The jolly woman laughed yet more at Nicole’s jesting and shooed her out of her kitchen, chuckling as she did so. “Off with you, silly girl.”
Nicole dashed away, scooting out of the way of Mrs. Abercrombie’s snapping of her kitchen towel. “Sole-ly, Mrs. Abercrombie. Not mackerel!” Nicole called from the corridor that led to the back stairway.
More chuckling followed her up the stairs.
Nicole found her chambers and her maid, Amelia, waiting within.
“Oh, we’ve to hurry now, miss,” said Amelia, her little mop cap bouncing about her head as she scurried around the room, “if we’re to make any sense of your hair.”
Nicole grinned at the unintentional slight—even she knew her hair was unruly at best. She thought sometimes Amelia was deserving of some sort of prize or acclaim for the feats she managed with the long and curling locks. Other times, she thought Amelia might well benefit from a few lessons in comportment or tact, as she struggled much to rein in her expression often when, by the end of the day or evening, Nicole returned to her chambers and showed what remained of the carefully coiffed hair to the often alarmed maid.
She allowed Amelia to strip her of her day gown, tossing that item onto the big four poster bed. She lifted her arms as the young woman arranged the chosen evening wear about her. Amelia scampered around Nicole, pulling the gown into place as it fell over her shoulders and hips and legs. Satisfied that all was settled appropriately, she attended the fastenings at the back while Nicole considered this choice in the cheval mirror. She’d wanted a full dress dinner, but Sabrina had refused this, reasoning that only Leven and his mother were to attend, and complete formality was unnecessary, and half-dress was decided upon. But she liked this dress, the soft baby blue gathered just beneath her bosom and clinging to her hips and thighs in graceful folds of plain silk while the shirred bodice and short capped and ruffled sleeves were decorated with dainty embroidered white flowers.
She slid her feet into the dainty silk slippers and then sat at her dressing table that Amelia might begin the ever-daunting task of arranging her hair. On several occasions, Amelia had been forced to call for help, Nicole having done so much damage during a morning ride or brisk constitutional—which might also include, when they were in the country, time spent along the creek or in the stables—that Amelia had enlisted the aid of another maid to comb out snarls on one side of Nicole’s head. As Nicole had today only spent the afternoon with her head buried in a book—today, Walter Scott’s Waverley, with tales of the Jacobite Rebellion—Amelia was pleased to be able to brush through with nary a snare.
Nicole regaled Amelia with the story of that young dreamer, Edward Waverley, and the wild Highlanders with whom he became impassioned and indebted. The young maid pretended interest while pinning her hair neatly at the back of her head in a loose chignon, taking special care with the ringlets that fell from the arrangement, these having very little need of the curling papers. Only a few pins were added, these affixed with wooden white flowers to match her gown.
Amelia turned her palms up, on either side of Nicole’s head, her eyes critically scanning her hair before pronouncing her dressing complete.
Nicole thanked her kindly and skipped out of the room, Amelia admonishing her to slow her pace to a “dainty crawl, if you please!” so that her steps were less hurried as she descended the ornately curved stairs. She found her father in the drawing room, a glass of port in his hand as he peered out the windows onto the street below.
He turned as she entered and smiled fondly, if not absently. Nicole pressed a kiss onto his cheek and accepted a watered down madeira from the butler as she and her father then took seats, Nicole upon the velvet covered settee and Baron Kent within his favorite wing back chair of rich blue damask.
“I wonder what the earl’s mother is like,” Nicole said. “Is she as favorable as her son?”
The baron barked out a harrumphed snort which gave an answer before his words did. “She’s a tight-lipped and mean-spirited older version of her son, I should say.”
“Oh my,” Nicole allowed, finding this unfortunate. “Certainly then, his affability comes from his father.”
The baron shrugged with a twisted grin, “I shouldn’t think Leven has ever been accused of affability, or the countess of anything even remotely resembling that.”
“I hope it all goes well, father.”
“It’s just dinner, girl.”
