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“Ah, Titania, you have returned.” Miss Tynte darted a quick glance at her, then spoke to the man sitting next to her. “Mr. Benson, would you trot off to find us some more refreshments? And maybe some more of those cookies with the stars?” The man bowed in reply and marched off to the refreshments table, orders in hand.
Leave it to her wise governess to know something was distressing her. Titania placed her hands on her cheeks, noting the contrast between her icy palms and her hot face. She probably looked as flushed as if she had run around the block. Or found herself incredibly attracted to a completely ineligible man.
Mr. Benson returned, handing her a glass. She gulped the lemonade, relishing the tangy wetness as it slid down her throat. Then her eye caught sight of a broad pair of shoulders. A spark of energy zinged down her spine, and she knew she was not feeling the lemonade’s effects. Her fingers still tingled where he had touched her.
It was a good thing, she reminded herself, she was a sensible person not given to unreasonable obsessions. Otherwise she would have to wonder just what she was feeling toward the Earl of Oakley. What she needed to do, she told herself sternly, was go home and get a good night’s sleep. This campaign was scarcely begun, and her troops—her spirit and her Managing Ways—were exhausted.
Sleep eluded her, however, when she had finally donned her nightgown and snuggled into bed. Instead, her obsessive brain reviewed every scrap of information it knew about Edwin Worthington. Her father had mentioned the Marquess of Taunton’s son had been unceremoniously shipped off to America. He said the banishment was related to the scandal caused by a jilted engagement. Titania wished she had paid more attention at the time, but she did vaguely recall some of the details; the groom-to-be had simply not shown up at the church, leaving his betrothed mortified and with a barrage of gossip to face. Obviously the earl was the rogue son, and had just recently returned from abroad. That would explain his provincial style of dress.
He was like her, she thought in amusement, both of them having a come-out, although his was evidently a second go-round. No matter what—or how much—she thought of Lord Worthington, however, the fact remained that no renegade son, no matter how lofty his title or how fine he looked in evening clothes, was going to be the answer to her problems.
***
“SO YOU JUST...DIDN’T show up?” Alistair’s voice was incredulous. They were sitting in a back table at a tavern, Edwin having lost interest in the party when he observed Titania’s departure. Alistair was just happy to be able to drink something stronger than champagne.
Edwin felt the five-year-old guilt sting him anew. “No. I never told her I overheard her that day. I delayed breaking it off until I knew she was waiting for me at the altar. Then I sent a note, telling her I would not appear, and that she—and her lover—knew why.”
“That was rather harsh, wasn’t it?” Alistair placed a pinch of snuff on his hand and inhaled, then shot Edwin a penetrating glance. “But you were terribly hurt, I suppose, to find she only wanted you for your father’s money. You were rather infatuated with her. I remember one time you found she loved daffodils, and you placed them all over your—”
“Enough.” Edwin spoke in a harsh tone that would have dissuaded a lesser man. Alistair was not a lesser man.
“How did you get the daffodils to stick to your skin like that?” he mused. “I would have thought it would cause a damnable rash.”
Edwin’s lips twitched in spite of himself. “It did, actually. I holed up in my room for four days until the worst of it was over.”
“One thing I’ve always wondered: Why didn’t your father just buy you colors and be done with it? He would’ve been rid of you, and your disgrace, and you could have redeemed yourself in battle.”
“When I suggested that, he said, ‘And have my heir die on me in a glorious death? You will not be allowed to assuage your honor in some heroic action. You will not be around to torment me in my lifetime, but I will be damned if you torment me with your death.’ I did not think so at the time, but it was an excellent speech.”
“So he sent you to North America. I read the occasional letter you sent, but of course my brain does not retain such information. What exactly were you doing over there?”
“I ended up in Boston, where I served as the confidential envoy for a merchant trader in negotiations with Halifax shipowners.”
“As I suspected,” Alistair said, shaking his head, “I am still confused.”
“That position was only after I had a few satisfying months exorcising my rage in the boxing ring. I worked on the docks, moved up there, rediscovered my academic interests, and began publishing papers in some of the news journals there. Ironically enough, my specialty is battle history. And you, what are you doing now the army has no use for you?”
“They are using me, just not on the battlefield. That is all I can say.” Alistair gave an exaggerated wink. “But enough about me. Have you communicated with your father at all?”
“No.”
The two men fell silent for a moment.
