“Well, you do possess a maturity beyond many of your peers, but why give a man like that more opportunities than he needs?”
“A pity as he is quite handsome, is he not?”
Philippa shook her head at her daughter before turning the conversation to other topics. There was no need to talk of Lord Carrington further.
As the woman before him was the daughter of his banker, Arthur had to endure her conversation for longer than he would have liked. As she prattled on about the drudgery of charity work, his mind wandered to the striking young woman who had bumped into him. He preferred to spend his time in London but was surprised he had not crossed paths with her before, especially if they had the Mooringtons in common. She shared many of the same features as her mother: light brown hair that caught the glow of the candle lights, luminescent sapphire eyes, and a general softness to her features. He shook his head to himself, remembering how the mother had swooped in and carried her daughter off with such haste that he could not be faulted if he took offense. Which he did not. The woman had sounded polite enough, though she could not hide her look of doubt when their gazes had met. She must have been young when she had her daughter for the blossom of beauty had not faded in her. She was nearly as pretty as her daughter.
“…and they have not enough appreciation for the philanthropy they receive,” the woman continued.
Arthur looked past her, evaluating the other women present at the ball. He wondered if any of them would make a good candidate to take to Château Follet, dubbed the Château Debauchery by some. There was Agnes Fairchild. He and she had had a brief but passionate affair when they were both eight and ten, before she married an Earl thrice her age. But she was a widower now, and if she possessed the same verve and sense of adventure, she might be more than receptive to renewing their prior acquaintance.
He had nearly settled on Agnes when he spotted Adeline. A young man had approached her, and it seemed her whole being sparkled. This then was her secret and most likely the ‘friend’ and source of her opal necklace. Arthur was immediately inclined toward skepticism and the young man’s true intentions, for an upright gentleman would have spoken to Adeline’s guardian before commencing a courtship that involved the gifting of baubles, but Arthur saw that the young man’s countenance glowed as much as Adeline’s. Where had Adeline met this young man? In Bath, perhaps. But without the knowledge of Lady Bettina?
Arthur recalled that his grandmother had been ill for a good duration of her time in Bath, but Lady Bettina had assigned a friend of hers, Mrs. Patterson, the wife of a pastor, to chaperone Adeline.
The young man, who could not have been much more than twenty or so in age, was familiar to Arthur, though he prided himself on remembering faces. Upon closer inspection, Arthur realized why he thought he might have met the man before. Though the young man’s hair was a darker brown, he very much resembled the young lady with the lemon drops.
Chapter 2
Arthur looked about for Adeline with the intention of asking her to dance and inquire after the fellow she had been speaking with, but he had lost sight of her when the host of the ball had come to speak with him and ask him if he wanted to join the older men in cards.
“After I have fit in another dance or two,” Arthur answered.
Richard Moorington patted him on the back. “Have at it, young man. Enjoy the merriment while you can. Dancing loses its luster when you are my age.”
Arthur scanned the room for Adeline. He did not find his ward, but, spotting the young woman of the lemon drops, he asked Richard to introduce them.
“That beauty there in the lavender gown?” Richard asked.
“Yes, who is she?”
“Miss Grayson. I cannot recall her given name. They are close friends of Melinda St. John. She is my wife’s cousin.”
Richard was too much the gentleman to speak blatantly ill of someone, but his tone suggested that he was not partial to Melinda.
The men made their way to Miss Grayson. Richard provided more than an introduction. He audaciously proposed that Miss Grayson dance the next set with Arthur.
“I hope you will forgive my earlier clumsiness,” Miss Grayson said as he led her onto the dance floor.
“There is nothing to forgive,” he replied as they took their positions. “It was a mere accident, and no harm came of it.”
“Accidents are a pattern with me, I fear. You have been warned, my lord.”
Despite her self-effacement, she danced well, indicating she had had lessons. He complimented her on her grace.
“I think it your skills that have inspired me, my lord,” she said, “but much remains in the dance. I have many opportunities yet to step on your feet.”
“You are modest.”
“Indeed, I am not. I know that I have inherited the trait of clumsiness from my mother.”
“Is that why I have not yet seen her dance tonight?”
“Perhaps. She danced more when my father was alive.”
“He has passed? I’m sorry to hear it.”
He tried to remember if he had ever heard the name of Grayson before. “Is it just you and your mother then?”
“And my brother.”
“I do not think I have met him. What’s his name?”
“George.”
Arthur doubted not but that Adeline’s friend was George Grayson, but he wanted Adeline to confirm his conclusion.
“Our host tells me your family is a friend of Mrs. St. John,” he said.
“My mother and she are good friends.”
By the time the dance had finished, he had collected a fair amount of information. His dance partner was not related to the Graysons of Staffordshire, George was finishing his last year at Cambridge, their father once had shared investments with Mr. St. John, and Mrs. Grayson was even more modest than she was clumsy.
