Love and the Single Heiress

Chapter 2

Today’s Modern Woman should know that a gentleman hoping to entice her will employ one of two methods: either a straightforward, direct approach, or a more subtle, gentle wooing. Sadly, as with most matters, few gentlemen consider which method the lady might actually prefer-until it’s too late.

A Ladies’ Guide to the Pursuit of

Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment

by Charles Brightmore

Tonight he would begin his subtle, gentle wooing.

Andrew Stanton stood in a shadowed corner of Lord Ravensly’s elegant drawing room, feeling very much the way he imagined a soldier on the brink of battle might feel-anxious, focused, and very much praying for a hopeful outcome.

His gaze skimmed restlessly over the formally attired guests. Lavishly gowned and bejeweled ladies swirled around the dance floor in the arms of their perfectly turned-out escorts to the lilting strains of the string trio.

But none of the waltzing ladies was the one he sought. Where was Lady Catherine?

He sipped his brandy, his fingers clenched around the cut glass snifter in an attempt to stem the urge to toss back the potent drink in a single gulp. Damn it all, he hadn’t felt this nervous and unsettled since… never. Well, not counting the handful of times over the past fourteen months he’d spent in Lady Catherine’s company. Ridiculous how the mere thought of the woman, how simply being in the same room with her affected his ability to breathe straight and think properly… er, think straight and breathe properly.

His efforts to seek out Lady Catherine this evening had already been interrupted three times by people with whom he had no desire to speak. He feared one more such interruption would cause him to grind his teeth down to stubs.

Again he scanned the room, and his jaw tightened. Blast. After being forced to wait for what felt like an eternity finally to court her, why couldn’t Lady Catherine-albeit unknowingly-at least soothe his anxiety by showing herself?

The hum of conversation surrounded him, marked by peals of laughter and the chime of fine crystal goblet rims touching in congratulatory toasts. Prisms of light reflected off the highly polished parquet floor from the dozens of candles glowing in the sparkling crystal chandeliers, casting the room in a warm, golden glow. Over one hundred of Society’s finest had turned out for Lord Ravensly’s sixtieth birthday party. Society’s finest and… me.

He reached up and tugged at his carefully tied cravat. “Damned uncomfortable neckwear,” he muttered. Whoever had invented the constraining blight on fashion should be tossed in the Thames. Although his expertly tailored formal black cutaway rivaled that of any noble gentleman in the room, part of him still felt like a weed amongst the hothouse flowers. Uncomfortable. Out of his element. And painfully aware that he stood far outside the lofty social strata in which he currently found himself- certainly much further than anyone present would ever have expected. His long-standing friendship with Lord Ravensly’s son Philip, and growing friendship with Lord Ravensly himself, as well as Lady Catherine, had secured Andrew an invitation to this evening’s elegant birthday celebration. Too bad Philip himself wasn’t here. With Meredith soon to give birth, Philip hadn’t wanted to venture far from his wife’s side.

Although perhaps it was just as well that Philip wasn’t in attendance. When he had given Andrew his blessing to court Lady Catherine, he’d warned Andrew that his sister wouldn’t be eager to marry again, given her disastrous first marriage. The last thing Andrew needed was to have Philip nearby, muttering words of doom.

He drew a deep breath and forced himself to focus on the positive. His frustrating failure to locate Lady Catherine in the crowd had afforded him the opportunity to converse with numerous investors who had already committed funds to Andrew and Philip’s museum venture. Lords Avenbury and Ferrymouth were eager to know how things were progressing, as were Lords Markingworth, Whitly, and Carweather, all of whom had invested funds. Mrs. Warrenfield appeared anxious to invest a healthy amount, as did Lord Kingsly. Lord Borthrasher who’d already made a sizable investment, seemed interested in investing more. After speaking with them, Andrew had also made some discreet inquiries regarding the matter he’d recently been commissioned to look into.

But with the business talk now completed, he’d retreated to this quiet corner to garner his thoughts, much as he did before preparing for a pugilistic bout at Gentleman Jackson’s Emporium. His gaze continued to pan over the guests, halting abruptly when he caught sight of Lady Catherine, exiting from behind an Oriental silk screen near the French doors.

He stilled at the sight of her bronze gown. Every time he’d seen her during the past year, her widow’s weeds had engulfed her like a dark, heavy rain cloud. Now officially out of mourning, she resembled a golden bronze sun setting over the Nile, gilding the landscape with slanting rays of warmth.

She paused to exchange a few words with a gentleman, and Andrew’s avid gaze noted the way the vivid material of her gown contrasted with her pale shoulders and complemented her shiny chestnut curls gathered into a Grecian knot. The becoming coiffure left the vulnerable curve of her nape bare…

He blew out a long breath and raked his free hand through his hair. How many times had he imagined skimming his fingers, his mouth, over that soft, silky skin? More than he cared to admit. She was all things lovely and good. A perfect lady. Indeed, she was perfect in every way.

