In Praise of Younger Men (6 page)

Harriet opened the lid carefully. An elegant pearl necklace set with a stunning single emerald pendant lay inside with a matching pair of earrings alongside. They were the finest things Harriet had ever seen.

“Oh, Auntie Gill, they’re beautiful.”

“Not nearly as beautiful as you will be wearing them,” Devorgilla said, unfastening the clasp as she set the circle of them around Harriet’s slender neck. The emerald slid to rest just above the curve of her breasts. The earrings sparkled and flashed, glowing with facets of green fire in the lamplight as Harriet stared at her reflection in the mirror. Suddenly, the memory of her mother struck her with a wave of long-hidden emotion.

“I can still remember how beautiful she was,” she whispered softly.

“And you are every bit as beautiful, dear. Now, then, enough of those tears else Delphine will have to powder your cheeks again. Are you ready to go?”

Harriet took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and nodded.

Sir Hugh beamed at the vision of his daughter descending the stairs before him wearing the heirloom wedding present he had given his wife three decades before. “Oh, sweet Harriet, how very much you look like your mother the first time I saw her.” He gave her an affectionate peck upon her cheek.

Harriet noticed then that her brother was staring at her queerly. “Geoffrey, is something the matter?”

He shook his head as if clearing his thoughts “Oh, I’m sorry, miss, did you say something? I was just waiting for my sister to come down. Did you perhaps forget her upstairs?”

He grinned and Harriet took a playful swing at him with her new beaded reticule. “It is a bit of a masquerade, is it not?”

Geoffrey only shook his head, his tone no longer teasing. “Masquerade, no. One of the finest paintings in our father’s collection unveiled, yes.”

Harriet blushed beneath his compliment. “Does this mean I need never hear myself referred to as ‘Hattie Brattie’ again?”

Geoffrey laughed. “Some things, my dear sister, will never change. Even when you are wed with a gaggle of children squirming at your feet, you will always be my own sweet
Hattie Brattie
.”

Harriet wouldn’t have it any other way.

It was a fine night for February, the air crisp but not too cold, so rather than hire a coach, the foursome decided to walk the short distance down George Street to the Assembly Rooms. The stars winked overhead against the fullness of a winter’s moon as they made their way by the light of the gas lamps, a perfect night for Harriet’s first venture into society.

As they approached the pristine columned facade, lights from the tall windows facing the street cast wavering shadows of light on dark. Faint strains of music and the murmur of conversation spilled from the doors leading inside while coaches lined up at the front to let off their passengers.

After checking their cloaks, they made their way through a crowded hallway to the equally crowded assembly room beyond. Harriet faltered, feeling as if every pair of eyes in the room were suddenly trained upon them. Her hesitation, however, was soon put at ease when she spotted the colorful advancing kaleidoscope of Lady Lucinda Harrington bearing down on them from across the room.

“Oh, my dear, my dear! You came! I’m so delighted. And may I say you look positively stunning in that gown. Madame Angelique has outdone herself.” She glanced at the others. “And this must be your charming family?”

“Yes, my lady,” Harriet replied and quickly dispensed with the introductions.

Geoffrey soon made for the far corner where a group of young gentlemen had congregated near the drinks table. Harriet’s heart gave a jump when she spotted Tristan among them, looking resplendent in his suit of formal black. She wondered why he’d come to the assembly, if he would ask her to dance. She wondered if he would like her new gown.

They moved off into the crowded room and Lady Harrington began to introduce them to others of her acquaintance, an earl and even a duke among them. As they approached the entrance to the ballroom beyond, the baron’s attention was taken by a painting he spotted hanging in the upper gallery. He bid them to go on without him so he might take a closer look. Flanked by her aunt on one side and Lady Harrington on the other, Harriet officially made her entrance into society.

“My dear,” Lady Harrington whispered to her, “with any luck, there will be a goodly assortment of eligible young gentlemen present tonight, sons of some rather influential men. Thankfully, as your brother can attest, the lads have begun making their way back across the Channel and should be eager for the company of our young ladies.”

Harriet nodded, straightening her posture the way she’d been practicing in the mirror, and glided elegantly across the floor.