“Do you know what happened to your betrothed? What was her name again?”
“Leticia Merriwether. Alistair, you would forget your boots if they were not held onto your feet.”
Alistair straightened up with a flourish worthy of a peacock. “I could never forget these boots, Worthy, you fashion misfit.”
“And I will never forget the lesson Leticia taught me when I heard her making plans to deceive me on our wedding night: marriage is a deadly trap, and I will never be caught in it.”
“You have renounced women entirely, then? No wonder you dress like that.”
“On the contrary. I have enjoyed, and will continue to enjoy, the company of women. I just know that when it comes to marriage, the female mind is more interested in the state of my bankbook than in my heart. Temporary companionship is one thing. A permanently shackled state is another.”
“A born cynic,” Alistair said, shaking his head.
“Not born, my friend. Made.”
***
TITANIA WOKE THE NEXT day with a determination not to let anything—quick fists or an even quicker wit—get in the way of her campaign. She and Miss Tynte sat together in the small sitting room and reviewed the likely bachelors, or combat missions, as Titania insisted on referring to them.
“Let me see. Mr. Clark was that young man—barely older than Thibault—who kept trying to look down my gown. Definitely scratch him off the list. Lord Davis was very nice, did you meet him?”
“Was he the one with the nice wife?”
“Oh. Scratch him off the list, too. There was a Mr. Alistair Farrell—he was dressed more beautifully than I. That would bother me, I think. Then there was that Viscount Rotten—”
“I believe his name is Rotherham. Are we scratching him as well?”
“Yes.” Titania wrinkled her nose. “He smelled. There was that very pleasant fellow, you know, the one with the—” She gestured toward her ears, but was interrupted by Sarah.
“Miss?” Sarah’s face was unusually solemn.
“Yes?” Titania was grateful for the interruption. This self-sacrifice thing was no fun. It was even harder when you were unable to forget that a very long future loomed once the banns had been read.
“A Mr. Stanhope is ’ere. Says ’e is your father’s brother. Should I show ’im in?”
Titania sprang to her feet. Had her long-lost uncle somehow heard of her plight? Was there a chance of rescuing Ravensthorpe? She beckoned to Sarah, hopping in her excitement.
“Yes, yes, show him in.” She looked at Miss Tynte. “Would you...?”
Miss Tynte smiled as if she could read her mind. “No, of course not. It would certainly be a surprise to find out one had a relative one had never heard of before.” She slipped out of the room while Titania ran to the mirror. Even her hair seemed to recognize this visit was important, since it remained uncharacteristically neat. She smoothed her suddenly damp palms on her gown and turned toward the door expectantly.
“Niece.” He was broad, his large frame leaning heavily on a cane. He hobbled into the room and glared into the corners as if searching for something. Titania rushed to pull a chair toward him, and he sank down into it, uttering a tremendous groan. She wondered how much it chafed him to be so immobile. Since he was related to her father, chances were good forced inactivity made him act like a sore bear.
She regarded him from under her lashes as he settled himself, grunting and muttering. The comparison to a bear was apt in more than just personality: his shaggy brown hair grazed his collar, and his almost as shaggy eyebrows looked like two caterpillars perched above his eyes. She couldn’t see their color, but they were deep set, with heavy lines creased under them. He was about as opposite his dandified, languidly elegant brother as possible.
“Uncle?”
He scrutinized her from head to toe. She could almost swear he stiffened as he gazed at her face.
“Yes. I am Uncle Norbert. I don’t suppose your parents ever spoke of me, hmm?” He glowered at her from under his eyebrows.
“Oh, yes, they did,” Titania replied in surprise. “As has Aunt Bestley, your sister. Father always wished we could meet you, but...”
“But I am a cripple, is that what he said?” the man rumbled, glowering at her with an even fiercer gaze.
Titania recoiled a bit at his venomous tone. So much for finding solace in meeting a long-lost relative.
“No, that your responsibilities would not allow you to be away from the country for so long, that is all. But tell me,” she said, sitting on the carpet near his chair, “what brings you here now?” She looked up at him with a smile, not to be dissuaded by his bearishness.
Her uncle’s eyes, as blue as her father’s, glittered with an icy cast. “We get word of things. My sister writes me your father did you a bad turn. And I’ve spoken to Mr. Hawthorne. He mentioned the new will.” He turned his eyes to the floor, twirling the cane idly as he spoke.
