He nodded, feeling a protective tenderness for this proud, prickly woman. They strolled in silence for a moment, the crowd surging around them, but making no contact. It was as if they were strangely apart. Griffin inclined his head to one or two people as they met, but he kept walking, forestalling conversation.
“Perhaps you’re right,” she said after a bit. “Marriage with love between the partners is surely the ideal.”
“Then why settle for less?”
“Love may grow between a husband and a wife after marriage.”
“It also may not grow.”
She shrugged, looking pensive. “All marriages are gambles of a sort. One tries to even the odds by choosing wisely—a man who is well liked, comes from a good family, and is kind.”
“And the Readings do have a lack of madness in the family that is somewhat refreshing in aristocratic lineages,” he murmured.
She wrinkled her nose up at him. “Would you rather I marry into a family with a history of madness?”
“No, of course not.” He frowned, trying to articulate why her rather cold-blooded decision to marry his brother bothered him. Lord knew he wasn’t worried about Thomas’s heart. “You said yourself that a love match is ideal. Why not wait to make one?”
“I have waited. I’ve been out for over six years.”
“You’ve been looking for true love all this time?”
“Maybe.” She shrugged, obviously irritated. “Or something like true love. Besides, how long would you have me wait? Months? Years? I’m four and twenty. I have an obligation to marry and marry well. I cannot wait forever.”
“An obligation.” The words were sour on his tongue, though the thought wasn’t new. Didn’t all ladies of her rank have an “obligation” to make a good match?
She shook her head. “What if I met my true love at sixty? What if I never meet him? There is no guarantee that I will. Would you have me remain a spinster on some faint hope?”
He glanced at her curiously. “You believe that you do have one true love?”
“Perhaps not one true love, but someone, surely. I think… yes, I think that we are each certainly capable of falling in love—perhaps deeply in love—and that somewhere out there is a person who will reciprocate that love.” She wrinkled her nose, suddenly looking self-conscious. “You no doubt find talk of true love foolish.”
“Not at all. I do know romantic love is real. I’ve seen it, after all.”
“And do you think a rake such as you could fall madly, deeply in love with one woman?” Her words were meant to mock, but her tone was serious.
He shrugged. “Perhaps, though it sounds a deucedly uncomfortable state to find oneself in.”
“Then you’ve never been in love?”
“Never.”
She nodded. “Nor have I.”
“A pity,” he said, pursing his lips. “I wonder how it would feel? To be swept away by a grand passion? To give everything for only one person in the world?”
Her lips curved wryly. “So idealistic for a rake. Really, you do spoil my prior understanding of what the word entailed.”
“This is my social face,” he said lightly. “Don’t confuse it with the animal beneath.”
She looked at him searchingly for a moment before nodding as if coming to a conclusion. “I’m hardly likely to do that considering how I first found you.”
He smiled to cover a twinge of disappointment.
“But if you’re so idealistic, my lord,” she said, “about the connubial state, then why aren’t you happily married with a score or more of offspring?”
“I’m idealistic about love, my lady, not marriage. To be tied to one lady for the rest of my life, surrounded by small, grubby urchins?” He shuddered in mock horror. “No, I shall gladly cede the matrimonial state and all its attendant duties to my brother.”
“And if you do one day find yourself in love?” she asked softly. “What then, my lord?”
“Why, then, all shall be lost, my lady. A rake’s life crumbled to ruins, a splendid specimen of the bachelor state brought low by the bonds of matrimony and a delicate hand. But”—he lifted an admonishing finger—“that is, as you yourself have pointed out, very, very unlikely. My one true love may be a lady living in farthest China. She might be a crone of ninety or a babe of two. I may never meet her in this lifetime, and I thank God in advance for that fact.”
He’d teased a slight smile onto those soft lips, and his heart beat faster at the sight. A smile—a genuine smile—from this woman was like total nudity from another. And what a very odd thought that was.
“Why, my lord?”
