Engaged to the Earl

by Lisa Berne

  There he was: standing apart, by one of the windows, looking so much like the Christopher of old—stormy and wild—that her heart gave a great anxious thump within her breast.

  Swiftly Gwendolyn went to him. “Christopher,” she said, searching his face, “what’s wrong?”

  His eyes were deep and dark, mysterious, smoldering with an emotion she couldn’t decipher. He only gave a slight shrug, and she persisted:

  “You were looking at the Countess as if you were—were astonished, or shocked. Christopher, have you met her before? Do you know her?”

  He was silent for a little while. Finally: “No. I’ve never met her.”

  “Why did you look that way, then?”

  “Gwennie.” His voice was low and harsh. “Don’t ask me. Just don’t.”

  She stared up at him. “I’m worried for you.”

  “You needn’t be.”

  “But I am. Oh, Christopher, I want so much to help you if I can.”

  His face twisted; there was a kind of agony in it. “I know you do. I’m all right. It’s nothing to do with me.”

  She wasn’t convinced. But she only said, “Will you tell me if there’s anything I can do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you promise?”

  “Yes.”

  With that, Gwendolyn supposed, she had to be satisfied. But the truth was, she wasn’t satisfied, not at all. She still didn’t know what was wrong, and Christopher still looked so troubled. A little chill shivered through her and she found herself thinking back to that time in Whitehaven, when they had both stood before her drawing-room window, looking out at the cold, black, snowy night. He had left the very next morning, gone from her life like a leaf blown away by the wind, never, perhaps, to be seen again.

  Without hesitation she reached for his hand, just as she had done that other time. And she clasped it in hers. His skin was warm against her own. “Christopher, I’m so glad you came back.”

  He looked at her, his dark eyes still fiery and depthless. “What would you like for a wedding-gift, Gwennie?”

  “What?”

  “A wedding-gift. What would you like?”

  Thrown by the change of subject, Gwendolyn gave her head a little shake, as if to clear it. “Why are you asking me that now?”

  “The Earl’s invited me to your wedding.”

  “He has? Oh! Well, of course you’re invited. Do you mind traveling all the way to Whitehaven?”

  “What?”

  “Going to Whitehaven. That’s where the wedding’s to be. In Grandpapa’s church.”

  “He told me it’s going to be here in London, at St. George’s.”

  “You—you must be mistaken, Christopher.”

  “No. That’s what he said, during the practice dance. At St. George’s with a breakfast after.”

  Gwendolyn believed him. But confusion was roaring through her. It was only the day before yesterday—the day before the practice dance—that she and Julian had talked about the wedding, on the ride to Richmond. And he had agreed to her plan, to have it take place in Whitehaven. Had Julian somehow forgotten? Or had she misconstrued what he’d said? She felt herself holding on harder to Christopher’s hand, as if for ballast on a stormy sea. Clinging to his reassuring strength.

  “You shouldn’t be doing that, Gwendolyn.” Helen had come to where they stood by the windows.

  Startled, Gwendolyn twisted about and, reflexively, let go of Christopher. “Doing what?”

  “Holding hands with someone you’re not engaged to.” Helen’s voice was like spun sugar, her vivid green eyes glinting in the candlelight. “That’s very bad form, you know.”

  A ribbon of anger flickered through Gwendolyn. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do say so.”

  “Well, maybe you shouldn’t.”

  “I just did.” All at once Gwendolyn felt a strange desire to laugh. Possibly a slightly hysterical laugh. She and Helen sounded like silly little girls. In another minute they’d be pulling at each other’s hair and calling each other names. It was with real relief that she saw Lady Almira fluttering toward them.

  “My dears, are you ready? Tyndale says the carriages are outside. And you know how the dear Duchess hates making the horses wait. Girls, don’t forget your shawls. Helen, pray don’t dawdle—Mr. Beck will follow shortly, I’m sure.”