He had been tempted to ask a few more questions about Mrs. Grayson, whom he had seen halfway through the dance, looking upon them with grave concern, confirming his earlier suspicions that she did not approve of his attentions toward her daughter. Although he found Miss Grayson had proper manners and the family clearly had enough finances to fund a dance instructor as well as a French tutor—in their course of their dialogue, he had sprinkled in a few French phrases, which Miss Grayson had responded to without trouble—he gathered they were not a family of note or he would have known them before and Richard would have commented on such. Who was she, then, to disapprove of him?
After thanking Miss Grayson for the dance, he returned to looking for Adeline. A few minutes later, Mrs. Grayson appeared at his elbow.
“Lord Carrington?”
He turned and bowed.
“May I have a word?”
From her tone, he knew full well what that word entailed, but he bowed.
“Shall we walk to the refreshment table?” he suggested. “I fancy a glass of port.”
Flustered, Mrs. Grayson looked as if she could use one herself. A little wine would help round her edges and might stay her from tearing his head off. She headed toward the refreshments before he could even offer an arm.
Once at the table, adorned with fruits and holiday favorites, he offered her a glass of ratafia. Preoccupied and nervous, she appeared to mindlessly accept the drink. Arthur thought about engaging in small talk but sensed she was eager to speak her mind.
“To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” he asked.
“I realize it is quite unorthodox of me to request an audience with you prior to a formal introduction,” she began as they made their way toward a more private corner of the room, “but, you see, you were dancing with my daughter.”
“Just now,” he acknowledged, not intending to make this easy for the woman if she intended some manner of set-down. “My compliments to her dancing instructor.”
“Do you intend another dance with her?”
He thought for a moment. “I had not made a list of whom I intend to dance with and how often.”
&
nbsp; Mrs. Grayson nodded. “Honora is polite, but she is less fond of dancing than it appears.”
“She seemed to enjoy herself. If I am not mistaken, she is on the dance floor as we speak.”
Mrs. Grayson sucked in her breath. “Because she feels it impolite to refuse, but I hope you, my lord, will have the courtesy to save her the trouble of accepting when she would prefer to decline.”
He risked coming across impertinent, but it was no more than she was in speaking to him. “Does she by habit attend activities she dislikes?”
Mrs. Grayson frowned. “She enjoys the company of friends, the discourses that can be found at functions such as this. And the music. She is not stupid, my lord, if you are suggesting that she deliberately seeks out discomfort.”
“Then do you, as a matter of course, have this conversation with every man who dances with your daughter, or am I singular?”
She bristled. “If you must know, you are unique. And I would not normally speak with such bluntness, but you seem to me a man who does not need statements disguised in sugar.”
“You know this of me after a few minutes of conversation?”
He knew not why he provoked her. It was not in his nature to be mischievous, but this woman had formed a bias against him without knowing him.
“Perhaps it is my hope that you are such a man,” she snapped.
He imbibed his port and wished that she would do the same, but she had not taken one sip. A part of him was ready to be done with her. Another part was amused by her disdain of him and curious how she would react if he refused her request.
“Perhaps I am. Perhaps not,” he said. “Or perhaps it depends upon the circumstances.”
She knew not how to respond at first, finally settling on a question. “May I speak plain, my lord?”
“Am I capable of preventing you from doing so if you so choose?”
She knit her brows. Perhaps the port had gone to his head, but he found her rather charming when ruffled.
“Perhaps not,” she conceded. “I hope that we have an understanding with regards to my daughter.”
“Do we?”
“Yes, I have explained that my daughter does not favor dancing as much it seems.”
“But she does enjoy conversing.”
It was wretched of him to tease the woman, but if she was going to disapprove of him, she would have to come out and say it.
“If you must know, my daughter is not the kind of woman for a man such as yourself.”
“A man such as myself? You purport to know me well, madam. Tell me, what kind of man, am I?”
Her bottom lip dropped but no words came out. While she pondered how best to answer, he took in her appearance. Though she had not the flush of youth, he liked how her form filled her gown. Her body had not the scrawniness that many younger women possessed but offered a fullness that he found inviting. Her stays certainly presented her breasts in a most pleasing manner.
“I think you know to what I allude,” she said in a lowered voice.
“I have an inkling, but how can I be sure I am correct lest you enlighten me. I am particularly intrigued how you have come to form a judgment about my character prior to having spoken a word with me?”
She blushed. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“My reputation in what? Fencing?”
“You are deliberately being difficult.”
“And you presumptuous, madam.”
He expected her anger to double. Instead, she looked a little sheepish.
“Fair enough,” she conceded. “I am glad we can each of us claim our stripes.”
“Aside from impudence, what stripes am I claiming?”
She frowned but finally spoke the accusation she had been alluding to since the start of their tete-a-tete. “Of being a rake. My lord.”
“That is no lighthearted allegation,” he said. Though he worried little that he had such a branding, his stern tone made her shift uneasily.