“...yes,” Titania replied slowly. “Father was...well, you would know better than I, but Father could be a bit...” Her voice faltered.
“Thoughtless?” The rage in his voice was unmistakable.
Titania scurried back on the carpet a few inches, alarmed by his almost palpable anger. She began to wonder at the real reason she had never met him before.
“Father was reckless, and of course he did an exceedingly reprehensible thing, but it is no more than I would expect of him. He loved too well, and too often. Mother kept him in check, but when she died—”
“I have no doubt he led your mother a fine dance,” her uncle growled. For a moment, his eyes seemed to soften. Then he narrowed them, staring at Titania so hard she felt as if he were trying to see into her soul.
“But I am not here about your parents. I am here about Ravensthorpe.”
Titania exhaled, tracing a pattern on the carpet with her finger as she spoke. “If Mr. Hawthorne explained about Father’s will, you know the situation is bad. Making it worse is that Ravensthorpe needs a substantial outlay of funds in order even to maintain itself.”
“And how do you propose you find the money?” he demanded.
Titania did not want to reveal any of her plans. Thus far he had growled, derided, and mocked her and her parents. She had no wish to give him any more artillery.
“Thibault is working on it. Thibault is brilliant at numbers and accounting,” she lied, hoping his country home was far enough away for him not to have heard Thibault was more likely to balance a spoon on his nose than a column of numbers.
“And if he fails?”
“If he fails, Ravensthorpe is lost,” she replied simply.
He sat for a minute, twirling his cane faster. In the silence, she heard his breath laboring, a hoarse wheeze punctuating each exhale. Then he slid his eyes toward her and smiled. A smile completely devoid of any friendly emotion.
“Then Ravensthorpe will be lost to me. Thank you for the good news, niece. I am certain you will be helpful when I regain my rightful place. Haven’t been there for twenty-five years, and now your father’s blithe spirit is handing it to me on a silver platter. Oh, this is rich.” He leaned his head back and laughed.
Titania stood, shaking in anger. How dare he come here and threaten her? “You will not have Ravensthorpe,” she said in a low, steady voice. “Thibault and I will figure something out, and the taxes are not due for several months. Ravensthorpe belongs to Thibault, Uncle.”
“How?” He waved her away with his beefy hand. “No, don’t bother telling me. I have an offer for you and your brother, the baron.” He said the word with an ugly sneer. “If you cede Ravensthorpe to me now, I might just let you live there. Of course, you will have to earn your keep—none of your fancy lady ways will be tolerated at my home.”
Titania grimaced to herself as she reviewed her “fancy lady” ways at Ravensthorpe: managing the servants, dealing with the tenants and the creditors, keeping her father from reaching the gaming tables too often, making sure Thibault fell in the well only once a season.
What her uncle offered would be unpleasant, no doubt, but not difficult. Should she talk to Thibault and take his offer? She would not have to auction herself off in marriage for the privilege of keeping Ravensthorpe. She and Thibault would always have a home. But what kind of home would it be?
“I’ve been friendly, niece, as befits our relationship. But let me warn you, I won’t be so friendly if you make me wait for your decision.” He considered that friendly? That settled it. No husband could possibly be as nasty as her uncle. She would take her chances and hope he would not be able to call her bluff until she held all the cards. She rose, briskly rubbing her hands.
“No, thank you, Uncle, I have every confidence Thibault and I will manage to hold onto Ravensthorpe.”
He gave a short bark of laughter. “Ha. I’ll just wait. And when you cannot pay, I will buy up the notes. There’s not much for an old bachelor to do in the country except make money. And I’ve got plenty. And then you can find yourself another home, because I will be master of Ravensthorpe.”
He rose, using his cane as a crutch for support. Titania felt a wicked desire to kick it out from under him, but she sensed it would please him for her to behave as spitefully as he. And besides, she could not really be that mean.
“No need to show me out, niece. I know my way.” He stumped out the door, leaving a furious Titania in his wake.
She stood as stunned and silent as a jilted lover. Her knees buckled, and her foot caught on something on the carpet. She bent down to retrieve it with the automatic impulse of a conscientious manager.
She picked up a large, wooden splinter, its jagged edges as threatening as the man who had just left. It must have fallen off his cane as he thumped it on the floor. She clenched it in her hand, gasping as its sharp edges pricked her palm. The pain she felt would be nothing compared to what would happen if she failed and her uncle was able to buy up the notes. Her stomach roiled as she pondered the possibility there were more debts outstanding. Her uncle was certainly confident she and Thibault would not survive.