“Because”—he bent so close that his breath moved a wayward red curl by her ear—“while I may be far from perfect in your eyes, I do assure you that my life is perfect as it is. I enjoy my rakish ways, my freedom, and my ability to, er, dally with as many ladies as I might want. For me, true love would be a complete and utter catastrophe.”
HERO STARED UP into Reading’s roguish light green eyes. He’d used a euphemism instead of the crudity he’d employed in the sitting room, but his words were no less shocking because of that.
She swallowed, imagining a legion of ladies sprawled across his bed, his well-muscled buttocks thrusting in that mesmerizingly rhythmic movement. Dear Lord, she should be offended at the vision, but instead she wanted to press her palms to her cheeks to cool the heat rising there. She watched as Reading’s eyelids drooped and his wide mouth opened to say something that would no doubt scandalize her even more.
Fortunately, they were interrupted.
“Might I have my fiancée back?” Mandeville said in a voice that was a little too hard-edged to be jovial.
The teasing gleam left Reading’s eyes, taking with it any softness in his face. What remained was an expressionless and rather daunting mask. Without his habitual humor, Reading might have been the type of man others followed into near-hopeless battle: a leader of men, a statesman, a visionary.
What a very odd thought to have about an admitted rake!
Hero blinked and realized that Mandeville was offering his arm. “My dear?”
She smiled, dropping a curtsy for Reading before taking her fiancé’s arm.
Reading swept into a bow so extravagant it verged on mocking. “My congratulations to you, Thomas, on your engagement. Lady Hero.”
He nodded rather more curtly to her and then turned to disappear into the crowd.
Hero let out a breath she did not know she was holding.
“I hope he wasn’t too trying,” Mandeville murmured as he led her toward the dance floor.
“Not at all,” she said, nodding to a passing matron.
She felt more than saw his sharp look. “Some ladies find him very enticing.” His tone was so neutral it might as well have been a warning shout.
“I’m sure they do,” she said gently. “The hint of danger and that wicked grin no doubt have many a feminine breast aflutter. But I’ve always found a man who knows his responsibilities and keeps them far more attractive than one who spends his life playing.”
The arm beneath her hand relaxed fractionally. “Thank you, my dear.”
“For what?”
“For seeing so clearly what others do not,” he said. “Now, would you care to dance with your betrothed?”
She smiled up at him, liking how the lines about his brown eyes crinkled when he looked at her. “I’d be delighted.”
They danced a minuet and a country dance, and then Hero professed herself in need of refreshment. Mandeville led her to several chairs arranged by the side of the room and found her a seat before going in search of punch.
Hero watched him thread his way through the crowd, admiring his wide shoulders and firm stride. As always, he was stopped every few feet by well-wishers and those who merely wanted to be seen talking to the Marquess of Mandeville. She sighed, content. Really, Maximus had made the perfect choice of husband for her.
“There you are!”
Bathilda Picklewood—or, as she was better known in the Batten household, Cousin Bathilda—settled her substantial frame into a chair next to Hero. A distant relation on her mother’s side, Cousin Bathilda had raised Hero and her younger sister, Phoebe, ever since the death of their parents. Cousin Bathilda’s white hair was crimped into tiny curls about her forehead and was topped by a lacy triangular cap. She wore her favorite plum color, and her magnificent bosom was framed by white lace and black ribbons. From the crook of her arm peered a small black, brown, and white face. Mignon, Cousin Bathilda’s tiny, elderly spaniel, accompanied her wherever she went.
“My dear, I must talk to you!”
Since Cousin Bathilda nearly always spoke in exclamations, Hero merely raised her eyebrows. “Yes?”
“You mustn’t dance with Lord Griffin Reading ever again!” Cousin Bathilda said with as much urgency as if she were importing state secrets. Mignon barked once as if to emphasize her mistress’s words.
“Why not?”
“Because he and Lord Mandeville loathe each other.”
“Hmm,” Hero murmured, absently scratching Mignon behind her silky ears. “I had noticed a certain strain between them, but I don’t know if I would go so far as to call it loathing. Perhaps a general dislike…”
“It’s much, much worse than dislike, my dear! Don’t you understand?” Cousin Bathilda lowered her voice to a whisper. “Lord Griffin seduced Mandeville’s first wife!”
