She stroked William’s curls again. “I will see you this afternoon.” Sometimes Judith thought she had survived her husband’s death solely because of the daily visits with her boys. Her marriage had been no love match—nor had she expected it to be when she had accepted Edmund’s suit. Neither had had much to offer in the beginning, and she had not been his first choice. But in the long term, they had been good for and to each other, eventually becoming friends and constant if not exactly exciting lovers. His illness had gutted her, but her boys... they had restored her hope, and she craved their presence. She had added the morning visits when the afternoons were no longer enough.
William raised both arms. She gave him another quick hug, then headed back downstairs. She peered into her bedchamber and let out a sigh when she saw that Perry had taken the hint. Her bed was empty. Perfect.
She went inside and rang for her maid, Epworth, and worked again to get the knots out of her dressing gown’s sash. Epworth knew a great deal about her mistress’s activities. She had been Judith’s one and only lady’s maid as well as her confidante forthe past twenty-two years, and she often guided young nobles up to Judith’s bedchamber. Still, Judith had no desire to explain the knots had been the result of Judith’s instructions to the young—and relatively inexperienced—Perry. Even after several months, the man still failed to grasp the concept that some knots were not supposed to be escapable. One twist of her wrists, and Judith had been free to turn the tables on him. Which delighted him far more than her.
She sighed, pulling the last jumble free, tossing both the dressing gown and sash onto the bed. Tonight the Huntingdale ball awaited, and she and Epworth had a lot to do. With a grin, she wondered which handsome treat she might entice to join her afterwards. While her boys had restored her hope, in the events of theton,Judith had discovered a different kind of contentment in the ebullient life she had missed by marrying at seventeen. She would turn forty in two years, and she remained determined to make the most of what youth and beauty she had left.
Chapter Two
Saturday, 16 July 1814
Huntingdale House, Mayfair, London
Half-past eleven in the evening
Judith pressed agloved palm to her cheek, feeling the heat of her face through the pale-green silk. She gave a slight curtsy of thanks to her dance partner, who took his cue, murmured his own gratitude for the spirited reel, and backed away. Judith rested her other hand against her stomach, pausing to catch her breath, then lowered both as she headed for a beverage table near the far wall, mulling over two rather unkind thoughts.
The first was that the young gentleman should never again dance a reel, ever. His awkward prancing through the fast-paced dance reminded her of an ancient horse with a stone in its shoe. Steps that should have been light and rapid had been heavy and hobbled as he favored his left foot, as if it dragged a ball on a chain. He had trod on her toes twice, startling her. Judith suspected his bed play would have the same flaws in rhythm and immediately felt a stab of grief for his future wife. And while he seemed to be a kind soul—one could never really tell, since gentlemen tended to be on their best behavior at a ball—his conversational skills bore far too much resemblance to his dancing ability for her comfort, all one sided and stilted.
Judith paused and gave her dance card a quick glance to reassure herself that he had not claimed a second trip aroundthe floor. Then she patted the side of her small, light-green cap to see if he had dislodged it in his overenthusiastic turns and gyrations. No, it still retained its place on the crown of her head, and all the feathers still pointed in the right direction. The color perfectly accentuated the silver highlights in her chestnut hair, as did the metallic trim along the split sleeves and hem of her silk gown of the same pale green. A similar-colored ribbon circled the gown under her breasts, culminating in a bow at the back and ribbons trailing down along the train. Judith pushed one of the pins holding the cap more firmly into place, took another breath, then sauntered closer to the beverage table.
Her second unkind thought was that Dorothea, Countess Huntingdale, should never again host a ball, ever. The house’s ballroom—too small by far for anything other than a limited gathering, such as a soiree or musicale—quickly overheated, especially in July, even in this exceptionally cool year. Being an adept hostess among thetonconsisted of far more skills than what dishes to serve at supper and which musicians to hire for dancing.
Battlefield strategy, for instance, came to mind.
And the Earl Huntingdale, while notable in Parliament, did not appear to have the social stamina to deal with the offended members of thetonwho had not received an invitation. Again, a weakness of the hostess, who did not seem to know whom best to invite and whom to ignore.
Unfortunately, at least for Judith’s interest, this resulted in an appalling lack of suitable dance partners and potential lovers.
Judith did feel a pang of sympathy for the four daughters of the Huntingdale family, the first of whom would make her debut in three years. Poor child. With that inept a mother, she would surely be delivered into the cesspool of thetonwoefully unprepared for the political and social manipulations of those around her.
Judith glanced around the ballroom as she strolled. The next slot on her card remained empty, a relief since she needed a break from the crush to regain her bearings and take another stock of the room. Although now crowded with dancers attempting a cotillion without running into the walls, the small roomwaselegant, with its pastoral frescos covering the ceiling and walls. Plaster medallions covered with gold leaf anchored the four primary chandeliers, also gold, each of which held at least 120 candles, adding to the growing heat. The parquet floor gleamed with polish—making it treacherous for satin slippers—but in the center, an elaborate chalk painting of the Acropolis, now smeared beyond recognition, had aided the dancers.
Judith glanced down at her own chalk-covered slippers and hem, hoping Epworth could clear the dust remnants settling amidst the silver embroidery. She could hear the scolding tongue clucks of her modiste as well as her maid in the back of her head. The intricate stitching that circled the base of her dress would take some gentle and determined brushing. Although most ladies did not wear a ball gown twice, Judith often did, especially since her husband’s death. She had been frugal before with the household finances. Now she was downright stingy with her widow’s portion. As a dowager countess and no longer a debutante seeking a mate, new gowns for every season made for an unnecessary luxury. Tonight’s gown, in fact, dated from the 1811 season, refreshed by her modiste with new trim and frills, along with the feather-festooned cap.
Turning away from the dancers, Judith picked up a cup of lemonade from the beverage table, sipped, and winced. The lack of sugar in the swill made for a bitter and lasting aftertaste.
“I’m afraid it’s either that or the ratafia. They will not bring out the champagne until midnight.”
Judith looked over her shoulder to see a tall, dark-haired man standing beside her stepson. His mouth formed an arrogantsmirk, but his deep-blue eyes gleamed with an unexpected humor. The elegant simplicity of his black-and-white evening kit stood apart from some of the gaudier attire of the other gentlemen—including her own stepson’s burgundy, green, and gold—but the cut of his clothes and the quality of his silk waistcoat and cravat spoke of a casual wealth and status.
Judith set down the cup. “Probably the most judicious choice our hostess has made all night, given that this is worse than the sluice at Almack’s. And I would rather drink poison than ratafia. Champagne too early and her guests would quickly gulp down her best offering, leaving none for the supper.”
“The supper will not be much better either.” The smirk did not relent, even as he spoke.
“Spoken like a true veteran of the Marriage Mart.”
“Only of the edible fare. I have steered clear of all other offerings.”
“A hard-won wisdom, my lord?”
Those eyes sparkled. “A spurious wisdom, I’m afraid, my lady.”
Edmund cleared his throat. “Excuse me. Lord Mark, may I present my stepmother, our dowager countess, Lady Sculthorpe, Judith Lovelace. Mother, this is Lord Mark Ry—”
“The Duke of Embleton’s son?”
Lord Mark gave a crisp bow. “The second one, yes, although it is my oldest brother who is now duke. It is a pleasure, Lady Sculthorpe.”
