The Secret Mistress

Eunice. She called him Edward. And she looked like—and talked like—a very sensible lady. She was also rather pretty.

Angeline had expected to dislike her heartily. But she did not.

“I hope,” Lord Heyward said as they walked across the empty ballroom floor in the direction of the French windows, “Windrow did not insult you again, Lady Angeline.”

“Oh,” she said, “he was just being silly. Though I do think he ought to have stayed away from me this evening and then sought me out more privately to offer a proper apology. I suppose it would have been worth very little, however, for he would not apologize if I were not who I am and if I were not Tresham’s sister, would he? Not that he apologized anyway. Though he did after a fashion at that inn when you blocked the doorway. That was very brave of you.”

His arm was as solid and warm as it had been earlier. He was a few inches taller than she was. He had a handsome profile. His very straight nose showed to advantage from a side view. She could smell his musky cologne again.

The air out on the terrace was deliciously cool, though not at all cold.

He had not really wanted to bring her out here, she thought. Who would have expected that she would turn out to be flirtatious? She had never had any chance to practice flirtation, or even to think of it. It was not one of the lessons Miss Pratt had taught, after all. Yet she had all but asked him to bring her here, and then, when he would have brought her just for five minutes or so until Cousin Rosalie had accepted another partner for her, she had wheedled him into offering to keep her out here for the whole of the next set—plus the five minutes or so before it started.

Oh, dear. Conscience smote her.

“You did not wish to bring me out here, did you?” she asked.

He turned his head to look at her as they began to stroll along the length of the terrace. The lighting out here was dimmer than it was in the ballroom. More romantic. It also hid her blushes. It did not hide his slight frown.

“How can I possibly answer that question?” he asked.

“You might have said a resounding of course I did,” she said. “But you would not have meant it and I would have known.”

“I am delighted to have rescued you from Windrow, at least,” he said.

“Perhaps,” she said, “it is your destiny in life to save me from Lord Windrow. Someone can write it on your tomb after you die, among all the other accolades: He repeatedly saved Lady Angeline Dudley from the evil clutches of a rake.”

Oh, and it happened again. He looked sidelong at her and his dimple appeared. Though it was more a slight crease in his cheek than a dimple. It was more manly than a dimple. And the corner of his mouth lifted.

Angeline laughed.

“I think it is a little unfair to describe Lord Windrow as evil, however,” she said. “Most rakes are not, are they? They are just overgrown boys who have not yet grown up. And yet they think themselves so manly and so irresistible to the ladies. They are silly but harmless, and one cannot help feeling rather fond of them. Not that I am fond of Lord Windrow, though I suppose I would be if he were my brother or my cousin. I adore my own brothers, but I have no illusions about them. Tresham is particularly wild, but of course he was the eldest of us, and he left home when he was sixteen after a quarrel with Papa, though neither of them would ever tell us what it was all about. He has fought two duels that I know of, both over ladies, and both times he shot into the air after being shot at. That was very noble of him, since he was almost certainly in the wrong. I was very proud of him when I heard, though it was a good thing I was far away when both duels were fought. I would have killed him if my nerves had held together long enough.”

Oh, dear, she thought, listening to her voice rattling on at a rapidly accelerating pace as though it were someone else’s, she was actually feeling nervous in an excited sort of way.

Whatever had happened to her plan to talk about books?

The orchestra members were tuning their instruments inside the ballroom again. There was a swell of voices as people returned and took their partners for the next set. Angeline would dearly have liked to be dancing it too, but given the choice she would far prefer to be where she was. More particularly, she preferred being with whom she was, even if he was making her feel nervously excited.

And even if he was silent. He had not been silent when he was out here earlier with Miss Goddard. She would wager they had been talking about some deeply intellectual subject. The trouble was that Angeline did not know of any such subjects, deep or otherwise.

“Are you going to marry Miss Goddard?” she asked abruptly.

“Marry her?” he said in astonishment. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“You call her Eunice,” she said. “She calls you Edward. I do not call you that. You do not call me Angeline.”

“I have known her for a number of years,” he said. “Her father tutored me and befriended me at Cambridge. I spent many hours at their house. She is a … a dear friend.”

A dear friend. What on earth did that mean? What would it feel like to be a man’s dear friend? To be Lord Heyward’s dear friend? To call him Edward?

She really ought to dislike Miss Goddard after all, Angeline thought.

The music began in earnest, the dancing began, and a few other couples appeared on the terrace.

“Tresham has had lamps strung from some of the trees in the garden,” she said. “It is lovely down there. Would you like to see?”

He hesitated.

“Are you sure you ought to go so far away from your chaperon?” he asked.

She almost laughed out loud.

“You brought me out here with her blessing,” she reminded him. “This is my own home.”

Perhaps he was wondering what Miss Goddard would say. But he made no further objection, and they descended the stone steps to the garden with its lawns and trees and winding paths and ornamental pool and fountain. It was not a large garden. The house was in the middle of London, after all. But it had been carefully and pleasingly set out to give the impression of space and rural quiet.

She had brushed off his bereavement earlier in order to talk about her own and what had happened to her the year after her mother died. But the loss of his brother must have had a huge impact on his life even apart from the fact that he was now obliged to attend balls and actually dance. She knew almost nothing about him.

“What happened to your brother?” she asked.

He remained silent for a moment. Perhaps he did not want to talk about it. But he did.

“He was in a curricle race,” he said. “Such sports are always inadvisable, but when they are engaged in, then all proper caution should be exercised. Maurice raced around a bend in the road with reckless incaution because Tr—, because his opponent had just overtaken him and he was determined to gain back the advantage. At least, this is what I presume was his thinking. I do not know. He died before I could ask. He collided with a large hay cart coming in the opposite direction. It is fortunate that the carter escaped without injury, considering the fact that he was entirely innocent. Maurice’s curricle was overturned and he was tossed from it. He broke his neck.”

“Oh,” she said. Ferdinand had been boasting just last week about a curricle race