Something Old

by Rebecca Connolly

  Still, if Marianne could make Lily laugh to such a degree that her eyes squeezed shut and she gasped for air in mirth, Thomas would allow himself to become a caricature with horns, if necessary.

  The group of ladies, eightfold, took no notice of the men in the room, which was just as well, as four of the men had started up a simple game of loo. The other four, Thomas included, stood aside with glasses of port.

  “Come now, Granger, you’re not going to do anyone much good standing and staring.”

  Thomas glanced over at Monty, leaning as he was against the mantle, somehow still appearing the picture of respectability and gentlemanly honor in doing so. “What would you have me do instead?”

  Monty stared back, completely at ease and nonplussed. “Take charge of the moment. Suggest some dancing, or parlor games, or strike up a conversation that will encourage the ladies to join in.”

  “Do you know my nature at all?” Thomas asked, laughing to himself at the idea. “Even in my best years, I’d never do anything of the sort.”

  “Nor would I, by heaven,” Lord Blackmoor admitted with a visible shudder. “Let them have their own amusements and a more outspoken individual alter the setting.”

  Thomas could not agree more.

  Whitlock, however, looked at Monty in notable resignation. “I do believe the pair of them are worse than a visit from my physician.”

  Monty shrugged. “I rather like my physician. Marvelous fellow. Excellent shot. Impressive collection of spirits.”

  “Remind me to come visit you and to take ill when I do,” Mr. Jeremy Pratt chimed in from his position at the card table, apparently listening in on the conversation.

  “Visits require invitations,” Monty said without looking at the man. “I have given none.”

  Thomas grinned, not knowing Mr. Pratt well at all except through his wife’s connection with Lily’s sister Rosalind, but found him generally a congenial fellow. He’d been a right peacock before his marriage, which only proved to Thomas that every man changed when he wed, and the direction of that change seemed to have neither rhyme nor reason.

  “Monty and I share a physician, Pratt. Feel free to visit Rainford whenever it suits you.”

  Pratt grinned over at Thomas with a distinctly mischievous light even as Monty groaned. “Much obliged, Granger. I daresay I shall.”

  “Don’t encourage him,” Monty pleaded in disgust.

  “I’ll second that,” Blackmoor added with a shake of his head, though there was a bit more amusement in his features. He looked at Thomas then, pale eyes intent. “I hear you are seeking a love match with your wife.”

  Thomas turned to Blackmoor, sobering slightly. “Is that so strange?”

  One dark brow rose. “Not at all. There’s four other men in the room who have done the same. Only not in the same circumstances.”

  Whitlock hissed. “I’m not sure I sought mine. It was more of a surrender to the inevitable when it arrived.”

  Monty scoffed, his expression sardonic. “Surrendering is what we’ve all done. What should make you so unique?”

  “If you’d known my wife prior to the love match we’ve found, you’d have thought I married a gorgon.”

  “For which you have no one to blame but yourself.”

  “Correction: I blame my father and her mother.”

  “May she rest in peace,” Thomas said without thinking.

  Whitlock stared at him in horror. “Bloody hell, I hope not. I sleep very well imagining her eternal torment, thank you.”

  Blackmoor coughed a laugh, covering it with a drink, though whether it was the language or the statement that shocked him was unclear.

  Thomas, for one, had forgotten about Lady Whitlock’s mother and held up his hands in surrender. He didn’t want to be responsible for upsetting Whitlock’s scheme for his wife’s late mother’s eternal rest, or lack thereof.

  “At any rate,” Blackmoor said with a hint of a scolding look at the other two, “any of us will tell you it is not easy, particularly if you are being intentional. What have you tried?”

  Thomas gave him a brief account of his miserable attempts in London, which seemed more pathetic the more he recited them. When Blackmoor’s expression didn’t change, Thomas knew he was correct.

  He was pathetic.

  “Right,” Blackmoor said slowly, his tone lower than his usual timbre.

