Two

“Do smile,” said Harriet Runyon.

Flora exposed her teeth. That would have to do for this crowd of lavishly dressed people who had all turned to stare at her when she came in, and then turned away again with cool disinterest. That was what they did, Mama would say. They turned their backs. Flora could almost hear her mother’s voice, retelling the story of her ejection from society after she defied her aristocratic family and married a poor scholar, a tale of fears becoming real and pain masked with truculence. All her life, her mother had assured Flora that they could expect nothing but disregard or snubs from the haut ton. That history had made walking into this room rather like stepping into the lions’ den. But Flora had been braced for it. She knew how to put up a brave front.

And she didn’t care what they thought. She hadn’t come to make a splash in society. She’d come… Her thoughts tripped up here and came to a stop over the fact that Lord Robert had not been glad to see her. Through all the months of their close acquaintance this year, he’d greeted her so warmly whenever they met, with a smile that was nearly irresistible. She’d grown accustomed to the welcome in his intense blue eyes, had begun to take it for granted. She hadn’t known that until a moment ago, when she’d found it gone.

On the other side of the opulent room, he was surrounded by a circle of pretty girls in gowns that cost more than any three of hers. He looked so very handsome, and utterly at ease. He was making them laugh; clearly they found him charming. He didn’t spare her a glance. Anger, and apprehension, flooded Flora. Now that they were in his exalted social circle rather than her much more humble one, he meant to snub her, just as Mama had foretold. Flora had thought she was mistaken about him, but what if she wasn’t? She’d had years of rigorous mental training; she was not prone to mistakes of judgment.

And after all, who would believe that a darling of London society, and the son of a duke, was truly interested in the unfashionable daughter of a scholar? Of course she’d thought that his claim to be fascinated by her intellectual pursuits was some sort of jest. According to everything she’d been taught, men like Lord Robert Gresham were nothing but shallow posturing, through and through.

And here came the sardonic inner voice that Flora both dreaded and appreciated. Lord Robert had actually buckled down and studied her father’s writings on Akkadian, it pointed out. He’d hung about her home in the dowdy precincts of Russell Square for weeks. He’d followed her from London to Oxford. He’d given her that melting smile whenever she encountered him. Until today. Until a minute ago.

Flora felt an unfamiliar sinking sensation. She looked longingly back at the hallway, wondering if she could still escape.

“Stop scowling,” murmured Harriet at her side. “Really, Flora. You must do better than this. We should go and say hello to our hosts. Come and meet the Salbridges.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Flora, this isn’t like you. Compose yourself.” Harriet moved to partly shield Flora from the other guests. “What is the matter?”

“I shouldn’t have come,” Flora murmured.

“Are we going to rehash all that again? Now? This is not really an appropriate time and place, my dear.” When Flora said nothing, the older woman sighed and quietly began to tick off points with the air of a woman who had cited them before. Which she had. “You enjoyed your brief taste of society in Oxford.”

“Parts of it,” said Flora. It had seemed so pleasant, then, to wear prettier dresses and attend evening parties and…fritter away her time, Papa would have said. She’d met Lord Robert’s mother and discovered that a duchess could be both sensible and cordial, not the least high-nosed. But she saw now that a few outings in a university town were nothing compared to a true conclave of the haut ton.

Harriet looked exasperated. “You decided you wished to increase your social experience.”

She had wanted more from life than she’d accepted previously, Flora admitted silently. But for some reason, she hadn’t pictured a host of strangers from the upper reaches of society giving her sidelong glances, wondering who in the world she could be. There seemed to be so many of them. Well, who did they think they were, these…natterers?

“And you were quite forlorn when Lord Robert left town with no plans to return,” Harriet added.

“I was not!” She spoke far too loudly. Heads turned. Conversations faltered.

Harriet gave the crowd an impenetrable smile. They subsided.

“I was not ‘forlorn,’” Flora hissed. What a limp, pathetic word! She’d never been forlorn in her life. It was the opposite of all she’d been trained to be—acute, observant, active, and intelligent. “I may have missed his…conversation. I took Lord Robert at his word, you see…that he wished to be…a friend. And now I arrive here and find that he is quite displeased to see me.” Flora kept her voice rigidly steady. “He was not glad. At all.”

“He probably wasn’t,” Harriet replied.

“What?” She’d expected a denial, or at least some sort of excuse.

“When one is running away from something,” her older friend said, “one often doesn’t like to be chased. At first.”

“I am not chasing him!” Flora spoke more softly this time, but with utter revulsion.

“I didn’t say he was running from you,” Harriet pointed out.

Flora felt her cheeks redden. But curiosity overcame embarrassment. “What did you mean?”

