Gail Whitiker (9 page)

‘Why look, Joanna, there is Mr Bretton,’ Mrs Gavin said as they moved into the largest and most ornate of the reception rooms. ‘And keeping very good company, I might add. Lord Trucklesworth is to his right, Lord and Lady Kempton are to his left and he is speaking to Mr Devlin, who is, of course, married to his eldest sister. And is that not Lady Mary Bidwell standing with them?’

‘I do believe it is,’ Lady Cynthia said, ‘and looking quite fetching in that gown, though the colour does make her look somewhat pale. I wonder if her parents are here.’

‘I suspect the duke and duchess are at cards,’ Mrs Gavin said. ‘They are both mad for whist. So much so that I generally try not to end up at their table. I love my husband dearly, but he is quite hopeless at the game.’

‘Why don’t you go over and say hello, Joanna?’ Lady Cynthia suggested. ‘I believe I saw Mr Bretton glance over this way just now.’

‘I suspect he was looking at someone else,’ Joanna said, self-consciously redirecting her gaze. ‘Besides, I have no wish to intrude on their conversation. I do not know Lord Trucklesworth or Lord and Lady Kempton.’

‘Pish-tosh, these are the circles in which you now move and you must start feeling comfortable in them,’ Lady Cynthia said. ‘Mrs Devlin will surely introduce you to Lord and Lady Kempton, given that they are her in-laws. Besides, it will be good for you to be seen standing next to Lady Mary, given how much prettier you are than her.’

The cutting remark, so typical of her aunt, did nothing to make Joanna feel better as she reluctantly made her way across the floor. She was well aware that she was expected to move in a different circle now and that being the daughter of an earl entitled her to be treated as an equal. But she had lived too many years as plain Miss Joanna Northrup to feel at home in the company of lords and ladies. Unlike Mr Bretton, whose relaxed posture and enviable poise seemed to suggest he found nothing in the least awkward about mingling with his betters.

‘Why, good evening, Lady Joanna,’ Mrs Devlin said, again greeting her with that warm and engaging smile. ‘How lovely to see you. I don’t believe you are acquainted with my husband?’

Joanna replied that she was not and the necessary introductions were made. Mr Devlin, in turn, introduced her to his parents and then to Lord Trucklesworth, all of whom were familiar with her father and his expeditions.

‘I suspect you were surprised to learn that Bretton here, famous for his plays, was also an avid student of Egyptian history,’ Lord Kempton said.

‘I was indeed,’ Joanna said, aware of Mr Bretton’s eyes on her. ‘He is a man of many talents.’

‘And accomplished in them all, from what Lord Parker tells me,’ Lady Mary said, casting flirtatious glances in Mr Bretton’s direction. ‘I am informed that Lord Parker challenged him to an archery contest last week and that Mr Bretton’s arrow landed in the very centre of the target from a distance of one hundred paces. Is that true, Mr Bretton?’

‘I do not believe it was a hundred paces—’

‘Don’t be so modest, Bretton, I know for a fact it was more,’ Mr Devlin spoke up. ‘
And
I watched him place a second arrow no more than an inch below the first one a few minutes later.’

Despite her ambivalence, Joanna had to admit to being impressed by Mr Bretton’s accomplishments. Who would have thought a man who wrote plays, spoke Italian like a native and played difficult études for relaxation, would also turn out to be such a skilled archer?

‘A lucky shot, Mr Bretton?’ she ventured.

‘Luck always plays a part in such endeavours, Lady Joanna,’ he replied with a smile. ‘My father taught me to shoot when I was a boy and it seems some skills carry over into adulthood.’

‘Are you as adept with a pistol are you are with a bow and arrow, Mr Bretton?’ the duke’s daughter enquired breathlessly.

‘I really cannot say, Lady Mary, never having fired one. But given the nature of my occupation, I suspect the chances of my ever having to do so are extremely limited.’

‘You never know, Bretton,’ Trucklesworth said with a wink. ‘You might be called upon to defend yourself from a jealous husband whose wife is so enthralled by your prose that she believes herself in love with you.’

‘Really, Trucks, you do say the most ridiculous things,’ Mr Devlin drawled.

‘Only to amuse the ladies.’

‘But what
would
you do, Mr Bretton,’ Joanna said, ‘if such a thing were to happen?’

