A Rogue for All Seasons (Weston Family) (7 page)

The musicians began to play then, and the opening steps of the dance gave them no further opportunity for private conversation. Her reprieve was short-lived, however, because as soon as they began to promenade about, arm in arm, Henry tilted his head toward hers and whispered, “I hardly think my company is as prized as you seem to believe, Miss Merriwether, but my vanity thanks you all the same. I must correct you on one point, though. I am certain my mother is also pleased.”

“Your mother is a very kind woman,” Diana replied.

“She can be,” he muttered.

At least, that was what it sounded like he’d said. She was already joining hands with the other women to form a circle. For a short time, she forgot everything but the excitement of the dance and the joy of moving her feet to keep pace with the music.

“For someone who has earned the enmity of so many, you look surprisingly happy,” Henry remarked when he took hold of her hands again. “Now tell me, who is Miss Featherbill, and why is she pleased for you?”

Diana wasn’t surprised he didn’t know Eliza, despite this being her third Season. She wasn’t the sort to catch Henry Weston’s eye, but neither was she so totally lacking in dance partners as to require Lady Weston’s kind intervention. As they turned in the dance, Diana inclined her head in the direction of the far wall. “See the brown-haired girl wearing pink who is seated near my mother? That is Miss
Fothergill
.”

“Yes, yes, Fothergill. Why is she pleased for you when none of the other women are?”

“We have become friends over the past few years,” Diana told him. “Neither of us dances a great deal, so we have time to talk at events such as this.”

Diana thought of the conversations she shared with Eliza, which consisted mostly of Eliza talking and Diana nodding. As Diana wasn’t particularly comfortable sharing her secrets, she didn’t mind. Besides, she found the younger girl’s chatter and boundless enthusiasm charming. That Eliza’s conversations had, for the past two Seasons, focused exclusively on one subject was slightly less endearing. But, as that subject wasn’t Henry Weston, Diana knew Eliza wasn’t jealous.

“There’s something else,” Henry accused. “I can see it in the smile you are trying to hide. Is your friend another hater of men?”

“Certainly not. She speaks of nothing but him— er, them. Men. She speaks of nothing but men.”

Interest lit his eyes, and she knew she hadn’t been successful in covering her slip. He looked in Eliza’s direction, and Diana could only watch helplessly as he tracked the girl’s love-struck gaze to the dancing couples.

He turned his attention back to her, clearly bemused. “Gabriel?”

Diana gave a slight shrug. Half of the ladies in London were infatuated with Mr. Gabriel’s dark good looks. As Lord Blathersby’s nephew and heir, the young man had, or would eventually have, a fortune as fair as his face.

“Please, you understand the matter is somewhat delicate—?” she began anxiously.

“You can trust me.” His wink did little to reassure her.

“I don’t suppose she believes she could ever win him,” Diana confided as she and Henry circled each other. “We don’t think that way—”

“We? Are the two of you in league?”

“Oh, there are more than just us two. Have you not heard of the Ape-Leader Army?”

He looked at her in alarm.

“Perhaps you know us better as the Squadron of Spinsters?”

He laughed, but there was a touch of desperation in the sound. He eyed the women seated around the perimeter of the room. “You
are
jesting?”

Diana imagined he was trying to calculate his odds of survival should she be in earnest. “Jest about the Militia of Old Maids? Never!” She gentled her tone. “Don’t be alarmed, Mr. Weston. We wallflowers have no grand conspiracy afoot. Besides, if there are wronged women in your past, I doubt they number among our ranks. But I do wish Mr. Gabriel would do his duty as you do. One dance with him would probably be enough for Eliza.”

He made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort but, surely, Henry Weston didn’t snort. “That it would, if she has any sense. Gabriel is a nice enough fellow, but unfortunately”—he grimaced—“he shares his uncle’s interests.”

Oh. That
was
unfortunate. Lord Blathersby’s consuming passion was sheep. He confined most of his woolly charges to his country estate, but he always had some living in the garden of his London residence. He counted them before he slept, wore no cloth but that spun from their wool, and while she wasn’t sure whether he ate them, given his substantial girth, she wouldn’t be surprised if a fatty haunch of mutton was a staple of his menu. His own sheep were the preferred subject of conversation, but Lord Blathersby was perfectly happy to converse at length about any or all ovine-related subjects.