  Gwendolyn gave Christopher a last lingering glance, hating how closed-off his face looked, how remote, and as reluctantly she walked away she saw the Countess, still in her chair, pulling from underneath her a burgundy-colored book, which apparently she had sat on. She looked at it, puzzled, and Gwendolyn hurried to her.

  “Oh, ma’am, that’s mine.”

  “Book of the Marvels of the World?” said the Countess, looking at the gilt letters of the title, and then up at Gwendolyn. “What sort of book is it?”

  “It’s a memoir, ma’am.”

  “I see. And who is this author—Marco Polo? He sounds like a foreigner.”

  For a moment Gwendolyn wondered if the Countess was joking, but there was nothing in her placid voice or gently inquiring expression to support that suspicion. So Gwendolyn answered, “He was an Italian explorer, ma’am.”

  “Indeed? I don’t care to read books by foreigners. I don’t know why it is, but somehow I don’t trust them. My dear late husband Edmond always said what a loyal Englishwoman I am. I would have had Julian and Rupert go fight against those dreadful—what do they call themselves? Americans?—those dreadful traitors, but of course I couldn’t let them risk their lives. And Julian particularly, as the heir. Not that they wanted to, which I think very wise of them. Now, I understand your brother’s wife writes books?”

  “Yes, ma’am. My sister-in-law, Katherine.”

  “It would be so interesting to see a female author,” remarked the Countess, in the exact manner of one hoping to catch a glimpse of a freakish curiosity at a fair.

  “She’s a wonderful writer,” Gwendolyn said, trying to keep a defensive tartness out of her tone. “In fact, I have one of her books upstairs. I’d be glad to lend it to you, ma’am.”

  “Do you indeed? What is it about? A romance, I daresay? With castles, and ghosts, and a horrid villain?”

  “No, it’s called English Ships Out of Portsmouth: A National Heritage.”

  “Oh, ships,” said the Countess, visibly losing interest. “What an odd thing for a female to be writing about.”

  “I,” said Gwendolyn, “like ships.”

  “Do you, my dear? Dear Julian told me what a lively mind you have.”

  “My brother Hugo builds ships. I’ve gone on many of them. I know a little about celestial navigation and Hugo’s shown me how to steer a ship.” Gwendolyn had a vague feeling that she probably should stop, but she felt like a tea-kettle coming to a boil. “I can raise a sail by myself, if the wind’s not too strong. I know how to tie knots and climb a rigging, too.”

  “Climb a rigging?” Rupert Durant said. “In a gown, Miss Penhallow?”

  On Rupert’s face was a look she didn’t like—a gleam of lascivious interest—and she heard the definite snap in her voice as she answered, “In sailor’s trousers.”

  “Trousers,” repeated Rupert, still with that same gleam. “Did you hear that, Mummie?” he said to the Countess. “Miss Penhallow’s worn trousers. Gad, how dashing.”

  “We really ought to go,” said the Earl, “the Duchess is waiting for us.” He held out his hand to his mother, to assist her to rise, which she did with slow gracefulness, and as together they made their way out of the drawing-room the Countess could be heard asking him, “Julian dear, what is celestial navigation? Is it one of those odd spiritual fancies so prevalent nowadays? Dear Gwendolyn isn’t a Dissenter, is she? I thought you said her grandfather is a perfectly respectable clergyman.”

  In the bustle of their party dispersing into the various carriages, Percy murmured into Gwendolyn’s ear:

&n
bsp; “You’re in the basket now, Gwennie! Lord, the look on Westenbury’s face when you said ‘trousers’! Luckily for you, the Countess was so stumped by ‘celestial navigation’ that I don’t think she even noticed!” He laughed.

  Gwendolyn hunched a shoulder. “I don’t care.”

  “In a bad skin, are you? Regretting your outburst already? I say, do cheer up! Vauxhall will be jolly, you know. I’d take you round myself, but after supper I’m slipping away to meet someone.”

  “Percy, you instigated this outing.”

  He grinned. “Clever of me, don’t you think?”

  “You’re awful,” Gwendolyn said, but without heat. He looked so mischievous that it was impossible to be really angry with him. Curiously she asked, “Who are you meeting?”