“We really haven’t time for a philosophical discussion.” Harriet gave the gathering another bright, general smile. “So, are we to do this or not? It would cause a minor scandal to simply turn and leave. And I must say that you won’t get another invitation as brilliant as this one, Flora.”

What did she want? Across the room, one of the girls around Lord Robert gave a musical trill of laughter. He looked achingly handsome, and charming, and…inordinately pleased with himself. What was that slang phrase—a care-for-nobody? That seemed to apply. As far as she could see, that is, because he pointedly did not look in her direction. All the other times they’d been in a room together, he’d concentrated on her. It had been a heady, tantalizing experience. But the ton hadn’t been watching then, she thought. The idea hurt, but Flora faced up to it. If she’d been wrong to change her mind about him, it was best that she find out, once and for all. Then she’d know what to do.

Flora put her shoulders back, her chin up. In any case, everything didn’t have to be about—was not about—one maddening man. She gave Harriet a nod.

“Good girl. Come along. And, my dear?”

Flora looked at her chaperone.

“A smile is not a concession,” Harriet added with a lift of her sandy eyebrows. “It is a…a tool, shall we say. A rather versatile one. It can pry things out or smooth things over. Substitute for things one doesn’t wish to confide. Very useful.”

The thought made Flora smile.

“Much better.” Harriet led her over to a couple near the center of the large room and introduced her to Gerald and Anne Moreton, Earl and Countess of Salbridge. They were both about Harriet’s age, and Flora knew they’d been friends for years. That connection had made her invitation possible. The countess was also a distant relation of Flora’s mother. She strongly suspected that Harriet had reminded her of this when her hostess asked, “How is Agatha? I haven’t seen her in an age.”

“She’s well,” Flora replied, not quite truthfully. Back home in London, her mother was fretting, as agitated as Flora had ever seen her. She’d admitted that it could be helpful for Flora to extend her social horizons, while being terribly worried about what might happen to her when she did.

“You’re also a cousin of Robert Gresham’s, are you not?”

Flora suppressed a start. She doubted that Harriet had provided this information. It seemed the countess had made her own inquiries. “Very distant,” Flora said, proud of the indifference in her voice. “Third or fourth, perhaps. We used to try to work it out when I visited at Langford as a child.” There, let her noble hosts chew on the fact that she’d stayed at a duke’s home. They needn’t know that all the visits had been years ago. Flora felt her resolve returning. She’d decided to come here, and she’d been taught to trust her own thought processes, even when she didn’t quite fathom them. She would not draw back, and she did not feel Lord Robert’s presence at her back like a constant pulse of heat. That was irrational.

“You must meet our daughter,” the countess said. At her signal, one of the young ladies left the circle clustered around Lord Robert and joined them. “Victoria, this is Miss Flora Jennings.”

It was actually Lady Victoria, Flora thought, as they exchanged bobbing curtsies. The room was full of titled people, some of whom would certainly despise the daughter of an obscure scholar. Who’d been worth a dozen of any of these fribbles, she thought automatically. Flora caught herself. One did not draw conclusions before an experiment had really begun. She didn’t have proof of their witlessness. However certain she might be, she mustn’t overgeneralize. Papa had taught her more intellectual rigor than that.

“How do you do?” said Lady Victoria Moreton in a soft voice.

Everything about this daughter of the house seemed soft. She was a creature of rounded contours and wide brown eyes, several inches shorter than Flora, and garbed in a white muslin gown. Her brown hair was sculpted in gentle waves about her pretty face. There was something old-fashioned about her, Flora thought, though her dress was certainly the latest thing. She looked as if she’d never been denied anything in all her years.

“You must present Miss Jennings to the young people,” the countess said. “I think we’ve gathered quite a lively group, Miss Jennings, even so far from town.” And then, her duty done, the hostess turned to talk to Harriet.

Flora followed Lady Victoria back to the knot of guests that included Lord Robert. As they joined them, Flora was irresistibly reminded of a herd of horses, jostling and sidling when a new animal was introduced into their ranks. The idea made her smile. A medium-sized gentleman across the group smiled back.

Lady Victoria introduced her and recited a list of names, moving around the circle. Flora memorized them with the automatic precision of a trained mind. The task offered no difficulty to one who’d been drilled on cuneiform symbols from the age of seven. She was received with politeness as a minor novelty. She wasn’t someone they knew, and people like this expected to know everyone important, Flora thought. There was a stir of silent speculation when Lord Robert mentioned that they were already acquainted. “Cousin of mine,” he added.

