had to unclench his jaw before he could respond. And Julian did it for him anyway.
‘It should be entertaining to watch them all trying to work out precisely how great an indiscretion can be glossed over with fifty thousand pounds.’ There was an odd snap in his voice.
‘What indiscretion?’ growled Richard.
Julian’s brows drew together, and he nodded to another acquaintance. Then he said lightly, ‘The imaginary one they are talking about, of course, Ricky. And do, please, unclench your fists.’
Looking down, Richard was startled to discover that his fists were indeed clenched. Since Julian hadn’t even glanced at his hands … He glared at his friend.
Braybrook raised a dark brow. ‘Your voice, old chap. It always gives you away.’
Behind them the matron continued, ‘Well, I can’t say I should like the connection for Marianne, but—’ a tinge of scornful condescension crept into her voice ‘—I dare say Aberfield can’t afford to be fussy getting this one off his hands; after all, Dunhaven does need an heir.’
Her companion tittered in agreement.
All consideration of discretion crashed to splinters as Richard spun and skewered the startled women with a glare that could have felled a gorgon. He didn’t waste time on words, merely stared at them coldly as they flounced and muttered, before hurrying off through the crowd. Dragging in a deep breath, he turned and looked again … this time he found her.
Every nerve taut in shock, tension rippled through him. What the hell did she think she was doing? No longer the grey mouse who had snapped his head off at breakfast, but a vision in shimmering rose-pink gauze. A soft, dusky shade—exactly like … like something waiting to be plucked. He backed right away from that analogy. The light brown curls were piled high, a pink bandeau holding them in place, gold lights glinting in the blaze of candlelight … but it wasn’t the change in her appearance that had fury simmering through every vein.
Aberfield had lost no time at all in offering his daughter up on the altar of political expedience—Lord Dunhaven hovered beside her like a dog guarding a juicy bone.
‘Ah.’ Braybrook nudged him. ‘That is Miss Winslow over there, is it not? In rose pink?’ A brief pause and then Braybrook added, ‘With Dunhaven.’
‘Yes,’ Richard grated. Inside him something growled, and Braybrook’s less-than-parliamentary remark about old goats went unanswered—Richard was already forging a path through the crowd.
Braybrook blinked. Then his gaze narrowed. How very unlike Ricky not to think a strategy through first. And while a full-frontal assault might be sufficient, a little flanking manoeuvre would not go astray.
Thea had completely underestimated the speed with which news could travel through fashionable society. Any number of people had seen her in the park and realised her identity. And of course all the people to whom Lady Arnsworth had presented her had been only too happy to mention their acquaintance with the latest heiress. Mrs Dallimore had been swift to bear the tidings to her sister, Lady Fothergill, who had dashed off a charming note assuring Lady Arnsworth that of course she would be delighted to welcome dear Lady Arnsworth’s protégée to her little party that very evening.
In Thea’s book, Lady Fothergill’s assembly did not qualify as a little party.
She had forgotten what it felt like to be one of three hundred people squashed into one house. The roar of conversation, mingled with the half-heard strains of the small orchestra made it almost impossible to hear what was said to one. And the heat of all those bodies, the mingled aromas of perfume, cologne and overheated humanity, rose in an almost overpowering wave. Chandeliers and wall sconces blazed with wax candles, adding to the heat. At least this was only an assembly. There would be no dancing tonight.
Once that would not have pleased her at all. She had loved dancing. Loved the music, melody and rhythm sweeping her along in delight. Now she fought to keep a polite smile plastered on her face. And the knowledge that the following evening she was expected to attend a ball feathered chills down her spine.
People kept touching her, brushing by her. They couldn’t help it, of course, in the press, but nevertheless her skin crawled and her stomach clenched, a solid lump of panic churning within. Each time she kicked her chin a notch higher and breathed with fierce determination. It was foolish, irrational—she wouldn’t give in to it!
As various people greeted them, Thea’s nerves began to steady, and she realised with an odd shock that, although she disliked the crowd, the fear of exposing herself was ebbing. She might be uncomfortable, but she wasn’t going to faint or panic, even when one dowager went so far as to prod her with a fan, commenting that it was time and more that she did her duty. She shot a gimlet-eyed stare at Lady Arnsworth. ‘And I hear you have that nephew of yours with you. Well, it might be worse!’ and stumped off, leaning on a cane.
‘Such a dreadful crush!’ pronounced Lady Arnsworth in scathing tones, as the dowager retreated. ‘Really, I wonder that Louisa cares to invite so many. I have not seen a single person I wished to see.’ She smiled graciously, inclining her head at another lady. ‘Lady Broome! How nice … yes. A frightful crush. I shall look forward to a comfortable cose later!’
Lady Broome sailed away into the seething silks and satins.
Lady Arnsworth shuddered. ‘Vulgar creature! Her father was a merchant. I vow she smells of the shop!’
Thea remembered Lady Broome as a very good-natured, unaffected woman—not at all vulgar. And her own fortune, now respectably invested in the Funds, derived from her uncle’s involvement with the East India Company. Perhaps Lady Arnsworth’s sense of smell was selective … like her tolerance for other failings.
The gentlemen were no less assiduous in their attentions, several claiming to remember her from her brief Season.
She smiled and replied politely to their compliments, vaguely remembering names and faces from eight years ago. The smile was the important thing: vague, gracious, never direct. Let them think her cold, uninviting …
‘Oh, goodness me!’ muttered Lady Arnsworth, nipping at Thea’s arm in warning with gloved fingers.
Thea recognised Lord Dunhaven at once. Slightly above average height, his powerful frame drew attention as he strolled towards them, his expression intent.
‘Really! I did not think he could possibly be serious!’ muttered Lady Arnsworth to Thea. Then, in far more gracious tones, ‘Lord Dunhaven! How do you do?’
Instantly Thea was aware that although his lordship exchanged polite greetings with Lady Arnsworth, all his attention was on her. Intent, knowing eyes looked her up and down. She stiffened her spine against the tremor that went through her as Lady Arnsworth presented her. ‘You recall Lord Aberfield’s daughter? Miss Winslow, this is Lord Dunhaven.’
Thin lips curved in acknowledgement. ‘Certainly, ma’am. I called on Aberfield earlier and he mentioned that she had arrived.’ His gaze returned to Thea. ‘Good evening, Miss Winslow.’ He extended his hand with all the air of one conferring a signal honour upon the recipient.
Thea repressed a shudder, violently aware of her scanty bodice, as she placed her hand in his. She remembered Lord Dunhaven well; she had never liked him. Lady Dunhaven had always been casting nervous glances at him, agreeing with everything he said.
‘How do you do, my lord?’ She curtsied slightly as he bowed over her hand, and the odour of his pomaded hair sank into her. Her stomach roiled, but she lifted her chin. His lordship seemed inclined to retain possession of her hand and place it on his arm, but she withdrew it firmly. Something about Lord Dunhaven made her skin crawl, even through her white kid gloves. She quelled the urge to rub her glove as though it might be soiled. There was something about the way he looked at her—assessing, judging, as though she were a filly he contemplated buying.
‘It is some years since you were in town, Miss Winslow,’ he said. ‘I