Love and the Single Heiress

love of antiquities. A good combination as far as Philip and I are concerned.”

She smiled, and Andrew’s bream hitched. Damn but she was lovely. The entire thread of their conversation disintegrated from his mind as he continued to look at her. Finally his inner voice coughed to life. Cease gawking at her and speak, you nodcock. Before Lord What’s-His-Name comes back, no doubt bearing a huge bouquet and spouting sonnets.

He cleared his throat. “And how is your son, Lady Catherine?”

A combination of pride and sadness flitted across her face. “Spencer’s overall health is fine, thank you, but his foot and leg do pain him.”

“He did not travel with you to London?”

“No.” Her gaze flicked over the assembled guests, and her expression chilled. “He dislikes traveling, and he especially dislikes London, a sentiment I equally share. Nor is he fond of parties. If not for my father’s birthday celebration, I would not have ventured to Town. I plan to depart for Little Longstone directly after breakfast tomorrow.”

Disappointment coursed through him. He’d hoped she might remain in London at least a few days, to afford him the opportunity to spend time with her. Invite her to the opera. Show her the progress on the museum. Ride in Hyde Park and stroll through Vauxhall. Damn it all, how was he to launch his campaign to court the woman if she insisted on hiding out in the country? Clearly a visit to Little Longstone was in order, yet as she hadn’t issued him an invitation, he’d have to think up some plausible excuse to venture there. But in the meanwhile, he needed to stop wasting precious time and make the most of his present opportunity. The strains of a waltz floated on the air, and his entire body quickened at the prospect of dancing with her, of holding her in his arms for the first time.

Just as he opened his mouth to ask her to dance, she leaned closer, and whispered, “Oh, dear. Look at that. He’s going about it all wrong.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She nodded toward the punch bowl. “Lord Nordnick. He’s trying to entice Lady Ophelia, and he’s making a complete muck of it.”

Andrew turned his attention to the couple standing next to the ornate silver punch bowl. An eager-looking young man, presumably Lord Nordnick, was handing an attractive young lady, presumably Lady Ophelia, a cup of punch.

“Er, there is a wrong way to hand a woman a beverage?” Andrew asked.

“He is not merely handing her a drink, Mr. Stanton. He is courting her. And doing a very poor job of it, I’m afraid.”

Andrew studied the couple for several more seconds, then shook his head in bewilderment. “I don’t see anything wrong.”

She leaned a fraction closer. The intoxicating scent of flowers filled his head, and he had to grit his teeth to remained focused on her words. “Note his overeager manner.”

“Overeager? ‘Tis clear he is smitten and wishes to please her. Surely you don’t think he should have allowed Lady Ophelia to fetch her own punch?”

“No, but he clearly didn’t ask her preference. From her expression it is obvious that Lady Ophelia did not desire a glass of punch-no doubt because he’d already handed her one not five minutes ago.”

“Perhaps Lord Nordnick is merely nervous. I believe it is common for sanity to flee a man’s head when he’s in the company of a lady he finds attractive.”

She made a tsking sound. “That is indeed unfortunate. Observe how bored she clearly is with his inept attentions.”

Hmmm. Lady Ophelia did indeed look bored. Blast. When had courting become so bloody complicated? Hoping he sounded like a coconspirator rather than an information seeker, he asked, “What should Lord Nordnick do?”

“He should shower her with romance. Find out her favorite flower. Her favorite food.”

“So he should send her roses and confections?”

“As your friend, Mr. Stanton, I must point out that that is a sadly typical male assumption. Perhaps Lady Ophelia prefers pork chops to confections. And how do you know her favorite flower is a rose?”

“As your friend, Lady Catherine, I must point out that it would be very odd for a suitor to come calling with a gift box filled with pork chops. And don’t all women love roses?”

“I couldn’t say. I like them. However, they aren’t my favorite.”

“And what is?”

“Dicentra spectabilis.”

“I fear Latin is not my strong suit.”

“You see?”

“Actually, no-”

“That’s but yet another problem with Lord Nordnick’s unoriginal methods. He should recite something romantic to her in another language. But I digress. Dicentra spectabilis means ‘bleeding heart.’ ”

He pulled his gaze from the couple and turned his head to stare at her. “Something called bleeding heart is your favorite flower? That hardly rings of romance.”

“Nevertheless, it is my favorite, and that’s what makes it romantic. I happen to know that Lady Ophelia is especially fond of tulips. But do you suppose Lord Nordnick will bother to discover that? I think not. Based on his fetching of numerous glasses of unwanted punch, I’m certain he’ll send Lady Ophelia roses because that’s what he thinks she should like. And because of that, he is doomed to failure.”

“All because he fetched punch and would send the wrong flowers?” Andrew turned back to the couple, and a wave of pity for Lord Nordnick engulfed him. Poor bastard. He made a mental note to pass along the tulip information to the hapless fellow. In these perilous courting endeavors, men needed to stick together.

“Perhaps such clumsy attempts would have gained a lady’s favor in the past, but no longer. Today’s Modern Woman prefers a gentleman who takes into consideration her preferences, as opposed to a gentleman who arrogantly believes he knows what is best for her.”

Andrew chuckled. “Today’s Modern Woman? That sounds like something out of that ridiculous Ladies’ Guide everyone is talking about.”

“Why do you say ‘ridiculous’?”

“Hmm, yes, perhaps that was a poor choice of word. ‘Scandalous, appalling, trash-filled balderdash’ is closer to what I meant.”

Andrew studied the couple for several more seconds, trying to decipher the apparently misguided Lord Nornick’s errors so as not to make them himself, but in truth he couldn’t figure out what the man was doing wrong. He was being polite and attentive-two strategies Andrew himself had deemed important in his own wooing campaign.

He turned back toward Lady Catherine. “I’m afraid I don’t see-”

His words cut off when he noted she was regarding him with raised brows and a noticeably cool expression. “Is something amiss?”

“I wasn’t aware you’d read A Ladies‘ Guide to the Pursuit of Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment, Mr. Stanton.”

“Me? A ladies‘ guide?” He chuckled, torn whether he was more astonished or amused by her words. “Of course I haven’t read it.”

“Then how can you possibly call it ‘scandalous, appalling, trash-filled balderdash’?”

“I don’t need to read the actual words to know the content. That Guide has become the main topic of conversation in the city.” He smiled, but her expression did not change. “As you’ve spent the past two months in Little Longstone, you couldn’t know the stir that book has caused with the nonsensical ideas put forth by the author. You’ve only to listen to the gentlemen in this very room to realize that not only is the book filled with idiotic notions, but apparently it is poorly written as well. Charles Brightmore is a renegade, and possesses little, if any, literary talent.”

Twin flags of color rose on her cheeks, and her narrowed gaze grew positively frosty. Warning bells rang in