LOVE AND THE SINGLE HEIRESS

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  Standing in the shadows of the far corner of the drawing room, Catherine drew in a long breath, relieved finally to find herself alone for a moment to calm her turbulent thoughts. Knowing this haven would offer only a short respite from the crowd, she cast her gaze about the room in search of another sanctuary.

  “For whom are you looking so intently, Lady Catherine?” asked a deep voice from directly behind her.

  Her breath caught, and she turned swiftly to find herself staring into Mr. Stanton’s familiar dark eyes. Steady eyes. Friendly eyes. Relief rippled through her. Here, at last, was a friend she could talk to. An ally who meant her no harm. A gentleman not intent upon courting her.

  “Mr. Stanton. You startled me.”

  “Forgive me. I noticed you standing here, and I wanted to say hello.” He made her a formal bow, then smiled. “Hello.”

  She forcibly pushed aside her worries and smiled in return, knowing that he would notice any discomfiture on her part. “And hello to you, too. I haven’t seen you since I last ventured to London two months ago. I trust you’ve been well—and busy with the museum?”

  “Yes, on both accounts. And I can see that you’ve been well.” His gaze dipped briefly to her gown. “You look lovely.”

  “Thank you.” She was tempted to admit to him her relief at finally packing away her mourning clothes, but wisely held her tongue. To do so might lead to another discussion of Bertrand—as her appearance this evening already had with other guests—and she had no desire to speak of her deceased husband.

  “May I help you locate someone, Lady Catherine?”

  “As a matter of fact, I was looking for you.” Not strictly the truth, but he did represent what she’d been searching for—a safe cove amongst the choppy waters.

  Unmistakable pleasure flashed in his eyes. “How convenient, as here I am.”

  “Yes. Here you... are.” Looking strong and solid, familiar yet imposing—the perfect candidate to distract her attention from her worries and discourage the bothersome gentlemen who had buzzed around her all evening like hovering insects.

  His lips twitched. “Do you plan to tell me why you were searching for me, or are we to play charades?”

  “Charades?”

  “ ‘Tis an amusing game where one person acts out words, in a pantomime fashion, while others guess what he is trying to say.”

  “I see.” She pursed her lips and made an exaggerated show of studying him. “Hmmm. Your clearly tugged-upon cravat, combined with that hint of furrow between your brows indicates you are trying to say that you wish Philip had remained to chat with all these potential museum investors.”

  “A very astute observation, Lady Catherine. Philip is much more adept at navigating these waters than I. I can only hope I do not frighten off any of our financial backing before Meredith gives birth and Philip returns to London.”

  “I saw you speaking with several people this evening, and none appeared overly frightened. As for Philip, I was pleased he came to the party, albeit for a short time.”

  “He told me Meredith insisted he come to the party, in spite of his objections.”

  “I’m certain she did.”

  “Rather odd, considering her delicate condition, don’t you think?”

  “Not at all.” Catherine grinned. “I received a letter yesterday from Meredith in which she wrote that my normally calm and collected brother has taken to alternating between frantic pacing and croaking, ‘is it time yet?’ After a fortnight of such behavior, she was ready to cosh him. Rather than risk injuring the father of her child, she instead grasped upon the excuse of this party to push him literally out the door.”

  Mr. Stanton chuckled. “Ah, now I understand. Yes, I can picture Philip, hovering over Meredith, his hair standing up on end, cravat undone—”

  “—cravat missing altogether,” Catherine corrected with a laugh.

  “Spectacles askew.”

  “Shirt horribly wrinkled—”

  “—with his sleeves rolled up.” Andrew shook his head. “I can only sympathize with poor Meredith. Makes me wish I was at the Greybourne country estate to enjoy the show.”

  She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Pshaw. You simply wish you were anywhere but here, attempting to entice investors.”

  Something flashed in his eyes, then an engaging grin spread over his face—a grin that coaxed twin dimples to crease his cheeks. A grin she found impossible not to respond to in kind. He leaned toward her, and she caught a pleasing whiff of sandalwood. An inexplicable tingle shivered down her spine, surprising her, as it was quite warm in the room.

