A Night in Grosvenor Square

by Sarah M. Eden

  But one holiday, her brother had set Ellen straight. “Mother is like an infant who takes great care and patience. But she is still your mother. She brought you into this world, and you need to honor her for it. You should be more grateful.”

  Perhaps Gerald was right, perhaps he wasn’t. Whatever the case, he got to leave Harpshire, so Ellen didn’t put too much stock into his opinion.

  Now, finished with her lessons for the day, Ellen slipped out of the house by the back door and stopped to pet Scruffs, her favorite cat. He purred and rubbed against her legs as if she were going to give him some sort of treat. “I have nothing for you, Scruffs.”

  She hadn’t brought her sketching pad or a book today; she’d brought a shawl and her gloves instead to attend the ball in Little London.

  Even though the sun was three-quarters across the sky, she pretended it was the fashionable hour of eleven o’clock in the evening. She hurried along the road until she reached the path that led to the edge of the meadow, where she paused. She imagined herself being handed down from an elegant carriage her father had purchased. Coming out of the carriage behind her was her best friend and her best friend’s mother. Their names weren’t important.

  Ellen pulled on her gloves, which had never been worn to a real event, and then she spread the shawl out on a large rock at the edge of the meadow. She sat on the shawl, pretending it was a silk upholstered chair. Her first dance partner, the aforementioned marquess or earl, had promised her some lemonade before it all began. She’d heard of a Kenworth family which had two sons. Either of them would do for this scenario. And for her purposes, she decided that Lord Kenworth was one of the most eligible bachelors of the Season. Yet he’d sought her out for the first dance.

  “Oh, thank you, Lord Kenworth,” she murmured as she opened her fingers to receive the phantom crystal goblet. She took a sip. She imagined the sweet liquid with a bit of tartness blended in. As a delicate female, she couldn’t possibly finish the entire glass. When the next servant passed by, she handed off her glass to him. He bowed, his quick gaze appraising her ensemble.

  Even the servants appreciated her new dress.

  As the music struck up, Lord Kenworth bowed before her. “Shall we, my lady?”

  Ellen flushed at his address. So formal and sweet. She let him draw her to her feet, then placed her hand on his arm as he led her to the dance floor.

  She had to look down only once to make sure she didn’t trip on an ant knoll. In the center of the meadow, Ellen put her hand on what might have been a tall man’s shoulder and let her other hand pause where the marquess might have held it if he were a real man. Then, Ellen began to hum a waltz. She knew, of course, from reading Society papers that she’d pleaded with her governess to fetch, that the waltz was a fairly new addition to the ballroom floors of London.

  Ellen had never seen an actual waltz performed, but she knew it meant dancing in a partner’s arms for the whole of the song. She continued to hum as the sun warmed the top of her head and the tips of her shoulders. Although she in reality wore an average dress, she’d tugged down the sleeve caps so that the form would better resemble a ball gown.

  Turning first to the right, then to the left, then taking a few steps forward, and another few steps back, Ellen found her own rhythm. Her hummed song didn’t follow a particular composer but jumped around a little. That was the beauty of her own meadow to dance in. Her imagination could become as large as she wanted. Perhaps it was due to her humming, or due to her focus on dancing and not tripping over the grass knolls and avoiding the rocks, but Ellen didn’t hear a rider coming along the road. Neither did she hear footsteps coming through the thicket of trees. Nor did she see the man who watched her from the edge of the meadow until he turned away.

  Chapter Two

  Quinn Edwards, the Marquess of Kenworth, cursed for the umpteenth time that day. His cursing streak had begun when he’d discovered that his younger brother had taken the carriage, along with Quinn’s favorite stallions, back to London two nights before. His brother’s errand was not to be complained about, though—he had gone to check on their ailing mother. And, when word came this morning that she had not improved, Quinn prepared to follow in his brother’s wake. He didn’t want to be encumbered with a carriage, so he’d been forced to take a second-rate horse, and now said horse was limping.

