The Secret Mistress

Chapter 6

“I DO HOPE Lady Angeline did not seriously hurt her ankle,” Edward’s mother said after their set was over. “But she was very brave and dignified about it and very eager to remove herself from the floor so that the dancing could resume. Most young ladies would have made much of the moment and wailed and swooned and made quite a fuss before demanding to be carried off the dance floor.”

“And she is not silent and insipid as so many girls are these days, is she?” Alma added. “She engaged you in what appeared to be a lively conversation, Edward. It is important for the wife of an important man to be able to converse sensibly.”

Sensibly?

“She is beautifully tall,” Lorraine said with a sigh. “I am envious to the point of jealousy. She is actually prettier than I thought at first. I think it is in the expression more than in the features alone. She fairly sparkles. She is going to be besieged by suitors and not just because she is the sister of the Duke of Tresham.”

“Edward,” Juliana said, tapping his arm with her fan, “Mrs. Smith-Benn is making her way toward us with her daughter. The mother is the daughter of Lord Blacklock, you know.”

His life had indeed changed, Edward realized before the ball was even an hour old. Freedom and relaxation did not come as he had hoped once the opening set was at an end. For of course, he was now very eligible indeed, and this was the great marriage mart. And anyone who did not make a move now, when it was early in the Season, might find later that all the best prizes had already been snapped up. Or so he had been warned. And it worked in both directions, of course. Men were not the only ones seeking spouses.

His mother and sisters and sister-in-law did not even have to make any effort to seek other partners for him. He did not have to look dutifully about him to choose some for himself. He did not have a chance to find Eunice. Or to slink off to the card room. Young ladies, escorted by their mamas, came to court him. They came usually and apparently to speak to his female relatives, who then introduced them to him, and he did what was expected of him—he asked the young lady to dance. It was all rather alarmingly easy.

He danced the second set with Miss Smith-Benn, who was a blond, blue-eyed, delicate little beauty, the third with Miss Cartwright, a handsome brunette with slightly protruding teeth, and the fourth with Lady Fiona Robson, who smiled a great deal and was passably pretty despite the fact that she had freckles. He acquitted himself well enough on the dance floor, even if that meant only that he did not make an utter idiot of himself. And each of the three was polite enough not to feign injury in order to avoid dancing with him. None of them chattered on about charging bulls or called him stuffy when he failed to be amused at irresponsible stupidity.

Really … stuffy.

Lord Heyward, are you perhaps just a little bit stuffy?

The fact that she was right did not excuse her breach of good manners. Especially when she had preceded it with a fake injury that she could not even disguise well enough to remember which ankle she was supposed to have sprained.

It was, then, the supper dance before Edward could maneuver matters more to his own liking and find time to seek out Eunice. He did it by returning Lady Fiona to her mother’s side and then neglecting to return immediately to his family’s side. He had done his duty for long enough. He needed a break. And no one would be able to fault him. He was still in the ballroom. He was still taking a partner.

He had seen Eunice dance once. But she had spent most of the evening sitting with her aunt and conversing with a group of older ladies, all gorgeously decked out and plumed and sparkling with jewels. They all turned identical gratified expressions toward him when he approached.

“What a fine evening this is, Lord Heyward,” Lady Sanford said. “It is quite a triumph for the Duke of Tresham, who has never been known to host a ball here before, you know, despite the splendor of his ballroom. Such a waste! And Lady Angeline Dudley appears to be taking very well indeed even though she is unfortunately tall, poor lady.”

“And with a complexion one can describe only as swarthy,” Mrs. Cooper added. “Her looks would have been a severe trial to her poor dear mama had she lived.”

“We will be offending Lord Heyward,” a lady whom Edward did not know said, smiling archly at him. “He danced the opening set with Lady Angeline and perhaps has a particular interest in her.”

“I do find her quite remarkably beautiful,” he said. “However, she is not the only beautiful lady in the room. Miss Goddard, would you do me the honor of dancing the next set with me?”