Lady Harrington gestured across the room. “That young man there by the potted palm is the eldest son of Lord Stanbridge, an earl. He’s set to inherit twenty thousand across as well as a substantial fortune in Argyllshire when he weds.” She nodded, eyes wide no doubt for effect.

Harriet studied the man from across the room. He was blond, angelically so, with a smile that seemed to come easily. He wore his suit of clothes well, but he wasn’t as tall as Tristan, or nearly as handsome.

“Do you happen to know his age, my lady?” Devorgilla asked discreetly.

“His age you say?” Lady Harrington thought. “Hmm, well, I believe he is five-and-thirty. Two-and-thirty at the very least.”

“Indeed.” Harriet quickly crossed him off her mental list of candidates. “Has he perhaps any younger brothers?”

The viscountess looked at Harriet quite as if she’d just asked for her family’s secret pudding recipe. “I do not believe so,” she answered a bit uncertainly. “I believe he is the only child.”

She brightened a moment later. “Now there’s another favorable candidate just coming into the room.”

Harriet looked, spotting a tall figure turned out like Tristan in formal black. Favorable, indeed, he had the look of a rogue, and Harriet noticed several of the young ladies nearby whispering about him. His eyes raked the room, catching Harriet’s gaze. He smiled, flashing white teeth, and nodded to her.

“Ooh, and he’s definitely taken notice of you, dear. Anthony would be quite a catch. A viscount in his own right. Although his earlier years were a bit
risqu�, his father did the right thing in sending him off to the Continent to fight against Napoleon. He nearly fought at Waterloo, too, except that by the time his regiment made it there, the battle had already been won.”

Harriet nodded, thinking that Tristan
had
fought at Waterloo, and quite courageously if Geoffrey were to be believed. “Has this Anthony yet reached twenty-eight?”

Again the viscountess looked puzzled. “Yes, I believe he has. Very recently, though.”

Harriet turned, dismissing the roguish viscount who’d almost made it to Waterloo as well. She looked around the rest of the room, and soon focused on the figure of a man standing nearest the garden doors. He was dressed neatly, not too ornate, and his boots displayed an admirable polish. According to the instructive pages of
A Reflection on Refinement
, this was considered a well-regarded quality in a man. His sandy-colored hair and dimpled smile gave him a somewhat boyish appearance, which caused Harriet to consider him all the more closely.

“That young man there, standing by the doors. Do you know him, my lady?”

The viscountess smiled somewhat wistfully. “Why, yes, dear, that is my husband’s nephew, Sir Duncan Harrington, Baronet.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper.

“But I’m afraid I must save you the trouble and the time. He wouldn’t do for you for a suitor. You see, his father has left him quite without financial prospects, which is why my husband and I have taken him under our protection. We are hoping to convince him to pursue a career in the law.”

“Oh, money is of no matter to me, Lady Harrington. My father has scads of it.”

Lady Harrington stared at her, stunned. “He has . . . I mean, it isn’t?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” Harriet assured her.
On to other matters
. “How old is he?”

“He is six-and-twenty, dear. Just turned.”

Harriet brightened. Things were finally beginning to look up. “I should like to meet your nephew sometime.”

It took Lady Harrington a full half-minute to respond. “You wish to meet him? Duncan? My nephew? Oh, my dear, why of course!”

She turned to face the room. “
Dunnn-cannn
!” Her voice rang out clear as a town crier, causing everyone in the vicinity to turn and stare. “Do come and meet our charming new neighbor!”

Standing with Geoffrey by the drinks table, Tristan caught sight of Harriet as she was making her way across the ballroom. In the first moment, he was taken aback— she looked absolutely stunning. He almost didn’t recognize her, and probably wouldn’t have if Devorgilla hadn’t been walking beside her. Her radiant hair was pinned up high on her head, showing off the elegance of her neck—and the deeply-cut
d�colletage of her gown—to advantage. And in the next moment, as she smiled and extended her hand toward a buff-breeched buck who scarcely looked old enough to shave his chin, he realized what she was up to.

Tristan quickly excused himself from the others and circled the room. As he approached, he could hear Harriet laughing, but it wasn’t the laughter Tristan knew so well and loved. Instead it was . . .

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“Oh, Sir Duncan, you are quite funny!”

