Buch lesen: «The Secrets of the Heart»
Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author
KASEY MICHAELS
“[A] hilarious spoof of society wedding rituals wrapped around a sensual romance filled with crackling dialogue reminiscent of The Philadelphia Story.”
—Booklist on Everything’s Coming Up Rosie
“A cheerful, lighthearted read.”
—Publishers Weekly on Everything’s Coming Up Rosie
“Michaels continues to entertain readers with the verve of her appealing characters and their exciting predicaments.”
—Booklist on Beware of Virtuous Women
“Lively dialogue and characters make the plot’s suspense and pathos resonate.”
—Publishers Weekly on Beware of Virtuous Women
“A must-read for fans of historical romance and all who appreciate Michaels’ witty and sensuous style.”
—Booklist on The Dangerous Debutante
“Michaels is in her element in her latest historical romance, a tale filled with mystery, sexual tension, and steamy encounters, making this a gem from a true master of the genre.”
—Booklist on A Gentleman by Any Other Name
“Michaels can write everything from a lighthearted romp to a far more serious-themed romance. [Kasey] Michaels has outdone herself.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews, Top Pick, on A Gentleman by Any Other Name
“Nonstop action from start to finish! It seems that author Kasey Michaels does nothing halfway.”
—Huntress Reviews on A Gentleman by Any Other Name
“Michaels has done it again…. Witty dialogue peppers a plot full of delectable details exposing the foibles and follies of the age.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review, on The Butler Did It
“Michaels demonstrates her flair for creating likable protagonists who possess chemistry, charm and a penchant for getting into trouble. In addition, her dialogue and descriptions are full of humor.”
—Publishers Weekly on This Must Be Love
“Kasey Michaels aims for the heart and never misses.”
—New York Times bestselling author Nora Roberts
KASEY MICHAELS
The Secrets of the Heart
The Secrets of the Heart
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE: A SIMPLE VOLLEY
BOOK ONE:THE GAME BEGINS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
BOOK TWO:ADVANTAGE, PEACOCK
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
BOOK THREE:A MASTER STROKE
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
EPILOGUE: WINNER TAKES ALL
PROLOGUE
A SIMPLE VOLLEY
I vow, I love the game, for this is the finest sport I have yet encountered. Hair-breadth escapes…the devil’s own risks! Tally ho—and away we go!
Baroness Orczy
Once more into the breach,
dear friends, once more!
William Shakespeare
JUST SHORTLY BEFORE TEN of the clock, Herbert Symington bade his host and hostess a pleasant good night and rather drunkenly tripped down the stairs toward the impressively designed if a tad overly ornate coach and four that was his latest acquisition and one of which he was enormously proud.
It was a grand time to be alive, Herbert Symington truly believed. An Englishman with his wits about him could make a tidy profit from the cheap labor filtering in to Little Pillington. Independent weavers put out of business by the big new mills had lost their livings and would work from before dawn to past dusk for a few shillings a week in order to feed their families.
“Take me home, coachie,” Symington commanded, giving a sweeping wave to his driver and a drunken kick to the groom, who didn’t move fast enough in lowering the steps to the coach to suit his master. “Lazy jackanapes, I ought to sack you,” he muttered under his liquor-sour breath, pulling himself into the coach and collapsing heavily against the velvet squabs as the coachman prematurely gave the horses their office to start.
“Stupid oafs, the lot of them,” Symington grumbled into his gravy-stained cravat as he adjusted his considerable girth more comfortably.
And then he blinked—twice, just to be certain—and peered inquiringly into the semidarkness. “Who’s there?” he asked, leaning forward to address the vague shape he believed he saw sitting cross-legged on the facing seat. “God’s eyebrows, am I in the wrong coach? That’ll teach me to steer clear of the daffy. Speak up, man—say something!”
The click and scrape of a small tinderbox answered him, followed by the sight of the growing, disembodied glow of the business end of a cheroot.
“Good evening, Herbert, you’re looking well,” a low, well-modulated voice answered him at last. “And how charitable of you to share your coach with me. Well sprung, I must say, and doubtless cost you a pretty penny. Enjoy yourself at the trough tonight?”
Symington swallowed down hard at the sudden lump of fear that had lodged in his throat. “What the devil? Who are you? Coachie!” he bellowed. “Stop at once!”