What could she do? She held the splinter even tighter, shutting her eyes as she felt the wood pierce her skin enough to make it throb.
She could renege on her promise to the tenants and keep Ravensthorpe at the price of being a cruel landholder, even the thought of which made her cringe. But how much could she squeeze from them, even if she were bent on being ruthless? And what would happen when they left, or her crops were bad?
She could present Thibault with the truth. But what could he do? Sadly, spoon balancing and well falling were about all the skills he had. If she could not rescue them from their situation, he certainly couldn’t. And the truth would devastate him. He still thought their father the most wonderful, charming man on earth. Which Titania had to admit he was, only she would also have to add fickle, insensitive, and occasionally devious.
She could plead with her uncle to lend them the money with the promise of return on his investment. And while she was at it, she could beg for twenty-five hours in a day and a week’s worth of London sun, for all the good it would do her.
No, the only solution she could see was to marry money.
She barely had time to stomp around the floor about a thousand times before Sarah appeared again.
“Miss?” she said in surprise. “Did your uncle leave? You look a fright, what have you been doing?”
Titania’s eyes flew to the mirror. She saw a banshee, hair in wild tangles about her head, her face deathly white with matching patches of flushed red on either cheek. She willed herself to stop pacing and began to run her fingers through her hair.
“Doing? Oh, trying to solve problems. Nothing a good set of dueling pistols wouldn’t fix.”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “Oh, is that all. Well, I’m here to tell you your friend Lady Wexford is here to see you.”
Before she even stopped speaking, Claire bustled into the room, pulling her hat off and dropping into the nearest chair with a loud exhale.
Titania quickly put the splinter in her pocket and held her aching hand in her other, hoping Claire would fail to observe the telltale red marks. She should not have worried; Claire’s only observations were for herself.
“Titania! Was the Hagans’ rout not a mad crush? Much better than the theater, which I attended the night before. Very dull, and whoever told that playwright he could tell a story must have been a doting aunt, there is no other explanation. Such nonsense.”
“What play was it?”
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream. But tell me, did you enjoy meeting my cicisbei?”
“Ch—what?”
“My admirers.” Claire rolled her eyes at her friend’s naïveté. “All the fashionable married ladies have them.”
“Ah...yes, of course. Thank you for allowing them to dance with me.”
Claire waved a beringed hand. “It is the least I can do until you get admirers of your own. I did see a tall man speaking with you; who was that?” Her blue eyes sparkled with salacious interest.
Oh, the one with the chest, and the shoulders, and those eyes? That man?
“Uh, I am not sure which one you mean. I met so many gentlemen last night.”
Claire gave a satisfied smirk. “Of course, you don’t know anybody yet. Well, I know a few gentlemen—actually, one gentleman in particular—who would be delighted to meet you. I will have to find out that man’s name, though,” she mused, tapping her fingernail against her teeth. “He had quite an air about him. I am surprised you don’t recall which one I mean.”
“Claire,” Titania said, feeling awkward as she tried to steer the conversation to something—anything—else, “what are you wearing this evening?” An almost inanely simple topic. Would Claire see through her obvious subterfuge?
Claire’s eyes lit up. Apparently her diversionary tactic was successful. “An absolutely lovely gown, Ti, you really should see it. Of course, you will tonight, it is cream colored with pink ribbons. It sets off the Wexford diamonds beautifully. And you?”
“My gown is dark green. It reminds me of the trees at Ravensthorpe.” As well as matching a certain man’s eyes, but of course that had nothing to do with her decision to wear it.
***
“WHAT A LOVELY GOWN, Miss Stanhope. It reminds me of leaves reaching their peak, just about to fall.”
Just like me, Titania thought, nodding at the gentleman with a smile. She had so far stood up for every one of the dances, and her popularity seemed to be gaining as the night wore on. Titania was not so vain as to think it had much to do with her gown, however lovely, nor much to do with anything of her appearance.
It had everything to do with advance reconnoitering. And thanks to her uncle’s visit, her position was that much more desperate. Sarah had divulged details of her mistress’s vast fortune (and her equally vast desire to be wed quickly) to some of the servants she had met at the various shops to which she had accompanied Titania and Miss Tynte.
