Although immediately curious as to who this Mr. Redhurst was, Oliver couldn’t help being gratified when Beatrice showed no disappointment at the news.
“I suppose he is a very attentive brother.” Beatrice hardly reacted and, without another word on the matter, focused on Oliver. “Mr. Bolton, won’t you join me in a game of whist?”
Flattered to be the object of her focus, he extended his arm to her. “It would be my great pleasure, Miss Beatrice.” He didn’t give a thought to Matilda until they’d taken two steps away, then turned to see her staring after them. “Would you like to join us, Miss Rayment?”
Beatrice laughed. “Matilda isn’t a great hand at cards. She’s far too serious to enjoy the game.” When Matilda’s only reaction to her sister’s words was to arch her eyebrows, he took that as indication enough she would not mind them stepping away.
Oliver quietly admired Beatrice and the way her curls framed her pretty face, counting himself fortunate to spend an evening in her company. Years ago, she’d hardly known he existed.
Perhaps stepping from one rung on the social ladder up to another wouldn’t be as difficult as he’d thought.
#
Mattie watched her sister all evening with concern. In Beatrice’s first Season, she had gathered male admirers as a child gathers daisies in a field, whimsically and without much thought. Her father declared her too young to marry, and Beatrice hadn’t minded the idea of another Season of such entertainment and admiration.
During Beatrice’s second Season, Mattie had been the only one in the family to disapprove of her sister’s more calculated tactics in attracting the attentions of unattached young men. Father and Mother had both been certain their darling daughter would make a match most brilliant, for everyone thought Beatrice to be lovely and charming.
Mattie, therefore, was the only one unsurprised when Beatrice declared she had no wish to marry any of her swains and even turned away two serious proposals of marriage to perfectly decent young men. Her reason?
“I have no wish to settle into the dull existence of a wife when I could be dancing every night,” she had explained.
Watching her sister flirt with Oliver Bolton, a handsome man if Mattie had ever seen one, left the elder sister slightly nauseated. And she could not shake the feeling, as he gave Beatrice his full attention and made her giggle at the card table, that a disaster brewed before her very eyes.
While Beatrice had been oblivious to Oliver in the past, Mattie had, in fact, always admired him. Mattie had often observed the unfortunate boy, taller and finer looking than the sons of the surrounding gentry, and thought his circumstances quite tragic. He was as clever as his uncle, their steward, and always had a kind word for everyone. Yet he was an orphan, uneducated, and without many prospects for his future.
She recalled he had always looked out for her sister with a great deal of earnestness. Protectiveness, perhaps, when they were younger. But what if it had been more? It certainly looked like a different sort of emotion at present.
Oliver gazed at her sister with an admiration she had seen on many a gentleman’s face. Mr. Bolton, nephew of their steward, was enamored with Beatrice.
It would not do.
Beatrice had built a relationship with Mr. Redhurst, a man of wealth and consequence.
Mr. Redhurst, Mattie thought, might even be persuaded to marry her younger sister. He’d paid her every attention and seemed to understand her nature enough to make allowances for her behavior.
Beatrice absolutely had to marry, and soon. With their father’s failing health, and the entailment of his properties to his second cousin, the Mrs. and Misses Rayments could soon be without a home.
Mattie turned over her sister’s character in her mind. As long as Mr. Redhurst didn’t see evidence of Beatrice’s somewhat fickle nature, and if he attended the next event with them, likely Beatrice’s attention would focus back where it ought to be.
Oliver Bolton’s deep-green eyes, dark, curling hair, and strong jaw might amuse Beatrice for a short while, but Mattie hoped that was all he would be. A brief distraction.
Lady Granthorne came across the room, smiling at her acquaintances as she went, then stood near the wall with Mattie. She opened her fan and spoke, low enough only her daughter could hear.
“Who is that young man with Beatrice?”
How could her mother not recognize him? Mattie had known him at once. She expected Beatrice to be unaware of people below her in social standing, but not her mother.
