Louise M Gouge (23 page)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

S
till reeling from Melton’s revelations, Greystone arrived at last at Lord Drayton’s ball. The marquess welcomed him personally, a singular honor but one Greystone could do without at this particular moment. While Drayton pressed him for support on a measure regarding the American war, something close to Greystone’s heart because his brother had come near to dying in the conflict, his attention nonetheless strayed to the vast ballroom.

He must find Lady Beatrice. In his letter he had requested several dances, but with his late arrival he could not expect her to decline other invitations amidst all of this merriment. At least he was in time to claim the supper dance. Surveying the room, he did not see her among the dancers. But just as he spied Mrs. Parton’s unmistakable red hair beneath a feather-plumed orange turban, Mother swept into his line of vision
waltzing
with Uncle Grenville.

He could only gape. She looked at least ten years younger than her nine and forty years. And very, very happy. Never once in his own eight and twenty years had he seen such radiance on her still-beautiful face. This entire scene astonished him. Had she not recently expressed disapproval of this intimate dance form? Yet here she was waltzing blissfully with a gentleman she could never marry. Greystone’s heart wrenched for both of them.

Beside him Drayton chuckled. “Ah, yes. Lady Greystone is enjoying herself as she has not since she was first presented to Society some thirty years ago.” He clapped Greystone on the shoulder. “No doubt you would like to dispense with politics for the evening, so go along. Find some young lady to stand up with for the next dance. It is the last one before supper is served.”

“I thank you, my lord.” Thus released, he made his way around the ballroom toward Mrs. Parton, who stood talking with Edmond and Anna.

And there beside them was the lady of his dreams, a vision of loveliness in a frothy pink gown, her golden hair curled becomingly around her flawless oval face. His pulse began to race, and his heart hammered in his chest. As best he could without being rude, he pushed his way through the crowd. Then he spied Winston approaching the ladies from the other direction, and he increased his pace, murmuring apologies to those he bumped into as he went.

They reached Lady Beatrice at the same moment, and both bowed.

“Lady Beatrice.” Greystone breathed out her beloved name. “May I have this dance?”

“Lady Beatrice.” Winston’s tone was at once icy and warm, a feat only a pompous prig could accomplish. “I have come to claim our promised dance.”

“Why, I—” The lady looked from one to the other, bewilderment clouding her beautiful blue eyes.

His heart near to bursting, Greystone was certain he could hear Mrs. Parton tittering. Edmond’s laugh was unmistakable. Not long ago he had snatched Anna away from Winston after a ball very much like this one.

Proper social form demanded that Greystone back away, but for some reason he felt a stubborn inclination to flout convention just as Mother was doing.

“My dear lady,” he said, “perhaps the good baron would permit me—” He stepped closer to her.

“Really, Greystone.” Winston moved up shoulder to shoulder with him. “Give way, my good man. This dance is claimed.”

“I think I will not.” Greystone recalled the baron’s swordsmanship against the ruffians on the Thames. A duel with him might present mortal danger. But even though Winston had every right to be offended, Greystone refused to give way. “Lady Beatrice, would you kindly explain to this gentleman the importance of
his
giving way, since I have a prior claim to this dance?”

Oddly, instead of offering a smile, she glared at him. “Indeed. And how is it that you have a prior claim?”

Winston snorted out a laugh. “Yes, Greystone, how did you accomplish that, since you just arrived?”

“But, my lady, I requested the supper dance in the letter I sent you.”

“Letter? What letter?” Understanding dawned upon her lovely countenance. “
You
wrote that letter. Oh, my.” She placed a white-gloved hand over her lips, then turned to the baron. “Lord Winston, Lord Greystone is correct. His invitation came first. Please forgive me.”

Winston’s face became as blank as that of the best of butlers. “Of course, my lady.” He bowed away, then turned back and gave Edmond and Anna a brief nod. “I say, Greystone, do you have any more brothers, or may I proceed in my search for a wife without further interruptions from your family?”

With great difficulty Greystone did not so much as smirk in response, although he could hear Edmond coughing in the background and Anna’s chiding
tsk
. “No, my lord, no more brothers. We are all claimed.”

