Chapter One #2
“I’m afraid I don’t completely follow what you are saying.”
Beresford frowned. “I forget sometimes that ladies are not so conversant in the ways life is created.”
“No, not that. Although…”
“You see, I would not be able to consummate a marriage to a woman. Well, I probably could, but I do not wish to. Also it would not be fair to Waring.”
“You love him.”
“I care for him a great deal. We have an arrangement. I do not wish to break promises I have made to him. I know that may be difficult to understand—”
“No, I believe I do understand you, Anthony.”
He nodded. “We are at Christian names, then?”
“We were friends as children.” She sighed. “But what are you suggesting? That I enter a ton marriage where we dispense with the creation of heirs quickly and then lead a life separate from my husband?”
“I mean… yes. That seems ideal, no?”
“Would I not be then occupied by the rearing of said heirs?”
“Would you? You could hire nannies and governesses, no? Assuming you found a lord on steady enough financial ground. I barely saw my mother as a child. It is partly why I resent her intrusion in my life so much now.”
“Anthony.” Grace found Anthony’s embellished way of speaking charming but also frustrating.
They were talking around the issue, at any rate.
Grace understood what he was suggesting—for her to find another man willing to marry her and leave her in the country—although the real issue for Grace was that she had no idea how to do that.
Anthony was looking off at something in the distance and clearly not giving her his direct attention. “Or don’t have children. It’s not my business.”
“In other words, the solution to all my problems is to entrap some poor gentleman into a loveless marriage.”
Beresford grinned. “That’s all. Shouldn’t be too hard.
Such marriages are prolific in the ton. Maybe you could find a chap who can be found frequently occupying his seat in the House of Lords so that he would be obligated to be in the city often and you can do whatever it is people do in the country. ”
The door of the card room down the hall opened and a couple of gentlemen tumbled out. Grace recognized them as Baron Fowler and the Earl of Caernarfon.
Fletcher Basildon, Baron Fowler, looked a little goofy these days, his hair overlong and covering his eyes, his cravats always askew.
But Owen Thomas, the Earl of Caernarfon, was certainly handsome.
He had dark brown hair, intelligent eyes, and a strong, athletic body.
Grace didn’t know him well but had always liked the look of him. He smiled at her and Beresford now.
“How are you gents?” asked Beresford. “Did Rutherford clean you out?”
Caernarfon scoffed. “Hardly.”
“Rutherford has a tell,” Fowler explained. “Scratches his nose when he’s bluffing.”
“Hello, Lady Grace,” said Caernarfon jovially. He dipped his head slightly, so she offered her hand to be kissed. The brush of his lips against her knuckles was barely there, particularly through her gloves, but it was exciting all the same as he peered up at her through his dark eyelashes.
“Hello, my lord.”
“Perhaps you will do me the honor of dancing with me,” he said, a bit of brogue in his Welsh accent. “We promised the Duchess of Swynford we would not spend the entire evening at cards, so we must rejoin the crush.”
“I’d be happy to oblige, my lord,” said Grace.
A wry expression crossed Beresford’s face and he offered Grace a crooked smile before turning to Caernarfon and saying, “I am surprised both of you are here. You have been avoiding the marriage mart, haven’t you?”
Fowler sighed. “My mother has got that look in her eye. She bullied me into it. I blame Swynford.”
Grace stifled a laugh. The Duke of Swynford had entered into a scandalous marriage the year before, with a woman from a family of dubious repute, and all society seemed to care about was that a duke had been taken off the market.
By all accounts, it was a love match, and Grace did not begrudge them their happiness, although she supposed they did serve as an example to Swynford’s friends.
Caernarfon grinned. “I shall take the lovely Lady Grace on a swift loop around the ballroom and tell my mother I tried to charm her, but she could not be charmed.”
“I am standing right here,” said Grace. “I am onto your scheme now.”
“Indeed.” Caernarfon held out his arm.
So, with one last look back at Beresford—who shrugged—Grace let Caernarfon lead her into the ballroom.
*
As a waltz began, Owen took Grace Midwood into his arms and stepped into the dance. He looked around, trying to make sure people were looking.
