No Role For A Gentleman. Gail Whitiker

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      As Lady Cynthia had predicted, Mrs Blough-Upton’s soirée was a breath-stealing crush that Joanna was ready to leave well before the clock chimed the midnight hour. She had forgotten how stifling these affairs could be and how pompous was much of English society. Several well-dressed couples cast curious glances in her direction, and though she was paid flattering compliments by many of the gentlemen to whom she was introduced, a few of the young ladies were not as kind.

      ‘I suppose it is only to be expected that you would come back with imperfections of the skin,’ Miss Blenkinsop said, peering with disdain at the offending freckles sprinkled across the bridge of Joanna’s nose. ‘After all, the sun is so very harsh in India.’

      ‘Egypt.’

      ‘I beg your pardon?’

      ‘My father and I were in Egypt,’ Joanna said as patiently as she could. ‘Not India.’

      ‘Ah. But the two countries are quite close, are they not?’

      ‘Do you not wear a hat when you are out during the day, Lady Joanna?’ Miss Farkington enquired.

      ‘Of course, but with the sun being so strong, it is sometimes difficult to—’

      ‘I would die if I were ever to discover a blemish on my skin,’ Miss Blenkinsop interrupted dramatically. ‘It is the reason I spent most of last summer in the drawing room.’

      ‘Indeed, Mama insists on rubbing my skin with lemon juice whenever I have been outside,’ Miss Farkington informed them. ‘She said an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure and that if I wish to go about in the sun, I should wait until after I am married to do so. And preferably until after I have presented my husband with his first heir.’

      Having no idea how to respond to such a silly remark, Joanna said nothing, convinced it was the wisest course of action. She had long since come to the conclusion that she had absolutely nothing in common with the Misses Blenkinsop and Farkington, who subscribed to the popular belief that young women should do nothing that might detract from their eligibility as wives. They were like hothouse flowers: best viewed from a distance and preferably in the rarefied atmosphere of a drawing room.

      Then, a collective sigh echoed around the room as Lydia Blough-Upton walked in on the arm of a gentleman who looked to be considerably younger than her and not in the least concerned about it. He was dressed formally in black-and-white evening attire, though the cut of the jacket and the heavy use of embroidery were clearly reminiscent of a bygone age. His waistcoat, blindingly white and intricately embroidered with silver thread, had been cut by a master’s hand. The smoothness of his satin pantaloons and silk stockings outlined muscular calves and thighs that, given the rest of his build, owed nothing to the effects of padding.

      That he looked like an aristocrat was evident to every person in the room. His rich brown hair was styled in a classic crop and his eyes, blue as lapis lazuli, gazed out from a face more handsome than any gentleman’s in the room. But Joanna had seen those eyes before. Though they had been partially hidden behind wire-rimmed spectacles, the intensity of the colour had struck her forcibly at the time, as had the sincerity of his smile and the earnest nature of his conversation.

      A conversation that had given her absolutely no reason to believe that Mr Laurence Bretton was anything but the humble student of history he had so convincingly purported to be.

      ‘Isn’t he divine?’ gushed Miss Farkington. ‘I wish he would write something for me.’

      ‘Write?’ Joanna’s head snapped around as an unhappy memory of a youthful infatuation came back to haunt her. ‘Never tell me he’s a poet?’

      ‘Dear me, no, he’s a playwright. Surely you’ve heard of Valentine Lawe?’

      ‘Actually, no.’

      ‘How strange.’ Miss Farkington blinked. ‘His latest play is all the rage. But then you have been in mourning for quite some time.’

      ‘Mama and I have been to see it twice,’ Miss Blenkinsop said with a condescending air. ‘You really should go now that you are moving in society again, Lady Joanna. It is all anyone can talk about, as is Mr Bretton himself. Is he not the most dashing of gentleman?’

      Joanna stared at the man who was making such an impact on the ladies in the room and wondered why he had made no mention to her of his literary accomplishments when they had met earlier in the day. All he’d said then was that he was a devoted student of ancient Egypt—which was obviously not true since his appearance on Mrs Blough-Upton’s arm now in clothes that would have put a dandy to shame proclaimed him for the Pink of Fashion he so evidently was.

      ‘Ah, there you are, Joanna,’ Lady Cynthia said, pushing her way through the crowd to appear at her niece’s side. ‘Mr Albert Rowe, eldest son of Lord Rowe and heir to a considerable fortune, is interested in making your acquaintance. I told him I would bring you to him at once.’

      ‘Aunt, that gentleman on Mrs Blough-Upton’s arm,’ Joanna said, ignoring her aunt’s petition, ‘do you know him?’

      Lady Cynthia turned her head in the direction of their hostess and her eyes widened. ‘Well, well, so he did come. I’d heard that he had been invited, but no one knew whether or not he would attend. Lydia is so very forward and she has made no secret of her affection for him.’

      ‘Then you do know him?’

      ‘Of course I know him, Joanna. Everyone knows Laurence Bretton, or rather, Valentine Lawe as he is better known to theatre-going audiences. His latest play opened at the Gryphon Theatre last season and has been brought back for this one. I know you’re not all that fond of theatre, but you really should go. Everyone is talking about the play and Mr Bretton is himself garnering a great deal of attention. I understand he has been invited to dine with one of the royal dukes.’

      Joanna turned back to watch the gentleman who had somehow managed to disengage himself from Mrs Blough-Upton’s talons and now stood chatting to three young ladies who giggled a great deal and seemed to hang on every word he said. So, he was not the erudite student of archaeology he had led her to believe. He was a successful playwright who, judging by the reactions of the Misses Farkington and Blenkinsop, wrote the kind of romantic drivel so popular with society today—weakly plotted stories about star-crossed lovers, most often portrayed by simpering young women who could cry on cue and impossibly handsome men who could not act.

      It was a sobering discovery.

      Still, at least now she knew the truth about him. Whatever his true purpose in coming up to her in the bookshop this afternoon, it obviously hadn’t had anything to do with his professed love of ancient Egypt. No doubt he’d known exactly who she was, even though he had pretended not to, and his offer to lend her a book had been nothing more than a calculated attempt to engage her in conversation without going to the trouble of securing a proper introduction; something she would never have countenanced had she known beforehand exactly who and what he was.

      And then, the unexpected. Mr Bretton, breaking off his conversation with the prettiest of the three ladies, looked up and met Joanna’s eyes across the room.

      The contact was startling, the intensity of that brilliant blue gaze unnerving.

      Joanna felt hot colour bloom in her cheeks and hastily looked away, but not before seeing him make his excuses to the ladies and then start in her direction.

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