“I have it on good authority that what Glory would truly like for her birthday,” the duchess said, her eyes sparkling, “is a dance with you.”
Wei nodded gruffly, grateful for the reminder. Glory wasn’t like Chun. For her, love wasn’t a game, and when she pledged her affections, she did so with that enchanting, wholehearted sweetness that was part of her personality. She had promised to marry him, said she wanted a future together. From her, those words meant something—everything.
The gift he’d brought her bumped softly in his inner pocket. He couldn’t wait to give it to her, and, if she was willing, maybe they could set a date for him to bring his suit to her father. Even if that date was weeks ahead, he could work with it. He could wait, as long as he knew that she was as committed as he was.
“Pay attention, old boy,” Hadleigh said. “Here comes your lady’s pater.”
Wei straightened his shoulders as the Duke of Ranelagh and Somerville approached, accompanied by Emmett Rothwell. He made the introductions, although none were necessary. Rothwell was presently the darling of London, the papers effusive in their praise of his charitable character. He was shorter than His Grace, wider in the middle, and a couple of decades older. With thick silver hair and distinctively hawkish features, he radiated an aura of prosperity and power.
“How are you enjoying the ball, Chen?” Glory’s father asked.
“It is a celebration worthy of the occasion, Your Grace.”
“Prettily said,” the duke drawled.
“His Grace tells me that you treat opium users here in London.” Rothwell addressed Wei in the manner of one used to commanding attention. “How taxing it must be to minister to those poor misguided wretches. I admire your tenacity in tackling such a difficult task.”
Wei was aware of Hadleigh’s tense posture. The duchess put a hand on her husband’s arm, narrowing her eyes at Rothwell. Obviously, Rothwell did not know that Hadleigh had once been a “poor misguided wretch.” While Rothwell probably didn’t mean to let his condescension show, Wei knew that his friend felt it.
“The true tenacity is not mine, sir,” Wei said. “But rather that of the men who fight for their recovery. In truth, I find the work more inspiring than taxing, for it reveals the resilience of the human spirit. It is a privilege to witness men find their way once again and be stronger for it.”
In the awkward silence that followed, Rothwell’s face reddened. The Duke of Ranelagh and Somerville said nothing, but his enigmatic expression was unlikely to be a good sign. Frustration welled in Wei; he wanted to kick himself. What had he been thinking lecturing the bloody philanthropist who was the cornerstone to Glory’s father’s success?
Am I trying to sabotage my chances of winning over my beloved’s family?
“Well said, Master Chen.” The Duchess of Hadleigh spoke up with determined brightness. “I find your informed viewpoint most elucidating. Accounts such as yours would certainly be useful in a campaign to educate the public…don’t you agree, Mr. Rothwell?”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Rothwell adjusted his lapels, his tone clipped. “If I may ask, Mr. Chen, how did your interest in combating opium come about?”
“My father was a soldier in China. On the Emperor’s orders, he fought to suppress the smuggling of opium.” Wei shrugged. “I suppose I took up the mantle from him, in a manner of speaking.”
“A family vocation, one might say.” Sir Rothwell’s eyes gleamed with interest. His irises were nearly black, blending with his pupils. “Where in China was your father stationed?”
“In a coastal village along the Pearl River Delta. Not far from Canton.” Wei angled his head. “Have you been to China, sir?”
“I have not had the pleasure, no. But you ought to speak to my nephew, Matthew Winslow. He did a stint at the British factory in Canton. Ah, speak of the devil.”
The memory of the British compound, of his powerlessness in the face of those smirking traders, rose like a spectre, causing Wei’s insides to lurch. He turned and saw Winslow heading toward the group with Glory on his arm. He was saying something to her, but her eyes were on Wei. When she smiled, Wei found his equilibrium again.
“Winslow, you and my daughter cut quite the path on the dance floor,” the Duke of Ranelagh and Somerville said.
“The credit goes to Lady Glory,” Winslow said. “Her light-footedness made up for my clumsy partnering.”
The man’s gallantry was almost as annoying as his good looks. With Rothwell and Winslow standing together, the family resemblance between them was clear. Winslow had the same hawkish features, but they were tempered into handsomeness.
“You are a fine partner, sir,” Glory averred. “I enjoyed our dance.”
Even though Wei knew that Glory was being polite and responding to Winslow’s self-deprecation, he couldn’t quell a pang of jealousy. Which, in turn, made him feel stupid. Moreover, she had told him about her difficulties in social situations, and he ought to be happy that she was enjoying herself for once.
And he was. He wanted her to enjoy her success. To know how beautiful and desirable she was. What bothered him wasn’t that other males were attracted to her: it was that he could not publicly stake his claim.
“Mr. Winslow, have you met my shifu, Master Chen?” Glory asked.
Winslow gave Wei a friendly nod. “Lady Glory was telling me that she is learning martial arts. That is a unique accomplishment for a young lady.”
“And a useful one.” Wei inclined his head curtly. “A lady can never be too careful.”
“Isn’t that what we gentlemen are for?” Winslow raised his brows, saying with a chuckle, “Careful, Chen, or you will render us obsolete one day.”
