Page 37 of When the Viscount Seduces
The coach came to a stop, and shortly, the door opened. Somerton stepped down and helped Gwen out. She then realized the worst part of the veil—she wasn’t able to see him very well. His sultry gaze and brilliant smile were blurred, and she couldn’t appreciate how handsome he looked in his black suit of clothing.
They walked to the door and were admitted into the stately terrace by a stiff butler. Gwen’s pulse pounded so loudly, she could hear the echo in her ears. She took a deep breath and tried not to clutch Somerton so tightly.
“All right?” he murmured.
“Just excited,” she whispered back. “And nervous.”
The butler instructed them to go upstairs to the drawing room. Gwen went back to squeezing Somerton’s arm as they started up the stairs. “Don’t let me trip,” she said, though if she angled her head down just right, she could see the stairs beneath the hem of the veil.
“I’ve got you,” he assured her, putting his other hand over hers where she gripped his sleeve.
When they reached the top of the stairs, Gwen breathed a sigh of relief. Looking back over her shoulder, she decided going down would be trickier.
“Here we go,” Somerton said softly as they approached the doorway to the drawing room.
Gwen made out the figure of a woman standing just inside. She had gray hair adorned with a cluster of feathers and wore a heavy, jeweled necklace.
“Welcome,” the woman, who must be their hostess, Mrs. Davenport, said. “I assume you are Lord Somerton and his great-aunt?”
“Indeed we are.” Somerton bowed. “I do appreciate you including us this evening. Allow me to present my beloved great-aunt, Miss Beatrice Villiers. She is visiting from the country and was eager to attend a literary salon.”
“We are always delighted to welcome like-minded people with a passion for literature.” Mrs. Davenport seemed to focus on Gwen, but Gwen couldn’t be sure. “Is it possible you attended one of the original Bluestocking Society salons as a young lady?”
“I did not,” Gwen replied in her fake voice, hoping she sounded believable. She would not be able to discern anyone’s reactions through the thick veil. “This is my first visit to London.”
“Oh! Then I am glad you were able to come. Let me introduce you to everyone.” Mrs. Davenport turned—that much Gwen could see—and went into the room.
Thankfully, Somerton escorted her. If she had to let go of him, she worried there might be disaster. They spent the next quarter hour meeting everyone—there were writers, booksellers, a painter, and a small contingent from Society. In fact, there was one name that was familiar to Gwen, so she was relieved to be hidden beneath the veil.
The last person she was introduced to was Miss Josephine Harker. Gwen couldn’t tell for sure, but thought she might be close to her in age.
Mrs. Davenport moved to the center of the room and bade them all sit—there was a semicircle of chairs situated. Somerton guided Gwen to a chair and sat beside her. Gwen noted that Miss Harker sat on his other side. Mrs. Davenport introduced the evening’s featured author, Miss Helena Stainesby, a woman of middle age who’d written a collection of several stories published in theLady’s Monthly Museum.
Miss Stainesby told them about her stories, which featured women in leadership roles, such as running their own farm, a circulation library, and a gambling den. At her mention of the last one, Miss Harker chuckled, and Gwen saw Somerton look toward her. He also smiled.
When she finished discussing her works, she launched a conversation about the changing roles of women and what they might look like twenty or fifty years from now. It was an engaging topic, and Gwen listened raptly until she could no longer keep quiet. Raising her hand to speak, she said she hoped that one day women would be admitted to universities so they could learn at the same level as men since they were just as intelligent.
This was met with agreement, and the conversation veered toward education. Gwen had no idea how much time elapsed, but Mrs. Davenport announced they would take a respite for refreshment. “Is there no alcohol as with the original Blue Stockings Society meetings?” she asked Somerton in a low voice.
“I don’t know,” he responded. “Would you like wine if it’s available?”
“I’d best not drink or eat anything with this veil.” She envisioned any number of mishaps as she tried to put the food or drink to her mouth while not dislodging the veil. “But you must help yourself. I’m just going to stand for a moment.”
He rose with her. “I’ll be right back.”
Gwen watched him walk away through the haze of her veil. Smiling, she looked about the room. How she would love to attend every week. Perhaps Tamsin could garner an invitation and bring Gwen as her guest. Then, Gwen wouldn’t have to wear a veil.
Miss Stainesby was standing nearby. Though Gwen was hesitant to move, she was also eager to tell the woman how much she admired her and that she looked forward to reading her stories.
It was only a short walk, perhaps five or six shuffling older-woman steps. Surely she could make it that far without assistance.
Two steps in, she caught her foot on the leg of a chair and wobbled. The chair was pushed up against a piece of furniture—a table or a cupboard, Gwen couldn’t exactly tell—and of course that wobbled too. Struggling to keep her balance, she stepped around the chair and gripped the back of the chair, sweeping her body around to face the center of the room. There! She’d done it.
But now she was stuck, as she ought not chance moving again.
“Bloody hell, you’re on fire!”
Gwen wasn’t sure who’d said that, but she immediately smelled something burning. Then she was bathed in liquid from the top of her head and down her back. “What the devil?”
