‘So the daughter has shown herself as profligate as her mother?’ he probed.
‘Not yet. She’s not even out, officially, though she must be approaching the age where most young ladies would be at their last prayers! The on dit was the girls were to be presented in London this Season—but then, a few weeks ago, two imbeciles just down from Oxford fought a duel over their mother. Of course, a presentation in the face of that would have been impossible. I’m surprised her aunt—that was her father’s sister, Lady Stoneway, walking with her—dares to let the creature show her face, even in Bath! Though one must pity the poor woman, trying to find husbands for such a pair. It won’t be easy, their fat dowries notwithstanding!’
‘But you know nothing to the detriment of the daughter?’
‘How could I, when she’s not out yet?’
‘Precisely my point, Aunt,’ Johnnie said drily.
‘Never you mind, she’ll embroil herself in some scandal soon enough. As I’ve been saying, blood will tell. And you may get that look out of your eye, Johnnie Trethwell!’
‘What look, Aunt?’
‘The look of a hound who’s just scented a fox! Why is it that, whenever one tries to warn some rascal with more energy than sense to steer clear of danger, he’s immediately compelled to charge after it?’
‘Probably because he’s a rascal,’ Johnnie replied with a grin. ‘Come along now, Aunt Pen. Introduce me.’
His aunt drew back, a horrified expression on her face. ‘I will never! I know I’ve been urging you to marry an heiress, but the poor looby who marries that girl? He may be able to spend her money, but he’ll never stop worrying over who he’ll find in her bed.’
‘A pity. I shall have to contrive some other way to make her acquaintance.’
‘Mark my words, John Stewart William Trethwell,’ his aunt said indignantly. ‘Take up with that creature and you’ll never see a penny of my money!’
Johnnie leaned down to kiss his aunt’s hand. ‘There’s nothing for it, then,’ he said as he straightened. ‘You’ll have to leave it to the dog.’
With a hint of a limp, he set off down the pathway, determined to wangle an introduction to the divine Miss Lattimar.
Keeping a discreet distance, he trailed the young lady and her aunt as they left the gardens and proceeded towards the Pump Room. Once there, he was able to station himself across the room from her, where he could observe her without his scrutiny being obvious.
Her beauty certainly did not pale upon closer examination. Eyes of the deepest cerulean blue set in an oval face graced with flawless porcelain skin, full, apricot lips, those glorious golden curls and a figure that approached the voluptuous... He’d never seen a lady so breathtaking. But having seen—and possessed—a great number of ladies, as he observed her behaviour, his scepticism about the validity of his great-aunt’s claims about her character increased.
It wasn’t just the ethereal beauty of her face, which brought to mind the image of angels singing in heavenly chorus. There was a sweet gentleness and deference in her manner towards the lady who’d been identified as her aunt—and a wary caution when they were approached by anyone else. The blush that tinged her cheeks and the slight stiffness in her manner when a gentleman stopped to greet them—even the old retired soldiers there to take the waters—was so at variance to the sort of flagrantly seductive behaviour of which her mother was accused, he couldn’t believe she was cut from the same cloth.
Unless she were the best actress in the history of the English stage, he concluded that she was exactly what she appeared to be: a beautiful, well-bred, pretty-behaved virgin.
Not, to be frank, the type of female with whom he had previously had any desire to further an acquaintance. But something about the unfairness of having this woman, who in his observation was exactly the lady she purported to be, accused and convicted virtually sight unseen of being a wanton, even by someone normally as non-judgemental as his great-aunt, roused his fighting spirit. And when a crony of his aunt’s, one of the old beldames who ruled Bath society, gave her an obvious snub when her chaperon attempted to call the lady over, he found himself on his feet before he knew what he intended.
Limping quickly over, he seized the beldame’s hand before she could walk away. ‘Lady Arbuthnot, what a pleasure to see you again and looking so fine!’ he said, bowing. ‘That’s a charming bonnet!’
Pinking with pleasure, the lady replied, ‘I’d heard you were visiting Lady Woodlings, Lieutenant Trethwell! Welcome back to England. What a relief it must be to be home again! I do hope you are making a good recovery from your injury.’
‘How could I not, back in the salubrious climate and genteel company of my home country? Speaking of that—’ Leaving a hand on her arm, he subtly steered her around. ‘Would you do the honour of introducing me to these charming ladies?’
Too late, the woman realised that Johnnie had manoeuvred her into facing the women she’d just attempted to cut. The charm of the smile he fixed on her at odds with the tension in his gut, he waited to see whether the embarrassment of making a scene by refusing his request would outweigh her righteous indignation at having to acknowledge a girl of whom she disapproved.
Deciding to throw his last weapon into the fray, he said sotto voce, ‘If you could do so at once, ma’am? Standing’s not good for my bad leg.’
Apparently, that was enough to tip the balance. ‘I suppose I can’t refuse the request of one of his Majesty’s brave soldiers,’ she said with ill grace. ‘Lady Stoneway, a pleasure to see you in Bath. May I present to you Lieutenant Lord John Trethwell, the great-nephew of my good friend Lady Woodlings and brother to the new Marquess of Barkley?’
The Beauty was even more beautiful at close range, Johnnie thought, everything masculine in him leaping to the alert. Though she stood serenely unmoved while the introductions were made, the flush on Lady Stoneway’s cheek and that lady’s tremulous smile showed at least her aunt recognised the significance of his intervention. ‘Delighted to make the acquaintance of one of our brave soldiers, Lady Arbuthnot,’ she replied. ‘As is my niece, Miss Lattimar. Aren’t you, my dear?’
He’d thought her shy, but the Beauty who dipped him a graceful curtsy was quietly self-contained, he thought, rather than nervous or uncertain. ‘Almost past her last prayers,’ his aunt had described her. Though a female possessing such youthful beauty could never be considered a spinster, she was no blushing ingénue, even if she hadn’t been formally presented. And small wonder she was self-possessed, if ever since she’d budded into womanhood, she’d been facing down innuendo that equated her to her infamous mother.
‘A pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant.’
Her voice was as lovely as her face. He’d intended only to force Lady Arbuthnot to recognise her and then remove himself—not having, despite his aunt’s urging, any interest in trying to entice a wealthy young female to wed him. But he found he simply couldn’t walk away.
Instead, he held out his hand. ‘With your permission, Lady Stoneway, may I make a turn about the room with your niece?’ And before her chaperon had a chance to reply, he clapped a hand on Miss Lattimar’s arm and bore her off.
Not