Chapter Five

To Henry's surprise, he found Miss Venetia Winton entirely more tolerable than he had expected. To be sure, she was tall—some would say unnaturally so—and she had very little beauty. But there was rare self-possession about her as she looked at him, and no visible inclination to flutter her fan, giggle, or otherwise make a spectacle of herself.

"Mrs Winton," his mother said, addressing herself to Miss Winton's grey-haired, matronly mother. There was a hint of frost in his mother's voice, but he could hardly blame her for coldness when he knew that was his entire reputation. "Allow me to introduce my son, Lord Eynsham."

Mrs Winton understood the assignment immediately, and after a brief, shrewd glance in which he had the impression of being chewed up and spat out, she extended a hand.

"Pleasure to meet you, m'lord. This is my daughter, Miss Venetia Winton, although I expect you already knew that, seeing as that's the reason you made the journey to our corner of the room."

Miss Winton took her cool grey gaze from him and glanced at her mother. "Mama."

"Yes, yes. Lady Shrewsbury, shall we take a turn about the room and leave these young people to it? No doubt they will want to dance, and I confess myself partial to the lemonade."

Lady Shrewsbury, a lady of discerning tastes, could not be said to embrace this suggestion with enthusiasm, but she moved away.

"Miss Winton," Henry said, accepting her proffered hand and bowing over it. "I'm delighted to make your acquaintance."

"Are you?" Something flickered in her eyes, and she shook herself, giving a brief, colourless smile. "Yes, no doubt you are. I apologise for my mother."

He forced a smile of his own. "Not at all. Would you like to dance?"

"Perhaps later. I'm a little warm at present."

With a glance in the direction of his parent, who looked deep in reluctant conversation with Mrs Winton, Henry offered Venetia his arm and they crossed the room to the double doors, which were flung open to welcome in a little winter air. The wind was cool against his cheek, and he found himself relieved he was not obliged to dance with her just yet.

She was very far from vivacious, lovely, forward Louisa.

She removed her hand from his arm and looked up at him, assessing in a detached way that made him feel a little uncomfortable. It was not often he was made to feel judged, and even less frequently that the conclusion was unflattering.

"I heard you served in France," she said.

He latched on to this tidbit with unbecoming relief. "Yes, I did. I returned to England this past summer, in fact."

"Is it true that Napoleon has escaped from exile?"

He glanced sharply down at her head. "How did you hear of that?"

"My father takes a great interest in foreign policies. I daresay he knows everything there is to know about Wellington and Napoleon, and he has been following the news very closely." She glanced up at him, her eyes finally displaying some small emotion, although he was unable to decipher precisely what it was. "Forgive me if I said anything to make you uncomfortable. I am not a natural conversationalist."

"Not at all. I am rarely called upon to discuss the war in such elevated company. You merely caught me by surprise." Sensing that she was not fully appeased by this, he said, "I was not expecting you to be so well informed."

"My father likes to discuss it."

An awkward pause followed, during which Henry wondered if he had been mistaken. His initial impression of self-possession did not, evidently, lend itself well to conversation.

"I believe it is true that Napolean escaped from Elba," he offered, "but I have no doubt that we shall catch him soon."

"You are not afraid this will mean another war?"

"No." He shook his head firmly. "We are safe from that, at least."

Venetia gave him a long, assessing glance. "My father would approve of you, I think."

Ah. This was unexpected. "He would?"

"Yes. He likes a military man. Believes it adds distinction." She sighed, and he thought he saw her shoulders slump. "And you have not attempted to fill the silence with vapid compliments about my beauty. It is always so tiresome."

"You dislike compliments?"

"I do when they are unfounded and delivered unwillingly." There was dry humour in her voice, and when she next looked at him, it was with a degree of amusement. "I believe I ought to be direct with you, Lord Eynsham."

"Please do," he said, curiosity piqued.

