Chapter Ten
“Look at the swans!”
Stephen’s heart lifted to hear the delight in Angela’s voice. How might she react to her first ball?
“Do hurry, brother,” she continued. “They’re getting away. Oh, they’re so beautiful!” She let out a squeal of excitement and tugged on his sleeve. “Come on!”
“Angela,” he said, “do you think Mrs. Stowe would approve of your outburst of enthusiasm?”
“She never said anything about not enjoying myself.”
“But I’m sure she’s warned you about the folly of expressing emotions so freely. Like it or not, Society prefers those who restrain themselves.”
“Like you, you mean?” She pursed her lips in a pout. “You never laugh—at least not since you returned from the war. I’d have thought you’d be glad to be back in England.”
“I am.”
“Then why don’t you show it?”
“Angela, just because I don’t smile every waking moment, doesn’t mean I’m happy to be here, with my beloved sister.”
“I suppose I must be content with that.”
“Are you happy here?” he asked.
“Oh, yes!” she said brightly. “And Mrs. Stowe isn’t nearly so staid as you said.”
“Is she kind?”
“You saw her at tea yesterday.”
“But what about when I’m not there? The true test of her character is how she behaves when she’s alone with you.”
Stephen shuddered at the memory of his nursemaid, who used to pinch him before presenting him to his mother and father before bedtime, then make a show of comforting him when he cried. At all costs, Angela wouldn’t suffer as he had.
“She’s perfectly amiable.”
“Are you sure?” he asked. “I’ll not hesitate to dismiss her at the slightest cross word.”
“Dear brother!” Angela laughed. “You’ve nothing to fear. I like Mrs. Stowe. She’s like an older sister, or…”
She hesitated, then looked away, her cheeks flushed a delicate shade of rose.
Or a mother.
Poor Angela. She’d grown up not only lacking a mother’s love, but being subject to Father’s condemnation for her entry into the world having facilitated their mother’s exit from it.
Was it any wonder that the urge to destroy anyone who gave Angela even the merest slight often rendered him unable to draw breath?
But he had to temper his fear, or he’d keep his sister at home under lock and key, safe from predators—the very predators who paraded about Hyde Park in their finery, using their sophistication to corrupt an innocent.
“Mrs. Stowe said something very odd yesterday,” Angela said.
“Which was?”
“She said that to love was to be enslaved. What could she mean by that?”
Doubtless Mrs. Stowe meant that she’d suffered heartbreak.
The late Mr. Stowe had, by all accounts, been a respectable man of means, but if his widow had been reduced to earning a living escorting young women about while she sat in a dark corner subject to the taunts of the likes of Foxton, then she had not benefited from the marriage.
But Angela need not have her eyes opened to the miseries of the world. No, she needed protection from them. And until she’d found a husband to care for her as she deserved, Stephen would devote his life to providing that protection.
“I suspect Mrs. Stowe meant that you must not give your heart too easily,” he said. “And I agree. You must not lose your heart to the first handsome man who pays you a compliment.”
“Oh, no,” she replied. “I intend to have a whole flock of suitors and then take my pick of the best.”
“Then take care not to break their hearts,” he said, giving her hand an affectionate squeeze.
“Have you had your heart broken, brother?”
At that moment, as if Fate played a trick, he spotted Lady Staines arm in arm with her husband, and a small pulse of pain flickered in his heart at the memory of her rejection.
But Lady Staines was not the woman she had once been.
The socially ambitious Juliette Howard was now the serene and blissfully happy countess, having married for love.
“Colonel Reid!” she said, steering her husband toward them. “What a pleasure. And who’s this delightful young lady? Though perhaps I needn’t ask. You’re so alike that she must be your sister.”
Angela gave a shy smile and moved a little closer to Stephen. He placed a protective hand on her shoulder and bowed. “Angela, may I introduce you to Lord and Lady Staines? Lady Staines, this is my sister Angela.”
“The pleasure’s all mine, my dear,” Lady Staines said. “Eleanor! Do come and meet Lady Angela Reid.”
Stephen’s stomach clenched with discomfort. It was awkward enough facing one Howard sister, let alone both of them.
“Duchess,” he said, as the duke and duchess of Whitcombe appeared.
Angela’s grip on his hand tightened. “D-Duchess…” she whispered.
But she had no cause for fear. The duchess’s peculiarly intense emerald gaze flicked over Stephen before settling on his sister.
“Lady Angela,” she said, nodding. “Is this your first Season? Are you out yet? I trust you have a chaperone other than your brother.”
Angela’s eyes widened. The duchess was not known for engaging in social pleasantries. She preferred to speak more directly, often saying what was on everyone else’s mind, but they were too polite to voice.
“I-I am out, Your Grace.”
