sly grin suggested that shock was far from her thoughts. “Would you challenge a lady to a duel?”
“Only if it is a duel of wits, madam.” He could see she would be a worthy opponent. If anything, he would be the student in this match.
As she appeared to consider his proposal, she idly grasped a wisp of hair that had escaped her bonnet and curled it around her forefinger to no avail. The moment she released the dark brown lock, it fell straight, emphasizing the graceful curve of her jawline. “Very well, then.” She gave him a smug grin. “I accept your challenge.”
Of course, they must keep their repartee above reproach, so he considered how to address that issue. “Perhaps we should devise some rules so as not to give one another any offense.”
“Humph. That very suggestion is an offense.” She waved her fan and stared toward the tall, elegant town houses of Hanover Square as they passed. “If you think yourself unable to maintain propriety, perhaps you should rescind your challenge.”
Annoyance shot through him. Yet how could he respond? By suggesting that she might be the one to breach the bounds of propriety? Perhaps this game was not a wise idea. What did Proverbs advise about humor and jesting other than to say a merry heart did a man good, like medicine? But if nothing else, Miss Hart’s hauteur suggested excellent breeding. Only a pure-hearted lady would bristle at any hint that she might do something improper.
The landau turned onto Oxford Street, and Miss Hart continued to watch the scenery, her chin lifted and a slightly wounded expression filling her lovely dark eyes. He stared out the other side of the carriage, taking in the scents of mowed grass and rain-washed gardens. And wondering how to repair the damage. Where did one go to learn the art of tasteful jesting?
A phaeton passed by, driven by a much older peer—Lord Morgan, if Winston remembered correctly—whose pretty young companion laughed raucously, no doubt at some great witticism from her protector. From the lecherous way the gentleman regarded the girl, Winston would hardly consider him a good source of information.
By the time they reached Duke Street, crowds of people from every class filled the narrow thoroughfare. The driver skillfully wove the landau in and out among carts, hackneys and pedestrians, reaching Lambert’s Floristry without incident.
“Wait here, Toby,” Winston ordered as he stepped down to the cobblestones. “Miss Hart.” He reached out to her, and she placed a gloved hand in his to disembark, then breezed past him to wait at the door of the establishment.
Before Winston could reach her, the door swung open. “Ah, Miss Hart, welcome.” The clerk, or perhaps the proprietor, welcomed her with a bow, then gave Winston a quizzing look.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Lambert.” She gave the middle-aged man a charming smile that Winston suddenly coveted for himself. “Lady Blakemore sent me to choose some flowers for a last-minute supper she is hosting tonight. Do tell me that Lord Winston and I are not too late to find three or four arrangements of delphiniums or perhaps gladioli.”
“Ah, Lord Winston, welcome.” Mr. Lambert gave him a bow that was neither too low nor too shallow for his station. “Please permit me to assure you that even this late in the day, we still have a vast array of exquisite blooms in a variety of colors and can deliver them straightaway. Please come this way.” He beckoned them to follow deep into the broad building containing every variety of summer flower and plant Winston had ever encountered and some he had not.
Rich, heady fragrances filled the rooms, some nearly overpowering. Winston watched as the proprietor advertised the qualities of the various flowers, with Miss Hart nodding or shaking her head. At last she seemed to settle on a large container of vibrant purple delphiniums.
“Yes, I believe these will be perfect. The fragrance is enough to freshen the room but not so overpowering as to spoil one’s appetite. You may create—hmm, let me see.” She tilted her head prettily, stared off thoughtfully, then refocused on the aproned vendor. “I believe four arrangements will be sufficient.”
“Of course, Miss Hart. Would you permit me to include a spray or two of—”
“Wait.”
Both Miss Hart and Mr. Lambert looked at Winston as if he were a squawking gander. In truth, he had no idea why he had interrupted the man, but now he must follow through with his challenge. “I cannot imagine that Lady Blakemore will prefer anything but roses.” He gave Miss Hart what he hoped was a smug look. “Red roses.”
Just as he hoped, her eyes lit with the same spark as when they had begun their verbal rivalry. Had he found the key to redeeming the game?
“Red roses? La, what an idea. Why, the fragrance of too many roses can overpower the aroma of even the most delicious roast beef.” She arched her perfect brown eyebrows and sniffed for emphasis.
“Au contraire, mademoiselle.” Winston crossed his arms over his chest and stared down his nose at her. Which was a bit difficult, considering her height. “The fragrance of roses can only enhance the flavors of a well-prepared supper.” Not that he had ever noticed such a thing.
In the corner of his eye, he saw Mr. Lambert wring his hands as alarm spread over his slender face.
“Milord, Miss Hart, please. Perhaps alternating arrangements of roses and delphiniums would suit Lady Blakemore?”
“No.” Winston shook his head. “Roses or nothing.” Miss Hart’s dark frown told him he had gone too far. He should have taken into account the power of his title, which would trump anything a lady’s companion might say. But could he manage to redeem the situation once more?
