Society's Most Disreputable Gentleman (20 page)

Althea was only repeating what he'd already told himself, but hearing it none the less revived the pain, always simmering just beneath the surface of consciousness. Amanda was in London, striving to turn all her girlhood aspirations into reality—why should she spare a thought for those she had left behind?

If she recalled him at all, probably it was only with a sense of gratitude that he'd been gentlemanly enough to conceal their indiscretion and protect her plans.

A flicker of anger stirred. Why did he continue to torture himself over the lady, however wonderful she was? They might as well exist on separate planets, she in her sphere, he in his, both determined to become master of their respective realms. He'd wished her joy before she left and meant it.

He was too isolated here, he decided, trapped in a moment of time with only his memories for company. He
should
go to London as soon as possible, remind himself of what he wanted for the future and recall all the possibilities for love and success that existed beyond Amanda Neville.

‘Is something amiss?' Althea's concerned voice recalled him.

‘No, no. I'm only trying to mind my cards. What do you plan to do, once your uncle recovers?' he asked, determined to steer the conversation to less painful channels.

‘I've convinced Uncle James to let me stay here. Though he never complains, I know how terribly hard it must have been for him to send Amanda to London, knowing she would make her grand match and never live at Ashton again. She's
the image of my Aunt Lydia, so it's like he's losing his wife all over again. I'm not as beautiful and perhaps not as clever, but I can certainly love him like a daughter. I hope we'll be a comfort to each other.'

Greville now knew something himself about the anguish of losing one's love…a precious gift he'd never known how much he'd treasure, until he let it slip away.

Shaking off the reflection, he said, ‘Somehow I don't see you ending your days, knitting docilely at your uncle's side. Surely there are gentlemen in Devon shrewd enough to appreciate a lass of your keen wit and charm. That is, if they don't hear you bossing poor Lord Bronning about,' he teased. ‘No man wants to live under cat's paw!'

She threw down her last card and grinned triumphantly. ‘You're just being disagreeable because I beat you.'

‘So you have, minx,' he said, looking at the final trick. ‘Here I've listened attentively as you pour out your soul, and you, heartless scapegrace, were fleecing me. I'd best retire to the estate books before you win my last groat.'

‘We'll have to play again, so you may win it back. I did enjoy the game! Thank you, and goodnight, Greville.'

‘Goodnight to you, too, Althea.'

He smiled as he walked to the office. She'd be a sprightly handful for some man some day, he thought, quite certain she'd not end up living at Ashton, a comfort to her ageing uncle. Most likely she'd wed some local boy and reside in the neighbourhood, ordering her own servants about between returning to Ashton to check on her uncle and give orders to his. Unlike Bronning's brilliant daughter, who would shine like a luminous star in her far-distant universe.

From within the churning mass of loneliness, pain, regret, resentment, pride in what he was doing and sadness for what he'd leave behind emerged the fervent desire for Lord Bronning
to recover quickly. It was time for Greville to leave Ashton Grove and begin carving out his own universe.

With a renewed determination in his stride, he reached the estate office and crossed to his desk. And if some inner voice warned that getting Amanda Neville out of his heart and mind would take far more than a trip to London and some solid plans for the future, he did his best to ignore it.

W
hen the coveted invitation from Lady Ravensfell finally arrived early one morning two weeks later, Lady Parnell summoned Amanda to her boudoir to discuss it without even allowing her time to dress.

‘Although I couldn't be more pleased at the progress we've made these last two weeks, presenting you to all the hostesses of note and many of the eligible gentlemen on my list,' she said, after inviting Amanda to seat herself and calling for fresh chocolate, ‘the event I've truly been anticipating has been this dinner at Ravensfell House. Now that the invitation is here, I discover it will be even better than I expected!'

‘How is that?' Amanda asked with a stir of anticipation. Though she'd found all the other candidates whom Lady Parnell had presented to her attractive, polished and gratifyingly attentive, none thus far had exceeded Lord Trowbridge in intelligence, charm or rank.

Nor, alas, had any of them elicited in her the immediate emotional pull and sensual response she'd felt for Greville Anders.

‘We are to go not just for dinner, but for a ball, too, immediately following. The first great ball of the Season, sure to be attended by everyone of note in society. And though the Trowbridges give several balls each year, I find it significant that Lady Ravensfell has chosen to give her first on the same evening we are to dine with them.'

‘Society will interpret this as a sort of endorsement of me as a potential bride for their son?'

Lady Parnell nodded, her face glowing with delight. ‘Only intimates or important friends are invited to dine with the family before such events. Ah, how clever Trowbridge is, having you make your first appearance on society's grand stage at a ball given by his mama, rather than at Almack's or somewhere else!'

‘It will be as if he's…laying claim to me?' Amanda asked, the feeling of being waltzed into a corner descending on her again.

Some of Amanda's trepidation must have shown upon her face, for Lady Parnell clasped her hand. ‘Now, you mustn't refine too much upon it; Jane and I have long been friends, as all the world knows. In any event, by giving you such a clear mark of approval, Trowbridge has ensured your success, for every other young gentleman of rank will wish to vie for the hand of the lady he favours.'