With three words, he’d slotted her into a recognized category, Flora saw. She was a visitor from the far edges of a great family. Possibly a poor relation, considering her gown. She couldn’t dispute such a verdict. It was perfectly true. And Lord Robert Gresham was perfectly free to point it out to his grand friends, if that was what he wished to do. Never mind his claims, this spring and summer, to value other measures of worth—intellect and education and industry. It was a very good thing she’d come here, Flora thought. If she hadn’t, she might have kept on believing him.

Everyone returned to their previous conversations. It was actually a relief not to be the center of attention any longer. At first, Flora thought they were playing some kind of geography game, naming prominent places in London. Then she realized they were establishing where they’d last met—weeks ago, during the season—with bits of reminiscence about certain balls or evening parties. As she had attended none of them, she had nothing to contribute. Members of the haut ton were rather like butterflies, she thought. They hovered, vividly colorful, above the lower reaches of society. They flitted from one gorgeous locale to another, oblivious to the misfortunes that befell others not so very far away. They were stunningly decorative. After a few minutes, she caught Harriet’s admonitory eye and remembered to smile.

Flora stood and listened. She was accustomed to being the center of lively discussions at home, but she didn’t really mind being left out of this one. The topic was dull, and anyway she would be better occupied observing and analyzing the people who were to be her companions for the next month. Now that she had their names, she could put faces to the descriptions Harriet had provided on their long journey up to Northumberland.

The room was dotted with attractive young men. Wellborn, well-heeled, well-bred, Flora thought. Well-behaved, well-set-up. No, she was stretching now. But they were all those things. Harriet had told her that the young men were here for Lady Victoria. Or perhaps vice versa. Good matches, in any case, lured in by the hunting and hospitality toward a possible settlement of the girl’s future. It was a common thing, Flora knew, and she couldn’t summon quite the level of derision she might have expressed in earlier years. People had to meet, after all.

Her gaze lit on Lord Robert and skipped away before he could catch her looking. He was the handsomest of them all, in her opinion. Harriet had said he wasn’t considered a likely suitor, though he’d be welcome if he decided to show interest in Lady Victoria, ten years his junior. Only three years separated the two of them, thought Flora. Harriet had warned her to avoid mentioning her age, as some would consider twenty-five to be nearly on the shelf. Lord Robert turned to smile at a young lady with copper-colored hair. He looked delighted with her. Lady Victoria joined them. Flora felt a pang in the region of her heart. With fierce discipline, she dismissed it.

The young female guests were Lady Victoria’s age, her particular friends, Harriet had said. Flora noted that they hadn’t been chosen to make the daughter of the house shine in comparison. Several had to be judged much prettier than Lady Victoria; she must be generous or confident, or perhaps both. Flora banished a sneaking wish that she’d been less magnanimous. All the girls looked so assured and graceful in their pale muslin dresses.

Flora realized that Lord Robert was coming toward her. Her pulse sped up as he stopped by her side.

“I’ve come to beg your pardon,” he said. “I was rude. Please accept my apologies.”

Flora could only nod. He hadn’t spoken to her so curtly even when they’d been mired in one of their running debates last summer. He seemed different in other ways as well. His clothes looked more—she groped for a word—complicated than they had in Russell Square and Oxford. His neckcloth was more intricate, his waistcoat more opulent. More than that, though, he had a larger presence. If she’d thought of it at all, she would have predicted that he’d be less impressive surrounded by the cream of the haut ton. Outshone or overshadowed with other noblemen all around him. In fact, it was the opposite. He stood out—polished, assured, every inch a duke’s son. And just, perhaps, the tiniest bit intimidating?

“I was startled to see you,” he went on when she didn’t speak. “Knowing how you hate the fashionable set.”

“Hate is a strong word.”

“We can dispute my word choice, but you cannot deny that you’ve expressed contempt for the ton. Emphatically and often.”

“Contempt is—”

“Another strong word. Indeed.” He smiled at her.

Abruptly, treacherously, Flora was ambushed by a memory. It had been late, at her home in Russell Square. A group of her father’s old friends were making their farewells to her mother. She and Lord Robert had lingered in a dim corner of the drawing room. She couldn’t recall how that had come about, but it was one of the rare moments when they hadn’t been arguing. Indeed, they’d been in charity with one another, for once. And he’d looked down at her with admiration, and tenderness, and longing. She couldn’t have mistaken it. His gaze had sent shivers through her body. She’d wanted to step into his arms and lose herself in a wild kiss and let passion take them where it would.

Flora blinked, and swallowed. She’d shoved that simmering desire away, out of sight, almost out of mind. She’d been so sure that he’d walk out of her life as easily as he’d walked in, that he would make a fool of her. Then, recently, she’d wondered if she was mistaken. Now, she faced a new version of this unfathomable man.

