He placed the elegant parchment summoning him to his mother’s salon across from his morning tea and returned his attention to the urgent matter of breaking his fast while his eggs were still hot. Today could require his strength.
Some would opine that the seasonal Grenville musicales afforded the eponymous Grenvilles significantly more social status than their barony. Theirs was a title, yes, and not the lowest possible, but his family could not enter a garden or a ballroom without bumping into half a dozen viscounts or earls or marquises or dukes who outranked a paltry barony.
At the Grenville musicales, all of that changed.
No one outranked shy Camellia’s powerful singing voice. No one outclassed Bryony’s astonishing skill at the violin.
At least half the audience could trounce Heath’s talents at the pianoforte, but the Grenville musicales were not about him. They were his mother’s Colosseum. Her daughters were gladiators among pawns, showcasing fearless strength to prove themselves worthy of knighthood.
Rather,duchesshood, if Mother had her way.
Heath held no illusions that the current summons, ostensibly to discuss the upcoming musicale, was anything other than a pretense to cover her true objective: marrying off her children. The only mystery was whether today’s strategizing summit would center on himself, on one of his sisters, or on all four stubbornly unwed offspring.
He had never been able to resist a mystery.
After dispensing with the rest of his meal, he presented himself in his dressing chambers where his valet awaited him with this morning’s freshly starched and pressed neckcloth.
Most gentlemen would not have left their quarters in the first place without a perfectly tied cravat billowing about their necks like a flower in bloom. Although Heath did not usually flaunt Society’s customs, he deeply appreciated the one hour each day when he needn’t worry about keeping up appearances.
After all, years of dedicated personal research had taught him there was nothing more inviting to marmalade stains than crisp, white folds of starched linen.
As his valet worked his magic, Heath’s gaze tracked across the framed paintings he’d chosen for his private chambers. Contentment filled him at the familiar, pleasing sight.
He loved his town house. It didn’t contain a single musical instrument, and was all but wallpapered with canvases featuring his favorite works of art. Each evoked a strong emotion, transporting him into the artist’s imagination.
It had taken years to amass the perfect collection. He liked to believe hisobjets d’artrivaled any art gallery in London.
Heath straightened. Nothing to get maudlin about. Silly thoughts like these accomplished naught. His role was clearly defined. He had only to walk into it.
The moment his valet pronounced him a pink of theton, Heath quit his cozy, bachelor-sized town house and steered his landau to his parents’ much larger home. He would have much preferred to drive his barouche, but neither the damp air nor his freshly styled coiffure would do him well in an open carriage.
When he arrived, he handed the reins to a footman and strode briskly up the manicured walk to the austere entranceway.
Although his parents’ town house was devoid of meaningful art, it was home to all of Heath’s favorite people.
Camellia, who sang like an angel. Dahlia, whowasan angel to the orphans she rescued. Bryony, the wild one. Their proud mama.
Their absent father.
Heath’s chest tightened as the door swung open to reveal the family butler. Prate’s years of “Good morning, sir,” and “Good evening, sir,” amounted to far more hours of conversation than Heath had ever shared with his sire.
After he and Prate had exchanged their customary pleasantries, Heath made his way to the private “family” parlor. His lips twisted in irony. As far as Heath knew, he was the only male member of the family who had ever entered the room.
He doubted today would be any different.
The old familiar resentment crawled along his skin. “Today” was never a day during which Lord Grenville had time for his son. Or his wife. Or his daughters. Merely being first in line to inherit the title afforded Heath no particular advantage.
He had been trying his entire life to carve a place for himself in the baron’s busy schedule. To be spoken to. To be noticed.
As things stood, the best chance at securing a brief moment of his father’s attention would be at Heath’s wedding. And even then, only if he secured exactly the right type of bride.
Which was likely the cause for his mother’s summons, after his failures to select a wife among several Seasons of debutantes. Findingawoman was simple. Finding the right one…
Once again, an image of Miss Winfield fluttered to mind.
Seeing her again had not extinguished the simmering desire for her company that had plagued him ever since their first meeting. Their conversation had proven what they’d both already acknowledged; the distance between them was too wide to cross. There could be no future between them. No romantical future, at least.
And yet that spark, that persistent damnablespark, had fueled the undercurrent behind every word, every gesture, every stolen glance. It was as if something crackled between them, something that did not care about station or propriety or duty. An ignited flame that brought both light and warmth to secret yearnings he could never acknowledge.
