A Rogue for All Seasons (Weston Family) (5 page)

She promised herself that this would be the last year. She would rather spend eternity leading apes in hell than spend another Season hunting for a husband. The apes might even be preferable. Supposedly,
they
could be trained.

The dance wasn’t complicated, and her attention strayed to Lord and Lady Dunston. Love was evident in every look they shared. Passion was almost palpable in the air between them. Diana thought them either very brave or very foolhardy, perhaps a bit of both. The more one had, the more one had to lose.

“So grim,” Henry murmured as he turned her. “The other women will refuse to dance with me if you make it look so unpleasant.”

His words amused her, and she was grateful for the distraction from her dark thoughts. “Every woman in this room hopes to dance with you.”

“You flatter me,” he said. “Surely, as a gentleman, that is my responsibility.”

She shook her head. “We both know your mother has given you enough gentlemanly responsibility where I am concerned.”

He recovered himself quickly, but she could tell she’d surprised him. She’d surprised herself. If there was one thing she had learned in all her Seasons, it was that pretense was everything. Society would cease to function without the pretty lies that passed for polite manners.

“Miss Merriwether—”

“I was not taking you to task, Mr. Weston,” she said softly. “I only meant that, with me, you need not exert yourself to be charming. I am grateful enough for the opportunity to dance.”

No further words passed between them for the remainder of the dance. As he escorted her back to her mother and grandmother, Diana wondered if he would defy his mother and refuse to stand up with her again. That would certainly limit her opportunities for dancing this Season.

Henry paused a few feet from their destination. She glanced at him, noted the solemn expression on his face and braced herself not to react to whatever he had to say.

“I have already danced with you this evening for my mother’s benefit,” he acknowledged, “so when I ask you to dance again, it will be solely of my own accord.”

Then he smiled at her. Not his practiced heart-melting, knee-weakening smile. Not his slightly crooked grin that was at once boyish and wicked. This was a genuine smile, crinkling the corners of his eyes and revealing white, even teeth. This smile put the others to shame.

“Miss Merriwether, will you save me a dance after supper?”

Perhaps she ought to refuse and suggest he save that dance for some other lonely wallflower, but Diana wasn’t that selfless. If she had to suffer through this Season, she wanted to pretend for a night—just one night—that she was sort of girl Henry Weston wanted to dance with twice in an evening.

She smiled back at him. Not the smile of polite disinterest she used to keep the world at arm’s length, but a true smile.

“I will,” she promised, as they took the remaining steps to where her grandmother was holding court.

“Until later, Miss Merriwether.” Henry bowed, his blue eyes twinkling up at her as gave her gloved hand a quick squeeze.

She managed a curtsy despite knees that felt distressingly weak, then seated herself beside her mother and watched as he walked off. A thrill raced through her at the knowledge that tonight he would be back.

For her.

That was when Diana knew she was in trouble… or she would be, but for one thing. She didn’t intend to lose her heart, least of all to a rogue.

CHAPTER FOUR

I feared the stable block would not live up to my memory, but I am exceedingly pleased. To be sure, the paddocks and hovels need mending and painting, and there are more repairs wanted inside, but the quadrangle’s plans are superior in every way. Though the design is not new, it is unusually forward thinking. The stalls receive plenty of light and air, and there are a number of spacious loose boxes, perfect for birthing or housing the injured. I was unable to keep from smiling as I looked about the place. I am certain I looked quite the fool…

—FROM HENRY WESTON TO HIS BROTHER-IN-LAW THE EARL OF DUNSTON

A
FTER RETURNING
M
ISS
M
ERRIWETHER TO
her family, Henry danced with two more women of the variety found in his mother’s garden of wallflowers and shrinking violets. Considering his duty done for the night, he decided to escape until supper. He beat a gradual retreat from the ballroom and headed to his old chamber; his parents had made the room into an informal family parlor after Henry had moved to his bachelor’s quarters.

As the room wasn’t part of the suite of public rooms on display to the guests, Henry collected a candle as he made his way from the brightly lit spectacle on one side of the house to the quiet privacy of the family quarters. He relaxed with each step away from the grating buzz of too many voices whispering
on dits,
from the distinct aroma of mingled perfumes and overly warm bodies.

He was a social creature by nature, and he enjoyed the company and amusements that town life offered, but he found it trying at times. Of late, he was more often unimpressed. He had the sense that his life was a series of installments, as in the novels his sister Olivia devoured. He knew there was more than what he had at present, but he wasn’t sure of the plot’s direction. He had waited, partly because he was certain the next chapters would present themselves in time, and partly because he was comfortable with the story. Perhaps he felt a little caged at times, but better that than the unknown, which might be worse.

Waiting hadn’t offered any answers, though, and he wasn’t sure it ever would. He had put a good face on, but maintaining that pretense was growing increasingly difficult. He had always considered himself even-tempered and, for years, he had boxed for the pleasure of the sport. These days his temper lurked just beneath the surface, and he boxed to give voice to the restlessness and frustration growing within him.

He recalled the stricken expression that had crossed Miss Merriwether’s face as they danced. She was generally very composed in her demeanor—a little too much so—but tonight she had temporarily lost control of herself. He had seen her inner turmoil and recognized so many of the emotions he had struggled with over the past couple of years: the loneliness, the worry, the dissatisfaction, the exhaustion…

All had been writ large on surprisingly expressive features, and her distress struck a chord with him. For a moment, he’d been certain that this woman understood how he felt, would understand
him
. The thought should have been comforting, but he found it unsettling. Unsettling and undeniably intriguing.

