Louise M. Gouge (19 page)

Winston’s heart swelled with joy at this affirmation of his own conclusions. “How could I not wish to serve such a generous Father?”

In the silence that followed, the minister eyed Winston with a teasing look. “Recalling our last conversation, did you ask Lady Blakemore about Miss Hart’s family connections?”

“Yes, and I am confident she comes from a respectable family. However, I find that after nearly being killed alongside her, such connections have lost their importance for me.”

“Ah, then you have formed an attachment?”

“If only on my part.” Yet how else could he interpret the tender looks she had given him across the drawing room the afternoon of their near tragedy? A sudden longing to see her swept over him, and without thinking, he flung back the counterpane and rose from his bed. “Enough of this. The time has come to discover whether Miss Hart returns my regard.”

Mr. Grenville jumped to his feet and barely had time to catch Winston before dizziness sent him spiraling to the floor.

Chapter Twenty

C
atherine stood on one aching foot and then the other in the crowded viewing area in the House of Lords. Separated from the House floor by a wooden railing, the small space had only a few chairs, which had been placed there for Lady Winston, Lady Blakemore and several other peeresses. No seats were left for individuals of unknown rank like Catherine. Fortunately, her height made it possible for her to see most of the proceedings in this second ceremony that elevated the baron to his new title.

Because ladies did not attend levees, Catherine had not been invited to the earlier event at St. James’s Palace during which the Prince Regent had named Lord Winston the new Lord Hartley. Only those who had been presented at Court could attend such a function. She would not complain, however, for this was by far the more exciting affair, at least in her opinion.

Marching into the hallowed hall behind several officials and Lord Bennington, and followed by Lord Blakemore, Lord Hartley was resplendent in his crimson-and-ermine robes and cocked black hat. Catherine’s heart hammered in her chest to see him go through the various stations of the ritual. When he easily knelt on one knee before the Lord Chancellor to present his letters of patent signed by the Prince Regent, she hoped that was a sign his leg had healed.

The Reading Clerk read the Writ of Summons that authorized Lord Hartley to sit in this august company. But before doing so, he signed the Oath of Allegiance and the rolls that listed every peer who had graced these halls since 1695. Next, Lords Bennington, Blakemore and Hartley doffed their hats to the Cloth of Estate, and Lord Hartley shook hands with the Lord Chancellor. Finally, after the three earls had exited to remove their ceremonial robes, they slipped back into the chamber and sat in their assigned places. Then the business of Parliament proceeded as usual.

“Well.” Lady Blakemore stood and turned to Catherine. “What did you think, my dear?”

“Quite impressive.” And quite wonderful to see Lord Winston—no, Lord
Hartley
—again, although he did seem a little pale.

His recovery had required several weeks, during which time he had not received visitors. Catherine’s eagerness to see him almost made her forget what he had done to Papa. Almost.

She had managed at last to see Mr. Radcliff, who had assured her that his cousin would survive. Mr. Fleming had been in the room, so they had been forced to speak indirectly. In vague allusions, Mr. Radcliff encouraged Catherine to renew her plans to expose his cousin’s evil deeds by securing his affections.

Yet how could she? Lady Blakemore had insisted they must permit the gentleman to recuperate before his investiture as Lord Hartley. That day could not come soon enough for Catherine. Or rather, that evening, for Lady Blakemore had planned a ball in his honor. At last her new lady’s maid had slipped her a note from Mr. Radcliff saying she must not believe him to be the humble gentleman he seemed, for it was merely a pose. This very evening, she must entice the new Lord Hartley to declare himself.

Lady Blakemore seemed to have a similar goal for the evening, something more than celebrating Lord Hartley’s advancement, for she had spared no expense in the purchase of Catherine’s exquisite new silk gown. With her hair upswept in a profusion of curls and a string of tiny pink silk roses woven throughout, Catherine had never felt so beautiful or confident. Surely Lord Hartley would admire her appearance, if nothing else.

Her confidence held strong until she entered the Blakemores’ ballroom to find the new earl at the center of no fewer than seven giggling heiresses, all of whom seemed determined to latch onto their quarry and not let go. Who on earth had taught these young ladies their manners?

Even more a curiosity was Lord Hartley’s new ensemble. Instead of the somber black he had worn every time she had seen him, tonight he wore an emerald-green satin jacket embellished with gold piping, a dark gold waistcoat, gold satin breeches and velvet shoes that matched his jacket. How exquisitely handsome he looked. But what chance did she have to win his heart when he had no idea that she possessed a rank qualifying her to stand in the company of all those admirers?

