Plant poison in his fish course?
Was it too much to hope Mama would at least be the voice of reason? She cast a glare in her mother’s direction, but she was too busy sipping her wine to take note.
“It would be perilous indeed should such a travesty ever be enacted,” Father said. “Our government would weaken and decline, as a matter of course. I cannot countenance the lords who are vouching for this utter tripe. Coerced by their wives, I have no doubt.”
Helena fumed some more, stabbing at the contents of her plate with more force than necessary.
All the eyes around the table settled upon her.
She could hold her tongue no longer. “Has it not occurred to any of you that the government would instead strengthen if all voices were to possess an equal share in the decisions which affect our lives?”
Lord Hamish’s lip curled. “Sentiments such as those are unbecoming in a lady, my dear.”
A peal of laughter rose in her throat. Bitter laughter. Irate laughter. She released it. Her hands trembled with the violence of her reaction. “Of course you would hold such a position in the matter, my lord. You, like all other men, are well pleased to keep women silenced. To decide laws that affect us deeply, without consulting us, without allowing us to offer our opinions, to cast our votes accordingly. Why should a woman be deprived of her own sovereignty merely by the circumstance of her birth?”
Lady Falkland’s shocked gasp echoed in the sudden silence of the dining room.
Her mother frowned at her. Her father was scowling. Later, she would suffer his wrath, she had no doubt.
“While your passion for your subject is commendable, I am afraid you are all wrong, my dear,” said Lord Hamish in the same tone she imagined he might reserve for small children.
It was dismissive and insulting, much like the man himself.
Once again, she could not keep herself from responding. “It is you who is wrong, my lord. Your view of women is inherently flawed. What logic have you to support the supposition that a woman is frail and delicate and incapable of deciding matters of import?”
“Lady Helena, that is enough,” Father intervened, his voice dripping in disapproval. “You are consorting with the wrong set if this is the sort of nonsense filling your head. Apologize to Lord Hamish at once.”
Apologize to him?
Helena would sooner toss the remnants of her wine in his supercilious face.
She lifted her chin. “I will not apologize for my opinion. Neither for the possession of it nor the expression.”
The fish course arrived, shattering the charge of the moment. Grilled salmon with accompanying boats of sauce verte froide. Helena bit her lip to keep from speaking further and could not help but to feel as if the fates were encouraging her to have her revenge upon the odious Lord Hamish. Here was a sauce boat and the fish course. She could brain him first and lace his salmon with poison second.
“I heard the most intriguing on dit about those dreadful American catfish being introduced to our English waters,” said her mother, in an obviously desperate bid at changing the subject and avoiding further embarrassment at her outspoken daughter.
“Horrible shame that would be,” Lord Hamish chimed in, happily taking up new cudgels. “I read in The Times that they are inedible. Possessed of mighty, fearsome teeth, and they feed on offal. Despicable things, really.”
Oh, the irony. Mayhap Lord Hamish recognized his own kind.
Helena forked up a bit of her fish and plotted her next move.
In the heart of the Duke and Duchess of Bainbridge’s ballroom, Huntingdon twirled with Lady Beatrice in a quadrille, his least favorite form of dance. Not that he enjoyed any dancing. It was an art that was lost on him. Overhead, hundreds of electric lamps blazed. He ought to be taking note of the sparkle in her blue eyes. Of the way her mahogany locks gleamed beneath the glow of the chandeliers. Of the pale beauty she made in her pink silken ballgown, demure and perfect. He should be admiring her elegance and grace, both of which could not be denied.
He ought not to be thinking of the last time his hands had been upon a lady’s waist.
Ought not to be thinking of golden curls, emerald eyes, and a saucy mouth.
Ought not to be thinking about how much he preferred Lady Helena’s scent to Lady Beatrice’s strikingly floral perfume.
Or the way Lady Helena’s breasts had felt, pressed against his chest.
Duty, Gabe. If you do not have your honor, you have nothing, as Grandfather always said.
But still, she was like an infection in his blood. In the week since he had last seen her, all defiant beauty on the pavements, he had been able to think of little else.
“Do you not find it so, my lord?” Lady Beatrice asked as they whirled and performed the proper steps.
Damnation, he had not heard the beginning of her query, so lost had he been in his own thoughts.
“Forgive me, Lady Beatrice,” he said ruefully. “I fear I was distracted.”
“I was merely observing the ball is a crush,” she said, and if his distraction perturbed her, there was no hint of it in her countenance. “And that the air is quite stifling. After this dance, I do believe I shall need some punch to refresh myself.”
The ball was indeed an undisputed success. Not that he cared for the social whirl. He preferred to occupy himself with more worthy matters which affected his lands and his people. He took his responsibility as the Earl of Huntingdon seriously. He had every intention of doing his grandfather proud.
“It is warm,” he agreed, inwardly taking himself to task once more for his failure to pay proper attention to his betrothed. “Would you care for a turn on the terrace?”
They spun about once more. The notion of escorting her to a darkened corner filled him with apathy. Theirs would be a passionless, loveless union based on mutual respect, nothing like his parents’ disastrous marriage.
“I do not think we should dare,” Lady Beatrice said, ever the height of propriety.
Although there would be nothing amiss with him escorting her for some fresh air, particularly since they were engaged, he was not surprised at her objection. Instead, he was relieved. There was only one lady he wanted kiss beneath the moonlight, and it was not the woman in his arms.
He cleared his throat. “Very prudent of you, my dear. This close to our nuptials, there is hardly reason to court scandal, is there?”
Three months.
Three months until she was his bride. Grandfather would have been pleased that a date had at last been settled upon. Although Huntingdon had long had an understanding with Lady Beatrice, they had not made their betrothal formal until recently. In the wake of his grandfather’s death, sorting out estate matters, along with the suitable period of mourning, a wedding had hardly been a concern for Huntingdon.
The dance finished. He bowed. Lady Beatrice dipped into a perfectly executed curtsy.
“Thank you for the dance, my lord,” she said softly.
She was so soft-spoken he almost could not hear her over the chattering of their fellow revelers and the subsequent orchestral hum of a waltz as it struck up. He offered her his arm and escorted her back to her waiting mother.
Another interminable round of conversation, and his duty was done.
A turn on the terrace alone, a bit of fresh air, would be just the thing.
Huntingdon excused himself from his future countess and mother-in-law and made his way to the opened doors leading to the night. And that was when his eye was inevitably caught by a flash of golden hair.