He knew damn well he wasn’t good enough for her. In spite of his financial successes, socially he felt like a beggar with his nose pressed to the glass at the confectioner’s shop. But neither his mind nor his common sense were in charge any longer. She was free. And while he cherished the platonic relationship that had blossomed between them over the past fourteen months, his feelings ran far deeper than mere friendship, and his heart would not be denied. His sullied past, her noble lineage, his lack of lineage-all be damned.

His gaze tracked her slim, regal form as she made her way around the perimeter of the room, and his heart executed the same erratic hop it performed every time he looked at her. If he’d been capable of laughter, he would have chuckled at himself and his gut-level reaction to her. He felt like a tongue-tied, green schoolboy-quite deflating as he normally considered himself a man of at least some finesse.

Rolling his shoulders to loosen his tense muscles, he pulled in a lungful of air and prepared to step from the shadows. A firm hand grasped him by the shoulder.

“You might want to straighten your cravat before heading into the fray, old man.”

Andrew turned swiftly and found himself staring into Philip’s amused, bespectacled brown eyes. Frustration instantly gave way to concern. “What are you doing here? Is Meredith all right?”

“My wife is fine, thank you, or at least as fine as a woman in the final weeks of pregnancy can be. As to why I am here, for reasons I cannot fathom, Meredith insisted I make an appearance at Father’s birthday celebration.” He shook his head, clearly bemused. “I did not want to leave her, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past few months, it is that only a fool argues with an expectant mother. So I reluctantly left her side and suffered the three-hour journey to London to bestow my felicitations upon Father. Meredith suggested I remain here overnight, but I flatly refused. My coach is being brought ‘round even as we speak. However, I couldn’t leave without talking to you. How goes the progress on the museum?”

“Very well. Hiring Simon Wentworth as our steward was one of the smartest things we’ve done. He’s extremely organized and keeps the workmen on schedule.”

“Excellent.” Philip’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “How goes the Charles Brightmore investigation?”

Andrew blew out a sigh. “The bastard doesn’t appear to exist, except on paper as the author of the Guide, but that only serves to intrigue me further. Trust me, I have every intention of collecting the impressive sum Lord Markingworth and his friends have promised me for identifying the author.”

“Yes, well, that’s why I recommended you. You’re tenacious and unrelenting when it comes to ferreting out the truth. And thanks to your ties to the museum and your association with the, ahem, exalted likes of me, you have access to both Society’s finest and persons of, shall we say, more humble origins. People would be far more inclined to confide in you than a Runner, and your presence at these types of soirees doesn’t raise a brow, as a stranger’s or a Runner’s would.”

“Yes, that is to my advantage,” Andrew agreed. “It has been my experience that clues are often inadvertently revealed during casual conversations.”

“Well, I’ve no doubt of your success. I only hope that revealing this Charles Brightmore’s identity puts a stop to this damnable Ladies’ Guide. I want that book pulled from the shelves before Meredith manages to secure a copy. My lovely wife is by far too independent as it is. Keeping her in check already requires nearly more energy than I can muster.”

“Yes, I’m certain that it’s your beautiful wife’s independence that drains your energy.” His gaze skimmed over Philip in a pointed fashion. “You do not appear to be suffering overmuch at her hands. But fear not-I intend to unmask this Brightmore person. I’ll not only have the pleasure of exposing the charlatan, but the money I’ll earn doing so will help further my campaign with regard to your sister. I have every intention of giving Lady Catherine the luxury to which she is accustomed.”

“Ah. Speaking of which-how goes the courting of my sister?”

Andrew looked toward the ceiling. “Rather slowly, I’m afraid.”

“Well, quit dawdling about. I’ve never known you to be anything less than relentless when you wanted something. Why are you dilly-dallying?”

“I’m not dilly-”

“And for God’s sake, quit tugging at your hair. You look as if a lightning bolt struck you.”

Andrew scraped a hasty hand through his apparently lightning-struck hair and frowned. “You’re a fine one to talk. Have you consulted a mirror lately? Your manner can only be described as harried, and your own hair looks as if you were caught in sudden freakish storm.”

“I am harried, but considering that my first child is soon to be born, I at least have a valid excuse for yanking at my hair and behaving oddly. What the devil is wrong with you?”

“There is nothing wrong with me, other than frustration. I haven’t had an opportunity even to speak with Lady Catherine. Every time I finally spot her in the crowd, another museum investor or potential investor claims my attention.” He shot Philip a pointed stare. “I was attempting to approach her for the fourth time this evening when I was again waylaid-this time by you.”

“And you should be glad you were. If she’d seen that mess of a coiffure, she would have run screaming from the room.”

“Thank you. Your encouragement warms my heart. Truly. Although I find it difficult to take fashion advice from someone whose own attire and coiffure most often resemble a squirrel’s nest.”

Instead of taking offense, Philip smiled. “True. However, I am not attempting to court a lady this evening. I have already succeeded in winning the woman I love.”

