by Lisa Kleypas
He turned his attention back to Poppy, pondering her lack of desire to stay in London. Surely any other girl her age would have been begging to finish the season and enjoy all the balls and parties.
"Tell me about this season's prospects," he said to Poppy. "Can it be that not one of them holds any interest for you?"
She shook her head. "Not one. I've met a few whom I do like, such as Lord Bromley, or-"
"Bromley?" Leo repeated, his brows lifting. "But he's twice your age. Are there any younger ones you might consider? Someone born in this century, perhaps?"
"Well, there's Mr. Radstock."
"Portly and plodding," Leo said, having met the porker on a few previous occasions. The upper circles of London were a relatively small community. "Who else?"
"There is Lord Wallscourt, very gentle and friendly, but… he's a rabbit."
"Curious and cuddly?" Beatrix asked, having a high opinion of rabbits.
Poppy smiled. "No, I meant he was rather colorless and… oh, just rabbity. Which is a fine thing in a pet, but not a husband." She made a project of neatening the bonnet ribbons tied beneath her chin. "You'll probably advise me to lower my expectations, Leo, but I've already dropped them to the extent that even a worm couldn't squeeze itself beneath my expectations. I must tell you, the London season is a grave disappointment."
"I'm sorry, Poppy," Leo said gently. "I wish I knew a fellow to recommend to you, but the only ones I know are ne'er-do-wells and drunkards. Excellent friends. But I'd rather shoot one of them than have him as a brother-in-law."
"That leads to something I've wanted to ask you."
"Oh?" He looked into her sweet, serious face, this perfectly lovely sister who aspired so desperately to have a calm and ordinary life.
"Now that I've been out in society," Poppy said, "I've heard rumors.…"
Leo's smile turned rueful as he understood what she wanted to know. "About me."
"Yes. Are you really as wicked as some people say?"
Despite the private nature of the query, Leo was aware of both Miss Marks and Beatrix turning their full attention to him.
"I'm afraid so, darling," he said, while a sordid parade of his past sins swept through his mind.
"Why?" Poppy asked with a frankness he ordinarily would have found endearing. But not with Miss Marks's sanctimonious gaze fastened on him.
"It's much easier to be wicked," he said. "Especially if one has no reason to be good."
"What about earning a place in heaven?" Catherine Marks asked. He would have thought she had a pretty voice, if it hadn't come from such an unappealing source. "Isn't that reason enough to conduct yourself with some modicum of decency?"
"That depends," he said sardonically. "What is heaven to you, Miss Marks?"
She considered the question with more care than he would have expected. "Peace. Serenity. A place where there is no sin, nor gossip, nor conflict."
"Well, Miss Marks, I'm afraid your idea of heaven is my idea of hell. Therefore my wicked ways shall happily continue." Turning back to Poppy, he spoke far more kindly. "Don't lose hope, Sis. There's someone out there, waiting for you. Someday you'll find him, and he'll be everything you were hoping for."
"Do you really think so?" Poppy asked.
"No. But I've always thought that was a nice thing to say to someone in your circumstances."
Poppy snickered and poked Leo in the side, while Miss Marks gave him a stare of pure disgust.
Chapter Thirteen
On their last evening in London, the family attended a private ball given at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Simon Hunt in Mayfair. Mr. Hunt, a railway entrepreneur and part owner of a British locomotive works, was a self-made man, the son of a London butcher. He was part of a new and growing class of investors, businessmen, and managers who were unsettling the long-held traditions and authority of the peerage itself.
A fascinating and rather volatile mix of guests attended the Hunts' annual spring ball… politicians, foreigners, aristocrats, and businesspeople. It was said the invitations were highly sought after, since even the peers who outwardly disdained the pursuit of wealth were eager to have some connection to the extraordinarily powerful Mr. Hunt.
The Hunt mansion could well have been described as the symbol of the success of private enterprise. Large, luxurious, and technologically advanced, the house was lit with gas in every room and filled with plasterwork made from modern flexible molds that were currently being displayed at the Crystal Palace. Floor-length windows gave access to broad walks and gardens outside, not to mention a remarkable glass-roofed conservatory heated with a complex system of underfloor pipework.
