To Love a Lord

by Michelle Pennington

  But her gaze did not linger on him. It swept about the room, landing nowhere, and then turning toward the floor. She was looking for someone, that was certain, but hadn’t found them. Her brows drew together ever so slightly, but in no other way did she betray her disappointment.

  She followed her aunt and cousin to an empty settee, but before she could sit down, Stanton rose and intercepted her. “How are you this evening, Miss Wendover?” he asked, bowing. “Quite recovered from our afternoon walk?”

  As she curtsied and offered him her hand, she smiled sweetly. “Indeed, I am much better.”

  Stanton held her gaze, hoping to find a spark of the fire he’d once seen there. “I am very pleased to hear it.”

  Patience lowered her lashes, looking away first. She glanced up at him once more before she stepped back and sat beside her cousin.

  “Ah, the lovely Wendover ladies,” said a masculine voice behind him.

  Stanton stepped back and watched as Lord Fortescue, a dandy in a vermillion waistcoat and doused with scent, made his leg before the ladies. It was an elaborate show which made Stanton wince but Mrs. Wendover looked quite pleased.

  Despite being a bit lanky and sallow skinned, it was Patience’s cousin, Amelia, who held Lord Fortescue’s attention.

  It was odd, Stanton thought, to see Amelia given so much attention and fawned over when Patience sat next to her. Her dark hair gleamed in the candlelight, and her figure was such as would draw any man’s notice. It drew his far too often. With her flawless complexion and lovely brown eyes the color of strong tea, the contrast between the two was impossible to miss. And yet, since her cousin was wealthy and Patience was not, it was the other Miss Wendover that was so much courted. It was painful to watch—so much so that it was all he could do not to sneer at Fortescue’s falsity.

  As Lord Fortescue flirted and Patience’s cousin simpered, Stanton heard one of the other guests ask Lady Blakemore, “Where has Lord Aston gotten to, I wonder. Wasn’t he due to arrive this evening?”

  No, Stanton did not imagine the way Patience lifted her chin slightly as she waited to hear the reply, though her eyes stayed lowered in the direction of her slippered feet.

  Lady Blakemore closed her lips tightly. “I’m afraid I couldn’t say, but now our numbers will be uneven for dinner.”

  Just then there was an interruption in the hall outside and the butler opened the door, announcing, “Lord Aston.”

  With supreme indifference that he was walking into a lady’s drawing room in dusty boots and a driving cloak, Lord Aston strolled in, completely at his ease and sure of his welcome. Stanton watched with raised brows as he bowed before Lady Blakemore with an exaggerated flourish and kissed her hand.

  “My most abject apologies, dear lady. I fear I was detained on the road.”

  As Lady Blakemore accepted Aston’s effusive kiss, Lord Fortescue asked, “Ain’t been held up by highway men have you?”

  Lord Aston chuckled and lowered his lashes as some of the ladies in the room gave squeals of distress. “No, no, nothing so dangerous. Merely a herd of sheep with an impudent shepherd.”

  “Surely that could not have made you so late if you had left in good time,” Stanton remarked, surprised at himself for engaging in the conversation.

  Lord Aston, too, looked surprised. He raised one black brow and said, “You misjudge the situation. It was not a brief delay. Indeed, I couldn’t have pressed through that mob with less than a full artillery of canons. It was a veritable river of dirty wool between the two high banks of the road.”

  “I know just the spot,” Lord Fortescue put in cheerfully.

  With a graceful gesture of one white hand, Lord Aston acknowledge this show of support. Then he turned his most winning smile to Lady Blakemore again. “Indeed, if the sheep had held me up a moment longer, I would have brought a side of mutton for your table just to assuage my temper.”

  “Well, I am glad you are well,” Lady Blakemore answered, “but I’m afraid we cannot wait dinner for you. My cook would have an apoplexy.”

  “No need for that. With your leave, I’ll change and join you shortly.” And then, with no sign of embarrassment or contrition, Aston bowed again and left the room quickly.

  Lady Blakemore rose and said, with a dry attempt at humor, “Well, we shall see if he makes it before the second course. Blakemore, if you would give the Countess your arm, we will move to the dining room.”

