They. Yes. Hart looked away from the pretty-mannered pretty man with Alice. “Where’s the sister?”
“Dancing, I expect. Look, there she is with Giles Verney.”
Hart scanned the ballroom floor, found his best friend, noted his partner, and was forced to say, “Good God.”
“Isn’t she?”
Mr. Loxleigh was handsome, but Miss Loxleigh was extraordinary. Hart had a fair aesthetic appreciation of female beauty and she was easily in the top five he’d seen in his life. Dark hair, dark eyes, perhaps an overly sun-kissed complexion when milk-white skin was held up as a virtue, but that was countrywomen for you, and by God it suited her. Her gown wasn’t immodest by any standards, but still made the watcher aware of the lush curves it covered. She didn’t wear lavish jewels or plumes; she didn’t need them. She was quite simply lovely.
Giles Verney spun her round on the dancefloor. She said something to him, they both laughed, and Hart revised his opinion to top three. Maybe two.
“Good God,” he said. “Spanish blood?”
“Their grandmother, I think.”
Hart looked back at Alice and her squire. “They’re an exceedingly handsome pair.”
“Miss Loxleigh is the belle of the Season, even if they are nobody. I hear Tachbrook is taken with her.”
“How unfortunate.”
“He’s a marquess,” Edwina pointed out unnecessarily.
“He is a self-regarding, vindictive, pompous fool, and if she is encouraging him, I think worse of her. Do we know anything at all about these people?”
“They’ve been in London since autumn, I think. Several months. Invited everywhere. Florence Jocelyn and Miss Loxleigh have become great friends, I believe, and Mr. Loxleigh seems to be on terms with everyone.”
“Almack’s?”
Edwina had not attempted to claim those dizzy social heights for Alice. “I really don’t know. If Tachbrook is interested, one must assume they’re acceptable.”
“That doesn’t follow. He’s a fool.”
Hart contemplated the lovely Miss Loxleigh in his friend’s arms, then the not-quite-as-lovely but still damned appealing brother bowing over Alice’s hand. Alice had gone a murky red: she didn’t have the gift of charming blushes, and she’d never had a desirable piece of man-flesh casting lures before.
Loxleigh was too handsome for her. That wasn’t a flattering thought to have of his niece, or one he’d ever express in his sister’s hearing, but it was the way of things. Beauty was a valuable commodity, a fact that Hart, an ugly man, knew all too well; beautiful people made use of their advantages just as much as the wealthy or the titled.
Perhaps Loxleigh was wiser than that. Perhaps his pretty face hid a noble nature that prized character above appearance. Hart wouldn’t have put money on it.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Don’t rush into this, will you?”
Edwina tutted. “I’m not going to. That’s why I wanted you to see for yourself.”
“Let me ask around. Don’t encourage him too much yet. And I want to talk to Alice.”
He headed down to the floor as the waltz came to an end, walking up to Giles and his stunning partner.
“Giles. I insist you introduce me, or I shall call you out.”
Giles gave him an affectionate grin. “Miss Loxleigh, this is Sir John Hartlebury. Hart, Miss Marianne Loxleigh, of Nottinghamshire. Hart and I come from the same part of the world, and have been friends all our lives.”
She greeted him with charm, and he kissed her hand, as the only possible tribute. He did it awkwardly enough, not being a man made for flourishes, but Miss Loxleigh gave him a melting smile and assured him she was delighted.
“Sir John Hartlebury? Am I right in thinking you’re Miss Fenwick’s...?” She hesitated.
“Uncle by marriage. My sister is Miss Fenwick’s stepmother.”
“You’re Mrs. Blaine’s brother. Of course. I’ve had the honour of visiting Mrs. Blaine at her home. She is wonderfully kind, and so welcoming: I feel I have known her for years.” Miss Loxleigh’s smile illuminated the room better than the crystal chandeliers above. “And Alice is delightful. You are very fortunate in your family.”
It sounded so sincere that he couldn’t help but warm to her. He could see why she was making such a hit. “You’re new to London, I think?”
“Yes, this is our first visit. I am here with my brother.”
“Making your come-out?”
“Making new friends, I hope. We were told London would be unwelcoming, but we’ve been blessed with nothing but kindness.”
The back of a head presented itself to Hart’s face as a man shouldered his way into their little group. “Miss Loxleigh?” The pompous voice belonged to Lord Tachbrook. “You are to dance with me, I think.” He gave Giles a look down his nose, cut Hart entirely, and extended his arm. Miss Loxleigh bade Hart and Giles a smiling farewell, and went off with her aristocratic suitor.
Giles stared after the disappearing pair. Hart snorted. “His manners don’t improve. Probably doesn’t want her to talk to other men in case she realises what a prating fool he is. Walk with me?”
It was too cold to go outside, despite the heat in here, so they snagged a couple of glasses of champagne and headed for the library. This had been plentifully set up with card-tables, since their hostess, Lady Beaumont, was a notorious gambler. Lord Tachbrook must be keen: Hart doubted he would normally have attended one of her events. It was crowded, and sufficiently noisy that they could lean against the mantelpiece and chat in low voices.
“Have you met the lady before?” Hart asked.
“Miss Loxleigh? A few times over the last weeks.”
“Know anything of her?”
“What sort of thing?”
“Background. Parents. Brother’s antecedents. Means of support.”
“Ah,” Giles said. “Are you thinking about Alice?”
Hart grimaced. “Is young Loxleigh’s pursuit common talk?”
“Hardly that. Alice isn’t particularly interesting—to the gossips, I mean—and Loxleigh isn’t notable except for his sister. He seems to be paying her a great deal of attention, though. Is there something in the offing?”
“My sister believes so.”
“And you’re here to be the watchful uncle?” Giles’s eyes brimmed with mirth. “Marvellous. Will we see you acting the heavy moralist? I cannot wait.”
Hart glared. Giles smirked. Hart returned a quelling scowl, and Giles pulled a grotesque face in reply, the sort of expression one might find on a schoolboy rather than a sensible Foreign Office man. A passing dowager looked at him with shocked hauteur. Giles said, “I do beg your pardon,” with a deep bow, and they both hid shamefaced grins behind their champagne as she moved on.
Face-pulling aside, Giles was quite right that Hart would look absurd playing the moralist. He wasn’t a rakehell, or anything like, but his lack of social graces, some loud complaints of mortal offence from a few people of rank, and a single, highly notorious affair had added up to a rather blemished reputation.
It was, for the most part, undeserved. He spent the majority of his time blamelessly at home in Aston Clinton, managing his lands and running the brewery Fenwick had left to Edwina. But his second life as a provincial brewer did nothing to improve his standing in London society, and on the rare occasions he attended social events, he didn’t help himself by his refusal to dance or flirt with young ladies. Society mothers found his misanthropic nature offensive, since he had a baronetcy and a reasonable income; the young ladies themselves seemed generally relieved by his lack of interest.