Just before the Hathaways arrived at the Hunt mansion, Miss Marks whispered a few last-minute reminders to her charges, telling them not to fill their dance cards too quickly in case a prepossessing gentleman might arrive later at the ball, and never to be seen without their gloves, and never to refuse a gentleman who asked them to dance unless they were already engaged to dance with another. But by all means, they must never allow one gentleman more than three dances-such excessive familiarity would cause gossip.
Win was touched by the careful way in which Miss Marks relayed the instructions, and the earnest attention Poppy and Beatrix gave her. Clearly the three of them had labored long and hard on the intricate labyrinth of etiquette.
Win was at a disadvantage compared to her two younger sisters. Since she had spent so long away from London, her own knowledge of social mores was lacking. "I hope I won't embarrass any of you," she said lightly. "Though I should warn you that the chances of my making a social misstep are quite high. I hope you'll undertake to teach me as well, Miss Marks."
The governess smiled a little, revealing even white teeth and soft lips. Win couldn't help thinking that if Miss Marks were a bit more filled out, she would be quite pretty. "You have such a natural sense of propriety," she told Win, "I can't imagine you being anything less than a perfect lady."
"Oh, Win never does anything wrong," Beatrix told Miss Marks.
"Win is a saint," Poppy agreed. "It's very trying. But we do our best to tolerate her."
Win smiled at them. "For your information," she told them lightly, "I intend to break at least three rules of etiquette before the ball is over."
"Which three?" Poppy and Beatrix asked in unison. Miss Marks merely looked perplexed, as if she was trying to understand why anyone would deliberately do such a thing.
"I haven't decided yet." Win folded her gloved hands in her lap. "I'll have to wait for the opportunities to present themselves."
As the guests entered the mansion, domestics came to take the cloaks and shawls, and the gentlemen's hats and coats. Seeing Cam and Merripen standing near each other, shrugging off their coats with the same deft gestures, Win felt a whimsical smile touch her lips. She wondered how it was that everyone couldn't see that they were brothers. Their kinship was so clear to her, even though they weren't identical. The same wavy dark hair, although Cam 's was longer and Merripen kept his neatly cropped. The same long, athletic build, although Cam was slimmer and more supple, whereas Merripen had the sturdier, more muscular build of a boxer.
Their greatest difference, however, was not that of their external appearances, but the way each approached the world. Cam with a sense of amused tolerance and charm and shrewd confidence. And Merripen with his battered dignity and smoldering intensity, and most of all, the strength of feeling that he fought so desperately to hide.
Oh, how she wanted him. But he would not be easily won, if ever. Win thought it was rather like trying to coax a wild creature to come to her hand: the endless advances and retreats, the hunger and need for connection warring with fear.
She wanted him even more as she saw him here among this glittering crowd, his aloof and powerful form dressed in the austere evening scheme of black and white. Merripen did not consider himself inferior to the people around him, but he was well aware that he was not one of them. He understood their values, even
though he didn't always agree with them. And he had learned how to acquit himself well in the gadjo world- he was the kind of man who would adapt to any circumstances. After all, Win thought with private amusement, not just any man could break a horse, build a stone fence by hand, recite the Greek alphabet, and discuss the relative philosophical merits of empiricism and rationalism. Not to mention rebuild an estate and run it as if he were to the manor born.
There was a sense of impenetrable mystery about Kev Merripen. She was obsessed with the tantalizing thought of what it would be like to slip past all his secrets, to reach the extraordinary heart he guarded so closely.
Melancholy swept over her as she glanced at the beautiful interior of the mansion, the guests laughing and chatting while music floated lightly over the scene. So much to enjoy and appreciate, and yet all Win wanted was to be alone with the most unavailable man in the room.
However, she wasn't going to play the wallflower. She was going to dance and laugh and do all the things she had imagined for years while lying in her sickbed. And if it displeased Merripen or made him jealous, so much the better.