“Please, good sir, lower your voice,” the unknown intruder pleaded as the coach raced on through the night, bypassing the turn to the right that would have led to Symington’s house and rapidly leaving the dark streets of Little Pillington behind. “The confines of this coach preclude such full-throated volume. Besides, as your coachman and groom have seen fit to leave your employ and join mine—no loyalty in today’s topsy-turvy times, is there, Herbert?—I fear I must point out the fruitlessness of further protest. And, to be sporting, I should also advise you that I am armed, my pistol cocked and aimed directly at your ample stomach. Therefore, as any sudden movement might cause the nasty thing to go off, you most probably would be well advised to remain quietly in your seat.”
“The devil you say!” Symington’s gin-bleared eyes were fairly popping from his head now as a fragrant, blue-tinged cloud of cigar smoke wreathed the shadowy figure from chest to curly-brimmed beaver. “You—your coachie, you say? Am I being kidnapped, then?”
An amused chuckle emanated from the shadowy figure. “Hardly, Herbert. Kidnapping you would indicate that I believed you had some sort of intrinsic worth. I am here this evening merely to request a boon of you.”
“A—a boon?” Symington repeated, automatically holding out his hand to take the neatly rolled and tied sheet of paper the stranger was now offering. “And what is this?” he asked, holding the paper gingerly, as if it might somehow turn on him and bite his fingers.
Another blue cloud of smoke issued from between the stranger’s lips, blowing across the coach to accost Symington’s nostrils. “Yes, it is dark in here for reading, isn’t it? You do read, don’t you, Herbert? Very well, I shall attempt to recall the salient points. Let’s see. First, you are to immediately cease and desist employing persons under the age of ten in your mills.”
“What?”
“Hush, Herbert, as it is not your turn to speak. Second, you will oblige me in setting up schools for these children, keeping them occupied while their mothers are at work. You will also feed these children one meal a day—even on Sunday, when henceforth no one will work the Symington mills—with meat served to the children twice weekly.”
Symington’s ample belly shook as he began to laugh. He laughed so heartily, and with such enjoyment, that soon tears streamed from his eyes. “Are you daft?” he choked out between bouts of mirth. “Why would I do that?”
“I do not believe I had finished, Herbert,” the stranger said quietly once Symington’s hilarity subsided, which it did when he remembered the cocked pistol. “You will roll back the laborers’ shifts from fifteen to fourteen hours and present every worker with a mug of beer at the end of each shift. You will employ a doctor for your workers. You will also increase all wages by ten percent, beginning tomorrow. I think that’s it—for now.”
The cocked pistol was no longer of any importance, for this man, this arrogant stranger, was talking of dipping into Herbert Symington’s pockets, the depth of which were more important to him than his own soul, let alone his corpulent corporeal body. “The devil I will! Coddle the bastards? Fill their bellies? And cut their hours? How am I supposed to make a profit?”
“Ah, Herbert, but you do make a profit. A tidy profit. Enough profit to afford this coach, and that most lovely new domicile you have been building for yourself this past year. You’re to move into it early next month, I believe, and have even gone so far as to invite a few of the ton to join you in a party to celebrate your skewed belief that fortune and breeding are synonymous. I’m delighted for you, truly. Although I would not have chosen to use so much gilt in the foyer. Such ostentation smacks of the climbing cit which, alas, you are. You know, Herbert, I believe I detest you more for your mistreatment of your workers because you were one of them not so long ago.”
“Who are you to judge me?” Symington bellowed, not caring that his voice echoed inside the coach. This man had seen his house, been inside his house? How? But if he had been, then he should know how far Herbert Symington had come since his long-ago years in the Midlands. “Yes, I was one of them, never so bad as the worst of them, better than the best of them. Smarter. More willing to see what I needed and take it!”
“Yes, Herbert. You did. But you chose to make that steep climb on the broken backs of your fellow workers, screwing down their wages, damning them to damp hovels, disease, and crippling injuries,” his accuser broke in neatly. “And now you call them the swinish multitude and keep your heel on their throats so that no one else might have the opportunity for betterment that you had. Do you have any idea of the hatred you are fomenting with your tactics? You, and all those like you, are creating a separate society, a generation of brutalized workers turned savage in their fear, their hunger, their—but enough of sermonizing. We are nearly at our destination, Herbert, as your monument to your greed lies just around this corner, I believe. Observe. Soon you will be toasting your toes by your own fireside.”
