‘I do believe it is,’ Lady Cynthia said, ‘and looking quite fetching in that gown, though the colour does make her look somewhat pale. I wonder if her parents are here.’
‘I suspect the duke and duchess are at cards,’ Mrs Gavin said. ‘They are both mad for whist. So much so that I generally try not to end up at their table. I love my husband dearly, but he is quite hopeless at the game.’
‘Why don’t you go over and say hello, Joanna?’ Lady Cynthia suggested. ‘I believe I saw Mr Bretton glance over this way just now.’
‘I suspect he was looking at someone else,’ Joanna said, self-consciously redirecting her gaze. ‘Besides, I have no wish to intrude on their conversation. I do not know Lord Trucklesworth or Lord and Lady Kempton.’
‘Pish-tosh, these are the circles in which you now move and you must start feeling comfortable in them,’ Lady Cynthia said. ‘Mrs Devlin will surely introduce you to Lord and Lady Kempton, given that they are her in-laws. Besides, it will be good for you to be seen standing next to Lady Mary, given how much prettier you are than her.’
The cutting remark, so typical of her aunt, did nothing to make Joanna feel better as she reluctantly made her way across the floor. She was well aware that she was expected to move in a different circle now and that being the daughter of an earl entitled her to be treated as an equal. But she had lived too many years as plain Miss Joanna Northrup to feel at home in the company of lords and ladies. Unlike Mr Bretton, whose relaxed posture and enviable poise seemed to suggest he found nothing in the least awkward about mingling with his betters.
‘Why, good evening, Lady Joanna,’ Mrs Devlin said, again greeting her with that warm and engaging smile. ‘How lovely to see you. I don’t believe you are acquainted with my husband?’
Joanna replied that she was not and the necessary introductions were made. Mr Devlin, in turn, introduced her to his parents and then to Lord Trucklesworth, all of whom were familiar with her father and his expeditions.
‘I suspect you were surprised to learn that Bretton here, famous for his plays, was also an avid student of Egyptian history,’ Lord Kempton said.
‘I was indeed,’ Joanna said, aware of Mr Bretton’s eyes on her. ‘He is a man of many talents.’
‘And accomplished in them all, from what Lord Parker tells me,’ Lady Mary said, casting flirtatious glances in Mr Bretton’s direction. ‘I am informed that Lord Parker challenged him to an archery contest last week and that Mr Bretton’s arrow landed in the very centre of the target from a distance of one hundred paces. Is that true, Mr Bretton?’
‘I do not believe it was a hundred paces—’
‘Don’t be so modest, Bretton, I know for a fact it was more,’ Mr Devlin spoke up. ‘And I watched him place a second arrow no more than an inch below the first one a few minutes later.’
Despite her ambivalence, Joanna had to admit to being impressed by Mr Bretton’s accomplishments. Who would have thought a man who wrote plays, spoke Italian like a native and played difficult études for relaxation, would also turn out to be such a skilled archer?
‘A lucky shot, Mr Bretton?’ she ventured.
‘Luck always plays a part in such endeavours, Lady Joanna,’ he replied with a smile. ‘My father taught me to shoot when I was a boy and it seems some skills carry over into adulthood.’
‘Are you as adept with a pistol are you are with a bow and arrow, Mr Bretton?’ the duke’s daughter enquired breathlessly.
‘I really cannot say, Lady Mary, never having fired one. But given the nature of my occupation, I suspect the chances of my ever having to do so are extremely limited.’
‘You never know, Bretton,’ Trucklesworth said with a wink. ‘You might be called upon to defend yourself from a jealous husband whose wife is so enthralled by your prose that she believes herself in love with you.’
‘Really, Trucks, you do say the most ridiculous things,’ Mr Devlin drawled.
‘Only to amuse the ladies.’
‘But what would you do, Mr Bretton,’ Joanna said, ‘if such a thing were to happen?’
Lady Mary’s softly indrawn breath was indicative of Joanna’s having strayed beyond the bounds of polite conversation, but Mr Bretton didn’t bat an eye. ‘Never having experienced such a situation, I really cannot say, Lady Joanna. But I would never choose to be the cause of marital discord and would do my utmost to assure the fellow that his lady was in love with the words, rather than with the man. I might even suggest he try writing a love letter to her himself.’
