“Mr. Goode?” called Caroline. “Would you please come and look at my painting? I fear the shape of the urn is a little out of proportion.”
“Of course. I will be with you in just a moment.”
His other hand snaked around Serena’s body, touching her waist.
She froze. “Sir—”
“Shh. Everything will be all right, you’ll see. Trust me.”
She shook her head, moving vainly to twist her body away. “I will speak to Miss Haverstock. She will—”
“Do nothing,” he finished in a silky voice. “Just like last time. Remember?”
Something cold gripped her chest, pooling bile in her mouth. A previous complaint to the headmistress about Mr. Goode’s overt attention had fallen on ears seemingly as beguiled as the other young ladies. Helpless, his actions concealed from the room’s other occupant, she tried not to flinch as he stroked her waist.
“You want to become a better artist, do you not?”
She swallowed. “Y-yes.”
“Then let me help you.”
“I do not like your way of helping,” she muttered.
He laughed again. “Alas, we do not always get what we want.”
“Mr. Goode?” Caroline’s voice sounded petulant. “Have you finished with Serena yet?”
“Not by any means,” he murmured for her ears only, before finally releasing her and moving to the other side of the room.
Serena heaved out a shaky breath. Forced her attention back to the still life. Forced her whirling senses to concentrate, to narrow down, to fixate on the swirl of light gilding the vase’s rounded base. Gradually her galloping pulse reduced to something more of a canter as the methodical practice continued and she worked to overcome the soiled feeling in her soul.
Dip brush into water, then dab the cake of pigment. Apply to paper. Clean brush. Repeat.
The composition was nearly complete when she grew aware of his presence again. Her neck tingled, raising the hairs, as if every particle of her being was conscious of his perusal.
“I will miss you when you leave,” he said, in a louder voice than before.
She glanced behind her. Caroline had gone. Her heart began a rapid tattoo.
“I do hope your dear mama will be agreeable to private tutorials.”
Serena tried to ignore him, to concentrate on the canvas, but trying to ignore him for the past few months had resulted in this situation. If only she had not looked into his eyes! Mr. Goode might have been the most handsome man the seminary had ever employed, but there was something oily and unclean about him. If only the other girls knew, they would not envy his attentions to Serena one jot.
He was as far removed from the upright bearing and nature of her sister’s new husband as could be imagined. Jonathan Carlew Winthrop was everything decent and kind, his generosity as remarked upon as his wealth. It did not matter that he had come from a background less titled than hers, or that some people sneered at his connections in trade; the man he was now embodied everything she hoped to find one day for herself. Mr. Goode was the opposite of all that.
“Miss Serena? You are very quiet. Perhaps you would prefer to finish this later.”
“I’d prefer to complete it now.”
“Really? You would not prefer to do other things now?” A finger traced down her cheek.
She could not move, frozen, mouselike, before a cat. What could she do? If she spoke to Miss Haverstock again, she would not be believed. But if she did not, how far would his attentions go? Mama would dismiss her claims as fanciful. Papa was gone. Catherine and her new brother-in-law were still away on the Continent on an extended honeymoon. Who could she turn to? Who could protect her?
She had no one. Nothing.
A tear tracked down her cheek as his fingers went lower, under her chin, down her throat. Her heart pounded frantically against the cage of her ribs as a silent scream ballooned inside. Lord, help me!
Grosvenor Square, London
A kaleidoscope of noise and color filled the ballroom, mirrors and diamonds flashing, conversation thrumming under the tinkle of laughter.
Viscount Henry Carmichael smoothed his cravat and moved to the young brunette beside the pillar, standing with her mother, a rather formidable-looking creature of heavy dark brows and downturned mouth. “Good evening, fair ladies.”
“Ah, Lord Carmichael. How lovely to see you again.” The elder held out her hand and received the peck he bestowed there.
“And you, madam.” Though Harry had forgotten her name. Never mind. He was always rather impressed with how far he could sustain conversation without using names. “I wonder, does your sister dance?”
“My sister?” Her frown smoothed as the young lady smothered a giggle. “I suppose you mean dear Eliza here.”
“I suppose I do,” he said with an easy smile.
“Naughty man.”
He bowed his head to acquiesce and turned to the brunette. “Tell me, Miss Eliza, do you dance, or do you prefer to stand by pillars and show them up by your beauty?”
Another giggle. “I like to dance, sir.”
“Shall I see if I can find a partner for you?”
“Oh, but—”
“Come.” He held out his hand, her crestfallen face lighting once more. “I do not see anyone worthy enough for you to dance with.”
“Save yourself?” she suggested.
“Oh, I’m not terribly worthy.” He led her into the set that was just forming.
“But you are a viscount.”
Her innocent comment soured the champagne lining his stomach. He forced his smile to remain fixed as they completed the maneuvers. She was not the first young lady, nor would she be the last, to focus on his title and someday ascension to the earldom. He had known it all his life, had seen the wheedling and cajolery given to members of his family as people he once thought friends had tried to use him for their own purposes. And while he liked to help, he did not like the feeling of being manipulated, nor friendships that seemed based on undercurrents he was yet to ascertain.
He twirled Miss Eliza to the end of the row, his thoughts whirling in time to the music. Perhaps that was why he enjoyed Jon Carlew—no, he grinned, the new Lord Winthrop—perhaps that was why he enjoyed his company so much. Since meeting early in their Oxford days, the man’s principled honesty had appealed as much as his refusal to engage in the social-climbing practices common among Harry’s friends, Jon’s merchant background less important than his proving to be one of the few Harry knew he could trust. Which meant the newly married baron was one of the few who knew Harry’s deepest secret.