  “Oh, a friend.”

  He said it with such casualness that Gwendolyn’s curiosity was only heightened. “Who is it? Is it anyone I know?”

  “I doubt it. I say, why is Helen crowding into that seat with Christopher? Doesn’t the old girl know there’s not enough room? She ought to sit on the opposite seat with Frank.”

  Gwendolyn said with sudden vehemence, “I wish I could stay home.”

  “You could cry off. Now’s the time.”

  She thought about it. She could get into her nightgown, have supper brought to her on a tray, lie in bed devouring Marvels of the World. It was tempting. Too tempting. “I’d feel like a coward.”

  “That,” Percy said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders in a brief but affectionate hug, “you are not. Trousers!” He laughed again and went loping away toward the Duchess’s carriage.

  More slowly, Gwendolyn went to the Westenbury carriage, a vast and elegant barouche with the family’s crest—depicting a ferocious black bear, a medieval castle with red pennants flying, and an extremely sharp halberd—emblazoned on the door. The Earl stood waiting for her. If he had been shocked by her earlier disclosures, he certainly didn’t seem to be now. He smiled down at her and took her hand to help her up the steps. “There’s no need to look so worried, my darling,” he said softly. “I told m-my mother that your little—ah—larks occurred in your youth. She understands completely.”

  Gwendolyn hesitated with her foot on the bottom step, not at all sure that she wanted or needed Julian to be apologizing on her behalf. “Little larks”—wasn’t that a rather patronizing way to put it? Or was it, rather, a soothing euphemism? Also, how on earth could one man be so incredibly handsome? She wanted to kiss him or, possibly, snap at him for being condescending. Maybe both. Gwendolyn felt very confused all of a sudden, and at that moment she would have sworn that her cozy, quiet, peaceful bed upstairs in the townhouse was calling out to her. A siren’s song, seductive, trying to lure her away—

  “Gwendolyn, dear child, do come inside and sit next to me,” said the Countess warmly, patting the empty space beside her. “We have so much to talk about.”

  I am not a coward, Gwendolyn told herself, then stepped inside the carriage and took her place next to the Countess.

  Their party was so numerous that they needed two supper-boxes to accommodate them all. There was a sort of mad scramble among some of the younger members for places, and so it fell out that at one table sat the Duchess, Lady Almira, the Earl of Westenbury and his mother the Countess, and Monsieur de Montmorency.

  Christopher came last of all. He observed at once that the group had divided into the classic configuration of older adults separated from the younger people, and would have grinned to himself had his mood been lighter. He took a moment to acknowledge that he was, in his current state of mind, creating his own kind of configuration: people he would have liked to sit with, and others he would just as soon avoid.

  For example, it would be a special ring of hell to be forced to stare at the Countess of Westenbury for the entire duration of a meal. Did no one else notice? he wondered. God in heaven, he certainly did, and it was tearing him apart.

  And speaking of Westenburys, he didn’t particularly want to sit with the Earl, no matter how affable and helpful, nor did he like the look of the Earl’s brother. A shifty lot if he ever saw one. The Honorable Rupert could well have been a pickpocket, or worse, save for the lucky accident of his birth; as it was, he had the look of a man who enjoyed cornering maidservants in stairwells.

  And who did that leave him with?

  He looked at Gwendolyn. He’d have sat next to her in a heartbeat, but she was already seated between Owen and Percy. She was talking and smiling; however, there was a subtle grimness to her jaw, a set to her slender shoulders, that had his own shoulders tightening.

  He’d watched her talk with the Countess, defending Katherine, proudly mentioning Hugo and his ships, defiantly tossing in the detail about wearing trousers. He’d wanted to cheer her on from the sidelines—Brava, signorina, molto bene!—but it was clear she needed help from no one.

  Her blue eyes had been blazing, her voice clear and steady, and she stood very straight.

  She was, he had thought, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

  Looking at her now, he thought it again.

  “Mr. Beck! I say, Mr. Beck!”

