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he kind of wife he is after.”
Her lips curved up even more at Hetty’s gasp. Fortunately Araminta must have assumed it was shock at her boldness because her response sounded smug. “Dear Hetty, even an innocent debutante must take risks if she’s to seize the advantage. I intend to marry Sir Aubrey before the year is out.”
“You can’t—”
Araminta raised her eyebrows and in the amused silence, Hetty struggled for a response. “I’d have imagined Lord Debenham held a greater attraction for you.”
“Indeed, he is most intriguing with his brooding black looks and raven locks, his white skin and hawklike nose. If I’d call anyone dangerous, it would be Lord Debenham.” A faint look of distaste marred her pretty features.
“Lord Debenham would have you believe that Sir Aubrey is the villain.”
Ignoring this, Araminta replied sharply, “And I would have you try to foster a tendre in Lord Debenham’s nephew. He looks sheep’s eyes at you when you’re not looking, you know.”
“Sometimes, Araminta, you are so heartless it gives me a headache,” she whispered.
Araminta frowned as if she did not understand her. “Heartless? My dear, I am doing everything I can to foster Mr. Woking’s interest in you in order to ensure you don’t end up a poor, discarded creature destined to play unpaid nursemaid to our parents as they grow old and feeble. For you do know that’s what will happen if you become a confirmed spinster?”
“I’d rather that than become wife to Mr. Woking.”
Araminta turned to wait for Stephen and the others. Gently chiding, she said, “You know you don’t mean that, dearest. A September wedding, I’m predicting. You can borrow my goose-feather-trimmed bonnet that Aunt Sarah made me. I’m afraid it makes me look such a goose, which is why I’ve never worn it, but it’ll please Aunt Sarah and I think that you’ll feel more comfortable if you’re overwhelmed by feathers and furbelows. Certainly that’ll be the case if you’re not exactly feeling overwhelmed with love—though I’ve heard that often comes with time.
“Ah, Stephen, Hetty was saying she has a headache so perhaps you can get the cousins to take her home so we can go on together to Lady Misshelene’s ball-assembly. I distinctly heard Sir Aubrey mention he’d be there this evening.”
Stephen slanted a concerned look at Hetty before regarding Araminta with suspicion, but Hetty had no heart for more entertainment.
Silently, she followed her lackluster cousins into the hackney carriage Stephen flagged down. Cousin Seb was showing distinct signs of queasiness by the time they passed their townhouse and wearily Hetty told them to have no concern for her as, with worried looks, they questioned the rightness of allowing her to continue the two blocks to her own lodgings.
But Hetty didn’t care what became of her and waved aside as lip service their fears for her well-being over such a short distance, saying, “Judging by the bilious look on Cousin Seb’s face, I think it’s best to remove your brother earlier rather than later.”
Cocooned in silence, Hetty reflected amidst the tumult of her feelings. Sir Aubrey was a scoundrel but she did not believe in her heart of hearts she’d fallen victim to a villain. In fact, the conversation she’d overheard outside the supper room suggested Sir Aubrey was facing a more immediate danger than he could know.
The more she dwelt upon it as the lonely clip clop of hooves rang upon the cobblestones, the greater became her concern. Sir Aubrey had no idea of the lengths to which his enemies would go to condemn him. Only Hetty knew. A great sense of destiny made her sit straight as she considered her options.
The hackney was nearly to her home but not three blocks away was Sir Aubrey’s townhouse. He might not be there but he was in danger. She could warn him. She could distinguish herself by her boldness and daring.
Not by speaking to him and risking her reputation again, but she could ask for pen and paper to scribble him a note that would be delivered to him the moment he came in. She’d sign it so he knew that she was his benefactress.
For once Hetty could feel as if she were the star performer in her own adventure. A heroine. Yes, for once Hetty could play the heroine.
Chapter Five
A large waxing moon had Sir Aubrey waving away the lantern his footman rushed forward proffering. He didn’t need any help from anyone.
Wearily, he climbed the stairs to his townhouse. He’d been a fool to have bespoken a supper box in Vauxhall Gardens, but it had been the second anniversary of Margaret’s defection and Vauxhall was where he’d proposed marriage. For some maudlin reason he’d planned to drown his sorrows in claret. It had done nothing except make him dissatisfied and distinctly out of sorts.
Or maybe that odd little chit of Madame Chambon’s had done that with her refusal to entertain him. She’d scampered across his path when he’d least expected it and completely disarmed him with her dimpled smile and plump white arms.
Recalling the image gave him the urge to enfold her in his embrace and kiss her cheekiness into something far more primal.
It piqued him more than he cared to admit that she’d wriggled out of his amorous embrace. However there was something oddly endearing about her, which was strange since she was by no means as dashing as Jezebel, nor the beauty Margaret had been.
With her round, innocent face and her confident demeanor she was an enigma; part unworldly debutante, part brazen lightskirt. Perhaps she was a gentlewoman fallen on hard times. If so, she seemed oddly agreeable to his ministrations.
He cleared his mind of any further speculation. When it came to women, Sir Aubrey had a policy of probing no deeper than what they chose to present as part of their charade for his benefit. He didn’t have time or energy to invest in any “fallen on hard times” or “ruined by the vicar” tales of woe. Whatever cards one was dealt, it was incumbent upon the individual to make the best of them. If they threw a woman into his orbit, he would do the decent thing by her, show her what pleasure could be had, milk the situation for what was on offer and then move on.
Well, that had been the way the past twelve months or so had played out. He had discovered true love after he’d married Margaret. The string of associations since her death had done nothing to take the edge off his pain, though he prided himself on the fact no mistress had come after him with anger or vengeance in her heart. He always settled his dues.
As he reached his front door, he noticed a hackney loitering by the kitchen steps.