"I understand that my age means a marriage sooner rather than later would be preferable. I also know that my father's station in life, and my mother's humble birth, are seen as impediments." Her chin raised. "Believe me, I am not ignorant of my situation."

Somewhat lost for words, Henry waited.

"I also know of your situation, Lord Eynsham," she said. "That is why you approached me."

Sensing it would not be in his best interests to disseminate, he inclined his head. "That is true. I, too, am not ignorant."

"Precisely." Her smile was brief, but it lent her face much-needed character. "That is why I believe we would suit. I am not looking for a love match, but I do want to appease my parents. Can you offer me that?"

Henry was not in the habit of acting rashly, and in the pause that followed, he considered his options very carefully. His father's flagrant determination to act in the face of prudence was concerning, as was his mother's distinct lack of concern for their financial plight. The very reason he had approached Venetia was to ascertain if she would be amenable to his suit.

It took him only a few more seconds to decide on his course of action.

"Thank you for your honesty," he said. "Allow me to be honest in return. I am also not seeking a love match, nor do I expect one. Any wife of mine would have to accept the situation as it stands—I can offer her security and respect, but nothing more." He paused, examining her expression, which showed no signs of dismay. "I would not like to mislead you."

She gave a small, crooked smile. "Nor I you. But I hope—I would like to be friends, my lord."

He thought then, damn him, of Louisa, always so bright, laughing, teasing. She would never, not in a thousand years, have ever accepted mere friendship from him.

He would never have offered it.

"Very well," he said crisply, putting Louisa from his mind. "Then I believe we have a deal. How soon can we be married?"

"Not immediately, I think. It would be better for us both if you are seen to court me first. Not that anything will quell the rumours that you are marrying me for my dowry, but we should play the part if I am to take my place beside you in society." She thought, one finger on her chin, and it struck him that although she had taken the lead in this conversation—highly unusual in and of itself—she showed no signs of being inclined to marry.

They were a pair, he thought grimly. Bound by reluctant duty.

"Two months," she said. "And by the end of that , I am certain Papa would give you the money to purchase a special license so we are married immediately."

Every part of him balked at the idea. "I am certain we can contrive a way to manage without that."

"Perhaps, but there is nothing wrong with accepting assistance when it is freely given." She shrugged, a loose movement of her shoulders. "Do as you please. We should return to the ballroom now."

Once again, he offered her his arm and led her back inside. The heat of the ballroom swamped him immediately, and he was about to ask Venetia to a reluctant dance when his gaze caught on a figure at the other side of the room. Shock rendered every other sense mute; he stared at her in disbelief, horror. Dismay.

Desire.

Louisa.

In the frigid air of Hyde Park, she had been wearing a pelisse, her cheeks bright from the cold. There, she had been a vision, but here, in a burgundy gown paired with white gloves and gleaming pearls in her chestnut hair, she was frighteningly lovely. Time had done nothing but sweeten her face, giving it an edge of sorrow that made its beauty even more stark. She was late summer, the leaves slowly burnishing into autumn, the sky the sharpest, deepest shade of blue. A devastating sight. He wanted to despise the knowledge, but he found himself drinking her in with a ferocity that terrified him.

Time had twisted everything he had once felt for her into a thousand different knots. She had told him that it was not as simple as hating him, and she had been right. His love for her, stretched thin by the years and his futile attempts to forget her, was tinged by the sombre knowledge that she would never want him again.

He had been the one to ruin that.

His gaze travelled to her companion, a man standing over her. Not towering, precisely, because he did not have the height, but certainly intending to intimidate. His hand was clamped around her wrist.

Henry was not aware that he moved, or even that he had left Venetia behind in his wake. He knew of nothing except the defiant tilt to Louisa's chin, the mutinous anger in her eyes, and the understanding, deep within himself, that he could not let this go.

"Excuse me, sir," he said, his voice as cold as the North Sea, the anger in it biting. "I must insist you release Lady Bolton immediately."