My Lady's Honor

Though how he’d found someone in Harrogate under the age of fifty to fall in love with, Gilen couldn’t imagine. If he’d known, he concluded sourly, longing for a bath and a glass of strong ale, that he’d find his supposedly inconsolable friend so irritatingly cheerful, he wouldn’t have prematurely called off his search.

After the shock of finding the gypsy encampment deserted, he’d ridden back to Lacey’s Retreat and questioned the staff, trying to determine the band’s normal route. He’d wasted three days riding west after them before learning that instead of proceeding as usual, they had wandered north. When he finally found them, their leader at first refused to speak with him, then kept him waiting a day while he considered the generous sum Gilen was offering in apology for his previous intrusion.

At last the gypsy lord agreed to meet him, an old woman serving as translator. But to Gilen’s infuriated exasperation, the man denied any knowledge of the violet-eyed wench who’d danced for him. He was almost positive the man was lying, but as it was already nearly two weeks past the arrival time he’d indicated in his last letter to Jeffrey, he felt compelled to give up the search for the present and make for Harrogate with all speed.

Only to arrive and find his supposedly brokenhearted friend waxing eloquent about some new female.

“Despite your stops, ’tis a tedious journey and you must be longing for a bath,” Jeffrey was saying. “I told grandpapa we’d dine with him—he retires quite early—after which we shall still have time to attend the assembly. There you can meet Miss Southford for yourself. I’m sure you’ll find her a delight!”

“As delightful as Davinia?” Gilen shot back.

Jeffrey’s genial face sobered, and Gilen immediately felt ashamed of his churlishness. “Sorry, Jeff, that was unkind. Been on the road so long, it’s made me snappish.”

Jeffrey mustered up a smile. “I deserved that, I suppose. She is delightful, but nothing like Davinia. Lovely, though not as striking, and—I’m not sure how to describe it—so forthright and appealing. The sort of lady who not only encourages a man to talk, as they all do, but truly listens to what he says, and offers some intelligent comments in return. I’m sure you’ll like her.”

“If she has intelligent conversation to offer, she is unusual!” Gilen declared, only half jesting.

Jeffrey took a swipe at him and Gilen ducked. “At least I have the discernment to develop tendres for well-bred ladies of sensibility,” his friend declared. “If you spent less time among mercenary females out of London’s Green Rooms, your opinion of the sex might be higher.”

“Perhaps,” Gilen acknowledged, “though I doubt it. At least a female from the Green Room gives you an honest return on your investment, rather than false devotion and flattering lies.”

“I admit, my judgment on this score has not always been accurate, but I assure you Miss Southford’s honor and integrity are beyond reproach,” Jeffrey asserted.

Gilen raised a skeptical eyebrow. “We shall see. Let me get near some hot water and a warm dinner, and then I shall be most interested to meet your new paragon!”

While Tilly looked on, sighing her approval, Gwennor inspected herself in the pier glass. At Aunt Alice’s urging, she’d expended a bit more of her precious reserves on a new ball gown that, with its expert cut and flattering fit, would equal in elegance and sophistication any of the more colorful gowns being worn to the assembly tonight.

“You be ready, Miss,” Tilly said, reaching up to make a final adjustment in the curls she’d pinned in atop Gwennor’s head. “Lucky for you that dusky gray goes so good with your pale skin and dark hair. Indeed, ’tis so pretty on you, folks might think you’re wearing it not ’cause you is in mourning, but for it becomes you so well.”

“Thank you, Tilly,” Gwen said, gratified.

“And with two handsome gents awaiting you tonight, ’tis fitting that you’re in looks! Mistress will be that pleased. Go on and dazzle them, now, Miss!”

Gwennor took her evening cape from the woman with a wry grin. As quietly as she’d been living, ’twas more likely the company would dazzle her.

Still, Gwennor felt a pulse of excitement as she descended to the parlor to meet her aunt. She was wearing the most stylish gown she’d ever owned, her tempestuous hair had been tamed by the fingers of an artist, and with her well-respected aunt here to introduce her to the society of this small resort community, Gwennor had every expectation of both enjoying herself and progressing one step closer to obtaining the safe haven she sought.

Suitably enthusiastic over Gwen’s appearance, Lady Alice hastened her to the carriage. “So lovely you are, I’m sure your dance card will be filled to overflowing!”

“Surely it is too soon after Papa’s death to dance.”

Lady Alice patted her hand. “Ordinarily, I would agree. But I’ve made the sad facts of your circumstances known to the hostesses here, and all of them understand you need to attract a suitor as quickly as possible. Unless you find yourself unable to countenance dancing, which of course I could understand, even though I should be most disappointed, for there is nothing that can more quickly engage a gentleman’s interest than holding a lady close in the shocking intimacy of a waltz! If you are not set against it, then, I should strongly advise you to indulge, and assure you that Society here will not think it unseemly, even given the recentness of your bereavement.”

