Theresa Romain: It Takes Two to Tangle

Ridiculous. It had been far too long, that was all; her imagination was as overheated as this ballroom. “About Caroline,” she said in a voice that was all business. “You want my help in courting her.”

He drummed the fingers of his left hand on the arm of his chair. “Help with courtship sounds a bit excessive. What if we limit it to advice?”

“Oh, certainly. I’m excellent at giving advice.”

He smirked. “I’ve heard that often this evening.”

Frances drew her chin back. “What? That I inflict advice on people?”

Again, that quick mischievous grin. “No, no. I can’t speak to that, having only just met you. But the whole of the ton has been remarkably free with advice tonight, much to my good fortune.”

Ha. She could well imagine. Everyone would want to be the first, the closest to a man retrieved from the violent mysteries of war—whether he returned as a prodigal son or a hero.

“That is indeed fortunate,” Frances replied. “That the advice has been free, I mean. Few could bear the cost if the ton began to charge for its helpful instructions.”

Henry’s expression grew self-conscious. “Indeed, yes. Within one minute of entering the ballroom, our hostess recommended several remedies that she swore could not fail to restore my youthful glow.”

Frances would have laughed if she had not thought he might take it amiss. If there was anything he lacked, it was not a youthful glow. His skin shone the healthy brown of long days spent outdoors, while under the stark cut of his austere black and white clothing, his muscles showed long and lean. No one who really looked at him could think Henry Middlebrook was anything in the common way.

Her stomach did another little flip, but she managed a calm tone. “Do you plan to take all the advice that has been shoveled upon you?”

He shifted in his chair, hitching one foot across the other knee. “I could not if I wanted to. I have been advised both to take rest and take exercise, to eat heartily and to starve myself. I am not to closet myself away, nor should I monopolize the attention of the young ladies.”

A shadow flitted over his light eyes for a second, then the satirical glint returned to them.

Frances nodded as though this recitation made perfect sense. “You must be the most fortunate man in this ballroom. Not only to be so taxed by the good wishes of caring friends, but then to be able to discard all of their contrary advice without a bit of guilt. I hope you’ve found the evening enjoyable despite the burdens placed upon you.”

He settled himself more firmly against the back of his chair, considering. “Do you know, I think I have. Will I see you tomorrow at Lady Stratton’s house?”

“Of course. I’ll be the one flinging advice at people and breaking all the fans. Someone must play that essential role.”

He studied her through narrowed eyes. She narrowed hers right back, and he grinned, then turned his head toward the couples winding their way through the final patterns of the dance.

“You would have made a good soldier, Mrs. Whittier,” he said. “I shall be fortunate if you agree to fight on my side.”

Frances did not pretend to misunderstand. “A word in Caroline’s ear at the right moment? Tell her how fond you are of starving and gorging yourself?”

He rolled his eyes. “Not that, please. But any and every other inconsequentiality that might be of help. If you don’t mind, of course.”

“I don’t mind. I’ll be happy to help if I can.”

“I’m sure Lady Stratton values your opinion.”

“She might if I dispensed it less freely. But I shall give it to her, for what it’s worth.” She offered him a smile, wishing for a little more of Caroline’s verve.

“I won’t press you for more than that,” he said. “You’re very generous. Only keep her from forgetting my name, and let me know if she has any particular likes or dislikes. I shall endeavor to do the rest.”

Forget his name? Surely not. Would he remember hers, though?

The music came to an end, and the ballroom began to shift in new patterns as a hubbub of voices replaced the tune of the orchestra. Frances caught a glimpse of Lord and Lady Tallant through the swirl of the crowd. They’d be back in less than a minute, all curiosity. What could Hal and Mrs. Whittier have to talk about for so long?

“Not roses,” Frances said in a rush. “Caroline doesn’t care for roses because they’re so often given. Bring something more unusual when you call.”

Middlebrook studied her again. “Thank you. I’ll make sure that I do.”

With Lord and Lady Tallant now almost at his side, he stood and inclined his head, a gesture of farewell that she realized would not draw attention to his injured arm.

Frances wanted more than a distant nod; she wanted to reach him. Before she thought, her hands stretched out to clasp his—first the left, then the twisted right.

She had never done such a thing before. Her own body startled her.

It startled her too that she felt the pressure of his fingers so deeply; they warmed her with a heat nothing like the crush of the summer crowds. His gloved hands were strong within hers.

He stared at her, his lips parted as if he were about to speak, but the words had melted before they reached the air. She realized her face wore the same expression, and she pressed her mouth into a proper smile and released his fingers.

“Until tomorrow,” Frances said in a louder tone to cover her bewilderment. Thoughts in a tumult, she looked down at the sensible dark blue crape of her gown as though it required all of her attention.

She still had no idea what terrified him. And that terrified her a little. In a good way.

Oh, she was intrigued.

Albemarle Street, home to Lady Stratton, was a jostling, vivid lane at the edge of London’s most fashionable residential area. Carts and carriages trundled past, pulled by high-stepping horses that graced the crushed-stone macadam with their droppings. Coal soot powdered the sky, and vivid blooms tumbled from window boxes.

Henry loved it. He absolutely loved London. Its familiar scents and sights were more precious to him than a masterpiece in tempera paint.

Though with only one hand, the simple social act of calling on a woman was not so simple as it ought to be. To carry flowers, Henry had to clutch them to his chest as if they were themselves a desirable female. To sound the knocker, he had to set his precious flowers on the ground. Then stand, knock, crouch again, and retrieve the flowers—all, he hoped, before a servant opened the door and caught him scrabbling on the steps. The waiting was the only part of this simple ritual that he could perform as well as anyone else.

It was rather annoying. Especially since Henry had never enjoyed waiting.

He had composed himself with his flowers—not roses, as his new ally had forewarned him—by the time the door opened. A butler bowed him in and showed him up to the drawing room, where Henry entered the presence of the dazzling Lady Stratton.

And ten other people.

Henry had not expected such a clutter of suitors and opulence. From the outside, Lady Stratton’s narrow Albemarle Street house resembled its neighbors, all sedate stone trim and stucco. Inside, the drawing room was as full of lush blooms as a hothouse, and alive with booted feet and blinking eyes.

Against the far wall of the Prussian blue–papered room, Lady Stratton held court amidst a bower of roses as big as baby cabbages. A wide bay of windows draped and valanced in fringed brocade framed her, the sooty afternoon light giving her the dreamy look of a sfumato painting. Graceful and otherworldly, a fairy tale princess with hair as fine as spun flax and eyes the color of new grass in spring.