Cupid's Choice: She's a shy beauty in distress. He's a chivalric gentleman. (4 page)

Guin began to read aloud a chapter from one of the popular romance novels that her mother favored. Her mind was not on it, however. She was nervous about the engagement that evening. Lady Smythe’s invitation was the most important they had yet received.

However, Lord Holybrooke would be accompanying them, so she could at least present a show of calm at the prospect of her first dress ball. If Percy meant to stay close by, Guin thought hopefully, she might possibly scrape through the evening without incurring her mother’s wrath.

However, the visit with Lady Beasely was an entirely different matter. Anxiously, Guin hoped her brother would not have a prior commitment so that he could also accompany her and Mrs. Holland to the Beaseleys. She felt certain that otherwise her genius for gaucherie would undoubtedly draw down on her head another of her mother’s dreaded lectures.

Guin lacked confidence, and it was pathetically obvious to anyone of the meanest intelligence. It was a crippling handicap to a young miss embarking on her first Season. She had singularly failed to make a favorable impression with any of their new acquaintances. The ladies had tried to coax her into conversation, but when their efforts did not meet with unqualified success, for the most part, they dismissed Miss Holland.

Never one to exercise patience, Mrs. Holland expressed herself in biting criticisms of her daughter’s manners, her speech, and her appearance. It never occurred to that lady that she was herself at least partially to blame for Guin’s backwardness.

Unhappily reflecting on all this, Guin came to an inevitable conclusion. She had never been so miserable in her life until they had come up to London for the Season.

The elopement of a certain Russian prince and a young Irish miss at the end of the previous Season had become generally known and set the
ton
on its ears. Sir Frederick Hawkesworth grinned to himself when he heard it. Since in a sense he had helped the prince prosper in his suit, Sir Frederick congratulated himself on a job well-done.

He glanced around the large elegant ballroom as he took a chilled glass of champagne from the lavishly outfitted refreshment table. Lobster and cold cuts vied with delicate pastries of all descriptions, but nothing stirred his interest. Nor was he impressed by the sparkling of jewels or the bright glow of candlelight captured in mirrors and crystal chandeliers, or even by the well-bred company which had gathered that evening. During a somewhat colorful career in the diplomatic corps, he had become immured to such ostentatious displays of wealth. As for social connections, Sir Frederick knew the greater half of royalty on two continents. It would take much to impress one so cosmopolitan in experience.

Sir Frederick was a well-built gentleman of average height, his lean muscular physique showing to great advantage in a finely tailored dark blue evening coat and buff pantaloons. He was generally considered to be a handsome man, though his face was square rather than aquiline. Often the pronounced twinkle in his eyes and his quick smile had led him to be described as engaging in personality.

Sir Frederick thoughtfully sipped the excellent champagne. Trust Lady Smythe to have nothing but the best served to her guests. However, Sir Frederick was not thinking of wines. There came a somber expression into his brown eyes. In truth, he was at a crossroads. He had been offered a new post in Paris. His good friend Lord John Stokes, who was already stationed in the French capital, had urged him to come. He had declined, but it was not because he was still in love with Lady Sophia Wyndham Stokes. His heart had suffered a terrible blow when the lady had chosen Lord John over him. However, he had recovered. As he had once told Sophia, the experience had tempered him as only fire could do to precious metal.

Sir Frederick knit his dark brows, reflecting. No, it was nothing to do with the past that had made him hesitate to take the plum of a post in Paris. Rather, it was the dry future that he was beginning to envision. The recent elopement of the prince and Miss O’Connell merely pointed up the reality of his own barren circumstances.

Simply put, his was an old and honorable name, and he had yet to bestow it on anyone.

Sir Frederick stared with suspicion at the half-empty wineglass he held with one tanned hand. “Rotten stuff. It’s making me maudlin,” he muttered. He set the glass down decisively, the gold signet on his left hand clicking against the crystal rim.

“Freddy!” Mr. Henry Duckwood clapped him on a solid well-built shoulder.

Sir Frederick turned to greet one of his oldest friends with a few bantering words and firm handshake. “Henry, I am devilish glad to see you.”

“We haven’t seen much of you at White’s of late. How are you, old fellow?” asked Mr. Duckwood. He was a gentleman given much to fashion. His coat was very tight, his starched shirt points were very high, his stark white cravat was always exquisitely tied, and he sported a number of fobs and seals dangling from black ribbons at his waist. A cherubic countenance, enlivened by his fawn-colored eyes, stamped him as an amiable soul. He had only one passion, and that was gaming of any kind.

Sir Frederick glanced over his shoulder, making certain that he would not be overheard, then returned his earnest gaze to his friend. In a lowered voice he confided, “I am not at all sure, Henry. Here I stand in one of the most influential hostess’s ballrooms, attended by every high political figure necessary to my future career, and all I can think about is marriage!”

