He studied her across the table.
The flickering, golden light of the candle gilded her amber hair and sculpted the roundness of her cheeks with soft shadows. Her skin glowed, reminding him of the satiny opalescence of a newly opened oyster shell. When she flicked a glance in his direction, his pulse raced, and his gaze lingered on her mouth.
Yes. Very desirable.
Even his solicitor had approved when asked to draw up the marriage contract. The great-aunt who had generously provided Miss Stainton with her five thousand pounds had been married to a marquess, so there were enough noble connections in the family to make the arrangement less unequal, if that mattered to anyone.
Despite Mrs. Polkinghorne’s expectations, however, Marcus ordered his solicitor to ensure that Miss Stainton kept control of her inheritance. The money would be hers and hers alone, even if his own funds were awkwardly scarce at the moment.
Unfortunately, etiquette dictated that one speak only to one’s neighbors at the table, preventing him from speaking any further to Miss Stainton for the next hour. At least the cook seemed competent. The mutton in wine sauce, roasted potatoes, and peas in cream were excellent.
And when the dinner was over, it was over. Polkinghorne was not a man who liked to linger over his port. His young son, Mr. Stephen Polkinghorne, seemed just as anxious to rejoin the ladies, as he was obviously cherishing a tendre for Miss Grace Stainton. The young man leapt to his feet with alacrity when his father stood.
“Shall we join the ladies, my lord?” Polkinghorne asked, neatly folding his serviette and placing it on the table next to his plate.
“Of course.” Marcus placed his glass of port on the table, relieved not to have to nurse the abominable drink any longer. He hadn’t expected such a poor quality port given the superb meal, but perhaps Polkinghorne watered the drink in hopes of preventing his son from developing too much of a liking for the stuff. Polkinghorne, himself, had only sipped a cup of pale, weak tea after dinner.
“Miss Stainton intends to recite The Adieu—I suppose you have been informed.”
“Yes.” Marcus nodded and followed his host to the door.
Polkinghorne sighed heavily. “I do not wish to speak ill of the girl—she is my niece, after all—but it seems a poor choice.”
“Oh?”
“Well, these girls all have their little notions.” Polkinghorne shook his head. “But I believe we should ask that Cecilia give us a concert without the recitation. She is marvelously gifted, you know. Plays Bach to perfection.” He slanted a glance at Marcus from under bushy brows. “She comes out next Season, you know. Eighteen in August—just a couple of months.”
Oh, so that’s the way the wind is blowing. Marcus suppressed a chuckle and merely replied, “Indeed.”
While Mrs. Polkinghorne was intending to foist her niece on him, her husband was hoping to get rid of his eldest daughter without the expense of funding a Season in London for her. And Stephen Polkinghorne was no doubt angling to attach Miss Grace Stainton and her five thousand pounds to himself, with his mother’s approval.
Did Miss Stainton realize how many conspiracies were coiling around her?
A strong sense of sympathy filled him. No doubt she did recognize what was happening. That might very well account for her uneasiness and inarticulateness when they first met.
“Mrs. Polkinghorne,” Polkinghorne said as they entered the drawing room. “Lord Arundell mentioned to me that he has an interest in music, and when I mentioned that our Cecilia is most competent with Bach, he insisted that we have a small concert.”
Sitting at the pianoforte, Miss Cecilia Polkinghorne glanced up at her father’s announcement, paled to a ghastly white, and then turned to Miss Stainton, who’d been bending over her shoulder.
Miss Stainton stared at him, her mouth slightly open in surprise.
Sitting near the fireplace, Mrs. Polkinghorne frowned. She rose to her feet and her ample chest expanded as she took a deep breath.
Polkinghorne chuckled and motioned to his wife to resume her seat. “Of course, we may hear Miss Stainton recite later—or on another evening entirely. Is that not so, Miss Stainton?”
A look of such glorious relief rushed over her face that she seemed to glow in the candlelight. The tension in her shoulders relaxed, and she laughed, handing a piece of music to Miss Polkinghorne. “How wonderful! I must admit that I think that is a much better notion than any recitation on my part. I adore music—what will you play, Cousin?”
