‘You’re an ass.’
‘So you have said—time and again,’ Hart replied with amusement. ‘Shall we play some cards? I have a hunting box in Scotland that Lord Middlebury must be missing. I am feeling generous and may lose it to him.’
* * *
Helena stepped to the edge of the dance floor and studied the woman who had captured Lyonsdale’s attention. Could this be the woman who had somehow persuaded Lyonsdale to waltz with her at Almack’s?
Elizabeth, the Duchess of Skeffington, approached her side. ‘I am amazed we are listening to a quartet this evening. And the wine is positively insipid. It appears, Helena, that the Whitfields are not as prosperous as they once were. I would not be surprised if young Whitfield is hunting an heiress this very night.’
When Helena made no reply, her friend continued. ‘That is a lovely gown she is wearing. I believe by the cut it’s French. It certainly cannot be American-made.’
Helena shifted her gaze. ‘To whom are you referring, Lizzy?’
‘Oh, forgive me. I thought you were watching Miss Vandenberg—the woman dancing with Mr Armstrong.’
‘Why would I concern myself with someone dancing with a mere third son?’
‘Because she is the woman Lyonsdale waltzed with at Almack’s. I was watching them that night. He appeared quite taken with her. I assumed you had heard. It was on everyone’s lips the next day.’
Of course she had heard about his waltz. She paid attention to every bit of gossip in the papers. One never knew when it might be used to one’s advantage. However, Lyonsdale had danced with the woman only once, and she had assumed it was for political reasons.
‘You never said anything to me.’
‘As I said, I assumed you had already heard. You know how much I loathe gossip. It was astonishing to see, though. He appeared to be smiling that night. I don’t believe I have ever seen him do so with a woman.’
The American was still turning about the floor in her waltz. Her hair was the colour of straw, and her lips were too thin. The gown she wore covered a form that did not possess breasts or hips that would bring a man to his knees.
‘Who is she?’ Helena asked her friend.
Lizzy’s eyes brightened. ‘She is the daughter of Mr Peter Vandenberg, the American author who is here on diplomatic affairs. One would think London was full of bluestockings, with all the talk of his book.’
They stood in silence, each watching Miss Vandenberg.
‘It’s fascinating,’ Lizzy continued, ‘that when Lyonsdale chose to waltz it was with an American. That’s rather...humbling.’ Lizzy eyed Helena over her fan. ‘I’ve not witnessed you and Lyonsdale conversing tonight.’
An unwelcome flush crept up Helena’s neck and she forced herself to appear relaxed. Was it possible that he had ended their affair because of a provincial colonial? What did it say about her that he had replaced her with an American? She stole a glance at the men and women standing around them. Were they discussing it behind their fans and casting judgement?
‘Surely you haven’t been watching him all evening,’ she said to Lizzy, pushing her nails further into her gloved fist.
She needed to ensure no attachment was forming between Lyonsdale and the American woman before she found herself the subject of gossip in the papers for her smug brother to gloat over.
For a ball consisting of weak beverages and a poor choice in musicians, Katrina found there was quite a crush. Apparently the Whitfield name meant something to the ton. She excused herself from Sarah and Mrs Forrester to find a bit of a reprieve in the ladies’ retiring room. When she crossed the threshold, she was relieved to find the delicate gilded chairs were empty and the sole occupant was a maid, who remained by the door.
Walking towards a wall hung with mirrors, Katrina peered at her reflection. She had a rosy glow, which sadly was the result of heat and not from the joy of dancing with her various partners. They hadn’t exactly been horrible partners. They just weren’t Julian. If she had been dancing with him her glow might have been from an amusing conversation—or from the way her body seemed to catch fire whenever he was near.
She missed him. She assumed he was keeping his distance so as not to cause speculation. It was an honourable action, but she didn’t have to like it. How she wished he would ask her to dance. Then she could listen to that amusing deep voice that warmed her like a cup of chocolate.
Katrina was so absorbed in her thoughts that she almost didn’t notice a woman in a Pomona-green silk gown walk up beside her. She was stunning, with perfect delicate features and a thick head of dark hair. The woman studied her own reflection and adjusted the curls near her temples before shifting her grey eyes to Katrina.
‘Aren’t you that American woman?’
Would there be one ball, one fête she would attend where she wouldn’t have to face at least one ignorant comment about Americans?
Katrina held back a sigh, anticipating one of those conversations. ‘There are a few Americans in London. Which one do you believe me to be?’
‘The author’s daughter,’ the woman replied, raising her chin.
‘By author, do you mean Peter Vandenberg? If so, I am indeed his daughter.’
The woman eyed Katrina critically, from her slippers to her hair. Did she not realise Katrina could see her?
‘And who might you be?’ Katrina asked.
‘Oh, I am Lady Wentworth. I am a very dear friend of the Duke of Lyonsdale. I understand you danced with him recently at Almack’s?’
That statement had not been uttered by chance. Katrina’s muscles tightened like a bowstring. ‘His Grace and I did share a dance.’
‘He is a handsome man, is he not?’
‘I suppose.’
If one liked men who had wavy dark hair, moss-green eyes, chiselled features, and cut a fine form.
Lady Wentworth let out a soft, disgustingly lovely laugh. ‘Surely you agree? It’s a pity you’re American, and therefore could never become his duchess. I can assure you whoever he does marry will be quite fortunate.’
Her lips rose in a sly smile. She leaned close to Katrina’s ear, and her hot breath scorched her neck.
‘He knows how to do delicious things to make a woman quiver with need.’
She stepped back, looked Katrina directly in the eye, and cocked an arrogant brow. Katrina’s stomach rolled and pitched. She would not give this horrid woman the satisfaction of knowing how her words had filled Katrina with a sense of betrayal. Could this be why Julian had not called on her?
After weeks of pretending that English aristocrats didn’t bore her to sleep, Katrina had become quite adept at hiding her emotions. She smiled sweetly back at the witch beside her. ‘One would imagine that since he is neither married nor publicly displaying a mistress he has yet to find a woman who makes him feel the same in return.’
There—that felt better.
Katrina forced her lips into the brightest smile. ‘Do enjoy your evening, Lady Wentworth.’
As if she didn’t have a care in the world, Katrina turned and breezed out of the room. Unfortunately the reality was that her world had just become a colder place. She would only be in London for