  “What would you have done when you were courting her?” Monty asked, tilting his head in inquiry. “Had you given that any thought?”

  “I never got to court her,” Thomas reminded the group.

  “Pity, that,” Pratt murmured from his seat, listening in while he played. “Would have given you some point of reference.”

  Kit Gerrard, sitting near Pratt, shook his head. “Not sure they’ll appreciate your chiming in, Pratt.”

  “Only trying to help,” Pratt replied, unconcerned. “My wife tells me to make more friends.”

  “I seriously doubt she has ever said anything of the sort,” Monty said.

  Thomas glanced over at the group of ladies, where Mrs. Pratt mingled with the rest, nearly in the center and somehow holding court with them all. She was comfortable, confident, and content in her present surroundings. Almost regal in her bearing.

  There was no possibility that she would think her husband needed to have more friends.

  “To answer your question,” Thomas said, turning to the others and lowering his voice, “I’d had a fairly sedate courtship in mind.”

  “Sedate and courtship should not exist in the same sentence,” Pratt muttered with a shake of his head.

  “Do you mind?” Thomas barked without looking, tired of the imposition.

  Monty chuckled without reservation. “Finally. I was concerned I was the only one ready to lash out.”

  “You contain it well enough,” Blackmoor complimented with a toast of his glass.

  “Whitlock is better,” Monty countered, nudging his head in that direction.

  Whitlock looked at them all unabashedly. “I’m not irritated. I’m friends with Colin Gerrard, so I am well versed in this.”

  “I heard that,” Kit Gerrard called from the table. “And I’ll tell my twin.”

  “And you agree with me,” Whitlock assured him, grinning. “Don’t pretend otherwise.”

  Gerrard shrugged, returning to the game at hand.

  Thomas shook his head, longing for the quiet of his home. “Why am I even here?”

  “To find assistance in wooing your wife,” Whitlock recited as though in answer to a question from a schoolmaster.

  “And you lot are supposed to be helping?” Thomas scoffed, sipping his drink and looking over at his wife.

  Lily was looking at him too.

  His breath caught in his chest, seizing his entire frame. There was no time to compose his features, no time to look away, no time to think…

  She blinked, seeming just as surprised to see him looking at her, then, impossibly, she smiled.

  Not a wide, beaming grin. Not a coy, flirtatious curve of her lips. A smile. A genuine, unadorned, friendly, almost shy smile that warmed him slowly from the tips of the toes to the ends of each strand of hair on his head.

  She’d never been more beautiful to him. Never.

  It took the space of four full heartbeats to realize he was smiling back. He hadn’t meant to. Hadn’t thought about it. Hadn’t planned anything.

  He just smiled.

  How long had it been since he had just smiled at his wife for no reason?

  “Well…” Whitlock said from somewhere behind him. “There’s a promising beginning. Bravo.”

  Thomas ignored him for the moment, willing to stare at his wife as long as she would stare at him. This was what he had come to London for. This connection. This unspoken something that constantly tugged at him.

  But it had nothing to do with London. They were in the home of friends, surrounded by others, and yet they were smiling at each other across the room. Not with a
ny great meaning, not with an intention of something being gained by it, but simply for the sake that the sight of the other made them smile.

  Why, then, had he even bothered with London? Even as he asked the question, he knew the answer, at least in part. They had to get away from Rainford, their fortress of separation and distance, to get anywhere in their relationship, and London was where they had a house.

  But if London wouldn’t do for them, where could they go?

  Lady Whitlock addressed Lily then, and, slowly, she looked away from Thomas to speak with her, releasing him from his spell of helpless attention.

  He sipped his drink quickly and turned to face his friends, all of whom were watching him with eerily knowing looks.

  “What?” he asked, looking around.

  Blackmoor scoffed once. “And he says he doesn’t know how to woo her.”

  “I don’t,” Thomas insisted, panic hitting his chest.

  “Then what was that?” Monty asked with a flick of his fingers toward the other side of the room.

