“Perhaps you’d like another?”
“I would not.” She gave him a curt, discouraging nod and walked swiftly away, soon swallowed by the crush of people.
Where was Granville? Ash searched the room but couldn’t find him. Damnation. He’d been too busy dallying with the daughter to keep track of the duke.
Eyes on the prize, Ash.
Tonight, your fortunes change forever.
Chapter Two
Why are you so flummoxed?
Hetty leaned over the balcony railing and inhaled the scent of roses drifting up from the gardens, attempting to calm her breathing.
She’d had a few glasses of sparkling wine, it was true. But not enough to turn her head, make her giddy, make her have thoughts.
Naughty, wanton thoughts.
It had only been a waltz.
It was more than that, though, wasn’t it?
It was a reminder of all the things she’d tried so hard to forget, to ruthlessly suppress, to ignore. Girlish longings and dreams. An awareness of her body, of its curves and hollows. Of how it might fit together with a partner.
A strong, confident, experienced partner.
Like Mr. Ellis.
She couldn’t go back inside until she’d regained control over her thoughts. Over her body.
There had been a moment while they’d been dancing, several, if she were being honest, when she’d even wondered what it would be like to kiss Mr. Ellis.
Kiss him . . . and more.
She had several married friends, fellow members of a ladies’ society she belonged to, and they sometimes divulged interesting details about what happened in the marital bed. Or, according to her friend Beatrice, the marital desk . . . or floor . . . or wherever the mood struck her and her handsome husband.
The mood had struck Hetty on the dance floor. Full force. Stealing away her scruples along with her breath. Entirely uncharacteristic and absolutely unacceptable.
Her life had purpose and passion, vineyards and goals.
Kisses not required.
She needed a few more minutes to compose herself before resuming duty as her father’s matchmaker and chaperone.
The sound of footfalls turned her head. She flattened her back against stone.
It was Mr. Ellis. The flummoxer. The awakener of buried desires.
He was looking for someone, searching the dimly lit balcony, holding a crystal wineglass in his hand. Was he searching for her?
He walked closer, peering over the balcony railing. He was nearly to her now. If he didn’t turn his head, if he continued gazing over the railing, he wouldn’t see . . .
He’d seen her.
Nothing to do but unflatten herself, shake out her skirts, and pretend that meeting him on a moonlit balcony, with no one else in sight, didn’t make her heart pound. “Mr. Ellis. I see you’re enjoying the libations on offer tonight.”
“It’s good French champagne.”
“I’m glad you think so, but it’s not French.”
He cocked his head. “It’s not?”
“It’s the sparkling wine I create from the vineyards at Rosehill Park.”
“You created it?”
“Don’t look so incredulous. Is it so very astonishing that a female could manage such a venture?”
“Er, not particularly. Every lady needs an activity for her leisure time. Your little hobby is more interesting than most. And more delicious, I’d add.”
“My little hobby?” The muscles of her jaw clenched. “This is so much more than a leisure pastime. I’m distributing my wine to several cellars in London, and all of my influential friends serve it at their parties.”
“Congratulations.” He seemed distracted. What had happened to his predatory stare? He wasn’t attempting to seduce her anymore. Why should she care?
“Does the subject of enterprising women make you uncomfortable?”
“Not at all. I’m acquainted with numerous enterprising women, and they are astute businesspeople, all.”
“We British have been creating wine since Roman times, and yet the reputation of our vinicultural efforts is inglorious, at best. I aim to change all of that.”
“Going for the glory, are you?”
“I only want a seat at the table for English sparkling wine. There’s absolutely no reason why we must be relegated to a joke, a laughingstock, everyone chortling about pigswill, and such.”
“An uphill battle. England’s not known for its winemaking.”
“I may be an amateur vintner, struggling with the English drizzle and muck, but my family has roots in the Champagne wine region of France. My mother brought seeds, and vines, and a French vigneron with her when she arrived from France to marry my father. Our vines at Rosehill Park have had the strictest care and attention, and the soil composition in our area of Surrey is very like the chalky soils near Épernay.”
She was rambling, she knew it, but he made her so flustered. The words kept spilling from her mouth like wine from a bottle.
“Is that so? Think I’ll try some, then.” He raised his glass and swallowed deeply.
“Wait! Don’t drink it like that. Savor it slowly.”
This time he took his time about it, the tip of his tongue rimming the edge of the glass, catching a stray drop, before he took a sip.
Hetty had the decidedly inappropriate thought that she wanted to be the glass he held, the wine he drank.
“Well?” she prompted when he’d finished drinking.
“It’s good.”
“What do you taste?”
“Grapes.”
She shook her head sadly. “How unimaginative.”
“I’m not a wine expert.”
“Wine experts. Charlatans! The bad reputation of English wine is due in large part to Mr. Clive Ross, author of A World of Wines. Besides the usual French, Italian, and Spanish wines, he devoted hundreds, literally hundreds, of pages to the lesser-known wines from Germany, Russia, Hungary, and Persia, and relegated the whole of our winemaking efforts to a mere fifteen pages, filled with ‘unsuccessful this,’ and ‘unprofitable that.’”
“The scoundrel.” His eyes glinted with humor.
“Are you laughing at me, Mr. Ellis?”
“You’re very passionate on the subject of the dastardly Mr. Ross.”
“He insulted Rosehill Park.” She gripped the balcony railing. “He said our soil wanted fertility. And was deficient in depth.”
“Someone should challenge him to a duel.”
“Don’t think I haven’t considered it! I have a pistol, and my friend, the Duchess of Thorndon, has taught me how to use it. I’m not to be trifled with.”
“I’ve always said that a bluestocking with a pistol is an extremely dangerous combination.”
“I thought you were the dangerous one, Mr. Ellis.”
“I am. The truth of it is that you’re far too controlled to truly be a threat to the scoundrels of this world. I’ll wager you write out a schedule each morning to govern what you do every second of the day.”
She loved making daily to-be-done lists. But it irked her that he’d been right about it. “I can be impulsive.”
“I don’t think you can. It’s not in your nature.”
He was right. She was never impulsive. She planned everything out. She’d never broken any rules. She’d lived a blameless, staid, disciplined life.