Metamorphosis.
The London ton squirmed like herrings in a net at Lord and Lady Rainham’s Michaelmas Ball, the newly acquired manor house in Richmond being a little on the small side.
No one, however, could fault the splendour. Green silk, the colour of holly, draped windows and tables whilst gold mirrors adorned the fresh white walls, reflecting an endless array of dancers.
Furtively, Jack removed his fob watch whilst lurking by the French doors. It would take an hour to return to his town house and what with his early start tomorrow, surely he’d not be missed if he departed before midnight?
Portmanteaus were packed, the Fortnum and Mason hamper ordered, a map procured for the coachman, business affairs dealt with and his promise to Rainham fulfilled by his presence tonight.
Earlier, he had witnessed his hosts seated on a chaise by the window, Rainham’s hand lingering on his wife’s shoulder as they’d gazed at each other and that odd sensation had twisted his gut.
But now Jack knew its name.
Love.
And nothing felt the same because it wasn’t.
He loved. He yearned, and he was leaving for Cornwall at first light.
“There you are, Winterbourne.”
“Rainham.” He swivelled on his heel, straightening his coquelicot waistcoat. “Congratulations on the ball. A splendid turnout.” In point of fact, Jack’s attendance was hardly required as the Prince Regent had made a brief appearance not one hour before, sealing the newly ennobled Rainham’s place in society.
“You’ve scarcely danced.” A hand clapped upon his shoulder. “I do hope you’ll not be leaving us till gone midnight at the earliest.”
“Of course not.”
And hewouldstay for Rainham: a loyal servant of the Crown who stood by his men, staunch and true, a friend who’d taught Jack control and given this former rogue purpose. The very finest of gentlemen.
So he headed towards the shy Miss Hill, a wallflower of small fortune, small standing and large heart, who he would introduce to Sir John, a widower of large fortune, large standing and searching heart.
But a nudge past midnight and Jack was leaving.
∞∞∞
Oliver reclined wearily in his favourite leather armchair, a cast-off from the Winterbourne townhouse study.
After attiring his master to the best of his ability, he’d ironed five cravats, packed the remaining trunks and laid out travel attire for tomorrow. Now, he intended to settle down for a quiet night browsingPig Breeding in Somersetwith cup of tea in hand.
More fortunate than most valets, he had spacious quarters within the household: a sitting room attached to a generous bedchamber. He could have more, if he accepted his brother’s offer of the estate, but…
It defied all he’d ever promised himself and his mother: that he’d work hard for reward, never accept charity and that only one person could be relied upon. Oneself.
As a boy of five years, he’d understood his status in life from the taunts and beatings: a bastard. At seven years, he’d vowed to one day be in a position to free his mother from the Winterbourne estate. By ten, he was scrubbing the vicar’s boots in return for school lessons, and at fourteen, he’d apprenticed as fifth valet to a baronet. Come his seventeenth year, he’d rented a tiny cottage for his mother just outside London. A larger one at nineteen.
It would be so easy to accept the estate and then, as landowner, ask Miss Treherne for her hand afresh, but if she refused a lowly valet, what would follow when she discovered his ignoble birth and humble family?
A knock on the door and he bade them enter as Mrs Shepherd often popped in for a chat.
Pig Breedingcrashed to the floor as he stood.
Lowdy swore her heart would be heard in five counties as she approached Oliver.
His stature crowded the room, green eyes piercing, lips parted. At some stage, he’d cast off his neckcloth and a bare throat swallowed. Handsome and strong, he could court any girl he chose.
In Cornwall, she’d acted so very horrible, been so very untruthful and so very, very afraid.
Tears smarted as she remembered his ashen face – implacable and hurt. Had she lost his regard for good?
