Throat clearing and several harrumphs followed this announcement, then the scuffle of shoes upon the parquet floor as the group moved away.
Catherine leaned against the oak-paneled wall and drew a shaky breath, pressing her hands to her midsection. Slipping behind the screen in search of a moment of sanctuary from the hordes of party guests had taken a very unexpected turn. All she’d wanted was to avoid the approaching Lords Avenbury and Ferrymouth, both of whom had dogged her footsteps since the moment she’d arrived at her father’s birthday party and separately attempted to maneuver her into a tкte-а-tкte. Lords Avenbury and Ferrymouth had been followed closely by Sir Percy Whitenall and several others whose names escaped her, all of whom bore unmistakable-and unwanted-gleams of interest in their eyes. Good heavens, her official mourning period for her husband had ended only days ago. She could almost hear her dear friend Genevieve’s voice warning her just last week, The men will come out of every nook and crevice. Such is the fate of a single heiress.
Damnation, she wasn’t single-she was a widow. With a nearly grown child. She had not believed she would generate such male… enthusiasm so quickly. If she’d suspected, she might well have been tempted to continue wearing her widow’s weeds.
Yet by avoiding her unexpected suitors, she’d inadvertently eavesdropped upon a conversation far more disturbing than the male attention. Lord Markingworth’s angry words echoed through her mind. The possibility that Charles Brightmore is a woman… if it’s true, it would be the scandal of the century.
What had he said that she’d missed? And what of this ruthless investigator hired to ferret out the details? Who was he? And how close was he to discovering the truth?
… I’m going to find out who this person is, then kill him-or her. Slowly.
A foreboding chill snaked down her spine. Good Lord, what had she done?
Chapter 2
Today’s Modern Woman should know that a gentleman hoping to entice her will employ one of two methods: either a straightforward, direct approach, or a more subtle, gentle wooing. Sadly, as with most matters, few gentlemen consider which method the lady might actually prefer-until it’s too late.
A Ladies’ Guide to the Pursuit of
Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment
by Charles Brightmore
Tonight he would begin his subtle, gentle wooing.
Andrew Stanton stood in a shadowed corner of Lord Ravensly’s elegant drawing room, feeling very much the way he imagined a soldier on the brink of battle might feel-anxious, focused, and very much praying for a hopeful outcome.
His gaze skimmed restlessly over the formally attired guests. Lavishly gowned and bejeweled ladies swirled around the dance floor in the arms of their perfectly turned-out escorts to the lilting strains of the string trio.
But none of the waltzing ladies was the one he sought. Where was Lady Catherine?
He sipped his brandy, his fingers clenched around the cut glass snifter in an attempt to stem the urge to toss back the potent drink in a single gulp. Damn it all, he hadn’t felt this nervous and unsettled since… never. Well, not counting the handful of times over the past fourteen months he’d spent in Lady Catherine’s company. Ridiculous how the mere thought of the woman, how simply being in the same room with her affected his ability to breathe straight and think properly… er, think straight and breathe properly.
His efforts to seek out Lady Catherine this evening had already been interrupted three times by people with whom he had no desire to speak. He feared one more such interruption would cause him to grind his teeth down to stubs.
Again he scanned the room, and his jaw tightened. Blast. After being forced to wait for what felt like an eternity finally to court her, why couldn’t Lady Catherine-albeit unknowingly-at least soothe his anxiety by showing herself?
The hum of conversation surrounded him, marked by peals of laughter and the chime of fine crystal goblet rims touching in congratulatory toasts. Prisms of light reflected off the highly polished parquet floor from the dozens of candles glowing in the sparkling crystal chandeliers, casting the room in a warm, golden glow. Over one hundred of Society’s finest had turned out for Lord Ravensly’s sixtieth birthday party. Society’s finest and… me.
He reached up and tugged at his carefully tied cravat. “Damned uncomfortable neckwear,” he muttered. Whoever had invented the constraining blight on fashion should be tossed in the Thames. Although his expertly tailored formal black cutaway rivaled that of any noble gentleman in the room, part of him still felt like a weed amongst the hothouse flowers. Uncomfortable. Out of his element. And painfully aware that he stood far outside the lofty social strata in which he currently found himself- certainly much further than anyone present would ever have expected. His long-standing friendship with Lord Ravensly’s son Philip, and growing friendship with Lord Ravensly himself, as well as Lady Catherine, had secured Andrew an invitation to this evening’s elegant birthday celebration. Too bad Philip himself wasn’t here. With Meredith soon to give birth, Philip hadn’t wanted to venture far from his wife’s side.
Although perhaps it was just as well that Philip wasn’t in attendance. When he had given Andrew his blessing to court Lady Catherine, he’d warned Andrew that his sister wouldn’t be eager to marry again, given her disastrous first marriage. The last thing Andrew needed was to have Philip nearby, muttering words of doom.
He drew a deep breath and forced himself to focus on the positive. His frustrating failure to locate Lady Catherine in the crowd had afforded him the opportunity to converse with numerous investors who had already committed funds to Andrew and Philip’s museum venture. Lords Avenbury and Ferrymouth were eager to know how things were progressing, as were Lords Markingworth, Whitly, and Carweather, all of whom had invested funds. Mrs. Warrenfield appeared anxious to invest a healthy amount, as did Lord Kingsly. Lord Borthrasher who’d already made a sizable investment, seemed interested in investing more. After speaking with them, Andrew had also made some discreet inquiries regarding the matter he’d recently been commissioned to look into.
But with the business talk now completed, he’d retreated to this quiet corner to garner his thoughts, much as he did before preparing for a pugilistic bout at Gentleman Jackson’s Emporium. His gaze continued to pan over the guests, halting abruptly when he caught sight of Lady Catherine, exiting from behind an Oriental silk screen near the French doors.
He stilled at the sight of her bronze gown. Every time he’d seen her during the past year, her widow’s weeds had engulfed her like a dark, heavy rain cloud. Now officially out of mourning, she resembled a golden bronze sun setting over the Nile, gilding the landscape with slanting rays of warmth.
She paused to exchange a few words with a gentleman, and Andrew’s avid gaze noted the way the vivid material of her gown contrasted with her pale shoulders and complemented her shiny chestnut curls gathered into a Grecian knot. The becoming coiffure left the vulnerable curve of her nape bare…
He blew out a long breath and raked his free hand through his hair. How many times had he imagined skimming his fingers, his mouth, over that soft, silky skin? More than he cared to admit. She was all things lovely and good. A perfect lady. Indeed, she was perfect in every way.
He knew damn well he wasn’t good enough for her. In spite of his financial successes, socially he felt like a beggar with his nose pressed to the glass at the confectioner’s shop. But neither his mind nor his common sense were in charge any longer. She was free. And while he cherished the platonic relationship that had blossomed between them over the past fourteen months, his feelings ran far deeper than mere friendship, and his heart would not be denied. His sullied past, her noble lineage, his lack of lineage-all be damned.