Eunice got to her feet while her aunt looked at her with triumph and the other ladies looked with interest. She set her hand along the top of his.

“Poor Edward,” she said as they walked away. “I will not hold you to your offer. I will not expect you actually to dance with me. It is quite unbearably stuffy in here, is it not?”

“You will stroll with me on the terrace?” he asked hopefully. “I cannot tell you how grateful I would be.”

She chuckled softly.

“And were you implying back there,” she asked, “that I was one of the other beautiful ladies in the room? Being the Earl of Heyward has given you a flattering tongue.”

She was wearing a light blue gown that was neither fashionable nor unfashionable, neither new nor old, neither pretty nor ugly. It was the kind of gown one purchased, he thought, when one did not intend to buy a dozen and did not want the chosen one to be so distinctive that it would be recognized wherever she went. It was not inexpensive—her father, though not extraordinarily wealthy, did not lack for funds either. She wore no jewelry or other adornments. Her brown hair was dressed in a knot high on the back of her head with a few ringlets curling over her temples and along her neck to soften any suggestion of severity. She was of medium height and slender, pleasing figure. She had a pretty face made more so by the bright intelligence of her gray eyes.

“I was not just implying,” he said. “I was stating.”

“Then thank you,” she said as they stepped through one set of open French windows onto the terrace beyond. “You were quite right about Lady Angeline Dudley, though. She is indeed beautiful, even though I suppose it is possible to list all sorts of defects if one considers her person piecemeal. As is true of everyone. There is no such thing as pure beauty. Her beauty comes more from within than from without. I see her only through a woman’s eyes, of course, but it seems to me that she is the sort of lady who is far more attractive to men than to other women. Am I right?”

He looked down at her as they began to stroll. With almost any other lady he would suspect an ulterior motive in her question, a plea to be assured that indeed he did not find Lady Angeline attractive at all, but that he found her irresistibly so. Eunice, he knew, had no such motive.

“I do consider her lovely to look at,” he said. “But she is oh so frivolous, Eunice. She turned her ankle deliberately so that she would not have to dance with such a clumsy fellow as I. I wonder how many people noticed that she rested the wrong foot on the stool I fetched for her.”

“Oh,” she said, and when she looked back at him there was a hint of amusement in her eyes. “I did not. But how very careless of her.”

“And then she proceeded to regale my ears,” he said, “with a tale of how she broke her leg last year after climbing a tree to avoid the attack of an angry bull. She had been knowingly crossing his meadow because she was late for some visitors who were coming. She expected me to laugh at the story.”

“You must admit,” she said, “that it is rather droll.”

He had a sudden mental image of Lady Angeline Dudley dashing across a meadow and straight up the trunk of a tree with a bull in hot pursuit. It was rather funny, he supposed, when translated into pictures rather than just words. And he had to admit one thing in the woman’s favor. She did not mind laughing at herself. It was the very last thing most people were inclined to do.

“Oh, I suppose so,” he said, “if one ignores the fact that she might have been killed, either by the bull or by her subsequent fall from the tree.”

“But then she would not have been telling the story to you or to anyone else,” she said very sensibly, “and the question of its humor or lack thereof would not have arisen.”

“I suppose not,” he said. “She was in Hyde Park this morning, Eunice, when I was riding there early with Headley and Paulson. She arrived there alone, or with only a groom to accompany her, anyway, and met her brother quite by accident—the other brother, Lord Ferdinand Dudley, not Tresham. He was there with some other men, and she proceeded to gallop along Rotten Row with them despite the mud, whooping as she went. And she was wearing the most garish hat I have ever seen. If there was a color yet invented that was not in it, I would be surprised.”

“At least she did take a groom,” she said as they came to a stop against the stone balustrade and turned to gaze down into the garden, which was dimly lit by a few lamps swaying from tree branches.