Titania was just finishing a dance with some young man who thought Ptolemy was a new tailor on Bond Street when she spotted Claire, accompanied by a tall man with exceedingly proud bearing. Her friend flitted up and began speaking all at once.
“Titania, Lord Gratwick has been pestering me all evening to be presented to you. Miss Titania Stanhope, may I present Lieutenant Colonel Lord John Gratwick of the Royal Fusiliers. He has just arrived from the Continent. He has not had any feminine conversation for some time, so do indulge him, dear, for my sake,” she said, patting Titania’s sleeve with a condescending air.
“Miss Stanhope,” Lord Gratwick began with a bow, “it is true I have been away, but I have not been quite so cut off from society as Lady Wexford envisions. In fact, I was acquainted with several respectable citizens, all of whom could speak in complete sentences and drink tea from a cup.”
Claire, apparently having discharged herself of her duty, drifted away toward another cluster of people. Most of them male, Titania noticed. She turned her attention back to Lord Gratwick.
“It is lovely to meet you, sir; tell me, is there any news that has not yet appeared in our newspapers?
“I am surprised to hear you peruse the newspapers for news. I did not think it customary for ladies to read the actual news items.” The man’s eyes crinkled in a grin.
Titania gave him a conspiratorial smile in return. “You would be surprised, my lord, how many ladies tell the males of their household they just want the newspaper for the gossip or the fashion, and then secretly read the sections deemed too sensitive for our eyes. It is our husbands and brothers at the battle front as well.”
The man gave an approving nod. “It is ladies such as yourself, Miss Stanhope, who give the men at the front a reason for fighting.”
Titania wondered just how Claire knew this gentleman. He was not one of her lovesick swains, and he did not appear the type who would be one of Lord Wexford’s cronies. As he nodded at an acquaintance, she took the opportunity to examine him more closely. He was taller than most of the men in the room, and was whip thin. He was dressed in the subdued manner championed by the Prince Regent’s arbiter of style, Beau Brummell, and had followed Brummell’s severely elegant example precisely. He had a full head of blond hair that curled slightly at his collar, but before she could complete her review, she was startled to see his light, watery blue eyes gazing intently at her.
“Lady Wexford told me you were an intelligent woman. She—”
“I can guess just how she said it, too,” Titania interrupted. “Were the words blue and stocking thrown about? Perhaps the phrase ‘far too inquisitive’?”
The man coughed a discreet chuckle into his hand. “Yes, well, Lady Wexford does not hold learning in as much regard as it appears you and I do. Tell me, have you found anyone in Society with whom to discuss matters of import? Because,” he said, leaning closer toward her so as to speak softly into her ear, “I have been back for about a week, and so far have found at least twenty young ladies who know that we are at war, but not exactly why. I would enjoy finding someone to discuss matters beyond last week’s weather and next week’s rout.”
Titania felt the thrill of meeting a kindred spirit. “Oh, my lord, I would enjoy that as well.” Claire reappeared just as Titania was speaking.
“Enjoy what?” Claire’s eyes glittered with mischief. “Lord Gratwick, are you actually trying to tempt my upright friend into enjoying something?”
“Claire, I enjoy many things—”
Her friend interrupted again. “Yes, books, books, and more books. It is a good thing you left the country, Titania, else you might never have seen the world. You cannot experience everything through books, you know.” Lord Gratwick shot a reproving look at Claire, then just as suddenly turned it into a sweet smile.
“Lady Wexford, are you accompanying me to my uncle’s house? You said you would review his furnishings and tell me what you think would suit my bachelor housing.”
Claire sighed. “Yes, since you insist, but I must demand some recompense. Oh,” she said, tapping his arm with her fan, “I have a splendid idea! I believe you mentioned your uncle also had a vast library?”
“Yes, but—”
“If Titania will accompany us, I will look at chairs and moldy rugs until my eyes fall out. I think she could spend some time in your uncle’s library? Perhaps advise you as to what should be saved?” Two pairs of blue eyes turned toward Titania’s face, waiting for her reply.
“How could I decline? It sounds lovely.” Titania did not trust the look in Claire’s eyes, but she could not refuse without appearing incredibly rude. She wondered just why it seemed so important for Claire to arrange such a visit, when just a moment before she had expressed disdain for Titania’s love of books.
Claire’s coterie soon claimed her once again, leaving Titania and Lord Gratwick at the edge of the ball room together.