Mr. Duckwood whistled, giving Sir Frederick a thoughtful glance. “That’s bad, very bad. You oughtn’t to do it, Freddy. You won’t like it. Take it from me, I have it on the best authority—the example of my uncle— the wedded state is miserable indeed. Why, he isn’t allowed to blow a cloud in his own library or to have a few cronies over to break a bottle or two over a few hands of whist. As for the dinner fare served up at his table now, I shudder whenever I think of it. I tell you, my uncle isn’t the same man. He’s a mere shadow of his former self.”

“Barbaric,” said Sir Frederick sympathetically.

Mr. Duckwood conceded it with gloom. He took out a lace-edged linen handkerchief and blew his nose in an excess of emotion. As he tucked the square away, he said, “Close to my uncle, you know. Don’t know what possessed him to get leg-shackled so late in life.”

“Caroline Richardson,” said Sir Frederick succinctly. “I heard she had her hand in it.”

Mr. Duckwood sighed and nodded. “Too true; my uncle never had a sporting chance. I tell you, Freddy, if ever Mrs. Richardson turned her sights on me, my knees would begin to knock together from fear.”

A dark-featured tall gentleman sauntered up. He waved negligently to Sir Frederick, but addressed Mr. Duckwood. “What ails you, Henry? I’ve never seen a longer Friday-face than yours.”

“It is Freddy, here,” said Mr. Duckwood, heaving a sigh. “He is thinking about marrying.”

Sir Peregrine  Ashford  swung  a  startled  blue  gaze toward Sir Frederick. “Good God! Er-have you anyone particular in mind, Freddy?”

“Devil a bit! I was merely thinking about the recent elopement, and one thing led to another,” said Sir Frederick, gesturing vaguely. He was somewhat embarrassed to have generated such interest in his private affairs from his friends.

“Oh, the Kirov affair!” Mr. Duckwood’s countenance cleared. “That explains it, then. It is no wonder your thoughts took such an erratic turn, Freddy. Perfectly understandable, for everyone is talking about it.”

“Indeed, it is a small cause
célèbre,”
said Sir Peregrine, with the merest hint of a smile. He shrugged a good pair of shoulders. “However, I for one am quite willing to allow the topic to die of natural causes. I am far more interested in the chances of the latest champion at the Fives Court.”

Mr. Duckwood’s gaming instincts were instantly roused. “Do you go, then, Peregrine? I shall accompany you.”

“As you will, Henry. You should put that man of yours into the ring, Freddy,” said Sir Peregrine. “I suspect he would display to advantage.”

“Who, Will? He’d like nothing better, I daresay,” said Sir Frederick with a laugh. “I’ve never known a man who takes to a good turnout the way Will does, but he is retired from the ring.”

“Just as well, I suppose. I doubt he could sport his canvas against the talent these days,” said Mr. Duckwood thoughtfully.

Sir Frederick instantly leaped to the defense of his pugilist henchman. “Nonsense! I’d back Will against any latecomer.”

“I don’t know, Freddy. That’s going a bit far. Henry may have the right of it,” said Sir Peregrine, shaking his head.

Sir Frederick denied it. The trio heatedly compared the rival merits of various pugilists until a lady dressed in the height of fashion glided up to them, interrupting their debate.

Mrs. Caroline Richardson shook her head in reproof at them, her eyes glinting with humor. “Well! All of you standing about without partners and deep in a sporting discussion! I have been commissioned by our hostess to bring you back into the fold, gentlemen.”

“I was on my way to the card room, ma’am,” said Mr. Duckwood hastily. His fawn-colored eyes bulged a little as he regarded the lady, giving him a startling resemblance to a frightened stag. He grasped Sir Peregrine’s sleeve urgently between thumb and forefinger. “We are to play a hand of whist, aren’t we, Peregrine?”

“If you say so, Henry,” said Sir Peregrine with a grin. He bowed politely to Mrs. Richardson and sauntered off with Mr. Duckwood toward the card room.

Laughing, Mrs. Richardson turned her knowing gaze on Sir Frederick. “You are surely too seasoned a diplomat to abandon your duty to your hostess, Freddy.”

Sir Frederick laid a hand over his heart in exaggerated fashion as he declared dramatically, “Lady Smythe’s wish is my command, Caroline.”

Mrs. Richardson tucked her slender gloved fingers into his crooked elbow as he offered it to her. She cast a smiling glance at her companion’s face. “That is one of the things I like best about you, Freddy. You are so utterly agreeable and charming.”

“Stock in trade for a diplomat, Caroline,” said Sir Frederick with an easy grin. “Obviously my particular talents are wanted, or you would not have let Henry and Peregrine off so easily. What hatchet-faced dragon am I to charm?”

