“Sorry, Gwen,” Parry said. “I forgot he is still shy of strangers. I think he was mistreated.”
“Why don’t you get him some milk from the kitchen?” Gwen suggested. As her brother, after a bow to Mr. Masterson, trotted off in that direction, she turned to give Mr. Masterson a rueful smile. “Obviously, I haven’t my brother’s skill.”
“No, he is quite special,” Mr. Masterson replied.
Gwennor’s eyes flew up to his. He returned her steady regard, his gaze open and friendly. In his tone and manner, she could discern neither mockery nor disdain.
He accepts Parry. The realization filled Gwennor with such a sense of joy and relief, she could have wed Mr. Masterson on the spot. Despite his dislike of scholarship, if further acquaintance confirmed her initial impression of Mr. Masterson as a kind, congenial, sympathetic gentleman of sufficient means, Gwen felt she might be able to develop for him not just a fond regard, but a lasting affection.
An affection that might be coupled with a more measured attraction than the frighteningly intense desire that had swept her for the stranger at the gypsy camp.
If Mr. Masterson found her as appealing as she was finding him, perhaps she’d not have to hunt for an enfeebled octogenarian after all.
Ten days later, grimy and out of sorts, Gilen de Mowbry gritted his teeth as he unpacked clothing from his equally dusty saddlebags.
Weary from six days spent nearly ceaselessly in the saddle, he did not want to hear about the lovely, fascinating creature Jeff had just met. As Alden had predicted, he thought with disgust, only half listening to Jeff’s rapturous flow of rhetoric, it appeared the distraught friend whom he’d felt compelled to come support had already fallen in love again with some other chit.
Though how he’d found someone in Harrogate under the age of fifty to fall in love with, Gilen couldn’t imagine. If he’d known, he concluded sourly, longing for a bath and a glass of strong ale, that he’d find his supposedly inconsolable friend so irritatingly cheerful, he wouldn’t have prematurely called off his search.
After the shock of finding the gypsy encampment deserted, he’d ridden back to Lacey’s Retreat and questioned the staff, trying to determine the band’s normal route. He’d wasted three days riding west after them before learning that instead of proceeding as usual, they had wandered north. When he finally found them, their leader at first refused to speak with him, then kept him waiting a day while he considered the generous sum Gilen was offering in apology for his previous intrusion.
At last the gypsy lord agreed to meet him, an old woman serving as translator. But to Gilen’s infuriated exasperation, the man denied any knowledge of the violet-eyed wench who’d danced for him. He was almost positive the man was lying, but as it was already nearly two weeks past the arrival time he’d indicated in his last letter to Jeffrey, he felt compelled to give up the search for the present and make for Harrogate with all speed.
Only to arrive and find his supposedly brokenhearted friend waxing eloquent about some new female.
“Despite your stops, ’tis a tedious journey and you must be longing for a bath,” Jeffrey was saying. “I told grandpapa we’d dine with him—he retires quite early—after which we shall still have time to attend the assembly. There you can meet Miss Southford for yourself. I’m sure you’ll find her a delight!”
“As delightful as Davinia?” Gilen shot back.
Jeffrey’s genial face sobered, and Gilen immediately felt ashamed of his churlishness. “Sorry, Jeff, that was unkind. Been on the road so long, it’s made me snappish.”
Jeffrey mustered up a smile. “I deserved that, I suppose. She is delightful, but nothing like Davinia. Lovely, though not as striking, and—I’m not sure how to describe it—so forthright and appealing. The sort of lady who not only encourages a man to talk, as they all do, but truly listens to what he says, and offers some intelligent comments in return. I’m sure you’ll like her.”
“If she has intelligent conversation to offer, she is unusual!” Gilen declared, only half jesting.
Jeffrey took a swipe at him and Gilen ducked. “At least I have the discernment to develop tendres for well-bred ladies of sensibility,” his friend declared. “If you spent less time among mercenary females out of London’s Green Rooms, your opinion of the sex might be higher.”
“Perhaps,” Gilen acknowledged, “though I doubt it. At least a female from the Green Room gives you an honest return on your investment, rather than false devotion and flattering lies.”
“I admit, my judgment on this score has not always been accurate, but I assure you Miss Southford’s honor and integrity are beyond reproach,” Jeffrey asserted.
Gilen raised a skeptical eyebrow. “We shall see. Let me get near some hot water and a warm dinner, and then I shall be most interested to meet your new paragon!”
While Tilly looked on, sighing her approval, Gwennor inspected herself in the pier glass. At Aunt Alice’s urging, she’d expended a bit more of her precious reserves on a new ball gown that, with its expert cut and flattering fit, would equal in elegance and sophistication any of the more colorful gowns being worn to the assembly tonight.
“You be ready, Miss,” Tilly said, reaching up to make a final adjustment in the curls she’d pinned in atop Gwennor’s head. “Lucky for you that dusky gray goes so good with your pale skin and dark hair. Indeed, ’tis so pretty on you, folks might think you’re wearing it not ’cause you is in mourning, but for it becomes you so well.”
“Thank you, Tilly,” Gwen said, gratified.
“And with two handsome gents awaiting you tonight, ’tis fitting that you’re in looks! Mistress will be that pleased. Go on and dazzle them, now, Miss!”
Gwennor took her evening cape from the woman with a wry grin. As quietly as she’d been living, ’twas more likely the company would dazzle her.
Still, Gwennor felt a pulse of excitement as she descended to the parlor to meet her aunt. She was wearing the most stylish gown she’d ever owned, her tempestuous hair had been tamed by the fingers of an artist, and with her well-respected aunt here to introduce her to the society of this small resort community, Gwennor had every expectation of both enjoying herself and progressing one step closer to obtaining the safe haven she sought.
Suitably enthusiastic over Gwen’s appearance, Lady Alice hastened her to the carriage. “So lovely you are, I’m sure your dance card will be filled to overflowing!”
“Surely it is too soon after Papa’s death to dance.”
Lady Alice patted her hand. “Ordinarily, I would agree. But I’ve made the sad facts of your circumstances known to the hostesses here, and all of them understand you need to attract a suitor as quickly as possible. Unless you find yourself unable to countenance dancing, which of course I could understand, even though I should be most disappointed, for there is nothing that can more quickly engage a gentleman’s interest than holding a lady close in the shocking intimacy of a waltz! If you are not set against it, then, I should strongly advise you to indulge, and assure you that Society here will not think it unseemly, even given the recentness of your bereavement.”
Gwennor had to smile through that long speech. Her gentle father,