Miss Polkinghorne paled anew as her stricken gaze went from her father to her mother and back. The tip of her sharp nose turned red. “I—I…” Her words gurgled to a halt. The sheets of music that she’d been holding fluttered and flapped, and in her agitation, she dropped several. She fumbled, but seemed unable to pick them up.
Finally, Miss Stainton came to her cousin’s rescue, gathered up the pages, and placed them on a nearby music stand. After a glance at Miss Polkinghorne’s face, Miss Stainton laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder and bent down to whisper in her ear.
Miss Polkinghorne nodded, and a bit of color returned to her narrow face. “I think some simple tunes?” she asked in a hesitant voice, keeping her gaze on the keys of the pianoforte.
Her father frowned. “Bach—”
“Oh, but Uncle, I am sure we would all like something a little less, um, mathematical—a tune one can hum, perhaps. Do you not agree?” Her gaze flew from Mr. Polkinghorne’s disgruntled face to Marcus.
“Indeed, yes,” he agreed easily. “A light tune is always welcome after dinner.”
A dazzling smile lit up Miss Stainton’s face, and her crooked little front tooth only made it more endearing. He grinned back and winked.
Blushing, she glanced away, her slender hands shuffling through the music on the stand.
Miss Cecilia Polkinghorne, on the other hand, appeared positively appalled at the change in their after-dinner plans. However, after a brief conference with Miss Stainton, she selected a piece of music and settled down at the pianoforte, her fingertips brushing the keys as she prepared to play.
“Miss Stainton, come and sit down,” Polkinghorne said, gesturing to the settee where his wife sat across from Marcus.
Glancing from Marcus to her niece, Mrs. Polkinghorne bolted to her feet and smiled broadly. “Yes, do come and sit here, next to Lord Arundell.”
Her husband frowned at his tactical error, clearly not anticipating that while Miss Polkinghorne played, Miss Stainton would be free to have a cozy chat with the earl. His face suddenly cleared, however, and he smiled at Marcus. “We would be honored if you would turn the pages of music for our dear Cecilia, my lord.”
“Oh, no—it is so bad for one’s digestion to stand—you must sit here and enjoy yourself, my lord,” Mrs. Polkinghorne interrupted. “One of the girls… Grace! Please be good enough to turn the pages of music for your cousin!”
Her peremptory order startled Grace, who had been gossiping with the two younger Polkinghorne girls. She sprang to her feet, her eyes wide and mouth open. After a glance at her older sister, her mouth snapped shut. She nodded. “Of course, Aunt Mary,” she said meekly as she brushed past her aunt.
Marcus glanced at Miss Stainton to find her struggling to control her laughter. Nonetheless, her slender shoulders shook, and her blue eyes danced with mirth. A small gasp of a giggle escaped her when her younger sister heaved a heavy sigh as she took a position next to Miss Polkinghorne.
Polkinghorne glared at his wife.
She smiled serenely and resumed her seat on the settee. “Do sit, my lord,” she said, gesturing to the sofa across from her. “And dear Miss Stainton, as well.”
Still fuming, Polkinghorne sat on the edge of the settee next to his wife, his shoulders stiff and a deep crease slicing between his heavy brows. He studied his niece with distaste before venting his displeasure on his youngest daughters. “Jane and Katherine, it is time for you to say goodnight. We allowed you to join us at dinner as a special
treat, but you must not presume too much—you are too young to remain with the adults.”
“Oh, but Papa, Cecilia is awfully young, too! So is Cousin Grace!” Jane protested.
Nonetheless, she stopped abruptly when she caught the glowering look on her father’s face. She glanced at her sister before dutifully nodding. Gazes downcast and shoulders drooping, the two girls curtseyed and said goodnight. Jane then turned and caught Katherine’s hand, dragging her with reluctant feet out of the drawing room.
The rest of the evening passed without much to recommend it. Cecilia’s playing was lackluster and timid, with a great many fumbles. Due to her uncle’s furious gazes each time she opened her mouth, Miss Stainton spoke only briefly and quietly to avoid additional black looks. By half past eleven, Marcus was more than ready to depart.
“Miss Stainton adores the fresh air and walks each afternoon in Hyde Park.” Mrs. Polkinghorne jumped to her feet, edged past her husband, and intercepted Marcus as he stood to depart. “Do you also enjoy such vigorous exercise, my lord?”