She’d obviously been spending all her time since he’d seen her last reading that damnable book. Even her voice wasn’t her own, but a softer, lighter version, aimed to charm. She was practicing the advice from the book to the extreme, as if the more she adhered to that misguided feminine wisdom, the more attractive to the opposite sex she’d become.

Harriet began to flutter her eyelashes like a nervous butterfly when Tristan came to join their little gathering. He whispered quietly to her, “What’s the matter, Harriet? Something in your eye?”

The fluttering stopped, superseded by a most chilling glare. “Lord Ravenshall, good evening. Have you had the occasion yet to meet our neighbor, Lady Harrington, and her nephew, Sir Duncan Harrington?”

“Oh, no, Miss Drynan,” Sir Duncan piped in. “The honor is all mine.” The man was looking at Tristan with an expression akin to awe. “Lord Ravenshall’s bravery on the field of battle is legend among the Scottish regiments.” He bowed his head reverently. “My lord.”

Tristan fixed the buck a bland stare. “A pleasure, Harrington.”

“I heard tell that you were virtually unstoppable at Corunna—”

“What a pity we won’t be able to hear of it in more detail,” Harriet interjected. “I believe it is time for our dance now, Sir Duncan.”

Duncan glanced once at Tristan before nodding. “Yes, of course. If you would please excuse us, Lord Ravenshall.” He bowed his head to the others. “Aunt Lucinda. Miss Maxwell.”

Tristan watched as Sir Duncan led Harriet to where the dancers were gathering. He recognized the look in the young man’s eye as one far too familiar—and far too predatory—for his liking. Harriet, on the other hand, had no earthly idea of what she was doing. Which only indicated to Tristan that he would need to keep his eye on her.

Looking around quickly, Tristan spotted a young lady standing alone against the near wall. He approached, bowing before her.

“This may seem a bit forward, miss, since we haven’t yet been formally introduced. I am Lord Ravenshall. Might I beg the honor of this dance, Miss—?”

The pretty blonde immediately blushed under his attention, fluttering her lashes in exactly the same way Harriet had moments before. Just his luck; another student of
A Reflection of Refinement
.

“I am Miss Blum,” the blonde tittered. “Miss Flavia Blum, and I would be honored to dance with you, Lord Ravenshall.”

Tristan offered her his arm and walked her to the line of dancers just forming in the center of the room. He could see Harriet standing with her conquest several couples forward in the line. The music began, and the dancers followed suit.

They had made only a few steps into the dance before Harriet turned and noticed Tristan dancing with Miss Blum. She must have been startled to see them, so startled, in fact, she misstepped, treading on her partner’s toes. Tristan found a small sense of satisfaction in the wrinkle that creased her pretty brow.

“So, tell me, Miss Blum,” he asked, turning his attention to his partner, “are you from Edinburgh?”

The shy coquette blossomed under his attention, unleashing the charm she’d been tutored in since girlhood. Tristan, for his part, played the role of interested suitor from top to toe, smiling at her, peering into her eyes, looking for all the world as if no one else existed except the inimitable Miss Blum.

In truth, as he chatted politely with her, Tristan found himself comparing her garnet earrings to the color of Harriet’s hair, found himself longing for a glance from that familiar pair of green eyes. Harriet, however, seemed to deliberately avoid looking his way. She was enticing her partner with shy glances and charming smiles, and more than once Tristan caught Harrington’s gaze slipping downward to the lush display of Harriet’s breasts.

By the time the music stopped, ending the dance, Tristan felt quite certain he might throttle the randy young buck. He bowed to his partner, asked for another dance later on, then crossed the room to the garden doors, knowing if he remained spectator to Harriet’s flirtations another moment, all sense would abandon him and his fist would end up in Harrington’s face.

He was only outside a few moments when he heard the door opening behind him. He already knew who it was and said without turning, “Have you given up on the dancing already, Harriet?”

The crispness in his voice cut sharper than evening’s chill.

“What are you doing, Tristan?”

“Enjoying a moment of solitude on a peaceful winter’s night.”

“You know what I mean, Tristan. I saw you. In there. With
her
.”

Tristan turned. “I really don’t believe I owe you any explanation, Harriet, especially after I’ve been made to watch you pushing your half-bare bosom under another man’s eyes all night.”