Oddly, he couldn’t shake the feeling he knew her, although he couldn’t place her. Taller than average, her lush curves, outlined in a simple gown, stirred him. The hair arranged high on her head was a rich chestnut, but what held his attention was the graceful slope of her neck. Most intriguing of all was her air of confidence and command. It made her far more interesting than the silly misses he’d seen so far. He shook his head. Ogling servants, even obviously superior ones, was not why he came.
John fixed on a haughty expression he’d learned from his grandfather, one he found useful as a shield, approached the drawing room, and joined the waiting guests. Countess Hartwell swanned up to him, glowing with smug delight. “Welcome to our humble gathering, my lord. May I introduce you to our new arrivals?”
She didn’t wait for him to respond, but gripped his arm with iron determination. His heart sank at her destination, when she dragged him toward the group of young girls he’d seen earlier. Their faces and gowns ran together, none standing out from the other, as if England produced pattern card debutantes on demand.
That’s unkind, John!
It was. He ignored the eager ones and focused on the shyest among them, smiling to set them at their ease.
“And this is my niece, Lady Sophie Gilray, daughter of the Marquess of Gilford,” the countess crooned.
Ah.When he accepted, he had thought he might have an easier time at this house party as the guest of a house with no marriageable daughter. He should have expected a niece. He bowed over her hand and was struck by the twinkle of humor in Lady Sophie’s open expression. He saw intelligence as well. This one might be worth his attentions. They chatted briefly when the countess fluttered off, having met her objective, to gossip with cronies.
Most of the simpering misses were as insipid in their conversation as he expected.
Lady Sophie grinned at him. “She’s positively preening. Don’t let her irritate you.”
He followed her line of sight to where the countess stood nose high, making a spirited pronouncement to the other matrons. He hoped it wasn’t an announcement of his engagement to her niece. Already.
Another lady joined his circle, managing to gracefully cut out most of the others. This one appeared just a bit older in years but far more worldly than the sweet things.
She pinned Lady Sophie with a brittle smile. “Dear Lady Sophie, could you introduce me to your new friend? Surely at an informal party protocol and all that fuss is unnecessary,” she cooed.
Lady Sophie’s expressive face wished the interloper to perdition so obviously that the other young woman must see it. She’d been left with little choice. “Miss Dinah Beckwith, may I introduce you to the Earl of Ridgemont. My lord, Miss Beckwith.” Sophie’s rigid jaw clipped her words.
“Earl? Oh my, I’m honored. I wonder if you know my grandfather, the Marquess of Delacourt? Perhaps you’ve methim during all that business in Lords that so occupies you gentlemen.”
He murmured that he had not.
The bold chit took his arm. “Do come and meet Maman. She would so like to meet you,” she said giving his arm a tug.
Belinda surveyedthe artfully arranged dishes on their porcelain platters and judged them adequate. She would remind Carlton to clean the silver tomorrow after she sent off her order for supplies. She’d managed to cobble together a decent sauce with what was in the larder. Spices were there aplenty from Belinda’s last visit. Mrs. Wesley, the cook, never touched them. The estate supplied plenty of beef, mutton, and fish, and its succession houses could be counted on for greens and fruit.
Taking a quick glance in the bottom of a shiny pot, she tidied her hair, and judged herself adequate as well. Aunt Violet expected her at dinner, but Belinda couldn’t be certain whether she would be missed or not. She shook out her skirts and headed toward the drawing room.
The room’s main doors were closed. The stationed footman would open for her, but Belinda preferred not to make an ostentatious entry. She knew a smaller door opened on a servant’s pantry. No one paid attention to it. She slipped through the pantry and into the drawing room without notice. The company buzzed with first night anticipation. Gentlemen young and old huddled near Uncle Hartwell’s decanters; matrons in full feather gossiped in ones and threes; and the eager young women clustered together as if there was safety in numbers. Belinda stood quietly behind a chair in which Viscountess Bellachat held court. Nearing eighty, the woman held herselfpast the age where manners mattered. She amused Belinda—most of the time.
“Look at them. Throwing themselves at him as if he were a prize stallion and they the farmer’s least favored mares,” the old lady grumbled.
“He’s the biggest prize this year, Mabel,” another matron replied. “Duke’s heir. This bunch hopes to get the jump on the fillies coming up next Season.”
She means the much-vaunted earl, of course.She wondered how the earl would feel being compared to a breeding horse. It would serve him right. Being ogled as if she were a brood mare on auction had soured Belinda on the whole Marriage Mart business. Then again, it might puff up his male ego.
She glanced at the men at the end of the room, recognizing only a few of the older gentlemen. Which might be the earl? One rotund man going thin on top looked a likely candidate. So did the chinless fellow next to him. No eager misses clustered around either of them, however. There was no sight of Cecil either.
Two ladies moved, and she caught sight of Sophie smiling up at a tall gentleman while her friends stood, wide-eyed, nearby. If that was the earl, he was far from the faded roué Belinda expected. When he tipped his head to listen to Sophie, candlelight reflected off the thick honey-gold waves of his hair. Sophie obviously found him enthralling, and, peering at his broad shoulders and strong back, Belinda could see why a naïve young thing might be infatuated. She tamped down her own unbidden and unwanted jolt of attraction, swallowing the sudden lump in her throat.
Dinah Beckwith sailed over to Sophie’s circle. The Season’s diamond two years ago, she had turned down two younger sons, a viscount, and baronet. Belinda thought her a harpy who wouldsettle for no less than a duke or a marquess—or the heir to one. Poor Sophie.
Doors to the dining room opened on the far right. “Dinner is served.” Carlton’s announcement woke Belinda from her absorption in Sophie’s companion just as he turned and she saw his face.
That is no earl!Belinda’s stomach curdled. John Conlyn, author of Belinda’s greatest humiliation, the fiasco at the Duchess of Haverford’s charity Venetian outing, stood across the room, as gloriously handsome and untrustworthy as ever. He had been absent the previous season, along with Cecil’s circle of reprobates; she’d hoped he was gone for good.
That man can’t be the earl. Can he?
While Belinda watched, Aunt Violet took Conlyn’s arm, “As highest-ranking guest…” she trilled, gazing up and him and parading toward the dining room. Belinda’s lunch threatened to make a reappearance.
The higher-ranking guests formed partners and moved toward the dining salon in proper rank, and the rest prepared to follow, but Belinda couldn’t bear the thought of food. Even worse, she couldn’t bear being at the same table as the wretch whose prank had all but ruined her.