Chapter Three
Far below the queen’s balcony lay the royal stables. There, the little brown bird would come to roost at night after it had tired of flying. Early every morning, the stable master personally groomed the queen’s favorite mare. As he curried the horse’s chestnut coat, the little bird would sing above him in the stable rafters. And sometimes if the stable master listened hard enough, the bird seemed to be singing these words:
“High, high on the castle walls
A sweet lady weeps alone at night.
Oh, will no one comfort her?…”
—from Queen Ravenhair
It was times like this that being an unmarried lady was particularly galling, Hero thought later that night as she and Cousin Bathilda rode home in the carriage.
“Why couldn’t anyone have told me about the scandal involving Mandeville’s first wife?” she demanded.
“It wasn’t a proper topic of conversation for a maiden.” Cousin Bathilda waved a vague arm, nearly clipping Mignon’s nose where it peeked out from her lap. “Seduction and affairs and all that. Besides, how was I to know that you’d go off and dance with the man as soon as you met him?”
“He asked me in front of Maximus,” Hero said for the third or possibly the fourth time. “Mandeville gave his permission!”
“Couldn’t very well have done otherwise, could he?” Cousin Bathilda replied with irritating logic. “Well, what’s done is done. You’ll just have to be more careful in the future.”
“But why?” Hero asked rebelliously. “You don’t seriously think I’d let myself be seduced by a rake, do you?”
“Of course not!” Cousin Bathilda sounded scandalized at the mere notion. “But everyone will be watching you closely when the man is anywhere near you.”
“It’s not fair. I haven’t done anything wrong.” Hero crossed her arms on her chest. “How do we know Lord Griffin seduced Mandeville’s wife anyway? Perhaps it’s just a nasty rumor.”
“Well, if it’s a rumor, Mandeville certainly believes it,” Cousin Bathilda said. “Do you remember the first Lady Mandeville?”
dded, feeling a protective tenderness for this proud, prickly woman. They strolled in silence for a moment, the crowd surging around them, but making no contact. It was as if they were strangely apart. Griffin inclined his head to one or two people as they met, but he kept walking, forestalling conversation.
“Perhaps you’re right,” she said after a bit. “Marriage with love between the partners is surely the ideal.”
“Then why settle for less?”
“Love may grow between a husband and a wife after marriage.”
“It also may not grow.”
She shrugged, looking pensive. “All marriages are gambles of a sort. One tries to even the odds by choosing wisely—a man who is well liked, comes from a good family, and is kind.”
“And the Readings do have a lack of madness in the family that is somewhat refreshing in aristocratic lineages,” he murmured.
She wrinkled her nose up at him. “Would you rather I marry into a family with a history of madness?”
“No, of course not.” He frowned, trying to articulate why her rather cold-blooded decision to marry his brother bothered him. Lord knew he wasn’t worried about Thomas’s heart. “You said yourself that a love match is ideal. Why not wait to make one?”
“I have waited. I’ve been out for over six years.”
“You’ve been looking for true love all this time?”
“Maybe.” She shrugged, obviously irritated. “Or something like true love. Besides, how long would you have me wait? Months? Years? I’m four and twenty. I have an obligation to marry and marry well. I cannot wait forever.”
“An obligation.” The words were sour on his tongue, though the thought wasn’t new. Didn’t all ladies of her rank have an “obligation” to make a good match?
She shook her head. “What if I met my true love at sixty? What if I never meet him? There is no guarantee that I will. Would you have me remain a spinster on some faint hope?”
He glanced at her curiously. “You believe that you do have one true love?”
“Perhaps not one true love, but someone, surely. I think… yes, I think that we are each certainly capable of falling in love—perhaps deeply in love—and that somewhere out there is a person who will reciprocate that love.” She wrinkled her nose, suddenly looking self-conscious. “You no doubt find talk of true love foolish.”
“Not at all. I do know romantic love is real. I’ve seen it, after all.”
