Theresa Romain - Season for Temptation

“Damnation,” James said when he saw them, ignoring Louisa’s gasp at his unguarded language.

Pellington was hovering around Julia and the baronet as they sat on a sofa, interjecting frequent comments that were mostly ignored by the other two. Sir Stephen, wearing a simple black domino with its accompanying mask flipped up atop his head rather than over his face, was staring spellbound at Julia, holding onto her every word as if it were a gem, plying her with questions whenever her conversation wound down. Julia, for her part, was chattering away merrily to the older gentleman, darting occasional replies to Pellington and frequently shoving her slipping turban back into place atop her now-untidy hair.

“This looks much more promising,” Louisa commented in James’s ear. “Who’s that with Julia and Pellington?”

“Sir Stephen Saville,” he replied shortly, unable to keep all his annoyance out of his voice. “Widower. Childless. Lives in Surrey much of the time. Known to be on the lookout for another wife.”

“Kind?”

“Yes, if you like stuffiness.”

“Intelligent?” Louisa asked, ignoring his editorial comment.

“Yes, I suppose. We’re looking together at a parcel of land near his estate; I rather thought I could learn something about hog farming from him,” James admitted.

“Really,” said Louisa, and James could almost hear the wheels turning in her head. “So, financially solvent, too.”

“Yes,” James reluctantly admitted. “He is.”

“Well, then, I think our search is over. Probably the best thing you or I can do is leave them alone,” she decided.

“I want to hear what they’re saying,” James protested, and tugged Louisa’s arm. He couldn’t help himself. What was Julia saying that had the older man so transfixed?

“A kitchenmaid or scullery maid only wants a bit of kindness,” she was telling the baronet at the moment they drew closer. “I do understand that the poor creatures can tend to be skittish, but a housekeeper or cook who shouts will only make matters worse. Why, we haven’t had a single broken dish since we gave the cook a raise in wages and added an extra scullery maid at Stonemeadows. The cook is so much happier now, and the maids are, too.”

All right, James thought with relief; so at least it was hardly romantic.

Sir Stephen, however, reacted as warmly as if Julia had stripped off her clothes right in front of him. (There was another of those thoughts he ought not to be having, James reminded himself; not even when thinking in similes.) More warmly, in fact, considering the man’s well-known sense of propriety.

“Really?” the baronet replied, astounded. “So you take quite an interest in the staffing of a household, then?” He looked at Julia as if she were delicious, and he were starving. (There, nothing improper about that simile, James thought to himself.)

Unable to help himself, he cleared his throat loudly to draw their attention to his presence, ignoring another of Louisa’s discreet stomps on his foot.

Julia turned at once, and beamed at him. “Hello there,” she said. “I wondered where you’d got to. Have you two met Sir Stephen Saville?”

“Indeed, I have had the honor of long acquaintance with his lordship,” the baronet explained, standing to acknowledge the arrival of the domino-clad viscount and Helen of Troy.

James took his cue to present Louisa, who responded to her introduction to Sir Stephen with more warmth than James had almost ever seen her display. She was almost. . effusive.

Lady Charissa Bradleigh bounced up just then, saving James from having to decide how to respond to what seemed to him a horribly obvious attempt on Louisa’s part to throw Julia together with a man who was patently much too old for her, and much too dull. Even if he did, technically, have all the qualities she was looking for in a husband — well, damn it, the fellow simply wasn’t right for her.

Charissa demanded all their attention at once. “Oh, do come,” she gasped, without greeting or preface. “Lord Xavier has promised that we may have dancing, and that there will be a waltz!”

In fact, couples were already beginning to trickle into formation for a country dance, right there in Lord Xavier’s drawing room. James sighed with annoyance; this was just perfect. Sir Stephen would ask Julia to dance, and his regard would be absolutely cemented once he had her all to himself for another half hour. Any man’s would be.

His sigh drew Charissa’s large gray eyes to him. “Ah, Lord Matheson!” she burbled brightly. “Don’t you intend to dance?” She batted her eyelashes at him with what he supposed was meant to be appealing flirtatiousness.

“Yes, of course,” he said hurriedly, with a speaking look to Louisa. Without a word, she accepted his hand, and he led her to the bottom of the forming row of couples.

“Thank you for that,” he said in a low tone as they waited for the dance to begin. Sure enough, Julia and Sir Stephen were right behind them, followed by the determined young Lady Charissa dragging a cheerfully protesting Freddie Pellington by the elbow.

“For what?” she asked, puzzled.

“Coming to dance with me,” he prompted. “Getting me away from. . ah, you know,” he indicated Charissa with an incline of the head. He didn’t add, but thought to himself, that perhaps he did owe the energetic earl’s daughter a debt of gratitude for interrupting the world’s coziest conversation between Julia and Sir Boring. Sir Much Too Old for Her. Sir Stick in the Mud.

The fact that such thoughts were beneath the dignity of a grown man, and a viscount no less, did nothing to temper his desire to boot the baronet out of Lord Xavier’s house.

Louisa replied to his thankful admission with a quiet smile. “Isn’t it my duty to follow where you lead?” she replied wryly.

And before he even tried to wrap his head around what that might mean, the music began, and the dance separated them.