The only family Owen had, other than his mother, was his married sister, and she was tucked away with her husband at their British country estate. He felt no particular pressure to marry, but he wanted to go through the motions to keep the ladies of the ton away.
Grace was pretty. Well, more than pretty.
She had a round face with cheeks that went rosy when she smiled, which she did a lot of the time.
Her curly blond hair, currently arranged neatly around the crown of her head, took on reddish hues in the right lighting that reminded him of the lick of a flame.
She wore an emerald green gown now that hugged her bosom in a tremendously appealing way and skimmed down the rest of her body, implying a tantalizingly curvy figure.
So, yes, fine, Owen found Grace very attractive.
But now was not the time for him to be entranced by a woman.
Upon his father’s death, Owen had taken his seat in the House of Lords, and the country currently seemed under assault.
Well, perhaps not literally; the wars with Napoleon had ended, after all.
But now angry textile workers were protesting being replaced by machines by destroying those same machines, and many in Parliament worried a workers’ uprising was inevitable.
Whether the uprising was containable or whether it would become a fully armed insurrection was an open question.
Owen was not entirely sure Parliament could do much, but he felt his place was in his seat.
He preferred London to his home in Wales anyway.
“You seem to have much on your mind, my lord,” said Grace.
“Please call me Owen. And yes, just a spot of bother I am thinking about. Government business, you see.”
“Ah, yes, I’ve heard you have taken up your seat in Parliament.”
“I never intended to, but then my father left us, so I decided to try it, and it turns out I am well-suited to the work.”
They danced together silently for a moment, and Owen became acutely aware of the woman in his arms. She smelled vaguely of roses and citrus, her blond hair was like sunshine, and though he could feel through her gown that she wore stays that likely manufactured some of her curves, there were some things one could not fake.
He had a few inches on her height, and her bosom pressed tantalizingly against him as they danced.
She had a light step as well, masterfully keeping pace with the music while letting him lead her around the floor.
Owen had no interest in marrying, and thus had no interest in a young miss such as Grace Midwood.
Oh, why could she not be a widow? If she’d been a more experienced woman, he would have bent his head and whispered something altogether inappropriate, she would have giggled, and then he would have escorted her to a more private location.
Lord, what was he even thinking?
The waltz ended, but Owen was, for reasons he could not quite articulate, reluctant to let Lady Grace leave his side. He held up his arm and said, “Can I find you a refreshment?”
She tilted her head as if she did not understand his meaning and said, “All right.”
They traversed the ballroom slowly, the crush of people blocking much of their path. “How do you know Beresford?” he asked.
“We were betrothed as children. Our fathers were schoolmates.”
That brought him up short. “You and Beresford are betrothed?”
“In name only. Neither of us wishes to follow through with the betrothal, and in truth, until a few weeks ago, I thought nearly everyone had forgotten about it.”
Well, that made a certain amount of sense.
“I have gotten to know Beresford some in the last year and can guess at his reasons for not wanting to marry, but I am curious about yours. Beresford is handsome, no? His costume is somewhat ridiculous, if you ask me, but he is rather wealthy. I’m sure many women desire him. ”
“He loves another.”
Owen nodded. He had long suspected that Beresford had been carrying on an affair with Lark, the Earl of Waring; they weren’t very subtle, though neither had confessed aloud to Owen, who was still not entirely sure what to make of it.
“When Beresford came upon us, I was telling my friend, Lady Penelope, that I do not wish to marry because…”
It was rare to encounter a woman who did not wish to secure her own future through marriage, and Owen found he was curious about Lady Grace. “You have piqued my curiosity. Please tell me your reasoning.”
Grace frowned. “Well, if you must know, I am an artist. I also hate the city. If I had unlimited means, I’d move to a home in the country where I could have an artist’s studio and where the pollution and noise from the city would not bother me.
Did you know that the dirt and soot in London can affect the purity of clay? ”
“You are a sculptor, then?”
“Of a sort, yes.”
Owen wanted to pursue that, but they’d arrived at the refreshments table, so he procured her a glass of lemonade, from which she took a dainty sip.
“I have considered marrying my betrothed anyway. Leave him to his affairs in town while I manage his home in the country, but he will not allow it. He says I deserve a true marriage.”
“Aye, you do.”