“Yes, and almost in spite of yourself, I might add. If not for my advice on how to woo and win Meredith…”Andrew shook his head sadly. “Well, let us just say that the outcome of your courting was highly questionable.”

A rude sound escaped Philip. “Is that so? If you are such an expert, then why haven’t you yet succeeded with Catherine?”

“Because I’ve yet to start with her-thanks, most recently, to you. Tell me, is there not some other house in Mayfair you can haunt?”

“Fear not, I’m on my way out the door. However, if I leave now, I won’t be able to tell you about the two very interesting conversations I had this evening. One was with a Mr. Sidney Carmichael. Have you met him yet?”

Andrew shook his head. “The name is not familiar to me.”

“He was introduced to me by Mrs. Warrenfield, the wealthy American widow.” Philip lowered his voice. “If you happen to speak with her, be prepared to listen to her describe, in detail, her plethora of aches and pains.”

“Thank you for the warning. If only you’d told me an hour ago.”

“Ah. Something struck me as rather odd about the lady, but I cannot put my finger on it,” Philip said, frowning. “Did you notice anything?”

Andrew considered a moment. “I admit I was preoccupied when I spoke to her, but now that you mention it, yes. I think it’s her voice. It’s unusually deep and raspy for a lady. Combined with the veiled, black hat she wears, which obscures half her face, it’s a bit disconcerting to speak with her.”

“Yes, that must be it. Well, back to Mr. Carmichael. He’s interested in making a very sizable investment in the museum.”

“How sizable?”

“Five thousand pounds.”

Andrew’s brows shot upward. “Impressive.”

“Yes. He was most anxious to meet my American partner as he spent a number of years living in your country. I’m certain he’ll seek you out before the evening is over.”

“I suppose for five thousand pounds I can work up a bit of enthusiasm.”

“Excellent. Your tone, however, and the fact that you keep looking about indicates a decided lack of curiosity about my other conversation, which was with Catherine.” Philip heaved a long sigh and flicked a bit of lint from his dark blue jacket sleeve. “Pity, as the conversation concerned you.”

“And naturally you’ll tell me, in recompense for saving your life.”

Philip’s face screwed up into a confused scowl. “If you’re referring to that incident in Egypt, I thought I’d saved your life. When did you save mine?”

“Just now. By not tossing you out headfirst through the French doors into the thorny hedges. What did Lady Catherine say?”

Philip cast a surreptitious glance around. Once assured that they weren’t in danger of being overheard, he said, “It appears you have competition.”

Andrew blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re not the only man attempting to win my sister’s favor. Apparently other men are showing interest in her.”

Andrew stared, feeling as if he’d just been slapped. Then a humorless sound pushed past his lips at his own conceit. Why hadn’t he anticipated this turn of events? Of course other men would cast their lures in Lady Catherine’s direction. He cleared his throat to locate his voice. “What sort of interest?”

“Surely an expert such as yourself should know. The usual romantic gestures. Flowers, invitations, trinkets. That sort of thing.”

Annoyance, along with a hefty dose of jealousy, smacked Andrew. “Did she indicate that she enjoyed these attentions?”

“On the contrary, she indicated that she found these gentlemen bothersome, for she has, and I quote, ‘no intention of ever compromising my independence by leg-shackling myself to another man.' I must say, my sister has become startlingly blunt of late. That, added to the headstrong streak I’ve detected in her manner lately and these other suitors…”A sympathy-filled wince pinched Philip’s features. “Not a stellar start to your wooing campaign, my friend, although I did try to warn you of that.”

Andrew brushed aside the vaguely uncomplimentary description of Lady Catherine as being blunt and headstrong. Didn’t sisters always seem that way to their brothers? However, there was no ignoring the rest, and his eyes narrowed to slits. “Who are these men?”

“Egad, Andrew, that frigid tone doesn’t bode well for the fellows, and I don’t believe I’ve ever seen that particular glare in your eyes before. Hope I’m never on the receiving end of it.” He considered for several seconds, then said, “She mentioned some village doctor. Then of course there’s the Duke of Kelby whose country estate is near her home in Little Longstone. And then there was an assortment of earls, viscounts, and the like, a few of whom are here this evening.”

“Here? This evening?”

“When did you develop this troubling habit of repeating everything I say? Yes. Here. This evening. For example, Lords Avenbury and Ferrymouth.”

“Our investors?”

“The very ones. I ask that you please remember they would no doubt withdraw their funding if you bloodied their noble noses.”

“I suppose that means knocking them onto their noble asses is also out of the question.”

“I’m afraid so, although that would make for a fine evening’s entertainment. Apparently Kingsly also made an overture toward Catherine.”

“He’s married.”

“Yes. And has a mistress. Then there’s Lord Darnell.” Philip jerked his head toward the punch bowl. “Note his besotted expression.”

Andrew turned, and his jaw clenched. Lord Darnell was handing Catherine a glass of punch and looking at her as if she were a delectable morsel from which he longed to take a nice, big bite. Several other gentlemen, Andrew noted grimly, hovered about, all wearing similar expressions.

