The Bad Luck Bride (The Brides of St. Ives #1)(63)

Henderson couldn’t help the fleeting—and disloyal—thought that the rage Berkley must have felt when he saw his ruined home would have driven some men to murder.

Harriet Anderson passed by at that moment, her head down as she hurried along. “Hello, Miss Anderson,” Henderson called, and the woman stopped abruptly, as if slamming into a wall. Henderson had always thought Harriet pretty, if a little awkward, and because he had been painfully aware of her crush when she’d been younger, he’d always endeavored to be kind to her.

“Oh! Mr. Southwell. I didn’t see you there. I’m so glad you decided to come.” She glanced quickly up at Berkley, who was now fully distracted.

“Miss Anderson, please allow me to introduce you to Augustus Lawton, Earl of Berkley. Lord Berkley, one of Miss Hubbard’s dearest friends, Miss Harriet Anderson.”

“Yes, a pleasure,” he said, without looking down at Harriet, who stood looking up at him expectantly, her expression falling slightly as he walked quickly away.

Harriet let out a small laugh. “I do believe I have never made a smaller impression on someone.”

Watching Berkley walk away, Henderson shrugged. “I daresay he didn’t realize how rude he just was. Clearly he was distracted.”

And then, as they both watched, they realized just what had distracted Lord Berkley to the point of rudeness—Harriet’s sister, Clara.

“It looks as though Clara has gained yet another admirer,” Harriet said, her voice tinged with amusement.

Turning, Henderson looked at Harriet, trying to gauge whether she’d been insulted by Berkley’s behavior, but he saw nothing in her expression that would indicate anything other than amusement. Clara Anderson was a stunning girl. Even when he’d been in St. Ives four years earlier he remembered admiring her, along with every other man in St. Ives, and he was frankly perplexed that she was still unmarried. It must be difficult, he thought, to be the younger sister of such a beauty. Harriet was pretty and clever, but unfortunately paled in comparison to her older sister.

A dance card hung from Harriet’s wrist, and Henderson was suddenly inspired to ask for a dance. “Miss Anderson, do you have any dances open?”

In all his life, he’d never seen a woman’s cheeks blush so quickly and so red. She glanced down at her wrist as if surprised to see the card dangling there; then she looked up at him and, impossibly, her cheeks grew even more scarlet. “I—I’m sorry. No.”

It was the oddest thing. Henderson was quite certain she was lying.

Now, why would she lie? Henderson should have let it go, a gentleman would have, but curiosity won out over politeness. Here was a girl who had had a crush on him in her youth, who, frankly, still seemed to have a bit of a crush, and she was refusing to dance with him. The same woman who had seemed so relaxed a minute before, now looked as if her bloomers were on fire and she was impatient to find a bucket of water to douse the flames.

“I’m sorry, Miss Anderson, but I don’t believe you.” He said the words softly, and she immediately dipped her head.

“I feel horrid, Mr. Southwell. I do.” She took a deep breath. “It’s my parents. Do you recall the Christmas ball? I had just come out and you were there with Joseph. My parents. I, oh, this is mortifying.”

“You were forbidden to dance with me.”

She nodded, little jerking movements.

“I hadn’t realized,” he said.

“I’m sorry. I would love to dance with you, I would. But my mother would see and I’d never hear the end of it. You must understand, my mother—”

Henderson held up a hand. “Please, there is no need to explain. I completely understand.”

“Do you?” she asked rather fiercely for such a shy girl. “Because I don’t understand.”

He smiled at her and the crease between her eyes smoothed. It was odd to him, this prejudice, and he’d only just recently experienced it. He supposed one could tolerate a bastard child and pretend to be welcoming, but when that child becomes a man and begins to look at a high-born lady, things change entirely. He’d been gone from England for far too long. Or perhaps not long enough. “Please, do not distress yourself over this. I shall have my dance another time, when your mama is not in the room.”

Harriet smiled. “I’d better go. Thank you for being so understanding, Mr. Southwell.”

Henderson watched her walk away, feeling a deep uneasiness. All these years, people had been whispering behind his back, keeping their daughters away, and he hadn’t known. Though looking back, it had been a bit odd the number of full dance cards he’d encountered. A few girls had danced with him, but now he wondered if it was only because they hadn’t known. Part of him wished his grandfather had never made that push to send him to Eton, to make him believe he was equal to anyone. To find out the truth now was rather devastating.

Of course he knew that bastards were not something parents looked for in a son-in-law. He wasn’t that na?ve. He supposed he hadn’t realized the extent of it all. Joseph and the Hubbards must have shielded him from comments when he was younger. Their protection, their acceptance, had allowed him to move among the elite, particularly in the country, much more easily than if Joseph had not been his champion. But Joseph was long gone and he was left to experience such bigotry without his friend’s protection. It was damned unmanning.