Chapter 1 #3
Louisa forced herself to rally, to not waste a moment of her precious London time.
Even though she made very little headway with Miss Jane Edwards, Lord Firth’s sister, who sent her poisonous looks, she danced twice with Lord Firth and sat down to supper with him.
She was even more gratified when she at last managed to get Mr. Pitt to speak in detail about the hygrometer that he’d commissioned, based on the latest Italian designs.
It was not, however, how others perceived her accomplishments that evening.
“Oh, but I’m excited for you, Louisa,” Lady Tenwhestle said as soon as the carriage door closed behind them. “To have made Wrenworth’s acquaintance. We should have a toast to that.”
His very name tasted acrid.
“That would be premature, wouldn’t it, ma’am? Lord Wrenworth is hardly about to look to me for a wife,” Louisa said, trying to make sure she sounded pragmatic, rather than bitter. “Besides, he expressed no interest in my person.”
“Well, I should think less of him if he did. Considering who he is and how much he is worth, he would be a fool to go around expressing interest. It would cause a stampede,” said Lady Tenwhestle. “He spent ten minutes in your company. That should make Mother quite happy when I tell her.”
“But he spent that time in your company, ma’am, not mine.”
“Commendable discretion, that; the man has the most beautiful sensitivity to etiquette.” Lady Tenwhestle nodded approvingly. “It would only make your hand more desirable if it is perceived that Lord Wrenworth himself might be interested.”
The queen would abandon her widowhood before Lord Wrenworth proposed to Louisa, for whom he felt nothing but a blasé disdain.
Therefore any perception of his interest would serve only to set her cause back.
How would poor Mr. Pitt react if he were to be told, erroneously, that one of the most eligible gentlemen in the land now numbered among her admirers? It was the last thing she wanted.
Or was it?
She could not deny that as Lady Tenwhestle bent Lord Wrenworth’s action to fit her own interpretation, she had felt a tremor of hope.
Perhaps she truly had been out of her mind.
Perhaps Lady Tenwhestle’s explanation, however convenient and sanguine, was the correct one.
Perhaps despite his less than kind opinion of her, he did find her appealing in some way.
Listen to yourself, came the stern voice of her inner taskmaster. Lady Tenwhestle is overly optimistic and you know it. Do not fictionalize Lord Wrenworth’s sentiments: He has none—none for you, in any case. Now concentrate on the achievable.
She stood for a long time before the small window of her room, gazing up at a thoroughly overcast sky, going over her plans, and praying for a proposal from Mr. Pitt.
But just before she left the window, a single star appeared high overhead, and she was suddenly thinking of Lord Wrenworth, a flare of incandescence in her heart.
* * *
Felix stood before the much larger window of his bedroom, examining the same dark clouds, thinking of Miss Cantwell.
Savoring, almost, this unanticipated interest on his part.
Eleven years ago, such a flicker of curiosity would have alarmed him. But eleven years ago he was still a child, his wounds fresh, and his confidence largely a thing of smoke and mirrors.
But now he was The Ideal Gentleman, admired by men and desired by women, his opinions ardently sought, his style eagerly copied.
And it intrigued him that she had turned away from him. Somebody should, but he hadn’t expected it of a woman as insignificant as she—hardly the most impressive debutante he’d met in his life, or even in the course of the current Season.
Granted, she had fine eyes and a good bosom, but the best one could say of her was that she was pleasant. She possessed no remarkable beauty and no particular wit. Nor did she emanate that sometimes mysterious power of the fairer sex, the dark, potent allure that struck a man directly in the groin.
Over the years, he had met a few clever girls who thought they could better intrigue him with a cooler reception.
Miss Cantwell was acting, too, of course, a young lady of no wealth and no consequence carrying on as if she had no ulterior motives for being in London.
She wasn’t so good an actor that he couldn’t see through her pretense at fifty paces.
She was, however, good enough that he’d been slightly surprised at the transparency of her infatuation.
When their gaze had met for the first time, he had almost heard the wedding bells ringing in her ears.
Then it dissipated into thin air—not just the look, but the infatuation itself.
And that had firmly caught his attention.
He enjoyed being The Ideal Gentleman—he would go on enjoying it for the remainder of his natural life, he was sure.
But there were times when he found himself restless and vaguely dissatisfied.
Was it really so easy to fool the entire world?
Could no one see the cynicism and amorality underneath?
And would anyone ever have the audacity to tell him that he was hardly a gentleman, let alone an example to which others should aspire?
Miss Cantwell would probably prove to be a mirage, just another young lady who couldn’t see an inch beneath his surface.
But he would give her a few chances to prove otherwise.