As the stranger used the barrel of his pistol to push back the ornate lace curtain covering the nearest window of the now slowing coach, Herbert Symington looked out to see his nearly completed house, his pride, his proof of affluence, engulfed in flames from portico to rooftops.
“No,” he whispered, shaking his head, unable to believe the horror he saw. His house. His beautiful house! “Oh, sweet Christ! No!”
“The paper, Herbert,” the stranger said, coldly interrupting Symington’s anguish. “Don’t crush it so, or you might not be able to read my demands, for shock has a way of erasing recently learned specifics from one’s mind. What I have offered you tonight is in the way of a small exercise in consequences. In addition to the home you still inhabit in Little Pillington, I believe you have recently acquired a townhouse in London. Not in Mayfair, of course, but amid its increasingly fashionable fringes. And we must not forget those three lovely mills. So many possessions. So much to lose. Tonight’s lesson would prove enough for an intelligent man. Are you an intelligent man, Herbert? Or are you willing to risk disobeying me?”
“You bastard!” Symington growled, clenching his hamlike hands into impotent fists as the glow from the fire glinted on the barrel of the pistol. “Oh, I know who you are now! I’ve heard the stories. I know what you’ve done to other mill owners. So now you’re after me, are you? Well, I won’t bow down to you like the others have. You’ll hang for this, you miserable scoundrel—and I’ll be there to watch you dance!”
“That’s the spirit, Herbert. Down but not out!” the man said encouragingly as the door to the coach opened and the groom reached in to let down the steps. “You take that thought with you. Take it and hold it close to your heart, along with my list of demands. And, oh yes, thank you for the coach. It will bring a considerable sum, I’m convinced, proceeds which will doubtless fill many a stomach these next months. Once again, Herbert, good evening to you. I sincerely wish I will not find it necessary we should meet again.”
“Oh, I’ll see you again, you heartless bastard. See you and more!” Symington tried desperately to make out the facial features of his tormentor in the glow from the fire, but it was useless. He felt himself being pulled unceremoniously from his beloved coach before a well-laced kick from his former employee nearly sent him sprawling onto the gravel drive in front of the inferno that was once his house.
The coach drove away, the sound of delighted laugher floating back to mock him, and Symington angrily yanked off the ribbon holding the list of demands, bent on ripping the paper into a thousand pieces.
As he unrolled the single sheet, something long and soft fluttered to the ground and he picked it up. He held it to the light from the blaze before cursing roundly, flinging the thing from him, and turning to slowly walk the three miles back into Little Pillington.
Behind him, lying abandoned on the drive, a single peacock feather winked blue and green in the light from the blazing fire.
BOOK ONE
THE GAME BEGINS
The world is full of fools, and he who would not see it should live alone and smash his mirror.
attributed to Claude Le Petite
CHAPTER ONE
Society is now one polished horde,
formed of two mighty tribes,
the Bores, and Bored.
Lord Byron
LADY UNDERCLIFF HAD BEEN sadly out of sorts for a month, or so she informed anyone who applied to her for the reason behind her perpetual pout.
She was incensed because her thoroughly thoughtless husband had adamantly refused to return from his hunting box in Scotland until the second week of the Season, thus delaying the annual Undercliff Ball, which, as everyone was aware, had been held the first week of the Season these past sixteen years.
Not that she could not have pressed on with her plans for the ball without Charles, for heaven only knew the man had never lifted a finger for any but his own pleasure in all his life. But her ladyship was very conscious of appearances, and opening the ball without her husband at her side would only cause speculative gossip, especially since that sad interlude the man had indulged in most publicly three years past with that absurd Covent Garden warbler.
Besides, Lady Undercliff considered herself to be a perfect wretch at recollecting names, and she had grown to rely on his lordship’s guidance during those tedious hours spent in the receiving line, complimenting friends on the birth of another grandchild or remembering to inquire as to the welfare of another acquaintance’s old-as-God Great-aunt Imogene.
And Charles knew she counted on his memory, damn his hunt-mad, philandering hide to perdition!
In the end, there had been nothing else for it but to live with the consequences of her mate’s selfishness, and Lady Undercliff had been forced to take her pleasure where she found it, which is the same as to say that the tradesmen’s bills her dearest husband Charles would find falling like snow upon his study desk in the next weeks would much resemble a blizzard.
