up my mind to take Ardmore.’
‘Take him?’ Annabel inquired, giving her a direct look.
‘Make him part of my retinue,’ Imogen said, waving a hand in the air. ‘That’s all I’ll say on the subject to a maid, even if you are my sister.’
Annabel ignored her provocation. ‘Be careful, Imogen. I would be very, very careful. That earl does not look like a tame pussycat to me.’
‘Nonsense,’ Imogen said crossly. ‘Men are all the same.’
‘All right,’ Annabel said. ‘Make him your cicisbeo, if you wish. But why put on such an exhibition while dancing? Why embarrass yourself in such a fashion?’
‘I was expressing our mutual –’
But they had been siblings for a long time. ‘Whatever it was you were expressing, it wasn’t a desire to bed Ardmore.’
‘Yes, it was!’ Imogen flared, and then the words died in her throat. She had been so certain that she was being inviting and sensual. But perhaps she had failed at that too. She glanced at Annabel. It was tempting to confide in her…
No. She couldn’t bear to tell Annabel of her marital failures, Annabel who had the ability to make any man within ten yards start panting.
‘You could talk to Tess about it,’ Annabel said now, showing that uncanny ability that sisters sometimes have to guess what another is thinking.
‘There’s nothing to discuss,’ Imogen said, coughing to cover the rasp in her voice. ‘I thoroughly enjoyed myself dancing with Ardmore, and I look forward to more happy hours with him.’
‘You sound like a vicar accepting a new post,’ her sister observed.
What did Annabel know about anything? Imogen couldn’t talk to her, and she couldn’t talk to Tess either, because for all Tess was married, she was happy.
She took a deep breath. ‘I am enthralled by the pleasure I shall share with Ardmore,’ she said.
‘Perhaps not a vicarage…a bishopric,’ her sister mused, clearly unimpressed.
Imogen turned away.
Lady Mitford’s garden party was savoured by each member of the ton lucky enough to receive an invitation. Of course, they savoured it for different reasons. Mothers of nubile girls found that the romantic bowers Lady Mitford placed around her gardens were excellent enclosures for nurturing intimacies that were not too intimate.
Those who were, for whatever reason, uninterested in mating games enjoyed Lady Mitford’s considerable efforts toward producing true Renaissance cuisine. There was the year, for instance, when a pie was split open to reveal five cross and extremely undercooked doves who promptly flew into the air. When one of them dropped a noxious substance on the head of an upstart young lord, the pie was deemed an enormous success.
Finally, the day was appreciated by those with a sense of irony. Ewan Poley, Earl of Ardmore, would have put himself in the latter category. In fact, this was by far the most entertaining gala he had yet attended in England.
Lady Mitford had positioned herself and her husband at the far end of a great stretch of lawn, the better so that entering guests could admire the spectacle. They were a plump couple stuffed into brilliant Renaissance clothing; Lord Mitford’s canary-yellow stockings were particularly noteworthy, as they were echoed by some thirty servants stationed about the lawns. The couple sat on gilded armchairs that had a suspicious resemblance to thrones, under a sky-blue silk canopy that rippled in the breeze. Around their feet frolicked a number of small dogs and a real monkey, tied to Lady Mitford’s chair with a silk ribbon. Ewan tried not to mark the fact that the monkey appeared to be squatting on Lady Mitford’s silk slipper and enjoying a private moment.
He bowed before her. ‘This is a tremendous honour, Lady Mitford. I cannot thank you enough for including me in your invitation.’
‘Wouldn’t have missed you,’ she barked at him, sounding for all the world like one of her small dogs. ‘I do believe I had at least eight requests for your inclusion – all from mamas, of course.’
Lord Mitford gave him a conspiratorial smile. ‘Our gala is quite known for the matches that have ensued.’
They were an odd couple; Lady Mitford was wearing a high coned hat more suited to the reign of King Richard than that of Queen Elizabeth. Lord Mitford looked as kingly as a carnival barker, and the monkey, the dogs and the silk canopy spoke of that carnival as much as a Renaissance fête. But the Mitfords’ eyes were merry, and it was clear that they enjoyed their own eccentricities as much as did everyone else.
Lady Mitford raised a beringed finger and pointed off in the distance. ‘I understand that you have a particular interest in a lovely widow. She is over there, next to the rose arbour.’
For a moment Ewan blinked. How could she know that Lord Mayne had recommended his widowed sister as a possible spouse?
‘Lady Maitland has grieved enough,’ his hostess said with a benign smile. ‘She would do well to forget the tragic death of her young husband and turn to you.’
With a smile and a bow, Ewan turned and walked toward the rose arbour where, presumably, the passionate Imogen was to be found. Then, as the Mitfords turned to greet another guest, he walked in the opposite direction.
He had just spied Holbrook’s other ward, and strangely enough for his lamentable memory, he even remembered her name: Annabel. She was the one who wouldn’t dance with him, who called him a lad. He hadn’t been called a lad since his grandfather died, and that was years ago.
He slowed to watch her. She was all honey and gold. Soft loose curls were pulled to the top of her head and then tumbled onto her shoulders. Her dress was that of an unmarried lady, from what he could see: cream silk and lace that flowed from just under her breast and made her legs seem as long as a colt’s. But she was no youngster. Her eyes glowed with wit and intelligence…so why was he just a lad to her?
Ewan strolled over, mentally dismissing the man she was smiling at so brilliantly. He was the sort of man who would always be ruled by others.
‘Miss Essex,’ he said, bowing.
She turned to him, her eyes dancing. ‘Ah, Lord Ardmore,’ she said. ‘May I introduce Lord Rosseter, if you have not already met?’
Rosseter bowed rather punctiliously. Before he realised what he was doing, Ewan shifted his body slightly, just slightly, so that he stood with a wider stance. And Rosseter caught the message. Ewan saw in one glance that he was a man of innuendo and secret messages, the type who would never express himself openly.
With an unhurried, overly elegant sweep of his cloak over his arm, Lord Rosseter made some practised excuse to Miss Essex and walked away. She blinked after him, looking quite surprised. There were likely very few men who walked away from her, Ewan thought with some amusement.
‘He’ll be back,’ he said to her, discarding the idea of offering a practised gallantry.
She answered with a twinkle in her eyes. ‘I certainly hope so.’
Well, she couldn’t have said that more clearly. Apparently she intended to marry the sleek little coward she’d singled out from the herd. Which was entirely her prerogative, Ewan reminded himself. Naturally he would prefer to see a countrywoman make better choices.
‘I met your guardian last evening,’ he said.
‘I saw that you did,’ she answered, the smile disappearing from her face.
For a second he didn’t follow her, then he remembered Rafe’s furious interruption of his dance with her sister. For the life of him, he couldn’t see a single resemblance. The black-haired lass