Chapter 1 #2
Games within games were being played. Though inexperienced in Society, I knew that feminine wiles had a feline quality. Ladies moved gracefully around on soft little cat paws, purring quietly until the moment when they saw an opportunity to unsheathe their claws.
Alas, my temperament was not one of subtlety. No wonder I preferred the company of men.
To his credit, Thornwood didn’t shy away from my request. We spent a pleasant interlude discussing the merits of the entries in the prestigious Plate race as well as their jockeys—his knowledge was impressive—before one of his cronies beckoned for him to join a discussion on politics and the latest measures my uncle was seeking to push through Parliament.
For an instant, I was tempted to follow.
I far preferred talking about politics with the gentlemen to joining the ladies in their pea-brained chatter on the latest fashions for flounces and furbelows.
However, I recognized the group as prominent Whigs and decided that we would only end up in a shouting match.
And naturally, I would be the only one accused of scandalous behavior. Unfair, but that was the way of the world. A lady had few weapons with which to fight back. Especially as our hands were, metaphorically speaking, tied behind our backs.
I handed my empty goblet to one of the footmen serving champagne and took up a full one before wandering into one of the side salons in search of my uncle, who had kindly offered to chaperone me for the evening despite his less than cordial relationship with Fox and the Devonshire crowd.
I smiled. Despite all the pressure of his political office, my uncle had been remarkably supportive of me and my sister, and our desire to partake in the normal pleasures of aristocratic Society.
I think that my youngest sister’s elopement had made the Pitt family painfully aware that Griselda and I were past the age when most highborn ladies should have been passed from patriarch to husband.
Marriage was considered an elemental duty for those of our sex—not for our own happiness, of course, which was considered irrelevant, but for the advantage of our family, whether it be for money, joining aristocratic bloodlines, or forming alliances for power and prestige.
My sense was that my uncle felt honorbound to the memory of my mother—his beloved favorite sister—to free us from our father’s tyranny and see that we did not suffer the stigma of sliding into the pitiable state of spinsterhood.
I paused to take a sip of my sparkling wine, listening to the trill of feminine laughter and buzz of masculine voices twining with the clink of crystal and discreet serenade of a string quartet playing Haydn’s Opus 54, No. 1.
The symphony of privilege and pleasure.
The bare flesh on my arms began to prickle.
A quick inhale. The lush tickle of Parisian perfumes filled my nostrils as I looked around me.
The jewel-bright colors of the ladies in their sumptuous gowns punctuated the black-and-white elegance of the gentlemen in their evening attire .
. . Velvet draperies, marble collonading, gilded furnishings—all the sights and sounds were a feast for the senses.
The night was young and there was a thrumming of heady anticipation swirling through the air.
The promise of flirtations and assignations beckoned from the shadows .
. . smiles gleamed in the candlelight, innuendo whispered from the walls .
. . one could almost see the silvery strands undulating through the crowd, weaving a shimmering web .
. . alliances formed, deals brokered, secrets betrayed . . .
A shiver of excitement danced down my spine. In truth, I was in no hurry to shackle myself to a husband. The taste of freedom was sweet on my lips and I wanted to enjoy—
“Hetty.” My uncle came up beside me and offered his arm. “Come sit with me for a bit.” He looked with longing at the small sofa set in an alcove shadowed by a Roman-style plinth topped with a classical urn filled with flowers. “I confess, my foot is aching like the devil.”
Dark smudges accentuated the hollows beneath his eyes, and fatigue had pulled his sallow skin taut over his cheekbones, making the famous Pitt nose look even more prominent.
I felt a stab of guilt. Work was his only mistress—he had never married—and she rode him hard.
His health, always delicate, had suffered of late under the strain of steering the country through difficult times.
Gout caused him much discomfort these days.
And yet, he here was, limping through hostile territory so that I might have an evening of fun.
“You dear, dear man.” I placed my glove on his sleeve and helped him take a seat. “Let me fetch you a glass of port.”
“Port,” he said, “would be most welcome.”
I quickly returned, on impulse bringing along one for myself as well.
Three gentlemen—two prominent aristocrats who were acquaintances of my father and an exquisitely elegant fellow who I did not recognize—had come over to converse with my uncle.
Noting the two glasses in my hands, Pitt thought for an instant, and then smiled.
“Thank you, my dear. You have, I see, anticipated that my thirst won’t be satisfied with just one libation. ”
Clever man. No wonder he was such a good politician. Clearly he sensed what I was planning and was discreetly nudging me to seek safer ground.
But emboldened by the invisible current of high-spirited devilry humming through the gathering—or perhaps it was the two glasses of fizzy wine that I had just drunk—I threw caution to the wind.
“Oh, I shall fetch you a second glass when you have finished the first, Uncle,” I replied with a saucy grin. “As all you gentlemen are so exceedingly fond of port, I would very much like to try it for myself.”
Pitt’s brows arched up a notch but he refrained from comment. His companions did not. A series of inarticulate male huffs and snorts from my father’s two acquaintances, Lord Cullworth and Lord Farnham, articulated their shock.
Though I’m not sure whether the stricture actually appeared in any written set of rules, every lady knew that she was strictly forbidden to drink port.
Indeed, in my admittedly limited experience with the world at large, I had noticed that gentlemen were loath to share a great many interesting things with those of my sex.
Which of course made them all the more alluring. Wearing trousers, riding astride, wielding a cavalry saber . . .
My mental list was interrupted by a low chuckle from Elegance Personified. As I looked up to meet his eyes, he gave me a wink.
“Now see here, Pitt, you must do something!” sputtered Cullworth.
“Indeed?” Pitt took a meditative swallow of his port. “What would you suggest?”
Cullworth’s lordly jaw opened and closed several times in succession but no words came forth.
“This is a very fine vintage, Hester,” added my uncle, cocking a small salute to me with his glass.
Stifling a laugh, I gave the garnet-red fortified wine a taste. Sweet, rich, the velvety port filled my mouth with a myriad of sensations.
All of them delicious.
As I swallowed, allowing the liquid to make a sensuous slide down my throat, Lord Cullworth and Lord Farnham turned and stalked away.
“Trouble,” murmured Elegance Personified, his dark eyes subjecting me to an intense scrutiny.
Unflinching, I met his gaze and lifted my chin.
Another chuckle. Even his low-pitched laugh seemed to fit him to perfection. “Pitt, why is it that I sense your niece is Trouble?”
My uncle hesitated. A careful man, he was known for taking his time to analyze the ramifications before making a decision.
The string quartet was now playing Mozart’s String Quartet No. 20 in D Major.
“Hester,” he said softly, his voice hard to hear over the notes of the violins. “Allow me to introduce you to George Brummell.”