Tempted By His Secret Cinderella. Bronwyn Scott
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this one of a funny-looking gentleman with a long nose, protuberant, froglike eyes and a powdered wig, a toad of a man in demeanour and build, but highly ambitious and resourceful. ‘Randolph Sutton Keynes, my namesake of sorts. His service to King George I earned him this house. It certainly wasn’t his looks.’ He tried for levity and fell short. She was withdrawing and had been since his remark about being an object. He couldn’t blame her. It was hardly the sort of conversation one had with a stranger at a party, nor was it the sort of conversation he was used to having with others. As a rule, he didn’t make a habit of self-disclosing.
‘Forgive me, I’ve made you uncomfortable. I’ve taken terrible advantage of you with my maudlin sentiments.’ He was doing it again. Pouring out his thoughts. ‘It’s just that everything has happened so fast. Last week I could take refuge in my club like any other gentleman. Then the announcement came out and now I can’t step foot anywhere, my club included, without someone approaching me with an introduction, or producing another female to meet.’
What was wrong with him? He blamed it on the dark intimacy of the hallway and the emotions of the week, and her own, welcoming boldness, not that a gentleman should ever take advantage of such a trait. She’d been open with him and he had been open with her in turn. She made him feel as if he could tell her anything. Perhaps it was because she’d made it clear she was not interested in the game of the party. Or perhaps it was because she was a stranger, someone he’d never see again. Maybe, in some way, that made it easier to pour out his heart. He sensed she would never take advantage of that knowledge, never tell another soul. Whereas, if he told anyone else in the ballroom, the news would circulate within minutes. London couldn’t keep a secret if its life depended on it.
‘I don’t mind, truly. You’ve barely had time to grieve your uncle and yet there are expectations that must immediately be managed, regardless.’
Sutton shrugged. ‘I suppose you’re used to managing such things all the time. Tell me, does it get easier? Meeting others’ expectations for you?’
She looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘No, it certainly doesn’t, especially if you want to please everyone. You’re always playing a part, always alone. It’s easy to lose yourself, to forget who you are.’
Just listening to her lifted his burden. She knew. This beautiful woman knew precisely what he carried with him. ‘Until last week, I was content being a country gentleman. I still would be, if the world would allow it.’ What would she think of his camel dairy and his brood mares? Would she laugh at him? Would she find such humble ambition too far beneath her as Anabeth had? Or would she understand because she had quiet ambitions, too, ambitions that she’d laid aside because the world demanded it. He suddenly wanted to know what they were. ‘What would you do if you could do anything? Be anything?’ he asked in a husky whisper, letting the semi-darkness of the gallery weave a spell around them as he watched her gaze soften with thought, as if no one had ever asked her such a thing before. Perhaps no one ever had. Maybe one did not ask princesses such questions. Maybe he didn’t deserve an answer.
At any rate, he wasn’t going to get one. His mother swept into the gallery. ‘There you are! I’ve been looking for you.’ She smiled, but her gaze drifted to Elidh, critical and full of speculation before returning to her son. ‘Dinner has lingered far longer than it should have. Everyone is waiting for a signal from you to start the evening entertainments. Some of the girls have brought their musical instruments to play while we gather in the gardens to visit.’
Sutton met her gaze evenly, silently asserting his authority. ‘I will be along shortly once we’re finished with the gallery.’ It was clear she did not approve of his departure or his reason for it. But he was not a young boy who needed his mother’s approval for every little action.
The Principessa was more congenial. She stepped away from him and smiled at his mother. ‘Ah, an Italian evening, just like at home. How wonderful,’ she effused with good grace. Keynes applauded her for it. Here was a woman would not be intimidated by a man’s mother no matter how strong his mother’s stare. It was a rare woman who did not find his mother overwhelming. ‘I do so enjoy a beautiful summer evening in a garden with strolling minstrels. Excuse me, Mr Keynes. Perhaps we can finish the gallery another time? My father will be wondering where I’ve got to. It was generous of you to devote yourself so singularly to me.’
‘It was my pleasure.’ He bowed as the only pleasure he was likely to have tonight disappeared into the ballroom.
‘I see you’ve met our Italian guest,’ his mother said coolly once the Principessa’s red skirts were out of sight and her ears out of range.
‘She is quite charming...refreshing, even,’ Sutton replied with equal coolness, not pleased with his mother’s interruption. She had chased away the best part of his evening and signalled his return to the hell of the ballroom, to a reality that would be harder to endure now that he’d had a brief slice of heaven for company.
‘Charming? Well, I suppose she’s as charming as a woman in a red dress can be in a room full of pastels,’ she replied archly.
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