The Secret Mistress

He was still with the lady in blue. The two of them were standing against the stone balustrade, talking earnestly, as though they had known each other all their lives.

Angeline felt a wave of envy.

If only …

And then she remembered again that this was the supper dance and that she would be expected to sit with Lord Windrow and be polite to him. And smile at him.

Life could be very trying at times.

She could positively weep.

Except that this was still the most exciting day of her life. And actually, if she ignored her indignation, she would have to admit that her partner was quite amusing in an entirely silly sort of way. And he was a graceful dancer.

He was very like Tresham, of course. And Ferdinand. And most of Ferdinand’s friends who had been riding with him this morning. There was a whole breed of such men—careless, shallow, amusing. And really quite, quite unthreatening.

She was not at all afraid of Lord Windrow. Indeed, she never had been. She just had no interest in his flatteries and was still indignant that he had had the effrontery to solicit a dance with her—in the hearing of both Cousin Rosalie and Tresham. That was low. Very low.

Who was that lady in blue?

Chapter 7

THIS WAS NOT a good idea, Edward thought. It was absolutely none of his business whom Lady Angeline Dudley danced with—in the presence of both her guardian and her chaperon. And no possible harm could come to her. The setting could scarcely be more public, and she was still very much the focus of everyone’s attention.

He did not want to be seen anywhere near her again this evening. He did not want anyone to get the wrong idea. And it would be wrong. His mother and the committee of female relatives were going to have to shift their attention to the alternate list. Better yet, they were going to have to stand back and let him choose for himself.

Eunice had just admitted that she felt a little bereft at the fact that they had released each other from that informal agreement they had made four years ago. She had been acting nobly when she released him, then, doing what she felt she ought to do. She thought he should marry someone closer to him in rank, and she thought that someone should be Lady Angeline Dudley. But even Eunice, with all her intelligent good sense, could be wrongheaded at times. She was suited to his rank. She was a lady by birth and upbringing. More important, she was suited to him. They were very similar in many ways.

The more he thought about it, the more determined he was that it was Eunice he would marry after all. He would bring her around to his way of thinking. His family might be a little disappointed, but they would not make any great fuss. They loved him. They wanted his happiness.

Inside the supper room Windrow was seating Lady Angeline at a small table. It was not well done of him. The ball was in her honor, and she surely ought to be seated at the long table. On the other hand, of course, the whole purpose of her come-out was that she find a suitably eligible husband, and everyone knew that Windrow was of an ancient, respected family and as rich as Croesus to boot.

Perhaps her relatives were all holding their collective breath and hoping no one else would join the two of them at their table.

Eunice drew him inexorably onward. They wove their way past tables beginning to fill up with chattering guests.

“Oh, here, Edward,” she said at last. “There are two empty places at this table. May we join you?”

The last words were addressed to Windrow and Lady Angeline.

It seemed to Edward that Windrow was not at all pleased—until his eyes moved past Eunice and alit upon Edward himself, that was. Then he looked deeply amused. He jumped to his feet to draw back a chair for Eunice.

“Heyward,” he said, “present me to this lovely lady, if you would be so good.”

“This is Lord Windrow, Eunice,” Edward said as she seated herself. “Miss Goddard, Windrow, Lady Sanford’s niece.”

“And now,” Lady Angeline said, smiling brightly, “I will not suffer the embarrassment of having to cover the fact that I do not remember your name, Miss Goddard. I was introduced to dozens of people this evening, almost all of them strangers, and their names went in one ear and out the other, I am afraid. Not that I am deliberately careless of other people’s identities. Miss Pratt, the last of my governesses—I had six in all—taught me that one of the essential attributes of a true lady is that she never forget a face or the name that goes with it. Even the faces and names of servants. She stressed that last point, perhaps because she was in the nature of being a servant herself and knew how often people looked at her without really seeing her at all. Her words were very wise, I am sure. But I am equally certain she never attended a ball of this size and found herself expected to remember everyone and greet them all by name the next time she saw them. So do forgive me for not remembering your name at first. I will know it now for all time.”

The woman could certainly talk, Edward thought as he seated himself. Her silence at the Rose and Crown Inn obviously had not been typical of her at all.

“Your governess’s advice was sound, Lady Angeline,” Eunice said. “But of course it is impossible to know everyone in the ton after a single brief introduction, and no one would realistically expect it of you. The important thing is always to do one’s best. It is all that is required of one in this life.”

Windrow had glanced from Eunice’s face to Edward’s and back again while she spoke. The gleam of amusement in his eyes had deepened if that were possible.

“But not in the next, Miss Goddard?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon?” She looked at him with raised eyebrows.

“In the next life,” he said, “we may relax and do somewhat less than our best?”

“In the next life, Lord Windrow,” she said, “if there is a next life, which I seriously doubt, we are presumably rewarded for having done our best here.”

“Or not,” he said. “For not having done it.”

“I beg your pardon?” she said again.

“Or we are not rewarded,” he said, “because we have not done our best. We are sent to the other place.”

“Hell?” she said. “I have very serious doubts about its existence.”

“Nevertheless,” he said, “doubts are not certainties, are they? I believe, Lady Angeline, you must continue earnestly memorizing names during the coming days so that you may avoid the risk of ending up in hell when you die.”

Lady Angeline laughed.

“How utterly absurd,” she said. “But I thank you, Miss Goddard, and I shall remember your wise words—the important thing is always to do one’s best. My best was never good enough for Miss Pratt—or any of my other governesses—with the result that I often quite deliberately did considerably less than my best. I suppose I was not an ideal pupil.”

“And they were not ideal governesses,” Eunice said. “The primary goal of any