  Thomas shook his head. “I smiled at her.”

  “Correction,” Whitlock announced, stepping forward with a raised finger, “you stared at her and smiled.”

  “I didn’t mean to,” Thomas grumbled sourly. He looked down into his drink, disappointment racing through his limbs. “It just happened.”

  Whitlock nodded sagely. “That’s how I got at least three of my children.”

  Blackmoor was also nodding. “That’s how my first happened. We intended the second.”

  Thomas looked at Monty in some distress, as though he might have some relief from this madness.

  Monty looked around at them all, completely composed. “That’s how it always happens for me.”

  “Oh, hell,” Thomas blustered, downing what remained of his drink, hissing as it burned more than he anticipated.

  “Relax, Granger,” Blackmoor told him firmly. “You’re a fair distance from that. All we’re saying is that there’s not much that goes to plan when it comes to love or romance, and sometimes, the best things take place when you aren’t expecting it.”

  “Most of the time, I’d say,” Whitlock agreed. “But then, I never plan things.”

  Confusion ran rampant through Thomas as he looked around at these happily married lunatics who were supposed to be assisting him. “So the best things are likely going to be things that I don’t plan or anticipate?”

  Nods bobbed all around.

  He all but threw his hands up in the air. “Then what in heaven’s name are you three doing to help me in any way?”

  Whitlock raised a brow, then looked at Blackmoor. Blackmoor looked at Monty. Monty looked across at Whitlock. Then all three looked at Thomas.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” Monty said with a perfectly serious expression.

  That was not helpful.

  Thomas exhaled slowly, staring at these powerful men, arguably some of the most powerful in London, and wondered how they could all be so useless. “Perfect. Absolutely, bloody perfect.”

  Whitlock chuckled in the face of his irritation, which only increased the feeling. “Not finding amusement in this, Granger?”

  “In your lack of any real assistance?” Thomas inquired in as mild a tone as sarcasm would allow. “No, not particularly.”

  The marquess tutted softly, shaking his head. “Very well, then. Bring your wife to the ball hosted by Mr. Gerrard’s brother in a few days. Kit can secure you an invitation if you don’t already have one. Scandalize Society by dancing with your wife if you like, or simply flirt with her like an unmarried man. It’s bound to be an evening of great amusements, which should put you both in a properly cheery mood.”

  “In the interim,” Monty chimed in with a nod, fair eyes dancing with a merriment that did not suit, “perhaps suggest a stroll in Hyde Park once or twice. Go for a ride in a barouche. You have one, I presume?”

  Thomas looked at Monty as though he had sprung additional heads from his shoulders. “Why in the world would I have a barouche?”

  “No matter, borrow mine,” Whitlock interjected. “Does your wife ride?”

  “Yes, though not usually with me.”

  Blackmoor cleared his throat. “Have you recently attempted to ride together?”

  “No, there was no need to.”

  “Find a gazebo in a nearby garden,” Whitlock suggested. “Come over to mine, if it suits. The most extraordinary things can happen there.”

  “Play with children together,” Monty told him. “There is nothing more beautiful than a woman being playful with children.”

  “A picnic is a fine idea,” Blackmoor insisted, warming to the game. “Sentimental and intimate. I have no doubt it will entertain your wife creditably.”

  Thomas looked around at them all in utter bewilderment, finding the suggestions not only strange but all too specific for his tastes. And not particularly tailored toward the interests of his wife or himself.

  “Or why not spend a few Seasons blatantly flirting and then up and marry her?” Pratt offered from his seat.

  “What?” Thomas barked, turning to look at him. “I’m already married, Pratt.”

  He made a soft noise of disappointment. “Pity, I was hoping I could join in the fun.”

  “What fun?”

  Pratt glanced over at him, his smile smug. “Didn’t you know? They’re all offering you their own manner of wooing their wives. Most specifically, in fact.”

  Thomas turned back to look at each in turn, questioning without words.

