Chapter One

London

July 1817

“I predict they will marry by the coming year.” Felton Ambrose, the Earl of Harewood, looked to his good friend Andrew Crauford, the Earl of Sommerset, and gave a quick nod to punctuate his statement.

Sommerset, dressed in shades of brown to accentuate his blond hair, presenting a far opposite image from Felton’s own austere black, seemed to ponder his prediction. “Should I enter that into the book at White’s then?” His friend’s eyes crinkled with amusement.

He sniffed. “Hardly. I already did.”

“Of course you did.” Sommerset chuckled. “I do not understand why anyone takes your bets. You’re always right.”

He shrugged, even as he perused the room, observing the ton in its element. “There’s a fool born every day.” Returning his attention to his companions, he found Lady Sommerset giving him an impish smile.

His friend’s wife, dressed in a lilac gown that complemented her eyes and blonde ringlets, waved toward the opposite side of the room. “Tell me, Lord Harewood. Did you predict the marriage of my cousin Teddy to Lady Elsbeth of Astor?”

He moved his gaze to find Lord Theodore Mabry and his new wife on the edge of the dance floor having a quiet conversation that included many smiles and not a few tender looks. At their obvious love for each other, he felt the familiar pang of love lost in his chest. He ignored it and returned his attention to Lady Sommerset. “As the two were not in London but overseas, I did not think it prudent to suggest an outcome. My predictions, if you will, come from observation.”

The lady rolled her violet eyes at him. “And here I thought it was some divine spirit that whispered in your ear.”

Her husband shook his head. “Of course not. Harewood makes his bets based on instinct.”

Though Felton frowned at them both, he was well aware they teased. “You do me an injustice by assuming my clarity of perception is anything but a skill well-honed.”

Lady Sommerset laughed, drawing not a few looks from those nearby. “Truly? But that is so very boring. I’m going to continue to believe it is a faerie who lands on your shoulder and makes outrageous suggestions.”

“Amelia.” Sommerset’s tone held kind reprimand.

She gave her husband a secret smile. “I only meant to say that Lord Harewood’s predictions are often surprising.”

That he had predicted Sommerset and Lady Ameila Mabry would suit each other well when no one else had seen it did stroke his ego. But if any were to know the true reason he had expected the match, they could well claim he had cheated.

He had spent his youth as a neighbor of the four Mabry ladies and knew them all well. Sommerset had become a good friend during their days at Eaton. Therefore, some might say he had an unfair advantage—foreknowledge, so to speak—that no one else had, but that had simply been him capitalizing on a fortuitous situation. But if any were to discover he’d suggested Lady Amelia to Sommerset, they would most definitely call him out. However, he need not defend himself on that account, either, as it was not as if the marriage had been a sure bet.

“Please, my dear,” Sommerset inclined his head. “Do not feed his egoism. He is barely sufferable as it is.”

“I simply stated fact, but I do see what you mean.” Lady Sommerset turned from her husband to him as if to be sure he was not insulted.

“I assure you both that your words have little effect upon me.”

Sommerset chuckled. “As I suspected.” He held his arm out to his wife. “Come. I believe we are boring poor Harewood. Let us take a walk in the gardens that he might remain here in his own logical and quite complicated thoughts.”

The lady smiled tenderly at her husband and took his arm. “We shall see you at dinner, my lord.”

As the two left, he watched them meander through the guests toward the open garden doors. He couldn’t deny he was quite pleased with himself for suggesting the match. As the youngest Mabry sister, Lady Amelia had been the last to wed, though her oldest sister recently married again. Having all three wedded had halted his mother’s many hints at him marrying a Mabry lady. He’d already loved one of them, even if she’d never debuted, so he knew none of the others could live up to her perfection.

Fortunately, since his father was hale and hardy, all talk of finding a wife and having heirs had drifted away on the ether, much like Lady Belinda Mabry had drifted away from her mortal coils. At the thought of Belinda, melancholy instantly settled in, but he’d lived with the feeling for so many years, he knew exactly what to do—move and find a distraction. Out of habit, he began to amble around the outskirts of the ballroom, preferring to observe others and discover something many might miss. Though he claimed his predictions were due to observation only, they were far more complicated. A strong understanding of the history of each family of the ton and their many values and characteristics also played into his calculations.

He stopped for a moment next to a Grecian column decorated in greenery that was already starting to wilt in the heat of the ballroom. Sommerset’s younger brother, Christopher Crauford, the Viscount of Tamworth, caught his attention near the exit of the room. The man’s light brown hair was a bit too long, which made him easy to recognize. If he wasn’t mistaken, Tamworth was inching toward the doorway, no doubt planning to leave before dinner. A small part of him envied the younger man’s joy in life. He couldn’t remember being so free to indulge in life’s small pleasures. Then again, Tamworth was a second son, while he was the only son of a marquess and had been born the Earl of Harewood. His responsibilities were many. Finally, Tamworth slipped out as he’d expected, and he resumed his observations.