Claimed?
Beatrice lost her breath for a moment. Lord Greystone had not proposed, nor had they sorted out all of their concerns regarding marriage or Melly or Lady Greystone’s disapproval. Perhaps he had addressed those matters in the letter, which she prayed Sally had not thrown away.

“My lady, I believe this is my dance.” Lord Greystone, exquisitely dressed in a blue satin jacket and tan breeches, held out his hand.

Beatrice glanced at Mrs. Parton, who nodded and smiled her approval.

“I thank you, sir.” Beatrice placed her hand in his and permitted him to guide her toward the end of the line for the country dance.

As they walked, he leaned close to her ear. “Did you truly forget that I asked for this dance in my letter?” Couched in his amused tone was a hint of hurt feelings.

She shook her head. “I received your letter only today.” At the shock on his face she hastened to add, “My brother delivered it just this afternoon. I thought it was from that horrid Mr. Rumbold, so I did not open it. How silly of me not to look at the seal.”

“This afternoon? How odd. I sent it in the care of a Bow Street Runner the night before I left. A dependable man, or so I thought. Did Melton explain how he came to have it?”

“I refused to see him.” She took her place in the ladies’ line.

He took his place opposite her. “Ah, I see. And I do not fault you for it.” A frown flitted across his noble brow. “My dear, do you have your heart set upon this dance?” He tilted his head toward a row of empty chairs. “We truly must talk.”

The music began, and the first couple made their way down the line in a series of intricate steps. She knew the pattern well and would have loved to have shown him her skill. But then, if he considered himself “claimed” by her, she had no need to impress him with her dancing.

“Yes, we must.” She once again took his offered hand, and they excused themselves from their fellow revelers to take refuge behind the lovely row of large potted plants she had previously found so annoying. Mrs. Parton, her ever-faithful sponsor, moved near enough to protect their reputations with her presence, but not within hearing distance.

Greystone gripped her hands and bent forward to touch his forehead to hers, as he had done over two weeks ago. Should anyone be watching, they might be scandalized, yet Mrs. Parton beamed her approval in their direction.

“My darling, I understand why you did not receive your brother.” Lord Greystone brought her gloved hands up to his lips for a gentle kiss on each. “I almost refused him, as well. Fortunately the Almighty prompted me to see him. What I learned will astonish you even more than it did me.”

Her beloved then unfolded a tale so enthralling that Beatrice was soon in tears. “Oh, Greystone, he has come to his senses at last.” Would he mind that she used a more familiar address by leaving off “Lord”?

“My dearest Beatrice, before we parted company Melton gave me permission to ask the question closest to my heart. Will you marry me?” His omission of her courtesy title answered her concern. And now, with his blue eyes catching the nearby candlelight and reflecting the rich blue of his satin jacket, the intensity of his gaze made her knees weak. She was grateful to be sitting.

“I should tease you and play coy, but I cannot.” Joy bubbled up inside her, and she laughed, perhaps a bit too loudly, if Mrs. Parton’s widened eyes were any indication. “Yes, yes, my darling Greystone, I will marry you.”

And there, hidden among the potted plants, he gave her a proper kiss to seal the matter. And she responded with great enthusiasm.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“I
am grateful to have the necklace locked in the family vault.” Lady Greystone sat shoulder to shoulder with James Grenville on a settee in Greystone’s drawing room. “But in the interval when I did not know what had become of it, I discovered that some things—” she placed a hand on the gentleman’s forearm “—such as friendship, are more important than material possessions.”

Beatrice could only feel honored to be included in this intimate gathering presided over by the matriarch of the family. The afternoon following the marchioness’s ball, she and Mrs. Parton had been invited to the town house next door so Greystone could announce their engagement to his relatives. But the viscountess took charge of the conversation before he could even speak, announcing that she and her brother-in-law were spending a great deal of time together.

“But let us be very clear.” Lady Greystone pulled her hand back, as if she had decided that touching her brother-in-law was improper. “We cannot marry, and we will not live in sin.”

“And no law prohibits our being the best of friends.” James Grenville, a white-haired older version of his three handsome nephews, took Lady Greystone’s hand and gazed at her with a tenderness that bespoke the deepest respect and affection. This time she did not break the contact.