“I do enjoy a brisk walk or ride on occasion,” he admitted with a twinkle.
“Then perhaps we shall see you there.” Mrs. Polkinghorne threaded her arm through Miss Stainton’s, forcing her closer to Marcus and edging out Cecilia, who stood unhappily at her father’s shoulder. “I, myself, am a great believer in the value of a vigorous walk.”
A peculiar snort, hastily smothered behind her hand, emanated from Miss Stainton. When he looked at her, her eyes were firmly fixed on the carpet, but her lovely mouth trembled with laughter. She bit the corner of her lower lip and straightened her shoulders, patting her aunt’s hand where it rested on her forearm.
Mrs. Polkinghorne didn’t look like the kind of woman who enjoyed walking anywhere, let alone briskly, but he accepted her statement with a nod.
“I am at your convenience, my lord,” Polkinghorne said, with a meaningful wag of his thick brows. “Anytime you wish to discuss, er, the matter under discussion.”
His wife gave him a quick, suspicious look and frowned before she forced a bright, polite smile. “And I hope we will see you soon, Lord Arundell.”
“Soon, indeed,” he replied.
Thankfully, Mrs. Jolly held out his hat and walking stick, so he made his farewells without any additional awkward conversation. A tiny demon suggested that Polkinghorne might also be due for a significant amount of extremely awkward conversation tonight after the girls were sent to their rooms. Mrs. Polkinghorne was not a woman who would suffer lightly machinations in opposition to her own, and Marcus rather thought that her husband might be more docile to her wishes the next time they met.
Then, remembering Mrs. Polkinghorne’s fear that her husband might learn of her gambling debt, Marcus revised his conclusion. Polkinghorne had room to maneuver if he was astute enough to realize it.
But no matter. In the end, Polkinghorne’s plans might very well come to naught, and his wife might be the victor.
Marcus had already made his decision.
Chapter Six
“That went rather well, did it not?” Dorothy said as she helped Grace disrobe.
The two girls acted as maids to one another. While Mrs. Polkinghorne had sent her abigail to assist Dorothy before the supper party, she was unlikely to allow the maid to return afterwards since she would require her services in undressing as well.
“Yes. He seemed quite captivated by Cecilia’s music,” Grace replied with a saucy twinkle in her eyes. “Do you suppose he will make her an offer? I can’t imagine why else an earl would consent to dine with the Polkinghornes.” A brief frown of concentration wrinkled her face. “Though I suppose the families have long been friends, or so Jane said.”
Dorothy opened her mouth and then shut it. “I have no notion,” Dorothy said at last.
If the two families had long been friends, then that might explain a great deal. No point in mentioning the mythical five thousand pounds and getting Grace’s hopes up for an inheritance. Dorothy might have misunderstood Aunt Mary’s conversation with Lord Arundell. The girls might not receive the money, after all, or Aunt Mary might not have understood the situation, herself. It would not surprise Dorothy in the least. She’d already noticed that her aunt had a habit of jumping to conclusions, warranted or not.
Poking through the top drawer of the chest and pulling out ribbons one at a time to hold them up to her hair, Grace flickered a glance at Dorothy. “Well, it does seem odd, no matter what Jane says.” Her bright blue eyes widened as another thought struck her. “Oh, I nearly forgot—Jane and I are going to visit the Foundling Hospital tomorrow. Jane has a great interest in such institutions, you know, and I believe such charities do a great deal of good. Every vicar’s wife I know shows an interest in such things.”
“Oh?” Dorothy asked in innocent tones. “I didn’t realize that Jane was intending to become the wife of a vicar. Aunt Mary didn’t mention that, and you would think she might have if Jane were already betrothed. And isn’t she rather young? As I recall, she isn’t even out yet. Odd, indeed.”
Blushing, Grace threaded a few ribbons between her fingers. “You know very well what I mean. I was not referring to Jane at all.”
“Oh?” Dorothy raised her eyebrows. She had to clasp her own hands to prevent her from wresting the abused silk right out of her sister’s restless fingers. “Are you referring to you and Mr. Blyth, then? I had no idea he had found a living and become a vicar. I must send my congratulations. When do you propose to marry?”
