“I believe the older gentleman is Mr. Alexander Wilton and the younger is Mr. Wilton’s nephew, Baron Dawson.”
“Oh.” Grace blinked.
Kate felt slightly relieved. At least Grace appeared to be aware of the problem. She should only require a small word of warning to avoid the men. “I assume your father has mentioned the family?”
“Occasionally.” Grace bit her lip. Yes, she’d heard Papa mention the baron—this baron’s grandfather. Usually it was “that bloody Dawson” followed by a detailed condemnation of the man and his family, past, present, and future. She’d made the mistake once of asking Papa why he disliked Lord Dawson so much. She’d never got a clear answer, only more curses and then tight-lipped silence.
The old baron died a year ago, shortly after Lord Oxbury. That was also when Papa decided she needed to marry John. She’d thought the impetus for his matrimonial mania had been Lord Oxbury’s demise, but now she wasn’t so sure.
“Why does Papa dislike the Wiltons so, Aunt Kate? It’s not as though they are our neighbors. As far as I know, Papa has never met the two gentlemen who are here tonight. Or is it only the old baron he detests? I’ve asked him, but he won’t say.”
Of course he wouldn’t say, Kate thought, and he especially wouldn’t tell his daughter. It was not Kate’s place to reveal Standen’s secrets—and she didn’t relish discussing her own past indiscretions, either. “It’s enough for you to know you must avoid these men.”
Grace’s brows snapped down. She looked extremely mulish—another expression she’d got from her father. “That’s ridiculous. If you can’t—or won’t—tell me what the problem is, then I’ll just have to ask Lord Dawson.” Grace lifted her left eyebrow again. “I assume he knows?”
“Ahh.” Grace wouldn’t have the temerity to ask the baron, would she? “I don’t know what Lord Dawson knows or doesn’t know. It makes no difference. It is not the sort of conversation you can have in a ballroom full of gossips.”
Grace shrugged. “Then I’ll find a more private location for my questions—the garden, perhaps.”
“No!” The last time a Wilton had escorted a Belmont into the Duke of Alvord’s garden…Kate pressed her hand to her bosom. Was her heart pounding with embarrassment or…?
Embarrassment, certainly. Definitely. Without a doubt. She had no desire to reenact that painful evening.
Though it hadn’t been painful until later, when Standen had called her into his study. Her time in the garden with Alex had been special—a cherished memory she would keep locked away in her heart forever.
But Grace must not be making any memories with the current baron. “You know you cannot go into the garden with a man.”
Grace shrugged again. Was that a spark of defiance in her eye? “Of course, I won’t do anything truly scandalous, Aunt Kate. And John won’t be swayed by silly London gossip.”
“Mr. Parker-Roth might not pay attention to London gossip, but the rest of the ton will. Do you wish to have your Season end before it begins?”
“I wish to find out what this secret is that you and Papa have been keeping from me.”
“Grace, I—”
Two women came into the retiring room.
“…and then did you see how Lady Charlotte glared at the Colonial?” the short, round one said. “I never—oh!” She stopped and stared at Kate. Her eyes widened. “Is that…can it be…Lady Kate Belmont? I mean, Lady Oxbury?”
“Y-yes, I’m Lady Oxbury. And you are…?”
“Don’t you know me, Kate?” The woman laughed. “I realize I’ve gained a few pounds with all my babies, but I had hoped I was still recognizable. We made our come-out together, remember? Hid by the ficus trees at the Wainwright ball, too shy to speak to anyone. I was miserable when you left Town so abruptly.”
Kate blinked. “Prudence? Prudence Cartland?”
“The same, except now I’m Lady Delton. And this is my friend, Mrs. Neddingham.”
“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Neddingham. Please let me introduce my niece, Lady Grace.” Kate could not stop smiling as she chatted with the women. She’d never expected—though now that she thought of it, she should have—that she’d know anyone in London. She did remember shy little Prudence—and now that she knew who it was, she could see the young girl she’d shared her come-out with in the broader, older lines of this matron. What other old acquaintances would she find in the ballroom—besides Alex, that is?
Alex. Oh, dear. And Alex’s nephew. She must be certain Grace kept clear of him. The girl had looked far too interested in Dawson. If she were truly attracted to the baron—no, Fate could not be so cruel.
“It was lovely to see you again, Prudence, and to meet you, Mrs. Neddingham, but Grace and I must—” Kate looked to her right. Grace had been there just a moment ago, hadn’t she? She wasn’t there now nor was she anywhere she could see in this small room.
“Looking for your niece, Kate?” Prudence laughed. “I’m afraid she got bored listening to us old women reminisce. She left a good ten minutes ago.”
Lady Luck in the guise of Mrs. Neddingham and Lady Delton had certainly smiled upon her, Grace thought as she slipped out of the ladies’ retiring room. Now she could find Lord Dawson without first having to brangle with Aunt Kate. She was determined to discover why Papa held the baron’s family in such aversion—and why Aunt Kate had fled when she’d seen Mr. Wilton.
If there were skeletons in her family closet, she wished to meet them, especially as they seemed to be pushing her down the church aisle toward Mr. Parker-Roth.
The ballroom was even more crowded than when she’d arrived. Couples filled the center of the room, making their way through the figures of the dance while knots of turbaned chaperones gossiped and giggling debutantes darted glances at the young bucks lining the walls. The din of all the voices almost drowned out the orchestra, and the competing smells of perfume, pomade, and, well, bodies were truly suffocating now that she was down in the midst of them.
Where was Lord Dawson? He should not be hard to locate—he was one of the tallest men in the room. There was his uncle, still by the potted palms. And the baron? Ah! He was standing by a ficus tree near the doors to the garden.
She felt the same jolt seeing him now as she had when she’d been standing on the ballroom landing, and this time he wasn’t even looking at her. What was it about him that started this convocation of butterflies in her stomach? Not that the sensation was confined to her middle. Oh, no. She felt a fluttering in her chest as well as—she blushed—other, unmentionable places.
Were all the women in the room similarly affected? How could they not be—though no one else appeared to be staring at him as she was.
They should be staring. If this room were a painting, Lord Dawson would be the subject. Everyone else, all the other men, women, everything surrounding him was incidental, background and setting for him.
He stood quiet and alert, alone. Would he look her way? She felt breathless with anticipation—
Silly. She was not going to stand here waiting for him to notice her. She needed to speak to him; she could not leave that conversation to chance. She started to make her way around the room’s perimeter, but she couldn’t move quickly enough. She watched him slip outside.
No matter; she would follow him. She would not be deterred by something so minor as a few plants and the evening sky, no matter what Aunt Kate said. Aunt Kate was a chaperone—it was her duty to worry. She was old enough to make her own