  Not a single man appeared even remotely ashamed of himself.

  This was a waste of time.

  “You haven’t a clue, have you?” Thomas asked them without inflection. “Not a single one of you knows how to help me improve my romantic standing with my wife.”

  Monty frowned a little. “I’ve got a few clues. I am her cousin by marriage, after all, and know her fairly well.” He considered his own words, then tilted his head from side to side indecisively. “But I’ve never considered her in a particularly romantic light, so perhaps that limits my imagination.”

  It was as though the men were determined to be less than helpful.

  “It doesn’t matter, Granger,” Blackmoor told him, gently swirling his brandy. “You can do whatever you like in your attempt at courting her, whatever you think will suit her. The most important thing is that you are spending time with her. Devoted, dedicated time with her and her alone.”

  “So what place does an evening like this have, then?” Thomas lifted a brow, daring any one of them to explain their reasoning there.

  Whitlock seemed surprised by the question. “It is entirely possible to be surrounded by others and to make her feel as though you’re the only two people in the room. Takes a great deal of practice and the right setting, of course, but once you can achieve that, you’ve mostly succeeded in winning her to your side.”

  Thomas slowly shook his head. “I’ve never been more confused or confounded in my entire life.”

  Monty clapped him on the shoulder, expression sympathetic. “Then you’re ready to begin. That’s exactly how it ought to feel.”

  “Maddening thing,” Blackmoor grumbled, making a face.

  “Thought I was going mad,” Whitlock confirmed. “Unsettling, to say the least.”

  “I don’t know why I asked any of you for help,” Thomas said, wondering if the entire evening had been a waste.

  “Nor do I,” Pratt echoed as he laid down a card and took a trick easily.

  Everyone ignored him.

  “Husbands,” Marianne Gerrard announced to the room, “we wish to dance. Lady Whitlock will play, but the rest of us will dance. And we will defy all politeness by dancing with spouses first. Come and take your wives, you have no say in this.”

  Good-natured grumbling filled the room, but Thomas did not join in. This was a perfect opening, a perfect occasion, and one in which he would not have to take a chance.

  Lily waited f
or him, eyes innocent and bright, lips holding a small, barely-there smile.

  Thomas bowed before her. “You wished to dance, Mrs. Granger?”

  “Not especially,” she answered, still holding her smile in place.

  “Ah.” He held his breath, fighting the urge to give into the wave of disappointment approaching.

  Lily’s dark eyes flicked to the others, then stepped closer. “I’m certain I will be the worst dancer of the group. I suggested music, but the others wanted dancing, so I conceded. I suppose it will not be so bad among friends.”

  Air rushed from his lungs as he managed to smile back in abject relief. It was not dancing with him that gave her pause, only dancing itself. He could live with that.

  “Then may we dance a few,” he suggested, keeping his voice low, “and then volunteer to take Lady Whitlock’s place at the pianoforte? She would favor dancing, I think, and you would then be free to play at your leisure. I’ll turn your pages and call the dances.”

  Lily’s smile spread, and she met his eyes. “Have you ever called dances before?”

  “Never,” he told her, “but I’d prefer that over dancing itself, especially if it were to be with anyone other than yourself.”

  Something shifted in her eyes then, something that deepened her smile and tinged her cheeks with more pink. “Three dances,” she whispered as she placed her hand over his to move towards the other couples. “Then I shall offer to take her place.”

  He nodded, heart pounding high in his chest. “I’ll support your endeavor and do what I can to convince her.”

  “I apologize in advance for treading your toes.”

  “I apologize in advance for being dismal.”

  Lily snickered and looked up at him. “We have not danced in ages.”

  He managed a weak smile for her, longing reaching through him and wrapping about his ribs. “No, we have not. A pity, that.”

  “Yes. A pity.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Are you going to do anything besides look at your husband tonight?”

  Lily looked at Marianne in surprise, her fan moving in an absent, steady pattern in the heat of the ballroom. “I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re talking about.”