by Amelia Grey
“And how do you know this?”
“It was told to me by a woman who claimed she was a witch.”
Blake smiled. “I’ve known plenty of witches, but not one who could conjure a spell and make it work.”
Blake and Gibby laughed.
“I’ve been cursed, myself a time or two,” Gibby said proudly.
“You don’t think I’m going to fall for that story, do you?”
“It’s true. I believe your grandmother must have cursed me, because after I met her, I never wanted another woman the way I wanted her.”
Gibby’s words caused Henrietta’s face to flash before his mind’s eye. He saw her as she was last night with her head thrown back, eyes closed, the smile of wonder on her lips, while he kissed the slender column of her throat all the way down to the soft, shapely mound of her breast.
“Excuse us, Your Grace.”
Slowly, Blake turned around and saw the two gentlemen he’d seen talking in the far corner of the taproom.
He held up his hand to stop them before they had opportunity to say more. “Don’t tell me; you’re sorry for interrupting me, but you want to make known your intentions to charm, court, and win the hand of my ward, Miss Henrietta Tweed.”
The two men looked at each other in astonishment.
“It’s the curse,” Gibby said with a grin.
“You might be on to something, Gib,” Blake said, and they both started laughing.
Sixteen
My Faithful Grandson Lucien,
Study on this from Lord Chesterfield: “In the course of the world, a man must very often put on an easy, frank countenance upon very disagreeable occasions; he must seem pleased when he is very much otherwise; he must be able to accost and receive with smiles those whom he would much rather meet with swords.”
Your loving Grandmother,
Lady Elder
THE GREAT HALL GLIMMERED WITH LIGHTS FROM thousands of candles, or so it seemed to Henrietta as she stood at the entrance to the famed building with its twelve Corinthian columns lining the main ballroom. Blakewell and Constance were taking care of their wraps while she stood in awe of the chandeliers and wall sconces, radiating with extraordinary light and giving the room a breathtaking gleam.
The room was spectacularly decorated with flowers of every size, shape, and color, arranged in large pots, wound around the columns, and dripping from the ceiling. Henrietta had no idea where they found so many fresh flowers so early in the spring season. At one side of the room stood three long tables, each one filled with fancy silver trays loaded with such delicacies as chilled oysters, fowl baked in figs, lamb cooked in plum gravy, preserved apples, and pears simmered in a brandy sauce.
Her mouth watered at the sight of the delicious food spread before her, but she wouldn’t sample the first taste. Constance had, once again, insisted she dine at home. That was a puzzle to Henrietta when the food was such a lavish production at both the parties she’d been to.
Sparkling champagne glasses were lined up ready to be filled and served. The violinist, cellist, and flutist played a lively tune, and the dance floor was overflowing with colorfully dressed ladies and finely dressed gentlemen swinging, twirling, and clapping as they moved about the room in time with the music.
Henrietta was still awed by the opulence of all the houses and buildings she had been in since arriving in London. The people in the quiet villages where she had grown up truly had no idea of the grandeur of the houses, the fancy details of the clothing, or the extravagance of the parties held by London’s elite Society.
She noticed that Blakewell seemed to be in considerably less pain than during the previous evening. He had appeared more calm and relaxed on their short drive to the Great Hall. That pleased her. Though she had loved every moment of caring for him, she didn’t relish seeing him in pain.
As they walked toward the champagne table, she glanced at the duke, and love for him swelled in her heart. She had realized she loved him last night and that she desired him tremendously.
She wanted to do things for him. She couldn’t wait to see him. She wanted to be with him. It had to be love that she was feeling.
A stabbing pain pierced her chest as they stopped at the drink table. But he didn’t love her. He wanted her to marry another man, not him. And she must marry soon. His life was in danger because of her. No matter what he thought, the curse on her guardians was real. He could only be saved by relinquishing her guardianship. And marriage to another man would do that.
Blake handed a glass of champagne to Henrietta and one to Constance before taking one for himself. He thought Henrietta looked sad; though she smiled at him, there was a hint of anguish to it.