“Looks like I’m going to need to purchase myself a broom,” Andrew muttered.

“A broom? Why is that?”

“To sweep that bastard Darnell and his friends off Lady Catherine’s porch.”

“Excellent idea. As her brother, I can’t say I like the way Darnell is looking at her.”

Andrew forced his gaze away from the group surrounding the punch bowl and looked at Philip. “Can’t say I like it myself.”

“Well then, since you’re quite capable of handling yourself, I’ll take myself off so you can proceed. I’ll send a letter once I’m a papa to let you know if the tyke is a boy or girl.”

Andrew smiled. “Please do. I’ll be anxious to know if I’m an aunt or an uncle.”

Philip laughed. “Good luck in your quest to win my doesn’t-care-to-be-won sister.” Amusement flashed in Philip’s eyes as he glanced toward the group at the punch bowl. “I’m sorry I won’t be able to witness the wooing as I’m certain it will prove very entertaining. And may the best man win.”

After seeing Philip off, Andrew started up the brick walkway to reenter the town house, anticipating finding Catherine. He hoped there would be no further interruptions-

The front door opened and a group of gentlemen exited the town house. His jaw clenched as he recognized Lords Avenbury and Ferrymouth. Both young lords were impeccably dressed, complicated cravat knots adorning their throats, their coifs artful arrangements of careless, rakish curls. Each wore large jeweled rings that glistened in the moonlight as they indulged in a bit of snuff. Andrew decided they would not look quite so well turned-out sporting swollen jaws and blackened eyes.

And that reprobate Kingsly was with them. With his paunch, puckered lips, and beady eyes, Kingsly was already a remarkably unattractive fellow, but Andrew would be more than happy to make him even uglier if he continued his pursuit of Lady Catherine.

The thin, bespectacled Lord Borthrasher looked at Andrew down his long nose. With his pointed chin and sharp eyes with their unwavering, cold stare, he reminded Andrew of a vulture. Two gentlemen Andrew did not recognize rounded out the group. The last thing Andrew wanted was to speak to any of them, but unfortunately there was no way to avoid them.

“Ah, Stanton, care to join us for a smoke?” asked Lord Kingsly, his beady eyes raking over Andrew in a way that set his teeth on edge.

“I don’t smoke.”

“Stanton, did you say?” One of the gentlemen Andrew didn’t know raised a quizzing glass and stared at him. Like his peers, this man wore perfectly tailored evening clothes, a complicated cravat and a jeweled ring. Although he was clearly older than his companions, he was surprisingly well built and broad-shouldered, leading Andrew to wonder if the man’s physique was enhanced with padding. “Been wanting to meet you, Stanton. Heard a great deal about this museum.”

“May I present his grace, the Duke of Kelby,” said Kingsly.

Ah, the suitor whose estate was near Catherine’s. Andrew offered a brief nod, only partially mollified by the fact that the duke, hearty though he appeared, resembled a carp.

“I’d hoped to meet you as well.” The other gentleman unknown to Andrew stepped forward and extended his hand. “Sidney Carmichael.”

Andrew recognized the name that Philip had mentioned as the potential investor of five thousand pounds. Of average height and build, he judged Carmichael to be in his late fifties and wearily wondered if he was but yet another suitor. He shook the man’s hand, noting the firm grip that pressed the ring he wore against Andrew’s fingers.

“I understand from Lord Greybourne that you’re American,” Mr. Carmichael said, his assessing gaze clearly taking Andrew’s measure, a favor Andrew returned.

“The instant he opens his mouth ‘tis obvious he’s from the bloody colonies,” Lord Kingsly said with a loud guffaw, which drew laughs from the group. “Not that he says a lot. Man of few words, eh, Stanton?”

Ignoring Kingsly, he said, “Yes, I’m American.”

“Spent some time in your country during my travels,” Carmichael said. “Mostly in the Boston area. Where are you from?”

Andrew hesitated only half a beat. He didn’t care for answering questions about himself. “Philadelphia.”

“Never visited there,” Carmichael said with a regretful air. “I’m a lover of antiquities. Avenbury, Ferrymouth, and Borthrasher have been singing the praises of your and Lord Greybourne’s museum. I’d like to discuss an investment with you.” He pulled a card from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to Andrew. “My direction. I hope you’ll call upon me soon.”

Andrew slipped the card into his pocket and nodded. “I will.”

“I’d like to discuss investing with you as well, Stanton,” chimed in the duke. “Always looking for a good opportunity.”

“Always looking for investors,” Andrew said, hoping his smile was not as tight as it felt. “If you gentlemen will excuse me…” He nodded and made his way around them.

As he passed Lord Avenbury, the young lord said to the group, “Ferrymouth and I are off to the gaming tables. I’d wanted an opportunity to dance with Lady Catherine, but I suppose there’s always next time.”

Andrew froze and glared at the young man’s profile.