  When the company was seated at the table, Stanton found himself seated across from Patience, and though he could not speak to her, he was content at least to have an unobstructed view.

  Lord Adlington sat next to her, but when he turned from her to speak to the lady on his other side, Patience looked across the table. Stanton met her eyes squarely, daring to let her read what she may from his expression. She glanced down at her still empty plate, but only for a moment.

  Then Lord Aston came in and stole her attention. Indeed, he attracted everyone’s attention as he strolled in with a hastily tied cravat and a devil-may-care smile. The room grew quiet, and a footman rushed forward to pull his chair out for him. Lord Aston eyed the joint of mutton being offered to him and said, “Ah, there is some justice in the world, then.” At which jest, the company laughed and returned to their conversations.

  Four courses later, the ladies withdrew from the room and the port was laid on the table before Lord Blakemore. Stanton resigned himself to his fate. Besides Adlington, he had no friends among the company. Charles Stanley was a pleasant enough man but a great deal younger than himself. Besides those two gentlemen, he was forced to bear the company of such men as Aston and Fortescue, who made even Viceroy seem appealing despite being a crafty scoundrel. The remainder of the gentlemen were older cronies of Blakemore and drew closer around the host to discuss politics.

  Fortescue sipped his port and smiled at Aston. “You, my friend, must be at point-non-plus to be at such a gathering as this.”

  Aston leaned back and turned sideways to face him, throwing an arm over the back of his chair. “Must I?”

  Fortescue smiled, his eyes narrowing. “No? So you are here instead of at the Newmarket meeting, because…?”

  Now Aston’s eyes narrowed. “And why are you here, Fortescue?”

  Stanton watched as Lord Fortescue laughed merrily and set his empty glass on the table. “Oh, I’m here for the heiress. I had a feeling you might give me some competition for Miss Wendover’s favor, but it seems I was mistaken.” He raised an eyebrow, baiting the other man.

  Aston held his glass up, and Stanley passed him the decanter. After filling his glass, he said, “Miss Wendover would be a prize for any man’s pocketbook. What a shame it is that we have before us two Miss Wendovers, one with wealth and one with beauty. If the two could be combined, I might indeed be tempted.”

  His muscles growing taut at hearing Patience’s name bandied across the table, Stanton frowned and twirled the tawny liquid in his glass.

  Fortescue looked at Stanton, as if suddenly aware he was at the table. “And what about you, Stanton? Got a filly picked out?”

  Stanton raised an eyebrow and studied the man until he shifted in his chair. Only then did Stanton answer, “You know better than to ask me such a question.”

  Perhaps sensing the tension at the other end of the table, Lord Blakemore stood. “Well, gentlemen, shall we join the ladies? Lady Blakemore was quite insistent that we not linger too long.”

  As they strolled leisurely out of the dining room and made their way to the drawing room, Mr. Viceroy came up beside Stanton. In a quiet voice he said, “Pity Aston found his way here. I had hoped the sheep might detain him for the night.”

  Stanton paused, eyebrows raised as Viceroy passed on without another word. Beginning to believe he had seriously underestimated the man, he determined to avoid him if possible.

  Viceroy seated himself at Lady Blakemore’s side, engaging her in conversation. Stanton gave him one straight look and then seated himself acros
s from Patience and her friend Miss Percy. The image of a demure young debutante, Patience barely took her eyes off the carpet, making it rather difficult to converse with her. No doubt if he attempted to do so in this present company, he would receive nothing but polite nonentities in return.

  When the gentlemen were all seated, Lady Blakemore said, “Oh, Miss Wendover, will you please sing for us? You have such a lovely voice.”

  Stanton watched as Patience looked up, her expression strained, but it was Amelia who stood and moved across the room to the pianoforte. Lady Blakemore’s brows drew ever so slightly together. Stanton nearly laughed as he realized that she had forgotten there were two Miss Wendovers in the company and had not meant Amelia.

  Mrs. Wendover reached across the sofa and tapped Patience’s arm before motioning her to the pianoforte. “Well, go along, girl. You know Amelia needs you to accompany her.”