“Yes, but Sabrina is not giving this a chance at all and the poor earl—”
He barked again, cutting her off. “The ‘poor earl’ is likely more concerned with the great dowry accompanying his disagreeable bride, rather than her difficult temperament.”
“Did you love mother when you married her?” Nicole asked. She knew well how society—and marriage, in particular—was fashioned, but could never imagine reconciling herself to a loveless marriage. That might be why her father had been rather exasperated when he’d found her reading Pride and Prejudice several months ago, as everyone knew that to be a great love story—"and that is why it’s called fiction, my dear,” her father had given when she’d defended her reading choices. He’d then exclaimed, “There’s no such thing!” when Nicole had professed a want of love in her eventual marriage.
“It was not a love match, but you know well that I was very fond of your mother, as she was I.” He said, almost gruffly.
She actually did not know that. She remembered her mother as a rather meek and quiet thing, who appeared to stiffen upon hearing the brusque voice of her husband, even if he be in another room.
Sabrina entered the drawing room then, looking almost regal in a frothy blue silk with her hair swept up into an enviously perfect confection. Nicole smiled, about to ask if she were excited for tonight’s dinner, hoping to stir some enchantment in her sister. But her query was halted by the sudden and deep frown jarring Sabrina’s soft and classic features.
“Nicole, you cannot wear blue! I have had this planned for almost the entire week. Father, tell her she must change!”
The baron waved this off with an impatient frown. “Sabrina, stop behaving as if the entire universe must accede to your wishes. ‘Tis a dress, for Chrissakes.”
Nicole slumped, knowing this would set the tone for the evening. Even if she had been allowed or instructed to change her gown, Sabrina would keep this supposed transgression close all night.
Sabrina sat herself frostily on the other end of the settee, her chin tilted away from Nicole, who bothered to roll her eyes as she watched her sister refuse the madeira offered by Bennett, being fairly rude as to only wave her hand impatiently as the tray was presented to her. Nicole was quite sure that if there had been any chance at all that the evening might prove enjoyable—or, even a success! —that these hopes were now dashed with her sister’s sudden and sharp displeasure.
Nicole’s now reduced humors were worried yet more upon the announcement that their guests had arrived. She rose and turned toward the door, as did her father and Sabrina, the latter doing so in such a slow and tedious way as to suggest disrespect, to which Nicole’s eyes did narrow with censure. But then the earl and his mother, the countess, entered the room, the hand of Bennett poised on the door handle as he admitted the pair, and Nicole’s eyes lit happily upon the earl. His eyes, likewise, seemed to find her first before he approached her father with an elegant and sure stride across the room.
The baron greeted Trevor and the countess, Nicole agreeing almost instantly with her father’s earlier assessment of the older woman. Sabrina would do well to emulate Countess Leven’s icy mien and regal posture, her raised chin alerting all in the room that she considered their worth far beneath her own and this occasion pitifully unfit to receive her company.
The baron, Nicole was pleased to see, firstly, took no offense to the woman’s chilly bearing, but secondly—Nicole was amusingly horrified to see—her father’s façade of clear welcome was dropped and he let slip a scowl indicating his true appraisal at the
woman’s back as soon as she was turned by her son toward the baron’s waiting daughters.
Nicole and Sabrina curtsied prettily as the earl introduced them to the woman. Nicole assumed that the greater thinning of the woman’s lips was to be her polite smile and she pinched her own lips together to prevent a burst of laughter, recalling her father’s words of only moments ago— “a tight-lipped and mean-spirited woman”, indeed.
“Sisters, are you?” The countess said, arching a brow, as if she did not actually know this already. “I was acquainted with both of your mothers—one not so judiciously clever and the other timid—and I suppose there’s no hope that your father by some means managed to cleave these unpleasant traits from their respective offspring.”
While Sabrina, so usually deft at handling the rare slights put to her, stared almost gaped jawed at the woman, who stood many inches taller than either girl so that she quite easily was able to look down her nose upon them, Nicole answered promptly in a sweetly apologetic voice, “None at all, Lady Leven.”