‘Like your hero did in Penelope’s Swain,’ Lady Kempton said.
‘Did he?’ Mr Bretton looked momentarily bemused. ‘I’d almost forgotten.’
‘It is no wonder, given that you have written four such excellent plays,’ Lady Mary said in a voice that left no one in any doubt as to her affection for him. ‘I think your stories are wonderful. And so terribly romantic.’
But not nearly so romantic as the playwright.
The thought sprang unbidden to Joanna’s mind, where it remained, unexpected and unwelcome. It became even more so when Mr Bretton suddenly looked at her and said, ‘You do not care for romantic fiction, Lady Joanna?’
‘I...did not say that, Mr Bretton.’
‘No, but you smiled when Lady Mary said my plays were romantic. I thought perhaps you did not care for such things.’
‘I am not a fan of mawkish love stories, no,’ Joanna said, uncomfortable at being centred out for attention but exceedingly glad that he had misinterpreted her reaction. ‘Though I’m sure yours are not in any way of that nature.’
His mouth twitched. ‘How diplomatic. Tell me, what do you like to see in the way of theatre?’
‘I suppose I would have to say classical works by Shakespeare and Marlowe. The operas of Rossini and Mozart, and more dramatic works by the contemporary playwrights of our day.’
‘Dear me, it seems we have a dissenter in our ranks,’ Mr Devlin said, clearly amused by the exchange. He glanced with affection at his wife. ‘Will you not go to the defence of your brother’s works, my love?’
‘Certainly not,’ Mrs Devlin said. ‘Laurence is perfectly capable of defending himself. Besides, I believe you and I are engaged for this dance.’
‘So we are. If you will excuse us, ladies and gentlemen.’ Mr Devlin took his wife’s hand and winked at his brother-in-law. ‘You’re on your own, Bretton. Don’t let the side down.’
They left, as his parents did, to take their places on the dance floor. Shortly thereafter, Lady Mary excused herself to find her mother and Lord Trucklesworth slipped away, muttering something about never being able to find a servant when you needed one.
The exodus left Joanna alone with Mr Bretton, who was still smiling at her in that all-too-familiar way.
‘It would seem something amuses you, Mr Bretton,’ she said, careful to keep her focus on the people moving around them.
‘Indeed, Lady Joanna. You.’
‘Me?’ Her eyes flew back to his. ‘What have I done to arouse your mirth?’
‘Nothing, other than be yourself.’
‘I hardly think that noteworthy.’
‘I beg to differ. You are unique. As different from any other woman in this room as a sovereign is from a penny.’
Joanna felt an unfamiliar quickening of her pulse. ‘You hardly know me well enough to say.’
‘Ah, but I do, and a great deal better than you think.’
His piercing blue gaze remained fixed upon her face. He neither blinked nor looked away. Joanna found it distinctly unnerving. ‘I do not think it appropriate that you look at me in that way, Mr Bretton.’
‘What way?’
‘You are staring at me.’
‘Am I?’
‘Yes. And it is entirely possible someone might notice and misconstrue your intent.’
His smile broadened. ‘But I have no intent, other than to serve my own pleasure.’
‘I can assure you, your pleasure would be better served by s
taring at someone else,’ Joanna told him in a wry voice. ‘Lady Mary Bidwell, for example.’
‘Come now, Lady Joanna, you know as well as I do that staring at Lady Mary would be a poor use of my time. A duke’s daughter is hardly like to marry a poor playwright.’
‘I think you cry poor when you are nothing of the sort,’ Joanna said. ‘You live in a fine house and conduct yourself with the manners of a gentleman. You are embraced by society and mingle with the likes of viscounts and earls.’
‘Nevertheless, I am not titled myself and know better than to set my sights so high.’
‘So you admit to wishing to marry well.’