“Delectable tidbit, she is,” Lord Avenbury said. He licked his lips, and the group laughed. Andrew had to clench his hands to keep from discovering how Avenbury would look without any lips at all.

“Her estate is close to mine, you know,” the duke said, lifting his quizzing glass, jeweled ring flashing. “Very convenient.”

“Really?” Lord Kingsly said, a distinctly lecherous gleam in his beady eyes. “I might need to pry an invitation from you, Kelby. Yes, I believe I feel a sudden urge to visit your place and take the waters.”

“Excellent notion,” seconded Lord Ferrymouth. “Borthrasher, don’t you suffer the occasional bout of the gout? The waters would do you wonders, I’m certain.” Borthrasher nodded, and Ferrymouth beamed at the duke. “I believe a gathering at your home is in order, Kelby.” His sweeping hand encompassed the group. “We’d all love to come. A few days of hunting, soaking in the springs”-he waggled his brows-“visiting the neighbors.”

“Might provide an enjoyable break from the usual boring rounds of fetes,” the duke agreed. “Let us take to the gaming tables and discuss it.”

They moved down the walkway, laughing, pulling out cheroots and snuffboxes. His jaw tightened to the point of pain, Andrew turned and strode into the house. Damn it to hell, this evening was not going at all the way he’d envisioned it. But at least with that group now departed, things could not get worse.

Standing in the shadows of the far corner of the drawing room, Catherine drew in a long breath, relieved finally to find herself alone for a moment to calm her turbulent thoughts. Knowing this haven would offer only a short respite from the crowd, she cast her gaze about the room in search of another sanctuary.

“For whom are you looking so intently, Lady Catherine?” asked a deep voice from directly behind her.

Her breath caught, and she turned swiftly to find herself staring into Mr. Stanton’s familiar dark eyes. Steady eyes. Friendly eyes. Relief rippled through her. Here, at last, was a friend she could talk to. An ally who meant her no harm. A gentleman not intent upon courting her.

“Mr. Stanton. You startled me.”

“Forgive me. I noticed you standing here, and I wanted to say hello.” He made her a formal bow, then smiled. “Hello.”

She forcibly pushed aside her worries and smiled in return, knowing that he would notice any discomfiture on her part. “And hello to you, too. I haven’t seen you since I last ventured to London two months ago. I trust you’ve been well-and busy with the museum?”

“Yes, on both accounts. And I can see that you’ve been well.” His gaze dipped briefly to her gown. “You look lovely.”

“Thank you.” She was tempted to admit to him her relief at finally packing away her mourning clothes, but wisely held her tongue. To do so might lead to another discussion of Bertrand-as her appearance this evening already had with other guests-and she had no desire to speak of her deceased husband.

“May I help you locate someone, Lady Catherine?”

“As a matter of fact, I was looking for you.” Not strictly the truth, but he did represent what she’d been searching for-a safe cove amongst the choppy waters.

Unmistakable pleasure flashed in his eyes. “How convenient, as here I am.”

“Yes. Here you… are.” Looking strong and solid, familiar yet imposing-the perfect candidate to distract her attention from her worries and discourage the bothersome gentlemen who had buzzed around her all evening like hovering insects.

His lips twitched. “Do you plan to tell me why you were searching for me, or are we to play charades?”

“Charades?”

“ ‘Tis an amusing game where one person acts out words, in a pantomime fashion, while others guess what he is trying to say.”

“I see.” She pursed her lips and made an exaggerated show of studying him. “Hmmm. Your clearly tugged-upon cravat, combined with that hint of furrow between your brows indicates you are trying to say that you wish Philip had remained to chat with all these potential museum investors.”

“A very astute observation, Lady Catherine. Philip is much more adept at navigating these waters than I. I can only hope I do not frighten off any of our financial backing before Meredith gives birth and Philip returns to London.”

“I saw you speaking with several people this evening, and none appeared overly frightened. As for Philip, I was pleased he came to the party, albeit for a short time.”

“He told me Meredith insisted he come to the party, in spite of his objections.”

“I’m certain she did.”

“Rather odd, considering her delicate condition, don’t you think?”

“Not at all.” Catherine grinned. “I received a letter yesterday from Meredith in which she wrote that my normally calm and collected brother has taken to alternating between frantic pacing and croaking, ‘is it time yet?’ After a fortnight of such behavior, she was ready to cosh him. Rather than risk injuring the father of her child, she instead grasped upon the excuse of this party to push him literally out the door.”

Mr. Stanton chuckled. “Ah, now I understand. Yes, I can picture Philip, hovering over Meredith, his hair standing up on end, cravat undone-”

“-cravat missing altogether,” Catherine corrected with a laugh.

“Spectacles askew.”

“Shirt horribly wrinkled-”

“-with his sleeves rolled up.” Andrew shook his head. “I can only sympathize with poor Meredith. Makes me wish I was at the Greybourne country estate to enjoy the show.”

She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Pshaw. You simply wish you were anywhere but here, attempting to entice investors.”