The night ended late, with much more dancing followed by a spirited and not precisely proper game of charades. Lord Xavier had apparently determined all the clues with the help of several other eager young gentlemen, because the company found itself acting out “Madame de Pompadour,” “Mrs. Fitzherbert,” “Nell Gwyn,” and a series of other royal mistresses. Lord Xavier’s eyes glittered with amusement at the young ladies, especially, as they attempted to create a tableau that would reveal the answer without compromising propriety.

James thought this not quite well done of the man, but had to admit that he himself seemed to be the only gentleman, besides Sir Stephen, of course, not laughing uproariously and having an excellent time. Good Lord, he had never expected to be in company with Sir Tedious. Maybe he really was sobering up now that he was an engaged man.

Thinking of his engagement, as his party began hunting for Lady Irving in preparation for their departure at the end of the night, he had the uncomfortable feeling that he might not have done right by Louisa on this evening. She had asked him for his help, and he had given it only grudgingly. She hadn’t seemed to think his behavior odd, but he wondered if she wondered why he’d acted that way.

Honestly, he wondered why as well. Why couldn’t he just let Julia go, to find a kind, intelligent, et cetera, et cetera man who would treat her well, as she deserved? Didn’t she deserve to be as happy as Louisa?

Ah, as happy as Louisa.

Now how happy was that? He couldn’t help but wonder, as he watched her calm, expressionless face, her eyes searching the crowd in the drawing room for her aunt’s familiar bobbing ostrich plumes. He had absolutely no idea how happy she was. But he certainly hadn’t helped matters with his reluctance to fall in with her husband-finding scheme. He hoped she wouldn’t look too deeply into his reasons, and he would try not to either.

Lady Irving made her appearance from a second side salon, followed by several other card players. She was holding the corner of her black domino in front of her to create a makeshift pouch for her winnings.

“Forgot my blasted reticule,” she explained. “Look what I’ve won, though; I skinned Sylvia Alleyneham alive tonight. The poor woman’s never had a head for whist,” she added gleefully.

“Aunt,” Julia said sweetly, coming up next to James, “isn’t it vulgar to display your winnings like that?”

James grinned, unable to resist Lady Irving’s nonplussed expression. After a frozen moment, she barked, “For you it would be. Don’t you worry about me, though, young miss. I’d like to see the person who would call me vulgar.”

“I think you just did,” James replied. Her ladyship’s annoyed harrumph of reply was more beautiful in his ears than any music could have been.

That was why he didn’t want to introduce Julia around. Fulfill her list of requirements though he might, Sir Stephen would never, never appreciate her sense of humor.

Not like he did.

Damnation, there was another one of those thoughts.

Louisa sat musing in the library, heavy-eyed from lack of sleep, the morning after the masquerade. It was barely eight o’clock, and the party had only returned to the Grosvenor Square address five hours before. It was so early, in fact, that the tentative winter sun barely cast any light into the room. Louisa hadn’t bothered to ring for a fire to be lit, so the room was dim and quite cold.

She didn’t mind the weak light, and she hardly noticed the room’s temperature. She sat in a huddle on her aunt’s swooping Grecian sofa, lost in thought. She had, she realized, a great many things to think about.

First and foremost, she was beginning to see that Julia didn’t need her here, after all. Perhaps she hadn’t given her sister enough credit. Perhaps she’d drawn too much upon her own miserable experience in London and assumed that Julia’s would be the same.

But good heavens, Julia hadn’t needed her help with anything. She’d gotten the most desirable modiste in town to dress her, without even trying; she’d made friends, even if they were a bit silly; she’d seen more of London already than Louisa had seen in her entire season.

And now, it seemed, she had a kind, handsome, intelligent, reliable, and financially solvent man — a man who was everything she said she wanted — displaying honorable interest in her. It was why Julia had come to London, to find such a man, and the season hadn’t even begun.

So much for Julia. What about James, then? Louisa mused, curling herself into a smaller ball as she considered the other person for whom she had come to London.

Well, what about him? She had told Julia that courtship was a matter of logic, so she might as well be logical about this.

James was unfailingly gentlemanly to her. She saw him often. He liked her family quite a bit, and he certainly gave their aunt tit for tat, for which Louisa thought Lady Irving rather admired him.

His family had become more polite as well; Louisa even had a standing weekly engagement to take tea with them. The invitation had been extended by his sister, who was thawing out noticeably. Given time, Louisa thought, she and Gloria might come to be friends.

But time — time was the problem. How much time did she have to give? Or want to give, for that matter? How much time would she give herself to feel right about her decision to marry James? Was she ready to give a lifetime?

Families aside — how did she and James really feel about each other?

She tried to curl up even more tightly, but she had reached the limits of how small she could make her long form. She wasn’t ready to think about the answers to those questions, especially not the last. She might read a lot of novels, but she had always tried to be a sensible girl, and it would hardly be sensible to jeopardize her standing as one of the luckiest girls of last year’s season.

If she just wasn’t so tired, maybe everything would make more sense. And so, very sensibly, she went back upstairs to her bedchamber, and did her utmost to fall asleep, until she heard others moving about the house and could get up again.

Naturally, Sir Stephen called later that day, bearing a bunch of snowdrops “as fresh and dainty as are you, Miss Herington, if you’ll permit my saying so.”

Julia was willing to permit this statement, although it seemed a bit. . well, flowery, to be honest. But she couldn’t help being flattered; she’d never had a man give her flowers before.