“Oliver Bolton. Mr. Hapsbury’s nephew.”
Her mother’s mouth turned downward in a severe frown, hidden from all but Mattie by her fan. “The steward’s nephew? The one who went away to inherit something?”
“An estate, Mother.”
“Dear me. And what is he to Beatrice?”
“An inconsequential conquest, I’m certain.” Mattie forced a smile, even as she heard her sister’s laughter ring as clearly as a bell. “Beatrice has Mr. Redhurst’s interests. She will not forget him easily.”
“Let us hope,” her mother said, narrowing her eyes.
Mattie nodded, distracted by Oliver’s pleasant laugh and the fond way he gazed at her sister.
As much as Mattie had always liked Oliver, she could not allow him to distract Beatrice. The flighty young woman needed stability, and their family needed to maintain a level of respectability that a man in possession of a small estate in Lincolnshire could not hope to attain. Beatrice, used to living in a grand style, would not do well with a man whose fortune required a more moderate outlook.
“Of course,” her mother continued in an airy manner, “you could always marry, Matilda.”
Mattie didn’t deign to reply to that absurd suggestion.
“Oh look, Lady Topley is here. Excuse me, my dear.” Her mother glided away, a picture of grace despite her forty-six years. No one in their social circle would ever suppose the baroness to be suffering through the difficulties that plagued their family.
Chapter Three
Oliver came to pay a morning call to Miss Beatrice, a true spring in his step. He’d hardly slept the night before, busy as his mind had been in conjuring up Beatrice’s delightful laugh and the way she’d looked up at him through her eyelashes. The attention she’d lavished upon him the previous evening, speaking to practically no one else, had done much to encourage him.
The last time he’d had the privilege of Beatrice’s company had been just before her seventeenth birthday. Her dancing instructor had despaired over the young woman’s lack of ability with the minuet and enlisted Oliver and Matilda to practice the forms. Oliver, barely a passable dancer himself, added to the confusion in the family’s music room by stepping on Beatrice’s hem and nearly knocking Matilda over.
The dancing master had railed at him, calling him an oaf, but Beatrice had laughed the matter away, and Matilda whispered the correct steps to him the remainder of their practice.
Did Beatrice remember that day?
He presented his card to the butler and waited in the hall, wondering if he would be shown upstairs or if the family were not yet receiving callers.
The steady clop of shoes on marble made Oliver straighten, but it was Lord Granthorne who appeared from the corridor, looking about as though searching for someone.
Oliver’s interactions with the baron had been infrequent. He’d spoken to Lord Granthorne in his uncle’s office when they’d discussed estate matters, and never in a more informal setting. If his uncle had spoken to Matilda of his letters, he must’ve mentioned Oliver’s progress and prospects to the baron as well.
“Where are they?” the baron muttered, barely loud enough for Oliver to hear. “They must be around here somewhere.”
Oliver cleared his throat, realizing the baron remained unaware of his presence. “Good afternoon, my lord.”
The baron’s steps halted, and his forehead scrunched, dim blue eyes narrowing. “Who’s that?” he asked, voice accusing rather than curious
or welcoming. “What do you want?”
Oliver, taken aback, bowed deeply. “I beg your pardon, my lord. I am Oliver Bolton. I’ve come to call on your daughters.”
The older man came forward, his steps swift, and held his hands out in greeting. “Yes, yes. Welcome. Mattie is an exceptional young lady. She will be pleased you’ve come to see her. Wasn’t she stunning last evening? The ball. It was a spectacle, was it not?”
“The ball?” Oliver’s forehead wrinkled, and he studied Lord Granthorne, confused.
“Yes. Mattie has a fine pair of feet for dancing, does she not? I must say, she has me to thank for that. We’ve been dancing together since she was a tiny thing.” The baron chuckled, then raised a hand to his forehead and rubbed at it, his eyes dimming. “She isn’t small any longer, is she?”
Uncertain as to what response he ought to make, and hesitant to correct his lordship, Oliver began to nod his agreement when a voice from above called down.