  Patience stood and walked quickly to take her seat on the bench, receiving the sheet music her cousin had chosen with barely a glance to see what she was being asked to play. With deft fingers, Patience played the aria Amelia had chosen, and much to Stanton’s amusement, even changed keys frequently as Amelia failed to stay in tune. When the song was over, there was a second’s pause before those in the room applauded and complimented her. Amelia stayed next to the piano as if waiting to be asked to sing another, but when no one encouraged her to do so, she frowned and hurried back to her mama’s side.

  “Miss Wendover,” Lord Fortescue said, rambling toward the pianoforte. “Would you be kind enough to accompany me?”

  “Of course, my lord,” she said. “What would you like to sing?”

  Lord Fortescue sifted through the collection of music provided for the guests on a nearby table. “Come help me choose.”

  Patience rose from the bench and joined him at the table, bending over the music while Fortescue stood back and watched, his quizzing glass trained on the gentle slope of her neck and shoulders, though he stood at such an angle that none of the eagle-eyed mamas could see his impropriety.

  “Here is The Soldier’s Adieu,” she said, turning with the music. Her arm knocked into Lord Fortescue’s because he had been standing so close, and the music fell from her hand, fluttering under the table.

  Stanton stood immediately to assist her, but she was quick in retrieving it, so he sat back down. But sitting still was torture when he felt more like having a good turn-up with Fortescue in the stable yard instead. Blackening his eyes might inhibit their tendency to wander.

  When Fortescue had finished and the company duly applauded him, Mrs. Percy encouraged her daughter to play. Blushing, but willing, Miss Percy arose. She was joined by her intended in the difficult choice of choosing music from the large selection Lady Blakemore had provide, and the two stood for some time with their heads together, sifting through the pages. At last making her choice, Miss Percy seated herself at the pianoforte, and Adlington hovered behind her to turn her pages. She performed an Italian aria rather well and proved to have a well-trained voice.

  “Oh, please say you’ll sing another,” Lord Adlington said. “Here, I’ll choose something for you.” Moving toward the table again, he paused. “What’s this?” Bending down, he picked up a small piece of intricately folded paper and opened it. “Well, how vastly interesting. It is a love note. It must have been dropped here by someone. I wonder who.”

  “Oh, what does it say?” Miss Percy asked, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

  Shaking the paper delicately, Adlington read in a dramatic voice:

  Darling girl,

  I can no longer restrain the confessions of my heart. I am yours, fair one, in whatever way you will accept me. Do I dare hope you feel this same torment of passion? I must know. Trust me to find a chance to steal you away at a certain house party we are both invited to, and you may tell me with your own sweet lips.

  A collective gasp went around the room, and a bubble of conversation rose and broke over the company.

  “I say,” Adlington said merrily. “This is a scandalous bit of nonsense.”

  “Nonsense?” Miss Percy asked. “I think it is vastly beautiful. Who can it belong to?”

  Stanton shook his head in disapproval. Whoever had written the note cared very little for the reputation of the lady he claimed to love. And which party had lost it? If it was the lady, he hoped she would not be made to regret the imprudence of carrying such a condemning letter around with her.

  Then his eyes fell on Patience, and his heart sank. He knew immediately from the strained paleness of her face that she had been the one carrying it.

  Gone was his aloof criticism. Now he felt nothing but a fierce instinct to shield her from the eager scrutiny of the scandalmongers thronged about her.

  Chapter Seven

  Patience could not imagine a more disastrous turn for the evening to take. Her stomach had turned into a hard knot of apprehension as soon as Lord Adlington had picked up her note. It must have fallen out of her bodice when she had bent to pick up the sheet music, and it wouldn’t take long for everyone present to realize that it must have been hers. What a fool she was to have kept it with her instead of locking it back in her trinket box.

  And what must Lord Aston think of her? Looking across the room, she saw that the gentlemen was studying the shine on his boot. His wavy, disordered locks had fallen forward across his brow, and his jaw was set. It seemed to her that he was carefully avoiding even a glance in her direction. Patience longed to cover her cheeks with her hands, for they were feeling quite warm, but she could not betray her agitation.