Mrs. Parton had informed Beatrice that the gentleman was a barrister of excellent reputation who had always lived above reproach. Yet Beatrice could see a note of sadness in both of them. She could not imagine being forbidden to marry the gentleman whom she loved so dearly.

“You could go to Scotland, Mother,” quipped Edmond Grenville. “Scottish law does not prohibit a man from marrying his late brother’s widow.”

“Edmond!” Richard Grenville, the picture of a country vicar in his black suit and white collar, sat with his wife, Mary, and scowled at his younger brother. “The laws of the Church supersede man’s laws and customs, and our faith forbids such a marriage.”

“But I believe,” huffed Edmond, “it was a political move that established—”

“Do you mind, Edmond?” Lady Greystone glared at her youngest son briefly, but quickly softened her expression. “I do thank you for thinking of our happiness, but we have accepted our situation as God’s will.”

“And we thank you and Anna for playing the part of chaperones for us these past weeks.” James Grenville’s blue eyes glinted with humor. “Imagine the gossip if two old friends like us were accused of impropriety.”

The entire family laughed, easing the tension in the room.

“And Mother has at last found a companion who can please her,” Edmond said, eliciting more chuckles around the room.

“You may be certain of that,” Lady Greystone said. “Now, we have taken enough of everyone’s attention. Greystone is the one who summoned all of you here.” She turned to her eldest son. “Greystone, you are in charge.”

He stood by the hearth, a bemused expression on his dear face. Beatrice wondered if at last he had won the battle of wills with his parent, and all without a struggle.

“I thank you, Mother dear. I will endeavor to do you credit.” He gave her a half bow. “I think my brothers and I all agree that we owe you a great deal for your selflessness in rearing us. When our father died you could have abandoned us to tutors and servants and lived for your own amusements, as many widows do. But you carefully directed every part of our lives so that we would be a credit to England.”

A soft grumble came from Edmond’s direction, but Anna chided him with a
tsk.
After her marriage made them sisters, Beatrice would have to ask her the cause of this brother’s complaint.

“And in that light,” Greystone continued to address his mother, “even though I requested your assistance in choosing a wife for me, I think it will come as no surprise to you that I have found a lady of flawless grace and reputation to be my viscountess.” He strode across the Persian carpet to Beatrice’s chair and took her hand. “Lady Beatrice has agreed to marry me.”

Beatrice’s heart leaped with joy and anticipation. Surely his mother would not object to their marriage, even though she doubted the news of Melly’s repentance had reached Society’s ears.

“Humph.” Lady Greystone’s indignation was clearly artificial. “’Tis hardly a new thing for a son of mine to choose his own bride.”

Again the room resounded with laughter, even louder this time. Surely Beatrice would hear many interesting stories once she was wed.

“But I must say this,” Lady Greystone continued. “I have no cause to be ashamed of any of your choices.” She smiled at Beatrice. “I welcome you to the family, my dear.”

Eyes stinging, Beatrice rose and hurried to the viscountess, bending to place a kiss on her cheek. “I thank you, Mother Greystone. I am honored.”

“Will you plan her wedding, Mother?” Edmond, clearly the family tease, smirked and winked at his wife.

Another family joke Beatrice must investigate.

“She most certainly will not.” Mrs. Parton had sat quietly to this point, her round face beaming with enjoyment over the antics in her friend’s household. “I demand that privilege as my reward for finding Greystone’s bride. Remember our competition, Frances?”

“Nonsense. I shall—” Lady Greystone began. James Grenville patted her hand, and she laughed softly. “I shall leave it to Greystone to decide.”

Greystone sauntered over to kiss his mother’s hand, then put an arm around Beatrice’s waist. “My darling, you are very brave to join this family. Are you certain that you—”

“Hush.” Ignoring their company, she put a finger on his well-sculpted lips. “If you can overlook the, um, complexities of my family, I certainly have no qualms about joining this merry band.”

“Well said!” Edmond was the first to leave his chair and clap Greystone’s back, and was soon joined by the others. “Congratulations!”

* * *

Once again Greystone had difficulty breathing, but this time his health was not in danger. Beatrice was without question the most beautiful, the most stunning bride he had ever seen.