Gwennor had to smile through that long speech. Her gentle father, loving of life and mostly indifferent to its social rules, would have considered the notion of her refraining from one of her favorite social activities in respect for his passing quite ridiculous. “No, aunt, I should be quite happy to dance, if you think it proper.”

“Good. Oh, we shall have such a lovely evening!”

They arrived at the assembly rooms soon after, and once they’d proceeded through the reception line and her aunt had introduced her to several matrons whose approval was essential to her acceptance in Harrogate society, they walked on to the ballroom. As Lady Alice had hoped, they discovered all Gwen’s potential suitors already present.

The gentlemen soon spotted them. After greetings all around, Mr. Masterson bowed to Gwennor’s aunt.

“May I solicit your niece’s hand for the first waltz?”

“Miss Southford has just agreed to sit out the waltz and dance the next set with me,” Colonel Howard said.

“You do not think the waltz inappropriate, surely?” Mr. Masterson appealed to Lady Alice.

“Certainly not! Indeed, ’tis my hope—oh, but of course, Colonel Howard did—” her aunt stuttered.

“Good,” Mr. Masterson inserted with a grin. “To accommodate the colonel, I promise to return the lady before the next set begins.” After a quick bow to her aunt, he took her arm and urged her onto the floor.

“Are you kidnapping me?” Gwennor protested, laughing.

“Nothing so violent. But there didn’t seem a tactful way to suggest that though Colonel Howard may not feel up to a waltz, I am quite capable.”

His delicacy in preserving the colonel’s pride further impressed Gwen. “That was most kind.”

Mr. Masterson’s smile deepened and his green-eyed gaze fixed on her with notable warmth. “Besides, I’ve dreamed all week of waltzing with you in my arms.”

Mercifully, the music began, since Gwen was too flustered to reply. Acutely aware of his hands at her waist and shoulder, she let him sweep her into the dance.

Her enthusiasm at the prospect of dancing soon soothed her agitation, and she gave herself up to the delight of swirling with the music.

As they came to a halt at the end of the dance, their position and proximity inevitably called up memories of an even closer embrace that had progressed to a much less proper activity…one in which she’d also participated with great enthusiasm. Her face heated guiltily.

She half stumbled in her eagerness to quit the dance floor, as if by leaving the spot that had invoked them she might banish the disturbing recollections.

“Miss Southford, are you quite all right? You seem fatigued,” Colonel Howard said as they returned. He cast Mr. Masterson an aggrieved glance.

“’Twas a bit warm,” she replied, seizing that excuse to explain her overheated cheeks.

“Let me get you a glass of wine,” Mr. Masterson said.

“Colonel, if you do not mind, could we postpone our dance? I believe I would like a glass.”

While the men squabbled over who would bring wine and who the lobster patties and tea cakes, Gwennor took the colonel’s arm, glad for the respite.

The interlude in the refreshment room did much to restore her calm. She was able to dance several sets, and even welcome engaging in a second waltz with Mr. Masterson. He really was a very pleasant gentleman, she concluded as she listened to him expound on his plans for enlarging the horse-breeding operations at his estate.

Horse breeding. Parry would love that.

Dreamily contemplating her brother passing his days crossing bloodlines to produce steeds of particular colors or attributes, at the termination of the waltz she followed Mr. Masterson off the dance floor. And nearly ran into him when her escort suddenly stopped.

“At last!” he exclaimed. “Miss Southford, you must allow me to retain you a few more moments. My good friend Gilen has just arrived and I wish to introduce you.”

Gwennor murmured her assent, smiling a little to think how delighted Aunt Alice was going to be if this friend turned out to be another eligible gentleman. Curious, as Mr. Masterson led her forward, she scanned the people crowding the room beyond the dance floor, but out of the press of guests she could not discern which particular gentleman he seemed to be seeking.

As it happened, the man they approached had his back to them. Mr. Masterson reached out to touch his shoulder.

“Gilen! I was beginning to think you’d not attend after all! Miss Southford, allow me to present my dear friend, Viscount St. Abrams.”

The tall blond man turned. “Ah, Miss Southford—how delightful to meet you at last.”

Those dark blue eyes. That chiseled jaw. Gwennor’s knees nearly buckled as she sank into a curtsey with more speed than grace. When Lord St. Abrams reached to grasp her suddenly nerveless fingers for the obligatory salute, a wave of dizziness swept her. For one awful moment she thought she might faint.

About to bow over her hand was the taunting, tempting stranger she’d kissed at the gypsy camp.

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