“I’m not,” Heath replied honestly. “I wondered if we would chance to meet again, and your puppy has answered the question.”
“Oh, he is not mine, much as I love him. He’s Lady Roundtree’s dog.” Miss Winfield glanced over her shoulder at her patroness.
Heath followed her gaze. He could not imagine Lady Roundtree doting on a pet, but he was pleased to be proven wrong. That was, if one could consider paying an assistant to keep one’s pet contained out of sight in a basket “doting.”
“Do you come to Vauxhall often?” he asked Miss Winfield, and grimaced.
’Twas precisely the sort of opening gambit rakes poked fun at other gentlemen for using. But if the lady had tired of hearing endless variations of the same question, she gave no sign.
“It’s actually my first time,” she admitted, eyes bright and sparkling. “I had seen a few prints in Lady Roundtree’s collection, but nothing compares to the actual experience.”
Heath could not help an odd pleasure at simply being present to witness her first time among the gardens. Her obvious delight was infectious.
He stepped closer. “What do you like best?”
“I cannot decide,” she said with a happy laugh. “The grounds are enormous. Everywhere I turn, there’s more. The trees, the flowers, the architecture… An artist could paint a thousand color prints and not capture it all.”
“Do you like art?” He hoped his voice did not betray his eagerness.
Although he had no talent for producing anything worth viewing, art had always been Heath’s secret passion. Until now, no one had truly shared his enthusiasm.
Many people claimed to like art, when what they meant was they enjoyed boasting about having glimpsed a famous sculpture, or that they never missed an opportunity to purchase a penny caricature. He was suddenly very interested in learning Miss Winfield’s thoughts on the matter.
“I…” Shadows warred in her eyes, as if his innocent question had stirred up memories she would much rather keep forgotten.
“Forgive me.” He wished he had not asked. “I did not mean to pry.”
“Of course you are not prying.” Her blush deepened. “I do appreciate beauty. Nature’s glory, fanciful architecture, all these endless rows of perfectly pruned flowers. Isn’t that why we’re all here?”
“I wish it were,” he said with a wry chuckle. “You and I may be two of the few who paid our shilling in order to see the gardens, rather than to gawk at other people.”
Her eyes widened. “Truly?”
“Unfortunately.” He raised his brows. “I imagine the prints you’ve seen of Vauxhall feature its clientele more prominently than its gardenias.”
Her eyes twinkled. “I daresay you are right. I am glad I did not rely on prints alone to inform my opinion about the gardens. I would have missed out.”
As would Heath. Something wistful curled in his chest. He often wished someone would come along and paint London’s most picturesque locations without including a flock of onlookers. Then again, who but dreamers like him would purchase such a thing? An artist would starve if he failed to include vignettes of London’s elite.
“I am pleased to hear Vauxhall exceeded your expectations,” he said with a smile.
Miss Winfield gazed up at him shyly. “Everything in Town has so far. I’m certain pleasure gardens are only one of the many things I’ll miss dreadfully when I return home.”
Heath frowned. “And when is that unhappy day? Do you live so far away as to make a visit to London impossible?”
He realized the impropriety of his questions too late to recall them. If inquiring about her interest in art had been prying, demanding to know her travel schedule and the location of her home was unforgivable.
“The West Midlands,” Miss Winfield said without hesitation. “As soon as Lady Roundtree can walk about without my aid, I’ll return to my farm.” She sighed pensively. “I miss it very much.”
Heath stared back at her, nonplussed.
She lived on a farm.
And missed it.
He could not have asked for a better reminder of why their lives had never been destined to intersect.
And yet he could not help a small pang of irrational disappointment upon learning that her post was temporary. That she would soon quit London permanently, with no plan to return.
A small yip escaped the wicker basket in Miss Winfield’s arms, and her eyes widened.
“Please pardon my haste, Mr. Grenville. I must get back to Lady Roundtree while I’ve still a post to return to. But it was lovely talking with you.” She hesitated. “You seem more…”
Although he leaned forward with interest, he did not learn in what way he was more than the others.
Miss Winfield dipped a rushed curtsey and dashed back to her patroness before Heath could so much as bid her goodbye.
When she disappeared from view, he forced himself to stroll in the opposite direction. Toward giggling flocks of proper, eligible debutantes. The young ladies he was meant to be courting.
He rubbed his face in disbelief of his predicament. He was supposed to be hunting for a suitable wife, and thus far the only woman to catch his interest for more than a moment was someone else’s paid servant.
Heath squared his shoulders. He would simply have to put Miss Winfield out of his mind for good. It shouldn’t be too hard. After all, soon she would be returning to a farm in the West Midlands. By then, he was bound to have found a proper baroness.
Even if she were someone…
Less.
Chapter 6
The musicale.
Heath had almost forgotten.
He placed the elegant parchment summoning him to his mother’s salon across from his morning tea and returned his attention to the urgent matter of breaking his fast while his eggs were still hot. Today could require his strength.