Immediately, his attention was caught by a group of ladies not far from him. He recognized them as students of the Belinda School for Curious Ladies. Though the school had never been officially announced, it was well known that it had quietly opened last winter to its first class of students. That in and of itself was of little consequence, but what set the older ladies’ tongues wagging was the fact that those running the school touted it as the Oxford and Cambridge for ladies of the peerage, a description many, including himself, disliked immensely.

But his reasons were far more substantial than any society lady’s. He resented that the scandalous school had been named after the only woman he’d ever loved. It besmirched her name in a myriad of ways. Belinda, though intelligent, had been kind, caring, as sweet as a trifle, and as warm as a Christmas kitten. She was most happy when helping someone else, whether it was her sisters with a problem, the local vicar with the poor, or a maid with a torn sleeve. She wasn’t interested in the pursuit of knowledge for the sake of knowledge that would be of no use in the life of a wife.

At the start of the season, there had been much talk—and not much of it positive—about the school. So much so that he’d almost made a bet that it would close within the year, but the talk had disappeared as soon as the next piece of gossip made the rounds. It wasn’t until just a few weeks ago that it had surfaced again when Lady Elsbeth Rawley had married Lord Theodore Mabry. No one had expected any of the women in attendance at that school to marry. He’d breathed a relieved sigh at the news as Belinda had wanted nothing more than for people to be happy.

But earlier in the week, he’d been at White’s and happened upon a conversation between four men who disparaged the school as well as Lord Mabry. The assumption was that the lord was desperate for an English-born wife since he was a widower with a Spanish daughter and he needed heirs for the vast holdings he would one day inherit. The last had been said in envy, of course, but it still rankled. As much as Felton wished the Duke and Duchess of Northwick would change the name of the school, he acknowledged that was a lost cause since the duchess had named it so to honor her younger sister. Did she not understand that it did everything but her intended goal?

He tapped his fingers upon the column as he leaned against it to study the women of the school. There had to be a way to make them a valuable commodity as opposed to leftover slops to be thrown to the dogs. Granted, he exaggerated, but the concept still held. It seemed an impossible task, but if he could accomplish such a miracle, it could be his way of honoring Belinda and all that she had been. He rarely aided others except Sommerset, so it would be a monumental task on many levels. He doubted anyone else had a reason to take on such an impossible quest. The question, though, was how to do it.

He studied the ladies in question. There were four present at the ball, though he’d been informed by Lady Sommerset that her older sister was sponsoring a Mademoiselle Lissette to attend the winter term. She was not present. That would make his task easier. All of them were pleasant to look at, so that was not a drawback. The issue was their studies and most likely their conversation. There had been grumblings among the four gentlemen he’d overheard about the subject of science, about which the women were knowledgeable and for which they had little use. He had no doubt that like himself, the gentlemen had not spent their entire time at Oxford in their assigned studies. What they’d done at Cambridge he couldn’t say.

Making a match for one of the ladies obviously wouldn’t help stop the gossip about the school as Lady Elsbeth, the first one to attend the school, was now married and that had not solved the problem. He pondered the issue. What if one of them were to become very popular, maybe even have multiple men vying for her attentions? But how?

He could start a rumor that one was royalty. But all four had well-known ancestry. He could attend to one of them himself and spread her praise. Men did like competition. But that could end in his own character being dragged down, which was an appalling thought. Women were far better at this sort of work than he was, but he refused to ask Lady Sommerset to aid in his quest. If he was to accomplish this herculean task for Belinda, he wanted to do so alone.

The four ladies moved closer as two others joined them. That the classmates were not shunned by their peers was very interesting. Nor did they sit on chairs against the wall meekly awaiting their fates, though he was quite sure the diminutive Lady Sophie Howard would be far more comfortable doing exactly that. Having only spoken to her once, he’d noticed immediately that she was painfully shy. The woman who stood next to her was quite the opposite. Lady Eleanor Compton, the daughter of Countess Dulac, could hold people’s attention with her conversation, but her bright-red hair caused many to immediately discount her.

Moving his gaze past the Lady Eleanor, it landed on Lady Dorothea Ansley, whose hair was of a more muted tone of auburn. Actually, it was rather more like mahogany, but as with her fellow classmates, she tended to converse a bit too much. He hadn’t had a reason to speak with her beyond an introduction, but he had observed her over the season. She seemed more prone to soliloquy than conversation. Last, standing next to her was Lady Georgina Bridgeman of Edgerton. She was a wisp of a thing whom he’d seen more often near the food and libations than conversing. But again, he had not had reason to interact with her, either. The only reason he knew them at all was due to Lady Sommerset.

