She poured a small glass of sparkling wine from Rosehill for her father, and one for herself.
Bubbles tickled her nose and the tart-sweet flavors of citrus and vanilla burst on her tongue with just the right amount of full moon brightness.
It was very good wine, if she did say so herself.
“The ladies are clamoring for a waltz with a legendary rake. Will you disappoint them?”
“I did cut quite the swathe in my day.” Her father squared his shoulders. “Very well, my dear. Deliver me to the bloodthirsty horde.”
When they arrived at the top of the stairs, he gave a nod to the waiting footman below.
“His Grace, the Duke of Granville, and Lady Henrietta Prince,” the footman announced in ringing tones.
Ladies in pastel-hued silk gowns, glittering jewels, and feathered headdresses craned their necks. Excitement was running high. Her father hadn’t hosted any entertainments since the death of his wife. Well, not respectable entertainments, at least.
“Smile, Papa,” she whispered as they descended the stairs. “What about Mrs. Dudley?” she asked, gesturing toward a comely brunette, who responded with a gracious dip of her head that set the pastel-dyed ostrich feathers atop her head waving. “She’s a widow with a considerable income and most amiable.”
“She’s half my age.”
“Most gentlemen would consider that an incentive.”
“She’d be too much for me. In the bedchamber.”
Not a conversation Hetty wished to have with her father, though the ultimate goal of this evening was to install an infant heir in the nursery at Rosehill Park.
The widow Dudley would make a wonderful duchess. She had young children from her previous marriage and was still of childbearing age. It would be so delightful to hear the pitter-patter of little feet running through the halls of Rosehill.
There’d been a time when Hetty had longed to start a family of her own, to be a blushing bride, and a proud mother.
But she was content with the busy and useful life she’d built. And she’d be able to go back to that life if her father could produce a new heir.
“Don’t you see any pleasing prospects, Papa?”
“The only prospect that pleases me is a bottle of good old Scotch whisky and a box of the mildest Havana cigars.”
“You promised to conduct yourself with propriety, remember? When the clock strikes midnight, I’ll expect you to have made your decision,” she said firmly. “And now I’ll leave you to become better acquainted with your adoring public.”
She steered him toward Mrs. Dudley. When she’d safely deposited him into the vivacious widow’s care, Hetty made her way across the room to her friend Miss Viola Beaton, whom she’d invited for moral support. Viola would stay overnight and the two of them could have a lovely long chat. Hetty didn’t often visit London, being so occupied at their estate in Surrey.
She clasped her friend’s hands. “Viola, I’m so glad you could come.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” Viola replied with a warm smile that displayed her deep dimples. “How is the heir-begetting scheme progressing?”
“Precariously. Papa is most reluctant.”
“He does look rather peevish.”
“I’ll have to watch over him like an eagle-eyed chaperone. It would be just like him to escape down the balcony stairs and run straight for a tavern.”
“Everyone else appears to be enjoying themselves.”
The room was lit by beeswax candles casting a warm glow over the polished parquet floors and shining jewels worn by the ladies. Everyone was smiling, talking, and drinking wine from crystal goblets.
“I instructed the footmen to keep the guests’ glasses filled with my sparkling wine. Perhaps I’ll win some customers for my future wine cellar.”
“How are your plans progressing?”
“I’m concentrating on producing the best wine possible, and earning an endorsement from a wine expert, before opening the cellar. No one will buy my wine unless it has a reputation for excellence. This vintage promises to be the best yet. The grapes are already bursting with flavor. We had too much rain last month, but August makes the wine, my mother always said.”
Hetty felt her mother’s presence here tonight, heard her lilting French accent echoing in her memory. The pain of losing her was still fresh and sharp after all these years.
It had been her mother’s goal to restore the ancestral vineyards into a profitable wine venture. The grape vines were all she had left of her mother.
“Wine does help ladies feel disposed toward romance,” said Viola. “I seem to remember your wine playing a role in the courtship of our friend Lady Beatrice.”
Several of their friends were happily married, but not Viola. She, like Hetty, was too busy for marriage, though for different reasons. Her father was a famous composer, but he was going deaf and their income had shriveled to practically nothing, while their debts kept mounting.
Viola had been forced to take employment as music instructor to the Duke of Westbury’s sisters.
“I’m very sorry, Viola.”
“Whatever for?”
“I should have invited some eligible bachelors for your sake. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it.”
“Never mind bachelors.” Viola plucked at the skirt of her plain white muslin gown. “If there were prospects here, I’d be dreadfully conscious that this gown is four seasons old.”
“The gown is charming and so are you.” Viola had an irrepressible good humor, despite her reduced circumstances.
“You’re the one who’s glowing tonight, Hetty.”
“Do you think so? I’ve been living in the countryside too long, wearing serviceable cotton gowns to prune the grapevines. I’m not accustomed to whalebone corsets and tissue-thin silk. This gown was created for my debut seven years ago and I seem to have changed considerably in the intervening years.”
Hetty glanced down. The bodice of the ballgown was proving unequal to the task of containing her much-more-ample bosom. And she was no longer the blushing, naive young girl with a head full of fairy tales who had swirled in front of the glass, dreaming of handsome suitors and stolen moonlit kisses.
Viola leaned closer. “Don’t look now, but there’s a broodingly handsome gentleman standing across from us and he’s been staring at you the entire time we’ve been speaking with rather a hungry look in his eyes. Gives me the shivers, really.”
“Maybe he’s staring at you.”
“No, he can’t take his eyes off of you.”
“Do you recognize him?”
“Never seen him before, though that hardly signifies since I rarely go out in society. Oh, Hetty.” Her eyes widened. “He’s striding this way with the most predatory expression on his face. I do believe he means to speak with you.” She shivered. “Or possibly swallow you whole.”
“No doubt he’s a brother, or nephew, of one of the ladies, thinking to ingratiate himself with the duke’s daughter. I’ll soon put an end to any such notion. Tonight is about my father, not me. The decision will be his alone.”
She swiveled to face the man, ready to fix him with a forbidding stare to halt his forward progress.