“Forgive me if have I insulted you,” she said, “but you see my position. Surely you would not fault a mother for wishing to protect her daughter.”
“I would not fault a mother, but you make a bold assumption, madam, to charge me of having ill intent toward your daughter.”
“Do you not?”
“In truth, while your daughter is very comely, I did not ask her to dance so that I may seduce her.”
“Then, pray, why did you ask her to dance?”
“That is my affair.”
“I am her mother. Thus, it is my affair as well.”
He passed his empty glass to a footman with a tray before turning his full stare upon her. “Mrs. Grayson, I have permitted you to speak with impunity in such fashion that, were you not of the fair sex, might land a glove in your face. I understand that Mrs. St. John is a dear friend of yours—”
“What has she to do with this?”
“—but you are too quick in your judgments.”
“Do you deny being a rake?”
He took a step toward her. “I wonder who is the rake here? Whose mind is turned toward guilty pleasures?”
Her mouth dropped open. She quickly looked about to see that no one was within earshot.
“I know it is not I who voiced the matter,” he murmured, his gaze momentarily fixed on her lips.
“I merely—you are wrong to blame me—you are the one with the reputation!”
“I admit I know not your reputation.”
“It is a sterling one!”
“A shame, then. I had thought it might prove more interesting.”
“There! You are a rake, sir!”
“If I claim to be one, it is because I do not hide beneath the mantle of sterling qualities.”
“Do you mean to suggest that I do?”
He cocked a brow at her. “I don’t purport to know whether you do or don’t, but I would not censure you should you admit to being rake.”
She gasped. “I certainly would claim no such thing!”
“Why not?”
She looked at him, flabbergasted, before straightening. “That you ask such a question indicates your true character. I have not the slightest inclination to—to—”
Finding this all too amusing, he pressed again, “Why not? All humans, man or woman, are imbued with certain base instincts, with similar longings and desires—”
“This is most inappropriate,” she scolded.
“It is the truth, is it not? You, Mrs. Grayson of the irreproachable reputation, have such desires. Perhaps you have a paramour—”
“I most certainly do not!”
“You need not feign shame with me. You are a widow and entitled to one.”
“I feign nothing. I have never considered taking a paramour.”
He raised both brows. “Never? Why the devil not?”
“Because…because it is not in my nature!” she replied, aghast. “And I will thank you to speak no further of this. It is highly improper.”
“I remind you that it was you who sought a conversation with me, madam.”
“Not for—for this!”
He nearly said something to the effect of living up to her expectations of him as a rake, but he held his tongue. The poor thing was flustered enough.
“And I have had enough,” she pronounced. “You are beyond impertinent. Abominable would be too modest a description.”
With lifted chin, she intended to sweep past him. But her regal or condescending departure was cut short. Her foot slipped from beneath her, sending the wine in her glass splashing. A good portion landed upon his waistcoat of cream brocade. She put a horrified hand to her mouth upon seeing the stain of red.
“Your pardon!” she cried before waving down a footman. “Salt, linen, and some mineral water.”
Arthur pulled out his handkerchief and attempted to rub the stain. Miss Grayson was not wrong when she said she shared her clumsiness with her mother.
“No, no, you will spread the stain,” Mrs. Grayson admonished
, taking the handkerchief from him.
He would not have been surprised if she had left him, deeming that the spilt wine was nothing less than he deserved for his impudence. Instead, she stayed until the footman returned with her requested items. First, she rubbed salt into the stain, then applied the linen. After several applications, she dabbed the cloth into the water and blotted his waistcoat. In order to attend to his waistcoat, she had to stand very near him, and he could have kissed the top of her head if he lowered his enough. He could also smell her. Not the pungent sting of perfume, but a fresher fragrance. Light and pleasant. He liked it.
“You will want to wash the garment sooner rather than later,” she said, stepping back to assess her handiwork.
To his surprise, the stain had faded significantly. In dim lighting, one could hardly discern it. She must have spilt a fair share of wine to know such a trick.
“I would I could completely restore your waistcoat to its prior condition,” she regretted.
“It is remarkable that you were able to address it at all,” he marveled. “Thank you.”
His lack of anger seemed to surprise her.
“You are welcome, my lord. Perhaps if you had not riled me…”
“Of course.”
“But I am prone to awkwardness.”
Remembering that she still held his handkerchief, she returned it to him. Their fingers brushed in the exchange.
“I had best take my leave before I damage your attire further,” she said.
He watched her retreating back with new interest. He suddenly knew whom he wished to take to the Château Debauchery.
Chapter 3
Her conversation with Lord Carrington could not have gone worse, Philippa decided as she made her way down the corridor. Still rattled, she hoped she would never have occasion to speak another word to the man. He was truly horrid, accusing her of improper/licentious/impure thoughts and finding fault in her lack of a paramour.
“La! And I thought you too fastidious to consider a younger man,” Melinda said, catching up to her. “I saw you and the Viscount Carrington in that corner together.”
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