He continued his observation just as his sister Rose and two other ladies, joined the group. He strained to hear the conversation, but the music and voices around him overrode any chance of success. So he settled for watching their interactions. The dynamics were puzzling. The new ladies, including his sister, interacted with each of the classmates. It wasn’t until the music stopped and his sister was asked to dance that he subtly moved closer to make sure the man in question was worthy of her.

“Lord Harewood, I didn’t know you would be here this evening. What a pleasant surprise.”

He turned to find Belinda’s mother on the arm of her husband. “Lady Wakefield, it is always a pleasure to be in your presence.”

She gave him a warm smile, causing wrinkles to appear around her blue eyes, so much like Belinda’s. “But not such a pleasure as to be in the presence of all these lovely ladies?”

He looked blankly at her, not sure to what she referred.

“She means the column. It appears to have captured your complete attention.” Lord Wakefield nodded to a column against the wall that he had inadvertently moved to in trying to see who his sister would dance with.

“Ah, not at all. I was simply fulfilling my brotherly duty.” He gestured toward the dance floor where his sister was standing opposite Mr. Wheatly, a man barely out of Eaton.

Lady Wakefield sighed. “Your sister is truly a sweet woman. I’m so pleased that she has a partner.” The woman leaned in as if to impart some great wisdom. “Though the gentleman in question is far too young for her.”

“I agree.” He didn’t elaborate, as the topic was spent. “Will you be staying after the end of the season?” Though the Wakefield estate bordered his parents’, he rarely visited. He asked only to make polite conversation and to have the information in case it was required.

“Most certainly. Since all our daughters are married now, we are in no hurry to return to Bedford.”

He clenched his jaw to keep from correcting the woman about having all her daughters married. Belinda would never be married nor grace the halls of Thornwood Park again.

“Oh, there’s the Countess Dulac. Excuse us, Lord Harewood. I have yet to greet my good friend.”

“Of course.” He gave the older woman a nod and the couple moved through the crowd toward the corner of the room.

Free to return once again to his new project, he was surprised to see the only lady left from the school was Lady Dorothea. He slowly made his way closer, as her back was turned to him while she spoke to the other women he recognized as his sister’s companions. He’d met Lady Dorothea briefly at Lord Mabry’s wedding, having been forced to attend by Sommerset. If he could listen to the woman in question’s conversation without being involved in it, it may give him a clue as to how he should proceed. Maneuvering between people brought him to the wall of the ballroom just to the side of the ladies but within easy earshot of his quarry.

“Doesn’t Lady Rose look splendid in that sky-blue dress? It almost seems to make her eyes sparkle.”

“I agree.”

Rose’s friends were at least complimentary, if acutely boring.

“I’m not surprised by that.” Lady Dorothea smiled. “According to Aristotle’s theory of colors, it has to do with the amount of light. He considered black the absence of light. So though the dance floor resembles a rainbow, the dark clothes of the men certainly keep the colors apart. Do you think if men wore lighter colors, it would highlight the women’s dresses more or less?”

The answer was obvious and he waited impatiently for one of the ladies to respond.

At first, silence greeted her question, then one of the ladies exclaimed. “Oh, my mother wishes me to attend her. I best see what is amiss.”

“I will go with you. Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

And with that weak excuse, Rose’s companions left Lady Dorothea standing by herself. Curious as to how the lady would manage the obvious disinterest of the other two, he took a step forward to better see her expression.

Her lips remained lifted in a frozen smile, but her eyes clearly filled with tears.

His stomach tensed with anger at the two women who could neither answer the question nor create a legitimate excuse to leave. While in the same instant, he felt a strong pang near his heart, a strange occurrence since that particular part of him was rarely used. Not giving himself time to think it through, he addressed the now-alone Lady Dorothea. “Obviously, if all men wore such light colors as our acquaintance Lord Sommerset, the ladies’ dresses would fade. Black attire like my own is what sets the colors apart.”

“Oh, Lord Harewood. I didn’t see you there.” She surreptitiously wiped her eyes with the back of her gloved hand. “Do you truly believe the black enhances the colors?”

“Is it not obvious?” He pretended not to notice that she had high color in her cheeks, no doubt due to her upset. “As you stated, black is the absence of light, so what better canvas upon which to set light or partial light, as Aristotle would have us believe?”