“Papa, there you are.” Matilda, holding the rail at the top of the steps, seemed to take in the scene in the entryway before she came swiftly down to the ground floor, speaking all the while. “Mother was looking for you. She needs your opinion on the menu for your birthday.”
“My birthday. Yes.” Lord Granthorne’s expression altered from thoughtful to surprised. “I had best tell her not to serve fish.” Without another word to either of them, he hurried up the steps, calling out as he went, “I cannot abide fish most days, but certainly not on my birthday.”
Matilda watched him go, her dark brows drawn together and a wistful sort of gleam in her eyes. Her bronze hair, pulled up and away from her face in an intricately twisted chignon, had a tiny white feather caught in it that momentarily distracted him from the situation at hand.
“When is your father’s birthday?” he asked, then bit his tongue. He hadn’t even properly greeted her yet. “I beg your pardon, Miss Rayment.” He bowed, taking his eye away from the wispy feather. “I have come to pay a call to your sister, er—and to you.”
“Of course, Mr. Bolton. I received your card and came to speak to you myself. Please, come into the room here.” She gestured to a door off the entry, and he preceded her through it into a small sitting room with dark furnishings and a large desk. A study?
A couch near the hearth was the only comfortable seating, and that is where she led him. “Won’t you sit down?”
With his hat and gloves still in hand, as the butler hadn’t returned to retrieve them, Oliver lowered himself onto the stiff cushions. Nothing about the situation made any sense. Either he ought to have been shown to an upstairs parlor or he should’ve been turned away.
Oliver rested his hat atop his lap, leaving enough space for her to sit, but Matilda began to pace across the rug before him, her hands clasped before her. Her movement made the feather in her hair wave with each step.
“Mr. Bolton, we have known each other a very long time. I have a great respect for your uncle, and his position, and I am genuinely happy for your change in fortune.” Though she said each word kindly, there was a sternness to them that made his insides tighten.
“It sounds as though you are about to follow those pleasant sentiments with something far less amicable, Miss Rayment.” He leaned back against the couch and crossed his arms, still gripping his gloves in one hand.
Her hands unclasped to run down the front of her dress, then she tucked them behind herself as she faced him. “I am afraid I must offer some caution, Mr. Bolton. As we have known each other for many years, I am in possession of several memories of the way you admired my sister before you left us for Lincolnshire. I confess, I watched last night to see if any of that regard remained.” Her words halted, and she looked down at the carpet.
At least this conversation discomfited her as much as it did him. “What did you see, Miss Rayment?”
Matilda released her hands again and made a helpless gesture toward him. “You still hold a great deal of fondness for her, Mr. Bolton. I believe the whole room must have noticed.”
“Then they noticed her attentions toward me were just as fond, I should think.” Oliver would not allow her to make him feel guilty about spending the entirety of the evening with Beatrice. “Was there something in our conduct you personally object to, Miss Rayment?”
The woman before him took a step closer to him, her coppery eyes giving away nothing of her thoughts, but her hands were worrying themselves before her again. “No. My parents, on the other hand, are quite concerned over it. You see, there is a gentleman who is near to making an offer for Beatrice’s hand. There is the fear that you, an old acquaintance, will disrupt their relationship.”
“It must not be that firm of a connection if the nephew of your steward could hold sway over such an understanding.” Oliver did his best to appear unconcerned, to show no fear in the face of the coming rejection. “May I ask why you, and not your father, would address me with these troublesome concerns? This seems like a conversation for the head of the family to attend, rather than the eldest daughter.”
Her cheeks colored, but other than that rosy hue she appeared no less confident. “I thought to approach you as a friend, Mr. Bolton, to speak to you on these matters before things grew complicated.” She abruptly came to the couch and sat down next to him, turning her body to face his. Her tone softened. “I adore my sister, Mr. Bolton, but as you may remember, Beatrice has a way about her not everyone understands.”
Oliver narrowed his eyes, his reply quick and defensive. “She is a delightful young woman and has always been kind to me.”