* * *

“Lord Hartley,” pretty Miss Waddington simpered, “you will permit me, will you not, the privilege of an old friend to inquire whether all your dances are spoken for?”

Still not used to his new title, Hartley looked around to see whom she was addressing. All of the young ladies giggled, and he felt heat rushing up his neck. Where were those red-uniformed war heroes when a gentleman needed them to take some of these girls off his hands? As to Miss Waddington being an old friend, he had met her at the first of the Season, and she had refused to dance with him at one of Drayton’s balls, claiming tiredness, then promptly accepted a dance with a duke’s heir.

“I, ahem, well.” He tugged at his cravat to loosen it, but Dudley had secured it well. “Of course, Lady Blakemore and I will open the ball.”

“And who will be your next partner?” The younger Miss Waddington—Amelia, if he was not mistaken—moved a little too close for his comfort, but her lavender perfume was pleasant enough. At her question, all seven girls crowded closer, their faces bright with hope.

Agreeing to be the honoree at this ball had been a mistake. After being on his feet all day, his formerly disjointed hip protested and his ribs ached. If he’d had more experience with young ladies, he would have some charming response to their flirtations, but their behavior only made him uncomfortable.
Lord, if You pay any attention to such things, could You please help me out of this?
Prayer had been his constant companion during his convalescence, and he found the practice more and more comforting, especially after his conversation with Mr. Grenville.

“How could I choose one flower from such a beautiful garden?” Where had that come from? He had never succeeded at poetry.

“Ohhh.”

“How sweet.”

“Such a flatterer.”

The girls chorused their approval of his answer.

“But you will have to make a choice, Lord Hartley,” said a blond girl in green. He had met this heiress at St. James’s Palace this afternoon, but could not recall her name.

He searched the ballroom for someone to help him. Lady Blakemore? Mrs. Parton? Mother? Someone? His eyes lit upon the fairest flower of them all: Miss Hart, dressed in a glorious pink gown with a riot of curls and flowers adorning her regal head. “Yes, I will, madam, and I have already chosen. Now, if you will excuse me?”

With no little difficulty, he disentangled himself from the group, all of whom voiced their complaints with sighs, whines and a host of other objections not without strong notes of indignation.

Forbidding himself to falter despite his aching joint, he strode across the room and sketched a deep bow that did not hurt him in the slightest.

“Miss Hart.”
My heart.
“How wonderful to see you.” His pulse pounded in his ears as he kissed her gloved hand and then looked up into her flawless countenance. A soft blush brightened her cheeks, and her dark eyes betrayed some high feeling that seemed to bode well for him. “I have missed you.” He breathed out the words so softly that he could not be certain she heard him over the string quartet playing on the dais.

“And I have missed you.” Her hand trembled in his, and her eyes brightened. “Are you well? I should say, you
look
well, and I pray that you are—I should say, I have prayed continuously since our, um, accident.” Her blush deepened in the most charming way. She seemed as nervous as he.

If only they could find a place to sit and talk without having to go through the formalities of this ridiculous ball.

“Ah, there you are, Hartley.” Lady Blakemore descended upon them and wrapped an arm around his. “Shall we open the ball? I know you have not entirely regained your strength, especially after your relapse, so I shall make your excuses for you, should you not wish to dance again.” She leaned close to him and spoke in a whisper. “While no one other than Pierpoint and our closest friends know the extent of your injuries, we can claim weariness from your long day. You will forgive us, Miss Hart?”

Miss Hart had no chance to respond. Just as Lady Blakemore had dragged him to the young lady at Drayton’s ball, she now dragged him away from her. But what a difference just over seven weeks could make. That first night he had condescended to dance with her. Now he wanted only to be in her company. The lingering pain in his body was nothing compared to the discomfort of being separated from her now.

“Do not sulk, Hartley.” Lady Blakemore patted his cheek. “I shall return you to her soon.”

As the music for the minuet began and other couples lined up behind them, he laughed. “Very well, madam. But I shall hold you to your promise. This is my only dance of the evening. I leave it to you to make my excuses, as you promised.”