“And do you think a rake such as you could fall madly, deeply in love with one woman?” Her words were meant to mock, but her tone was serious.
He shrugged. “Perhaps, though it sounds a deucedly uncomfortable state to find oneself in.”
“Then you’ve never been in love?”
“Never.”
She nodded. “Nor have I.”
“A pity,” he said, pursing his lips. “I wonder how it would feel? To be swept away by a grand passion? To give everything for only one person in the world?”
Her lips curved wryly. “So idealistic for a rake. Really, you do spoil my prior understanding of what the word entailed.”
“This is my social face,” he said lightly. “Don’t confuse it with the animal beneath.”
She looked at him searchingly for a moment before nodding as if coming to a conclusion. “I’m hardly likely to do that considering how I first found you.”
He smiled to cover a twinge of disappointment.
“But if you’re so idealistic, my lord,” she said, “about the connubial state, then why aren’t you happily married with a score or more of offspring?”
“I’m idealistic about love, my lady, not marriage. To be tied to one lady for the rest of my life, surrounded by small, grubby urchins?” He shuddered in mock horror. “No, I shall gladly cede the matrimonial state and all its attendant duties to my brother.”
“And if you do one day find yourself in love?” she asked softly. “What then, my lord?”
“Why, then, all shall be lost, my lady. A rake’s life crumbled to ruins, a splendid specimen of the bachelor state brought low by the bonds of matrimony and a delicate hand. But”—he lifted an admonishing finger—“that is, as you yourself have pointed out, very, very unlikely. My one true love may be a lady living in farthest China. She might be a crone of ninety or a babe of two. I may never meet her in this lifetime, and I thank God in advance for that fact.”
He’d teased a slight smile onto those soft lips, and his heart beat faster at the sight. A smile—a genuine smile—from this woman was like total nudity from another. And what a very odd thought that was.
“Why, my lord?”
“Because”—he bent so close that his breath moved a wayward red curl by her ear—“while I may be far from perfect in your eyes, I do assure you that my life is perfect as it is. I enjoy my rakish ways, my freedom, and my ability to, er, dally with as many ladies as I might want. For me, true love would be a complete and utter catastrophe.”
HERO STARED UP into Reading’s roguish light green eyes. He’d used a euphemism instead of the crudity he’d employed in the sitting room, but his words were no less shocking because of that.
She swallowed, imagining a legion of ladies sprawled across his bed, his well-muscled buttocks thrusting in that mesmerizingly rhythmic movement. Dear Lord, she should be offended at the vision, but instead she wanted to press her palms to her cheeks to cool the heat rising there. She watched as Reading’s eyelids drooped and his wide mouth opened to say something that would no doubt scandalize her even more.
Fortunately, they were interrupted.
“Might I have my fiancée back?” Mandeville said in a voice that was a little too hard-edged to be jovial.
The teasing gleam left Reading’s eyes, taking with it any softness in his face. What remained was an expressionless and rather daunting mask. Without his habitual humor, Reading might have been the type of man others followed into near-hopeless battle: a leader of men, a statesman, a visionary.
What a very odd thought to have about an admitted rake!
Hero blinked and realized that Mandeville was offering his arm. “My dear?”
She smiled, dropping a curtsy for Reading before taking her fiancé’s arm.
Reading swept into a bow so extravagant it verged on mocking. “My congratulations to you, Thomas, on your engagement. Lady Hero.”
He nodded rather more curtly to her and then turned to disappear into the crowd.
Hero let out a breath she did not know she was holding.
“I hope he wasn’t too trying,” Mandeville murmured as he led her toward the dance floor.
“Not at all,” she said, nodding to a passing matron.
She felt more than saw his sharp look. “Some ladies find him very enticing.” His tone was so neutral it might as well have been a warning shout.
“I’m sure they do,” she said gently. “The hint of danger and that wicked grin no doubt have many a feminine breast aflutter. But I’ve always found a man who knows his responsibilities and keeps them far more attractive than one who spends his life playing.”
