“She is pretty, isn’t she?” remarked James.
“She’s perfect,” Henry declared.
Isabella laughed. “Not in the middle of the night when she screams loud enough to wake the whole house, she isn’t. Someday you will understand.”
Henry grimaced. “Someday is an agreeable thought.”
“For you, perhaps. For Mama, tomorrow would not be soon enough.”
“Mama!” Bride shrieked, triumphantly waving one of Henry’s waistcoat buttons.
“Oh, dear.” Isabella fought a smile. “James, will you—”
Even as she spoke the words, James was out of his seat, lifting Bride from Henry’s arms and taking her to Isabella. While Isabella held the squirming child, James pried the button from her tiny fist. Bride was not happy about the forceful removal of her prize, which she had fairly won, and she made her displeasure known. Loudly.
James sighed. “The price of visiting,” he said, handing the button back to Henry.
Henry laughed and got to his feet. “Well worth it, but I won’t trespass on your hospitality any longer.” He hugged Isabella and kissed the top of Bride’s head. “I have some business in Surrey that will occupy me for a few days, so I doubt I’ll see you before Mother’s ball next week.”
She wished him a safe trip, and then James walked him to the entrance hall. Henry looked at his best friend. “Do you believe I can really do this? The stud, I mean.”
“Of course you can.” James clapped him on the back. “Provided you can come up with the blunt.”
Henry winced, partly because he was feeling the effects of his tussle with that damned table, but mostly because James was right. The stud would be a costly venture, more than he could fund on his own.
“I don’t suppose you would consider a loan?”
“And make this easy on you?” James laughed and shook his head. “Not a chance, old friend. Not a chance.”
CHAPTER THREE
Had I prevailed upon you to return my missives from Seasons past, my letter writing now would be wonderfully uncomplicated. I should simply send them back to you, perhaps with a few names scratched out and new ones scribbled betwixt the lines. The date must change as well, but that is all. You do not care for gossip any more than I do, and my little world shall go on this Season just the same as the year before, and the year before that, and the year before that…
—FROM DIANA MERRIWETHER TO HER BROTHER ALEXANDER
ONE WEEK LATER
“DO TRY TO SMILE, DIANA.”
Miss Diana Merriwether gave no indication of having heard her mother’s hushed admonition, but she curved her lips into what she hoped would pass as a smile. She had been to enough balls to know that effusive smiling so early in the evening would have her cheeks aching by the time she sat down to supper.
“Much better,” Lady Linnet whispered approvingly, delicately fluttering her fan before her face to mask their conversation. Diana was tempted to grab the fan out of her mother’s hand and put it to good use. There were at least two hundred people packed into a space comfortably able to hold half that number and, as always, the dowagers had chosen to hold court as far away as possible from any source of fresh air.
Where those grand dames went, other respectable chaperones followed, and with them, their charges: dreamy-eyed debutantes, woebegone wallflowers, and soon-to-be-spinsters. Diana had passed through those ranks over the years. She wasn’t sure exactly when she had advanced from wallflower to soon-to-be-spinster, but surely anyone who was in her seventh Season had passed into the realm of imminent spinsterhood.
“You have a lovely smile, my dear,” her mother said, patting Diana’s shoulder with her free hand. “I only wish you showed it to the world a bit more often.”
Diana nodded absently, shifting in her seat as strains of the musicians tuning their instruments drifted in from an adjoining room. Liveried footmen bearing silver trays laden with fluted glasses of champagne expertly navigated the crowded room. Diana accepted the glass pressed into her hand, relishing the slight chill that seeped through her glove.
The ballroom was uncomfortably warm, but she expected that tonight. No one lucky enough to receive an invitation would willingly forgo this ball. Lord and Lady Weston’s enduring popularity aside, this particular evening boasted three of the ton’s most talked-about gentlemen, all of whom were currently making their way to the head of the room where their hosts waited.