“Now, Your Grace,” Constance said, “ tell me who would you most like to see Henrietta dance with first this evening, and I’ll arrange it.”
No one but me.
He took a sip of his drink and glanced from Constance to Henrietta. “I will leave it up to Henrietta as to whom she chooses to dance with.”
“Thank you for that option, Your Grace.”
“I’m certain she won’t have to wait long for a request to dance.” Constance turned to Henrietta. “Of all the gentlemen you met last evening, who caught your fancy?”
None had caught her fancy.
Henrietta hesitated, trying to figure out a way to sidestep Constance’s direct question.
“The choice is an easy one. I shall dance with the first gentleman who asks me.”
Constance gave her an approving smile. “That is always the best thing for a young lady to do at a ball. And you said it just in time,” Constance added. “I see the first gentleman is on his way. I can tell by the way he’s walking that he is headed straight for Henrietta. And I have no doubt that every bachelor here tonight will want her to save him a dance on her card.”
“Good evening, Your Grace, Mrs. Pepperfield, Miss Tweed,” Lord Snellingly said as he bowed low before kissing first Constance’s and then Henrietta’s hand. “Might I say that both you ladies look exceptionally lovely tonight.”
“Thank you, Lord Snellingly,” Constance said.
Henrietta remembered meeting Lord Snellingly the previous night. The man was tall, slim, and quite handsome in a classic way, but looking at him, she felt none of the butterfly sensations in her stomach, weak knees, or fluttering in her chest that she experienced when she looked at the duke.
Lord Snellingly stepped closer to her. “After meeting you last evening, Miss Tweed, I was inspired to write you a poem.” He unfolded a piece of parchment and looked at Blakewell. “With His Grace’s permission, of course, I’d like to read it to you.”
The duke’s brow furrowed deeply. “I don’t think this is the place for poetry reading, Snellingly,” he said.
“It’s only three lines, Your Grace, and I’ll say it quickly.”
“Henrietta?” His Grace asked.
She stood very still. She wasn’t sure she liked the idea that this man had written her a poem, and she was certain she didn’t like the fact he wanted to read it to her in front of the duke and Constance. But she must look for a husband, so she had to consider every man a possibility.
If she couldn’t have Blakewell, the man she loved and wanted, would it matter who she married?
“Very well,” she finally said. “Since it’s a short poem, please go ahead.”
The man smiled gratefully at the duke and then turned his attention to Henrietta.
“The sun cannot outshine the light in my love’s eyes.
“When she looks at me, darkness never falls.
“I am drawn to her the way a baby bird’s chirp draws his mother back to the nest.”
Henrietta smiled at the man. “Thank you, Lord Snellingly, that was lovely.”
Lord Snellingly beamed at her praise. “It is easy to write poetry for someone as beautiful as you, Miss Tweed.” He turned to Blakewell and said, “With your permission, Your Grace, may I have this dance with Miss Tweed?”
/> “No way in hell” was Blake’s first thought, but he saw Henrietta smiling at the man. He guessed she could consider the man handsome, but had she really fallen for that poetry blather?
Blake nodded to Snellingly and quietly watched as he walked away with Henrietta. A knot formed in Blake’s chest, and he felt as if his stomach had flipped over. He had seldom experienced what he was feeling, but he knew what it was.
He was jealous. Damned jealous.
He found that unbelievable. He had never been jealous over a woman in his life, but what else could it be? He didn’t want any man touching Henrietta, not even to dance with her. What kind of hold did she have on him?
“She’s handling herself very well,” Constance said, breaking into Blake’s thoughts.
“I knew she would,” Blake answered, hoping his newly discovered feelings didn’t show on his face.
“Is it me, or was that the worst poem you have ever heard?” Blake asked Constance.