Some would opine that the seasonal Grenville musicales afforded the eponymous Grenvilles significantly more social status than their barony. Theirs was a title, yes, and not the lowest possible, but his family could not enter a garden or a ballroom without bumping into half a dozen viscounts or earls or marquises or dukes who outranked a paltry barony.
At the Grenville musicales, all of that changed.
No one outranked shy Camellia’s powerful singing voice. No one outclassed Bryony’s astonishing skill at the violin.
At least half the audience could trounce Heath’s talents at the pianoforte, but the Grenville musicales were not about him. They were his mother’s Colosseum. Her daughters were gladiators among pawns, showcasing fearless strength to prove themselves worthy of knighthood.
Rather, duchesshood, if Mother had her way.
Heath held no illusions that the current summons, ostensibly to discuss the upcoming musicale, was anything other than a pretense to cover her true objective: marrying off her children. The only mystery was whether today’s strategizing summit would center on himself, on one of his sisters, or on all four stubbornly unwed offspring.
He had never been able to resist a mystery.
After dispensing with the rest of his meal, he presented himself in his dressing chambers where his valet awaited him with this morning’s freshly starched and pressed neckcloth.
Most gentlemen would not have left their quarters in the first place without a perfectly tied cravat billowing about their necks like a flower in bloom. Although Heath did not usually flaunt Society’s customs, he deeply appreciated the one hour each day when he needn’t worry about keeping up appearances.
After all, years of dedicated personal research had taught him there was nothing more inviting to marmalade stains than crisp, white folds of starched linen.
As his valet worked his magic, Heath’s gaze tracked across the framed paintings he’d chosen for his private chambers. Contentment filled him at the familiar, pleasing sight.
He loved his town house. It didn’t contain a single musical instrument, and was all but wallpapered with canvases featuring h
is favorite works of art. Each evoked a strong emotion, transporting him into the artist’s imagination.
It had taken years to amass the perfect collection. He liked to believe his objets d’art rivaled any art gallery in London.
Heath straightened. Nothing to get maudlin about. Silly thoughts like these accomplished naught. His role was clearly defined. He had only to walk into it.
The moment his valet pronounced him a pink of the ton, Heath quit his cozy, bachelor-sized town house and steered his landau to his parents’ much larger home. He would have much preferred to drive his barouche, but neither the damp air nor his freshly styled coiffure would do him well in an open carriage.
When he arrived, he handed the reins to a footman and strode briskly up the manicured walk to the austere entranceway.
Although his parents’ town house was devoid of meaningful art, it was home to all of Heath’s favorite people.
Camellia, who sang like an angel. Dahlia, who was an angel to the orphans she rescued. Bryony, the wild one. Their proud mama.
Their absent father.
Heath’s chest tightened as the door swung open to reveal the family butler. Prate’s years of “Good morning, sir,” and “Good evening, sir,” amounted to far more hours of conversation than Heath had ever shared with his sire.
After he and Prate had exchanged their customary pleasantries, Heath made his way to the private “family” parlor. His lips twisted in irony. As far as Heath knew, he was the only male member of the family who had ever entered the room.
He doubted today would be any different.
The old familiar resentment crawled along his skin. “Today” was never a day during which Lord Grenville had time for his son. Or his wife. Or his daughters. Merely being first in line to inherit the title afforded Heath no particular advantage.
He had been trying his entire life to carve a place for himself in the baron’s busy schedule. To be spoken to. To be noticed.
As things stood, the best chance at securing a brief moment of his father’s attention would be at Heath’s wedding. And even then, only if he secured exactly the right type of bride.
Which was likely the cause for his mother’s summons, after his failures to select a wife among several Seasons of debutantes. Finding a woman was simple. Finding the right one…
Once again, an image of Miss Winfield fluttered to mind.
Seeing her again had not extinguished the simmering desire for her company that had plagued him ever since their first meeting. Their conversation had proven what they’d both already acknowledged; the distance between them was too wide to cross. There could be no future between them. No romantical future, at least.
And yet that spark, that persistent damnable spark, had fueled the undercurrent behind every word, every gesture, every stolen glance. It was as if something crackled between them, something that did not care about station or propriety or duty. An ignited flame that brought both light and warmth to secret yearnings he could never acknowledge.
Although he liked to believe he was not as superficial as others of his class, Heath was well aware that dallying with someone’s paid companion in any capacity, from courtship to stolen kisses, was completely out of the question.
Ms. Winfield wasn’t just below his station and in a peer’s employ. She was an innocent country girl who lived on a bloody sheep farm, which she willingly intended to return to. Heath could no more picture himself in her world than he could imagine her fitting into his.
Yet he could not keep her from infiltrating his every thought.
“There you are!” came a sharp voice from the corridor.
Although his mother did not precisely rush into the family parlor—a well-bred lady never rushed—the heightened rustling of her intricately embroidered gown betrayed her urgency.
Heath bowed. “I am, as always, at your service.”
“If that were true, you’d be wed by now. Which you have promised to take care of,” she added quickly, as if confirming that portion of her worries would soon resolve itself. She reclined on a chaise longue and gestured for him to take the wingback chair opposite. “I’ve called you here today to discuss what’s to be done with your sister.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “How odd. I distinctly recall your summons mentioned the family musicale.”
