She shuddered again, this time genuinely. “Redmond! No! He doesn’t have your blessing . . . Does he?”
Hart pondered the contents of his teacup as if considering it.
She crumbled the rusk between her fingers. “You wouldn’t, would you? Dearest?”
He looked up. “I might—if you and that skinny godmother of yours don’t stop pestering me.”
A huff of laughter escaped her. “Skinny? Lady Salter? Oh, you are wicked. But Bullstrode, Redmond. You would never—”
“Are we finished here, Mother? Because I have work to do.” He gestured to the pile of papers on his desk.
She pouted. “Never any time for your nearest and dearest. Your father left all that sort of thing to his secretary.”
“I am not my father.” He rose and rang for his butler.
She hesitated, and fiddled with a handkerchief. “Do you go to the opera this evening, Redmond, dear?”
“No.”
“Oh.” She considered that. “What about next Thursday?”
“No.” He looked at her with narrowed eyes. “Is this another attempt to foist an eligible female on me?”
She gave an indignant little huff. “Of course not. You’ve made yourself perfectly clear. Though you must admit that the last girl we found for you—dear Lady Rose—was perfect.”
“And look how well that turned out.”
“Well, how were we to know the silly gel had contracted a secret marriage?”
“Good-bye, Mother and remember what I said. A word from me and Bullstrode will be yours.”
His mother applied a wisp of lace to her eye. “So harsh, so cruel to treat your poor mama so. I don’t know where you get it from. Your father was always so sweet to me.”
Hart’s father had lived a dog’s life, wrapped as he was around his wife’s little finger and driven to distraction by her imaginary ailments. Hart had no intention of going down that path.
The door opened and his butler appeared. “Her grace is leaving, Fleming. And have this delivered, will you?” He handed the butler his note to the Rutherford girl. “Good-bye, Mother.”
His mother sighed. “Unfeeling, unnatural boy. I’m not surprised some people in the ton call you Heartless.” She floated tragically from the room, a martyred exit overlaying a barely suppressed flounce.
Hart kept a straight face. He had no intention of encouraging Bullstrode, of course—he was a bully and a braggart and Hart would rather shoot the man than have him as a stepfather—but if the threat kept his mother from her eternal meddling, it was worth it.
He returned to his correspondence. He had a man of affairs, but not a private secretary. Some things he preferred to do himself. He administered a number of estates, his own and three for which he had recently become a trustee. These last three, which had belonged to a late cousin, took up most of his time; Arthur Wooldridge had not only left his young son and heir to Hart’s wardship, he’d left his affairs in a mess and his estate in debt.
Fortunately, Hart enjoyed a challenge.
* * *
* * *
Two hours later he received an answer to his note.
My horse is not for sale, to you or anyone.
G. Rutherford.
Chapter Four
I have not the pleasure of understanding you.
—JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
The last thing George had expected to enjoy when she’d first been thrust into the life of the ton was the opera. But to everyone’s surprise—including hers—she did. The first time, she’d attended it reluctantly with Rose and Aunt Agatha, knowing it was just some excuse for Aunt Agatha to introduce Rose to the duke.
Except he hadn’t turned up.
For Aunt Agatha the evening had been a waste of time; for George, it had been a revelation. The music, the drama, the story, the costumes—she’d been entranced.
She’d always liked music, always enjoyed a song or two, but she’d had no musical education. According to Martha, Mama had a very sweet voice—she’d played the pianoforte and sung—but she’d died when George was a baby. The music in church was always her favorite part of Sundays, and she’d loved to listen to the villagers playing their fiddles and other instruments whenever there was a wedding or some other celebration. Several times she’d even sneaked into the grounds of some of the grander local houses and eavesdropped on their balls and parties.
But opera was something else again. She couldn’t understand most of the words—she spoke no Italian or German; no other language except English, in fact—but Emm, who knew about opera, usually told her the story before she went, so she could follow along. Often the story seemed a bit silly, and the characters a little on the ridiculous side, but then a voice would begin to soar and she would be transported out of the theater, away from London, into a realm she’d never known existed.
It didn’t always happen, but with some singers, and some pieces, the opening notes would send a prickle down her spine, across her skin, and she’d lean forward toward the stage and let the music soak into her. And be transported.
Aunt Dottie also shared her love of music. She didn’t often come up to London—she preferred her home in Bath—but she’d come up for Rose’s wedding, and was staying on for Rose’s ball next week, so she’d come with George and Aunt Agatha tonight.
A burst of masculine laughter came from the box next door—nothing to do with anything happening onstage. The box had been empty for most of the opera, but now, more than halfway through, a group of young men had entered noisily, talking and laughing, indifferent to what was happening onstage or whom they might be disturbing.
Lots of people talked through the opera. It drove George mad. Why did they come if they had no intention of listening to the music? She knew the answer, of course—because it was fashionable. To see and be seen, to show off their clothes and jewels. And meet friends and gossip.
Most of them showed little interest in the music. She’d even seen people play cards right through a performance, their backs to the stage. At least cards were relatively quiet. These young men weren’t.
Two of them were leaning over the balcony. “There she is, the little one third from the left,” said one, pointing. He was making no attempt to lower his voice or be discreet in any way.
“The one with yellow hair? In pink?” asked another.
“Yes, that’s her.”
“Pretty—oh, look, she’s seen us.” They leaned forward, waving.