Courting the Country Miss Page 7

  Mrs. Goodfellow nodded. “Those are all good ideas. I’ll share with you something that worked for me; I enlisted a group of young ladies to sell flowers at the open dances at the park. They carried baskets of flowers as they circulated the area. Young men who wished to impress a girl bought them and gave the flowers to the girls. Perhaps you could do something like that at your ball.”

  Leticia turned to Elizabeth. “We could ask Richard to make a point of buying one and presenting it to you. Then you’d gush about how lovely his gesture is, and the men might all follow suit.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “I like it.”

  Leticia straightened as an idea hit her. “What if we take it a step further? This may sound scandalous at first, but perhaps we could have ladies sell dances.”

  “What?” Two pairs of eyes blinked at her.

  Perhaps she trod on dangerous ground, but it might also appeal to the adventurous. If Elizabeth and Richard endorsed it, others would view it as acceptable. Besides, the Averstons always invited the most respected people among the beau monde to their parties.

  Leticia moistened her lips. “If a gentleman wishes to dance with a particular lady, he must pay for a dance. Or better yet, have an auction. We’ll make it clear that it is for charity. Everyone will take note of who was the most generous and what lady garnered the highest bid.”

  Elizabeth paled. “Oh dear. That may be embarrassing for some. What if a lady doesn’t get a high bid?”

  Leticia sorted her thoughts as they tumbled out. “We could have a team of rescuers: gentlemen who have agreed ahead of time to drive up bids and ensure each lady gets a respectable bidding. You know Richard would do it, and Tristan would as well. I’d wager Captain Kensington would, too. I believe if we put our heads together, we can find enough gentlemen. Once the bidding starts, everyone will catch the fever.”

  Mrs. Goodfellow’s eyes twinkled. “Miss Wentworth, that is a brilliant idea. I’m sure I’ve never seen the like, but that will force the men to compete for position as the most generous. No one will want to lose face by not getting the highest possible bid for the lady whose favor he wants to win.”

  Elizabeth looked pensive and her smile grew. “Yes, I do believe that will work.”

  “What if we have each dance be a set price and then have the auction for the supper dance?” Leticia said.

  Mrs. Goodfellow’s eyes sparkled. “I think you’ve hit on the right combination. All you have to do is make it feel exclusive and the gentlemen will line up.”

  Elizabeth turned to Leticia. “We need to modify the guest list.”

  “Indeed.”

  After thanking the hostess and taking their leave, Leticia and Elizabeth stood in the foyer to don their pelisses and bonnets, all the while discussing possible guests, rescuers, and ladies to approach about auctioning their supper dance.

  Elizabeth’s voice trailed off as her head turned to a small figure in the doorway. In a gentle voice, she asked, “What is it, child?”

  A girl in the first stages of womanhood took a tentative step toward them, then hung back, her eyes on the floor.

  Leticia gestured at the girl to come closer. “May we help you?”

  “B-begging yer pardon yer ladyship, but I couldn’t ’elp but over ’ear…yer openin’ a school for the poor folk?”

  “We are,” said Leticia.

  She took another step nearer. “I’m not an orphan and I’m no’ a chil’ anymore, neither but I wonder…migh’ I come to school?”

  Elizabeth’s eyes lit up. “You wish to learn to read and write?”

  “Yes’um. I want it ever so bad. If’in I could read, maybe…” The girl swallowed. “Please?” She turned hopeful brown eyes on them.

  Leticia’s heart squeezed. “Of course you may.”

  The girl offered a timid smile. “I’d like so much t’ work in a dressmaker’s shop. I can sew a li’le. O’ course, Mrs. Goodfellow, she’s teaching me t’ be a maid, and that’d be fine, too. Anything tha’ don’t…” She folded her arms and seemed to retreat inside herself.

  Elizabeth looked as if she were about to cry. “We’re trying to get our school open very soon and you’ll be one of our first students. I promise.”

  Wonder brightened the girl’s eyes. She bobbed a curtsy. “Thankee kindly, yer ladyship.”

  Leticia smiled. She couldn’t save them all of course, but she could save this one, and perhaps a few others like her. She glanced at Elizabeth. Judging by the determined set of her jaw, her friend thought the same. For this cause, Leticia would beg every lady in London to put herself upon the auction block.