Divested of her cloak, Win went forward with her sisters. They were all dressed in pale satins, Poppy in pink, Beatrix in blue, Amelia in lavender, and herself in white. Her gown was uncomfortable, which Poppy had laughingly said was a good thing, as a comfortable gown would almost certainly not be stylish. It felt too light on the top, the bodice low and square, the sleeves short and tight. And it felt too heavy from the waist down, with wide triple skirts caught up in flounces. But the main source of discomfort was her corset, which she had gone without for so long that she found herself resenting even the slightest constriction. Though it was only lightly laced, the corset stiffened her torso and pushed her breasts artificially high. It hardly seemed decent. And yet it was considered Indecent to go without one.
All things considered, however, it seemed worth the discomfort when she saw Merripen's reaction. His face went blank at the sight of her in the low-cut ball gown, his gaze traveling from the tip of one satin slipper peeking from beneath the hem up to her face. He stared an extra few moments at her breasts, lifted high as if they had been cupped by his hands. When his eyes finally looked into hers, they flickered with obsidian fire. A responsive shiver chased beneath the framework of Win's corset. With difficulty, she looked away from him.
The Hathaways went farther into the entrance hall, where a chandelier shed sparkling light over the parquetry floor.
"What an extraordinary creature," Win heard Dr. Harrow murmur nearby. She followed his gaze to the lady of the house, Mrs. Annabelle Hunt, who was greeting guests.
Although Win had never met Mrs. Hunt, she recog-nized her from descriptions she had heard. Mrs. Hunt was said to be one of the greatest beauties of England, with her beautifully turned figure and heavily lashed blue eyes, and hair that gleamed with rich shades of honey and gold. But it was her luminous, lively expressiveness that made her truly engaging.
"That's her husband, standing next to her," Poppy murmured. "He's intimidating, but very nice."
"I beg to differ," Leo said.
"You don't think he's intimidating?" Win asked.
"I don't think he's nice. Whenever I happen to be in the same room as his wife, he looks at me as if he'd like to dismember me."
"Well," Poppy said prosaically, "one can't fault his judgment." She leaned toward Win and said, "Mr. Hunt is besotted with his wife. Their marriage is a love match, you see."
"How unfashionable," Dr. Harrow commented with a grin.
"He even dances with her," Beatrix told Win, "which husbands and wives are never supposed to do. But considering Mr. Hunt's fortune, people find reasons to excuse him for such behavior."
"See how small her waist is," Poppy murmured to
Win. "And that's after three children-two of them very large boys."
"I will have to lecture Mrs. Hunt on the evils of tight-lacing," Dr. Harrow said sotto voce, and Win laughed.
"I'm afraid the choice between health and fashion is not an easy one for women," she told him. "I'm still surprised that you allowed me to wear stays tonight."
"You hardly need them," he said, his gray eyes twinkling. "Your natural waist is hardly wider than Mrs. Hunt's corseted one."
Win smiled into Julian's handsome face, thinking that whenever she was in his presence, she felt safe and reassured. It had been like that ever since she had first met him. He had been a godlike figure to her, and to everyone at the clinic. But she still had no real sense of him as a flesh-and-blood man. No idea if there was potential for them to be more together than they were individually.
"The mysterious missing Hathaway sister!" Mrs. Hunt exclaimed, and took both Win's hands in her gloved ones.
"Not so mysterious," Win said, smiling.
"Miss Hathaway, what a delight to meet you at last, and even more to see you in good health."
"Mrs. Hunt always asks about you," Poppy told Win, "so we've kept her informed about your progress."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hunt," Win said shyly. "I am quite well now, and honored to be a guest at your lovely home."
Mrs. Hunt gave Win a dazzling smile, retaining her hands as she spoke to Cam. "Such graceful manners. I think, Mr. Rohan, that Miss Hathaway will easily attain the popularity of her sisters."
"Next year, I'm afraid," Cam said easily. "This ball marks the end of the season for us. We're all traveling to Hampshire within the week."
Mrs. Hunt made a little face. "So soon? But I suppose that is only to be expected. Lord Ramsay will want to see his estate."