The Earl of Dunston was married to the Westons’ eldest daughter. He’d been all the rage since the gossip papers had reported about how he had secretly joined the navy and been wounded in battle. Rumor had it that Lord Nelson had personally commended Lord Dunston on his patriotism. His wife was one of those women who was so beautiful that Diana wanted to despise her but couldn’t, since Isabella had always been kind and friendly when she and Diana had chanced to meet. She was radiant tonight, standing between her handsome husband and her younger sister, Olivia.
Olivia’s husband, the Marquess of Sheldon, was another of the evening’s honored men. As the widower had lived in near isolation until their marriage a year ago, the ton had been abuzz with the romantic tale. Watching Lord Sheldon smiling down at his petite wife, his arm around her shoulders, Diana knew without a doubt that they were very much in love.
Near his sisters and parents was the third man of note. Of the three, he was the only one who remained single. He was also the only one who made Diana’s heart race like a filly in the final stretch of the Derby.
Henry Weston.
Tall, handsome, and heir to a viscountcy, he was the ton’s favorite rogue.
Lord Weston held up a hand. A muted rumble moved through the sea of guests as everyone hushed each other. The viscount waited until the room was silent, or as quiet as a room packed with gossiping aristocrats was likely to get.
“Dear friends, my wife and I would like to welcome you to our home and thank you for being with us on this happy occasion. The last time we hosted a ball here was for Isabella’s come-out. Tonight we present our daughter unto you again, along with her husband, the Earl of Dunston. They recently celebrated their second anniversary.”
Cheers and good wishes rang out. Again, Lord Weston waited until the crowd quieted. “A year ago this month, in the beautiful chapel at Weston Manor, we welcomed another son-in-law into our family. The Marquess of Sheldon wisely captured the heart and the hand of our daughter, Olivia, before the scoundrels here in London had a chance.”
A handful of boos burst forth, and the crowd laughed. “To add to our blessings,” the viscount continued, “we have rejoiced in the births of two beautiful, healthy granddaughters.” He raised his glass. “Now, please join me in a toast. To love, happiness, and family!”
“To love, happiness, and family!” The refrain echoed loudly through the room as the guests lifted their glasses.
The words stuck in Diana’s throat. In her experience, the three words did not go together. She raised her glass to her lips and let the chilled wine slide down her throat, noting that her mother hadn’t repeated the toast either.
There was a great shuffling of bodies as the crowd redistributed to clear the center of the room. A number of the guests, with the ratio leaning heavily in favor of the men, cleared the room entirely, heading off to play cards or admire the rest of the house. Once everyone settled, Lord and Lady Weston took the floor, followed by their daughters and their husbands, and the musicians began to play. After the couples had progressed through a set of figures, others began to join in the dancing. In response, those left lining the walls of the room shifted their attention from those currently dancing to the task of locating a partner for the following dance.
No one came looking for her, but that was hardly surprising as Diana considered herself something of an expert on the art of hiding. She hid her boredom at sitting with the doting mamas and dotty dowagers. She hid her pain and anger when she overheard the whispers about her parents. She hid her loneliness, schooling her face into a polite expressio
n as the dazzling diamonds and dainty debutantes around her were asked to dance.
Diana knew she didn’t measure up—her red hair, hazel eyes, and freckled complexion were far from the current standards of beauty; or rather, she measured too far up, because she towered over many of her prospective dance partners. But when Henry Weston came looking for her, even if it was because his mother forced him, Diana had difficulty remembering why she wanted to hide in the first place. That was a problem. A big problem.
And she did mean big. He made Diana feel tiny in comparison, which was no mean feat. Everyone knew that he put in a goodly number of hours in the ring at Jackson’s Salon, and she—along with the rest of her sex—was most appreciative of the results. His excellently tailored black tailcoat and knee breeches displayed his impressive physique to perfection. She could easily see him as a barbarian leader of old, ruthlessly invading foreign lands and victoriously claiming the spoils.
Why she found this thrilling, she could not say. He wasn’t going to be plundering her, after all. Nor did she want plundering. And she did not spend a great deal of time in contemplation of Henry Weston’s pugilistic pursuits, because that would be exceedingly improper. And she certainly never considered what he might wear—or not—when he boxed.