Did it take Eunice to convince him that he really was stuffy? But really, a young lady who had not even been officially out at the time ought not to have made such a public exhibition of herself. Had she even known any of those men apart from her brother? But it was just like Eunice always to see the best in another person. She was quite unlike those tabbies with whom she had just been sitting. Poor Eunice. It was no wonder she did not enjoy social events.

“Edward,” she said, “I think you really ought to pursue a courtship with her.”

“What?” he said, jerking his head sideways to stare at her.

“She has enormous consequence,” she said. “You have only to look about you. I doubt there are many members of the ton who are not here this evening. And the reason is that this is Dudley House and the host is the Duke of Tresham and the ball is in honor of his sister, who has just made her come-out and is now ready to take a husband.”

“But, Eunice—”

She did not let him finish.

“And she is rather lovely and full of life and fun,” she said. “She has qualities that are perhaps missing from your life.”

For a moment he was stunned into silence.

“They are qualities I can do very well without,” he said firmly when he found his voice again. “She is a Dudley, Eunice. Tresham is her brother. He was one of Maurice’s closest friends, if you will remember. They were every bit as wild and irresponsible as each other. It was Tresham Maurice was racing against when he died.”

“Lady Angeline Dudley is not the Duke of Tresham any more than you are Maurice,” she pointed out. “And to be fair, Edward, the duke is still a single man, and he is still young, probably no older than you are. Who knows how he will behave when he is married? He may change completely. Many men do, you know, particularly if they have a fondness for their wives. Your brother unfortunately seemed not to be reformed by marriage. But we ought not to judge him, not having walked in his shoes. Though I suppose you have more of a right to judge than I do. But he changed you, Edward, or at least had a powerful influence upon you. The wilder he grew, it seemed, the more you moved to the opposite extreme. Perhaps it is not the best place for you to be. Extremes usually are not. I know you are determined not to be the husband he was, but perhaps …”

She stopped. Was she saying he was wrong? That he ought to be less concerned about duty and good sense and … and plain decency? Surely not. Not Eunice!

“Perhaps?” he prompted.

“Oh, never mind,” she said. “But I do think you should seriously consider marrying her, Edward.”

He drew a deep breath and released it slowly.

“I still want to marry you,” he said. And suddenly he really did, very much indeed. Without further delay. By special license. Then he would be comfortable and safe.

She sighed.

“It did seem a good idea at the time,” she said softly, “and it still would be … comforting to lean upon it. One feels a little bereft to be entirely free. But I do believe, Edward, that everything happens for a reason. The fact that you are now the Earl of Heyward makes a great deal of difference to both of us. It has shaken us out of our complacency. But perhaps it was meant to.”

“You think,” he said stiffly, “that I consider myself too important now to marry you?”

“I think no such thing,” she said, smiling into the darkness of the garden. “Oh, Edward, I know you are not so fickle. But perhaps I think you too important for me. Though important is probably not quite the right word.”

“I have not changed,” he protested.

“Yes, you have,” she said sadly. “Not in yourself, maybe, but in … in who you are. You are the Earl of Heyward, Edward, and the title has forced you to change. As it ought. You have never shirked duty.”

He turned and looked with unseeing eyes through an open French window into the ballroom, where the final dance of their set was in progress. He was feeling remarkably unhappy. How was he to persuade her that she was the only one he had ever considered marrying, that she was the only one he could contemplate marrying with any confidence of finding peace and companionship and comfort?

Peace and companionship and comfort?

From a marriage?

Was there nothing else to be hoped for, then?

And safety. That word too had leapt to mind just a few minutes ago.

Safety?

Yes, a marriage ought to be safe, ought it not?

His train of thought was suddenly broken as his unseeing eyes focused. Sharply.

“Oh, I say,” he said.

“What?” Eunice turned too to look into the ballroom.

“Of all the gall,” he said. “Windrow is dancing with her.”

“Windrow?” she said. “Dancing with—?”

