Wish List

by Lisa Kleypas

  He set his own spoon into his bowl, any intention of tasting the vile stuff gone from his mind. “That is a thoroughly repulsive thought.”

  She glanced at him, a spoonful of green and white at her lips. She raised her brows, then purposefully sucked it in.

  For the third time, he laughed.

  “Miss Ambrose,” Captain Twitchen said, speaking across the intervening diners, interrupting their conversations. “What is it that you are saying to amuse our Mr. Brent so?”

  “I really don’t know, sir,” she said, dipping her spoon back into her soup.

  “Damn if it isn’t the first time I’ve seen the man in a good humor. Mr. Brent, what is so funny?”

  “You will have to amuse yourself with wondering,” Richard said.

  “Damn!”

  “Captain Twitchen!” his wife admonished from her end of the table.

  “But damn, Mary. It must be a confoundingly good joke.”

  “Direct your attention to the fish, please,” Mrs. Twitchen said, and the servants on their silent feet came around and carried off the offending soup, replacing it with a platter of fish that the captain would have to serve to his guests. The man looked somewhat peeved.

  The fish was served and eaten, and Richard could not fail to note that Miss Ambrose consumed every sliver of flaky white meat upon her plate. “You enjoyed the fish?” he asked as it was removed and the platters of the main course were arrayed around the table.

  “It helped to erase the memory of the soup,” she said.

  “Where did you come from, Miss Ambrose?” he asked, as he served her from the platters nearest to them. “And no, don’t tell me Shropshire. You know that is not what I mean.”

  “Then what do you mean?”

  “There, now you’re sounding more like the usual young lady, delicately fishing for a compliment.”

  “I certainly am not! I cannot help if you ask questions of uncertain meaning. I come from Shropshire, and there is very little to add to my history than that.”

  “Your parents?”

  “Deceased.”

  “Ah.”

  “‘Ah’ what, sir?”

  “More oysters?”

  “Yes, thank you. ‘Ah’ what?”

  “‘Ah,’ you will be hunting for a husband this season.”

  “And what girl does not?”

  “Have you an inheritance?”

  “That is an impertinent question,” she replied.

  “I thought we were done with illusions of proper conversation, after that mention of Cook’s toenails,” he said, disappointed that she had retreated behind that false shield of propriety.

  She speared a fried oyster on her fork, and met his eyes. “No, I have no inheritance. This is not my gown, nor my jewelry, nor my ribbons, nor my flowers.”

  “Then ‘Ah,’ you are going to be whipping your hounds into a fine frenzy to run down and trap a husband, for all that you have a pretty face.”

  Emotions he could not read flowed across her face. She ate her oyster and speared another. “I shall do my best. Do you have any advice to offer, you who are so worldly?”

  “Are you mocking me?”

  “Would I dare?” she asked, eating the second oyster and going for a third.

  He laughed, genuinely delighted. “You would, wouldn’t you? I doubt you are quite so daring as you pretend, though.”

  “How so?”

  She was working her way through the chicken, the lamb, and the stewed venison on her plate. The girl had not been jesting about being hungry. “More oysters?” he asked.

  “Please.”

  He served her, taking all but the last oyster from the dish and depositing them on her plate. “I would wager you are one of those girls who will venture to the edge of propriety, but never take a step beyond. In words you may take a risk, but never in deed.”

  She finished off the last of the venison and applied herself to the new batch of oysters. “I would not know.”

  “More pretty obfuscation?”

  “No,” she said, looking at him with an oyster on her fork, her eyes large and guileless. “I have never had the opportunity to find out.” Then she downed the oyster.

  He swallowed. Just who was this Miss Ambrose?

  —

  Vivian collapsed onto a love seat and with shaking fingers pushed back the limp curls that had begun to fall out near her damp face. The oysters, venison, fish, soup, chicken, four different wines, anchovy toasts, pigeon, tarts, fritters, and a cup of syllabub churned and roiled in her stomach.

  “Tea?” Penelope asked.

