Page 37

Stephanie had liked both the Marquess and the Marchioness of Dorchester at Christmas despite the fact that the marquess was Viscount Watley’s father. It would be pleasant to see them again.

It was not they who were announced a few moments later, however, but the Dowager Duchess of Netherby and her elder sister, Viscountess Dirkson.

“Great-Aunt Louise, Great-Aunt Matilda!” Winifred exclaimed, getting to her feet to hug each of them and indicate comfortable chairs for them to sit upon. “You have driven all the way from London just to see me? How kind of you. Nicholas will be disappointed to have missed you. You remember Stephanie, of course. My sister-in-law.”

“Indeed we do.” The dowager inclined her head and smiled kindly at Stephanie while the viscountess kissed her cheek.

“How do you do, Lady Stephanie?” she said. “You look well, I must say. Both of you do.”

“Louise has been lamenting the fact that you are about to make us great-great-aunts, Winifred,” the viscountess said as she took her seat. “It sounds rather horrifying, as though we must be veritable fossils.”

“It is not kind,” the dowager added. “But you are feeling well, Winifred?”

“Marvelously well,” Winifred said while her great-aunts beamed affectionately at her.

“And I am to be a grandmother again in the autumn,” the dowager duchess said. “Jessica, that is. She and Gabriel are hoping for a daughter this time since they already have a healthy son.”

Conversation paused while the housekeeper set a tray of tea and scones before Winifred.

“I have actually come for a specific purpose beyond a mere visit, Winifred,” Lady Dirkson said a couple of minutes later as she spread clotted cream on her scone. “There is to be a reception, a select gathering of relatives and friends, at our London house three evenings from today in honor of Adrian’s thirtieth birthday. I have been issuing as many of the invitations as possible in person. Charles and I would be delighted if you and Nicholas would come. I know you despise London and avoid it as though the Great Plague were still raging through it, but do make an exception for Charles’s son.”

“Oh, I do not despise London,” Winifred said, “or avoid it altogether. I was at Vauxhall just a few evenings ago. Nicholas took me there with Stephanie and one of his colleagues from the Horse Guards. And you know I love Adrian. He was especially kind to me that summer we all went to Hinsford Manor to surprise Uncle Harry on his birthday. I was a girl starting to think she was a woman, and Adrian made me feel special.”

“I take it you are saying yes, then, and will come,” Lady Dirkson said. “I am delighted.” She turned to Stephanie, but Stephanie held up a staying hand.

“You must not mind me,” she said. “I will be quite happy to spend an evening alone here. Winifred has been keeping me busy. It must be several days since I last opened a book.”

Lady Dirkson raised her eyebrows. “But I would particularly like you to attend, Lady Stephanie,” she said. “I knew you were here staying with Winifred and your brother. Viola—the Marchioness of Dorchester—mentioned it last evening at a concert we both attended. You did not miss anything by not being there. Charles said the soprano screeched, and I said the baritone growled. I do not believe either of us was being particularly unkind. Charles said—it was just after we had talked with Viola and Marcel—that he would prefer to listen to your angel’s voice any day of the week, even if your voice has not been classically trained.”

“Oh dear,” Stephanie said.

“You simply must come to the reception too,” Lady Dirkson said. “Do say you will.”

“Well, thank you,” Stephanie said. “I would like that.”

The dowager duchess got to her feet after eating a scone and drinking a cup of tea. “We must be leaving soon,” she said. “It was a long journey here and will be just as long on the way back, I daresay. But I would love to see your garden before we go, Winifred. It looks very pretty, as does the house. Colonel Nicholas Ware has done well by you.”

Fifteen minutes later Winifred and Stephanie were waving the carriage on its way.

“Well,” Winifred said. “We will go, of course. I never intended to be a total hermit out here, after all. And it is a family event. Adrian Sawyer is Uncle Charles’s son. I suppose you understood that. I rather fancied him when I was a girl. But I fancied Boris and Ivan and Peter too. I was rather indiscriminate in those days. Aunt Matilda describes the reception as a select gathering of family and friends, but I do not believe for a moment that it will therefore be small. At least it is not to be a grand ball, however. I can still remember my terror last year when Aunt Anna and Uncle Avery held one in honor of my come-out.”

“I remember how I hated my own come-out,” Stephanie said. “Though at least I managed to convince Devlin that I did not want a ball specifically for me.”

“I wonder why Great-Aunt Matilda waited so long if she always intended to invite us,” Winifred said. “The reception is in three days’ time. I would think that most if not all the other invitations, whether verbal or by card, went out a while ago.”

Stephanie could think of a reason. Lady Dirkson had mentioned talking with the Marquess and Marchioness of Dorchester last evening. And the marchioness had mentioned the fact that she was staying here with Winifred and Nicholas. Viscount Watley’s parents, that was. And Lady Dirkson was the one who had so embarrassingly attempted some matchmaking over Christmas. It seemed altogether possible that it was she, Stephanie, who had been the main object of this afternoon’s brief visit since both ladies believed that Winifred hated going to London.

Viscount Watley would almost certainly be at the reception.

Stephanie still had not confronted her memories of the Vauxhall evening. She had hoped to set them firmly aside until they faded into oblivion. But he might have been serious about seeing her again so he could persuade her to— How had he phrased it?

Will you give me a chance to prove to you that I am not more than and you are not less than? Will you allow me to persuade you if I can that merely settling for what is safe is not a good enough basis for a happy marriage? Will you let me try to convince you to save me from being compelled to make such a marriage?

So much for letting the memories slip into oblivion. She believed she had just recalled his exact words—in his voice.

Had she agreed to give him the chance he had asked for? She still could not remember. But she certainly had not said no. She had given her tacit consent if nothing else. Anyway, she wanted to give him the chance. She did not like the idea that she still thought of him as more than. Superior to her and out of her reach, in other words. Nor did she want to believe that she thought of herself as less than. Not quite equal to certain people, that was. Inferior. Unworthy. She was very disturbed by the idea that she might have considered Mr. Courtney as a husband only because he was second best, equal to her inferior self and therefore safe.

Oh, she had thought herself past all this nonsense. But perhaps she was not. And if she was not, then she wanted to do something about it. She was not inferior to anyone, yet it seemed that the mere act of saying the words and willing herself to believe them was not enough.