And he told her the whole story of the episode on the road to London, with the exception of a few unnecessary details. In this version, for example, Lady Angeline Dudley had merely been standing at the window of the taproom.

“How typical of you,” Eunice said when he had finished, “to have risked your own safety in order to defend a lady who was behaving so badly from a gentleman who was behaving worse. Especially when you did not even know her. But he did apologize. I daresay there was some decency left in him, then, though that does not entirely excuse him from behavior that was not becoming in a gentleman.”

“And now he is dancing with her,” he said. “And ogling her. And no one but me knows how outrageous it all is. She does not look happy.”

Or perhaps he was imagining that. She was smiling.

“Which is very much to her credit,” Eunice agreed. “Lady Palmer is her chaperon. She is a very proper lady. However, without the pertinent information, she would not have known to refuse him the nod of approval when he came to solicit Lady Angeline’s hand for the set.”

“And Tresham,” he said through his teeth, “is his friend. He has a whole army of such ramshackle friends.”

“But to be fair, Edward,” she said, “he would doubtless not feel very friendly at all to Lord Windrow if he knew the man had accosted and insulted his sister at an inn.”

Edward’s nostrils flared. But he could not, of course, stride into the ballroom to demand that Windrow step away from Lady Angeline Dudley and quit Dudley House without further ado. Or ride in there on a white steed, brandishing a flashing blade in one hand while with the other he scooped the lady up to the saddle before him and bore her off to safety. This was none of his business. And she was doubtless safe from harm tonight, though heaven knew what Windrow was saying to her. He was saying something.

“The set is almost at an end,” he said, “but it is the supper dance. He will be leading her in to supper, Eunice.”

“It is altogether possible,” she said, “that he has apologized abjectly again tonight, now that he knows who she is, and that she has forgiven him, though I certainly would not have done so in her place. Not easily, anyway. He certainly ought to have been made to grovel. Perhaps she is enjoying both the dance and the prospect of sitting beside him at supper.”

It was indeed possible, Edward conceded. She was no delicate flower, after all. Quite the opposite. She was really quite as ramshackle as her brothers, though perhaps that was a little uncharitable. Perhaps she was delighted to see Windrow again. Though she had been outraged when she first set eyes upon him at the ballroom doors, he remembered.

“And perhaps not,” Eunice said as the music came to an end and the sound of voices from within the ballroom rose and the guests turned almost as one in the direction of the doors and the supper room beyond. “And she ought not to be compelled to go undefended just because she is too polite to make a fuss. Come along, Edward. We will follow them out and secure a place at their table if we are able. He will not dare be impertinent in your hearing. Indeed, I expect he will be quite ashamed of himself.”

Windrow would doubtless shake in his dancing shoes as soon as his eyes alit upon the sniveling coward from the Rose and Crown, Edward thought ruefully. And this really was not his business. Or Eunice’s. He did not want her within fifty feet of Windrow.

But she had taken his arm and was drawing him purposefully along with her in the direction of the supper room.

AFTER THE FIRST set Angeline danced with two young gentlemen and one older one—a marquess, no less—before it came time for the supper dance. She had enjoyed every moment, even the labored and florid compliments the marquess had seemed to feel obliged to press upon her while his breath came in increasingly audible gasps and his corsets creaked. She had enjoyed too the brief intervals between sets when she had been able to speak with other guests. She had spent a few animated minutes with Lady Martha Hamelin and Maria Smith-Benn, the outcome of which was that they were to visit Hookham’s Library together the next day.

She had two new friends.

She hoped—oh, how she hoped—that the Earl of Heyward would ask her for the supper dance. She knew it was unexceptionable for a gentleman to dance with a lady twice in one evening—Cousin Rosalie had told her so. It must be rare, though, at a girl’s come-out ball, when everyone wished to dance with her, especially if she was rich and well connected. And she knew that Lord Heyward did not approve of her. Good heavens, could she blame him? She had called him stuffy, albeit in an affectionate way. He may not have detected the affection, however, which was perhaps just as well. And he knew that her accident had been deliberate. He believed she had done it because she was embarrassed to be seen dancing with him.