  Lord Fortescue took the note from Lord Adlington and examined it eagerly. “Well, whoever wrote this note is lost to the art of subtlety.”

  “It’s practically a proposal of marriage,” Lady Blakemore exclaimed.

  “Seems to hint at something far different to me,” Sir George said with a knowing expression.

  Miss Percy clasped her hands against her bosom. “Oh, this is too exciting. Who can it belong to? And who could have sent it?”

  “It must have been dropped by someone at this table. Now, there were not many of us…”

  “I was there,” Miss Percy said, helpfully.

  Pausing, Lord Fortescue raised an eyebrow. “Ah, yes, but as you are affianced to Lord Adlington. If the note was yours, it would make this sadly respectable.”

  She blushed. “No, you mistake me. It is not mine. I doubt Adlington would know the first thing about writing a love note.”

  Lord Adlington, who stood behind her, looked down, his eyebrows drawing together. “I most certainly could.”

  “Then why haven’t you?” she asked, making the company laugh at his obvious discomfiture.

  “Well…” he floundered a moment. “Because I have no need to write of my affection when I may tell you myself.”

  “That leaves the Wendover ladies,” Fortescue said, his eyebrow quirked in their direction, his thin lips twisted in a teasing smile.

  “How dare you, sir?” Mrs. Wendover gasped. “As if either of them would think of receiving such a thing. I daresay one of you gentlemen was carrying it around in your pocket.”

  As she spoke, Lord Aston stood and strolled over to take the note from Lord Fortescue. He studied it for a moment. “Well, it looks to be written in a gentlemen’s hand—it is very fine.”

  Patience just managed to suppress a gasp at his audacity. For a brief moment, her heart had pounded in expectation––and hope––that he was going to acknowledge himself as the author and publicly declare his love for her. But as romantic as that would have been, she was thankful he had chosen keep their secret. At least, she told herself she was thankful.

  “And my word,” Aston continued, “It must have been read over again very often. Look at how thin the paper is at the folds.”

  Fortescue took the note back from Aston. “It certainly is. And look, the lady is addressed as “fair one” so perhaps that is a clue.”

  Countess Du’Brev
en tapped her ring against the arm of her chair, drawing everyone’s attention. Her voice wobbled slightly, and she scowled. “There you go, then, my fine gentlemen. You may safely discount any of the ladies in the room who is not a beauty. Of all the nonsense.”

  Lord Stanton spoke into the awkward silence that followed this pronouncement. “Fair may refer to her complexion or hair color.”

  Surprised to hear him participating in the discussion, Patience frowned in disappointment. She had thought him above trying to ferret out a scandal.

  Lord Fortescue smiled and bowed to Amelia. “There are several ladies in the room who are fair by both meanings.”

  Mr. Viceroy sat at his ease next to Lady Blakemore, a slight smile curling his lips. “It is clear, to any person of sense, that the important clue is that the gentlemen seems to be quite certain he has no means to win her by a proper courtship. One has to wonder if she is of higher station than he.”

  “Or if there is a lack of fortune concerning him,” Amelia said, glancing sideways at Patience.

  Patience pretended as if her cousin’s words meant nothing to her, but as she looked away, she saw that Lord Stanton was looking at Amelia with an expression of dislike.

  Before anyone could conjecture further, Lady Blakemore walked over to Lord Fortescue and held out an imperious hand. “Please give me the note,” she said.

  Fortescue bowed and gave the creased paper into her keeping, while Lord Aston looked on with a taut expression.

  With deft fingers, Lady Blakemore folded it again and placed it upon the mantle over the fireplace. “It shall remain here until the owner is able to retrieve it at their discretion.”

  Patience relaxed a bit and, for the first time since it had been discovered, hoped that she might be able to have the note in possession again. At which moment, she would promptly burn the thing.

  The tea tray came in then, offering a diversion from the note. As the company settled into private conversations, Lord Fortescue moved a chair closer to the settee where he spoke only to Amelia. Patience, who sat between them, felt trapped. She sipped her tea and wished to be almost anywhere but here, privy to the dull exchange of false compliments and nasal titters.