“Lord Carmichael?”
He almost stumbled, suddenly conscious the music had drawn to a close and his partner was gazing up at him anxiously. “Shall we find your dear mater?”
After escorting her back to her mother—and pillar—Harry ambled off to the card room. He had done the pretty, done what was expected and asked a wallflower to dance, and now he could spend time doing what he preferred. As he moved beneath the glittering chandelier, a hand accosted him. “Dear boy.”
“Lady Harkness!” He bowed to the redheaded woman draped in green and flashing emeralds. “The night has suddenly improved.”
“Tell me, have you heard from Jon?”
“I’m afraid not. Which leads me to suspect he is enjoying his new bride very much.”
She laughed. “And so he should. They have waited long enough, don’t you agree?”
He nodded, as a thin spear of envy prodded within. Once he had wondered about pursuing Miss Catherine Winthrop, before realizing her heart had long been secured by his best friend. But to find another like her, someone whose patience and sweetness meant she truly deserved a man of Jon’s caliber, why, that would be nigh impossible.
“Have you seen Hawkesbury? He’s here somewhere, with that pretty wife of his. I do like her. She’s quite a refreshing thing.” The green eyes danced around the room. “Especially when one meets so many bores
.”
“Something of which you can never be accused, madam.” He bowed. “If your son deigns to call, I shall send him your regards.”
“And when Jon contacts me, I’ll be sure to let him know you’d like to visit Winthrop again.”
He laughed. “You know me well. Good evening, madam.”
And with a final bow, he escaped his best friend’s mother and strode to the card room. Now to play—
“Lord Carmichael?”
He turned, his impatience dissipating as he recognized the copper-blonde lady before him. “Lady Hawkesbury.” He executed a bow. “A complete pleasure.”
Her smile seemed tinged with amusement at his antics, which made his grin all the more genuine. “Tell me, have you seen that husband of mine? He was here moments ago, offering to procure me some water, but I rather suspect he got waylaid by one of those parliamentarians who share a rather less liberal view of the world.”
“Shall I send out a search party?”
“If you would.” She fanned herself.
“And I shall find you some water, also. Come.” He led her to a vacant space on the settee. “I shall return directly.”
“I shall await you.” Her sweet, ingenuous smile filled her face. “Thank you.”
He threaded through the crowd, found a footman, and secured a tall glass of iced water. Delivering it to the countess, he realized she was another like the new Lady Winthrop, a woman of character and passion. His father had given him to understand that many of Hawkesbury’s schemes to help the underprivileged had originated from his wife, the daughter of a clergyman. Father had even sounded impressed, urging Harry to foster that connection. “For I believe that man will hold office one day.”
A brief search found the earl himself—as his wife had suspected—holding court in the blue salon, half a dozen men crowding in, asking questions, spouting opinions. Harry stood on the fringes, waiting until sufficient pause could allow him to catch the earl’s attention, working to tamp down his frustration. Why he was here as a messenger when he’d much rather be winning at cards—
“Carmichael! How are you? Come and tell us”—the earl gestured him nearer—“what are your thoughts on the Corn Laws? Do you not agree they do the working man a grave injustice?”
Harry glanced at the men standing nearby, some of whom he knew, all of whom knew his father, and knew that his father, while widely considered a somewhat benevolent earl, would also be opposed to anything that reduced his personal income. “I do not have a ready opinion, I’m afraid,” he hedged.
“Ah.” Hawkesbury’s face, voice, conveyed disappointment. “I trust time will change that?”
“Time has a way of changing most things.”
“True.”
“If I might interrupt your political musings, your wife is asking after you, my lord.”
“Then I must take my leave of you, gentlemen.” Hawkesbury inclined his head. “Until next time.” He clapped Harry on the shoulder as they exited. “Thank you, Carmichael. I trust Lavinia is well?”
“Of course.”
“Good.” Hawkesbury glanced at Harry. “Tell me, what do you see for yourself in the future?”
The memory of desires from long ago stirred faintly, lifting then falling like the scent of rain on the wind. “I would hope to marry, run the estate like my father has done.”
“Good ambitions, those. But in that far-off, distant day when you assume the title, do you see yourself joining the parliamentary debates or merely leaving that to others?”
“I … I had not thought of it.”
The earl’s eyes glinted. “Neither did I until a few years ago. But life moved drastically and then I found myself in a situation where I had little desire to be, and even less understanding of what to do. Might I encourage you to think ahead? It is never too early to make decisions that help mold you into the man you are destined to be.”
The words ate into his contentment, and he forced himself to murmur something inconsequential. He didn’t want to think ahead. Life was for living, for enjoying oneself. It was far too soon for thoughts of settling down.
The lights and noise suddenly faded as his earlier musings rose to the fore. Perhaps it was not simple luck that Jon and Lord Hawkesbury had gained wives of such charm and integrity. They had proved themselves men worthy of such ladies.
He made his bows to the earl and countess, and finally made good his escape to the card room, where he was soon engaged in a game of whist that quickly intensified into a high-stakes game of hazard. Harry had to work to maintain his well-known air of insouciance even as the earl’s words continued to challenge, like a seam of discontent in his soul.
What kind of man did he wish to be? Honest, like Carlew. Someone others could trust and could rely on for more than just a prettily turned compliment. His spirits dipped.
Could he ever become such a man?
Winning Miss Winthrop Page 34