  “Yes, please.” Perhaps it would settle her. The women of the party had at last retreated to the drawing room, the men still at the table with their claret. She had half an hour or so to compose herself and prepare for another round with Mr. Brent.

  “Here you are,” Penelope said, handing her a cup of tea, then sitting down beside her and leaning forward confidentially. “I didn’t know you had it in you—what an artful thing you are!”

  “I didn’t know I had it in me, either,” Vivian agreed, raising her cup in quivering fingers and taking a cautious sip.

  “He’s fascinated by you! Fascinated!”

  “What is it that is wrong with him?”

  “To be fascinated by you? Heaven only knows, but I won’t argue with it.”

  “That is not what I meant.”

  “You are a handsome couple. How surprised Mama will be when you marry so shortly after coming to us!”

  “Must I ask your mama what it is?”

  “What what is? Really, cousin, you are being far too suspicious. Why not enjoy that a well-bred man has taken an interest in you? Though I must say that eating so greedily cannot have helped your cause any. No one could fail to remark upon it.”

  “‘Twas Mr. Brent who insisted on serving me.”

  “You are not a child. You need not eat everything put before you.”

  But she did need to. Her nervousness with Mr. Brent had only increased her appetite, and however it had looked she had been unable to stop eating. She felt like a boiled Scottish haggis, ready to burst, and still she could not help thinking of the sweetmeats on the mistletoe pyramid.

  “But tell me, you like him, don’t you?” Penelope asked.

  “I do not know him.”

  “But your impression so far?”

  “He is… unexpected.”

  There seemed no other way to describe it. Each man who had been introduced to her this evening, she had wondered if he was the one Penelope meant she should snare. There was the gentleman farmer; but no, he had a wife. The vicar, too, and the baronet, of course. There were a few others, local gentry, but as she forced herself to converse with them, all had soon enough revealed themselves as being out of the marriage market, their wives elsewhere in the room.

  And then Mr. Brent had been introduced to her, and she had almost lost her voice altogether. He was average in height, with a trim, square build, dark hair, and eyes of a rich coffee brown. His features were unremarkable, his nose perhaps too large, his eyes set too deep, but the animation of those plain features gave him an unquestionable attractiveness. There were those people whose smiles touched only their lips, but with Mr. Brent his whole face creased and crinkled, and his eyes met hers with intensity and intelligence.

  She had never had a man look at her with such interest. She had never had anyone give her such flirtatious, individual attention in all the years of her life.

  She was shy under his scrutiny and wanted to run. And at the same time she wanted to take no step that might cool that interest in Mr. Brent’s eyes.

  Luckily her time with Miss Marbury had taught her one thing well, and that was how to humor one bent on being difficult. It was plain that Mr. Brent fancied himself a bit of a rebel, and she had adjusted her behavior accordingly. She had not had time as yet to decide if he was a man worthy of being humored, or one she could, after all, marry. Her words to Penelope had been more bombast
than substance, and she was not at all certain that she would have the courage to marry an odious man if given the opportunity.

  Being a beggar among relations might not be a pleasant life, but it was the one she knew. Presented with the opportunity of escape, in reality and not just fantasy, she did not know if she was equal to the challenge.

  The oysters in her stomach rolled and turned, and she felt a wave of heat wash over her.

  “I’m going to be sick,” she said, shoving her teacup at Penelope. Then she left her astonished cousin on the love seat, and ran from the room.

  Chapter Three

  Christmas Day

  The Nativity

  Haverton Hall

  “I do hope Miss Ambrose can make it tonight,” Elizabeth said. “I was surprised not to see her in church this morning.”

  Richard said nothing, pretending to be engrossed in his book. They were in the drawing room, supposedly enjoying a few moments of quiet. The children had been taken upstairs for their naps, and this would be the only lull in the day, for this evening the Twitchens would arrive for a small family dinner, as had been their custom for many years.

  “You seemed fond of the girl,” his sister’s husband, Sir John, said.