“Should we find your chaperone, Miss Stanhope? Although, to be honest, I would prefer to converse with you a bit longer.” His mouth curved in what Titania guessed was supposed to be a charming smile. She darted a glance at Miss Tynte, who was engaged in quiet conversation with an older man with twinkling eyes. She did not want to intrude.
“In just a moment, Lord Gratwick. Now, if you would, tell me some of your battle front experiences.”
As Lord Gratwick began speaking, Titania stopped listening as she caught sight the earl—that trouble maker, she thought crossly—bending to give a young red-haired beauty a flute of champagne. She felt a stab of possessive jealousy spear through her, and tried to nod when Lord Gratwick’s conversation paused, her thoughts racing.
How could that girl wear that canary-yellow gown with that hair—does she not know it makes her look like a rooster? And what is she thinking now, leaning in so close to Lord Worthington? As she was working herself into a state of outrage, Edwin turned and caught her eye. He smiled, one eyebrow raised as his gaze raked her as thoroughly as she had him. He murmured a few words to his companion, who pouted prettily at his departure, and made his way over to Titania.
“Miss Stanhope, what a pleasure it is to see you again.” Her stomach fluttered as he bent over her hand.
“My lord,” she replied in a voice that even to her sounded breathy. “Lord Gratwick, may I present Lord Worthington, the Earl of Oakley? Lord Gratwick has recently returned from the Continent. And Lord Worthington from the New World. I have just arrived from the very dull country of Northamptonshire.” The two men bowed, Lord Gratwick narrowing his eyes in concentration.
“Are you the Marquess of Taunton’s son? Lord Edwin Worthington? The author of some battle strategy papers?”
“I am, yes; I am honored you would know my work.” Titania wrinkled her brow in thought.
“Lord Worthington, I had not made the connection,” she exclaimed. “Of course, you are the author E. G. Worthington.”
Oh, dear, now I really am in trouble, she thought. He is a writer, too, which means we have more than our witty repartee in common. And she knew firsthand the meager pittance offered by obscure news journals. An estranged son, those dusty boots, probably an excellent collection of obscure reference books; his finances were probably even worse than hers.
She had put her uncle’s splinter in the pocket of her gown to remind her of what she needed to do. She grabbed it and squeezed hard.
Lord Gratwick gave a frosty smile. “I recall some tent-bound general exhorting us to read your theses. He assured us your insights would assist in our battle preparations. In my experience, there is no substitute for actual wartime experience.”
Edwin stiffened at the insult but replied in a mild tone, “You may well be correct, my lord. Nothing compares with firsthand experience.” Titania hastened to speak to try to stop the impending storm.
“I have read some of your papers, sir, they really are quite insightful.” She turned toward Lord Gratwick. “You see, my lord, I have not had the advantage of being at the front, either. I rely on expertise such as Lord Worthington’s to give me the information I desire.”
“Thank you, Miss Stanhope,” Edwin said, sketching her a bow. “It is always a pleasure to be defended by a soldier as fierce in her defense as you.”
His eyes crinkled in the corners as he smiled warmly at her, and she felt herself respond with a smile that emerged from the depths of her chest. How nice it would be to have someone smile like that at her every day.
Titania pushed that traitorous thought away and tried to pay attention to what Lord Gratwick was saying. He was discussing the current state of the war, a conversation that would normally have been fascinating to Titania, who, preoccupied, had to force herself to follow along. Her natural curiosity finally won out, however, and she soon found herself asking questions with as much pesky inquisitiveness as if she were a lively schoolboy and not a young lady of fashion. The three were arguing over a fine tactical point when Claire returned and interrupted, her eyes as hard as the diamonds clasped around her throat.
“Titania, my dear,” she cooed, “you are monopolizing the most interesting men in the room! Everyone is abuzz to know what you are talking about so interestedly. I have not been introduced yet”—she smiled at Lord Worthington—“but as this gentleman is acquainted with Miss Stanhope and Lord Gratwick, I see no reason to bother with formalities.” She held out her hand to Edwin. “I am Lady Wexford, Titania’s dearest old friend.”
Claire peeked up at Edwin through her lashes, and Lord Gratwick gave a bleak smile. “Yes, Lady Wexford, allow me to introduce Lord Worthington, who is an author of war analysis, just returned from—I’m sorry, just where is it you have been sequestered of late, my lord?”
