He couldn’t think of that now. He would put it out of his mind and enjoy the comforts of the Darlingtons’ home. “Only the quality,” his mother had crowed on the journey. “Such elegant affairs, always. There will be grand dinners and fine conversation, and music and dancing every night for the young people. With such bright company, how could a hostess resist? Perhaps we shall even watch affection blossom between some lucky lady and gentleman.”
Mrs. Lyndon had grinned. “Oh, yes, madam. A country match and a winter wedding back in town.”
Both old women had then looked pointedly at Court.
God confound him. Until a few weeks ago the matter of his marriage had been settled, the proper alliance decided upon when he was a young boy. Ah, Gwen, with her sleek dark hair, her wide, serene eyes. They had grown up on neighboring estates in Hertfordshire, and from their earliest years had understood their intertwined destinies. While other boys teased and chased her skirts, Court treated her with the tender deference due a future wife. When he’d gone to London as a young man, he’d been discreet in his wilder adventures lest he shame her or cause her discomfort. Court, his parents, and everyone in society had assumed she would eventually become the mother of the Courtland heirs.
Until her father, Lord Tremayne, announced her betrothal to the Earl of Wembley, a man lesser to Court in every way. A love match, Tremayne explained in an attempt to preserve the long-standing bonds between the families.
But there was more to it than that. Gwen had looked at him differently once the gossip started to surface, sordid tales and half-truths exaggerating his use of spanking parlors and brothels. Oh, Court was bad, but he wasn’t
that
bad. Her worshipful gazes had become something more like fear. Didn’t she understand he never would have exposed her to that side of him? On pure rumor—so much of it untrue—his Gwendolyn, the future Duchess of Courtland, had passed on his great wealth and attributes to marry a silly country earl.
Court would never admit to nursing a broken heart, but perhaps he was.
His mother didn’t care about his hurt pride, his bruised feelings. She wanted him to choose a different duchess, the sooner the better, and produce a child. This foray north was a matchmaking caper, the house party a convenient aggregation of acceptable female blood. His mother ranted and railed on the topic of Gwen and assured him he could do ten times better if he applied himself. The problem was, after so many years, Court found it difficult to imagine marrying anyone else.
He put these maudlin thoughts aside to enjoy the ambiance of Darlington’s library. It smelled of leather and faintly of cigar smoke, and contained a quantity of interesting volumes. Occasionally he took down a book and leafed through it, looking for some history or novel with which to pass the afternoon, for he was not a man at ease in leisure and he was far from the places he felt at home. His clubs, his political offices, his house in St. James Square. His country estate was off limits, now that Gwen had set up house with her new husband just a few miles from what ought to have been her home at Courtland Manor.
Blast.
Tomorrow he could join the gentlemen at fishing and hunting, tromp through fields, get dirty and vulgar and shoot a grouse or two. He was good at such sport like any member of his set, though he was generally disinterested in killing things. Something about handing the carcasses over to the servants to be duly prepared and presented at dinner always smacked of wilting affluence to him. He would much rather shoot and prepare his own game over his own fire and eat it standing out in the woods like a savage.
Perhaps that was his problem. There was a savage inside him, trussed up in a waistcoat, coat, and starched neckcloth, gasping for air. Add a couple of elderly companions, a society house party, giggling young ladies, and the savage was smothered completely.
Court gave up on the bookshelves and moved to one of the windows to survey his host’s property. Lovely garden, lake, some outbuildings, and a glass house in the distance. It was very much like Wembley’s estate. Grand but livable. Large, but not so large that one felt dwarfed. In other words, nothing at all like his houses. He crossed to Darlington’s desk, a handsome wooden structure set between the two windows, and sprawled back in the chair. He slung one booted foot over the other and laced his hands behind his head. Ah, but it felt damn good to stretch his legs after so many hours in the coach’s cramped interior—
But then his foot contacted some soft, resistant surface that emitted a feminine squeak.
He leaned down to find a pair of wide blue eyes staring back at him, framed by mussed blonde curls. At first he thought a child had escaped the nursery, but a glance at her bodice dispelled that notion. She was a woman—a beautiful woman—inexplicably crouching at his feet. “What are you doing under there?” His voice sounded sharp. Since the shock of Gwen’s jilting, he’d come to abhor surprises.