  Chapter Eight

  Tristan sauntered to Rhys Kensington who stood apart from the other guests at the garden party gazing at the hills as if he saw something different than the landscape.

  “The view is better if you turn around,” Tristan quipped.

  Kensington’s posture straightened as he glanced at Tristan. “Oh?” He looked over his shoulder at a cluster of young ladies twittering like so many birds. “Yes, the view there is pleasant, too.” His voice rose sharply, as if he were trying too hard.

  Tristan peered at him. “What ails you?”

  Kensington shrugged. “Thoughts unfit for such a fine day.” He faced Tristan. “You look as though you have something on your mind, as well.”

  “What are your thoughts of Leticia Wentworth?”

  Kensington blinked, clearly taken aback. “Er, she’s…a fine woman. A proper lady. Witty.”

  “Anything else?”

  His forehead creased in mild confusion. “Anything in particular you’re looking for?”

  Tristan shrugged. “No, not specifically.” He switched tactics. “A group of us are going to Vauxhall Gardens Wednesday next. Care to come along?”

  One of Kensington’s black brows rose. “Is Miss Wentworth in the party?”

  Tristan kept his voice causal. “I’d planned to invite her—we are friends, after all.”

  Kensington narrowed his eyes. “Did Richard put you up to this? Or his wife?”

  Tristan raised a brow. “Put me up to what?”

  “Trying to match me with Miss Wentworth.”

  “Er, no.” Tristan resisted the urge to tug at his collar. “They haven’t mentioned her and you in the same sentence. I thought a visit to Vauxhall Gardens would be a diverting evening—providing the weather holds—and wanted you to be comfortable with the others in our group. Miss Wynn mentioned she’d never seen them, which gave me the idea.”

  Kensington folded his arms and stared Tristan in the eye. “I’m not in the marriage mart.”

  “No, no, of course not. What man is?” Tristan laughed uneasily. He should have known Kensington would see the transparency of his scheme.

  A muscle in Kensington’s jaw twitched. “I have no plans to…marry.”

  Questions crowded into Tristan’s mind but he didn’t dare voice them and pry. Guilt stabbed him. He should have taken a more direct, honest approach with Kensington.

  Conjuring a grin, Tristan held up his hands in surrender. “Not setting you for the parson’s noose, my good fellow. Merely a diverting evening.”

  Kensington eyed him with a shrewd gaze. “I see.”

  “Will you come?” Perspiration dampened his back. What if Kensington rejected Leticia? Or told her Tristan had prodded him to approach her? Surely he would not do something so ungallant. Moreover, Kensington had partnered with Leticia at Whist, which suggested interest on some level, his protestations notwithstanding. At the moment, the idea of attempting to match Leticia with Kensington suggested higher stakes than he would have supposed.

  Kensington glanced away. “I fear I’m not much company at social gatherings.”

  “You’re here,” Tristan pointed out.

  “I couldn’t refuse.” He sent a sidelong glare at someone out of Tristan’s range of sight.

  Tristan had no idea how a man of Kensington’s formidable presence could be coerced into anything, but kept his que
stions to himself. “Anyone in particular you’d like me to invite to join us at the Gardens?”

  “No.”

  Tristan laughed, more uneasy than before. “It’s nothing but an outing with friends—all respectable.”

  “Not your usual circle of reprobates, then?”

  Tristan winced. “They aren’t that bad.”

  “Not bad if one seeks gambling, racing, too much to drink, and loose women. Oh, no, they’re perfect.”

  He was starting to sound like Richard. Unfortunately, he was right. Tristan squared his shoulders. “Most of the chaps in the Four Horse Club are not rakes.”

  “True. I admit, they’re a bit more my speed than your usual set of friends.”

  “So, you like fast horses better than fast women?” Tristan said, trying to lighten the mood.

  “I suppose I do.” Kensington smiled, but no humor touched his eyes.

  Tristan shrugged, attempting nonchalance. This conversation had been unexpectedly tense. “I’m not worried about having even numbers at the Gardens—nothing that formal. You’re invited if you care to come, or not.”

