Since meeting Miss Hart last week, he had been concerned about her family’s standing in Society. Now he was beginning to worry about how his own measured up.
*
Seated in the carriage across from Lord and Lady Blakemore, Catherine wished it were proper to give her employer a daughterly embrace, but words would have to do. “My lady, how kind of you to rescue Miss Beaumont from embarrassment.” And Catherine, as well. But she doubted a companion should expect such a defense. “Nothing else anyone might have said could have so graciously smoothed over the situation.”
“Tut-tut, Miss Hart.” The countess waved her hand dismissively. “One never wishes to see anyone embarrassed, especially young ladies new to London.”
“Of course, she will have to be told the truth about my position.” Catherine’s face warmed as she spoke, and she pulled up her fan to cool herself. It would not be her responsibility to inform Miss Beaumont. “Should she misspeak to the wrong person, she will be mortified beyond repair. I mean to say, she should know that I am your companion, not your protégée.”
“Tut-tut,” the countess repeated. “I cannot imagine why. I do not recall announcing to anyone that you are my employee. Let them think what they will. We do not owe anyone an explanation.” She turned to Lord Blakemore. “I do believe Mr. Hodgson’s sermon may be listed among his best, do you not agree, my dear?”
“Indeed, my dear.”
The couple fell into a discussion of the particulars of the vicar’s message, effectively dismissing the subject of Catherine’s place. As disarming as their acceptance of her was, she could not grow careless and presume upon their kindness. Nor did she have any idea of how to behave from now on.
As grateful as she was to the countess, she could not be pleased with Lord Blakemore’s invitation to Lord Winston and his family. Now she would be in their company for hours, and with each passing minute, she could imagine herself loving Lady Winston and Miss Beaumont more and more, even as she loved her own mother and sister. How could she befriend them and then grieve them by destroying Winston?
Yet why should her own family suffer while they all blissfully celebrated debuts and balls and countless “at homes,” the latter of which did nothing more than spread gossip couched in the innocuous French phrase on-dits? Well, there would be plenty of gossip once she exposed the baron’s lies about Papa.
Perhaps she should wait until the end of the Season, after his family returned to their country estate. After all, she had yet to secure his affection, and that was essential to her plans. If only she could speak to Mr. Radcliff, she would ask him if she should be friendlier to the baron now rather than remaining aloof the better part of their time together. But that gentleman apparently attended a different church, for she had never observed him worshipping at St. George’s. Even if he did, she would not have been able to secure an audience alone with him without drawing attention.
With her back to the driver, she could see Lord Winston’s carriage following behind, and when they made a turn into the half-circle drive to the mansion, Lady Winston and Miss Beaumont became visible to her. Catherine waved, and they returned the same.
Just as when Catherine had ridden in his landau, the baron had given the place of honor to his mother and sister so they could have a better view of the oncoming scenery. Too bad he had not shown the same measure of kindness toward Papa, a gentleman whose social standing exceeded his own.
The carriages rolled up under the white-columned portico at the front of the mansion, and the entire party alighted. At the front door, Catherine paused to watch Lord Winston hand his mother and sister down. He must have felt her eyes upon him, for he turned toward her and smiled in his winsome way. Her traitorous lips returned the smile, and her traitorous heart skipped a beat. How would she ever be able to maintain her aloofness over the next few hours when her own emotions betrayed her just as surely as Lord Winston had betrayed Papa?
*
“Why, James, your hand is shaking.” Sophia followed his gaze toward Miss Hart. “Have Mama and I arrived in London too late to make a match for you?”
“My hand is not shaking. What you feel is my new landau bouncing upon its excellent springs.” Winston made certain his sister’s feet were firmly on the ground before he tweaked her nose. “And I have not made a match, imp. A smile is not a proposal.” He had forgotten how she often could read his thoughts. Somehow he must redirect her thinking. “And it is Winston to you, miss. How will you ever succeed in London Society when you call people by the wrong name? Everyone knows that the moment a gentleman attains his title, his former mode of address is no longer used, not even by family.” At least, Father had always required everyone, even Mother, to use his title rather than his Christian name.
“Oh, dear.” Her eyes widened, and her teasing grin disappeared. “You must help me, James…Winston, or I shall bungle everything.”
“I shall do what I can.” He gave her a grave look, and she wilted a little more. Yet after all of his own social missteps, he could only attempt to advise her. “The first lesson is that you must not be so impetuous. In our home village, everyone loves you for your merry and agreeable disposition. But in London, young ladies new to Society are expected to be more reserved. You must think before you speak.”
“Oh, I shall, Ja—Winston. I shall.” Her sober nod and threatening tears deeply moved him.
When they were children, he had always given her a reassuring embrace to soothe away her tears. Now, with the others watching, he could give her only an encouraging smile. “Everyone will love you here, too, Sophia. At least, anyone worth knowing.” He was not certain that was true, but he could not continue to torment her with doubts. Offering his arm, he led her toward the large front door of Blakemore House and was gratified to see Miss Hart watching him, approval written across her lovely countenance.