  “I must admit that soliciting funds is not my favorite pastime, Lady Catherine. I owe you a boon for affording me this moment of sanctuary.”

  She was tempted to tell him that she owed him a boon for a similar reason, but refrained. “I noticed you speaking to Lords Borthrasher and Kingsly, and also Mrs. Warrenfield,” she said. “Were your efforts successful?”

  “I believe so, especially in Mrs. Warrenfield’s case. Her husband left her a sizable fortune, and she possesses a love of antiquities. A good combination as far as Philip and I are concerned.”

  She smiled, and Andrew’s bream hitched. Damn but she was lovely. The entire thread of their conversation disintegrated from his mind as he continued to look at her. Finally his inner voice coughed to life. Cease gawking at her and speak, you nodcock. Before Lord What’s-His-Name comes back, no doubt bearing a huge bouquet and spouting sonnets.

  He cleared his throat. “And how is your son, Lady Catherine?”

  A combination of pride and sadness flitted across her face. “Spencer’s overall health is fine, thank you, but his foot and leg do pain him.”

  “He did not travel with you to London?”

  “No.” Her gaze flicked over the assembled guests, and her expression chilled. “He dislikes traveling, and he especially dislikes London, a sentiment I equally share. Nor is he fond of parties. If not for my father’s birthday celebration, I would not have ventured to Town. I plan to depart for Little Longstone directly after breakfast tomorrow.”

  Disappointment coursed through him. He’d hoped she might remain in London at least a few days, to afford him the opportunity to spend time with her. Invite her to the opera. Show her the progress on the museum. Ride in Hyde Park and stroll through Vauxhall. Damn it all, how was he to launch his campaign to court the woman if she insisted on hiding out in the country? Clearly a visit to Little Longstone was in order, yet as she hadn’t issued him an invitation, he’d have to think up some plausible excuse to venture there. But in the meanwhile, he needed to stop wasting precious time and make the most of his present opportunity. The strains of a waltz floated on the air, and his entire body quickened at the prospect of dancing with her, of holding her in his arms for the first time.

  Just as he opened his mouth to ask her to dance, she leaned closer, and whispered, “Oh, dear. Look at that. He’s going about it all wrong.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She nodded toward the punch bowl. “Lord Nordnick. He’s trying to entice Lady Ophelia, and he’s making a complete muck of it.”

  Andrew turned his attention to the couple standing next to the ornate silver punch bowl. An eager-looking young man, presumably Lord Nordnick, was handing an attractive young lady, presumably Lady Ophelia, a cup of punch.

  “Er, there is a wrong way to hand a woman a beverage?” Andrew asked.

  “He is not merely handing her a drink, Mr. Stanton. He is courting her. And doing a very poor job of it, I’m afraid.”

  Andrew studied the couple for several more seconds, then shook his head in bewilderment. “I don’t see anything wrong.”

  She leaned a fraction closer. The intoxicating scent of flowers filled his head, and he had to grit his teeth to remained focused on her words. “Note his overeager manner.”

  “Overeager? ‘Tis clear he is smitten and wishes to please her. Surely you don’t think he should have allowed Lad
y Ophelia to fetch her own punch?”

  “No, but he clearly didn’t ask her preference. From her expression it is obvious that Lady Ophelia did not desire a glass of punch—no doubt because he’d already handed her one not five minutes ago.”

  “Perhaps Lord Nordnick is merely nervous. I believe it is common for sanity to flee a man’s head when he’s in the company of a lady he finds attractive.”

  She made a tsking sound. “That is indeed unfortunate. Observe how bored she clearly is with his inept attentions.”

  Hmmm. Lady Ophelia did indeed look bored. Blast. When had courting become so bloody complicated? Hoping he sounded like a coconspirator rather than an information seeker, he asked, “What should Lord Nordnick do?”

  “He should shower her with romance. Find out her favorite flower. Her favorite food.”

  “So he should send her roses and confections?”

  “As your friend, Mr. Stanton, I must point out that that is a sadly typical male assumption. Perhaps Lady Ophelia prefers pork chops to confections. And how do you know her favorite flower is a rose?”