Lady Undercliff had always taken great pride in her ability to delight both her guests’ eyes and stomachs with her lavish entertainments, but she had definitely outdone herself in her preparations for this particular ball.
The delicately draped bunting that hung everywhere, the dozens and dozens of ceiling-high plants, the hothouse bouquets, the rented gilt-back chairs, the painted cherubs and other statuary, the hiring of a score of servers, the presence of musicians in three drawing rooms in addition to those in the ballroom, the luscious sliced salmon, the dazzling variety of Gunther ices, indeed, even the silver-on-silk gown and flashing diamonds worn by the lady herself—all had been ordered with a glib “And have all bills forwarded directly to my husband, the earl.”
And yet, with the hour relentlessly creeping toward midnight on the evening of the ball, and with the compliments of the happy partygoers still ringing in her ears as she remained adamantly at the top of the stairs, Lady Undercliff continued to pout.
“This is entirely your fault, Charles,” she sniped at her husband, who was most probably wishing himself away from the receiving line and safely ensconced in the card room, a drink at his elbow, although she’d not give him that satisfaction. “He isn’t coming.”
“Prinny?” Lord Undercliff asked, frowning. “Who wants him here anyway, Gert? We’d have the servants scraping rotted eggs from the windows for a week if the populace caught sight of him rolling his carcass in here. Ain’t the least in good odor with the masses, you know—or you would, if you weren’t always worrying about all the wrong things.”
“Not his royal highness, Charles,” Lady Undercliff gritted out quietly from between clenched teeth, “as if I’d want that terrible old man lumbering in here with his fat mistress and shoveling all that lovely salmon down his greedy gullet. And don’t call me ‘Gert’! The man I am speaking of is St. Clair.”
Lord Undercliff looked at his wife down the length of his considerable nose. “St. Clair? That pranked-out mummer? Thunder an’ turf, now you’ve gone and slipped your moorings, Gert. What is he to anything? He ain’t but a baron. You’ve got three marquesses, a half dozen earls, and two dukes cluttering up the place already. What do you need with St. Clair?”
“You don’t understand,” Lady Undercliff spat. “But then, you never do. He must be here!”
“Yes, yes. He’s amusing enough, I’ll grant you that, but I can’t say I like what he’s done to our young men. Everything poor Beau has taught them about proper dress seems to have flown out the window thanks to St. Clair and his colored satins. Soon he’ll have us all powdering up our heads, Gert, and if he does that I just might have to call him out myself. Demmed nuisance, that powder, not to mention the tax. Besides, didn’t we turn the powder closet into a water closet just a few years past?”
Lady Undercliff gripped her kid-encased hands together tightly in front of her, knowing that if she did not win this struggle to control her overset emotions she would soon plant her beloved but woefully obtuse husband a wisty facer straight on his mouth.
“Charles, I don’t care a fig if St. Clair has all you gentlemen shaving your heads and painting your pates purple. No party is a success unless he attends. No hostess worth her salt would dare show her face in public again if Christian St. Clair deigned to ignore her invitation. Now do you understand, Charles? And it’s all your fault—you and your stupid hunting box. I’ll never forgive you for this, Charles. Never!”
“Females!” Lord Undercliff exploded, slapping his thigh in exasperation at his wife’s outburst. The single life was much preferable, he had often been heard to remark, if only there existed some way of setting up one’s nursery without having to shackle oneself with a bride who was never the sweet young beauty you thought she’d be but only a female like any other, with contrary ways no man could ever fathom, shrewish voices, and feathers for brains.
He peered past his wife and into the crowded, overheated ballroom. “You’ve got Lord Buxley, Gert. He’s popular enough. And that Tredway chit as well. Wasn’t she the toast of London last Season?”
“Yes, Charles—last Season,” Lady Undercliff informed her husband tersely. “Lady Ariana Tredway lends the party some cachet, as does Lord Buxley, but my primary coup for this evening seems to be the presence of Gabrielle Laurence, although I cannot for the life of me understand the attraction. Red hair, Charles. I mean, really! It’s not at all à la mode.”
Peering around his wife once more, Lord Undercliff caught sight of a slim, tallish girl waltzing by in the arms of the thrice-widowed Duke of Glynnon. He could not help but remember the chit, for he had bowed so long over her hand during his introduction to her in the receiving line that his wife had brought the heel of her evening slipper down hard on his instep to bring him back to attention.