Anyway, she hoped. It would be the loveliest ending to the loveliest day of her life if she could dance—no, stroll on the terrace with him and then sit with him at supper. Perhaps she would have a chance to redeem herself somewhat in his eyes. She must think in advance of some sensible subject upon which she could converse with him. Had she read any good books lately? At all? She could tell him that she was going to take out a subscription at the library tomorrow because she was feeling starved of good reading material and could he recommend anything that she might not already have read?

And then a double disappointment set in, though actually one of them was more in the way of being an outrage than a disappointment. First she watched Lord Heyward return his last partner to her mama’s side and then begin his journey about the perimeter of the ballroom in her direction. He stopped along the way, though, to talk to a group of ladies, and when he moved away from them a minute or so later, he had one of them—the youngest—on his arm and proceeded to lead her out onto the terrace.

Angeline did not know the lady, though she did remember greeting her in the receiving line. It was impossible to remember every name that had been announced, or even most. Or even some, for that matter. She had remembered Maria Smith-Benn’s name and Lady Martha Hamelin’s because she had met and liked both at the palace earlier. And she had remembered the names of the Earl of Heyward, of course, and the Countess of Heyward and the dowager. And Cousin Leonard, Lord Fenner, because he was Rosalie’s brother and Angeline must have met him at Rosalie’s wedding all those years ago. And there were a couple of Ferdinand’s friends who had been riding with him this morning and whose names she had recalled this evening without prompting. And that was about it. She must make more of an effort in the coming days. She must try to memorize one name each day. No, better make that ten names.

Was it possible?

And then came the other great disappointment hot on the heels of the first—or, rather, the outrage. It came sauntering along in company with Tresham and stopped before her, and there was Lord Windrow, smiling warmly as if he had never in his life set eyes upon her until this evening and had never suggested that she sit on his lap and share a meat pasty and a glass of ale with him.

He had the impressive physique she remembered and the dark red hair, which now gleamed like copper in the candlelight, and the handsome face and, yes, the green eyes that were slightly hooded beneath lazy eyelids. Someone had once mentioned in Angeline’s hearing the evocative term bedroom eyes. This is what that person, whoever it was, must have meant.

Lord Windrow had bedroom eyes. Doubtless he thought of them as lady-killer eyes. Men could be very silly.

“Rosalie, Angeline,” Tresham said, “may I present Lord Windrow, who has asked for the introduction? My cousin, Lady Palmer, Windrow, and my sister, Lady Angeline Dudley.”

Angeline would have burst with indignation if she could while he fawned over Rosalie and kissed her hand. And then he turned to Angeline and bowed very correctly and smiled again with just the right amount of deference a man ought to show to the young sister of his friend. He made no attempt to kiss her hand.

“With your permission, ma’am, and if I am not already too late,” he said, addressing Rosalie oh so correctly, “I shall lead Lady Angeline Dudley into the next set. I will consider it a great honor. Tresham is a particular friend of mine.”

Which was hardly surprising, Angeline thought nastily. It did not take a great stretch of the imagination to picture her brother offering to take a lady onto his lap to share refreshments if he were ever to encounter one standing alone in an inn taproom. She contemplated an outright refusal to Lord Windrow. Except that he had not addressed the offer to her. He had talked of her as though she did not exist in her own right.

Rosalie had been growing increasingly agitated. The dancing was about to resume, and Angeline had been steadfastly refusing all evening to reserve the supper dance for anyone who had asked for it. By this time, Rosalie had just been saying, most gentlemen would assume that she already had a prospective partner, and she was in grave danger of being a wallflower at her own come-out ball. At the supper dance, no less. There could, apparently, be no worse social disaster for any young lady. Angeline, of course, had been hoping desperately that the Earl of Heyward would come along to request the set.