“Lest you forget, Blake, I’m a woman. I’ve heard some very bad poetry through the years from beaux trying to impress me, but I admit that none of it comes close to being as bad as what we just heard. Now tell me, Blake, surely you have been thinking of someone who might be a good match for Henrietta. If you will let me know of your choice matrimonial candidates for her, I’ll guide her in their direction.”
He ignored her statement and said, “Tell me what is being said about her in the gossip sheets.” Blake wouldn’t give Gibby the satisfaction of asking him about it, but he wanted to know.
Constance sipped her champagne and then said, “Mostly good things.”
“Mostly?”
“Yes, there is the usual nattering about her beauty, wit, and charm. Unfortunately, Lord Truefitt’s “Daily Society Column” is reporting you are desperate to make a match for her so you can be rid of her as quickly as possible because she is a burden to your carefree life.”
“Damnation,” he whispered under his breath.
That might have been true when she first arrived, but it was no longer the case. She was growing on him. He actually liked knowing she was in his house and under his protection.
“My fear is that it will make inappropriate and unworthy men think they can pursue her hand.”
Hence, the many calling cards from men he didn’t know as well as advances from the likes of Lord Snellingly, Lord Waldo, and Count Vigone.
“How did something like that get started?”
“Who knows how anything gets started with the gossipmongers? But good will come from the bad, and it will all equal out,” she smiled sweetly at him. “Between the scandal sheets, the wager at White’s, and her being your ward, she has easily become the most popular young lady of the Season. Surely you’ve had inquiries about her.”
“I have been inundated with men I know and men I don’t know and don’t care to know, all wanting to make their intentions known that they plan to ask for Henrietta’s hand. Even if I wanted her to marry in haste, what would make the lot of them think I would not be very selective in whom I allow her to marry?”
“Come now, Blake, a chance is all they are looking for. What could be better for them? She has her pick of London’s finest gentlemen. Surely there will be one who catches her attention and of whom you will approve. And the tittle-tattle is right, isn’t it?”
“What’s that?”
“The sooner the better, as far as you are concerned?”
Blake looked out over the dance floor and spotted Henrietta dancing. His breath quickened just looking at her.
“Perhaps that was true when I first spoke to you, Constance, but not anymore. I’m in no hurry to find Henrietta a husband.”
“I see,” she said coolly, and then added, “However, it’s no wonder every eligible man is prepared to try his luck at winning her hand. She is quite a catch, Blake. Beautiful, charming, and intelligent, and everyone knows you will bestow a wealthy dowry on her. She’s definitely the diamond of the Season.”
“I know.”
Constance smiled at him, and Blake remembered why he was once attracted to her. She was enticing. He needed a woman to help him forget his craving for Henrietta, but his desire for Constance had long passed. She would be of no help to him in that way.
Blake returned Constance’s smile, and then picked up another glass of champagne.
After more than two hours of watching Henrietta enjoy herself on the dance floor with so many men he’d lost count, Blake walked outside the front of the building for some fresh air. The flames from all of the candles and the crush of people had the Great Hall hot and confining, even though the night air had a chill to it.
The fog and mist were clearing, and he could see the light from the streetlamps in the distance. Maybe the downpours were finally leaving London. It had been wet for days. He stood just under the portico, breathing in deeply the cool, damp air. It felt good to be outside. It was making him crazy watching Henrietta dance, smile, and talk to all those fops gathered around her like yapping dogs. She was in demand, no doubt about that, but he hadn’t thought one of the men pursuing her tonight was worthy of her hand. He blew out his breath in a huff. She had more than enough confidence to send most of those men scurrying away in a panic if they ever got into a verbal confrontation with her.
Earlier in the evening, Lady Houndslow had approached him, giving him a come-hither look meant to entice him straight into her bed, and at first he had given the idea considerable thought. But, after spending only a few minutes with her, Blake had no inclination to visit her, and he was more than happy he hadn’t spent the afternoon with her before his trip to Valleydale with his cousins.
Blake had no doubt she would have agreed if he had asked to come to her bedchamber later tonight, but as soon as he could respectfully do so, he took his leave from her.