‘I admit to wishing to be happily married,’ he corrected her. ‘If I achieve wealth into the bargain, so be it. But there are many rich men whose wives do not love them yet are happy to say they do. I would rather be without wealth and know my wife loves me for who I am, than be rich and constantly wondering. Why, Lady Joanna, you’re blushing. Surely the topic doesn’t embarrass you?’
‘Not at all,’ Joanna replied, wishing not for the first time that her cheeks were not such a visible barometer of her emotions. ‘I simply do not think it is an appropriate topic of discussion for a single lady and an unmarried gentleman to be having.’
‘Perhaps, but as someone who studies human nature in order to weave emotion into the heart of a story, it behoves me to talk about such things,’ Mr Bretton said. ‘Love, hate, jealousy, betrayal—the strongest emotions make the best foundations for a story. The man you claim to admire wrote one of the most compelling love stories of all time, using words as romantic as any ever written. “One fairer than my love, the all-seeing sun,”’ he quoted softly. ‘“Ne’er saw her match since first the world begun.”’
Joanna blushed even as her brow furrowed. The words, undeniably romantic, were familiar, but she couldn’t place them...
‘“O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright,”’ he continued. ‘“It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night. Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear; beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear.”’ He broke off, smiling. ‘I think you recognise it now. Your cheeks have gone quite pink again.’
‘It is only that the room is so warm,’ Joanna said. ‘And that a gentleman I barely know is quoting lines from Romeo and Juliet to me.’
‘Ah, so you know the Bard’s words,’ he said, even more softly.
‘My governess adored Shakespeare. I spent nearly a year studying his writings. I found the language...difficult.’
‘But you cannot deny the elegance of it.’ He stopped and looked at her, his eyes leaving her nowhere to hide. ‘Shakespeare had a way of telling a woman how beautiful she was without falling back on trite, conventional phrases. I thought the repeating of them to you now seemed...appropriate.’
The feelings came unbidden—an unexpected rush of excitement, followed by an even stronger one of guilt. ‘Mr Bretton, I really must insist—’
‘That I continue?’
‘That you keep such words to yourself!’
He watched her in silence for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yes, perhaps you’re right. After all, there can be no harm if I reflect, in my own mind, that in that gown you remind me of the first rose of spring. Or that the delightful sprinkling of freckles across your nose, no doubt the bane of your existence and despaired of by your aunt, is one of your most charming features. Far better to keep thoughts like that to myself.’
Joanna closed her eyes and waited for her erratic pulse to slow. ‘It is no wonder you have achieved such fame with your plays, sir. Were those lines drawn from one of them?’
There was a very brief silence before he said, ‘I would never say something to you that had been written for someone else. Pardon me if the lines sounded...clichéd.’
Joanna slowly opened her eyes. His smile was as she remembered, but the expression in his eyes had changed. She had offended him and that was the last thing she wanted to do. ‘They did not,’ she said hastily. ‘I simply wasn’t...expecting them.’
He watched her for a long time, as though trying to draw out everything there was to know about her. Had she ever been observed so closely? Had a gentleman’s eyes ever probed so gently, yet so intently?
Joanna thought not. Until now, she had never had any reason to engage in such an intimate discussion with any one, let alone a man who had no business dwelling so stubbornly in her thoughts.
‘No, of course not,’ he said finally. ‘Because we both know I had no right to speak to you in such a manner and for that I apologise.’ His anger, quickly aroused, seemed to die an equally swift death. ‘It was not my intention to embarrass you or to make you feel uncomfortable.’
The apology, far more earnest than Joanna had expected, left her feeling even worse. ‘You did not embarrass me.’
‘Then why did you blush?’
‘Because I wasn’t—’ She broke off, unsure of herself and of the situation. It was not the first time he had spoken to her seriously. He had done so at her father’s lecture and then again in the carriage on the drive home. But now, as then, she had no idea how to respond. ‘Mr Bretton, I really don’t know what to say—’
‘Then say nothing. It is enough that you know my apology was sincerely intended and that I will not trespass on your feelings again.’ He glanced down at the floor, then briefly at a lady passing by. ‘I am promised to Lady Mary for the next dance. Will you honour me with the one following?’
The invitation, surprising as it was unexpected, brought a rush of colour to Joanna’s cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, but it is already reserved.’