Mother threw up her hands in despair. “Dahlia refuses to perform in the musicale!”
“She hasn’t any musical ability,” Heath reminded his mother gently. “Surely you wouldn’t wish for your daughter to become the laughingstock of the ton.”
“She’s doing that on her own,” Mother insisted with a sniff. “She could develop a skill as accomplished as her sisters if she devoted half as much time to proper feminine talents as she does to that ridiculous orphanage.”
“You know it’s not an orphanage. It’s a boarding school for indigent girls, and a very lovely cause. Dahlia has the biggest heart of anyone I know.”
“And the emptiest dance card.” Mother scowled at him. “You must stop encouraging her. I know you’ve been giving dancing lessons to those urchins. Things are dire. Dahlia’s association with that rookery has already begun to affect the quality of her Society invitations. If she keeps treating every ballroom like a golden opportunity to raise funds for some charity—”
“Any aristocratic gathering is a golden opportunity to raise funds for a charity,” Heath pointed out.
Mother ignored him. “—then she will soon find herself with no invitations at all. Camellia may soon be wed, but I despair of finding anyone to take Dahlia!”
“Camellia has a beau?” Heath leaned forward with interest. If a wallflower as quiet as his sister had ensnared some young buck, he must be a very special gentleman indeed. “I had no idea.”
“Of course she hasn’t a beau. Do be serious. Your father will select one for her and have done.” Mother frowned. “If only it were that easy with Dahlia! Even with the size of her dowry, she is nothing but a—”
“—fine young woman,” Heath finished firmly. “There is nothing wrong with Camellia or Dahlia, Mother. Have you considered just letting them live their lives?”
She recoiled in repugnance. “I suppose next you’ll tell me that there’s nothing wrong with Bryony either, and we should all just let her run wild?”
“Bryony is completely and utterly mad,” Heath agreed cheerfully. “It’s one of her best qualities. One is never bored in her company. Or in any of the others’. I suggest you leave them be for a little while longer. They’re still young.”
“They may be younger than you, but they’re far from young.” Mother pursed her lips. “Camellia’s so high on the shelf that potential suitors don’t notice her presence, and Dahlia’s so far out to pasture she can’t even find her way home.”
Heath sighed. “What is it you wish for me to do, Mother?”
“I wish for you to fix it!” She glared at him. “Is that not what you do for everyone else under the sun? Don’t make a sour face; I’m quite proud of you. There cannot be a nobler hobby than upholding the beau monde’s image.”
Amusing. His mother knew quite well that his efforts were far more than a mere hobby, but she would never allow a word like profession to pass her lips in relation to her own children.
“Mother—”
“No, no. Don’t you start.” She arched a thin brow. “While your activities are unconventional to say the least, I heartily approve of any and all efforts to make the upper classes outshine themselves. My son is famous for fixing untidy little problems. I could die happy if he would only turn his efforts to fixing his own siblings.”
Heath’s temples pounded at the return of the same circular discussion.
He had no wish to “fix” his siblings. To change his strong, intelligent sisters into completely different people. He preferred them to pursue the lives they chose for themselves.
Although his mother had never understood such reasoning, women like Heath’s sisters were the rea
son he had become a problem-solver in the first place. Not out of affinity for the veneer of ton perfection, but to allow people the opportunity to live the lives they wished without being judged for their choices.
As far as he was concerned, gossip helped no one. He was happy to do his part to make scandals disappear. Quashing his sisters’ personalities, however, was going too far.
This argument had gone on long enough.
“I understand your concerns,” he said as he rose to his feet. “I know you love your children and wish the best for them. I presume the girls are in Camellia’s sitting room?”
“Where else?” his mother replied with a disgruntled sigh.
He hesitated. “While I’m here… Is Father in?”
“Oh, darling…” His mother’s eyes filled with something painfully close to pity. “I’m afraid the baron is too busy with important matters to grant any of us an audience today.”
Heath shrugged his tight shoulders. He’d asked about Father because he always asked about Father, not because he’d expected the answer to be any different. Heath’s feelings weren’t wounded. The baron’s absence didn’t even hurt anymore.
There was certainly no reason for the pleading apology in his mother’s eyes. It wasn’t as if Father had time for her, either.
Perhaps that was why she obsessed about raising perfect children.
“Stay here and relax,” he told her gently. “I’ll go speak with the girls.”
Mother lifted one of the hands from her hips. “Focus your efforts on Dahlia. I beg you to talk sense into her.”
Rather than make any promises, Heath bowed and strode from the room.
A single flight of stairs separated the family parlor from Camellia’s sitting room. Heath took the steps in twos, his heart lightening with each leap up the stairs.
The door to the sitting room was open, spilling daylight and warmth from a crackling fire into the corridor. Bryony and Camellia’s voices could be heard bickering. Dahlia’s voice was missing. Either she was being uncharacteristically silent… or she had heard him coming.
Rogues to Riches (Books 1-6) Page 87