Something flashed in his eyes, then an engaging grin spread over his face-a grin that coaxed twin dimples to crease his cheeks. A grin she found impossible not to respond to in kind. He leaned toward her, and she caught a pleasing whiff of sandalwood. An inexplicable tingle shivered down her spine, surprising her, as it was quite warm in the room.

“I must admit that soliciting funds is not my favorite pastime, Lady Catherine. I owe you a boon for affording me this moment of sanctuary.”

She was tempted to tell him that she owed him a boon for a similar reason, but refrained. “I noticed you speaking to Lords Borthrasher and Kingsly, and also Mrs. Warrenfield,” she said. “Were your efforts successful?”

“I believe so, especially in Mrs. Warrenfield’s case. Her husband left her a sizable fortune, and she possesses a love of antiquities. A good combination as far as Philip and I are concerned.”

She smiled, and Andrew’s bream hitched. Damn but she was lovely. The entire thread of their conversation disintegrated from his mind as he continued to look at her. Finally his inner voice coughed to life. Cease gawking at her and speak, you nodcock. Before Lord What’s-His-Name comes back, no doubt bearing a huge bouquet and spouting sonnets.

He cleared his throat. “And how is your son, Lady Catherine?”

A combination of pride and sadness flitted across her face. “Spencer’s overall health is fine, thank you, but his foot and leg do pain him.”

“He did not travel with you to London?”

“No.” Her gaze flicked over the assembled guests, and her expression chilled. “He dislikes traveling, and he especially dislikes London, a sentiment I equally share. Nor is he fond of parties. If not for my father’s birthday celebration, I would not have ventured to Town. I plan to depart for Little Longstone directly after breakfast tomorrow.”

Disappointment coursed through him. He’d hoped she might remain in London at least a few days, to afford him the opportunity to spend time with her. Invite her to the opera. Show her the progress on the museum. Ride in Hyde Park and stroll through Vauxhall. Damn it all, how was he to launch his campaign to court the woman if she insisted on hiding out in the country? Clearly a visit to Little Longstone was in order, yet as she hadn’t issued him an invitation, he’d have to think up some plausible excuse to venture there. But in the meanwhile, he needed to stop wasting precious time and make the most of his present opportunity. The strains of a waltz floated on the air, and his entire body quickened at the prospect of dancing with her, of holding her in his arms for the first time.

Just as he opened his mouth to ask her to dance, she leaned closer, and whispered, “Oh, dear. Look at that. He’s going about it all wrong.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She nodded toward the punch bowl. “Lord Nordnick. He’s trying to entice Lady Ophelia, and he’s making a complete muck of it.”

Andrew turned his attention to the couple standing next to the ornate silver punch bowl. An eager-looking young man, presumably Lord Nordnick, was handing an attractive young lady, presumably Lady Ophelia, a cup of punch.

“Er, there is a wrong way to hand a woman a beverage?” Andrew asked.

“He is not merely handing her a drink, Mr. Stanton. He is courting her. And doing a very poor job of it, I’m afraid.”

Andrew studied the couple for several more seconds, then shook his head in bewilderment. “I don’t see anything wrong.”

She leaned a fraction closer. The intoxicating scent of flowers filled his head, and he had to grit his teeth to remained focused on her words. “Note his overeager manner.”

“Overeager? ‘Tis clear he is smitten and wishes to please her. Surely you don’t think he should have allowed Lady Ophelia to fetch her own punch?”

“No, but he clearly didn’t ask her preference. From her expression it is obvious that Lady Ophelia did not desire a glass of punch-no doubt because he’d already handed her one not five minutes ago.”

“Perhaps Lord Nordnick is merely nervous. I believe it is common for sanity to flee a man’s head when he’s in the company of a lady he finds attractive.”

She made a tsking sound. “That is indeed unfortunate. Observe how bored she clearly is with his inept attentions.”

Hmmm. Lady Ophelia did indeed look bored. Blast. When had courting become so bloody complicated? Hoping he sounded like a coconspirator rather than an information seeker, he asked, “What should Lord Nordnick do?”

“He should shower her with romance. Find out her favorite flower. Her favorite food.”

“So he should send her roses and confections?”

“As your friend, Mr. Stanton, I must point out that that is a sadly typical male assumption. Perhaps Lady Ophelia prefers pork chops to confections. And how do you know her favorite flower is a rose?”

“As your friend, Lady Catherine, I must point out that it would be very odd for a suitor to come calling with a gift box filled with pork chops. And don’t all women love roses?”

“I couldn’t say. I like them. However, they aren’t my favorite.”

“And what is?”

“Dicentra spectabilis.”

“I fear Latin is not my strong suit.”

“You see?”

“Actually, no-”

“That’s but yet another problem with Lord Nordnick’s unoriginal methods. He should recite something romantic to her in another language. But I digress. Dicentra spectabilis means ‘bleeding heart.’ ”

He pulled his gaze from the couple and turned his head to stare at her. “Something called bleeding heart is your favorite flower? That hardly rings of romance.”

