Page 44 of The Redemption of the Shrew

There was one awkward moment, when Lord Hythwick stuck his head into the drawing room and spotted Gloriana. Fortunately, two other ladies had also called, so he couldn’t order her removal without causing a scandal.

To her surprise, he smiled, greeting them all in a jovial manner. He seated himself next to Gloriana. “I am glad to see you here at Hythwick House,” he said in a low voice.

They were the first words he had spoken to her since he’d assaulted her, except for chilly public greetings. She stared at him in astonishment. Had he forgotten on what terms they had parted?

“As a friend of my sister’s, if not, as was clearly impossible, as my wife.”

“Why, thank you, my lord,” Gloriana managed. From any other man, this might be construed as an insult, but from Hythwick it verged on polite. Did he think this would somehow make up for assaulting her?

No, she realized, more likely he sought to quell any suspicion that she might entertain about the missing book by cultivating an open, friendly manner.

It wouldn’t work, but if he thought it did, so much the better. She prompted him to talk about his estate at Melton Mowbray, and after a long-winded account of the excellent hunting over the Christmas season, he left.

Marianne rolled her eyes sympathetically, and when Gloriana soon stood to leave, she kissed her warmly. “I’m so glad Alvin didn’t forbid our friendship.”

“I, too,” Gloriana said. One hurdle overcome, she thought, and went to buy a new pair of gloves for the Landings ball that evening. It was a smallish affair, London still being rather thin of company, but just the sort of party Gloriana liked. She danced with several gentlemen, some of whom had been her suitors until Lord Hythwick had taken their place.

“Dashed good to see you, Miss Warren,” said Mr. Bridge, coming up to claim her hand for the next dance. “You’ve been somewhat scarce of late.” He reddened. “Sorry, that was tactless of me.”

“Not at all. I’m much better off without Lord Hythwick.”

“I cannot help but agree with that.” He clapped a hand to his heart. “I shall never give up hope.”

She smiled at this. “Since I doubt I shall ever marry, I shall cherish the possession of a permanent suitor—as long as you promise not to languish or fall into a decline.”

“Nothing so tedious. I shall write poetry, drink too much, and tear my hair out.”

Since he was almost completely bald, she couldn’t help laughing as he squired her across the floor. “I’ve been spending more time at the school, teaching drawing to some of the boys.”

“How ever did you convince them that drawing is worthwhile?”

“By relating it to carpentry arts such as marquetry and inlay. It’s rewarding to see their progress and their joy in achievement.”

And then Philippe arrived, driving her enjoyment away. His presence unnerved her. She had to concentrate on her steps.

“Why do you scowl?” Mr. Bridge asked, but he realized at once. “Ah, I see—the revolutionary marquis. The latest on dit is that you have admitted publicly to agreeing with his views.”

“With some of his views, and you know very well which those are,” she retorted. “I shouldn’t have said as much to Alice Stowe, but the world must be mighty short on interesting gossip if my political opinions are the best they can muster.”

“Not your opinions, but the animosity with which you deliver them. No one seems to have the least idea in what way you agree with him, though.”

“Because no one cares about matters of grave interest to society. They just want to be titillated, and for some inexplicable reason, animosity does that.” She sighed. The time had come to reveal her secret. “I have decided to take your advice and seek some wealthy patrons.”

“Excellent. It’s about time!” cried Mr. Bridge, in such a triumphant tone that heads turned—even Philippe’s. He stared at her, his expression so appalled that she had to tear her gaze away.

“Are you well, Miss Warren?”

She swallowed and smiled wanly at Mr. Bridge. “Just a trifle nervous about telling the world.”

“Never mind about the marquis,” he said. “It’s for the welfare of many deserving boys. Concentrate on that.”

Yes. Thrust away the angry, disgusted . . . whatever it was expression on Philippe’s face and think about good works. The music ended, and as Mr. Bridge led her off the floor, she made a point of speaking more loudly than usual so others might hear as well.

Why must Philippe be standing in full view? This was embarrassing enough without him listening.

“Yes, Mr. Bridge, I believe it’s time we told our secret to the world.”

That turned a great many heads. Philippe’s face drained. He swiveled and stalked toward one of the doorways. Good.