Very well, it was possible her mind wandered those forbidden paths—and her eyes traced the definition of those impossibly broad shoulders—on a regular basis. She couldn’t help herself. The man drew female attention like lit candles called moths. He reminded her of Apollo, with his golden hair, strength, and vitality. He looked the part tonight, with the candlelight gilding his fair hair, but everyone knew he had more of the devil in him than of any god.
Seduction stamped the hard angles of his cheekbones. Temptation marked the square set of his jaw. Desire defined the curve of his lips. When those lips parted in that charming, slightly crooked smile of his, Diana knew it was only natural to feel the bottom of her stomach drop away and hear her mother calling her name…
No, the bit about her mother wasn’t right.
“Diana!”
Her mother’s sharp rebuke finally penetrated Diana’s mental wanderings. She snapped to attention to discover the man himself standing before her as though her thoughts had somehow drawn him over. Diana felt her cheeks heat, which only served to further her embarrassment as pink cheeks clashed horribly with red hair—a vicious cycle, really.
She scrambled to stand and nearly tripped. Her mother, who had risen as gracefully as she did everything else, shot her a worried frown. Diana risked a sideways glance at her grandmother. The Duchess of Lansdowne did not look pleased. This wasn’t unusual, but she usually attempted a more neutral expression in public.
“Good evening, Your Grace. Lady Linnet.” He bowed. “Miss Merriwether, will you do me the honor of a dance?”
“Thank you, Mr. Weston.” She dropped a flawless curtsy that she hoped made up for a bit of her prior clumsiness. “I would like that very much.”
They walked toward the lines that had formed for a country-dance, and Henry led her to the top, where Lord and Lady Dunston stood. They made space so she and Henry were the second couple in line, which made her uneasy. She wasn’t concerned about her dancing abilities; her grandmother had insisted she have a dancing master, so she knew she could acquit herself passably on that account.
Even so, she didn’t like to place herself at the center of attention. From the moment she’d made her debut, Society had been waiting for her to follow in her mother’s footsteps. Though Diana was not sorry to disappoint them, she had no thought of running off and marrying the stable master. Not, she reflected, that her grandfather’s stable master, or any other man, wanted to run off with her.
When she’d first come out, she’d had some suitors. Though her looks weren’t fashionable, and though she stood under the cloud of her parents’ scandal, there were men willing to overlook those failings for a generous dowry and ducal connections. Most of those men hadn’t come up to her grandmother’s rigorous standards. The duchess deemed any suitors flush in the pockets but lacking titles, upstarts. Men with good breeding and no money were, of course, fortune hunters.
Those few men who had met with her grandmother’s approval had not suited Diana. Though she did not seek a love match, she didn’t want a husband, whatever his wealth or title, with one foot in the grave, or a fondness for drink, or a penchant for heavy gambling, all qualities of the men the duchess had proposed as suitable candidates. Their battle of wills had continued through her second Season.
They might have compromised in Diana’s third Season, but her both her grandparents took ill and the doctor advised their family to remain at Halswelle Hall, her grandfather’s country estate. The following year, Diana had discovered that men had little interest in a girl in her fourth Season, no matter her dowry or relations. After three Seasons, there was an understanding that a girl hadn’t “taken,” or was disinclined to marry, and she would no longer have to suffer the constant round of balls, masquerades, Venetian breakfasts, and musicales expected of a young lady single-mindedly fixed on matrimony.
The Duchess of Lansdowne did not ascribe to this understanding. Her desire to see Diana wed increased with each passing year, which meant she forced Diana to attend every possible event where she might encounter a prospective husband. When Parliament finally called a recess and the ton departed London for their country estates, Diana was as unattached as ever and utterly exhausted.
She promised herself that this would be the last year. She would rather spend eternity leading apes in hell than spend another Season hunting for a husband. The apes might even be preferable. Supposedly, they could be trained.
