John had been invalided home from Spain to recover from a persistent fever, and couldn’t shake humiliation at being laid low. It had been years since he spent time in London, and he’d been a veritable greenhorn when he’d fallen in with a group of disreputable scum—Lord Cecil Hartwell and his cronies— while he waited for orders and transport back.
The night of the Haverford fiasco, Cecil, the reprobate, took great delight in describing which of society’s darlings had lost their luncheon in the rose bushes or, worse, on the lawn. The horrid nickname emerged from that late night drinking binge.The Westcott Menace. He didn’t recall who came up with it, but he rather feared the bacon-brained wit had been himself, may the saints preserve him from an excess of drink ever again.
Only later had it slowly dawned on him that Cecil and company had likely contaminated his cousin’s dish with an emetic, thinking it a great joke. The prank had been too successful for the miscreant not to take credit. John removed himself from their company after that—or tried to. Then his grandfather had called him home, demanding he leave the army.
A tug on his arm brought him back to awareness. He had been staring at Miss Westcott. Dinah Beckwith clung to his arm like a barnacle. He could think of no delicate way to extract himself, reluctant to add poor manners of his own to her obvious unladylike behavior.
“I do so love house parties,” Miss Beckwith crooned. “Winter can be so lowering. I am certain Lady Hartwell will have plenty of things planned to keep us warm and… cozy. Don’t you agree?” Her eyes promised more coziness than a young lady ought.
Lady Sophie and her circle of friends peered up quizzically. “Lady Hartwell, my aunt, does enjoy planning these gatherings. Her parties are known for activities designed to keep all herguests mingling with one another,” Lady Sophie said. She gazed directly at John, amusement in the slight quirk to her lips.
John smiled back at Lady Sophie. “I’m glad to hear it. There are many people here I’d like to know better.” He extracted his arm from Miss Beckwith’s grasp with a firm movement. “In fact, I see some gentlemen I wish to greet, if you would excuse me ladies.”
Before he could move, Lady Hartwell called the room to attention. “I’m sure you must all be weary from travel,” she began. Belinda Westcott, he saw, helped Lady Bellachat to her feet.
“We are that, Violet,” Lady Bellachat declared tartly. Nervous laughter greeted her words.
“There will be entertainments most evenings, but for tonight, I think it best we make an early night of it,” the countess went on. She glanced around the room with mischief in her expression. “You’ll need energy for tomorrow. I’ve received confirmation that our pond is frozen solid and ready. We’ll begin tomorrow with a skating party! Hartwell Hall keeps a store of skates of all sizes ready for guests. There will be fires for warmth and warm drinks as well.”
“Some of us are too old for that nonsense, Violet!” Lady Bellachat objected loudly.
“Of course. Cards, books, and an array of snacks will be available for those who don’t wish to enjoy the opportunity,” Lady Hartwell said. John saw Miss Westcott frown, though why that bothered her he couldn’t say—unless she would be expected to arrange the activities for the elderly.
Lady Sophie had risen to her feet. “Do you skate, Lord Ridgemont?”
“It has been a long time, but yes. I’ll look forward to some vigorous activity,” he replied.
The Beckwith chit gripped his arm again. “It sounds ever so delightful, but I fear I don’t know how to skate on ice. Do say you will help me! I’ll need a strong arm,” she said fluttering her eyes.
John felt trapped. “I will certainly look forward to escorting young ladies on the ice.”
Something suspiciously like a choking sound came from Lady Sophie’s throat, quickly swallowed. “I thought you longed for—what was it? Warmth or cozy time by the fire?” she asked.
Miss Beckwith tossed the words away with an impatient hand. “There will be plenty of time for that. Later.” She said through tight lips.
“I wonder what else my aunt has planned,” Sophie mused with faux innocence. “If it snows, there could be sledding. Certainly, a brisk walk—the dales border the earl’s land. I hope you brought sturdy boots.”
John managed to avoid laughing out loud. “It sounds strenuous. I’d best get my rest,” he said, pulling his arm away.
“I will see you tomorrow,” Miss Beckwith said, her voice throaty with promise. “Perhaps you can help me put on my skates.”
There was no polite way to refuse. “Of course,” he said.
“Perhaps we can take a turn around the ice, Lady Sophie,” he said.
Lady Sophie beamed up at him. “If you can find time for me, that would be lovely,” she said, glancing mischievously at a glowering Dinah Beckwith.
“I’m sure I’ll manage.” John caught sight of Belinda Westcott moving toward the door and hastened his departure. “Ladies,” he said with a nod and hurried away.
He reached his quarry in the hallway. “Will you skate tomorrow, Miss Westcott?” She tipped her head and slowed.
“I fear not. I have some tasks that will require my attention,” she said.
Her aunt’s dogsbody—no doubt about it.“Pity,” he replied. “Perhaps we shall see each other in the evening.”
“Perhaps. Good night, my lord.” She left him standing there.
John reached the suite he’d been assigned with relief and began unwinding the everlastingly tight cravat. Graves, who had been waiting, brushed his hands away and assisted him.
