A Suitable Wife. Louise Gouge M.

toward the lady, wishing she could be the recipient of such kind gazes. She released a quiet sigh and forced her attention back to the dancers forming groups for the quadrille.

      Beside her Mrs. Parton suddenly gasped. “We must go.” She gripped Beatrice’s forearm and tugged her toward the door.

      “But—”

      “Tst. Come with me.” Mrs. Parton jerked her head toward two gentlemen who were making their way through the crowd toward her.

      Melton! Her prodigal brother. And he had the nerve to give her their secret wave, running a hand over one ear, then touching his chest over his heart. As they were growing up, they often played with the village children and had devised several signals to win games. This one was a promise always to listen to each other, always to care for one another. But after he destroyed his own reputation and her possibilities for marriage, she had long ago decided he had forever shattered that promise. Now only horror filled her, and she willingly permitted herself to be led away.

      Count on Melton to destroy her chances for even one night of happiness. Well, now he could count on her to refuse to acknowledge him in public.

      * * *

      Coward. Greystone had berated himself from the moment he had so boorishly left the two ladies at their table. Lady Beatrice had quickly hidden her mortification, but not before he had seen the hurt in her eyes. Lovely eyes, blue as sapphires. Golden hair, ivory complexion—but he must stop thinking about her. Brooding over an unacceptable lady would do no good at all. Instead he would ask Mother’s opinion on whom he should approach for this next dance.

      “Have you met Mrs. Parton’s companion?” Not the question he had intended to ask.

      “No. Is she here?” Mother glanced beyond him. “Humph. Pretty enough, if one cares for the pallid sort.” She stared up at him, her eyes widening in alarm. “Now, Greystone, you must not give consequence to this gel. ’Twas bad enough for your brother to steal my companion. You must not steal Julia’s. In any event, you are Lord Greystone, and none will suit for your bride but the daughter of a duke—or at least an earl.”

      “Ah, we’ve moved up the ladder with our expectations, have we?” Greystone stifled a laugh. Mother’s ambitions were not unlike every Society parent’s, each and all seeking some sort of advancement. He would tell her the truth about Miss Gregory, except that he was still trying very hard not to notice the young lady, much less give her any attention. Once again his eyes betrayed him just as his words had. But when he looked in her direction, he saw to his vexation that Mrs. Parton was dragging her from the room. Just as well. He could have no future with the young lady, but not for the reasons Mother stated.

      In the corner of his eye he noticed two gentlemen following the ladies. What was Melton doing here? And that scoundrel Rumbold? Neither had been invited to this fete. Furthermore, Mrs. Parton seemed in a rush to elude them. Offering a quick apology to Mother, Greystone strode across the room to intercept the interlopers so the ladies might make their escape.

      * * *

      Lord Melton could hardly believe his eyes. Beatrice had looked directly at him, had seen him give her their secret wave and was actually giving him the cut. His own sister, the one whose presence had gained him access to this ball. He could only stand in shock.

      “Come along, Melton.” Frank Rumbold gripped Melton’s arm in the same manner that Mrs. Parton had taken charge of Beatrice. “This will turn out even better if we catch them on the ground floor. Then we can walk them home.”

      “If you think that is best.” Melton had permitted his older friend to guide him for three years, but they’d had a few setbacks socially. Actually more than a few. As if by some tacit agreement, members of the ton now refused to admit Rumbold into their drawing rooms. After Beatrice’s debut in Society, he and Rumbold hoped to amend the situation. With wealthy Mrs. Parton as her sponsor, his sister would meet only the best of Society and could draw them into her growing circles. He often felt stabs of conscience that he lacked the funds to sponsor her debut, much less a dowry to bestow upon any gentleman fortunate enough to win her hand. But Rumbold had expressed interest in her. Now that he had seen her, it should take very little to complete the marriage agreement. That is, if he could manage to arrange the introduction.

      “Good evening, Melton.” Lord Greystone approached them, a tight smile on his arrogant face. “I fear there has been some mistake. This ball is only for invited guests.” He waved a hand toward the door. “Perhaps you will permit me to escort you out.” He nodded toward two footmen, one of them the fellow Rumbold had paid to let them into the affair, claiming Beatrice had their invitation. Now the man acted as if he had never seen them.

      “We were just leaving.” A sudden thirst struck Melton. He needed some brandy from that drink table in the corner. “But first may I introduce—”

      “No.” Not even looking at Rumbold, Greystone spoke politely, but there was a hint of anger in his tone. The two oversize servants who flanked him made his intentions clear as he again gestured toward the door. “If you please.”

      “Come along, Melton.” Rumbold chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder as if it were all a fine joke. “We have four more invitations for the evening. Let’s not waste time here.”

      They soon found themselves on the street amidst the carriages belonging to those attending the ball. To make matters worse, one or two of the awaiting drivers were imbibing freely, yet Melton had to endure his thirst.

      “I am Lord Melton,” he muttered to his companion. “An earl of the realm. How dare a mere viscount cast me out of his house?” He glanced down the street toward the town house next door, Mrs. Parton’s abode. Somehow the old bat and his sister had already managed to disappear behind the massive front door.

      Rumbold followed the direction of Melton’s gaze. “That will change once Lady Beatrice and I—” The idea seemed to encourage him, for he once again clapped Melton on the shoulder. “But really, my boy, you will have to bring her under control. What kind of sister gives her titled brother the cut?”

      Melton snorted out his agreement. “Indeed. What kind of sister?” But that nagging conscience once again jabbed at his mind. She had always been the best and sweetest of sisters. Somehow that Parton woman, with no title at all, had turned Beatrice against him. To forget their secret signal was not unlike forgetting the whole of their childhood friendship. It was all entirely too much. He would need more than one drink to get over the pain her cut had caused.

      Chapter Two

      “The very idea.” Mother snapped the pages of the Times over her breakfast plate, barely missing her sausages. “It even made the papers. How dare Melton attend your ball uninvited?” She sniffed with indignation. “And bring a guest whom no decent member of Society will receive.”

      Greystone well understood she expected no response, and he was in no humor to give one. His mood was as gray as the London weather outside the tall, narrow windows of the town house’s breakfast room. Since the early hours of last evening’s ball, he had pondered the situation with the young earl and his beautiful sister. Mrs. Parton was of course above suspicion, but he could not be so certain “Miss Gregory” was innocent in the matter. His inner turmoil had kept him awake for hours.

      Before sleep had at last claimed him, he’d come to the conclusion that Frank Rumbold had devised the whole plan. That culprit was nothing less than a sharper, an ill-born scoundrel who had ensnared more than one young aristocrat new to London’s gaming dens. And a newly raised peer of two and twenty years, one with a known penchant for gambling, was a prime target for an older man intent upon forcing his way into Society. Rumbold was reputed to be a peer’s illegitimate son with ambitions to advance to the nobility, an utter impossibility. Had he accepted his fate, he might have found some acceptance and a reasonable position in life. But because of the path he had chosen, misusing naive nobles and their heirs, he could scheme all he wanted, but the best he could hope for was to slink around the dark edges of Society. No one of significance would ever grant him consequence, unless forced