  Richard grunted and turned a page.

  “I thought that was the only reason you came to church, on the chance of seeing her. What, no answer? You, of the famous forthrightness?” Sir John turned to his wife and said in a stage whisper, “By Jove, I think he is smitten with the girl. Have you ever seen him without a reply?”

  “I am not smitten with her,” Richard snapped, shutting his book and glaring first at his brother-in-law and then at his sister. “A trifle curious, perhaps. But not smitten.”

  “Mrs. Twitchen told me some of her history,” Elizabeth volunteered, then did not continue.

  Richard looked at her, grinding his teeth, the two of them in a duel of stubbornness. “Oh, all right!” he said at last. “Tell me what she said.”

  “Make him admit he’s smitten first,” Sir John teased.

  “I don’t think we should push our luck, darling,” Elizabeth said. “He looks ready to pop a vessel as it is.”

  “But he’s making a damn fine show. I haven’t had this much fun since the vicar got drunk and came here to beg the hand of that upstairs chambermaid.”

  “Really, dearest,” Elizabeth said. “Just because you’ve been fortunate enough to marry the perfect woman doesn’t mean you should make fun of others in their quest for a similar happiness.”

  Sir John narrowed his eyes and chewed his upper lip, trying and failing to come up with a suitable rejoinder that would not get him into trouble.

  “Now, as I was saying,” Elizabeth moved on. “Mrs. Twitchen says that Miss Vivian Ambrose is her first cousin twice removed, and comes from one of the weaker branches of the family. She has no fortune or rank, and her parents were killed in a carriage accident when she was a small child. She has spent these last several years as a companion to an elderly aunt, and has not yet been out in society, although she is twenty-five years of age. Mrs. Twitchen is hoping to make the girl a match in London this season. She says she feels rather sorry for the awkward thing.”

  “She’s not awkward,” Richard argued, privately surprised at Miss Ambrose’s age. She was only a year younger than himself. Her face did not show her years.

  “Isn’t she? Of course, I had only a few moments to speak with her. She seemed quite shy.”

  “I wonder if we spoke to the same young lady.”

  “It may have been weariness I noted,” Elizabeth amended. “Mrs. Twitchen said she had been remiss in having the girl attend the dinner party, as she had only arrived that morning. The strain was too much for her, and she was forced to retire after dinner.”

  “Is that what happened, then?” he asked. He had been disappointed to arrive in the drawing room only to find the young Miss Ambrose missing, and had consequently been unable to think of anything but her the remainder of the evening.

  “She was overcome quite suddenly. She seemed fine when she was talking with Miss Twitchen; then all of a sudden she ran from the room, and Miss Twitchen said she had taken ill.”

  “More likely Miss Twitchen said something to her,” Richard said. “She’s a little minx, is Penelope Twitchen.” He shifted in his chair, reopening his book and pretending once again to read, although his mind was on what the girl likely had said to scare Miss Ambrose off.

  He really should stop thinking about the girl. He was only doing himself damage by brooding over her. It used to be that his hopes would rise upon each introduction to a friendly young woman, but as he’d gotten to know them—those who did not spurn his conversation—his expectations had died, hope squeezed from his heart.

  Miss Ambrose had, with her oyster gluttony and her taunting, frank remarks, stirred that last drop of hope remaining in him. He was caught between wishing for it to grow and wishing he could drain it onto the muddy ground and stomp it under his boot, so it could no longer cause him pain.

  It would be all the better if Miss Ambrose did not come to dinner tonight. He could put an end to this nonsense in both his heart and mind.

  —

  The Twitchen carriage bounced and rolled along the lane leading to Haverton Hall, jostling its four occupants, who sat two across, bundled in their coats and hats. Outside the windows, the heavy, overcast sky blotted out the last hints of day, the countryside blanketed in a layer of shadows.

  Vivian almost wished she were still ill, so that she did not need to attend this dinner. The nausea from greasy fried oysters was preferable to that induced by nerves. At least one could throw up oysters and be rid of them.