  If memory served him right, up ahead was a small village, and he hoped he could switch out his horse at the local inn. He wasn’t sure if he had a mile to go or two or perhaps three. Quinn dismounted the horse to walk alongside it. He might be anxious to visit his mother, but he wasn’t going to be cruel to an injured horse, and he hoped the beast wouldn’t have to be put down.

  As it was, the day was pleasant, the sun not too hot, and if he weren’t riding to be at his mother’s bedside, he might have spent a night in the village. Quinn wasn’t truly worried about his mother’s condition—she had the habit of falling ill whenever she was lonely. But she would certainly worsen and give in to greater hysterics if he delayed his arrival by another day. Having his younger brother there now would undoubtedly help. Yet in his mother’s mind, there was no substitute for the oldest son, simply because he was the title owner.

  As Quinn walked along the quiet road, leading his limping horse, he thought of how his father must have been the most patient man in all of England. Although he’d been gone for over three years, if someone were to gauge the passage of time by his mother’s reactions, one might think that he’d been gone for only three months. Quinn wasn’t sure if his parents’ marriage was such a close love match as to warrant his mother’s continued despondency.

  But what did Quinn know? His interactions with the female sort hadn’t been entirely favorable. Sure, he’d always been the heir, but once he inherited, it was like the floodgates had opened. Mothers became brash about making sure their daughters secured an introduction to him at social events, and if he didn’t ask those very daughters to dance—every single one of them—one would have thought a family death had occurred. Sometimes Quinn wished the mourning period were five years. He was no longer Lord Quinn Edwards, lover of science and mechanics; he was the Marquess of Kenworth. A commodity. A focus of gossip.

  He was embroiled in his disgruntled thoughts when he thought he heard his name spoken. By a woman.

  How was that possible? He stopped walking, and the horse stopped as well. He listened to the expected sounds one might find on a country road—wind pushing through the trees above, a couple of insects buzzing, a bird or two.

  “Thank you, Lord Kenworth,” the voice said. “It was my pleasure.”

  A laugh—light and cheerful.

  Then, “Of course you may escort me into supper.”

  Another laugh.

  Then humming.

  Was he hearing things? Had the stress of his new responsibilities and his mother’s illness finally cracked his mind? Quinn drew his horse off the road, pointed it to a nice section of wild grass to munch on, then started through the trees toward the woman’s voice. Soon, he arrived at a clearing or a very small meadow. Yes, there was a woman, who was not a phantom of his imagination. This fact brought him much relief.

  The woman was perhaps nineteen or twenty, and she wore a white dress, pulled off the shoulders so that there were no guesses as to the gifts of her gender. Her eyes were closed as she hummed a song that he wasn’t familiar with. Her light-brown hair seemed burnished gold by the sun, making it appear as if she had a halo of light about her head. Strands of hair had escaped her updo, and wavy tendrils trailed along her rather elegant neck.

  Quinn always noticed a woman’s neck. Perhaps because it was the supporter of what might be a lovely face, as well as the beginning of what might also be a lovely physique. This woman had both.

  She continued to hum a fractured tune, and then she lifted her arms as if she had a dance partner and . . . began to dance.

  Quinn couldn’t take his eyes from the sight of this ethereal creature dancing by
herself as if she were in an entirely different world. A pang of envy shot through him. Had Quinn Edwards ever spent an afternoon, nay, even a few moments, in such an unfettered manner? The young woman was completely oblivious to everything else outside this meadow—it was like she was drunk on ambrosia in a Shakespeare performance. Quinn half expected fairies and sprites to leap about the clearing as she danced.

  He was puzzled, though, about her dance moves. He’d heard of traveling dancing troupes that did performances, and wondered if she belonged to one of those and was rehearsing for an upcoming event. He’d never seen her particular moves, although she was repeating them over and over, as if she were mimicking a more traditional dance style.

