She wasn’t portrait-perfect in atonkind of way, with regal dress and colorless blonde tendrils, as befitted a classic English rose. She was far more interesting. The salmon pink of her gown brought out the bright red of her hair, and vice versa. She wasn’t understated. She was stunning.
Nor did Heath believe the color choice was an accident.
Miss Winfield had been wearing pink the last time he saw her. It was her look. Her signature. Although she made every other attempt to blend into the background, the eye-catching pink-and-red combination meant she wasn’t afraid to stand out, to try something new, to do things differently.
He watched with interest as a footman rolled a wheeled chair to the bench near Miss Winfield. Of course. Lady Roundtree’s broken leg. Miss Winfield had said she was a companion. The baroness must then be her patroness. He wondered how that was going.
Many people claimed they could withstand little more than afternoon tea in Lady Roundtree’s company. Not only was the baroness often excitable and dramatic, she was niece to Lady Pettibone, a formidable society matron referred to as the “old dragon” exclusively in hushed whispers.
Lady Pettibone was the Duke of Courteland’s highest-ranking relative, and ruled a great swath of thetonwith her sharp tongue and iron will. For that reason, many peers feared that idle words spoken around Lady Roundtree could reach Lady Pettibone’s ear and ruin their standing forever.
Heath and his siblings had no such concerns. As the elder of the four, his and Camellia’s comportment were famously impeccable. The youngest, Bryony, was an unrepentant free spirit who didn’t give a button what anyone said about her behind her back, or even in front of her face.
Their middle sister, Dahlia, had once been as faultless as her elder siblings. Now that she’d begun a charity school in a poor neighborhood and actively sought donations from those with deep pockets, the poverty of the orphans she was attempting to save had begun to taint her own reputation.
Like Bryony before her, Dahlia had simply decided not to care. She did not seek to keep her standing, but to raise the fortunes of others.
Heath found her priorities commendable. Their mother despaired of Dahlia’s ever finding a match.
Marriage. That was what he was supposed to be thinking about. Conversing with potential brides, not keeping beneath the shade of a sycamore tree in order to watch an intriguing companion coddle an excitable, chair-bound baroness as if she were the next Queen of England.
Yet he could not look away. Rather than treat Lady Roundtree’s sometimes-difficult personality as a bore, or as a job to suffer through with a healthy amount of eye-rolling, Miss Winfield’s manner was unflinchingly warm, her expression relentlessly kind.
He tilted his head as she lifted a wicker basket to her lap. Curious. Guests of Lady Roundtree’s class were far more likely to purchase their repast here than pack their own picnic. Whatever the reason, Lady Roundtree appeared pleased with the arrangement—a miracle unto itself. Heath smiled. Miss Winfield must be an exemplary companion.
He pointed his feet in her direction.
When he was within a half-dozen yards of her, the lid to the wicker basket popped open and a flurry of fur shot out with the speed of a cannon, aiming straight for Heath.
He froze in surprise, then grinned at the idea that either Miss Winfield or Lady Roundtree—or both—could not conscience an outing in Vauxhall Gardens without allowing their puppy to enjoy the fine weather as well.
Before he could kneel in preparation for greeting the excitedly yipping pug, Miss Winfield fairly flew across the lawn. She scooped up the puppy and popped him back inside the swinging basket before Heath had a chance to so much as rub behind the pug’s ears.
A charming blush heated the apples of her cheeks. She lay a hand atop the wicker lid to keep its contents corralled inside. “Mr. Grenville! I just… I’m so sorry he got away from me.”
“I’m not,” Heath replied honestly. “I wondered if we would chance to meet again, and your puppy has answered the question.”
“Oh, he is not mine, much as I love him. He’s Lady Roundtree’s dog.” Miss Winfield glanced over her shoulder at her patroness.
Heath followed her gaze. He could not imagine Lady Roundtree doting on a pet, but he was pleased to be proven wrong. That was, if one could consider paying an assistant to keep one’s pet contained out of sight in a basket “doting.”
“Do you come to Vauxhall often?” he asked Miss Winfield, and grimaced.
’Twas precisely the sort of opening gambit rakes poked fun at other gentlemen for using. But if the lady had tired of hearing endless variations of the same question, she gave no sign.
“It’s actually my first time,” she admitted, eyes bright and sparkling. “I had seen a few prints in Lady Roundtree’s collection, but nothing compares to the actual experience.”
Heath could not help an odd pleasure at simply being present to witness her first time among the gardens. Her obvious delight was infectious.
He stepped closer. “What do you like best?”
“I cannot decide,” she said with a happy laugh. “The grounds are enormous. Everywhere I turn, there’s more. The trees, the flowers, the architecture… An artist could paint a thousand color prints and not capture it all.”
“Do you like art?” He hoped his voice did not betray his eagerness.
Although he had no talent for producing anything worth viewing, art had always been Heath’s secret passion. Until now, no one had truly shared his enthusiasm.
Many people claimed to like art, when what they meant was they enjoyed boasting about having glimpsed a famous sculpture, or that they never missed an opportunity to purchase a penny caricature. He was suddenly very interested in learning Miss Winfield’s thoughts on the matter.