  He clapped Kensington on the shoulder and wandered off. Out of Kensington’s surprisingly dark company, Tristan let out a breath and focused on his objective. By the end of the afternoon, Tristan had invited Rowley, Seton, and several others in a mixed group of Richard’s ilk as well as a few considered respectable but not quite so stuffy. He left out the debauched Mr. Wynn, of course. Tristan also invited several young ladies, choosing those with whom Leticia would be comfortable.

  That task complete, Tristan approached Leticia standing with a group of young ladies including her sister, Isabella. As he sauntered to them wearing his most winsome smile, Leticia glanced his way. Her mouth softened and the rest of the world fell away, leaving the two of them. If only he could feel this safe with another woman beside his best friend. Although that might result in love and marriage, and he’d never be reckless enough to take that plunge.

  For propriety’s sake, he bowed and murmured, “Miss Wentworth, Miss Isabella.” He greeted the other ladies in the circle, gratified he remembered their names.

  “A man with a purpose, I see.” Leticia’s smile turned knowing.

  Why did everyone suspect him of seeking more than polite conversation today? “No, not a purpose. Er…not really. Several of us are for Vauxhall Gardens Wednesday next. Care to join us?” His glance included the other ladies. “All of you are invited, of course.”

  Leticia’s expression turned mischievous and almost suspicious. “Vauxhall? With whom?”

  “Reputable invitees, I assure you. Mr. Rowley, Captain Kensington, Miss Wynn, Miss Seton and her brother Mr. Seton, among others.” All designed to provide Leticia with potential husband candidates, as she already guessed.

  She pursed her lips in a lopsided pout like she always did when she considered something. Then, with a mild shrug that stated why not, she nodded. “It sounds diverting. I hope the weather holds.” She looked up as if she expected a cloudburst at any moment.

  Her earlier suspicion still stung but Tristan inclined his head. “I’ll be sure to order perfect weather for our outing.”

  The other ladies present murmured their assent.

  Leticia smiled as if she knew a secret. “Very well, it seems we accept.”

  “Excellent.” He inclined his head.

  After providing details of when and where to meet, Tristan took his leave and headed for the refreshment table. Matchmaking made him hungry. As he sat and devoured an array of delectable treats intended to tempt the palate rather than fill a man’s stomach, a cool shadow fell over him. He glanced up.

  “Mrs. Hunter,” he said in surprise.

  “Please,” she purred. “Georgette, remember?” She took a bite-sized sandwich and bit into it, each motion of her lips pure seduction. She glanced up at him from under her lashes. Her tongue slid out and licked off the crumbs from her full lips. She smiled, a sensuous movement with a clear invitation.

  A rush of heat tightened Tristan’s collar. She was beautiful and desirable and clearly wanted him. It would be a nice, simple affair with no promises asked or made.

  He cast a guilty backward glance at Leticia who stood engrossed in conversation with an older couple. Her sweet, light laugh rang through the air. Her fresh loveliness contrasted against the foil of the sultry Mrs. Hunter. He stood torn between night and day. But that made no sense. Leticia offered friendship, nothing more. Mrs. Hunter desired an uncomplicated liaison.

  He focused on Mrs. Hunter. “A fine day for a gathering, is it not?”

  “A very fine day,” she agreed. “Are you attending the Miller’s soiree musicale tomorrow night?”

  Tristan paused. “I think not.”

  She pouted prettily. “A pity. I’d rather hoped to see you again in a more…intimate setting.” Her gaze swept over him from head to toe.

  Tristan tugged at his strangling cravat and shot another guilty glance at Leticia. When he chose to enjoy the charms of women who propositioned him, he had always done so without an audience. Short liaisons helped to stave off his consuming loneliness. But blast it all, he couldn’t enjoy Georgette Hunter’s attention with the virtuous Leticia nearby. It seemed too…crass.

  Besides, the last few affairs had left him empty, almost used. Which is why he’d avoided them the last several months. Mrs. Hunter was too…obvious. Wanton. Vulgar.

  Affecting a proper bow, Tristan smiled politely at Mrs. Hunter. “Perhaps our paths will cross again. Good day.”