Nicole could just feel Sabrina’s face jerk quickly toward her, aghast at her daring she was sure, while Nicole only continued to smile prettily at the countess.
“Yes, I see,” was all the woman said, dismissing the girls then with a great show of turning her head away first before her entire body followed and found a seat upon the second and matching settee across from where they’d sat.
Nicole exhaled, wondering at her own boldness and found Trevor’s eyes settled upon her as well as his betrothed. The blue depths of his eyes, indeed his entire face, seemed to demonstrate some admiring humor, his fine lips widened in a smile.
He bid good evening to Sabrina then, telling her she looked quite lovely, to which his betrothed appeared to force herself to smile politely.
Then Trevor stood before Nicole and she smiled up at him, relaxing a bit.
“I am very happy you are here,” she said to him, her voice soft, almost conspiratorial. “’Tis very cold in here.” She spoke not of the temperature, her eyes darting from Sabrina to his mother.
He grinned at this and his gaze returned to Sabrina momentarily, considering her stiff posture next to them. “Chilly indeed.” But he grinned at Nicole before commenting, “Your gown is quite charming.”
Conversation was stilted indeed, so much so that even the baron seemed to notice and put forth several topics hopefully worthy of discussion, as Sabrina was ostensibly disinclined to do so. The earl attempted to humor the baron by responding politely, but for the most part, the drawing room was filled with near painful silences. Nicole sat stiffly upon the settee, sensing the tension wrought by lack of dialogue, wondering that aside from her father, no one else seemed bothered by it, and was beyond thankful when Bennet finally announced dinner.
Nicole didn’t mind so much the further awkwardness of walking by herself, behind her father leading the countess and the earl leading Sabrina, down to dinner. She was too busy scanning her brain for items of interest to discuss at dinner, in hopeful avoidance of two or three more hours of this dreadful and unnatural atmosphere.
The baron sat the countess at his side and Sabrina sat opposite her father at the foot of the table, indicating to Trevor that he should sit at her right, leaving Nicole to take a seat in the middle.
The white soup came soon after, the veal based creamy chicken soup decorated prettily with pistachios and sliced almonds. With this came the mackerel Mrs. Abercrombie had promised and another dish of sweetbread au jus. And no one spoke, the baron apparently having exhausted either his supply of conversation starters or his desire to fill the silence. Nicole cast anxious eyes at Sabrina as truly, it was her business as she was, effectively, lady of the manor, to make sure ‘sensible discourse was as readily available as the fine silver upon the table’—as their governess had always supposed. But Sabrina only sipped from the side of her spoon as if she hadn’t a care for charming conversation or the dastardly quietness which prevailed in its absence.
“My lady, have you read Scott’s Waverley?” Nicole suddenly asked of the countess, her voice matching exactly her emotions, seeming to burst quite anxiously into the quiet.
“I do not read novels,” was answered without so much as a glance.
“Quite so.” Nicole concentrated on her own soup for a moment until another idea struck. “Do you fancy poetry instead?”
“I do not.”
A little frown now marred Nicole’s forehead. She glanced down at her soup, now only determined to find some topic on which the lady might wish to converse.
“Are you enjoying the London season?” She tried again and was rather swiftly favored with an icy glare from the matron, letting Nicole know that she cared not if conversation lagged, or indeed was non-existent, and that her efforts were and would remain, futile.
“Are you enjoying the London season, Miss Kent?”
Nicole turned her eyes to Trevor, offering him a thankful smile for his inquiry.
“I am,” she told him eagerly. “Well, I am hoping to,” she qualified, “It is rather only just begun, isn’t it? I look forward to several events specifically and papa has promised a night at Covent Garden, about which I am particularly thrilled as I’ve never attended the theatre.”
“Kitty Stephens is to be Hermia in Midsummer Night’s Dream,” he said. “That might be one to see—some critics say she has no peer.”
“I should like that. Have you seen many plays, my lord?”
The table was just now cleared of the entire first course.