  Christopher dragged his gaze away from Gwendolyn to where Helen sat next to the Honorable Rupert. She was waving vigorously. “Do sit with us!”

  “Thank you, but there’s no room.”

  “Owen, move,” Helen hissed across the table at her brother.

  “You move,” answered Owen.

  She glared at him so ferociously that a lesser man might have quailed, but Owen merely smiled in a superior way and tried to flag down one of the waiters rushing to and fro.

  “Percy, will you please move?” asked Helen, injecting a softer note into her voice.

  “Damned if I will.”

  “Never mind, Lady Helen,” Christopher said, and caught a look from Gwendolyn—wistful? Forlorn?—before finding an empty place at the other table, between Lady Almira and—of course—the Earl, and—of course—directly opposite the Countess.

  The only bright spot was that he could keep an eye on Gwendolyn as the plates of ham and chicken arrived, the custards and salads set before them, the platters of plump half-moon tarts; the wine dispensed. He did see, three times by his count, Gwendolyn give a little start and glance across at the Honorable Rupert, and knew, with black rage in his heart, that Rupert was playing sly games with his feet underneath the table.

  The fourth time he saw Gwendolyn jump he was just about to get up and throttle the Honorable Rupert—yes, let everyone (to quote the Earl) disparage him for his manners and the hell with it—throttle that damned toad until he squeaked for mercy, but then Rupert gave a yelp and pushed back from the table as if involuntarily.

  And Gwendolyn looked Rupert right in the eye. Said nothing. Smiled ever so slightly. Then calmly cut a little slice of ham and proceeded to eat it.

  Christopher nearly burst out laughing. She’d kicked him, and with any luck right in the sensitive part of the shin where it would hurt the most. He thought again, Brava, signorina! He would have liked to hug her to him then and there.

  Chapter 9

  Supper had wound down, dessert had been eaten, Rupert Durant had been keeping his feet to himself, and now the orchestra was playing a waltz so enticing that many people from the dozens of supper-boxes all around them were making their way to the large open area around which the boxes had been built, and joining in the dance.

  Various members of their own party were rising from the tables amidst a buzz of conversation and laughter. Gwendolyn remained sitting, and considered what she wanted to do next.

  She looked over to where the Earl was helping his mother to rise. He was, she thought, very tender, very solicitous of her. Clearly, he loved her very much.

  Clucking a little, Lady Almira was brushing crumbs from the front of her gown and giving the strong impression that quite a few of them had descended into her bodice; Étienne de Montmorency was watching sardonically.

  And
there was Christopher.

  He was—why, he was looking at her.

  She looked back. How dark his eyes appeared from here, yet lit with fierce, fiery intelligence. A long shaggy lock of hair had fallen over his forehead. It occurred to her that he had the sort of face which one could easily look at for a very long time.

  Then, to her annoyance, someone blocked her view. It was the Honorable Rupert, who, having stood up, put his hands on the tablecloth and leaned toward her. Goodness, how strange it was to see in him a slightly off-kilter version of the Earl.

  Rupert said, “You won’t—ah—tell Mummie or Julian about—about our little—ah—our little disagreement?”

  “You mean about your wandering feet?” she answered coolly, at the same time wondering how a man well into his twenties could so easily give the appearance of a five-year-old caught doing something naughty.

  “Yes, that. It was only a bit of harmless fun, you know.”

  “And the table’s so narrow that it was practically unavoidable.”

  “Yes, exactly!” he said, and Gwendolyn felt like she might kick him again if he kept on. She stood up and moved away. And where to?

  Helen had already gotten up and was headed toward Christopher. For a crazy moment Gwendolyn wanted to take hold of the satin ribbons at the back of Helen’s gown and bring her to a skidding halt.

  And in realizing this, she wondered if maybe she really should have stayed behind at the townhouse. What other dreadful thing would she contemplate doing tonight? Or actually do?

  Percy swung in front of her and took hold of Helen’s upper arm. “I say, old girl, let’s dance! You owe me one from yesterday.”