  He strode away before he had time to register the expression on Mrs. Hunter’s face. As he walked, he glanced at Leticia. Their gazes met. Leticia studied him as if to assess his response to Mrs. Hunter. He should march over to Leticia and tell her to get out of his head and stop acting like a conscience. Her attention flitted between him and Mrs. Hunter. Then she smiled, approval shining in her leaf-green eyes.

  Tristan drew himself up taller.

  “You’d better rein in your wife, Averston. She and that Wentworth twit are getting too pushy in their ridiculous crusade,” said a nearby voice.

  Tristan slowed his steps and searched the crowd. Lord Petre confronted Richard.

  Richard looked as calm as if he’d been discussing the cut of a tailcoat. Mildly, he said, “My wife is my business, Petre. I’ll thank you to mind yours.”

  The utter stillness in Richard’s posture betrayed his controlled anger.

  Lord Petre’s face reddened. “It’s become my business because my wife has been spouting nonsense about our duty to help the poor better themselves. Next thing you know, the poor will start lopping off the heads of all their betters.”

  Tristan went on alert. Should he offer his support or let Richard fight his own battle?

  Richard laughed softly, velvet over steel. “I doubt teaching a few urchins to read and find decent jobs will cause such upheaval.”

  “I don’t want your wife nor that Wentworth chit anywhere near my wife, giving her all these revolutionary ideas that could lead to ambitious tradesmen thinking they’re our equal. That may be enough to set it off. There’s enough unrest already, what with all the riots.” Lord Petre glared at Richard as if he were to blame for the civil discontent.

  “Which Parliament is addressing, as you recall,” Richard reminded him. “And there were many factors that lead to the bloodshed in France.”

  Perhaps Richard didn’t need him, but Tristan’s annoyance that the boorish Lord Petre had brought Leticia into his criticism, not to mention his disparaging remarks about her worthy cause spurred him. He took up two glasses of sherry and sauntered over to them with an external calm at odds with his irritation with the lord.

  “None of these factors, to my knowledge, included teaching orphans to read, sir.” Tristan handed Richard a glass and glanced at Petre, keeping his stance open and non-confrontational. If he could diffuse the other man’s hostility, perhaps he could reason with him.

  Lord Petre gave
Tristan a dismissive glance and glowered at Richard. “I’m telling you, Averston, put a leash on your woman and that conniving little country chit, and stop spreading dangerous ideas. It will lead to no good.”

  The slight to Leticia’s character pushed Tristan’s annoyance toward true ire. He tensed, barely catching himself before he leaped at the man’s throat.

  Richard gripped Tristan’s arm and said in a low, dangerous voice, “That so-called conniving little country chit and her family are long-time friends of our family.”

  “She ought to heed her betters,” Petre said.

  “She is the daughter of a gentleman,” Tristan ground out. “I’ll thank you to speak more courteously of her.”

  “Hmph.” Petre stalked off.

  A muscle in Richard’s jaw tightened and his fingers drummed on his thigh, the one visible sign of agitation.

  Tristan shook off Richard’s arm and fought to release his anger. “Do you ever allow yourself to get truly enraged and go punch something?”

  Richard lifted a brow. “About a year ago, in fact.”

  Right. Richard had done exactly that. Tristan rubbed his jaw still feeling the bone-cracking punch Richard dealt him when he’d been certain Tristan seduced his wife. “Other than me, that is.”

  A smile twitched Richard’s mouth. “Why do you think I box and fence so often? And often, I run it off.”

  “You still do that, too?” Interesting. Richard still ran when his emotions threatened to get the better of him. Warmth enfolded Tristan. They still had that in common, at least. Tristan glanced back to find Lord Petre talking to another stuffed shirt and waving his hands. “Is he cause for concern?”

  “Others may agree with him. It might mean Elizabeth and Leticia losing supporters for their school, if he keeps it up.”

  “Might he be a problem on any other level?”

  Richard took a slow sip of his drink, a tactic he used when he needed a moment to sort through his thoughts. “I doubt it. Most consider him a windbag. I don’t think he’d do anything about it except complain and try to discourage others from contributing.” The corners of his mouth relaxed. “Elizabeth and Leticia have a rather unconventional manner of raising funds, however, so I doubt many will resist.”