“I’m hoping you will leave,” she said in an earnest whisper.
“I would rather not leave until I know why you’re hiding under Lord Darlington’s desk. Are you in some sort of danger?”
“I—I might be.” From the shadows beneath the desk he could see her shapely bosom rise and fall. She peered out at him, one long curl falling over an eye. “Are you, by any chance, going to leave directly?”
“No.”
“Oh. I wish you would.”
He could see a couple of books clutched in her hand. “What have you there? A pair of romantic novels?”
“No, sir. Not romantic novels exactly. Might I ask who you are?”
“I will tell you who I am if you will show me your books.” He didn’t know why he pestered her. Because it amused him. Because it had discomfited him so to find her hiding there, and he wanted to discomfit her also. She pursed her lips, then looked down to read from the spines.
“
A History of English Political Thought in the Sixteenth Century
.” She handed it up to him. “And
Genghis Khan and the Great Mongol Empire
.”
Not romantic novels. Not even close. Court placed the books on Lord Darlington’s desk, feeling unwelcome curiosity about the creature. “Will you come out so I may introduce myself properly?”
“I would rather not.”
“Because you prefer to read under there, or because you’re embarrassed?”
“I am deeply humiliated and wish you would forget this encounter completely.”
He frowned. “I doubt I shall manage that. However, since I am a gentleman and you have asked me twice to leave, I will comply with your wishes.”
As he stood to go, he heard a soft sound from beneath the desk. “Please…”
“Yes?”
“Will you give back the books?”
“Of course.” He passed them down, pressing them into the small hand that emerged. “I wish you good day.”
Court walked out, thinking the house party was not off to the most auspicious start, when one was obliged to converse with a strange woman huddled under the host’s desk. He walked the halls for a half hour or so, until he felt less rattled and more relaxed again. Back in his private parlor, he found his mother and Mrs. Lyndon returned from tea, trading captious gossip on the sofa.
“Did you find Lady Emberley’s bonnet quite out of fashion?” his mother appealed to Mrs. Lyndon. “I was shocked at how dilapidated it was. That rose silk—I daresay it was from two seasons ago.”
Mrs. Lyndon tut-tutted and agreed that she found it quite out of style for the wife of an earl, particularly the rose silk.
His mother looked up at him and indicated the chair to her right. “Come and sit with us, dear. Have you toured the house? Did you find it pleasing? And did you happen to glimpse Lady Emberley’s bonnet?”
“The house is exemplary. And no, I did not see this bonnet.” He strained to sound pleasant as he seated himself near the pair. “I’m sure, despite her bonnet’s dilapidation, that the lady herself is all that is proper and
kind
.”
His mother’s eyes widened at his subtle reprimand. “She would have been kinder had she worn a nicer bonnet. It hurt my eyes.”
“What of Mrs. Dawson’s hair?” Mrs. Lyndon asked. Both ladies tittered.
“Perhaps it is the style in Yorkshire,” said his mother. “But I found it so very…ugly. Yes, I cannot think of a milder word.”
“Hideous,” Mrs. Lyndon offered.
“Hideous is less mild,” the duchess chided her friend. “But called for in this case.”
Court sighed, almost wishing himself back in conversation with the chit beneath the desk. At least then he had been repeatedly asked to leave, whereas now, since he’d seated himself, he was stuck by courtesy for at least ten minutes.
“Honestly, Courtland, I wish you would not look so sour.” His mother leaned forward to tap at his knee. “You will have your hunting on the morrow, and many esteemed gentlemen to smoke and play cards with. And there are so many lovely ladies in attendance, all of them eager to meet a dashing and distinguished duke.”
“Are there?” he asked in a bored tone. “Too bad they are stuck with me.”
Her sharp hazel eyes snapped. “For Lady Darlington’s sake, you must make an effort to engage with her guests. Particularly the ladies. It is high time you settled on a bride.” His mother puffed up like a hen ruffling its feathers. “Perhaps gossip of your unfortunate proclivities will not have reached these remote moors.”
Court grimaced and considered, just for a moment, flinging himself from the nearby window. “Do not be offensive, mother.”