He wanted a rendezvous with a desirable woman to take his mind off Henrietta, but Lady Houndslow wasn’t the woman to do it. An even bigger problem was that when he had looked at all the ladies in the ballroom, he didn’t see a single one that he wanted to take to his bed.
Had Henrietta ruined him for all other women?
Blake needed to get away from the sound of the music and revelry coming from inside the Great Hall, so he stepped off the portico into the darkness. At the bottom of the steps, something sharp scraped deep into the side of his head over his left temple, and he jerked back.
“Damnation,” he muttered and looked up. He saw that a piece of iron had rusted and fallen down from the covered archway on the landing. In the darkness, he hadn’t seen it. Grabbing hold of it, he yanked the bar down and threw it into the shrubs. It wouldn’t catch any other unsuspecting person.
Blake grimaced and put his hand to the wound. It felt wet and sticky. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the bleeding injury.
“You’re brooding, aren’t you?”
Blake spun around at the sound of Morgan’s voice. He slipped the soiled handkerchief into his pocket. “I’m in no mood for lectures, Cousin.”
“I don’t intend to give you any.”
“Good.”
“If you want, I’ll leave you to sulk in private.”
“Blast it,” Blake exclaimed. “I’m not sulking or brooding, and you don’t have to leave.”
“All right, what are you doing standing outside all by yourself, staring into the mist like you’ve lost your best friend, or should I say your lover?”
“I’m getting some fresh air. It’s damned hot in there.”
“You wouldn’t be so hot if you hadn’t stood in there like a lost pup and steamed over every man that Henrietta danced with.”
Damnation, Morgan saw too much. He always had. Blake hoped he hadn’t been that obvious to anyone else.
“I’m fine,” is all Blake felt compelled to say.
“So nothing is bothering you?”
Morgan wasn’t going to let it go, but Blake wasn’t going to acknowledge Morgan’s curiosity.
&nbs
p; “Nothing,” Blake lied. He hated doing it, but there were just some things he couldn’t share with his cousin. What he was feeling for Henrietta was one of them. He was still trying to figure it out himself.
“Perhaps there is something to that curse she talked about when she first arrived. She’s gotten to you, hasn’t she? You haven’t been able to take your eyes off Henrietta all night.”
Blake swallowed his angry retort and, in a calm voice, said, “There is no curse, but since you’re here, why don’t you tell me what you’ve found out about Mrs. Simple and her balloons.”
“That’s a good, safe subject to change to,” Morgan remarked.
Blake remained silent.
“All right, my man can’t find one person in London who is interested in ballooning as a form of travel. Most of the men he talked to don’t even care for it as recreation. Mrs. Simple seems to be the only person in London, other than Gibby, who appreciates ballooning.”
“That is just as we suspected. What about Race—has he found out anything about Mrs. Simple’s past?”
“I see him walking toward us. Let’s ask him.”
“Did I miss getting the signal, or are you two trying to have a secret meeting without me?” Race asked as he joined them. “It’s a good thing I saw you coming out here. What’s going on that I was going to be left out of?”
“I thought Blake was brooding, so I followed him out here to see what was bothering him.”
“He was definitely brooding about Henrietta,” Race said.
Blake swore under his breath. Damn his cousins and their meddling.
“Apparently not,” Morgan answered. “The only thing he wants to talk about is Gibby, Mrs. Simple, and hot-air balloons.”
“Figures. I’d probably say that, too, if I were in his dancing shoes. But, speaking of the old dandy, it just so happens that I heard back today from the man who was making inquiries for me about Mrs. Simple.”
“What did he say?” Morgan asked.
“So far he hasn’t found anything sinister in her past. Seems she was married to a tradesman who was always inventing things and trying to sell them. Everyone he talked to who knew Mr. Simple respected him and his wife, too. The fellow died a couple of years ago. He left Mrs. Simple a small amount of money and two balloons. This idea of using a hot-air balloon like a coach was his idea, and she has taken up the venture since he died.”