A Suitable Wife. Louise Gouge M.

set things to right with these two ladies. Or so he convinced himself. “Tell me, Miss Gregory, where do you reside when not in London? Mrs. Parton has been foretelling your arrival for weeks, but she told us nothing about you.”

      “My origins are of no consequence, I assure you, sir.” The young lady lifted her chin. Her eyes glinted, and her lips thinned into a line. So she had a bit of spunk. He liked that. Few young ladies of the gentry spoke so boldly to a peer of his standing.

      “Now, my dear.” Mrs. Parton reached across the table and patted her hand. “Greystone is a treasured friend. He can be trusted with your secret.”

      The young lady shifted her eyes this way and that, as if she would escape this interview. Greystone began to regret quizzing her, even as his interest in her increased, along with his curiosity and an odd pinch of protectiveness. “If you are in some sort of difficulty, Miss...” He could not imagine a problem Mrs. Parton’s vast wealth could not solve.

      Again Miss Gregory lifted her chin, and wounded pride beamed from her elegant countenance. “I am not a mere miss. I am Lady Beatrice Gregory. My brother is Lord Melton. Perhaps you know him?” One perfect blond eyebrow quirked upward to accompany the question, as if she already knew the answer.

      Greystone tried to inhale, but like last winter’s nearly fatal illness, this revelation stole his breath.

      “Ah. Yes. Of course. I know Melton. He was absent from the House of Lords today. I do hope he is not ill.” He must get away. Must not let her charm him further.

      Disappointment clouded Mrs. Parton’s eyes. How well she knew him. How well she was reading him even now. But she of all people understood why he could not associate himself with the sister of a drunken, degenerate gambler.

      “If you ladies will excuse me. My other guests—” He rose and offered a weak smile before turning to make his escape.

      * * *

      “Do forgive Lord Greystone.” Mrs. Parton’s round face creased with disappointment. “He truly must attend to his other guests. It is his birthday, you know.”

      “Yes, of course.” Beatrice offered her employer a conciliatory smile, for her late mother had taught her well. No matter what happens, no matter what feelings rage within her, a lady always maintains her dignity. Mama had always exhibited graciousness despite Papa’s neglect, and never had Beatrice felt the need to emulate her more than now. The instant she saw the horror on Lord Greystone’s face—a rapid withdrawal of interest at the mention of her brother’s name—her breeding held strong. With a practiced vise grip on her emotions, she maintained her posture and poise, even offering a smile to the gentleman’s retreating back. But her disappointment was keen, her heart deeply cut. Would all of Society treat her this way?

      Yet what could she expect from any gentleman, especially an eligible peer? Did not all noblemen spend their lives and fortunes as it suited them? Did they not all sit in church every Sunday, as duty demanded, and yet utterly neglect their duty to their families?

      But daughters also had a duty—to marry well so that the family might benefit. Beatrice had always assumed her parents would find a husband for her, preferably someone wealthy and titled who could give Papa some sort of political advantage. Mama had promised Beatrice a grand London Season during which they would arrange the marriage. But Mama had died long before she could keep her promise, Papa had died before finding her a husband, and her brother had spent the past three years gambling away the fortune that came with his title. Beatrice loved her charming brother, but the new Lord Melton’s wastrel ways had utterly destroyed her chance for marriage or even a Season when he squandered her dowry in hopes of recouping his losses. No gentleman wanted a penniless lady, no matter how old or formerly prestigious her family name. Still, her sense of injustice cried out that any man who did not see how different she was from Melton did not deserve her notice or her heart.

      Still again, from the moment she had observed Lord Greystone’s tall form and handsome face as he had threaded his way across the room toward her table, she had experienced a growing sense of admiration, at least for his outward appearance. Broad shoulders, thick, nearly black hair curled in the latest Caesar style, a lightly tanned complexion, high cheekbones and a slight cleft in his strong chin—features woven together to create an appealing presence. No doubt the gentleman knew his blue satin jacket reflected in those icy blue eyes, making him all the more attractive.

      But no one could feign the kindness that shone from his countenance as he had spoken with Beatrice’s employer. This was the gentleman of whom Mrs. Parton had spoken so highly in regard to his defense of the poor. This was a gentleman of godly faith, a worthy soul who shared Beatrice’s concern for the downtrodden. But somehow his generous feelings did not extend to the sister of a wastrel.

      “Shall we go to the ballroom?” Mrs. Parton stood and fussed with her gown, a deep purple silk creation with an orange print sash draped across one shoulder and fastened at the high waist with a golden broach. Her purple turban, which kept falling over her ruddy forehead, sported a blue-green peacock feather that bobbed when she moved. “I shall find you a partner for the quadrille, which should be the next dance, unless Lady Greystone has changed her usual order.” When Beatrice remained seated, the lady tilted her head in question. “Well, come along, my dear. We’ll not have any fun hiding here among the dowdy dowagers.” She waved a chubby arm to take in the rest of the room and received a few cross looks for it.

      As Beatrice rose, the bodice of her borrowed and overlarge gown twisted to the side. She hurried to straighten it, but nothing could be done about the excess fabric. “I should not dance in this—” She wanted to say “rag,” but that would be an insult to Mrs. Parton’s daughter, for whom it had been made last year. But while the dark bronze gown might have complemented the young matron’s auburn hair, Beatrice knew it washed out her own lighter features. “I fear I will trip.”

      “I’m sure you can manage, Miss Gregory.” Although a twinkle lit Mrs. Parton’s eyes, her tone and choice of address reminded Beatrice of her place.

      Mortification brought a warm flush to her face. She was the daughter of an earl, the sister of his heir. She held precedence over Mrs. Parton, who was the daughter of a mere baron, the widow of a middle-class, albeit wealthy gentleman. But gratitude overcame shame, and Beatrice smiled at her benefactress. At one and twenty she was at last enjoying her first—and no doubt only—London Season. She must not expect to find a husband, even if Mrs. Parton should become agreeable to such a search. No, she was here to be the lady’s companion and nothing more.

      On the other hand this nonsense of calling her Miss Gregory instead of Lady Beatrice would be revealed for what it was: a fraud. Then no reputable person would have anything to do with her. But if only for one evening she could escape the pain caused by Melton’s irresponsible behavior, she planned to make the most of it. A spirited quadrille might be just the cure she needed to heal her wounded pride.

      The bright third-floor ballroom, though not terribly large, was exquisite, not unlike the ballroom at Melton Gardens in County Durham. Tall windows on the south side revealed the last dim glow of daylight over the rooftops on the opposite side of Hanover Square. But one would hardly know evening had arrived. The brilliant candlelight from numerous girandoles was magnified by their mirrors, while sparkling crystal chandeliers hung from a ceiling carved with a swirling leafy pattern. Beneath their feet, the polished oak floor had been dusted with chalk to keep dancers from slipping, and a sizeable orchestra sat on a dais at the east end. The scents of countless perfumes and pomades hung heavy in the air, making it difficult to breathe one moment and delightfully pleasant the next.

      Beatrice stood next to her employer with growing hopes she would soon put to use the skills her dance master had praised in her youth. Several men were seeking partners, and one or two looked her way, then at Mrs. Parton, as if considering a request for an introduction. But against her will and all good reason, her eyes sought a certain tall viscount and soon found him.

      Halfway across the room Lord Greystone stood beside a gray-haired matron of medium height wearing a scarlet gown and a glittering ruby necklace. From his close attention Beatrice guessed the lady was his mother,