  Quinn then realized that he was spying on an unprotected woman. What might she think when she spotted him? She would certainly not be pleased, and he didn’t want to frighten her. As much as he wanted to stay, he knew he should return to the road. Otherwise, he might be tempted to offer himself up for a partner. She could practice with him and then perhaps be more prepared for her upcoming performance. It sounded reasonable at first thought. At second thought, he knew it would never do. They hadn’t been introduced, and he had no idea who she was. If she was a dancer, or an actress, he could only imagine the added hysterics his mother would entertain if she were ever to find out.

  So, reluctantly, Quinn took a final, rather long gaze at the woman dancing on her own, then turned from the scene to head back to the road and rejoin his horse.

  That was when she screamed.

  Chapter Three

  Ellen’s heart stopped for a full beat, and then she did the only thing natural upon seeing a strange man spying on her through the trees. She screamed.

  Her scream was impressive, really, and she didn’t know she had such a scream inside her. Not having previously had the opportunity to scream at anything before, she shocked herself as much as she must have shocked the man watching her.

  She hoped to the good Lord that he was alone, although she would still be defenseless against any single tall, broad-shouldered man, if he indeed was a brutish type. Living in the country had taught Ellen that not every lone man, or band of men, were out to ravish women they might come upon in the road. Of course, Ellen wasn’t in the road, but her private meadow, her Little London.

  And this man with his hair dark as night, his brow pulled together in shock, his mouth half-open as if he might scream or yell himself, was still standing yards away. Staring.

  Ellen shut her mouth. She debated on whether another scream was needed or if she should just hightail it back home. She was quite a fast runner, and she knew every hill, rock, and tree from here to home.

  “Please accept my apologies,” the man said before Ellen had made up her mind on whether to scream again or to flee.

  His voice was low and urgent yet somehow warm, like the melted chocolate that Ellen’s governess was so addicted to. He was also turned out like a member of the ton. Pale-blue waistcoat, dark-gray overcoat expertly tailored, fitted breeches over muscular thighs that Ellen really shouldn’t be noticing, and high polished boots.

  And he kept talking. “I have a lame horse and was walking along the road when I thought I heard someone call my name.”

  Ellen blinked. Then blinked again.

  “Lord Kenworth, you said,” he continued. “That’s my name, and I don’t know of another Lord Kenworth unless you meant my father, which would be quite impossible. And my younger brother is Lord Robert, who is currently in London with my mother. But when I saw that you were . . . playacting . . . I realized you probably didn’t mean to address me at all. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He waved his hand with little purpose. “Preparing for your performance or whatnot. I didn’t intend to dwell and watch—especially since we are not acquainted.”

  Heavens, this man could talk.

  “But I was captivated,” he continued. “You are a very convincing actress. I actually found myself wishing that I could be a part of whatever world you were living in.”

  His face flushed. Actually went red. Ellen was quite fascinated. This gentleman, clearly of the ranks of the ton, and goodness, a titled man at that, was blushing.

  He’d stopped talking at last.

  “I’m sorry I screamed,” she said, because the silence was much more awkward than his previous rush of words. “And I’m not an actress.”

  His brows raised, and Ellen decided they were perfectly shaped brows. Dark, thick, and expressive.

  “I didn’t mean to assume,” he said. “I hope that I didn’t insult you or your family.”

  “I can see how you might have assumed,” she said, smoothing her dress to give herself something to do. “My father owns Rosecrest Estate, thus I’ve lived in the country most of my life. Being confused for an actress might be considered a compliment in some circles around here.”

  The edges of his mouth lifted as if he were about to smile.

  Was he amused that she wasn’t an actress or that she’d answered him in such a fashion? “And I’m sorry about your horse,” she rushed to say.

  He seemed surprised at that. “Thank you. Do you know if the inn at the next village keeps extra horses?”

