Chapter Ten
James stepped in front of Miss Hibbert in an attempt to shield her identity from whoever had burst in upon them, but he was a fraction too late.
“Aha! Countess, I’ve tracked you down, at last.”
James recognized the Harlequin. Charles Keane. Good. He had a thing or two to say to the miscreant.
Charles didn’t remove his mask but perused the governess’s flushed face with insulting intimacy, then turned to James and said, “Why, Tidworth, you sly dog.”
James clenched his fists. What the blazes did Charles think he was doing—having a tryst with the woman? Surely, his friend knew him better than that?
The smile beneath the Harlequin mask faded.
“My God, what have you been doing to the countess? You have put her quite out of countenance.”
A cursory glance showed that he had, indeed, upset the girl. She dashed a hand across her eyes, tilted her elfin chin defiantly, and told Charles, “It’s no use, sir. Lord Tidworth has exposed our little subterfuge. Why didn’t you tell me the host of the ball was your friend? Or that it was for charity?”
The woman’s bosom rose and fell enticingly in her tight bodice, contrasting nicely with the exaggerated width of her hips. What would she look like without all the cinching and padding, he wondered.
Inappropriately.
Damn. She might be comely, but he had no business noticing. She was opinionated, tempestuous, and could almost certainly be relied upon to do the wrong thing when her temper was roused. She’d done nothing but fight with him since the first moment they met, and there seemed little likelihood that would ever change.
He’d had enough battles to last him a lifetime. Real battles, where men came at one with deadly weapons and hatred in their eyes. Whatever his future held, he was determined it would involve domestic felicity. Which was the last thing Miss Hibbert—no matter how enticing her person—could ever offer a man.
“What a spoilsport you are, James!” Charles chided. “I have to say, I think you’ve been handling our poor countess a little too roughly, old fellow.”
“Governess,” James corrected. No matter how noble her ancestors might once have been, she was a servant now.
Still, it was a point of honor with him always to be courteous to servants. Whatever had goaded him to act so boorishly tonight?
He took a calming breath. “I haven’t been handling her at all. As I recall, you’re the one who pursues all the attractive females,” he said, attempting a mischievous grin but probably failing at it.
“Hah! Don’t believe a word of it, Miss Hibbert. I could tell you tales of his days at Oxford that would make your toes curl.”
“But you won’t,” James said. “That wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“Don’t give me that stiff-necked poppycock, James.” Charles’s face—or what could be seen of it—was ruddy and shining. How much had the fellow had to drink? The evening had barely begun!
“I believe Miss Hibbert would like to be taken home now,” James said.
“But we’ve only just arrived. Philippa will be devastated if you throw us out.”
James rolled his eyes. No doubt true. And Miss Hibbert looked very downcast as well. He debated with himself for a long moment.
Fine. Really, what harm had been done? With a groan, he said, “Very well. I have, perhaps, been rather too…judgmental.”
He could feel Miss Hibbert look at him archly. She’d be thinking judgmental barely covered the rudeness he’d exhibited toward her.
“There’s no need for the pair of you or Miss Hibbert to leave. On the condition that you don’t perpetuate this nonsensical rumor that your governess is a wealthy heiress. Let her remain a woman of mystery, and leave my guests to speculate for themselves.”
He took the mask from Miss Hibbert’s hand and refastened it for her, earning a knowing smirk from Charles.
For pity’s sake, why did his friend have to interpret everything as having some basis in lust? Admittedly, the lady was alluring—and up close, her silken locks smelled of honeysuckle, sensuous and sweet. But her disposition left far too much to be desired. He could never feel true affection for such a woman—and for him, affection meant a damn sight more than lust.
His irritation must have shown in his face, for Charles stopped smiling, gave him a cursory bow, and ushered the governess from the room.
James swung on his heel, stalked across to the desk, and collapsed into his chair. Then he reached for the whisky decanter and poured himself a generous glassful. Taking a sip, he swilled the liquor around the glass and gazed about him at the bulging bookshelves, the small portraits of long-dead ancestors in their gilded frames, and the cut-glass inkwells that reflected the flickering flames from the fire.
The smells of old leather, pipe smoke, and beeswax soothed his nerves. Aside from Belinda’s perfidy, it had been a long time since anybody had upset him quite as much as the deceitful governess did every time they’d encountered one another.
But there was more to his bad mood than that, wasn’t there? He felt ashamed of the way he’d handled himself with her. Servant or no, the way he’d spoken to her was unpardonable.
He tried to focus on the play of light on the whisky glass and rekindle his enthusiasm for the ball. But all he could see was the governess’s devastated face and the tears glistening in those hazel eyes at his harsh accusations.
He’d never knowingly driven a woman to tears before. Miss Hibbert didn’t even know the true nature of her crime. Her play-acting tonight had been a touch paper to his emotions—emotions he’d held in check ever since Belinda had thrown him over for Cornwallis. And he’d unfairly taken it out on Miss Hibbert.
It was time to stop blaming anyone but himself for that debacle. He should have acted sooner, asked Belinda for her hand as soon as he was sure she would make him the perfect wife. That was all there was to it.
He’d spent so much time courting her, he’d been so certain they were made for each other, he’d never imagined she felt differently. There was the laughter they’d shared, the dances, the carriage outings, the walks, the stolen kisses. Mama had been right—Waterloo had become a mere shadow lurking at the edges of consciousness when the golden image of Belinda was before him.
Belinda’s face faded, replaced in his mind’s eye by the sweet, sad face of Miss Hibbert. Why did this stranger, whom he’d met but thrice, have the power to move him to such an unaccustomed display of emotion? She clearly thought nothing of him, or his opinion—was that the reason? He wasn’t used to being disliked, but in her case, he’d made a total ass of himself, and thoroughly deserved her disrespect.
He was an honorable man, so an apology was in order. For upsetting her, at least. He still couldn’t condone her pretending to be a countess, even in jest. Maybe one day he’d look back on this unfortunate incident and laugh about it with Charles.
But not today. He was still too cross at being made a fool of.
There was, however, something he could do today.
Thumping the glass down on the leather surface of his desk, he leaped to his feet and set off in search of Miss Hibbert, determined to make amends.