Page 4 of Everything But the Earl
Grace stifled a laugh. The Duke of Swynford had entered into ascandalous marriage the year before, with a woman from a family of dubious repute, and all society seemed to care about was that a duke had been taken off the market. By all accounts, it was a love match, and Grace did not begrudge them their happiness, although she supposed they did serve as an example to Swynford’s friends.
Caernarfon grinned. “I shall take the lovely Lady Grace on a swift loop around the ballroom and tell my mother I tried to charm her, but she could not be charmed.”
“I am standing right here,” said Grace. “I am onto your scheme now.”
“Indeed.” Caernarfon held out his arm.
So, with one last look back at Beresford—who shrugged—Grace let Caernarfon lead her into the ballroom.
*
As a waltzbegan, Owen took Grace Midwood into his arms and stepped into the dance. He looked around, trying to make sure people were looking.
The only family Owen had, other than his mother, was his married sister, and she was tucked away with her husband at their British country estate. He felt no particular pressure to marry, but he wanted to go through the motions to keep the ladies of thetonaway.
Grace was pretty. Well, more than pretty. She had a round face with cheeks that went rosy when she smiled, which she did a lot of the time. Her curly blond hair, currently arranged neatly around the crown of her head, took on reddish hues in the right lighting that reminded him of the lick of a flame. She wore an emerald green gown now that hugged her bosom in a tremendously appealing way and skimmed down the rest of her body, implying a tantalizingly curvy figure.
So, yes, fine, Owen found Grace very attractive.
But now was not the time for him to be entranced by a woman. Upon his father’s death, Owen had taken his seat in the House of Lords, and the country currently seemed under assault. Well, perhaps not literally; the wars with Napoleon had ended, after all. But now angry textile workers were protesting being replaced by machines by destroying those same machines, and many in Parliament worried a workers’ uprising was inevitable. Whether the uprising was containable or whether it would become a fully armed insurrection was an open question. Owen was not entirely sure Parliament could do much, but he felt his place was in his seat. He preferred London to his home in Wales anyway.
“You seem to have much on your mind, my lord,” said Grace.
“Please call me Owen. And yes, just a spot of bother I am thinking about. Government business, you see.”
“Ah, yes, I’ve heard you have taken up your seat in Parliament.”
“I never intended to, but then my father left us, so I decided to try it, and it turns out I am well-suited to the work.”
They danced together silently for a moment, and Owen became acutely aware of the woman in his arms. She smelled vaguely of roses and citrus, her blond hair was like sunshine, and though he could feel through her gown that she wore stays that likely manufactured some of her curves, there were some things one could not fake. He had a few inches on her height, and her bosom pressed tantalizingly against him as they danced. She had a light step as well, masterfully keeping pace with the music while letting him lead her around the floor.
Owen had no interest in marrying, and thus had no interest in a young miss such as Grace Midwood. Oh, why could she not be a widow? If she’d been a more experienced woman, he would have bent his head and whispered something altogether inappropriate, she would have giggled, and then he would have escorted her to a more private location.
Lord, what was he even thinking?
The waltz ended, but Owen was, for reasons he could not quite articulate, reluctant to let Lady Grace leave his side. He held up his arm and said, “Can I find you a refreshment?”
She tilted her head as if she did not understand his meaning and said, “All right.”
They traversed the ballroom slowly, the crush of people blocking much of their path. “How do you know Beresford?” he asked.
“We were betrothed as children. Our fathers were schoolmates.”
That brought him up short. “You andBeresfordare betrothed?”
“In name only. Neither of us wishes to follow through with the betrothal, and in truth, until a few weeks ago, I thought nearly everyone had forgotten about it.”
Well, that made a certain amount of sense. “I have gotten to know Beresford some in the last year and can guess at his reasons for not wanting to marry, but I am curious about yours. Beresford is handsome, no? His costume is somewhat ridiculous, if you ask me, but he is rather wealthy. I’m sure many women desire him.”
“He loves another.”
Owen nodded. He had long suspected that Beresford had been carrying on an affair with Lark, the Earl of Waring; they weren’t very subtle, though neither had confessed aloud to Owen, who was still not entirely sure what to make of it.
“When Beresford came upon us, I was telling my friend, Lady Penelope, that I do not wish to marry because…”
It was rare to encounter a woman who did not wish to secure her own future through marriage, and Owen found he was curious about Lady Grace. “You have piqued my curiosity. Please tell me your reasoning.”
Grace frowned. “Well, if you must know, I am an artist. I also hate the city. If I had unlimited means, I’d move to a home in the country where I could have an artist’s studio and where the pollution and noise from the city would not bother me. Did you know that the dirt andsoot in London can affect the purity of clay?”
