He played the pianoforte at his family’s musicales. He was well-acquainted with—and well-liked by—all his peers. He had not yet taken a wife. His first name was Heath. Not that someone like Nora would be first-naming anyone in theton.
Especially not a man like him.
Mr. Grenville was known as a problem-solver. The sort of gentleman fabulously wealthy folks summoned when there was a scandal that needed hiding. He was also heir to a barony. When he inherited the title, he would become Lord Grenville rather than a plain mister. He wasimportant.
Definitely not the sort of gentleman one’s paid companion should be baptizing in lemonade.
“Over there are the Blackpool brothers and the Duke of Wellington,” the baroness continued, directing the tip of her fan toward various personages in the crowd. “You recognize the earl who just walked in, don’t you? That’s Lord Wainwright. Or, as some choose to call him, the Lord of Pleasure.”
Nora blinked at the uncanny coincidence.
Well, bother. It seemed the caption she’d sent home to her brother wasn’t nearly as original as she’d thought. Thank heavens she’d sent that sketch away. She’d hate for anyone to stumble across one of her silly drawings and think she was attempting to spread gossip. Especially since it could cost her post.
“The lord of what, again?” she asked, in case she had heard incorrectly.
“Pleasure,” the baroness repeated and tittered behind her fan. “Don’t ask me to show you the caricature everyone is talking about. It’s not fit for common eyes. My friends must have sent me at least ten copies before noon. So droll, with Wainwright looking positively baffled as swooning henwits drop like flies at the very sight of him.”
No.
No, no, no, no, no.
This could not be happening. Goosebumps raced across her flesh, a cold sweat chasing in their wake.
“Lord of Pleasure”wasNora’s drawing.
A popular earl had a horrid new nickname thanks to a few strokes of her pen.
Chapter 2
For the first time all Season, Heath Grenville found himself intrigued.
As the premier scandal-fixer of the upper classes, little occurred in London without his awareness. As heir to a title, a graduate of both Eton and Oxford, and a gentleman who regularly put his dancing slippers to good use, Heath was long-acquainted with everyone even peripherally related to thebeau monde.
Today, he had been surprised by a stranger.
The beautiful young lady he’d bumped into near the refreshment table possessed a face no gentleman alive could forget. And yet Heath could not place her. Nor could he understand how it had taken all evening to notice her.
With her soft pink gown and lustrous red curls, she more than stood out from the sea of pastel hopefuls. Wide blue eyes, blushing cheeks, lips a perfect, dusty rose…
“Who are you looking for?” his sister asked.
Heath started and forced his attention back to Bryony.
“Nothing,” he said quickly. “No one. Do you want some lemonade?”
“I don’t even want this ratafia.” Bryony sent her cup a baleful glance. “I wish ladies were the ones who retired for port. Have you picked a bride yet?”
“Not yet.” An image of glossy red curls filled his mind.
Heath had not introduced himself because he had been embarrassed he did not already know the young lady’s name. Thetonwas so insular that new blood was always a ready source of gossip among its members.
A new crop of debutantes? The patronesses of Almack’s would have already decided the girls’ fate before they took their first curtsey. Relatives on holiday or old friends from out of town? The happy occasion would have been boasted about for weeks before the visit even transpired.
His heart thudded. He had not overlooked awallflower,had he?
In alarm, he swept his horrified gaze about the perimeter of the dance floor.
As elder brother to three sisters, Heath took wallflowers’ enjoyment of public functions very seriously. He had witnessed long ago the mortification that came from staring longingly across a crowded ballroom for six excruciating hours, only to leave with one’s empty dance card hanging limply from one’s wrist.