  “As your friend, Lady Catherine, I must point out that it would be very odd for a suitor to come calling with a gift box filled with pork chops. And don’t all women love roses?”

  “I couldn’t say. I like them. However, they aren’t my favorite.”

  “And what is?”

  “Dicentra spectabilis.”

  “I fear Latin is not my strong suit.”

  “You see?”

  “Actually, no—”

  “That’s but yet another problem with Lord Nordnick’s unoriginal methods. He should recite something romantic to her in another language. But I digress. Dicentra spectabilis means ‘bleeding heart.’ ”

  He pulled his gaze from the couple and turned his head to stare at her. “Something called bleeding heart is your favorite flower? That hardly rings of romance.”

  “Nevertheless, it is my favorite, and that’s what makes it romantic. I happen to know that Lady Ophelia is especially fond of tulips. But do you suppose Lord Nordnick will bother to discover that? I think not. Based on his fetching of numerous glasses of unwanted punch, I’m certain he’ll send Lady Ophelia roses because that’s what he thinks she should like. And because of that, he is doomed to failure.”

  “All because he fetched punch and would send the wrong flowers?” Andrew turned back to the couple, and a wave of pity for Lord Nordnick engulfed him. Poor bastard. He made a mental note to pass along the tulip information to the hapless fellow. In these perilous courting endeavors, men needed to stick together.

  “Perhaps such clumsy attempts would have gained a lady’s favor in the past, but no longer. Today’s Modern Woman prefers a gentleman who takes into consideration her preferences, as opposed to a gentleman who arrogantly believes he knows what is best for her.”

  Andrew chuckled. “Today’s Modern Woman? That sounds like something out of that ridiculous Ladies’ Guide everyone is talking about.”

  “Why do you say ‘ridiculous’?”

  “Hmm, yes, perhaps that was a poor choice of word. ‘Scandalous, appalling, trash-filled balderdash’ is closer to what I meant.”

  Andrew studied the couple for several more seconds, trying to decipher the apparently misguided Lord Nornick’s errors so as not to make them himself, but in truth he couldn’t figure out what the man was doing wrong. He was being polite and attentive—two strategies Andrew himself had deemed important in his own wooing campaign.

  He turned back toward Lady Catherine. “I’m afraid I don’t see—”

  His words cut off when he noted she was regarding him with raised brows and a noticeably cool expression. “Is something amiss?”

  “I wasn’t aware you’d read A Ladies‘ Guide to the Pursuit of Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment, Mr. Stanton.”

  “Me? A ladies‘ guide?” He chuckled, torn whether he was more astonished or amused by her words. “Of course I haven’t read it.”

  “Then how can you possibly call it ‘scandalous, appalling, trash-filled balderdash’?”

  “I don’t need to read the actual words to know the content. That Guide has become the main topic of conversation in the city.” He smiled, but her expression did not change. “As you’ve spent the past two months in Little Longstone, you couldn’t know the stir that book has caused with the nonsensical ideas put forth by the author. You’ve only to listen to the gentlemen in this very room to realize that not only is the book filled with idiotic notions, but apparently it is poorly written as well. Charles Brightmore is a renegade, and possesses little, if any, literary talent.”

  Twin flags of color rose on her cheeks, and her narrowed gaze grew positively frosty. Warning bells rang in Andrew’s mind, suggesting—unfortunately a few words too late—that he’d committed a grave tactical error. She lifted her chin and shot him a look that somehow managed to appear as if she were looking down her nose at him, quite a feat, considering he stood a good six inches taller than she.

  “I must say that I’m surprised, not to mention disappointed, to discover that you hold such narrow views, Mr. Stanton. I would have thought that a man of your vast traveling experience would be more open to new, modern ideas. And that at the very least, you were a man who would take the time to examine all the facts and form your own opinions on a topic, rather than relying on hearsay from others—especially others who most likely also have not read the book.”