“Well,” she said brightly, “I believe Miss Fothergill’s family is involved in the manufacture of textiles. They might have a common thread after all.”

He made a noncommittal sound as the dance separated them once more. Diana wasn’t sure if he thought her pun too awful to remark on, frowned upon the Fothergills’ involvement in trade, or had simply lost interest. He looked pensive when they next faced each other, and they finished the little that was left of the dance in silence.

Henry held out his arm so he could escort her back to her mother since they both knew no other gentleman waited to claim the next dance. They were halfway across the room when he abruptly stopped and, mumbling incomprehensibly under his breath, craned his head about. After a few moments he spotted whatever it was he was looking for and began leading Diana in that direction.

Lady Weston was talking with Lady Hayvenhurst and Mrs. Campbell, but she turned away at their approach. “Henry.” She beamed with a mother’s love as he embraced her and kissed her cheek. “Miss Merriwether, what a delight.”

Diana bobbed a curtsy.

“Excuse us, Mary,” Lady Hayvenhurst broke in. “Augusta and I must go check on the gentlemen. I must commend you on another lovely ball, not that I expected anything otherwise, and extend my felicitations.”

“You must be very proud.” Mrs. Campbell had perfected the art of speaking in a confiding manner while managing to address everyone within earshot. “Such good fortune. Two well-heeled, titled son-in-laws… and you didn’t even have to go to the trouble of giving Olivia a Season.”

“Fortunate, indeed,” Lady Hayvenhurst tittered, fluttering her fan in time with her flapping tongue. “My Annie took three Seasons to decide on a husband.
Three!
Hayvenhurst and I despaired of her ever marrying.”

“Sally!” Mrs. Campbell jostled her friend with her elbow as she inclined her head ever so slightly in Diana’s direction.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Merriwether. You must know I meant no offense. Not all women are meant for marriage, after all, and I’m certain your continued presence is a great comfort to your mother given, ah, well…” Lady Hayvenhurst’s voice trailed off as her fan ceased its movement.

“Lady Hayvenhurst, I believe I see your husband looking for you,” Henry said, his tone so chilly Diana nearly shivered.

“I had best go to him,” she replied weakly. “Good evening, Lady Weston. Mr. Weston. Miss Merriwether.”

Whatever politeness had been lacking in the conversation, it returned tenfold in the curtsies and bows exchanged as the women took their leave.

“Good riddance,” Henry muttered as they walked away.

Lady Weston halfheartedly hushed him. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“Miss Merriwether and I have come on another’s behalf to beg your assistance. Mr. Gabriel is desirous of dancing with Miss Fothergill. Will you make your way over to her vicinity so that someone is on hand to perform the proper introductions?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

“Thank you.” Henry pressed a kiss to his mother’s cheek. “Miss Merriwether and I will go inform Mr. Gabriel of his, ah, impending good fortune.” He winked at Diana.

“How are you going to get Mr. Gabriel to dance with Miss Fothergill?” she whispered as Henry led her over to the refreshment table where the gentleman was engaged in earnest conversation with his uncle.

Henry turned to look at her, his head tilted to one side and a quizzical expression on his face, as if he were not quite sure her question was serious. “I’m going to tell him to do it,” he said, as though telling someone to do something was enough to ensure their compliance. Then she realized for him, it
was
enough.

“Oh, I see. Just like that.” She smiled tremulously, a slight unease growing in her stomach. She wondered if, like Aladdin in 
The Thousand and One Days,
 she had unwittingly summoned a powerful genie to do her bidding, though she was under no illusions that she could control the force of nature that was Henry Weston.

“Just like that.”

His grin turned the unease in her stomach to something else entirely. Something heated and forbidden and, just like that, the time had come for her to flee. She pulled away slightly, and he instantly tightened his arm against his side, effectively trapping her arm in the crook of his.

“Oh, no,” he warned under his breath. “Don’t even
think
about abandoning me with Blathersby.”

“I wasn’t—” she tried to protest, but he shushed her as they drew near their quarry. They sidled up to the refreshments table pretending interest in the food. At least on her part, the interest was feigned. Henry had a glove off before they reached the table. As soon as his long arms were within grabbing distance, he snagged a ginger cake and popped it into his mouth. As he chewed, a blissful expression came over his face that set her insides fluttering.

