A Lady of Quality. Louise Gouge M.
of overweening pride. How easy it would be to use that fault to destroy him or at the least force him to admit that his evidence against Papa was false.
She would somehow arrange an introduction, flatter him and win his friendship, perhaps even his love, then coax him into confessing his crime to her. Last, she would go to Lord Blakemore and beseech him to ruin Lord Winston with the information. Even though he was a peer, Winston would be punished, perhaps imprisoned. Papa would be absolved of all guilt and could return home. Only then would she be satisfied with her revenge.
A vague memory scratched at the back of her mind, a Bible verse advising that vengeance belonged to God alone. But surely the Almighty would understand she was the only one who could save Papa from execution for a crime he did not commit.
* * *
Winston surveyed the ballroom, looking for another partner. Of the three young ladies with whom he had already danced, not one excited his interest. Their mutual indifference was obvious in the way they continued to cast glances at the uniformed soldiers who dotted the room like a measles rash. Not that he would have any of the silly chits, but surely his wealth, his pedigree and his barony of writ that extended back to the days of Henry III should garner some interest among the marriageable misses in Society. No doubt it was the uniform. Had Father not forbidden Winston to join His Majesty’s army to fight Napoleon, he, too, could be attracting a bevy of colorful butterflies.
What vain and foolish thoughts. What care did he have for their frivolous choices? His features and physique were passable, or at least not repulsive, yet he would much rather strengthen his inner man, his character, as Father had always instructed from the Scriptures. Likewise, in his necessary pursuit of a wife, he must search for a sensible, refined lady of good pedigree. Yet after twice losing his targets to other gentlemen, his confidence had begun to falter, especially tonight as the gallant, crimson-coated heroes forced him to the sidelines. On the other hand, what better place to observe which young ladies might have the essential character his wife must possess?
He must not make the same mistake Father made some twenty-five years ago. After burying two wives and their unborn children, the previous Lord Winston married a lady thirty-two years his junior in his final attempt to produce a living heir. Such a tenuous beginning always humbled Winston, for he and his sister would not exist had those poor souls not perished. How often he wondered if he would ever live up to God’s expectations for him—or Father’s. Certainly Mother had not. Although Winston loved her, he had long wondered what shortcoming had caused Father to banish her to their country estate some seventeen years ago, while Winston was a small boy.
But again, these were vain and foolish thoughts. He must concentrate on his search and find a sensible lady of good family and connections. Perhaps if she were plain, she would not be inclined to silliness. He would leave the silly girls to their soldiers. If this evening did not produce at least one candidate for him to pursue, he would be forced to accept Countess Lieven’s invitation to Almack’s tomorrow evening, a prospect he did not find agreeable, despite the countess’s well-regarded political influence.
Across the room, Miss Waddington stood chatting with her mother, Lady Grandly. The young lady had the deportment required of a diplomat’s wife, but she was given to occasional giggling. Winston shuddered. Perhaps he could school it out of her. With a sigh, he began his trek toward her. Although she had refused him the last time, perhaps she would look with favor on him this time.
Guests whirled about the floor in a waltz, obscuring his view of the lady, so he skirted the dancers and ambled toward her. At that moment, a red uniform bowed over her hand. Winston spun away with not a whit of disappointment. Yet when he noticed newlyweds Lord and Lady Greystone nearby, gazing at each other with obvious adoration, a surprising pang struck his chest. What would it be like to find a lady who loved him, one whom he could love in return? How did a gentleman go about finding such a jewel? Considering Father’s apparent disappointment with Mother, Winston feared he would make the same mistake in his haste to wed. And wed he must. A wife was as essential to a diplomat as linguistic skills. Yet here he stood in a room full of young ladies, utterly unable even to find a supper partner, much less a candidate to wed.
He clenched his jaw. If this ball were not so important to his career, he would leave. But one simply did not leave the marquess’s ball before supper. Perhaps he should give up his quest for the evening and find an old dowager to dine with. He had always appreciated the wisdom of the older generation, and most of them seemed to find his company agreeable, as well.
“Ah, there you are, Winston.” Lady Blakemore accosted him near the refreshment table. “I must ask a favor of you.”
At last Providence smiled upon him. “Of course, my lady.” He bowed over the tall countess’s hand, eager to do her bidding. Her husband was the very diplomat with whom Winston hoped to serve in France. He would gladly dance and dine with her. “Ask what you will, and I shall do it.”
She took his arm and, rather than move toward the dance floor, drew him toward a dark-haired young lady seated near the wall and staring down at the skirt of her light green gown. “Winston, this is Miss Hart. I promised her the young men would be lining up to dance with her, but she has not been asked to stand up for a single set. Do save me from being a liar.”
“Lady Blakemore!” Although the young lady did not look up, Winston could see that her cheeks had turned a deep pink.
Pity welled up inside him. Obviously this poor girl was the countess’s hired companion and did not have the makings of any nobleman’s wife, much less a diplomat’s. But surely one gentleman in this room could show her a little kindness and courtesy without granting her too much consequence or harming his own interests. With no one else to fill that office, he held out his hand.
“Miss Hart, may I have the honor of this dance? You see, I have lost my partner to another gentleman, and only you can rescue me from utter mortification.”
Gasping, she looked up sharply and stared at him.
For an instant, he could not breathe as a new sort of shock slammed into his chest. Never in his three and twenty years had he seen a more exquisite female face. A perfect oval, with a fetching widow’s peak, though he doubted this young lady was a widow. Sparkling dark brown eyes fringed by long black lashes. He had never before noticed any lady’s eyelashes. A faint pink blush of chagrin remained on her ivory cheeks, and her full, smooth lips invited— But he would not think such an inappropriate thought.
She placed her hand in his and slowly rose. Again shock pummeled him, for the graceful ascent of her slender form lifted the top of her thick, smooth coiffeur to perhaps three inches short of his own height of almost six feet. Miss Hart was by far the most elegant, dare he say regal lady he had ever set eyes upon. He stood staring, unable to move until she gazed up at him soulfully and smiled.
“I thank you for your gallantry, Lord Winston. Perhaps we shall rescue each other from mortification.” The music of her dulcet alto voice settled into him like the purr of his favorite cat.
* * *
Catherine could hardly control her laughter. Attracting Lord Winston’s interest was far easier than she had ever imagined. Spending her entire life in the country, she’d had little to do with gentlemen of her station, for when Mama married an impoverished French comte fleeing the Reign of Terror, her family had not entirely welcomed the alliance. Further, she had never counted her appearance as her best asset, for she was too slender, and her unusual height often brought more disdain than admiration.
But Lord Winston’s awestruck expression and obvious approval revealed a certain guilelessness at odds with the arrogance he had displayed at Monsieur Angelus’s academy this afternoon. In fact, she had to admit she admired him in return, at least in a physical sense. His height exceeded hers by perhaps three or four inches, and his impossibly curly blond hair had been coiffed with care, unlike the sweat-dampened coils he had sported after their match.
With a wave of her fan, she made a show of dismissing her feigned chagrin over Lady Blakemore’s comment regarding her lack of dance partners. Her employer had no idea that Catherine had refused several invitations. Of course, Society