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Authors: Sheridan Jeane
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fitting in. With having people look down their noses at me because of my past. Are you suggesting that I should accept that sort of life for my heir?” He paused, dragging his fingers through his hair. “I’d never put a child of mine through that kind of torture. No,” he said in a tone sharp with conviction. “Whoever I choose as a wife will know the rules of society and raise our children to obey them. I won’t have them ostracized because of their parents.”
Wentworth gave him a hard stare. “You aren’t your father,” he said bluntly. “You aren’t a hermit who spurns society and offends his visitors. I only met the man once, and I found him to be selfish and weak-willed. You have nothing in common with him except your title.” He sighed heavily. “Don’t let the man ruin your life. He’s dead and gone.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You didn’t have to step into your father’s shoes and correct all of his mistakes. You didn’t have to pay his debts or right the wrongs. And you aren’t looked upon with loathing simply because of your name.” Daniel’s father wasn’t dead and gone. His legacy continued, and as Lord Huntley, Daniel had to fight it every day.
Wentworth tensed. “We all have histories and regrets. And we all have debts that must be paid in some form or another. Never presume your pain is greater than that of someone else.”
Daniel shrugged, hoping the gesture would serve as an apology. Wentworth simply didn’t know all of Daniel’s secrets, and he hoped to God he never would.
8 - What the Wind Blew In
Catherine felt a deep sense of satisfaction as she hurried back to her bedroom after spending a stolen hour running through fencing drills in the Kensington House ballroom. It would have been more fun if she’d had a sparring partner, but even working alone helped improve her skills. Every muscle felt limber and relaxed, but now she needed to prepare for dinner at Lady Wilmot’s.
She chose a low-necked gown of pale rose chiffon, and Simpson helped her into it, taking care not to tear the delicate, gossamer fabric. Simpson fastened the small hooks down the back of the bodice and then worked the clasp on a pink-and-white cameo necklace. She arranged Catherine’s hair so that masses of chestnut waves tumbled down her back and wisps of soft curls framed her face. Simpson tucked an errant lock of hair in place with a hairpin and carefully surveyed her work before nodding her approval to Catherine’s reflection.
Catherine glanced at the mantel clock in her bedroom. “It’s time.” She picked up her reticule and hurried down the stairs to join her mother, slipping her imagined social mask in place.
“Darling, you look absolutely stunning.” Her mother smiled up at her from the bottom of the stairs.
Catherine glided down the staircase to the foyer, taking in her mother’s dark-green dress. “Oh, Mother, you look lovely. Too bad Papa isn’t here to see you. And you’re wearing the emerald necklace and earbobs he gave you.”
“I expect you and I will make quite the sensation when we enter the room.” Mother reached out to brush a small bit of lint from Catherine’s shoulder and then carefully examined her dress for any other stray fibers. “Look at us. Together we look like a rose garden, you in that lovely shade of rose and me enhancing you with my ‘foliage.’”
With a faint smile, Catherine nodded. Tonight, she refused to let Mother’s penchant for both perfection and admiration wear on her. She fastened the clasp of her dark rose mantle, pulled on her gloves, and stepped outside to the waiting carriage.
Despite the gusting wind, the chill didn’t penetrate the carriage on the short trip to Lady Wilmot’s home, and they arrived as another carriage pulled away after delivering its passengers. As they exited the carriage, the brisk wind encouraged her to hurry inside after the other guests. The breeze whipped in
Wentworth gave him a hard stare. “You aren’t your father,” he said bluntly. “You aren’t a hermit who spurns society and offends his visitors. I only met the man once, and I found him to be selfish and weak-willed. You have nothing in common with him except your title.” He sighed heavily. “Don’t let the man ruin your life. He’s dead and gone.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You didn’t have to step into your father’s shoes and correct all of his mistakes. You didn’t have to pay his debts or right the wrongs. And you aren’t looked upon with loathing simply because of your name.” Daniel’s father wasn’t dead and gone. His legacy continued, and as Lord Huntley, Daniel had to fight it every day.
Wentworth tensed. “We all have histories and regrets. And we all have debts that must be paid in some form or another. Never presume your pain is greater than that of someone else.”
Daniel shrugged, hoping the gesture would serve as an apology. Wentworth simply didn’t know all of Daniel’s secrets, and he hoped to God he never would.
8 - What the Wind Blew In
Catherine felt a deep sense of satisfaction as she hurried back to her bedroom after spending a stolen hour running through fencing drills in the Kensington House ballroom. It would have been more fun if she’d had a sparring partner, but even working alone helped improve her skills. Every muscle felt limber and relaxed, but now she needed to prepare for dinner at Lady Wilmot’s.
She chose a low-necked gown of pale rose chiffon, and Simpson helped her into it, taking care not to tear the delicate, gossamer fabric. Simpson fastened the small hooks down the back of the bodice and then worked the clasp on a pink-and-white cameo necklace. She arranged Catherine’s hair so that masses of chestnut waves tumbled down her back and wisps of soft curls framed her face. Simpson tucked an errant lock of hair in place with a hairpin and carefully surveyed her work before nodding her approval to Catherine’s reflection.
Catherine glanced at the mantel clock in her bedroom. “It’s time.” She picked up her reticule and hurried down the stairs to join her mother, slipping her imagined social mask in place.
“Darling, you look absolutely stunning.” Her mother smiled up at her from the bottom of the stairs.
Catherine glided down the staircase to the foyer, taking in her mother’s dark-green dress. “Oh, Mother, you look lovely. Too bad Papa isn’t here to see you. And you’re wearing the emerald necklace and earbobs he gave you.”
“I expect you and I will make quite the sensation when we enter the room.” Mother reached out to brush a small bit of lint from Catherine’s shoulder and then carefully examined her dress for any other stray fibers. “Look at us. Together we look like a rose garden, you in that lovely shade of rose and me enhancing you with my ‘foliage.’”
With a faint smile, Catherine nodded. Tonight, she refused to let Mother’s penchant for both perfection and admiration wear on her. She fastened the clasp of her dark rose mantle, pulled on her gloves, and stepped outside to the waiting carriage.
Despite the gusting wind, the chill didn’t penetrate the carriage on the short trip to Lady Wilmot’s home, and they arrived as another carriage pulled away after delivering its passengers. As they exited the carriage, the brisk wind encouraged her to hurry inside after the other guests. The breeze whipped in
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