“I believe,” he said, looking back at Margaret, “we should organize a ball for Christmas. Not on Christmas evening— most people like to spend the whole of that day with their families. On the evening after, perhaps. Would you like that?”
But Margaret did not respond with quite the ecstasy he might have expected. She darted glances at her sister-in-law and her aunt. “A ball?” she said. “Here, Cousin Gerard?”
“I assume,” he said, “that the ballroom has not burned down since my day?”
“No,” she said hastily. “No, it is still here. But there has never been a ball here—not since I was a very little girl anyway. Oh, this isfamous. You do not believe it is wicked to dance?”
“Wicked?” He looked at her with raised eyebrows. “As in evil and sinful? Should I?”
Margaret tittered. “I do not believe dancing is wicked, either,” she said. “Is there really going to be a ball here? Promise?”
“Meg—” Christina said, but she felt herself impaled by that cool blue glance.
“There will certainly be a ball,” he said. “I suppose that means a great deal of planning. I suppose the whole house party will involve much planning. I had not thought a great deal about it. I will need assistance.”
“Oh, I will help,” Margaret assured him eagerly. “I will write the invitations.”
“And I will certainly help in whatever way I can,” Lady Hannah said.
His lordship looked at Christina.
“I suppose, my lord,” she said, “the servants have been informed of your plans? It is invariably the servants who do most of the work when their betters set themselves to play.” Sheknewthat the servants had not been informed—not about the house party, not about the ball. She would have heard. How typically thoughtless of him. He was as foolishly impetuous as ever, then. It was a comforting realization.
He set his elbows on the table, his dessert finished, and rested his chin on his clasped hands. “The servants have not been informed, my lady,” he said. “But I suppose having guests arrive here for a week or so of celebrationwilldisturb their normal routine, will it not? And yours. You will need to direct them in what is to be done—unless you choose to leave everything to me. Do you feel yourself equal to the task?”
She had no idea. She had lived quietly in the country since her marriage. They had rarely had any guests at all. They had never had a houseful. They had never hosted a house party. They had never hosted a ball. And there was so little notice—only a week. How dared he do this to her!
But he dared, she thought, because he was the Earl of Wanstead. Because he was master of Thornwood. Because he had the right to do here whatever he pleased. And because she was merely a dependent, an encumbrance most of the time, a convenience now. If she said no, he had implied, he would do everything himself. He would humiliate her by ignoring her and behaving as if Thornwood had no mistress at all. As it did not—not by right.
She wondered if he enjoyed the feeling of power he had over her. Or if he simply did not care. He was accustomed to the exercise of power, after all.
“I do, my lord,” she said coolly in answer to his question, her hands clenched tightly in her lap.
“We will discuss details in the morning, then,” he told her. “Shall we say after breakfast, in the library?”
“I shall be there,” she said.
She always spent the mornings with her daughters. She had the household routine organized in such a way that nothing would interfere with that sacred time. And they kept country hours, dining early so that she could spend an hour with the girls before they went to bed. Tonight they had dined late. She got to her feet. “Aunt Hannah? Meg?” she said. “Shall we leave his lordship to his port?”
But he chuckled and got to his feet too. “If his lordship is left alone with the port this evening,” he said, “he may well fall asleep over it. I will come to the drawing room with you.”
He escorted Lady Hannah again, but when they reached the drawing room, she crossed to the pianoforte with Margaret in order to find suitable music for her to play. Christina seated herself in her usual chair by the fire and reached for her embroidery.
The Earl of Wanstead stood before her. “You were disappointed,” he said. “You wished me to stay to imbibe port. Perhaps what you really wished was that I had stayed in London—or Montreal.”
She looked up at him, stung. “We dined almost an hour later than usual, my lord,” she said. “My daughters are within—five minutes of their bedtime.” She had glanced at the clock on the mantel. “And I am not with them.”
“And I am stopping you?” he asked her quietly. “By all means go to your children. Why would I wish to detain you? Because your company is so fascinating?”
Or perhaps because as master of the house he might require her to preside over the tea tray when it arrived, she thought. Gilbert had never allowed her to go up to the nursery until his second cup had been poured.
She ignored the insult, the quite open expression of dislike, got to her feet, and curtsied to him. “Thank you, my lord,” she said.
She was aware that he watched her as she left the room. Margaret was beginning to play Bach.
If only Rodney had survived, she thought as she climbed the stairs. If only there had been another male cousin between Gilbert andhim. If only she had not gone to London for that particular Season when she was eighteen. If only she had not attended that particular ball at its start. If only ...
But life was made up of seemingly small, unimportant, chance events that together created the pattern of one’s existence. There was no changing the pattern of hers. It had led her to this very difficult moment. She was a dependent of the Earl of Wanstead—such a familiar title. But the man with the title was no longer Gilbert. He was Gerard Percy.