Miss Laurence’s lovely face, he saw now, was wreathed in an animated smile as she spoke to the duke, her smooth white complexion framed by a mass of lovely curls the color of fire that blazed almost golden as the movements of the dance brought her beneath one of the brightly lit chandeliers. He grinned, remembering her dark, winglike brows, her shining green eyes, and, most especially, the small round mole he’d noticed sitting just to the left of her upper lip. Ah, what a fetching piece!
“Your judgment doesn’t seem to be bothering the duke overmuch, Gert,” Lord Undercliff remarked in an unwise attack of frankness, sparing a moment to catch a glimpse of Miss Laurence’s remarkably perfect bosom, which was modestly yet enticingly covered by an ivory silk gown. “As a matter of fact, I believe old Harry is drooling.”
“Oh, go back to Scotland, Charles, until you can learn to control yourself,” Lady Undercliff spat out, then broke into her first genuine smile in a month. “He’s here! Charles, darling, he’s here! Stand up straight, and for goodness sake don’t say anything stupid.”
Lord Undercliff, once a military man and therefore accustomed to taking orders, obeyed his wife’s command instinctively, squaring his shoulders and pulling in his stomach as he turned to greet their tardy guest and his small entourage of hangers-on, a wide, welcoming smile pasted on his lordship’s pudding face.
“Lady Undercliff! Look at you! Voyons! This is too much! Your beauty never ceases to astound me! I vow I cannot bear it!” Lord Christian St. Clair exclaimed a moment later, having successfully navigated the long, curving marble staircase to halt in front of the woman and execute an exquisitely elegant bow, while gifting her hand with a fleeting touch of his lips.
Lord Undercliff’s own lips curled in distaste as he watched this ridiculous display, taking in the baron’s outrageous costume of robin’s-egg-blue satin swallowtail coat and knee breeches, the elaborate lace-edged cuffs of his shirt, the foaming jabot at his tanned throat, the high collar that by rights should have sliced off the fellow’s ears by now.
The man was a menace, that’s what he was, bringing back into fashion a fashion that hadn’t been fashionable in years. And the young males of Society were following him like stunned sheep, more and more of them each day sauntering down Bond Street in clocked stockings, huge buckles on their shoes, and wearing enough lace to curtain a cathedral.
“I throw myself at your feet, beseeching mercy. A thousand pardons for my unforgivable tardiness, dear lady, please, I beg you,” Lord St. Clair pleaded, rising to his full six foot three of sartorial splendor to gaze adoringly into Lady Undercliff’s rapidly widening eyes.
“I had been dressed and ready beforetimes, eager to mount these heavenly stairs to your presence,” he lamented sadly, “but then dearest Grumble here observantly pointed out that the lace on my handkerchief—” he brandished an oversized, ornate lace handkerchief as proof “—did not in the slightest complement that of the rest of my ensemble. Imagine my dismay! There was nothing else for it but that I strip to the buff and begin again.” He sighed eloquently, looking to Lord Undercliff as if for understanding.
He didn’t receive any. “Could have just changed handkerchiefs, St. Clair,” his lordship countered, he believed, reasonably. “Or left off altogether trailing one around with you everywhere like some paper-skulled, die-away miss with a perpetual fit of the vapors.”
St. Clair’s broad shoulders shook slightly as he gave a small gulp of laughter that soon grew to an appreciative if somewhat high-pitched giggle. “Sans doute. Ah, Undercliff, what I would not give to find life so simple. Grumble,” he said, turning to George Trumble, one of his trio of constant companions, “how naughty of you not to point out that alternative to me. No, don’t say anything,” he continued, holding up a hand to silence his friend, who hadn’t appeared willing or able to answer. “I remember now. My affections lay more deeply with the handkerchief than the remainder of my costume. Forgive me, Grumble. Ah, well, no hour spent in dressing is ever wasted.”
“Only a single hour—for evening clothes?” Lord Undercliff spluttered, giving the baron’s rig-out another look, this time appreciating the cut of the coat, which was not quite that of the past century but more modern, with less buckram padding, flattering St. Clair’s slim frame that boasted surprisingly wide shoulders and a trim waist. And the man’s long, straight legs were nearly obscene in their beauty, the thighs muscular, the calves obviously not aided by the careful stuffing of sawdust to make up for any lack in that area.