“I would have never thought of it in quite that way. I wonder if that is why I much prefer darker blues, deep purples, like this dress, and even maroons in my choice of evening wear while my friends prefer more light in their colors. Or mayhap they are simply choosing what will bring out their features more. I’ve never really thought about if my dress complements my person, per se. I rather choose the color I enjoy seeing. But that doesn’t make sense now, does it, since I don’t actually see what I’m wearing unless I take a seat and stare at my lap, which would hardly seem proper and rather odd. Though I very much doubt that would be the oddest behavior seen at a ball. Still, it would not do to be so preoccupied with the color of one’s clothing, as it may be interpreted as being preoccupied with oneself. Of course, that could be viewed differently depending on which philosophy of self one subscribes to, would it not?”

He barely kept from lifting his lips into a smile, which would not do, but her quick intellect was rather refreshing, as it forced him to pay attention to understand how she moved from one thought to the next. It was hardly logical, yet there was a pattern of some kind that he couldn’t quite identify. “Indeed it would. While Locke would have us believe we are no more than our conscious intellect, far older and wiser men have already determined we are much more complicated.”

Her hazel eyes lit with the very light she’d spoken of not a few moments past as they widened in excitement. The flush on her cheeks had changed its hue and her small frame seemed to vibrate with energy. “I have often wondered at that. Do you think Locke came to such conclusions by studying Descartes or by his powers of observation? I do not discount that he was a great mind, but that he came by his assertions only through human reason is a bit disconcerting, as opposed to Socrates, who had his daimōn. I am more apt to accept Socrates. Though much has come to light since his teachings. It leaves one in a bit of a muddle.”

He had to cough to keep from laughing out right. To listen to such an erudite soliloquy, only to have it end in “a muddle” was far too humorous. “By muddle, do you mean as in the learned man’s ever-present conundrum of the existence of the soul?”

Her eyes widened at his question. “No. To be truthful, I was thinking of the changes in human thought over time and how they resemble both a puddle and a tangled mess of yarn.”

This time, his hard-won control was bested, and he grinned. “So, then, in your estimation, were a tangle of yarn to be dropped into a puddle, we would have a resulting muddle?”

“Yes, exactly.” Lady Dorothea’s smile was far too wide to be pretense. She obviously found such imagery to be important and worthy of discussion.

Though he didn’t necessarily agree, he found her way of thinking entertaining. “And are there other words for which you have contemplated the appropriate imagery?”

Her smile faltered and her gaze dulled. “Do you play with me, my lord?”

The lightning-quick change caught him unawares. “I’m afraid I do not understand your question.”

“Then allow me to be plain.” She straightened her shoulders and looked him in the eye, despite being significantly shorter than himself. “I ask if you find my choice of topics silly and only wish to laugh at me.”

He would have been affronted had anyone else accused him of such rude behavior, but it wasn’t difficult to see that the lady spoke from experience. Her chin was tilted up in defiance despite the slightest trembling of her lower lip. “I assure, my lady, that what you suggest had not occurred to me. I am genuinely interested in any imagery you may have stumbled upon to better comprehend a particular word. With a very good friend who is an art collector, and whose wife is an artist, I am often searching for words to use which they might find easier to understand.”

Her shoulders relaxed and she gave him a shy smile. “Then I owe you an apology, my lord. I fear my past experience had me making assumptions that were uncalled for. I hope you can forgive me.” She dropped her gaze and her cheeks grew rosy.

If he were any other man, he would rush to assuage her guilt, but that was not his way. As the musicians finished their current song, an idea arose. “I believe I can forgive you if you would consent to this dance.”

Her head came up as her gaze locked with his. “You wish to dance with me?”

“Yes.” He found himself very curious as to whether or not she could hold a conversation while dancing. Since they would part and return, he wished to know if her thoughts would jump in the silence.

Just as she opened her mouth to answer, they called the dance, a waltz. She froze for a moment before licking her lips and swallowing hard. “I would gladly accept, but I must caution you that I have had little practice with the waltz.”

Now his curiosity led him in a new direction, that of the woman’s gracefulness. “That is of little concern, as I am an expert and will be happy to lead you.”

Clearly nervous, she gave him a silent nod, and he offered his arm. As they strode toward the dance area, her grip grew stronger, far stronger than he’d expected from a lady of such small stature.

As they stood side by side, waiting for the first section of the waltz to begin, she leaned in so only he could hear. “I’ve never waltzed in company.”

He lowered his head. “But you do know how?”

“Oh, yes. Lady Elsbeth—Lady Mabry helped me practice.” She said the words as if that were all that was needed to prove her skill.

His gut tightened at the implications. It appeared conversation of any sort would be out of the question. He was about to make a fool of himself with a woman from Belinda’s school and there was nothing he could do about it.