“Excellent,” the duchess said. “Then I can invite you to our house party at Rosecombe Park. I trust you’ll come.”
“Eleanor, my love,” the duke said in a low voice, and the duchess colored.
“Oh, forgive me—I’ll send you an invitation, of course.
” She turned to Angela. “I hope you’ll come.
There will be pall-mall and archery for the ladies and shooting and fishing for the gentlemen—though if you prefer to fish or shoot, you may do so.
Portia likes to shoot, though she’s promised to teach the other ladies archery. She’s rather good, you know.”
“Lady Portia Hawke?” Stephen said.
“That’s right. We had shooting at our house party last winter, and Portia bested all the gentlemen, didn’t she, my love?” She exchanged a smile with the duke. “What was the name of the fellow you engaged to teach us?”
“Greaves.”
“That was it, Mr. Greaves. Poor Foxton was so incensed at Portia besting him that he threatened to throw Mr. Greaves into the lake.”
Angela, who’d been watching the duchess with wide-eyed admiration, tugged at Stephen’s sleeve. “Oh, can we go, brother? It sounds wonderful—my first house party!”
“I’m not sure if Mrs. Stowe will be available to chaperone you,” he said.
“I can chaperone your sister, colonel,” the duchess said.
Two pairs of eyes focused on him—one green and enigmatic, the other a warm brown to match his own, filled with eagerness.
How could he refuse Angela, the innocent soul he loved more than anyone in the world?
“Very well,” he said, and smiled inwardly at Angela’s squeal of pleasure. “We’ll be delighted to accept, Duchess. But on one condition. My sister is not to partake in the shooting.”
“Not even the archery?” Angela asked.
“I’ve no objection to your wielding a bow and arrow,” he replied, “but I disapprove of firing a gun for pleasure, and find it particularly unbecoming for a woman.”
“The pheasants on your brother’s estate must be very grateful to hear that,” Lord Staines said.
Stephen shook his head. “My brother does not share my sensibilities.”
“Neither does most of Society,” Whitcombe said. “But I agree with you, colonel, that women and weapons do not mix, and that includes Lady Portia Hawke.”
“My, my, Your Grace, are you indulging in gossip?” a female voice said from behind.
Stephen caught his breath as he turned to see the subject of their conversation standing in the pathway, arm in arm with her brother.
“Portia,” the duchess said, “my husband was just telling the colonel here what an excellent shot you are.”
Lady Portia’s eyes widened. For a moment, Stephen caught a flicker of fear in her expression before she blinked and glanced at her brother, but Foxton was staring at Lady Staines.
“Don’t tell my brother that,” she said, “or he’ll throw you in the Serpentine. He cannot bear the notion of a woman—even his sister—besting him at anything requiring any level of skill.”
“Do you intend to shoot at Rosecombe?” Stephen asked.
“I intend to concentrate my efforts toward the archery competition, colonel. I have my eye on the prize.”
“Which is?”
She gestured toward the duchess. “A portrait of the winner, at Eleanor’s hand. She’s something of an artist, you know.”
“Of course!” Stephen said. “You exhibited at the Royal Academy last year, didn’t you, Duchess? I’ll wager the competition for that particular prize will be fierce, for it’s that rare thing—a prize that money cannot buy.”
“Such as love,” Angela said, glancing from Stephen to Lady Portia and back, a smile playing on her lips.
“There’s a prize for the best shot also,” Whitcombe said. “The man—or woman—who bags the most birds stands to win a case of Trelawney’s finest brandy.”
“Then I’ll stick to archery,” Lady Portia said. “I cannot stand brandy, and I’ve no intention of furnishing my bother with yet more means to reduce himself to a state of inebriation each night.”
Foxton’s expression hardened, and he opened his mouth to speak, but the duchess intervened.
“Your Grace, Lady Portia, have you met Colonel Reid’s sister, Lady Angela Reid?”
Lady Portia turned to Angela, her eyes gleaming with interest.
“Angela,” Stephen said, “this is the Duke of Foxton and his sister, Lady Portia Hawke.”
“Y-Your Grace.” Angela dipped into a curtsey, her voice tightening with apprehension and shyness.
Lady Portia wrenched herself free from her brother’s grip and clasped both of Angela’s hands. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you,” she said. “I’d know you anywhere. You look so like your brother.”
“Nonsense,” Foxton said. “She’s nothing like him.”
“That’s because you only look at people, Adam,” she retorted. “You don’t bother to see them. The likeness is obvious—the shape and color of their eyes is identical, and the mouth—”
She broke off, and a flare of desire ignited in Stephen’s blood at the delicate bloom on her cheeks.
“Do you enjoy firing a weapon, Lady Portia?” he asked.