“Am I right in assuming this is your first house party?” Lord Robert asked.

“Yes.” One word was all she could manage.

“I think you’ll find the Salbridges’ arrangements very pleasant. There’ll be shooting tomorrow, I understand. Ladies often come along to observe.”

“Observe men shooting? Isn’t that unwise?” Flora pictured strolling groups straying into the line of fire. Shouting would be the least of it.

“Everyone stays behind the butts.”

“The butts?”

Lord Robert shaped a waist-high barrier with his hands. “Short stone-and-turf walls.”

“But how can they find any game if they just stand there?”

“The beaters flush the birds.”

Flora realized she’d heard of this. Wasn’t it just like the ton to have their targets hustled to them by servants? “I don’t care to watch a lot of birds herded to slaughter,” she answered.

“Yet you enjoy eating a fat partridge,” Lord Robert said. “I’ve seen you do it. Very daintily too.”

There was that warmth in his eyes. “When?” she challenged.

“The first time I was invited to dinner in Russell Square.”

“You remember what we ate?”

“Yes, I do.”

Flora couldn’t look away. Their many conversations seemed to rush back into the space between them. “I have that article you wanted to read,” she said before she thought. “The one by Stanfield. About the similarities between Akkadian and Aramaic.”

“Ah.” Lord Robert’s blue eyes flickered with…something. She couldn’t tell what it was.

“You were very eager to see it.” When he didn’t answer at once, well-worn words popped out of Flora’s mouth. “You said. Back when you were claiming to be interested in Papa’s scholarship.” His jaw tightened. She’d always been able to goad him, if nothing else.

“Fl— Miss Jennings. Allow me to give you some advice. Talk of ancient inscriptions will do you no favors here. People won’t understand. They’ll find you odd. And that can make things difficult at a gathering like this one.”

“I certainly wouldn’t wish to embarrass you!” she replied, hiding hurt under an acerbic tone.

“This isn’t about me,” he said. “Everyone knows me. It’s you who would suffer.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Of course not. Why would I do such a thing?”

“Because you wish I wasn’t here and hope I will go away and leave you to your grand friends.” Her voice sounded petulant and childish in her own ears. Flora flushed, mortified.

Lord Robert raised one auburn eyebrow. He gave her a disturbingly understanding smile. “No, I don’t.” With an elegant bow, he moved away.

Flora stood very still. She’d found that was the best way to contain a strong emotion. Especially when she didn’t know what it was. Or, rather, what a bewildering mixture of things it was. She resisted closing her hands into fists, forced down her wish to follow him.

A young man behind her gave a shout of laughter. Flora started and turned. But no one was looking at her. She was not the focus of a battery of stares. In this opulent drawing room she wasn’t the respected expert on her father’s work, or the admired head of a charitable organization. She wasn’t the least bit important. It was a kind of safety.

She encountered the gaze of the medium-sized man who’d smiled at her during the introductions. His name was Sir Liam Malloy, she recalled. He looked a bit older than the gaggle of suitors around Lady Victoria, somewhere between them and the host and hostess in age. When he saw that he had her attention, he approached.

“Miss Jennings,” he said with a small bow. “How do you do?” His voice had a faint lilt. He was stocky and tanned by the sun, probably an avid sportsman in this place and time. “Looking at you, I wondered if we might have a bit of heritage in common. Are you by any chance black Irish like me?”

They shared black hair and light-blue eyes, she noticed. It wasn’t a common coloring. “No, not so far as I know.”

“It’s a bit of a tale where the ‘black’ part came from,” he began.

“The wreck of the Spanish Armada,” said Flora automatically. “The foreign sailors washed up on Irish shores.”

Her companion looked startled. “Well, you’ve quite stolen my thunder, Miss Jennings. Not many people recall that bit of history.”

Flora flushed. Despite her resentment, she knew that Lord Robert was right. No one here cared for learning, and they would find her strange if she paraded her knowledge. Not that she ever did. She wasn’t some sort of pedant. Facts simply…popped out when you knew them. Was she supposed to try to reply stupidly? But she didn’t intend to make a point of it either. Flora planned to slide into society unobtrusively, stealthily—a dispassionate observer, an explorer of new realms. That was the way to look at it, she thought. It wasn’t all about him. “I just…happened to read of it somewhere,” she replied.

“A great reader, are you?”

Flora met his bright, interested eyes. She would tell no outright lies. But there was no need to recount her entire biography either. “Not lately,” she said. Indeed, it had been more than three hours since she had opened a book.