Worse, Heath didn’t just recognize the room. He recognized the exact soirée. He hadbeenthere. And if London’s newest critic had been there as well…
Heath crumpled the drawing into a tight ball. Small wonder these savage works of “art” were unsigned. The mystery caricaturist was a member of their class. Shamelessly betraying his peers for a penny. Too cowardly to spew his poison to their faces.
Heath tossed the crumpled sketch into the fire and watched it burn.
When Lady Caroline Lamb had writtenGlenarvonlast year as a thinly veiled attempt to exact romantical revenge after being jilted by Lord Byron, the viscountess had lost far more than permission to attend Almack’s. She had been ostracized from Society completely.
The caricaturist deserved no less harsh a fate.
Chapter 7
Nora perched self-consciously on a pristine carriage squab and wondered if she would ever become accustomed to parading about Hyde Park in Lady Roundtree’s landau.
Even with one leg jutting stiffly forward, the baroness looked as confident and elegant as ever. An exquisitely crafted gown hid the splints well out of view, and a smart blue hat towering with fresh flowers and a false parakeet drew one’s eye toward Lady Roundtree’s regal visage.
Not that anyone would be distracted by Nora’s presence. She sat backward in the landau, her spine to the plush wall separating the groom from the passengers. Her lace-trimmed bonnet was the finest headpiece Nora had ever owned, even if it lacked both flora and fauna.
Her awkward posture was also due to her twin responsibilities of keeping Captain Pugboat inside his wicker basket, while also ensuring passers-by did not fail to notice his adorably wrinkled presence.
Every afternoon was exactly the same.
Or at least, it had been until she found herself spending every free moment drawing sketches of herself and Mr. Grenville in situations that could never happen. Standing up with her to dance at a ball. Skating with her across the frozen Thames. Presented to his friends and family as a diamond of the first water, rather than a mouse that belonged in the shadows…
Even when she was far from her sketchbooks, she could not quit the wistful images from her mind. What would it be like to feel her hand in his? Better yet, to taste his lips on hers? To parade down the busy streets in an open carriage as if he was proud to have her by his side? To—
“Captain Pugboat needs to be petted!” Lady Roundtree ordered with a sudden start.
Nora lifted the wicker lid at once. “Shall I lift him to your lap?”
“And let his dirty fur stain my skirt?” The baroness stared at her, aghast. “You are to do what I cannot.”
“Of course,” Nora murmured.
She slid her hand into the basket and gave Captain Pugboat a good rub behind the ears.
“Not too much,” Lady Roundtree snapped. “A pet mustn’t be spoiled.”
Nora nodded and slid her hand from the basket.
She had quickly learned how much the baroness loved to “promenade” in an open carriage in order to see and be seen. Even prior to breaking her leg, Lady Roundtree had taken her late afternoon walks from atop a high carriage to make certain she was glimpsed by everyone of import. Nora was half-convinced that the primary reason the baroness had hired her as companion was to resume her daily gossip fests in Hyde Park.
After the injury, Lady Roundtree had only become more popular. It seemed every fashionable person in London made a point of pausing beside the landau to wish her well, even if they had conveyed exactly the same sentiment just the day before, and the day before that.
Between well-wishers, the baroness kept up a low running commentary on the lives and loves of everyone within sight. Currently, the carriage was strategically paused halfway around the circle so lords and ladies on foot, on horseback, or in carriages could more easily stop to enquire about Lady Roundtree’s health.
“That was Major Blackpool,” the baroness whispered. “He used to be the most dashing rake in Town until he lost his leg at Waterloo. I’m sure you noticed the horrid clapping sound it makes when he moves.”
Nora blinked. She had not noticed any strange sounds, or anything odd about the major’s limbs at all. He sat astride one of the finest stallions Nora had seen in her life.
“I thought he seemed nice,” she said.
Lady Roundtree sighed at the major’s retreating back. “He still cuts a fine figure, wouldn’t you say? How he ended up with a vicar’s daughter, of all creatures…”
A vicar’s daughter might seem scandalous to a baroness, but such a situation was still far above Nora’s station. She knew gentlemen of thetonwere outside her reach. Of course she did. But she could not help but fantasize about one particular gentleman. No man in London cut as fine a figure as Mr. Grenville. His tousled brown hair, his warm hazel eyes, the way he looked at her as if he’d forgotten the rest of the world existed…
If an Army major could not wed a vicar’s daughter without scandal, no wonder a future baron could have nothing to do with a farmer’s granddaughter. Mr. Grenville did not make the rules. He was forced to follow them just like Nora.
Yet more and more each day, an ache in her chest made her wish therewereno rules. That she could dance with anyone who wished to invite her, kiss anyone her heart begged for her to kiss.