“I am certain Lady Angeline will be delighted,” Rosalie said with a nod of approval and no doubt a huge inward sigh of relief.

Tresham wandered off to seek his own partner. He had danced every set so far, a strict attention to duty that must be simply killing him while at the same time sending his chosen partners and their mamas into transports of joy.

Angeline was not delighted at all. But what was she to do short of making a scene? She had already done that once this evening when she had turned her ankle. She would be the talk of London drawing rooms for the next decade instead of just the next week if she snubbed Lord Windrow in front of all her brother’s gathered guests.

She set her hand on his sleeve and contented herself for the moment with assuming a cold, haughty demeanor, similar to the one she had turned on him at that inn.

“Ah, fair one,” he murmured to her as he led her onto the floor, and he had the effrontery to move his head a little closer to hers. “I said it would be a pleasure to renew my acquaintance with you, but I had no idea just how great a pleasure it would be. Tresham’s sister.”

“He would flatten your nose and knock all your teeth down your throat and blacken both your eyes if he knew what you said to me at that inn,” she said.

“Oh, goodness me, yes,” he agreed. “And shatter every rib in my body. If he succeeded in hobbling both my legs and securing both my hands behind my back and tethering me to a post before he commenced, that is. And if he blindfolded me.”

Men and their silly boasts!

“I did not know,” he said abjectly. “I mistook you for a lesser mortal.”

She looked at him with cold hauteur, and he chuckled.

“I must,” he said, “have been blind in both eyes. Which perhaps makes it just as well that that sniveling coward was there to apprise me of my error.”

“Lord Heyward is not a coward,” she said. “Nothing compelled him to confront you or to defend me. He did not know my identity any more than you did. And when you would have left, nothing compelled him to block your way and insist that you apologize.”

He grinned at her.

“Perhaps he is an idiot,” he said, “as well as a sniveling coward.”

She pursed her lips as though she had just swallowed a particularly sour grape. She was not going to engage in any argument with him. She had said her piece.

“You were sitting with him when I entered the ballroom, regrettably late,” he said. “I was told that you sprained your ankle partway into the opening set and were forced to sit out the rest of it. I am delighted that you have recovered so soon and so completely. Or was the injury, ah, convenient? I have noticed that the fellow dances rather as though he has two wooden legs.”

“I was sitting with Lord Heyward because I wished to do so,” she told him.

The music rescued her from even more severe annoyance, and they moved off into the set. Fortunately, the figures of the dance kept them apart for much of the time and there was little chance of conversation. When he was able to talk to her without being overheard, he larded her with extravagant compliments, though they were far more deliberately amusing than the Marquess of Exwich’s had been earlier.

He was trying to make her laugh. He could not try to make her smile because she was already doing it by the time the dance began. It would not do for the spectators to notice that there was something wrong. The rumor mill would jump at the opportunity to concoct some suitably ghastly story to explain her sudden moroseness.

The Earl of Heyward was still out on the terrace, she noticed with an inward sigh. He was still with the lady in blue. The two of them were standing against the stone balustrade, talking earnestly, as though they had known each other all their lives.

Angeline felt a wave of envy.

If only …

And then she remembered again that this was the supper dance and that she would be expected to sit with Lord Windrow and be polite to him. And smile at him.

Life could be very trying at times.

She could positively weep.

Except that this was still the most exciting day of her life. And actually, if she ignored her indignation, she would have to admit that her partner was quite amusing in an entirely silly sort of way. And he was a graceful dancer.

He was very like Tresham, of course. And Ferdinand. And most of Ferdinand’s friends who had been riding with him this morning. There was a whole breed of such men—careless, shallow, amusing. And really quite, quite unthreatening.

She was not at all afraid of Lord Windrow. Indeed, she never had been. She just had no interest in his flatteries and was still indignant that he had had the effrontery to solicit a dance with her—in the hearing of both Cousin Rosalie and Tresham. That was low. Very low.

Who was that lady in blue?