Grace’s cheeks grew even redder. She thrust the ribbons back into the drawer and turned around, leaving it hanging open. “There is no need to be so… so cruel, Dorothy. You know very well that Mr. Blyth is still a curate and that we have no formal arrangement.” She blinked rapidly and chewed her lower lip. “But I have hopes… Well, he cannot remain a curate forever, can he? And he will marry at some point.” Her chin rose. “And he will obviously want his wife to support charities such as the Foundling Hospital.”
“I suppose he will,” Dorothy admitted, struggling not to smile as she reached around her sister to close the drawer. “Though I hope that your interest in orphans is not solely based upon your desire to prove yourself worthy of Mr. Blyth’s love.”
“Of course not! Poor things—someone must care for them and give them a home. It is not right to simply leave innocent children to starve in the streets.” Grace stared at her before realization dawned. She turned away abruptly and began opening and shutting the ribbon drawer to avoid Dorothy’s glance. “Oh, you are simply amusing yourself at my expense—hardly a charitable action, is it?”
“No, I suppose not.”
After opening the drawer one more time, Grace shrugged and wandered away, leaving it for Dorothy to shut once again.
“Well, Jane and I are going, and Cousin Stephen is escorting us. You might go with us and show a little charity, as well. Don’t you wish to join us?”
“While I am honored to be included, I am afraid I will have to beg off. I have a great many things to attend to tomorrow.” Dorothy shook her head, amused at her sister’s earnest air.
Although she knew that her sister had a good heart and genuinely cared about the poor, Dorothy suspected that her sister’s current interest was sharpened by her hope that her good works would be noticed by Mr. Blyth. Grace seemed determined to convince him that she was precisely the helpmate he required.
Still, Grace was being kind. Supporting orphanages such as the Foundling Hospital was undoubtedly an excellent thing, and it spoke well of Jane, too. Their cousin was displaying more thoughtfulness as she matured, and it spoke well of her. Dorothy just hoped that conditions at the orphanage wouldn’t prove too wretched.
Staring into the oval mirror affixed to the washstand, Dorothy struggled to unpin the elaborate hairstyle inflicted upon her by her aunt’s maid. She dropped her arms with relief when Grace stepped behind her.
“Let me—you will never get to bed if you go about it lik
e that,” Grace said, smiling over Dorothy’s shoulder into the mirror. Then, without another word, she yanked the false hair from Dorothy’s head with an abrupt movement. “There! You see? There was no need to fuss about it at all.” She threw the offending rat’s nest onto the chest of drawers.
“Ouch!” Dorothy yelped, rubbing the top of her head. To her relief, her fingertips didn’t show any traces of blood. “You nearly ripped all my hair out!”
“Well, I had no idea you had pinned such a nest of horsehair on your head. You’ve never done anything like that before.”
“I wished I hadn’t done it this time, but I had no choice. Aunt Mary’s maid had quite definite ideas about hairstyles and wouldn’t listen to a word of protest.”
“Too bad her notions are about thirty years out of date.” Grace glanced at her sister with a speculative gleam in her blue eyes. “Perhaps that is why Lord Arundell preferred Cecilia—her hair was quite natural.”
“Perhaps so,” Dorothy answered crossly, stepping out of her blue gown and folding it carefully before placing it in the wardrobe.
Her fingers trailed over the yards of lace and beautifully worked silk flowers adorning the skirt. The dress was the most expensive one Dorothy had ever worn, and yet she felt curiously let down by it.
If Lord Arundell didn’t notice her when she was wearing that gown, then he would never notice her.
She shook her head to dislodge the thought. Why should it matter to her if the earl did prefer Cecilia? If he were hanging out for a wife and liked fox-faced, sharp-tongued girls with deep-set eyes hidden under heavy brows, then all she could do was wish him well. Wish both of them well.
At least he hadn’t drooled over Grace, which had been Dorothy’s worst fear. Strangely enough, he hadn’t appeared to notice her at all, even though she was by far the most beautiful girl present. A small, vulnerable part of her sighed, despite her decision that she really didn’t care what he thought. But he had shown at least some partiality for her, hadn’t he? Or had she mistaken his charm and politeness for liking? Maybe Grace was right, after all. Perhaps he simply preferred Cecilia. He had seemed to enjoy her music, stumbling and halting though it was, and if that wasn’t a sign of attraction, she didn’t know what was.
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