“You find him attractive, your groom?” He lifted that black eyebrow again. So imperious.
“I hadn’t noticed.” Annoyed, Hetty wished she had her fan to use as some kind of barrier to hide from his astute gaze.
He moved closer and dropped his voice. “You share this secret with your groom?” He made atsknoise with his tongue and shook his head.
Caught by the shape of his mouth, she raised her head to find laughter in his eyes. She firmed her lips. He was toying with her. “I dislike the implication, my lord.” Frustrated, and unsure where she stood, Hetty adopted her most effective stony expression.
“Why don’t you order him to stop?” he asked, refusing to be deterred. “I’m sure Simon is eager to please his delightful mistress.”
If he hadn’t recognized her, he was flirting shamelessly, and no doubt would do the same with every woman in the room under forty. The French were known to be terrible flirts. She’d preferred his lordship when he believed her to be a man. “Simon is a very capable groom. Surely you would not wish him to be discharged for helping you?”
He held up his hands, palms toward her. “Trust that I will say nothing.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Relieved the matter was now well in hand, she turned and walked back with him to the guests clustered closer to the fire.
“My lord, ladies, and gentleman, dinner is served,” Lady Kemble’s long-faced butler announced in a grave voice. One might suspect a tribunal awaited them instead of a meal.
Lady Kemble tucked her hand through Lord Fortescue’s arm while managing to send a scowl in Hetty’s direction. “Mr. Oakley is to escort you, Miss Cavendish.”
When Frederick Oakley, a rejected suitor of Hetty’s, offered his arm, it caused an embarrassing moment to pass between them. He managed a faint smile that spoke of deep regret, and they proceeded at a stately pace through the doorway. Once seated at the long dining table, Hetty found herself between Mr. Oakley and the vicar, at some distance from the baron who sat at Lady Kemble’s right. Eustace sat on her ladyship’s left with her father across the table next to an attractive widow in a gown of deep violet silk. Mrs. Illingworth had just emerged from her period of mourning.
While Mr. Oakley paused to draw breath during his account of the abundance of vegetables produced by his new hot house, Hetty picked up her glass and sipped the light, fruity wine. Her conversation with Lord Fortescue had not turned out as she hoped. His flippant attitude failed to reassure her. She remained on tenterhooks. She drew her lower lip between her teeth.Well, you wished for excitement and now you’ve got it.
The footman served the soup, which was followed by halibut in cream sauce and a variety of vegetables. Hetty tucked in, finding her appetite unimpaired when the delicate, buttery aromas reminded her of how little she’d eaten all day.
The vicar talked of the weather, the babies christened in the last month, and last Sunday’s sermon, where he’d discussed dealing with disappointments. Then, to Hetty’s relief, having been in attendance last Sunday and suffered through it, he turned his attention to dissecting the fish. From the other end of the table, Lady Kemble begged Lord Fortescue to describe his ordeal once again in more detail.
That the baron didn’t wish to discuss it was clear to Hetty despite everyone leaning forward eagerly to better hear him.
“There’s very little to tell,” he said almost apologetically. “I do not wish to scare the ladies. The worst thing to happen was that I rode into the branch of a tree and lost my seat.” He laughed and put his hand to his forehead. “Then after almost losing my head, I lost my horse.”
Hetty noted he withheld his suspicion that they were not highwaymen. His gaze sought hers, as if to conspire with her, and she almost choked on a mouthful of fish.
“And did you find your horse again?” asked the vicar who preferred all the threads of a story tied up.
“Fortunately, the animal had more sense than me. It turned up at Rosecroft Hall before I did.”
At his words, a concerned murmur went around the table but faded as the third course–a dressed goose, roast beef, and a loin of pork–were brought in. The baron’s gaze sought Hetty’s again, and his eyes twinkled wickedly.We have a secret, he seemed to say. Did he know? She shivered, and her knife slipped from her nerveless fingers.
The conversation turned to other matters. Hetty motioned to the footman to pour her another glass of wine and earned a disapproving glance from the matron across the table. As she sipped her second glass, warmth spread through her limbs along with a much-needed boost of confidence. If he intended to torture her, he was succeeding. She clung to the hope that her imagination had got the better of her. He could not possibly have recognized her. She would emerge from this escapade unscathed.
After everyone rose from the table and returned to the salon, Lady Kemble made an announcement. “In honor of the Prince Regent, who some months ago introduced a new dance into society, the musicians are to play a Viennese waltz. All those who feel brave enough to attempt the dance are invited to participate. But I warn you, those in poor health should watch!”
With a murmur of delight, they filed into the ballroom where the local members of a string quartet tuned their instruments.
Hetty was immediately claimed by twenty-year-old, Henry Farr, whom she considered barely out of short trousers. Lord Fortescue escorted Miss Emma Broadhurst, the vicar’s daughter onto the floor, and they formed part of the set for the country dance. The wine had banished Hetty’s nerves. She met the baron’s eyes over Emily’s head as they moved toward the end of the line, and she flirted with Henry as the dance progressed. At first surprised by this unforeseen event, Henry needed little encouragement. By the time the dance was completed, he had become a clown, turning the wrong way on purpose, and making everyone laugh.
Henry returned Hetty to her chair and seemed inclined to remain by her side. Hetty batted her eyelashes at him as he hovered over her. “Could you see if they’ve found my fan, please, Henry?” She smiled sweetly at him. “It is so dreadfully hot.”
Henry hurried from the room. Almost as soon as he disappeared out the door, a waltz was struck up. Lord Fortescue appeared at her side, beating Frederick Oakley, who approached her with the same intention, by a whisker.
Lord Fortescue bowed. “May I have the pleasure of this dance, Miss Cavendish?”
Hetty baulked at the thought. When news of the waltz had first reached them, lessons had been held at the assembly rooms in St Albans. Despite Henry partnering her and treading heavily on her toes, she’d enjoyed the dance but felt far from confident that she’d mastered it with any degree of grace. Manners dictated she must accept, although she feared it was the baron’s intention to further torment her about Simon. She murmured a polite response and accompanied him onto the floor. There would be no doubt in his mind when he got this closer look at her. She almost welcomed it, for she wished to bring the whole charade to an end.
“This is a dance with which I’m familiar,” he said, drawing her into his arms. “We danced it in Paris long before it came to England.”
She supposed he considered England far behind Paris in most things fashionable. His arms tightened as he swung her into the dance. Her breath caught. “We do not dance this close in England, my lord.”