The dance wasn’t complicated, and her attention strayed to Lord and Lady Dunston. Love was evident in every look they shared. Passion was almost palpable in the air between them. Diana thought them either very brave or very foolhardy, perhaps a bit of both. The more one had, the more one had to lose.
“So grim,” Henry murmured as he turned her. “The other women will refuse to dance with me if you make it look so unpleasant.”
His words amused her, and she was grateful for the distraction from her dark thoughts. “Every woman in this room hopes to dance with you.”
“You flatter me,” he said. “Surely, as a gentleman, that is my responsibility.”
She shook her head. “We both know your mother has given you enough gentlemanly responsibility where I am concerned.”
He recovered himself quickly, but she could tell she’d surprised him. She’d surprised herself. If there was one thing she had learned in all her Seasons, it was that pretense was everything. Society would cease to function without the pretty lies that passed for polite manners.
“Miss Merriwether—”
“I was not taking you to task, Mr. Weston,” she said softly. “I only meant that, with me, you need not exert yourself to be charming. I am grateful enough for the opportunity to dance.”
No further words passed between them for the remainder of the dance. As he escorted her back to her mother and grandmother, Diana wondered if he would defy his mother and refuse to stand up with her again. That would certainly limit her opportunities for dancing this Season.
Henry paused a few feet from their destination. She glanced at him, noted the solemn expression on his face and braced herself not to react to whatever he had to say.
“I have already danced with you this evening for my mother’s benefit,” he acknowledged, “so when I ask you to dance again, it will be solely of my own accord.”
Then he smiled at her. Not his practiced heart-melting, knee-weakening smile. Not his slightly crooked grin that was at once boyish and wicked. This was a genuine smile, crinkling the corners of his eyes and revealing white, even teeth. This smile put the others to shame.
“Miss Merriwether, will you save me a dance after supper?”
Perhaps she ought to refuse and suggest he save that dance for some other lonely wallflower, but Di
ana wasn’t that selfless. If she had to suffer through this Season, she wanted to pretend for a night—just one night—that she was sort of girl Henry Weston wanted to dance with twice in an evening.
She smiled back at him. Not the smile of polite disinterest she used to keep the world at arm’s length, but a true smile.
“I will,” she promised, as they took the remaining steps to where her grandmother was holding court.
“Until later, Miss Merriwether.” Henry bowed, his blue eyes twinkling up at her as gave her gloved hand a quick squeeze.
She managed a curtsy despite knees that felt distressingly weak, then seated herself beside her mother and watched as he walked off. A thrill raced through her at the knowledge that tonight he would be back.
For her.
That was when Diana knew she was in trouble… or she would be, but for one thing. She didn’t intend to lose her heart, least of all to a rogue.
CHAPTER FOUR
I feared the stable block would not live up to my memory, but I am exceedingly pleased. To be sure, the paddocks and hovels need mending and painting, and there are more repairs wanted inside, but the quadrangle’s plans are superior in every way. Though the design is not new, it is unusually forward thinking. The stalls receive plenty of light and air, and there are a number of spacious loose boxes, perfect for birthing or housing the injured. I was unable to keep from smiling as I looked about the place. I am certain I looked quite the fool…
—FROM HENRY WESTON TO HIS BROTHER-IN-LAW THE EARL OF DUNSTON
AFTER RETURNING MISS MERRIWETHER TO her family, Henry danced with two more women of the variety found in his mother’s garden of wallflowers and shrinking violets. Considering his duty done for the night, he decided to escape until supper. He beat a gradual retreat from the ballroom and headed to his old chamber; his parents had made the room into an informal family parlor after Henry had moved to his bachelor’s quarters.
As the room wasn’t part of the suite of public rooms on display to the guests, Henry collected a candle as he made his way from the brightly lit spectacle on one side of the house to the quiet privacy of the family quarters. He relaxed with each step away from the grating buzz of too many voices whispering on dits, from the distinct aroma of mingled perfumes and overly warm bodies.
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