“America,” Edwin said curtly. “It is an interesting place, where being a gentleman means more than having a title.”
Lord Gratwick paused, his politeness warring with his anger, then his courtesy won and he threw his head back and laughed. “Well played, my lord.”
“Well, no matter,” Claire said, a bit peevishly. “I am perishing for a glass of something, and one of you gentlemen must go fetch it for me...Lord Worthington, perhaps you will be so kind?” Her voice trailed off expectantly. Edwin bowed in assent, glanced quickly at Titania, and then strode off for the refreshment table. Titania’s eyes would not allow her to stop watching him, so she surrendered, enjoying the sight of those broad shoulders as he walked to the other side of the room.
As she watched him, Claire leaned into her ear and began to whisper eagerly, “That is the man! I found out all about him. He is striking, isn’t he? Too bad he has no money, at least not until his father dies. And perhaps not even then. His father banished him, you know, and has still not forgiven him. And his father is in very good health.”
“Then why did he return?”
“His uncle left him some property, I believe, but there is no money there, either. The beautiful Lord Worthington is going to have to sell himself to the highest bidder, but with those looks, he should be able to secure quite a dowry. Much uglier men have, and he is his father’s heir, after all, even if it takes him twenty more years to become a marquess.”
Why, he’s in the same situation I am, Titania thought. Neither of us can marry for love, or even good companionship. Titania frowned, thinking about what she had to offer a prospective husband: a sharp brain, a broken nose, black hair that would not curl, and an impish brother. She was going to have to work on her charm.
The earl returned, holding glasses for each of the ladies. “Lord Worthington,” Claire said, touching him softly on the arm as she accepted her drink, “if you are any indication, I think all our gentlemen should go overseas for a while to allow their...manners to mature.”
Manners, my foot, Titania thought to herself. Claire’s eyes were narrowed in what even Titania could recognize as a sensual glance, and Titania saw her draw a deep breath, her chest rising but not seeming to fall again.
It would only be for practice, Titania told herself, when she impulsively decided to work her own charm on Lord Worthington. Certainly it was not because Claire looked in danger of suffocation, nor was it because Lord Worthington’s hair was ruffled where he had run his hand through it, giving him a boyish look that tugged at Titania’s heart. She pushed her hair back, straightened her shoulders, and smiled directly into his eyes.
“Lord Worthington, when you write, do you have an idea in your head as to the eventual outcome, or do you just write as you go and figure out where you are going as you make your journey?”
That was possibly the least flirtatious thing she could have said, and she wished she could retract her words even as she spoke.
“You mean, Miss Stanhope, do I work toward the climax or feel my way through the body of work?” He met her eyes with a smoldering glance. Apparently she was onto something.
She tried again. “I mean, do you strive for perfection the first time, or do you have to grind through several drafts until you are satisfied with the result?”
“Oh, the first time it is hard to find perfection, but it has occasionally happened, at least that is what I have been told. But grinding through each draft, as you say, is also pleasurable.”
Titania frowned, confused. “I write also, and I would not say the act of writing is pleasurable, exactly. It is pleasing to have finished it, but perhaps I am missing something.”
“Yes, I think you might be, Miss Stanhope. Perhaps I can give you some practical assistance in the near future.”
“Yes, that would be...educational.” She looked at him for just a moment longer, long enough to register that his eyes were regarding her with a gaze she could only describe as predatory. He seemed to realize what he was doing and his face relaxed, his eyes losing some of their greenish glow. Her breathing returned to normal.
“May I request the honor of a dance, Miss Stanhope, if your card is not already filled?”
Titania nodded, her imagination already soaring as she thought about what it would feel like to spend a few moments in his arms. It would probably surpass the joy she felt when she brought the ledger books into balance, and it most certainly would be more fun than watching Claire’s bosom heave.
Seeing that Edwin was claiming a dance, Lord Gratwick too advanced toward Titania. “Miss Stanhope, you must do me the honor as well. As someone who has only recently returned from the perils of war, I have not been able to enjoy the fine art of dancing in some time. My lord, here,” he said, gesturing negligently to Edwin, “has not that excuse to claim, but he has probably had his head in so many dusty libraries that he has had no chance to enjoy the company of the ladies.” He paused very briefly. “It is only natural that he would want to partner the most stunning dark-haired beauty in the room,” he continued, nodding in acknowledgment to the blond Claire.