“Nevertheless, it is my favorite, and that’s what makes it romantic. I happen to know that Lady Ophelia is especially fond of tulips. But do you suppose Lord Nordnick will bother to discover that? I think not. Based on his fetching of numerous glasses of unwanted punch, I’m certain he’ll send Lady Ophelia roses because that’s what he thinks she should like. And because of that, he is doomed to failure.”

“All because he fetched punch and would send the wrong flowers?” Andrew turned back to the couple, and a wave of pity for Lord Nordnick engulfed him. Poor bastard. He made a mental note to pass along the tulip information to the hapless fellow. In these perilous courting endeavors, men needed to stick together.

“Perhaps such clumsy attempts would have gained a lady’s favor in the past, but no longer. Today’s Modern Woman prefers a gentleman who takes into consideration her preferences, as opposed to a gentleman who arrogantly believes he knows what is best for her.”

Andrew chuckled. “Today’s Modern Woman? That sounds like something out of that ridiculous Ladies’ Guide everyone is talking about.”

“Why do you say ‘ridiculous’?”

“Hmm, yes, perhaps that was a poor choice of word. ‘Scandalous, appalling, trash-filled balderdash’ is closer to what I meant.”

Andrew studied the couple for several more seconds, trying to decipher the apparently misguided Lord Nornick’s errors so as not to make them himself, but in truth he couldn’t figure out what the man was doing wrong. He was being polite and attentive-two strategies Andrew himself had deemed important in his own wooing campaign.

He turned back toward Lady Catherine. “I’m afraid I don’t see-”

His words cut off when he noted she was regarding him with raised brows and a noticeably cool expression. “Is something amiss?”

“I wasn’t aware you’d read A Ladies‘ Guide to the Pursuit of Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment, Mr. Stanton.”

“Me? A ladies‘ guide?” He chuckled, torn whether he was more astonished or amused by her words. “Of course I haven’t read it.”

“Then how can you possibly call it ‘scandalous, appalling, trash-filled balderdash’?”

“I don’t need to read the actual words to know the content. That Guide has become the main topic of conversation in the city.” He smiled, but her expression did not change. “As you’ve spent the past two months in Little Longstone, you couldn’t know the stir that book has caused with the nonsensical ideas put forth by the author. You’ve only to listen to the gentlemen in this very room to realize that not only is the book filled with idiotic notions, but apparently it is poorly written as well. Charles Brightmore is a renegade, and possesses little, if any, literary talent.”

Twin flags of color rose on her cheeks, and her narrowed gaze grew positively frosty. Warning bells rang in Andrew’s mind, suggesting-unfortunately a few words too late-that he’d committed a grave tactical error. She lifted her chin and shot him a look that somehow managed to appear as if she were looking down her nose at him, quite a feat, considering he stood a good six inches taller than she.

“I must say that I’m surprised, not to mention disappointed, to discover that you hold such narrow views, Mr. Stanton. I would have thought that a man of your vast traveling experience would be more open to new, modern ideas. And that at the very least, you were a man who would take the time to examine all the facts and form your own opinions on a topic, rather than relying on hearsay from others-especially others who most likely also have not read the book.”

Andrew’s brows rose at her tone. “I do not hold narrow ideas at all, Lady Catherine. However, I don’t believe it is necessary to experience something to know it is not to my liking or does not mesh with my beliefs,” he said mildly, wondering how their conversation had veered onto this out-of-the-way path. “If someone tells me that rotten fish smells bad, I am perfectly content to take their word for it-I do not feel the need to stick my nose in the barrel to sniff for myself.” He chuckled. “It almost sounds as if you’ve read this Guide-and found favor with its farfetched ideals.”

“If it only almost sounds as if I’ve read the Guide, then I don’t believe you are listening closely enough, Mr. Stanton, an affliction I fear you share with most men.”

Certain his hearing had indeed become afflicted, Andrew said slowly, “Don’t tell me you’ve read that book.”

“Very well, I won’t tell you that.”

“But you… have?” His words sounded more like an accusation man a question.

“Yes.” She shot him an unmistakably challenging glare. “Numerous times, in fact. And I did not find the ideals it put forth the least bit far-fetched. Quite the opposite in fact.”

Andrew could only stare. Lady Catherine had read that scandalous rag? Numerous times? Had embraced its precepts? Impossible. Lady Catherine was a paragon. The epitome of a perfect, gently bred, sedate lady. But clearly she had read it, for there was no mistaking her words or obstinate expression.

“You appear quite stunned, Mr. Stanton.”

“In truth, I am.”

“Why? By your own admission, nearly every woman in London has read the Guide. Why should it surprise you so that I would read it?”

Because you are not every woman. Because I don‘t want you to be “independent” and “modern.” I want you to need me. Want me. Love me. As I need and want and love you. Good God, if that bastard Brightmore’s drivel had turned Lady Catherine into some sort of upstart bluestocking, the man would pay dearly. All this bloody nonsense about “today’s modern woman” certainly wouldn’t help Andrew in his quest to court her. Based on what she’d said about Lord Nordnick, he already ran the risk of distancing Lady Catherine by the simple act of fetching her a glass of punch.