"Yes, Mrs. Hunt." Leo said. "I adore bucolic settings. One can never view too many sheep."
At the sound of Mrs. Hunt's laughter, her husband joined the conversation. "Welcome, my lord," Simon Hunt said to Leo. "The news of your return is being celebrated throughout London. Apparently the gaming and wine establishments suffered greatly in your absence."
"Then I shall do my best to reinvigorate the economy," Leo said.
Hunt grinned briefly. "You owe quite a lot to this fellow," he said to Leo, turning to shake Merripen's hand. Merripen, as usual, had been standing unobtrusively at the side of the group. "According to Westcliff and the other neighboring estate, Merripen has made a rousing success of the Ramsay estate in a very short time."
"Since the name 'Ramsay' is so seldom coupled with the word 'success,'" Leo replied, "Merripen's accomplishment is all the more impressive."
"Perhaps later in the evening," Hunt said to Merripen, "we might find a moment to discuss your impressions of the threshing machine you purchased for the estate. With the locomotive works so firmly established, I'm considering expanding the business into agricultural machinery. I've heard of a new design for the thresher, as well as a steam-powered hay press."
"The entire agricultural process is becoming mechanized," Merripen replied. "Spindle harvesters, cutters, and binders… many of the prototypes are on display at the exhibition."
Hunt's dark eyes glinted with interest. "I'd like to hear more."
"My husband is endlessly fascinated by machines," Mrs. Hunt said, laughing. "I believe they've eclipsed all his other interests."
"Not all," Hunt said softly. Something about the way he glanced at his wife caused her cheeks to flush.
Amused, Leo smoothed over the moment by saying, "Mr. Hunt, I would like to introduce Dr. Harrow, the physician who helped my sister to recover her health."
"A pleasure, sir," Dr. Harrow said, and shook Hunt's hand.
"Likewise," Hunt replied cordially, returning the shake. But he gave the doctor an odd, speculative look. "You are the Harrow who runs the clinic in France?"
"I am."
"And you reside there still?"
"Yes, although I try to visit friends and family in Great Britain as often as my schedule allows."
"I believe I am acquainted with the family of your late wife," Hunt murmured, staring hard at him.
After a quick double blink, Harrow r
esponded with a regretful smile, "The Lanhams. Estimable people. I haven't seen them for years. The memories, you understand."
"I understand," Hunt said quietly.
Win was puzzled by the long, awkward pause that followed, and the sense of discord that emanated from the two men. She glanced at her family, and Mrs. Hunt, who clearly didn't comprehend, either.
"Well, Mr. Hunt," Mrs. Hunt said brightly, "are we going to shock everyone by dancing together? They're going to play a waltz quite soon-and you know you are my favorite partner."
Hunt's attention was immediately distracted by the flirtatious note in his wife's voice. He grinned at her. "Anything for you, love."
Harrow caught Win's gaze with his own. "I haven't waltzed in far too long," he said. "Might you save a place for me on your dance card?"
"Your name is already there," she replied, and placed a light hand on his proffered arm. They followed the Hunts to the drawing room.
Poppy and Beatrix were already being approached by prospective partners, while Cam closed his gloved fingers over Amelia's. "I'll be damned if Hunt's the only one who's allowed to be shocking. Come dance with me."
"I'm afraid we won't shock anyone at all," she said, accompanying him without hesitation. "People already assume we don't know any better."
Leo watched the procession into the drawing room with narrowed eyes. "I wonder," he said to Merripen, "what Hunt knows about Harrow? Do you know him well enough to ask?"
"Yes," Merripen said. "But even if I didn't, I wouldn't leave this place until I made him tell me."
That made Leo chuckle. "You may be the only one in this entire mansion who would dare try to 'make' Simon Hunt do anything. He's a bloody big bastard."
"So am I," came Merripen's grim reply.
It was a lovely ball, or would have been, if Merripen had behaved like a reasonable human being. He watched Win constantly, hardly bothering to be discreet about it. While she stood in one group or another and he conversed with a group of men that included Mr. Hunt, Merripen's gaze never strayed far from Win.