“Oh,” the duchess exclaimed. “Speaking of offensive, you will never guess who is here. Lord Morrow’s children! Do you remember the viscount? He was one of your father’s odder friends.”
“I never made his acquaintance.” He knew of him, although Viscount Morrow had retired from society in recent years. He remembered him as a studious, serious fellow, forthright in manners, which Court respected. His son, Mr. Barrett, was a few years younger than Court and not a member of his set.
His mother pounced on this lack of knowledge, eager to share what she’d learned. “Apparently Stephen Barrett is not the best sort. He is given to vice and leisure as are so many young men these days, and his sister is five seasons out now, poor dear. The ladies say she is woefully strange in manners. She must be tiresome to all the gentlemen,” she said in an aside to Mrs. Lyndon, who sighed appropriately.
Court arched a brow. “I thought Lady Darlington’s parties only had the quality.”
“Oh, you are very rude today.” His mother scowled and fluttered her fan. “Now, you see, Viscount Morrow was a particular friend of Lord Darlington in their younger days, and so they must be civil to his son and daughter. The son, at least, is engaged to the Earl of Needham’s daughter. Mr. Barrett must be dashing to win an earl’s daughter, or perhaps it’s the Morrow fortune.”
“What is left of it,” Mrs. Lyndon intoned.
“But you shall have to avoid the sister,” his mother said. “I heard at the Bettlemans’ ball in London last season, Lord Bettleman took pity on Miss Barrett and offered her a dance, and she spoke to him nearly the entire set on the topic of
Mongol hordes
.” His mother whispered the latter words as if they were not fit to utter aloud. “Can you imagine his chagrin?”
Mongol hordes? It could not be coincidence. Nothing in Court’s blasé expression revealed that he had already met this young woman—or that he had spent the last half hour trying to forget the image of her peering up from between his legs.
“And there was some debacle at Almack’s,” his mother continued, “so traumatizing to those in attendance that the ladies will not speak of it.”
The old women clucked at one another behind their fans. Miss Barrett seemed to have created significant mayhem across her five unsuccessful seasons, which wasn’t surprising considering what he knew of her thus far.
His mother’s lips went tight. “Suffice it to say, no one would associate with her after that. What a sorry situation for Lord Morrow,” she said to Mrs. Lyndon, who nodded in mournful agreement. “An odd daughter and a son who does not understand responsibility and couth. It is heartbreaking when sons disappoint, is it not, Mrs. Lyndon? Although, at least, Mr. Barrett has managed a fine match for himself.”
His mother gave him a speaking glance. Court ignored her and studied the floral pattern on the arm of his chair. “Perhaps Miss Barrett and I would make a good match. Perhaps I shall court her here in the north and bring home a bride. What do you think, mother? Might we suit?”
The duchess gasped and feigned a fit of vapors while Mrs. Lyndon shook her head, her loose chin skin wiggling like a turkey’s wattle.
“You will do no such thing, Benedict Thomas William Hawthorne,” his mother cried. “Imagine, the Duke of Courtland paying his addresses to the daughter of a viscount. A peculiar daughter at that!”
Court glanced out the window at the late-summer moors. “I might like a wife with whom I can discuss Mongol hordes.”
His mother gave a beleaguered sigh and whispered viciously to Mrs. Lyndon. In truth, she had nothing to fear. He hadn’t the heart to court any woman at Sedgefield, peculiar or not. He was for cards and a little hunting. Otherwise, he would make himself scarce.
He would survive this house party just as he survived all the others he was compelled to attend.
Every night after dinner, the entire company retired to Lady Darlington’s largest drawing room to socialize and make merry, and every night Harmony lagged behind, dreading the proceedings. There were refreshments and punch, and pleasant music provided by the more talented guests. The gentlemen asked all the ladies to dance, except for Harmony, who had not yet been invited to dance by anyone. She hid within the protective circle of her acquaintances, perfectly happy not to reveal her two left feet.
At least Stephen was having fun mucking about with Lady Smythe-Dorsey and Mrs. Waring every chance he got. When Harmony had confronted him about being unfaithful to his fiancée, he’d laughed at her. “You don’t understand the ways of society. These flirtations are perfectly acceptable. In fact, they’re expected at parties like these. It is better to be a jovial, sociable guest than a prim stuck-up like you.”