Louise M. Gouge Read Free Page A

a lively pattern of steps, weaving in and out of the lines as they moved from one end to the other.
    During the dance, conversation with the baron was impossible, for everyone had to pay attention to their own movements. So Catherine spoke with her eyes. Not as the silly, simpering girls flirted outrageously with their targeted gentlemen, but with shy glances and half smiles, as if she were thanking him for his gallant rescue. She could not fail to notice that his returning glances held a surprising amount of kindness.
    Again she thrust away such generous thoughts. This afternoon she had seen his true heart as they fenced. In the fierce glare in his gray-green eyes, she could see that he would gladly have killed her in a real duel, just as he had, in effect, murdered Papa’s reputation. Now she would use his obvious admiration to win his affection while she searched out the secrets that would destroy him and acquit Papa.
    A nagging memory surfaced. When she was a child, her governess had read her wonderful stories of heroic people in the Old Testament. While she had always imagined herself a Ruth or a Deborah, this evening the only biblical woman who came to mind was the temptress Delilah, who wheedled from Samson his deepest secret so his enemies could defeat him. For the first time in her life, she wondered whether Delilah’s actions had actually been justified.
    * * *
    Winston did not much care for dancing, but the exercise was a necessary evil for social, and therefore political, purposes. Yet for the first time in his life, he was enjoying a dance. Miss Hart kept glancing at him in the most charming way, her lovely dark brown eyes twinkling in the ballroom’s bright candlelight. Soon it was their turn to wend their way down the line, threading in and out between the other dancers. Once they successfully reached the bottom, she offered him a triumphant smirk, and he returned a little bow. Perhaps he should reconsider this matter of dancing.
    Still, the set lasted far too long. He was eager to become better acquainted with her and discover her family connections. Upon further thought, he considered that as Lady Blakemore’s companion, no doubt she was an impoverished lady of good family. No lady hired a companion of inferior birth, for such a woman would not be permitted into the drawing rooms of the aristocracy. Once Winston discovered Miss Hart’s pedigree, he would know whether or not to launch a pursuit.
    At last the music ended, and the guests applauded, then proceeded to the dining room two by two in order of precedence, led by the marchioness on the arm of a duke.
    Winston bowed to his partner. “Miss Hart, I consider myself the most fortunate of men that you will be my dinner companion this evening.” He was not experienced in flattery, but apparently he had chosen the right words, if the lady’s smile and blush of pleasure were any indication.
    “I thank you, sir.” She took his offered arm, but winced slightly when he placed his hand over her gloved one.
    He quickly withdrew. “Forgive me. Did I cause you pain?”
    Her eyes widened briefly, then she leaned close to him and whispered soberly, “If you promise not to tell anyone, I will confess that I was cruelly wounded today.”
    “What?” Winston stopped abruptly, staring down at her as rage rose in his chest. “Who would dare to harm you?” This called for swift and severe punishment. “You must permit me to call upon this person to account for his actions.”
    Now she laughed. “Do you like cats, Lord Winston?”
    For a moment, he could not grasp her meaning. Then understanding dispelled his anger. “Ah, I see. You encountered a disagreeable feline.”
    She tilted her head and smiled. Great mercy, she did have a striking smile. What would it be like to see that beautiful expression every day of his life?
    No, it was far too soon for such thoughts. He must not be drawn in by mere looks, which he often speculated had been Father’s undoing