Trevor shrugged. “Not in several years, but prior to that, yes. I quite enjoyed the theatre —plays that is, and less so the operas.”
“Miss Ballard—she was our governess—once said that she would have preferred to have thrown herself upon a funeral pyre rather than sit through one more minute of opera.”
Trevor laughed beautifully at this and so Nicole was then able to ignore his mother’s brow lifting in what she imagined must be condemnation, but whether for the talk of aversion to the opera or Nicole’s graphic reference, she did not know.
The second course was delivered then, filling the center of the table with roasted duckling in a thick cream sauce, a plate of peas and asparagus, another of meringues a la crème, and one of butter and cheese.
“Papa has sadly forbidden me to see the Vauxhall Gardens,” Nicole said, while Sabrina and the baron and the countess remained quiet, the countess staring about at no one in particular as if she only dined alone. “He says it ‘teems with undesirables’ and so I must needs only read about it. But I have read that there are garden walks illuminated by thousands of oil lamps and that one might see—all in the same evening! —tightrope walkers and hot air balloons and concerts and fireworks.”
“There is that and more. But your father is right, it can be quite raucous,” Trevor allowed, “Though I’m sure, in the proper company, your father would allow for such an outing.”
The baron, though mentioned, only worked at his dinner, spearing a long asparagus onto his fork and then into his mouth, chewing rather thoughtfully, his eyes on his plate, seeming to only consider his next bite.
The countess spoke then. “Child, are you acquainted with Miss Hermione Selby?”
Nicole leaned forward, pleased that the woman finally showed some interest. “I am not. Is she about my age?”
“I wouldn’t know. I only thought you might know her, she prattles incessantly.”
Nonplussed at this, at the very fact that the woman bothered not at all to conceal her animosity, her very displeasure it seemed, Nicole asked, “Are you, my lady, acquainted with Countess Melvin?”
“I am not.”
“Oh. I thought you might be, she is a countess.” And a mean one, at that.
Nicole heard Trevor catch some sort of chuckle before it became anything, really. She was afraid her not-so-subtle rejoinder might be ill-received but needn’t have feared. The countess seemed intent not at all upon any words from Nicole’s mouth.
> Nicole then thought to involve Sabrina in the conversation and asked if she should like to see the pleasure gardens also.
“And be pressed upon by thousands of people? Surrounded by pickpockets and circus performers and prostitutes? Thank you, no.”
Both the baron and the countess lifted their heads at the use of the word ‘prostitutes’ at the dinner table. The baron’s brow was furrowed and the countess’ raised, but neither said a word.
The remainder of the dinner proceeded as it had begun, with Trevor and Nicole proffering the bulk of the conversation. Though the food was elegant and delicious, no one made mention of this. The weather was quite fair, with so little rain of late, but this was not examined at all. Though Nicole tried to engage everyone at some point, no one save Trevor seemed inclined toward any discussions. She’d given up by the time the desserts and ice cream were served and though she enjoyed and appreciated the earl’s participation, by the time the door had closed after him and his mother, Nicole was exhausted.
Chapter Three
Trevor Wentworth stepped into the grand ballroom of Kenefick House, the opulent London home of Lord and Lady Clarendon, having made his greetings to his hosts in the receiving line. He stood taller than most and then was easily able to scan the crush of overheated bodies for a glimpse of his betrothed. He’d sent word ‘round to the Kent residence this afternoon that he would happily attend the sisters at the Clarendon ball. The response, a polite thank you, had been penned not by Sabrina, but Nicole, who’d included a line about her excitement over her first major event of the season.
Growing accustomed to Sabrina’s dismissal of all things regarding her own betrothed, Trevor only tightened his jaw as he pondered her lack of communication. Had he a choice in the matter, he’d have told her exactly what he thought of her juvenile attempts to rile him with her indifference. As it was, having no option but to marry the chit for her money, he’d decided that he would exhaust all efforts to at least make some semblance of a decent bond between them that their union might not prove as miserable as her present behavior suggested it would.
When She Loved Me (Regency Rogues: Redemption Book 1) Page 3