Lady Mary’s softly indrawn breath was indicative of Joanna’s having strayed beyond the bounds of polite conversation, but Mr Bretton didn’t bat an eye. ‘Never having experienced such a situation, I really cannot say, Lady Joanna. But I would never choose to be the cause of marital discord and would do my utmost to assure the fellow that his lady was in love with the words, rather than with the man. I might even suggest he try writing a love letter to her himself.’

‘Like your hero did in
Penelope’s Swain
,’ Lady Kempton said.

‘Did he?’ Mr Bretton looked momentarily bemused. ‘I’d almost forgotten.’

‘It is no wonder, given that you have written four such excellent plays,’ Lady Mary said in a voice that left no one in any doubt as to her affection for him. ‘I think your stories are
wonderful
. And so terribly romantic.’

But not nearly so romantic as the playwright.

The thought sprang unbidden to Joanna’s mind, where it remained, unexpected and unwelcome. It became even more so when Mr Bretton suddenly looked at her and said, ‘You do not care for romantic fiction, Lady Joanna?’

‘I...did not say that, Mr Bretton.’

‘No, but you smiled when Lady Mary said my plays were romantic. I thought perhaps you did not care for such things.’

‘I am not a fan of mawkish love stories, no,’ Joanna said, uncomfortable at being centred out for attention but exceedingly glad that he
had
misinterpreted her reaction. ‘Though I’m sure yours are not in any way of that nature.’

His mouth twitched. ‘How diplomatic. Tell me, what
do
you like to see in the way of theatre?’

‘I suppose I would have to say classical works by Shakespeare and Marlowe. The operas of Rossini and Mozart, and more dramatic works by the contemporary playwrights of our day.’

‘Dear me, it seems we have a dissenter in our ranks,’ Mr Devlin said, clearly amused by the exchange. He glanced with affection at his wife. ‘Will you not go to the defence of your brother’s works, my love?’

‘Certainly not,’ Mrs Devlin said. ‘Laurence is perfectly capable of defending himself. Besides, I believe you and I are engaged for this dance.’

‘So we are. If you will excuse us, ladies and gentlemen.’ Mr Devlin took his wife’s hand and winked at his brother-in-law. ‘You’re on your own, Bretton. Don’t let the side down.’

They left, as his parents did, to take their places on the dance floor. Shortly thereafter, Lady Mary excused herself to find her mother and Lord Trucklesworth slipped away, muttering something about never being able to find a servant when you needed one.

The exodus left Joanna alone with Mr Bretton, who was still smiling at her in that all-too-familiar way.

‘It would seem something amuses you, Mr Bretton,’ she said, careful to keep her focus on the people moving around them.

‘Indeed, Lady Joanna. You.’

‘Me?’ Her eyes flew back to his. ‘What have I done to arouse your mirth?’

‘Nothing, other than be yourself.’

‘I hardly think that noteworthy.’

‘I beg to differ. You are unique. As different from any other woman in this room as a sovereign is from a penny.’

Joanna felt an unfamiliar quickening of her pulse. ‘You hardly know me well enough to say.’

‘Ah, but I do, and a great deal better than you think.’

His piercing blue gaze remained fixed upon her face. He neither blinked nor looked away. Joanna found it distinctly unnerving. ‘I do not think it appropriate that you look at me in that way, Mr Bretton.’

‘What way?’

‘You are staring at me.’

‘Am I?’

‘Yes. And it is entirely possible someone might notice and misconstrue your intent.’

His smile broadened. ‘But I have no intent, other than to serve my own pleasure.’

‘I can assure you, your pleasure would be better served by staring at someone else,’ Joanna told him in a wry voice. ‘Lady Mary Bidwell, for example.’

‘Come now, Lady Joanna, you know as well as I do that staring at Lady Mary would be a poor use of my time. A duke’s daughter is hardly like to marry a poor playwright.’

‘I think you cry poor when you are nothing of the sort,’ Joanna said. ‘You live in a fine house and conduct yourself with the manners of a gentleman. You are embraced by society and mingle with the likes of viscounts and earls.’

‘Nevertheless, I am not titled myself and know better than to set my sights so high.’

‘So you admit to wishing to marry well.’

‘I admit to wishing to be happily married,’ he corrected her. ‘If I achieve wealth into the bargain, so be it. But there are many rich men whose wives do not love them yet are happy to say they do. I would rather be without wealth and know my wife loves me for who I am, than be rich and constantly wondering. Why, Lady Joanna, you’re blushing. Surely the topic doesn’t embarrass you?’