The arm beneath her hand relaxed fractionally. “Thank you, my dear.”
“For what?”
“For seeing so clearly what others do not,” he said. “Now, would you care to dance with your betrothed?”
She smiled up at him, liking how the lines about his brown eyes crinkled when he looked at her. “I’d be delighted.”
They danced a minuet and a country dance, and then Hero professed herself in need of refreshment. Mandeville led her to several chairs arranged by the side of the room and found her a seat before going in search of punch.
Hero watched him thread his way through the crowd, admiring his wide shoulders and firm stride. As always, he was stopped every few feet by well-wishers and those who merely wanted to be seen talking to the Marquess of Mandeville. She sighed, content. Really, Maximus had made the perfect choice of husband for her.
“There you are!”
Bathilda Picklewood—or, as she was better known in the Batten household, Cousin Bathilda—settled her substantial frame into a chair next to Hero. A distant relation on her mother’s side, Cousin Bathilda had raised Hero and her younger sister, Phoebe, ever since the death of their parents. Cousin Bathilda’s white hair was crimped into tiny curls about her forehead and was topped by a lacy triangular cap. She wore her favorite plum color, and her magnificent bosom was framed by white lace and black ribbons. From the crook of her arm peered a small black, brown, and white face. Mignon, Cousin Bathilda’s tiny, elderly spaniel, accompanied her wherever she went.
“My dear, I must talk to you!”
Since Cousin Bathilda nearly always spoke in exclamations, Hero merely raised her eyebrows. “Yes?”
“You mustn’t dance with Lord Griffin Reading ever again!” Cousin Bathilda said with as much urgency as if she were importing state secrets. Mignon barked once as if to emphasize her mistress’s words.
“Why not?”
“Because he and Lord Mandeville loathe each other.”
“Hmm,” Hero murmured, absently scratching Mignon behind her silky ears. “I had noticed a certain strain between them, but I don’t know if I would go so far as to call it loathing. Perhaps a general dislike…”
“It’s much, much worse than dislike, my dear! Don’t you understand?” Cousin Bathilda lowered her voice to a whisper. “Lord Griffin seduced Mandeville’s first wife!”
Chapter Three
Far below the queen’s balcony lay the royal stables. There, the little brown bird would come to roost at night after it had tired of flying. Early every morning, the stable master personally groomed the queen’s favorite mare. As he curried the horse’s chestnut coat, the little bird would sing above him in the stable rafters. And sometimes if the stable master listened hard enough, the bird seemed to be singing these words:
“High, high on the castle walls
A sweet lady weeps alone at night.
Oh, will no one comfort her?…”
—from Queen Ravenhair
It was times like this that being an unmarried lady was particularly galling, Hero thought later that night as she and Cousin Bathilda rode home in the carriage.
“Why couldn’t anyone have told me about the scandal involving Mandeville’s first wife?” she demanded.
“It wasn’t a proper topic of conversation for a maiden.” Cousin Bathilda waved a vague arm, nearly clipping Mignon’s nose where it peeked out from her lap. “Seduction and affairs and all that. Besides, how was I to know that you’d go off and dance with the man as soon as you met him?”
“He asked me in front of Maximus,” Hero said for the third or possibly the fourth time. “Mandeville gave his permission!”
“Couldn’t very well have done otherwise, could he?” Cousin Bathilda replied with irritating logic. “Well, what’s done is done. You’ll just have to be more careful in the future.”
“But why?” Hero asked rebelliously. “You don’t seriously think I’d let myself be seduced by a rake, do you?”
“Of course not!” Cousin Bathilda sounded scandalized at the mere notion. “But everyone will be watching you closely when the man is anywhere near you.”
“It’s not fair. I haven’t done anything wrong.” Hero crossed her arms on her chest. “How do we know Lord Griffin seduced Mandeville’s wife anyway? Perhaps it’s just a nasty rumor.”
“Well, if it’s a rumor, Mandeville certainly believes it,” Cousin Bathilda said. “Do you remember the first Lady Mandeville?”