*
As Catherine watched Lord Winston’s gentle manners toward his sister, she could not ignore the warmth flooding her heart. Try though she might to dismiss her feelings, she was developing a tendre for him. Mr. Radcliff would say she was forgetting her purpose for being here, that she was being disloyal to Papa. Yet how could she not admire such a kind gentleman? He treated Miss Beaumont with the same brotherly affection that Lucien showed toward Catherine and Isabella. As dangerous as it might be to her own heart, she would be friendly to him today and endeavor to secure his deepest regard. Perhaps Miss Beaumont would be her ally in the scheme.
Well into their luncheon of cold meats, cheeses and a variety of fruits, Lord Blakemore sat back in his chair at the head of the table and gave Lord Winston a sober look. “Well, my boy, has Miss Hart succeeded in teaching you the value of wholesome laughter?”
Seated between the two gentlemen, Catherine eyed the baron and smirked.
He returned a wide grin. “She did, sir, with the help of a small boy. Miss Hart, would you care to relate the story?”
“Oh, no. I fear I would not be able to speak for laughing.”
He reported the entire episode in the park with all the proper pauses and inflections of a seasoned storyteller. Everyone at the table laughed until their eyes watered.
“Why, James,” Lady Winston said, “I had no idea you had such a fine wit.”
James? So, that was his Christian name. Glad to have that bit of information for further use, Catherine noticed Miss Beaumont’s widened eyes.
“But, Mama, you must not call him James. He has informed me that everyone must call him Winston now.”
“What utter nonsense.” Lady Winston gave her son a mischievous grin over her teacup. “I shall address you as I always have.”
Still chuckling from the story, Lord Blakemore laughed aloud again. “I wish you good luck in getting your mother to change her habits, my boy. Mine called me Gerald until the day she died, God bless her. When she spoke of Blakemore, it was always in reference to my father, even after I had sat in Parliament for nearly twenty-five years.”
Lord
Winston’s face reddened slightly, but he did not lose his smile. Instead, he leaned forward and stared at his sister across the table. “Very well, then, imp. Since Mother will not support me in this, you may also call me James.” He glanced at Catherine, and her heart jumped into her throat. Never had he looked so charming or so kind. “I shall grant the privilege only to very special friends.”
She could only assume that he meant this as an invitation to her, but she clamped down on her eagerness to accept and the giddy feelings filling her chest. “La, what will happen next? Shall we all now have leave to address every duke and lord and lady by their given names? Why, the entire English aristocracy, even England herself, will crumble away under the weight of such laxity.”
While the others renewed their laughter, Lord Winston shrugged off her rebuff with good humor. “Ah, well, we must not have that.”
“Now that England is safely secured,” Lord Blakemore said, “how shall we entertain ourselves this afternoon? A carriage ride in Hyde Park? Perhaps we shall encounter little Lord Westerly, and he can give us more French lessons.”
“Oh, no, my dear,” Lady Blakemore said. “Every tradesman on his day off will be there trying to sell us something. How they do take advantage of Society when we all should be relaxing on the Lord’s day.”
Disappointment clouded the faces of Lady Winston and Miss Beaumont. The mother quickly regained her composure and her smile, but the daughter came near to pouting. Catherine could easily see Isabella reacting in the same manner. These ladies seemed particularly eager to be out in Society, yet if anyone else noticed their plight, no one mentioned it.
“Ah, yes, my dear,” the earl said. “I had forgotten how annoying the tradesmen can be on Sundays.” He eyed Miss Beaumont. “Young lady, what would you advise for our afternoon entertainment?”
Her pout vanished instantly under his scrutiny. “Oh, there are so many things I should like to do. Perhaps someone could teach me how to play charades. Father never permitted us— Oh!” Staring at her mother, she clamped a hand over her lips and blanched.
“Never mind, child.” Lord Blakemore’s gaze became paternal, as it often did when he spoke to Catherine. His kindness reinforced her opinion that he would never do anything improper, despite Mr. Radcliff’s concerns. “As I have told your brother, the late Lord Winston was a gentleman of the highest honor but sadly lacking in humor. If your mother agrees, I believe an afternoon of charades would be just the thing.”
Against her will, Catherine traded a look with Lord Winston and was delighted to find that his eyes twinkled with the same eagerness she felt for the game.
*
Winston had never enjoyed himself quite so much as he did in this company. Lady Blakemore’s inclusion of Mother went far in lessening his concerns about her character. Somehow he would find a way to discover why Father had forbidden her to return to London all those years ago. But that could wait. Today was filled with too many pleasant surprises, and he would not permit any clouds to darken his enjoyment of another afternoon in Miss Hart’s company.
With Lady Blakemore now treating her more as a ward or protégée than a companion, he could only surmise that she came from a reputable family. And although the young lady had declined to address him in a more familiar way, he could see from her many friendly smiles that she found his company at least somewhat agreeable. In fact, her humorous rejection of his veiled, and no doubt improper, invitation served as a warning to him not to be as impulsive as Sophia. He had already learned through the examples of others that Society frowned upon anyone failing to give due honor to another person’s rank.