‘Not at all,’ Joanna replied, wishing not for the first time that her cheeks were not such a visible barometer of her emotions. ‘I simply do not think it is an appropriate topic of discussion for a single lady and an unmarried gentleman to be having.’

‘Perhaps, but as someone who studies human nature in order to weave emotion into the heart of a story, it behoves me to talk about such things,’ Mr Bretton said. ‘Love, hate, jealousy, betrayal—the strongest emotions make the best foundations for a story. The man you claim to admire wrote one of the most compelling love stories of all time, using words as romantic as any ever written. “One fairer than my love, the all-seeing sun,”’ he quoted softly. ‘“Ne’er saw her match since first the world begun.”’

Joanna blushed even as her brow furrowed. The words, undeniably romantic, were familiar, but she couldn’t place them...

‘“O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright,”’ he continued. ‘“It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night. Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear; beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear.”’ He broke off, smiling. ‘I think you recognise it now. Your cheeks have gone quite pink again.’

‘It is only that the room is so warm,’ Joanna said. ‘And that a gentleman I barely know is quoting lines from
Romeo and Juliet
to me.’

‘Ah, so you know the Bard’s words,’ he said, even more softly.

‘My governess adored Shakespeare. I spent nearly a year studying his writings. I found the language...difficult.’

‘But you cannot deny the elegance of it.’ He stopped and looked at her, his eyes leaving her nowhere to hide. ‘Shakespeare had a way of telling a woman how beautiful she was without falling back on trite, conventional phrases. I thought the repeating of them to you now seemed...appropriate.’

The feelings came unbidden—an unexpected rush of excitement, followed by an even stronger one of guilt. ‘Mr Bretton, I really must insist—’

‘That I continue?’

‘That you keep such words to yourself!’

He watched her in silence for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yes, perhaps you’re right. After all, there can be no harm if I reflect, in my own mind, that in that gown you remind me of the first rose of spring. Or that the delightful sprinkling of freckles across your nose, no doubt the bane of your existence and despaired of by your aunt, is one of your most charming features. Far better to keep thoughts like that to myself.’

Joanna closed her eyes and waited for her erratic pulse to slow. ‘It is no wonder you have achieved such fame with your plays, sir. Were those lines drawn from one of them?’

There was a very brief silence before he said, ‘I would never say something to you that had been written for someone else. Pardon me if the lines sounded...clichéd.’

Joanna slowly opened her eyes. His smile was as she remembered, but the expression in his eyes had changed. She had offended him and that was the last thing she wanted to do. ‘They did not,’ she said hastily. ‘I simply wasn’t...expecting them.’

He watched her for a long time, as though trying to draw out everything there was to know about her. Had she ever been observed so closely? Had a gentleman’s eyes ever probed so gently, yet so intently?

Joanna thought not. Until now, she had never had any reason to engage in such an intimate discussion with any one, let alone a man who had no business dwelling so stubbornly in her thoughts.

‘No, of course not,’ he said finally. ‘Because we both know I had no right to speak to you in such a manner and for that I apologise.’ His anger, quickly aroused, seemed to die an equally swift death. ‘It was not my intention to embarrass you or to make you feel uncomfortable.’

The apology, far more earnest than Joanna had expected, left her feeling even worse. ‘You did not embarrass me.’

‘Then why did you blush?’

‘Because I wasn’t—’ She broke off, unsure of herself and of the situation. It was not the first time he had spoken to her seriously. He had done so at her father’s lecture and then again in the carriage on the drive home. But now, as then, she had no idea how to respond. ‘Mr Bretton, I really don’t know what to say—’

‘Then say nothing. It is enough that you know my apology was sincerely intended and that I will not trespass on your feelings again.’ He glanced down at the floor, then briefly at a lady passing by. ‘I am promised to Lady Mary for the next dance. Will you honour me with the one following?’

The invitation, surprising as it was unexpected, brought a rush of colour to Joanna’s cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, but it is already reserved.’

‘Of course. The next one?’

She shook her head, regretfully. ‘That one too.’

‘And the one after that?’

For the space of a second, their eyes met—and Joanna felt the rhythm of her heart change. ‘I’m sorry.’

It was not a lie. She
was
engaged for the next three dances...but not for the fourth. Unfortunately, Mr Bretton did not ask for the fourth. She waited, because it must always be the gentleman who asked, but he did not ask again.