“Of course,” she agreed readily, disarming him. “Beatrice has a gentle heart, but she also possesses a stubborn soul. I am afraid she can be decidedly impractical.”
“Not like you,” he interrupted, unable to help himself. “You have always been an impeccable example of practicality.” Even as a girl, Matilda pursued interests in the running of a household rather than taking the time to enjoy entertainment or the company of others her age. When he’d come to live with his uncle, he and Matilda had both been twelve years old. She’d sought him out nearly at once to offer her condolences on the loss of his parents, with all the gravity a girl of that age could possess.
He’d both hated and appreciated the gesture for years. He never could decide if she had done it out of self-importance and some sort of curiosity regarding grief, or if she’d genuinely meant to be sympathetic.
She had nearly the same air about her today as she had at their first meeting from all those years before.
“Are you here to warn me away from her?” he asked, reluctant to allow her to guide the conversation further. “Were you appointed, as a friend, to tell me my attentions are unwanted?”
Matilda tipped her head to one side, her eyes shining at him. “What if I did such a thing? If I told you to leave, to refrain from seeking out my sister again, what would you do?”
“I am not merely a steward’s nephew any longer, Miss Rayment. I am a gentleman of some means, though they are modest compared to your father’s. I am not going to disappear back to Lincolnshire because you wish it. I am in London to create new connections and plan my future. Your sister is old enough to make up her own mind about me, or the man your family intends for her. I am not going anywhere.” He tensed, prepared to stand and leave the room.
Her gentle smile stopped him. It wasn’t a conniving look, or a smug one, but something about it still unsettled him.
“Bravo, Mr. Bolton. Those are honorable words, and I respect your position. I am glad to find you a man of principle. Very well. I wish you good fortune in your endeavors.” She stood, her skirts brushing the edge of his shoes.
He remained sitting, looking up at her, befuddled. “You do not object to me paying a call on your sister?”
“I would never discourage someone so earnest and sincere as you have shown yourself to be,” she said firmly. “Though I am afraid it will have to wait. Beatrice is not home at present. She has gone shopping
with a friend. We are to go to Almack’s this evening, and Beatrice is in need of a new fan.” Matilda gestured to the door, her true thoughts still concealed behind intelligent eyes and a tight-lipped smile. “You may wait in the upstairs parlor, if you wish, but I must warn you that she can be about such things for the entirety of an afternoon.”
He’d nearly forgotten it was Wednesday. Every member of society would be preparing for an evening at Almack’s or else would spend the day pretending they didn’t care to attend, because they had been unable to obtain vouchers.
“Perhaps I could facilitate an outing with my sister, if you wish.”
Startled by her suggestion, it took Oliver a moment to answer. What was the woman playing at? He’d been certain her purpose in their rather strange tête-à-tête was to warn him to leave her sister alone.
“What did you have in mind?” he asked.
“Beatrice enjoys the theater. If you can secure tickets, perhaps this Friday?”
Oliver tucked his hat beneath his arm and ran his gloved hand through his hair. “You are encouraging my association with your sister, Miss Rayment?”
“As you said, you are both capable of knowing your own minds. Beatrice is nearly of age. Though I must warn you”—Matilda paused, twisting her fingers together—“Beatrice does enjoy collecting admirers.” Matilda’s expression seemed almost wistful, for the barest moment before she turned away to face the hearth.
Her statement didn’t surprise him. Though he’d been away from the family’s society for some years, Beatrice had always possessed a mischievous nature. Her flirting with him at the card party supported Matilda’s words.
“Thank you, Miss Rayment. I will attend to your sister in two days’ time, for the theater.” He bowed but paused midway through the motion. “Do you like the theater, Miss Rayment?”
She cast him a confused look over her shoulder. “I? Do I like it? Yes, of course.”
“Perhaps you could attend with us,” he said, though he’d much rather have a more indifferent chaperone than the elder sister attend.
An Evening at Almack's Page 2