“The book just doesn’t seem like the sort of thing a lady such as you would read.”

“And precisely what sort of lady am I, Mr. Stanton? The sort who is unable to read?”

“Of course not-”

“The sort who is not intelligent enough to understand words containing more than one syllable?”

“Certainly not-”

“The sort who is incapable of forming her own opinions?”

“No.” He raked a hand through his hair. “ ‘Tis abundantly clear that you’re fully capable of that.” How had this conversation gone so wrong so quickly? “I meant that it did not seem the sort of reading material for a proper lady.”

“I see.” She gave him a cool, detached look that tightened his jaw. Definitely not the way he’d hoped to have her looking at him by the end of this evening. “Well, perhaps the Guide is not as scandalous as you’ve been led to believe, Mr. Stanton. Perhaps the Guide could be better described as scintillating. Provocative. Intelligent. But of course, you wouldn’t know as you haven’t read it. Perhaps you should read it.”

He raised his brows at the unmistakable challenge shining in her eyes. “You must be joking.”

“I’m not. In fact, I’d be happy to lend you my copy.”

“Why on earth would I want to read a ladies’ guide?”

She offered him a smile that appeared just a bit too sweet. “Why, so that you could offer an informed, intelligent opinion when next you discussed the work. And besides, you might actually learn something.”

Good God, the woman was daft. Perhaps the victim of too much wine. He took a discreet sniff, but smelled only alluring flowers. “What on earth could I possibly learn from a ladies’ guide?”

“What women like, for one thing. And do not like. And why Lord Nordnick’s wooing attempts directed at Lady Ophelia are bound for failure. Just to name a few.”

Andrew’s jaw tightened. He knew what women liked… didn’t he? He couldn’t recall hearing any complaints in the past. But his inner voice was warning him that maybe he didn’t know quite as much about what Lady Catherine liked as he’d thought. Actually, maybe he didn’t know Lady Catherine as well as he’d thought-a notion that simultaneously unsettled and intrigued him. God knows she’d revealed an unexpected side of herself this evening. He recalled Philip’s warning about her newfound headstrong, blunt behavior. He’d put no stock in Philip’s comment at the time, but it appeared his friend was correct. And it further appeared that the blame for this change rested on the Ladies’ Guide’s shoulders.

Damn you, Charles Brightmore. You and your foolish book have made courting the woman I want-an already Herculean task-even more difficult. I’ll relish exposing you and putting an end to your writing career.

Yes, more difficult indeed, for not only had the Guide clearly filled Lady Catherine’s head with ideas of independence, but this discussion, which was supposed to lead to him asking her to dance and the start of his courting campaign, had turned contentious-a turn of events he needed to correct immediately. No, this meeting was not going at all the way he’d envisioned. According to his plans, Lady Catherine should be in his arms, gazing up at him with warmth and affection. Instead, she’d backed away from him and was glaring at him with annoyance, a feeling he shared, as he was more than a little irritated himself.

He pressed his lips together to keep from arguing further. Indeed, arguing was the last thing he wished to do, especially tonight, when they had so little time together. His wooing campaign was off to a disastrous start. Retreat and regroup was definitely his best alternative.

Raising his hands in a show of acquiescence, he smiled. “As much as I appreciate the offer to read your copy, I believe I’ll decline. As for the likes and dislikes of Today’s Modern Woman, I bow to your superior knowledge on the subject, madam.”

She did not return his smile; rather, she lifted a single brow. “You continue to surprise me, Mr. Stanton.”

A humorless laugh escaped him. “I continue to surprise you? In what way?”

“I hadn’t taken you for a coward.”

Her words stilled him. Damn it, this had gone far enough. “Most likely because I am not one. And I hadn’t taken you for an instigator, yet you appear to be deliberately baiting me, Lady Catherine. I wonder why?”

Another layer of crimson deepened her flushed cheeks. She drew a deep breath, then emitted a nervous-sounding laugh. “Yes, it seems I am. Forgive me. I’m afraid I’ve had a rather difficult evening and-”

Her words were cut off by a loud cracking sound and the crash of breaking glass. Gasps and cries of stunned fright rose from the party guests. Andrew turned swiftly, sickening dread oozing down his spine as he recognized the first sound as being that of a pistol report. Shards of glass sprayed across the floor beneath the now-broken windowpanes. In the space of a heartbeat, a myriad of tormenting images he’d believed buried flashed through his mind with a streak of vivid anguish. A ringing commenced in his ears, drowning out the sounds around him, and he bludgeoned back the unwanted reminders of the past.

“Dear God, she’s hurt!”

The frightened cry from directly behind him jerked his head around, and everything inside him froze.

Lady Catherine, a trickle of blood oozing from between her lips, lay sprawled on the floor at his feet.