“Lord Highgate, might I have a word?” Still smiling like a loon, Lucy pulled Hart aside. They made their way to the nearest wall, several paces from where Meg and Sir Winford remained. Lucy’s smile faded as soon as she turned to Hart. “Surely you see the logic in allowing Meg to dance with a man who might actuallyofferfor her, my lord.”
Hart clenched his jaw more tightly. Damn. He couldn’t argue with her. “I do, indeed, Your Grace.”
“Good then, it’s settled.” She turned and nodded in Lord Winford’s direction, another ridiculous smile plastered to her face.
Hart watched over Lucy’s shoulder as Sir Winford offered his arm to Meg and escorted her to the floor. A footman walked by carrying a tray full of brandy glasses. Hart grabbed one, his eyes still trained on the couple heading off to dance. Meg glanced back. Was that a reluctant look she gave him? Was she wishing she’d been able to accept his offer instead? Or was Hart a fool to think it?
He remained standing next to the duchess, clutching his brandy glass tightly as he watched Meg and Winford twirl around the floor. Why in the devil’s name did it bother him so much that she wasn’t dancing with him instead? He’d only come here tonight to dance with her, and roust his friends to do the same, in an effort to assist her in finding an eligible match. Sir Winford was obviously such a match.
Hart had done his duty. He should get back to his affairs, namely finding his own blasted wife. He was about to excuse himself when Lucy Hunt sighed and said, “They look good together, don’t they?”
“Who?” Hart tossed back the rest of his brandy.
“Miss Timmons and Sir Winford, of course.”
Hart glared at the dancing couple. “I suppose.”
“She’s had a hard time of it, you know,” Lucy continued, her arms crossed as she stared at the couples on the dance floor.
“I do know. I’ve met her mother.” Why did Hart want to crush his brandy glass in his fist? What was happening? He was normally lighthearted and jesting. Looking for fun and finding it. Anger was a foreign emotion to him.
“She’s a gem. It’ssucha pity we live in a Society that so highly values things likedowriesover people’s dispositions.”
“It’s the world we live in,” Hart ground out. Why was the Duchess of Claringdon lecturing him on how wrong Society was?
“Still… it’s a pity.” Another sigh from Lucy. “It seems Sir Winford, however, may be willing to overlook such a thing. Wise of him. I do so admire wisdom in a man.”
“Sir Winford was recently made a knight over some business dealings he procured for the Crown. He’s hardly goodton.” Hart clenched his teeth. “Marrying into the Timmons family would be a step up for him. Even with their scandal.”
“It would be indeed,” Lucy agreed, her nose lifting ever so slightly as if she smelled something that didn’t agree with her.
Was it Hart’s imagination or was Lucy Hunt side-eyeing him?
“He’s quite wealthy in his own right, however, and hardly needs a paltrydowrywhen choosing a bride.” Lucy sneered the worddowryas if it were something awful.
Hart returned her side-eyed glare. “As you well know, Your Grace, there are many dowries that are far from paltry.”
“Yes, but when one is already vastly wealthy, what does a dowry matter,really?”
Hart snorted. “Try telling that to my father.” Had he suffered a head injury? Was he truly speaking to a duchess about whether dowries mattered? They both knewthey mattered a great deal to people in their world. What the devil was Lucy Hunt getting at?
“Or my father, for that matter,” Lucy agreed with yet another sigh. “I’m merely making the point that those of us with brains in our heads should know better than to choose the person we intend to spend the rest of our days with based upon something as inconsequential as a dowry.”
“Seems to me your husband was quite wealthy and in possession of the title ofdukewhen you married him,” Hart countered, giving her a tight smile.
Thatdidn’t even give the duchess pause. “A mere coincidence, I assure you. I seem to recall Sarah telling me after she ran out of the church and you followed her to the coach, she said your mother and father would never forgive her for slighting a marquess for a viscount and you said, ‘Who cares if they forgive you?’”
Hart narrowed his eyes on the duchess. How the hell did the duchess know aboutthat? And why in God’s name was she bringing it up now? “Indeed I did,” he replied. “But Berkeley is a viscount and vastly wealthy to boot.”
“Meg is one of the kindest, sweetest, most gracious young ladies I’ve ever encountered and she shouldn’t be penalized for having a drunken lout who’s awful at gambling for a father.”
“Agreed, and I suspect someone like Sir Winford agrees as well.”
Lucy Hunt opened her mouth to make a retort but Hart stopped her. There was no point in continuing this inane conversation. “You’ve reminded me. I must get back to Sarah. She’s promised to point out the suitableladies who are as pleasant andeasygoingas their dowries are large. If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace.”
As Hart walked away, he heard the distinctive sound of the Duchess of Claringdon sighing yetagain. She may even have stamped her foot.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