Escorting his sister down the aisle of St. George’s Church, Melton looked every inch a proud earl of the realm, his sober black suit in keeping with his physical and mental condition these past three weeks while the banns were cried. Contrary to Greystone’s fears, Melton’s repentance was proving genuine, his rehabilitation progressing. He would report all his expenditures to Greystone and follow the financial plan he and Blakemore had devised. After Blakemore spoke to the newspapers, rumors of any connection Melton may have had to Rumbold had been quietly put to rest. Further, the murderer’s hanging barely made a ripple of gossip amongst the aristocracy whose ranks he had so desperately attempted to breach. Had the man only realized that a life of honor would have won him many friends, no matter what his parentage, perhaps he would have succeeded in garnering the respect which he had tried to force from them.

But Greystone now focused on his bride, a vision of beauty floating toward him as he stood before the altar. Her pristine white gown was a high-waisted cloud of snowy silk and lace, her veil a gossamer shade that could not hide her wide smile. The closer she came, the more he forgot to breathe.

Until Edward thumped his arm. “It won’t do for the groom to faint,” he muttered. “If I made it through my wedding, you can do the same.” He snorted out a muted laugh.
“Milord.”

Greystone sucked in his lips to keep from laughing, both at his brother’s humorous taunt and his own joy over his imminent marriage. Gratitude and happiness emanated from Melton’s eyes as he surrendered Beatrice to him. She moved to her place beside Greystone, sending a sweet smile to Anna on her other side. Then they all turned to face Richard.

“Dearly beloved,” he intoned in his rich baritone, “we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony, which is an honorable estate...”

* * *

Beatrice and her new husband took their places of honor at the long table in Mrs. Parton’s elegant ballroom. Her mentor had gone to great expense to arrange a lavish wedding breakfast, and Lady Greystone graciously surrendered her right to hostess the event. Among the guests were Lord and Lady Blakemore, Lord and Lady Grandly and their daughters, and Lord Winston. Greystone had developed a fondness for the latter after their adventure in rescuing Kit and Ben, and Beatrice could only be flattered that the young baron had considered her a worthy object of his interest. As she surveyed the two-hundred-odd aristocrats who had gathered to celebrate their nuptials and wish them well, she saw many a pretty young lady who would suit Lord Winston, should he deign to consider them.

On the opposite side of the table, Melly sat beside Miss Waddington, who seemed enchanted by his every word. Melly must have sensed Beatrice’s gaze, for he turned her way. With practiced grace, he brushed his right hand over his ear and then rested it above his heart. The worried hope in his expression almost made her weep, so she quickly returned the gesture. Yes, they would forever listen to each other, would forever care. She lifted a quick prayer of thanks that God had redeemed her prodigal brother.

After a quick survey of the room, she turned her attention to Greystone, who was conversing with Lady Blakemore on his other side. Beatrice nudged him and received attention from them both.

“My darling Greystone.” She still felt a thrill at being privileged to address him so familiarly. “Should we not help Lord Winston in his search for a bride?”

He laughed, that wonderful carefree sound he emitted so often these days. “Why, I cannot think of any reason we should not. Lady Blakemore, what think you on the subject?”

“Oh, yes. Tell us what you think.” Beatrice knew the countess had many connections, but one stood out. “What about your sweet companion, Miss Hart? Have they met?”

Lady Blakemore gave them a wry smile. “No, they have not met. I fear our good baron considers himself too far above a mere companion.”

Greystone laughed again. “Ah, that is an affliction from which many a peer should strive to heal.” He gazed at Beatrice with such devotion that her heart felt near to bursting. “As for me, I have stolen Mrs. Parton’s companion and made her my own.”

“And you are mine.” In that moment, the whole room and everyone in it disappeared, and Beatrice saw only him. The love of her life. Her husband.

Her
companion for the rest of her days.

* * * * *

Be sure to look for the next book in
Louise M. Gouge’s
Ladies in Waiting
miniseries,
coming in 2013 from Love Inspired Historical.

* * * * *

Keep reading for an excerpt of
Handpicked Husband
by Winnie Griggs!