  Last night she had not returned to the drawing room after being ill, for how could one come back? What explanation could one give for such an absence?

  This morning had seen her confined to her bed while the family went to church. Mrs. Twitchen had fretted, blaming herself for Vivian’s illness. “‘Twas entirely too much strain for you, poor girl,” the lady had apologized. “No, you must stay abed. I won’t have you overexciting yourself. You should have rested yesterday, only I gave you no chance.”

  And so her breakfast and lunch had been sent up to her on a tray, and she had devoured them with good appetite, not having known that this dinner party was waiting for her in the evening. If she had, she’d have rung for a third tray.

  The day abed had given her more time than she wanted to brood upon meeting Mr. Brent, however, and to suffer a dozen embarrassments over her own behavior. She ate a butter tart off the plate by her bed each time such a distressing memory came to mind.

  Mr. Brent had coaxed her into being naughty, and she had let him do so. However much he might have enjoyed her antics, though, his opinion of her had to be low because of them. She had painted herself as fast and daring, and he had likely believed her, for what evidence had he to the contrary?

  Another butter tart helped her worry over the question.

  Men did not marry fast women; that was common knowledge. And yet, if that was what intrigued Mr. Brent, what other choice had she than to play that role?

  If it was a role. It had come much more easily to her than ladylike behavior, with its subtle rules and unspoken commandments. Perhaps she was a coarse, unrefined woman at heart.

  The carriage at last drew up under the porte cochere, and they got down and entered the house. Sir John and Lady Sudley greeted them, servants took their coverings, and they were ushered into the drawing room to pass the time before dinner.

  And there was Mr. Brent, looking uncertain, and then their eyes met and for a moment his face lit up, then as quickly composed itself into a bland, noncommittal welcome.

  “See if you can make him laugh again,” Penelope whispered to Vivian, giving her a playful shove toward him.

  “Push me again,” Vivian whispered through gritted teeth, “and I’ll spill red wine on this dress.” It was a periwinkle gown she wore this time, with embr
oidery and beadwork over the bodice. Penelope had once again done her hair and her face, working with the same care and concentration as if Vivian were a spun-sugar castle to be presented to the king.

  “I’m just encouraging you. You need a bit of that, I think,” Penelope complained. “Dowdy girls usually do.”

  “Red wine, and grease from my dinner,” she threatened.

  “You can overcome many problems of face or figure with a bright personality,” Penelope advised in a teasing tone. She seemed to be enjoying this marriage hunt far more than the huntress herself.

  “Leave me alone,” Vivian said, although Penelope’s insults did serve to distract her from the matter at hand.

  “And remember, it may be a feast day, but you needn’t stuff yourself: we will have had a half-dozen of them by the end of the Christmas season. You’re in no danger of starving.” Penelope gave her another little shove toward Mr. Brent, and left her. Vivian watched her go, almost wishing she’d stayed, but when she turned she was startled to find Mr. Brent standing before her.

  “Miss Ambrose, I was sorry to miss you the remainder of last evening,” he said. “And now look, you are being shy with me.”

  She saw the devilish light in his eyes, and out of the swirling mass of confused choices for how she should behave—innocent or knowing, shy or fast, flirtatious or proper—what came forward was the truth. “I am being shy because I am shy, Mr. Brent.”

  “You do not seem so to me.”

  “Only because you make outrageous comments that encourage a similarly outrageous response. You are enough to put any young woman on edge.”

  “Not any young woman would answer as you just have.”

  “I don’t know any better,” she said.

  He laughed. “And I pray you never learn. Last night’s conversation was one of the most enjoyable I’ve had in recent memory.”

  “I had been hoping you would forget it.”

  “Impossible. And I would never want to.”

  She blushed, fidgeted, yearned for a bit of spice cake, then looked around for something to comment upon. She was aware of him watching her, taking in each uneasy movement. She combed back through her memory of their conversation at dinner the night before, and finally found something to say.