Edwin bowed toward Lord Gratwick. “My lord, since you have gone longer than I, please take the first dance. Miss Stanhope,” he said softly, “I will have to delay my gratification for a few moments. I am noted for my restraint—I believe our dance will be that much sweeter when it finally arrives.” Titania held her arm out to Lord Gratwick, who escorted her onto the floor.
Lord Gratwick’s grasp, already firm, tightened as he spoke. “Miss Stanhope, I am completely undone by meeting you this evening. You are intelligent, lovely, and clearly not a foolish young girl. Is this your first Season?”
“Yes, it is. How do you find being home after such a long time?”
“Civilians cannot comprehend just how enervating it is to be at war. I have longed to be home, where the most exhausting thing I could do all day is dance with a charming woman. Oh, and cajole an old friend to introduce me to her old friend. That was truly exhausting. I would not want to have faced someone with Lady Wexford’s ferocity on the battlefield.”
Titania looked over to where Claire was holding court, her trilling laughter audible even over the din of conversation.
“Yes, she has...changed since we last saw each other. But then I believe most of us have. I know I am not the same serious girl I used to be; that girl would have disdained an evening such as this as not being sober enough.”
“Well, we should get this girl some champagne, then.” He grinned, dancing her over to where two glasses were being held out by a yawning footman. He raised his glass to her, saying, “A toast to new acquaintances, may they become old ones soon.” The bubbles tickled her nose, and she giggled. Lord Gratwick raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“I did not think goddesses were allowed to giggle.”
“Only if the occasion warrants, my lord. We goddesses do not giggle lightly.”
“I am pleased you chose to honor me with this special occasion, then. I hope we can find other opportunities for you to unbend from Mount Olympus in the future.” His pale blue eyes caught hers in an intense gaze. She almost gasped in relief as she saw Lord Worthington approach to claim her for the next dance.
It felt right to be in his arms, to inhale his intoxicating, musky male scent. She wished he would hold her a bit closer, but she quickly stifled that thought for fear she might blurt her desire out loud. Unfortunately, stifling what was on the tip of her tongue also stifled her ability to make any sort of conversation. The long moments of silence between them made it apparent that he, too, was speechless.
When he did eventually speak, it was not with his usual smooth, low tone. His voice was husky and labored.
“You are lovely, you know.” A tiny part of her rigid control relaxed as she exhaled softly. “It’s not just your face; it’s you yourself. And,” he said as he smiled into her eyes, “I must also count your tendency to run, sometimes rather forcefully, into things and people that are of interest: the war, Russell Square...me.”
Titania laughed, glad he had given her an opportunity to lighten the mood. “Yes, it is one of the more annoying aspects of my personality...rushing headlong into things. The war, my family’s financial affairs, dancing, poetry, Russell Square.”
“And me?” She caught her breath at the intensity of his tone.
“My lord,” Titania said, feeling the weight of her uncle’s threats lodged in her pocket, “I am always glad to meet someone with whom I can have excellent conversation. I have found such conversation somewhat lacking in London. And I just do not know enough about the weather to keep my company suitably interested.” She felt the pull of his gaze on hers, and drew her eyes back up to his face. “I am hoping that you are not alone in your species, Lord Worthington.”
She was hoping so more than she was allowed to say. If she could find a man of means who had just half the wit Edwin Worthington so obviously possessed, she would not feel as if she were being dealt a bad hand.
The chances of that, she thought, looking up at the staggeringly handsome man now leading her back to her chair, were slim. She plopped down in her chair, giving herself a good scold regarding impoverished authors as he sauntered away. Miss Tynte returned to sit also, a look of understanding on her face. Titania suddenly felt bone tired.
“Would it be acceptable to leave now, Elizabeth, rather than later? I am completely worn out.”
“You poor dear. The life of a debutante is rather fatiguing, is it not? All those compliments, dances, fancy foods...” Miss Tynte wore a slightly mocking smile as she spoke.
“Yes, actually. Have you ever discussed every single permutation of the weather for fifteen minutes straight?”
“Not to mention trying to ferret out which men in this room are worth how much. I can sympathize, truly, I was just making fun of you. You are always so in control. I have to have fun on the rare occasion you are flustered.” Miss Tynte patted her hand, smiling at Titania as she did so. “Yes, we can go. I am tired, too. Schooling you and your brother was not nearly as tiring as trying to comprehend what all those fearsome turban-headed ladies are saying.”