There was a certain family resemblance between Owen Ware and Colonel Ware, she thought, though nothing particularly obvious. They were about the same height, though the colonel looked taller, with his very upright military bearing and his broad shoulders and what must be powerful muscles in his arms and chest and thighs. Both were fair-haired, but the colonel’s hair was a mix of light brown and blond and waved over his head to give him a slightly tousled look. His face was more weathered than his brother’s and somewhat more rugged. And there were his jaw and his mouth, firm, perhaps stubborn. They were what last week had left her with the impression of cruelty. One would certainly not wish to be one of his men, caught neglecting a duty. Or an enemy facing his sword.
Goodness, had she really called himcruelto his face? She felt her cheeks grow hot at the memory and looked at Bertrand, who smiled reassuringly back at her.
He was devastatingly good-looking—Colonel Ware, that was. And attractive. If there was a difference between the two. Not in the way Owen was handsome and attractive, though. He did not have Owen’s lean grace or…sparkle. He was noticeably older—probably in his thirties? Owen, she knew, must be twenty-eight or thereabouts, the same age as Bertrand. They had been at university together.
She was twirling down the set suddenly, Bertrand’s hand firm against her back to prevent her from spinning away out of control.The other dancers in the lines, ladies on one side, gentlemen on the other, clapped in time to the music as they watched. Winifred laughed with exuberance. She did not expect to dance all night, but she did like dancing and must enjoy every chance she had—the next set with Owen, who had joined the other line with his partner for this set, and a dance later in the evening with Colonel Ware.
That was not a happy prospect, however. Somehow she found him a bit frightening—no,intimidatingwas a better word. And it was the supper dance. She knew what that meant. They would sit together for the meal, and unless she could maneuver matters otherwise, they would engage each other in almost exclusive conversation for at least half an hour.
Did he sense a possible romance between her and his younger brother? Did he intend to grill her to discover if she was worthy to be admitted to the ranks of his hallowed family? Had he already made up his mind? Did he intend to warn her off?
She had no intention of being intimidated. Correction: Since that was already happening, she had no intention of giving in to it. She was not at all sure Owen was interested in her inthatway anyway. She was not sure she was interested inhim. But she did know that she liked him enormously and that he was just the sort of man with whom she might settle happily.
He limped very slightly, Winifred thought, her mind returning to Colonel Ware. It was the only physical imperfection she had detected, though really it was very minor. An old battle wound, perhaps? She must ask Owen. No, she must not. It would really be an unpardonably indelicate thing for a woman to ask about a stranger.
The set was over far too soon, perhaps because she had not given it her whole attention. Gentlemen were leading their partners off the floor, clearing it for the next set.
“Thank you, Winnie,” Bertrand said as he led her back to Aunt Anna’s side. “You are an excellent dancer. Enjoy the rest of the evening.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I will.”
“Yet suddenly you look again as if you are facing your own execution,” he said. “Dare I predict you will dance every single set of the evening until the last guest totters homeward?”
Winifred laughed, though it occurred to her for the first time that he might be right. The Duchess of Netherby was hosting this ball and it was inherhonor. Aunt Anna was always a perfect hostess. It would be a matter of great pride and importance to her to see that her niece was not without a partner all evening.
So much for that quiet corner.
—
Nicholas danced every set though he knew his leg would ache more than usual tomorrow. He had learned to ignore such inconveniences. He always enjoyed mingling with other people at the social events he attended. He enjoyed choosing his partners at balls. He liked conversing with them, as far as the figures of the dance allowed. He savored the opening set with Grace. She looked strikingly handsome in an emerald green gown. She lived up to her name in the way she danced. She smiled and gave him her attention. He felt that she genuinely liked him, as he liked her. But love? Did it matter if she loved him? Or if he loved her? They were both past such romantic nonsense, surely. Liking would give place to affection if they married and eventually to a sort of love, which might not be passionate but would be lasting. He would be able to trust her, he firmly believed, as she could trust him. Once he wasmarried, his wife would have all his loyalty. All his fidelity. He had never been much of a philanderer anyway.
She would be a good mother—as he hoped he would be a good father. Different from his own. But he shook off that thought as soon as he became aware of it. His father had been who he was, just as he, Nicholas, was whohewas. Why should he fear becoming his father all over again just because he looked like him and shared a basic gregarious nature with him? It was disturbing when other people still told him, as though they thought it was a compliment, that he was just like his father. One person had told him that just tonight. He had forced himself to smile.
His father had been enormously popular, both at home at Ravenswood and here in London, where he had spent the spring months, supposedly attending to his parliamentary duties while Mama and his children remained at home in the country. It was only when Nicholas was eighteen and about to leave home that he passed the age of innocence with an abrupt jolt when he discovered who, or ratherwhat, his father really was.
He simply must make Grace an offer soon. There was no point in delaying. Her parents expected it. So, no doubt, did she. And he was not going to find anyone more suitable. He did need to ascertain first, however, that it was what she truly wished. He did not want to discover after their marriage that she had accepted him only because it was expected of her. Not that he would discover it even then, he supposed. Her vows made, she was unlikely ever to admit such an unsavory truth to him.
“Would it be too much to ask that you reserve another set for me later this evening, perhaps directly after supper?” he asked her as he led her back to her mother’s side.
It was unexceptionable, he knew, to dance twice in an evening with the same partner, though he rarely did it himself.
“Thank you,” she said. “I will.”
Which left him wondering why he had not, even before tonight, reserved the supper dance with her. Having the meal together would have given them the chance for a private tête-à-tête, perhaps to be followed by a stroll in the garden. Instead, he had asked Miss Cunningham, in whom he could have no possible interest beyond the connection with Owen. He rather liked her despite, or perhaps because of, her outspokenness in the receiving line. But as a sister-in-law? As a lifetime partner for his fun-loving brother?
Owen’s business was not his, of course. Even Devlin, their elder brother and head of the family as the Earl of Stratton, did not interfere in any of their relationships.
It finally came time to claim his partner for the supper dance. He had observed that she was a good dancer. She had danced all evening so far, which was not surprising. The duchess would have seen to that. If Owen did not come up to scratch, Her Grace would probably also procure some respectable marriage offer for her niece. He guessed that Miss Cunningham was in her twenties already.
They did not talk as they danced. They would do that later. Instead, they moved with the twirling crowds of their fellow dancers, and it struck Nicholas that her obvious exuberance was as unfashionable as her appearance. Most of the other ladies either smiled politely as they danced or looked fashionably bored. It would seem that most considered it undignified to show open enthusiasm. Even Grace…
But no, he was not going to pursue that thought.
“Allow me to escort you into the supper room,” he said, bowingover Miss Cunningham’s hand as the set drew to an end. “Shall we see if we can find a quiet table somewhere?”
She looked consideringly at him. “So you may interrogate me?” she asked.
Her blunt observations never ceased to take him by surprise. He smiled at her. “I promise not to use the thumb screws,” he said.