Amanda recalled his earlier words to her: that this Season should be for her to enjoy entertainments and attention before she settled to the business of choosing a husband.

And she had been enjoying it. Between afternoons spent shopping, calling or receiving calls from important society matrons, and evenings attending dinners, musicales and the theatre, she found herself caught up in just the sort of giddy whirl for which she'd hoped. It occupied her from rising in the morning until she fell back into an exhausted sleep; the frenetic pace gave her no time to worry about Papa's health, feel
homesick for Ashton Grove—or miss a certain auburn-haired rogue's ravishing kiss and mesmerising touch.

The sense of pressure eased, replaced by gratitude. Trowbridge was backing up his fine sentiments with action, she thought, impressed and touched by this evidence of his large-mindedness.

‘It is kind of him,' she agreed.

‘The ball is in four days,' Lady Parnell said, scanning the invitation again. ‘As soon as Jewell has made me presentable, we must inspect your wardrobe. For such an important occasion, you may need a new gown, which means we have no time to lose!'

 

As it turned out, Lady Parnell pronounced Amanda's previously purchased gown of celestial-blue crape trimmed with satin ribbon and diamond crystals sufficiently grand for the Ravensfell ball, so the few days before the event were not complicated by the necessity to acquire another dress. But since the topic of the ball dominated conversation at every call they made and both dinners they attended before that event, Amanda realised that her patroness was correct in claiming it would be the first grand event of the Season—and that everyone who was anyone in London would attend.

Rather than the ball, which she contemplated with as much anxiety as anticipation, it was the dinner to which she truly looked forward. It would be her first foray into the world Grandmama, Mama and she herself had long dreamed to claim as her own, where she would encounter the leaders of government and listen as they discussed the great issues of the day.

 

By the night of the ball, her stomach was churning with excitement and trepidation. Though Lady Parnell would be at her side to assist and her hostess, Lady Ravensfell, had promised to make her feel at ease, she'd not yet met the formidable
Lord Ravensfell, cabinet member and intimate of the royal family. If all the expectations everyone seemed to be entertaining about her turned out to be correct, she might meet her future father-in-law this evening, within the house of which she would some day be mistress.

Assuming she ended up deciding to accept Lord Trowbridge as her master.

Nowhere close to a decision on that front, while an admiring Betsy settled a shawl of spangled gauze over her shoulders, Amanda sternly bid the sparrows that had seemed to have taken up residence in her stomach to cease flapping their wings. After inspecting herself one last time in the glass, she descended the stairs to join Lady Parnell in the carriage.

 

A short drive later, they had entered the Ravensfell town house and were ushered into a large handsome parlour, where her smiling hostess introduced Amanda to her husband, a tall, distinguished gentleman who looked every inch the government minister.

As they moved on past the receiving line, Lady Parnell said softly to Amanda, ‘The gentleman in the corner is Lord Liverpool's secretary, Mr Thomas, the man beside him the Home Secretary, Lord Sidmouth. There are leaders from the opposition as well; the man by the hearth is Lord Holland, conversing with the Marquis of Landsdowne.'

By the time Lady Parnell had identified all the notables, Amanda's eagerness to be present had disintegrated into a terror that she might commit some verbal gaffe that would show just how unworthy she was to be included among such elevated company. Almost every gentleman present was a member of the current government or occupied a seat in the Lords or the Commons, and the ladies they escorted were equally elegant and sophisticated. All, except Lord Trowbridge and one other gentleman, were also considerably older.

She was nearly trembling in her slippers when Lord Trowbridge appeared at her side.

‘Don't worry,' he murmured, offering his arm to escort into dinner. ‘You need only nod, smile and look beautiful. I'll be right beside you, so you don't have to converse with anyone else unless you choose to.'

‘Thank you,' she whispered back. ‘The guests are rather intimidating.'

‘Most occupy positions in government, as does my father. It's his world—and mine; the guests are friends as well as associates of many years' standing. Men of power and influence, of course, but in the end, only men, like your father and his neighbour, my Devon host, Mr Williams.'

‘Perhaps,' she said dubiously, ‘though it's kind of you to try to set me at ease. I shall attempt not to embarrass you by dropping something on the tablecloth or uttering some idiocy over the soup.'

Trowbridge chuckled. ‘You are far too graceful and intelligent to do either. This is your first visit to my home; I would very much like you to simply relax and enjoy the meal and the conversation.'

At that moment, Amanda could have told him she was about as likely as relax in the company of so many notables as she was to turn into Althea's canary and fly around the room. However, she found that as time went on and she committed no social solecism, she did begin to relax. And though she remained far too on edge to do more than pick at her food, she soon became enthralled by the conversation.

To her left, Lord Liverpool's secretary, Mr Thomas, was asserting to one of Lord Holland's associates the necessity of the previous Parliament's passage of the Gag Acts suspending the right of Habeas Corpus. To her right, Lord Landsdowne insisted to the man across from him that the information obtained when the Manchester protesters were tried indicated
there was no national conspiracy, and that the application of ordinary English law would have been quite sufficient to stem the unrest, without any of the extraordinary measures to which the government had resorted.