  “If you mean the inn at Harpshire, then yes, they keep horses for travelers to change out.” Ellen wanted to ask him more questions—like his full name, where he was from, where he was headed. Would it be rude to inquire after his mother? But a breeze had kicked up, stirring her dress about her and reminding her that she’d tugged down her sleeves. She must look a fright, not to mention having acted fool enough so that he thought she was an actress.

  “Thank you,” he said again. “And might I trouble you with one more question?”

  She wanted to smile. He was so formal. But she didn’t smile, because that might seem too friendly toward a complete stranger. Well, she did know he was Lord Kenworth, something or other.

  “How far is this Harpshire?”

  “Less than a mile,” she said, grateful she could aid him in this. “You’re nearly there—you’ll see it around the next bend. Is your horse badly hurt?”

  “I am not sure,” he said. “He’s started to limp, so I climbed off.”

  “I hope it’s not serious.” Now she was the one chattering.

  The man didn’t seem to mind; in fact, he took a step closer. For some reason, Ellen thought this action might make her feel nervous or wary. She felt neither. He was still in line with the trees, but now the sun reached him.

  “Can I ask you another question before I go?” he said.

  She nodded, fully prepared for him to ask her name, even though there was no one to introduce them.

  “What’s the name of the dance you were performing?”

  Ellen blinked. Then she tilted her head. “The waltz.”

  He seemed to straighten his already-straight posture. “It must be a variation danced in Harpshire.”

  Ellen exhaled. She knew she’d been off, but how far off she wasn’t certain. “I didn’t intend for it to be a variation. In truth, I’ve never seen the waltz performed—only described in the papers.”

  “Do they not dance the waltz here?” he asked.

  “I am not sure, exactly,” Ellen said, feeling the earlier enjoyment she had when humming and dancing about the meadow fade into a dull regret. “I’ve never been to a dance.”

  “Oh, you’re not out yet?” At this he took a step back.

  She realized that he thought her a young miss. “I am of age,” she said. “Eighteen this past month. But my mother is in delicate health and needs my company.”

  His face didn’t give way to any telling expression. In fact, he went very, very quiet.

  The breeze was not cooling off the warmth spreading through Ellen’s body. She’d confessed too many personal things to this Lord Kenworth. She looked away, wondering if it was too late to run back home after all.

  “Would you like me to instruct you in the waltz?” he said.

  She turned her head to look
at him, knowing that she was gaping in a very unladylike fashion. “I do not think that would be proper.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “I suppose all of this fresh country air is making my mind addled.”

  There was nothing addled about this man in the least. “And we have not been introduced,” she added.

  He didn’t turn to go. In fact, he took a step closer. “No, we have not, and unless my horse suddenly starts to talk, there seems to be no one about to do the honors.”

  “Ellen Humphreys,” she said. “Although everyone calls me Ellen.”

  His mouth curved into a rather nice smile. “Quinn Edwards.”

  “You mean Lord Kenworth?”

  He lifted his brows and looked about the meadow, then his gaze landed back on her. “Quinn will do for here and now, in this meadow of yours.”

  Ellen scoffed. As soon as the sound came out, she realized it was very unattractive. “I can’t very well call you Quinn.”

  He tilted his head, amusement in his eyes. “You just did.” It was as if he were enjoying bantering with her.

  She almost scoffed again, but she caught herself in time. She wondered if this man would have ever spoken to her if they’d met at a ball or musicale in London. Out here, where there was no other female within sight, she could almost believe he thought her pleasing. Or perhaps he was one of those rakes whom her mother had forbidden her to even mention.

  Before she could stop herself, the question popped out of her mouth. “Are you a rake, Lord Kenworth?”

  He nearly missed a step, then his brows pulled together. “I’ve . . . I’m not . . . a rake.”

  “Wonderful,” Ellen said. “Then I think I would like you to teach me the waltz, provided that we view it only as an instructor teaching a pupil.”