‘Of course. The next one?’
She shook her head, regretfully. ‘That one too.’
‘And the one after that?’
For the space of a second, their eyes met—and Joanna felt the rhythm of her heart change. ‘I’m sorry.’
It was not a lie. She was engaged for the next three dances...but not for the fourth. Unfortunately, Mr Bretton did not ask for the fourth. She waited, because it must always be the gentleman who asked, but he did not ask again.
Instead, with a regretful smile, he bowed and walked away, leaving her to stare after him, confused without knowing why. Hurting when there was no reason to hurt. Surely she did not wish to dance with Mr Bretton. He was a playwright. Someone she did not wish to know better. Someone she would not be allowed to know better.
But she did wish to know him better...and three times he had asked her to dance. Why did it suddenly matter so much that he had not asked her a fourth?
* * *
Upon returning home from the soirée, Laurence did not go immediately to bed. He was too unsettled, the memory of his conversation with Lady Joanna playing over and over in his mind.
Something had happened tonight. Something that had changed the tenor of their relationship. He knew it as surely as he knew his own name. Before tonight, Lady Joanna had struck him as being a supremely confident young woman—one who knew what she wanted and how to go about getting it. Only once in the carriage when she had talked about her mother had she demonstrated any signs of vulnerability.
Yet tonight, during the latter moments of their conversation, he had seen that vulnerability again. Her confidence had faltered and she had been unsure of herself, her words saying one thing while her eyes said another. And though she held fast to the belief that it was he who had spoken out of turn, Laurence knew, on a deeper and more instinctive level, that he had not.
There was a difference between a woman who blushed upon hearing something she did not like and one who blushed upon hearing something she did.
Still, what did it matter if she coloured at his compliments? Rumour had it she was being courted by gentlemen far more worthy of her affections than him. The Honourable Albert Rowe, heir to a viscount and a substantial fortune. Mr John Osborne, a barrister distantly related to the earl. And Captain James Sterne, son of Lord Rinstrom and already possessed of a considerable fortune.
What had he to offer
when compared to men like that?
Or perhaps she was the type of woman who enjoyed the attentions of one man while flirting with another. If so, he was better off without her. It was only a matter of time before a woman like that broke a man’s heart.
Hoping to distract himself with work, Laurence pulled out the manuscript and sat down at his desk. He had made some small gains in the story, amending the plot to reflect a darker and more difficult goal for his protagonist, and combining two of his less important characters into one. It had added a sense of urgency to the story and had briefly inspired what Laurence had hoped might be a burst of creative brilliance.
But three hours later, with two empty wine bottles on the floor and all of the candles burned low, he shoved the papers back into the drawer and called it a night. He had written only ten lines—and crossed them all out again.
Clearly, this was not a good time for creative endeavours. His mind was too wrapped up in Joanna and with all of the reasons he shouldn’t care about her.
The problem was, he did care about her and, more than ever, Laurence realised that his infatuation with Signy Chermonde had been just that: a silly infatuation based entirely on the actress’s winsome beauty and seductive manner. What he felt for Joanna was already so much deeper because she was different from any woman he’d ever met. There were depths to her that would take a lifetime to plumb. She would challenge him and he her. They would meet as intellectual equals, their discussions about subjects of interest to each of them being both well researched and highly stimulating.
And there would be passion. Oh, yes, there would most definitely be passion. Joanna was the type of woman who felt things deeply. Laurence remembered the excitement in her voice when she had spoken to him about her time in Egypt. Remembered how her eyes had glowed with pleasure when she had stood at her father’s side during his lecture and explained what each of her drawings was about. If that enthusiasm for work was equated to passion for a man...for him...
But, no, it was foolish even to entertain the thought. Laurence knew he was not the one destined to introduce such intimacies into her life. Another more suitable man would have that pleasure. He was doomed to remain for ever on the periphery of her life; a fellow she might encounter a few times a year, perhaps in a shop or at the theatre or whilst riding in the Park. They would greet each other as friends and enquire after one another’s health. Then they would move on, perhaps feeling better for having had the conversation.
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