  Andrew’s brows rose at her tone. “I do not hold narrow ideas at all, Lady Catherine. However, I don’t believe it is necessary to experience something to know it is not to my liking or does not mesh with my beliefs,” he said mildly, wondering how their conversation had veered onto this out-of-the-way path. “If someone tells me that rotten fish smells bad, I am perfectly content to take their word for it—I do not feel the need to stick my nose in the barrel to sniff for myself.” He chuckled. “It almost sounds as if you’ve read this Guide—and found favor with its farfetched ideals.”

  “If it only almost sounds as if I’ve read the Guide, then I don’t believe you are listening closely enough, Mr. Stanton, an affliction I fear you share with most men.”

  Certain his hearing had indeed become afflicted, Andrew said slowly, “Don’t tell me you’ve read that book.”

  “Very well, I won’t tell you that.”

  “But you... have?” His words sounded more like an accusation man a question.

  “Yes.” She shot him an unmistakably challenging glare. “Numerous times, in fact. And I did not find the ideals it put forth the least bit far-fetched. Quite the opposite in fact.”

  Andrew could only stare. Lady Catherine had read that scandalous rag? Numerous times? Had embraced its precepts? Impossible. Lady Catherine was a paragon. The epitome of a perfect, gently bred, sedate lady. But clearly she had read it, for there was no mistaking her words or obstinate expression.

  “You appear quite stunned, Mr. Stanton.”

  “In truth, I am.”

  “Why? By your own admission, nearly every woman in London has read the Guide. Why should it surprise you so that I would read it?”

  Because you are not every woman. Because I don‘t want you to be “independent” and “modern.” I want you to need me. Want me. Love me. As I need and want and love you. Good God, if that bastard Brightmore’s drivel had turned Lady Catherine into some sort of upstart bluestocking, the man would pay dearly. All this bloody nonsense about “today’s modern woman” certainly wouldn’t help Andrew in his quest to court her. Based on what she’d said about Lord Nordnick, he already ran the risk of distancing Lady Catherine by the simple act of fetching her a glass of punch.

  “The book just doesn’t seem like the sort of thing a lady such as you would read.”

  “And precisely what sort of lady am I, Mr. Stanton? The sort who is unable to read?”

  “Of course not—”

  “The sort who is not intelligent enough to understand words containing mor
e than one syllable?”

  “Certainly not—”

  “The sort who is incapable of forming her own opinions?”

  “No.” He raked a hand through his hair. “ ‘Tis abundantly clear that you’re fully capable of that.” How had this conversation gone so wrong so quickly? “I meant that it did not seem the sort of reading material for a proper lady.”

  “I see.” She gave him a cool, detached look that tightened his jaw. Definitely not the way he’d hoped to have her looking at him by the end of this evening. “Well, perhaps the Guide is not as scandalous as you’ve been led to believe, Mr. Stanton. Perhaps the Guide could be better described as scintillating. Provocative. Intelligent. But of course, you wouldn’t know as you haven’t read it. Perhaps you should read it.”

  He raised his brows at the unmistakable challenge shining in her eyes. “You must be joking.”

  “I’m not. In fact, I’d be happy to lend you my copy.”

  “Why on earth would I want to read a ladies’ guide?”

  She offered him a smile that appeared just a bit too sweet. “Why, so that you could offer an informed, intelligent opinion when next you discussed the work. And besides, you might actually learn something.”

  Good God, the woman was daft. Perhaps the victim of too much wine. He took a discreet sniff, but smelled only alluring flowers. “What on earth could I possibly learn from a ladies’ guide?”

  “What women like, for one thing. And do not like. And why Lord Nordnick’s wooing attempts directed at Lady Ophelia are bound for failure. Just to name a few.”

  Andrew’s jaw tightened. He knew what women liked... didn’t he? He couldn’t recall hearing any complaints in the past. But his inner voice was warning him that maybe he didn’t know quite as much about what Lady Catherine liked as he’d thought. Actually, maybe he didn’t know Lady Catherine as well as he’d thought—a notion that simultaneously unsettled and intrigued him. God knows she’d revealed an unexpected side of herself this evening. He recalled Philip’s warning about her newfound headstrong, blunt behavior. He’d put no stock in Philip’s comment at the time, but it appeared his friend was correct. And it further appeared that the blame for this change rested on the Ladies’ Guide’s shoulders.