“No such thing! There is a certain widow, Mrs. Holland, who has come this evening and—”

“A widow!” exclaimed Sir Frederick, stopping abruptly. His dark brows peaked over the alarm in his brown eyes. He paid no heed to the curious glances that were directed toward them. “You aren’t up to your old matchmaking tricks, are you, Caroline? Pray tell me the worst! This Mrs. Holland is perfectly respectable and perfectly handsome and has a perfect number of offspring requiring a new papa!”

“Oh, Freddy! Don’t be ridiculous,” said Mrs. Richardson on a rich ripple of amusement. She urged him to continue on with her, and he complied with a show of reluctance. “Mrs. Holland is by far too old for you, and she has two grown children. In fact – ”

Sir Frederick groaned. “It’s worse than I thought! The widow has two daughters. One is undoubtedly horse-faced and possesses a squint. The other is carrot-topped and has rabbity teeth. I should have known. But I can’t marry both of them, Caroline, so don’t think it.”

Mrs. Richardson laughed at his nonsense. Her voice still quivered with amusement as she said, “Really, Freddy! One would think that you are terrified of my matchmaking. I’ve never done anything but good, I assure you.”

“Oh? Look at Hedgewight. He’s so nutty over that girl that he won’t go anywhere without her.” Sir Frederick waved his hand in the general direction of a young couple out on the dance floor. “He practically lives in her pocket. I have it on the best authority that Hedgewight won’t dance with anyone else unless she urges him to do so.”

“Isn’t it the sweetest thing,” commented Mrs. Richardson with a pleased expression. “They make such a delightful couple. And their steps are so perfectly matched. I am sure it is no wonder they prefer to dance with one another.”

Sir Frederick felt he hadn’t made his point adequately enough, but then inspiration struck. “Yes, and there’s Henry’s uncle, now that I think of it! According to Henry, his uncle is but a shadow of his former self.”

“And a good thing, too. Alphonse Duckwood was by far too fat. I am happy to hear that Mrs. Duckwood is overseeing his diet so strictly, for undoubtedly her efforts will add years to his life,” said Mrs. Richardson firmly.

Sir Frederick gave up the fight for the moment and resigned himself to his fate. He saw that they were approaching a matron seated just off to the side of the dance floor. A slim gentleman of average height leaned over the back of the matron’s chair. There was another woman with them, but her chair was half-hidden by the others and she could not be clearly observed. However, from what he was able to discern of her form, she appeared to be a young woman. Sir Frederick instantly concluded that this lady would be the object of his friend’s matchmaking efforts.

His suspicions were truly aroused. Despite his drollery, he had a healthy and wary respect for Mrs. Richardson’s abilities. She had been too successful in matching up couples in the past. He might have been reflecting on marriage earlier not many minutes before, but he balked at the thought of being pitchforked to the altar. “I warn you, Caroline, I’ll run off to Paris first,” he muttered.

Mrs. Richardson pinched his arm through his coat sleeve. “Behave, Freddy!” She drew him around to the attention of the small group. With her attractive smile, she made the introduction. “Mrs. Holland, may I present Sir Frederick Hawkesworth? He is a dear friend of my husband and myself. Sir Frederick is one of our most distinguished diplomats.”

“I am delighted, Mrs. Holland,” said Sir Frederick, none of his inner perturbation in evidence. He made one of his graceful bows, his glance at once cataloging Mrs. Holland. The widow was a striking woman, dark of hair and eyes with pale skin and still possessed a relatively good figure. However, there was petulance in her eyes, and tiny lines of temper at the corners of her thin-lipped but well-shaped mouth, which spoke volumes to one of his wide-flung experience. Mrs. Holland had obviously once been a society beauty, but was now a fading rose. Her age was indeterminate, but since she possessed two grown children, Sir Frederick felt safe in placing her at forty at least. Sir Frederick had a shrewd notion that Mrs. Holland would never willingly divulge her actual age to any living soul.

Mrs. Holland inclined her head, simpering slightly. “Sir Frederick.” She waved her fan slowly, the movement drawing attention to her deeply rounded
décolletage.
The lady wore a silken gown in the new style, cut low over her shapely bosom and gathered close underneath, so that the resulting display of her charms was one that would irresistibly draw any gentleman’s gaze.

Sir Frederick looked hastily away. Dangerous, this one, he cautioned himself. Beside him, he thought he heard a soft choking sound. He realized with an instant flash of amusement that Mrs. Richardson had been neither blind nor approving of the byplay. He had seen much of the world, and there was not much that could any longer disgust him, but he rather thought Mrs. Richardson’s tolerance for vulgarity was somewhat lower than his own.