Somehow he managed to endure the ten-minute set. In fact, he was surprised to find that the exercise of the various steps actually helped him to regain his balance. Even when he risked a glance around the room to see who had come to celebrate his advancement, his dizziness did not return. Further, at each turn around the floor, he saw Miss Hart standing where he had left her by the wall. That dandy Melton hovered near her and apparently had presented several other gentlemen to her. She looked like a rose among thorns.

“Do pay attention, Hartley.” Lady Blakemore waved her hand impatiently to indicate he should make his way around the gentlemen’s line for the final promenade. “She will be there when we have finished here.”

“Forgive me, madam.” He should have known the countess was supporting his interests. She and Blakemore had proven themselves the best of friends.

None too soon they completed the set, and the countess led Hartley to a chair behind a row of decorative potted plants and near the dowagers, where Mrs. Parton was holding court. His cousin straightaway left her friends and moved to sit beside him behind a bushy shrub.

“One would never know you suffered an injury, dear boy.” The plump, red-haired lady wore her usual purple colors with an orange paisley scarf draped across one shoulder and secured at the waist. As always, she sported a purple turban adorned with a peacock feather. The headpiece kept slipping over her forehead. “How are you feeling?”

“A bit winded from trying not to show my discomfort.” Indeed, it had cost him much effort. “After nearly three weeks abed, including my relapse, I am all too pleased to sit down.”

“Well, never mind. Grace and I will see to it that no one disturbs you.” She patted his hand. “Ah, here she is.”

Looking up, he expected to see Grace, Lady Blakemore, but found Miss Hart instead. He jumped to his feet, paying for it with a needlelike pain in his hip. “Miss Hart, do sit down.” Somehow he managed to sound at ease as he offered his chair to her.

“Not at all,” Mrs. Parton said. “Take mine, my dear.” She stood to make way for the younger lady. “I shall be close by, so all will be proper.” With that, she bustled back to her friends, leaving them alone.

“Well.” Miss Hart gave him an uncertain smile.

“Yes. Well.” He did not know what else to say, but his damaged joint gave him a suggestion. “Shall we sit?”

For several minutes they watched from their hiding place as couples lined up for the next dance. Melton spied them and made it halfway across the floor before Lady Blakemore accosted him and led him directly to Miss Waddington. If the young lady had been holding out for an earl, Melton should make her happy. His title, her wealth: a perfect match. Was that not what this silly courting game was all about?

“Miss Hart, may I—”

“Lord Hartley, your new—”

They began at the same time, and both stopped.

“You must go first.” Hartley encouraged her with a smile.

“Very well.” She hesitated before continuing, “I have never seen you in anything other than black. This green suits you. It brightens your eyes in the most remarkable way.” Her blush deepened. “I do hope it is not improper to say such a thing.”

“If such compliments are improper, no one has ever informed me.” He touched her hand to reassure her. “May I return the favor? You are the most beautiful lady in this room. I do not mean that as flattery. It is simply the truth, and I find myself wishing never to leave your side.”

To his horror, her dark brown eyes filled with tears. “You must not say such things, Lord Hartley. Such a statement is—”

“Is my declaration to you.” And clearly he was bungling the whole affair. “I should say, it is my wish to court you, Miss Catherine Hart. Will you accept my suit?” There. He had gotten through it without stammering.

She stared down at her gloved hands, which were tightly clasped in her lap. “That would please me very much.” Her choked whisper did not convey the same feeling as her words. Nor did her demeanor recall their more felicitous times together before the assault. If she did not welcome his courtship, why would she agree to it?

* * *

Catherine’s head ached, and she could hardly breathe for trying not to sob in front of Lord Hartley. She had achieved her goal. He was in love with her. She should be plotting how to take advantage of the situation, but all she could think of was how much she loved him in return.

“I-if I have offended you—” The dismay in his voice broke her heart, but she dared not look at him.

“No.” She touched his hand to reassure him, as he had done for her seconds ago. “I am honored by your interest in me.”

His soft laugh held a note of irony. “
Interest
does not begin to describe my feelings for you, Miss Hart.”

She steeled herself to look into his face, into those emerald eyes, trying without success to control her racing heart. She should be happy, but all she felt was guilt. Why could she not just reveal her identity to him and ask him why he had plotted against Papa? Mr. Radcliff’s words came back in answer, charging her not to give herself away, lest she be used to trap Papa, who would surely be tried and executed for a crime he had not committed. Shoving away her guilt, she considered how to redeem this moment so she could proceed with her plan.