She’d reined herself in quickly but, having caught a glimpse of what lurked beneath that poised façade, Henry suspected Miss Merriwether was a woman who felt deeply. Intensely.
Passionately.
The thought was almost enough to make him wonder if that passion would carry over into…

No. Christ, what was wrong with him? Miss Merriwether was…
Miss Merriwether
. He didn’t think of her that way. He reprimanded himself until he reached his destination. Upon opening the door, he found he wasn’t the only one who sought refuge there. At least he wouldn’t be alone with his strange thoughts.

“Rather unsporting to desert your guests, sir.”

His father laughed. “Were you sent to find me, or have you turned tail as well?”

Henry blew out his candle before seating himself opposite his father at the large, round mahogany table that dominated the room. “I wasn’t sent to find you,” he said, setting his candlestick down.

“I am most relieved to hear it. I shall rejoin the fray presently, but a temporary escape was necessary. I believe it’s also considered unsporting to strangle one’s guests?”

“Indubitably,” Henry told him. “I very much doubt they’d ever accept another of your invitations.”

“Or anyone else’s. Death does tend to limit a person’s social engagements. However, as I intend to refrain from all murderous impulses this evening, let us speak on another, more lively matter. I read your proposal for the stud.”

Henry’s nerves stretched tight. Following his discussion with James, he’d visited Ravensfield Hall. Near Great Bookham in Surrey, the stud sat only twenty miles or so south of London, which would allow him to conduct regular business in the city. As the estate was only a handful of miles from Epsom—one of England’s racing capitals—he’d have a steady influx of clients. Each June, everyone interested in horses and racing made their way to the area for the Oaks and the Derby.

Plum location aside, the manor house itself gave him a moment of pause. Parr had closed up the house, but the buff-colored brick building bore signs of neglect and disrepair; ivy snaked up the walls, and where there had once been rose beds along the perimeter of the house, only dried, prickly clumps remained. If a steward were overseeing the place, the man wasn’t earning his wages.

Another look at the stables convinced Henry that the house—and whatever renovations and refurbishments it might require—wasn’t important. He could almost hear the pounding hooves echoing in the covered riding house, and the whinnies and neighs as the stable lads brought round buckets of oats. With nary a doubt in his mind, he had ridden back to London and compiled his ideas regarding the stud into a proposal for a business venture, which he gave to his father.

As the heir to the viscountcy, Henry was in the somewhat uncomfortable position of needing his sire’s financial support. He received a generous quarterly allowance, much of which had been successfully invested on the Change, which allowed him to live in a comfortable manner. Purchasing the stud and quality stock, not to mention the additional money for building, repairs, and dozens of other smaller concerns, would require a sum far greater than he had at hand.

“Your proposal impressed me, Hal,” his father said slowly, “and I cannot deny that your mother and I are pleased to see you displaying an interest of a more serious nature, but perhaps you ought to approach this slowly. You might spend a year or two working out of the Manor to be certain you truly enjoy the business.”

Henry’s gut clenched as he felt Ravensfield begin to slip from his fingers. “Please, sir, I realize the sum I am requesting is not inconsequential, but I will have earned back the money and more within a few years.”

“Hal,” his father began.

“I remember, when I was a boy, you told me that I could do anything I put my mind to. I
know
I can make the stud a success.”

“I don’t doubt your ability.” His father sighed. “Do you recall that shortly after I told you that, you decided that your greatest ambition was to be an artist? I hired Mr. Edwards from London to come tutor you. After less than a fortnight, you sent him packing. He never even started work on the mural for the library ceiling.”

Henry scowled. “The man was an idiot, and an indifferent artist.”

“You do realize he is a member of the Royal Academy?” said his sire.

“That hardly precludes idiocy. He expected me to sit indoors and draw drapery all day long.
Drapery!
I never so much as saw a paintbrush, let alone a box of paints.”

“Practice is generally a component of training. You imagined you had only to put brush to canvas and produce a masterpiece. You didn’t want to spend the time on drawing lessons.”

“I would have spent the time, but it was apparent, even to me, that I have no inherent artistic talent. When I showed you and Mother some of my drapery studies, she sighed and said something to you about my duckies being handsome.” He shook his head. “There were no ducks in the drapes I was drawing.”

“Hal, she said—” His lips twitched. “Never mind it. So you’re not an artist. What about your music lessons? You asked to learn to play the violin. I persuaded Herr Cramer that teaching would be more fulfilling than performing for their majesties. That lasted all of a month.”

“You can’t blame me for not being able to tell one note from another. I was willing to keep trying. Herr Cramer was the one who threw up his hands and left.”

“After you broke his bow, and your own, using them to fence with James,” came the parental protest.

“I still maintain the fencing was James’s idea.”

His father rubbed at his temples. “What about all the letters I received from Headmaster Davies at Eton, or when you were sent down from Oxford? The only way you applied yourself in school was in finding opportunities for mischief.”

“I prefer to think of my extracurricular activities as creative endeavors.”

His sire sighed and got to his feet. “My point is that you have a history of giving up when something doesn’t come easily to you. Naturally, you can understand my reluctance to hand over a large sum of money for you to invest. What if some difficulty arises? How can I be certain you won’t turn your back on the project and hie yourself back to town and your, ah, creative endeavors?”

“I need to do this. I’m
meant
to do this.”

“But you believed you were meant to be an artist and a musician and any other number of things, too. I know how grand this all seems in your head, but a great deal of time and hard work are required on your part. I don’t doubt that you’re capable of putting forth both. However, I can’t help but worry whether your desire will subside after the initial excitement is past.”