“Want one?” he asked, reaching for another.

“It’s not worth the trouble of taking off my gloves. You men have no idea of the exertion required to wear long gloves,” she huffed.

“I’ve never put them on,” he agreed, a mischievous gleam in his eyes, “but I’m quite proficient at taking them off.”

Her eyes widened as his meaning sank in. He laughed, a low, easy sound that skipped along her nerves like rocks on water, the ripples echoing through her entire body.

“Have I shocked you, Miss Merriwether?”

“I—”

He bit into the ginger cake he was holding, and then pushed the other half between her lips.

“There.” He smirked at her as he licked the crumbs from his fingers. “Problem solved.”

Thankfully, her mouth seemed to know what to do when presented with food, for Diana’s brain refused to function properly. She couldn’t blame the poor, overwhelmed organ. Sometime during the course of the evening, she’d ceased to be herself. Miss Diana Merriwether lurked at the periphery of social events, danced when pity or parental coercing managed to overwhelm a gentleman’s natural inclinations, and always maintained a calm, collected demeanor in public.

Miss Diana Merriwether didn’t participate in matchmaking adventures, certainly not with Henry Weston. She wasn’t the recipient of knowing smiles, especially not from Henry Weston. And she never ate morsels of ginger cake, or any other dessert for that matter, from anyone’s hand—most definitely not Henry Weston’s.

Oh, heavens above, his fingers had touched her lips. The barest whisper of a touch, but still… her
lips
! Things like that simply didn’t happen to her. Then another thought struck her, and her heart began to pound.

Had anyone seen?

She slowly turned her head, half-expecting to see a crowd of pointing fingers and accusatory glares, but she found nothing out of the ordinary. She exhaled a sigh of relief, knowing how lucky she’d been. She turned her attention back to Henry, prepared to scold him for his improper behavior, and found him downing yet another ginger cake. Her scolding turned to an exasperated smile.

Henry grinned back and patted his flat stomach. “Fortifications,” he informed her. Then, in a louder, jovial tone, he said, “Lord Blathersby, Gabriel, so good of you to come.”

The two men turned and greeted Henry.

“You both know Miss Merriwether?” Without waiting for an answer, he threw her to the wolves—or rather, he threw her to the sheep. “Lord Blathersby, Miss Merriwether has just been expressing her admiration for the wool of Swaledales, so I insisted—”

“No, no, my girl, Swaledales are not the thing at all. Coarse wool, you know. For superior wool you cannot beat Lincolns…”

Diana gritted her teeth and tried to look interested as Lord Blathersby launched into a lengthy explanation about the various breeds of sheep best suited for wool production. She watched out of the corner of her eye as Henry engaged Mr. Gabriel in close conversation. The young man frowned, then shrugged and headed off. Henry helped himself to yet another ginger cake and leisurely donned his gloves, a smile lurking around his mouth, before coming to her rescue.

“Excuse us, Lord Blathersby,” he interrupted, taking Diana’s arm. She tried to brace herself against the thrill that raced through her at his touch. “I see Miss Merriwether’s mother looking for her. I suggest you try the ginger cake. Our cook adds just the right number of raisins—makes all the difference, you know.”

“Is my mother truly looking for me?” Diana asked as Henry led her off.

“No, but I suspect she will be soon enough. Mothers grow concerned if their daughters wander out of sight whilst in my company. My father informed me earlier that I have the devil’s own reputation to live down.” His words had a faintly bitter tinge to them.

“I believed men took a certain pride in that.”

“Yes, well…” He grimaced. “Apparently there are some who find me utterly without conscience.” Then, as if he realized he’d grown more serious than he should, he adopted a blatantly flirtatious tone and asked, “Do you think me wicked?”

“Oh, at least,” she retorted, the words out of her mouth before she could halt them. Her cheeks flamed. “I beg your pardon. That is, you do have a certain reputation that precedes you, but a man without a conscience wouldn’t do as you have just done for Miss Fothergill. Thank you for that.”

“It was nothing,” he said brusquely.

“On the contrary,” she insisted. “What you did was very kind.”