At one end of the table, their hostess was complimenting the Prime Minister, Lord Liverpool, on successfully gaining passage of the measure outlawing slavery. At the other, their host discussed with opposition leader Lord Holland the necessity to pass funding that would allow the Royal Dukes to proceed with their proposed marriages to the Princesses of Hesse and Saxe-Meinengen; after the tragic death of the Prince Regent's daughter Charlotte in childbed the previous autumn, he warned, the kingdom should waste no time ensuring the succession.

The very tenor of the words sent a thrill through her. Ah, this was the world she'd always dreamed of, the arena Mama and Grandmama had trained and encouraged her to enter! She sat raptly, hardly touching her food, trying to listen to as many of the assorted conversations as possible.

By the end of the meal, energised by the discussions around her, she'd even grown bold enough to make an enquiry here, or ask a question there, earning an approving nod from Trowbridge—and drawing upon herself so intense a scrutiny from the only other young man present that she felt a blush heat her cheeks.

Finally, to Amanda's disappointment, the covers were cleared and her hostess rose, signalling the ladies to withdraw. ‘We'll grant you gentlemen one brandy,' Lady Ravensfell said, ‘but with the ball soon to follow, we'll expect you shortly in the salon.'

Still glowing with enthusiasm, Amanda followed her hostess out of the dining salon. To her delight, for she hoped to hear more political discourse before the ball began, by the time the ladies returned from freshening themselves and their gowns in the retiring room, the gentlemen were filing into the parlour.

From across the room where he'd gone to greet his mother, Lord Trowbridge spied her and walked over, Lady Ravensfell on his arm.

‘Miss Neville, I hope you weren't too bored by the dinner discussion,' her hostess said. ‘These gentleman will talk nothing but politics.'

‘On the contrary, my lady, I found it fascinating!' Amanda exclaimed. ‘In fact—and I fear Lord Trowbridge must confirm this—I was so absorbed in listening to the discussions that I was a very poor dinner partner.'

‘Miss Neville, you cannot believe I would be so unchivalrous as to assert any such thing!' Lord Trowbridge protested. ‘Mama, she is the most charming dinner partner imaginable.'

Lady Ravensfell gazed at her for so long, Amanda felt alarm spiral in her belly. ‘I believe she is,' her hostess said at last.

At that moment, the butler beckoned to their hostess. ‘I hope you will enjoy the ball as well, Miss Neville. If you'll excuse me, I must attend to some matters before the other guests arrive.'

Lord Trowbridge was called away also. Unwilling to approach any of the senior officials or their wives on such slight acquaintance, Amanda stepped towards the wall, out of the flow of guests, waiting for Lady Parnell to finish conversing with a sombre-looking older gentleman she identified as Lord Melcombe.

Oh, how pleased and excited Mama and Grandmama would have been to have attended the dinner tonight! Smiling, Amanda let her mind run through again all the fascinating snippets of information she'd gained from the very lips of the men responsible for creating policy.

‘Pressed into silence by all this weighty discourse, Miss Neville?' a voice at her elbow enquired.

She whirled around to find herself facing the young man who'd nearly stared her out of countenance at the dinner table.
From Lady Parnell's whispered commentary before dinner, she recalled that he was a cousin to Trowbridge.

‘Not at all, Mr Hillyard. I found the discussions fascinating.'

‘Ah. You've passed the test, then.'

‘Test?'

‘If you want to retain Lucien's favour, you must be up to snuff in the political arena. From what I saw at dinner, you performed brilliantly. Trowbridge was certainly watching you like an Oxford don with his prize pupil. I must confess, I was impressed myself. Seldom do I find a chit worthy of the hyperbole when I hear some new nonpareil praised to the skies. In this case, you may deserve the accolades.'

Some ‘new nonpareil'—did he mean
her
? Amanda frowned, not sure she liked being discussed in such irreverent terms. Were the gentleman not related to her hostess, she'd give him a sharp set-down, but since that was impossible, she said coolly, ‘I'd prefer the “weighty discourse”, if you please.'

Hillyard merely laughed. ‘Most young ladies would be thrilled to have set the
ton
buzzing even before their first appearance at a society ball. I predict the speculation will increase even more after your attendance at dinner tonight. Poised and intelligent, as well as beautiful and well dowered? I might have to enter the lists myself.'

‘Please don't go to any unaccustomed trouble,' she flashed back, wishing he would leave and skirting as close to insult as she dared.

‘Ah, a razor wit as well—better still. But you needn't fear I will plague you. Lucien would never have let his mama invite me if I were considered a contender for your favour. For one, I'm not a marrying man. Even should I be tempted to join the fray, Lady Parnell would never countenance your dallying with a man of my inadequate funds and…
scandalous
reputation.'

Was he trying to shock her with his unsettling conversation,
as he'd tried to rattle her by staring at her during dinner? Torn between anger and exasperation, she said, ‘I might be only a simple country miss, but even I know Lady Ravensfell would not have invited a man who was truly a rogue.'