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turned their backs on Papa, she had little care for Society’s dictates.
Although the dancers were assembling, the baron did not move, but continued to gaze at her, a half smile on his finely sculpted lips.
She nodded toward the dance floor. “Shall we?”
He cleared his throat. “Yes, of course.” As he led her to the floor, the smile that lit his entire face gave him a charmingly youthful appearance.
Now a giddy feeling stirred within Catherine, but she forced herself to remember why she was here. This man—she would not think of him as a gentleman—was not some innocent, harmless soul. He was responsible for the destruction of her family. Even now, Mama, Lucien and Isabella lived under the constant threat of being thrown out of Mama’s ancestral home, all the while suffering the indignities heaped upon the relatives of a suspected traitor and assassin.
With great difficulty, Catherine forced her mind to the present, forced her hand to relax in Lord Winston’s gentle grasp as they joined other guests for a country dance. At the end of the line, he released her to stand opposite with the other ladies as more couples continued to join them. The music began, and the couple at the top of the line set out on a lively pattern of steps, weaving in and out of the lines as they moved from one end to the other.
During the dance, conversation with the baron was impossible, for everyone had to pay attention to their own movements. So Catherine spoke with her eyes. Not as the silly, simpering girls flirted outrageously with their targeted gentlemen, but with shy glances and half smiles, as if she were thanking him for his gallant rescue. She could not fail to notice that his returning glances held a surprising amount of kindness.
Again she thrust away such generous thoughts. This afternoon she had seen his true heart as they fenced. In the fierce glare in his gray-green eyes, she could see that he would gladly have killed her in a real duel, just as he had, in effect, murdered Papa’s reputation. Now she would use his obvious admiration to win his affection while she searched out the secrets that would destroy him and acquit Papa.
A nagging memory surfaced. When she was a child, her governess had read her wonderful stories of heroic people in the Old Testament. While she had always imagined herself a Ruth or a Deborah, this evening the only biblical woman who came to mind was the temptress Delilah, who wheedled from Samson his deepest secret so his enemies could defeat him. For the first time in her life, she wondered whether Delilah’s actions had actually been justified.
* * *
Winston did not much care for dancing, but the exercise was a necessary evil for social, and therefore political, purposes. Yet for the first time in his life, he was enjoying a dance. Miss Hart kept glancing at him in the most charming way, her lovely dark brown eyes twinkling in the ballroom’s bright candlelight. Soon it was their turn to wend their way down the line, threading in and out between the other dancers. Once they successfully reached the bottom, she offered him a triumphant smirk, and he returned a little bow. Perhaps he should reconsider this matter of dancing.
Still, the set lasted far too long. He was eager to become better acquainted with her and discover her family connections. Upon further thought, he considered that as Lady Blakemore’s companion, no doubt she was an impoverished lady of good family. No lady hired a companion of inferior birth, for such a woman would not be permitted into the drawing rooms of the aristocracy. Once Winston discovered Miss Hart’s pedigree, he would know whether or not to launch a pursuit.
At last the music ended, and the guests applauded, then proceeded to the dining room two by two in order of precedence, led by the marchioness on the arm of a duke.
Winston bowed to his partner. “Miss Hart, I consider myself the most fortunate of men that you will be my dinner companion this evening.” He was not experienced in flattery, but apparently he had chosen the right words, if the lady’s smile and blush of pleasure were any indication.
“I thank you, sir.” She took his offered arm, but winced slightly when he placed his hand over her gloved one.
He quickly withdrew. “Forgive me. Did I cause you pain?”
Her eyes widened briefly, then she leaned close to him and whispered soberly, “If you promise not to tell anyone, I will confess that I was cruelly wounded today.”
“What?” Winston stopped abruptly, staring down at her as rage rose in his chest. “Who would dare to harm you?” This called for swift and severe punishment. “You must permit me to call upon this person to account for his actions.”
Now she laughed. “Do you like cats, Lord Winston?”
For a moment, he could not grasp her meaning. Then understanding dispelled his anger. “Ah, I see. You encountered a disagreeable feline.”
She tilted her head and smiled. Great mercy, she did have a striking smile. What would it be like to see that beautiful expression every day of his life?
No, it was far too soon for such thoughts. He must not be drawn in by mere looks, which he often speculated had been Father’s undoing when he wed Mother. He cleared his throat. “To answer your question—” he resumed walking, and she easily followed his lead, as if they had often walked together “—yes, I do like cats.” His moment of enjoyment was cut short by a worrisome thought. “I am certain you are aware that cat scratches can lead to serious illness. Did you treat the injury?”
Again, her eyes widened, and she looked away with a frown. “Oh, yes.” Another glance, another smile, and his heart tripped. “Do let us forget it.”
He would be pleased to offer his physician’s services to examine the wound, but that would suggest that Lady Blakemore had neglected her companion’s health. “As you wish, Miss Hart.”
They descended the wide, elegant staircase to the vast second-floor dining hall. Once there, and hoping to find two empty chairs near someone of influence in the diplomatic corps, Winston searched around the long table.
“May I assist you, milord?” A footman in red livery extended a gloved hand toward two vacant places.
“Will this suit you, Miss Hart?” Winston noticed the vibrant curiosity in her dark eyes. Perhaps this was her first formal outing with Lady Blakemore. And perhaps for just this one evening, he could forget his ambitions and do all in his power to ensure a pleasant experience for the lady at his side.
“Oh, yes. I thank you.” She smiled at the footman who was pulling out her chair.
Winston made a mental note to explain to her that she need not acknowledge the footman. The best servants were those who received their orders and performed their duties as if almost invisible. Acknowledgments often embarrassed them. But such schooling would come later, should there be a later for himself and the young lady.
In the next chair, Lord Rettig lounged, goblet in hand, but offered them only a brief glance before sipping his wine.
Warmth crept up Winston’s neck. Like him, Rettig was a baron, one with no special distinctions that qualified him to give his equals the cut. Before the footman could finish pulling the chair out for Miss Hart, Winston held up his hand to stop him so that he might test the waters.
“Miss Hart, may I present Lord Rettig.” If the baron did not rise for the introduction, he would instruct the footman to find them another place.
Rettig did not rise. He merely looked the lady up and down through his quizzing glass—a despicable practice meant to put inferiors in their places—and yawned.
“Ah, yes. Lady Blakemore’s...companion.” His tone dripped with disdain, and his lips curled into an arrogant sneer. He turned decidedly away to his own supper partner, a lady Winston did not know. Nor was an introduction forthcoming.
Winston fisted his hands at his side, longing to strike that sneer from Rettig’s face. But Father’s scriptural admonition echoed in his mind. Be slow to wrath, my son. For the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God. He took a quiet, deep breath and addressed the footman. “I think we would prefer—” He surveyed the table