After they adjourned from the dining table, Blakemore led the way to the drawing room, with everyone voicing their enthusiasm for the upcoming activity. Like Sophia, Winston had never played charades or any other game. He felt confident, however, that under Miss Hart’s tutelage, he could master any such harmless entertainment.
He managed to sit beside her on a settee in the furniture grouping near the hearth—not that he had much competition for that particular spot. Mother and Sophia sat opposite, as they had at dinner, only now Sophia kept grinning and blinking, clearly teasing him. He sent her a menacing glower, which only made her laugh. He could only surmise that his attempts to appear as severe as Father among his peers would be scuttled by his mother and sister.
Once everyone had found a place, Lady Blakemore stood in the center of them all to announce the rules for the game. “First, you must decide upon a word, such as ball or bonnet or glove.”
“How like a lady to begin with those suggestions, my dear.” Blakemore gave his countess a fond smile. “Now, a gentleman would say horse or hound or boot. Would you not agree, Winston?”
“Um, well—” Winston had no idea how to answer. Without thinking, he questioned Miss Hart with a raised eyebrow. She gave him a noncommittal shrug. As she turned her attention back to the countess, the fragrance of roses wafted from her dark brown hair toward him. His next breath was an entirely agreeable experience.
“My dear.” Lady Blakemore glared humorously at her husband. “You have asked me to teach the game to our guests. I beg you, permit me to do so.”
Their good-natured teasing refocused Winston’s attention. He glanced at Mother, whose pleasant expression held a hint of sadness. Was she thinking of Father? Missing him? Winston had never observed any form of teasing between his parents, nor any affection, at least not on Father’s part. His manner toward Mother had been cool and formal. Had it been the vast difference in their ages that had prevented either of them from being happy in their marriage? Or had it been something else?
In that moment, he knew he wanted a marriage exactly like the Blakemores’, one in which happiness and good humor abounded. But if a man found fault with his wife, something so dreadful that he could not trust her to go out into Society, how could they be happy together?
He was weary of worrying over Mother’s failings. Somehow he must find out what had happened all those years ago so he could avoid marrying someone with the same fault. But he had no idea where to begin.
His gaze turned unwittingly to Miss Hart, and something shifted within his emotions. Was his future already sealed?
Chapter Twelve
Everyone else was enjoying the bantering between the earl and countess, so Catherine could not account for Lord Winston’s sudden sobering. Perhaps he had mistaken her shrug as another rebuff. She should have smiled instead of turning away, but it was not too late to make up for it. She tilted her head and sent him a pleasant look. His solemn expression barely lightened, yet his gaze remained on her, as if he were searching for something. She broadened her smile, and at last he returned one that seemed to bespeak more than simply good manners. Was he already falling in love with her? Good. All the better for her plans.
“Yes, yes, my dear.” The earl waved a hand at his wife. “Do go on with your instructions, or I shall fall asleep for my Sunday-afternoon nap.”
“Gracious me.” The countess beckoned to the butler, who stood by the door. “Do bring coffee for his lordship, Chetterly,” she chirped in a high, mocking voice. “We must have his participation.”
Lady Winston and Miss Beaumont snickered, and Catherine gave herself leave to echo their gaiety. Even the baron chuckled. Poor Chetterly, newly raised from footman to a senior staff position, bustled about serving coffee and tea as if he were serving the Prince Regent.
“Now, where was I?” Lady Blakemore placed a finger against her cheek in a thoughtful pose. “Ah, yes. You must think of a word that you wish the rest of us to guess. Then you must give us clues. Of course, the best clues are given in the form of a poem, but if you have no talent for poetry, you can devise some other method of hinting.”
While his mother and sister expressed their delight over the challenge, Lord Winston groaned. “I have already lost the match. When I attempted to write poetry at Eton, my professors wept over the clumsy results.”
“Come, come, my boy,�
� Lord Blakemore said. “This is not Eton but a friendly gathering of amateurs. None of us is Shakespeare.”
Catherine had played charades at home just last Christmas. The game was a family favorite, and she often won. Should she help Lord Winston or try to best him? Offering to help him might flatter his ego, but her competitive nature would not approve such a plan.
“I agree, Lord Winston.” She gave him her sweetest smile. “And remember that the best humor comes by accident. Perhaps your clumsy poetry will give us the most enjoyment.”
As she hoped, he sat back and gave her a long glare. “Am I to assume, Miss Hart, that you are challenging me?”
“Do not assume at all, my lord.” She grinned when he winced comically at her choice of address. “You may take it as a fact.”
As the room rang with even more laughter, the earl beckoned to his butler, who seemed unable to keep up with the various beverage choices. “Paper, pens and ink, Chetterly. And bring out a card table so we each have a writing surface.”
The beleaguered butler at last strode to the door and summoned footmen to help him. They brought the required supplies, and soon all was in order.
Catherine moved to the collapsible mahogany card table, the sides of which had been raised to accommodate four players. She had taken off her gloves before dining and now saw her mistake. After five days, the bruised lump on her right hand where Lord Winston had struck her during their fencing match was still a little sore and quite visible. She tugged at her sleeve to cover it, then picked up the quill pen with her left hand.
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