“Used to take Brummell a whole morning just to do up his cravat,” his lordship continued consideringly, wondering if sky-blue satin would be flattering to his own figure. "Just pin that lace thing-o-ma-bob around your neck and be done with it, don’t you? And the ladies seem to like it. Maybe you have something here, St. Clair. Thought satins would take longer, but if they don’t—well, mayhap I’ll give them a try m’self. Rather weary of Brummell’s midnight blue and black, you know.”
“Charles,” Lady Undercliff interrupted, her smile of pleasure and triumph at having snagged St. Clair for her ball rapidly freezing in place as she listened to her bull of a husband making a cake of himself, “you are neglecting our other guests. Lord Osgood, Sir Gladwin, Mr. Trumble—we are so pleased you’ve agreed to grace our small party this evening.”
Lord St. Clair stood back to allow his friends to move forward and greet their host and hostess, which they did in order of their social prominence.
Lord Osmond Osgood, a tall though rather portly young gentleman known to his cronies as Ozzie, was first to approach, winking at the earl before clumsily bowing over her ladyship’s hand and backing away once more, nearly tripping over his own feet.
Sir Gladwin Penley, his usual uninspired gray rig-out brightened by his trademark yellow waistcoat, simultaneously apologized for his tardiness and grabbed hold of Lord Osgood’s forearm, saving that man from an ignominious tumble back down the staircase. “My delight in the evening knows no bounds, my lady,” he intoned solemnly, giving no hint to the fact that he’d been dragged to the Portman Square mansion under threat of having St. Clair in charge of the dressing of him for a fortnight if he cried off in favor of the new farce at Covent Garden.
George Trumble was the last to bow over Lady Undercliff’s pudgy hand, keeping his comments brief and hardly heartfelt, for everyone was aware the only reason an invitation had been delivered to his door was the usual one: If George Trumble were not one of the party, then the hostess could go cry for St. Clair’s presence. “How good of you to invite me, your ladyship,” he said quietly, then turned his back on the woman before she could be sure she’d seen cold disdain in his eyes.
But if George Trumble knew he was here on sufferance, and Sir Gladwin Penley may have already been wishing himself elsewhere, and Lord Osmond Osgood might be wondering how soon they could leave without causing a stir, Baron Christian St. Clair’s posture showed him to be in his element.
He turned back to Lady Undercliff and offered her his arm, telling her without words that it was no longer necessary for her to stand at the top of the stairs now that the premier guest had arrived.
And if the Prince Regent did dare venture out of Carleton House under cover of darkness to attend, well then, he could just find his own way into the ballroom.
With her ladyship at his side, and Lord Undercliff following along behind with the remainder of the St. Clair’s entourage, the baron entered the ballroom just as the clocks all struck twelve, stopping just inside the archway to gift the other occupants of the room with a long, appreciative look at the magnificence—indeed, the splendor—that was Baron Christian St. Clair.
MISS GABRIELLE LAURENCE was enjoying herself immensely, as befitted both her hopes for her debut and the reality of the past ten days that had found all her most earnest wishes coming true. For her instant success within the rarefied confines of Mayfair and the select members of the ton was not the result of mere happenstance.
Gabrielle had planned for it—indeed, trained for it—and if her smile was brighter than most, her manner more ingratiating, her conversation more scintillating, her behavior, her gowns, her air of vibrancy more interesting than was the case for any of the other hopeful debutantes, those young ladies who were not enjoying a similar success had only themselves to blame.
The Undercliff Ball had proven to be another feather in Gabrielle’s figurative cap of social success, the evening thus far a never-ending whirl of waltzes with dukes, cups of lemonade brought to her by adoring swains, effusive compliments on her “ravishing” gown, her “glorious” hair, her “rosebud” lips, and even a single stolen kiss on the balcony, especially when she considered that the “thief” had been no less than Lord Edgar Wexter, heir to one of the premier estates in Sussex.
All in all, Gabrielle Laurence was at this moment a very happy young woman, which explained her sudden chagrin when she belatedly realized that the young viscount she had been regaling with the latest gossip about Princess Caroline was no longer listening to her but instead staring in the general direction of the doorway, his usually vacant blue eyes glazed over with slavish admiration.
