Sheri Cobb South by The Weaver Takes a Wife Page A

for dancing or cards.”
    “Does ‘elen go there?”
    “Before her marriage, she could be seen there almost every week.”
    Mr. Brundy, minding his steps, merely nodded. In all likelihood, last night had not been the first time Lord Waverly had held Lady Helen in an intimate embrace. Nor might it be the last, either, but from here on out, the earl would no longer have a clear field. He, Ethan Brundy, had not conquered the workhouse only to be bested on the ballroom floor.
    “Ouch!” cried Emily, as her partner trod squarely upon her foot.
    “I beg your pardon,” protested an apologetic Mr. Brundy. “I can’t think ‘ow that ‘appened.”
    “I daresay you are growing tired,” suggested Emily. “Perhaps we had best save the next lesson for another day.”
    Mr. Brundy, not wishing to wear out his welcome, consented to this plan and took his leave of his hostess, who admonished him to practice at home and to return for further instruction whenever he wished.
    “I’ll do that, me lady,” he assured her. “Oh, and one more thing. I’d be grateful if you wouldn’t mention this to David, at least not yet.”
    “Your secret is safe with me, Mr. Brundy.” Both of them, she promised herself.
    * * * *
    After successfully completing his first dance lesson, Mr. Brundy was content to spend the evening quietly at home. He had promised Colonel Pickering that he would read Mrs. More’s tome in its entirety before passing final judgement upon it, and it was with the intention of retrieving the book from his study that he was crossing the marble-tiled hall when a sound from above drew his gaze upwards.
    The sight which met his eyes fairly took his breath away. Lady Helen descended the stairs in a cloud of silk gauze whose willow green shade exactly matched her eyes. Her honey-blond hair was dressed simply and ornamented with a single white gardenia over her left ear. Mr. Brundy, normally the most pragmatic of men, was struck with the fanciful notion that she resembled an exotic hothouse flower—a poetic observation which was immediately supplanted by the recollection of his own far more casual attire.
    “I say, ‘elen, ‘ave we an engagement I’ve forgotten?” he asked, taking up a position beside the newel post so that he might hand her down the last few stairs.
    Lady Helen gave him her hand, along with a look of wide-eyed innocence. “Why, no, Mr. Brundy. I am merely going to Almack’s. ‘Tis Wednesday, you know.”
    “Indeed, it is,” he said with a secretive smile. “Still, I trust you’re not going alone.”
    “No, indeed.” Lady Helen’s rebuttal was interrupted by a knock upon the front door. “That must be my escort now,” she said, smiling brightly at her husband.
    Evers answered the summons and stepped back to admit Lord Waverly, immaculate as ever in full evening dress.
    “Ah, Lady Helen, you are a vision, as always,” he said, raising her gloved hands to his lips before turning startled eyes upon her husband. “But what is this? Do you not mean to accompany us, Mr. Brundy?”
    “Mr. Brundy is looking forward to a quiet evening at home,” explained Lady Helen.
    “A wise choice, Mr. Brundy, I feel sure,” said the earl, nodding his approval. “Lady Helen, shall we go?”
    Evers stepped forward with his mistress’s evening cloak but, seeing Mr. Brundy hold out an imperative hand, surrendered it to his master instead. Mr. Brundy placed the velvet garment about his wife’s shoulders, allowing his hands to remain there the merest fraction of a second longer than was absolutely necessary. This proprietary gesture did not go unremarked by Lord Waverly, who acknowledged it with the slightest lift of an eyebrow before offering his arm to Lady Helen.
    “I ‘ope you ‘ave a pleasant evening, me dear.” Mr. Brundy’s unrefined accents followed them to the front door.
    “Thank you, Mr. Brundy. I’m sure I shall.”
    Once outside, Lady Helen allowed herself to be handed into Lord Waverly’s