by Donna Hatch
He glanced about the drawing room. More and more eyes turned their way. The Widtsoes beamed in approval—hopefully of their daughter, not at him paired with her. Another young man with brown curls stared at Miss Widtsoe wearing a hopelessly besotted expression. Hmm. Perhaps he could be an ally in Christian’s attempt to step out of Miss Widtsoe’s favor.
Lord Wickburgh, the viscount, whom he’d only met today, stared in fascination as well, but not at Miss Widtsoe. No, his whole being focused on Miss Marshall. Rather than the interest of a prospective suitor, or the adoration of a lover, he watched her like a hunter sizing up prey and calculating the appropriate trap. A chill ran down Christian’s spine and he played a wrong note but covered it up with a triplet that brought the melody back in correctly.
At the song’s conclusion, Miss Widtsoe trilled beautifully. The listeners in the room applauded, some politely, others in clear appreciation.
After curtsying, she smiled at Christian. “I had no idea you played so beautifully. Do you know any piano duets? Do you know Mozart’s The Sonata for Two Pianos K. Four-Forty-Eight? Or Fantasy in F minor by Schubert?”
Say no. Say no. He glanced at Miss Marshall. A mistake. She smiled as if he’d just handed her a longed-for gift. “I… do know them both.”
He winced. Stupid! Playing duets with Miss Widtsoe would only raise her expectations. But he could not disappoint Miss Marshall. He couldn’t begin to guess why.
“Let’s do the Mozart,” she suggested.
He scooted over on the bench to make room for Miss Widtsoe. She sat so close that their legs almost touched. He edged to the far side of the bench. If only he could extract himself from this. But he was already committed, for the duet, at least.
Letting her set the pace, he followed her. As the piece progressed at a satisfactory rate, his attention returned to Miss Marshall. Lord Wickburgh had moved in and now bowed to her. Mrs. Widtsoe gestured as if to make introductions. Miss Marshall looked up at the lord, her eyes wide and her smile forced.
Christian missed a note. “Sorry,” he murmured to his duet partner.
Lord Wickburgh eyed her and fingered his cane as he spoke. Miss Marshall’s glances became more furtive, her hands fidgeting in clear distress. How could Christian rescue her? He gritted his teeth. It wasn’t his place. But he longed to intervene.
When they finished the duet, Christian glanced at his partner. “I believe your friend is in need of company.”
Miss Widtsoe blinked, hurt and confusion in her eyes. He nodded his head meaningfully at Miss Marshall and Lord Wickburgh. She followed his direction.
“Oh. Oh!” She leaped to her feet. “Yes, thank you.” She all but rushed to Miss Marshall’s side. For all her faults, she was admirably devoted to her friend.
Christian sauntered to the group as if out for a stroll when his muscles raged at him to run. “Good evening,” he said to one and all. He eyed Lord Wickburgh pointedly.
“Good evening,” the lord replied, barely glancing at Christian. He continued to finger his ornately carved cane.
Christian took a closer look. When they’d first been introduced, Christian had only made a cursory glance at the slender, elegant older gentleman with a taste for fashion and an air of cold superiority worn by most peers. Now, a deeper chill revealed itself. The lord glanced at Christian dismissively as adults often do to children and returned his focus to Genevieve. Wickburgh looked her over from head to toe, but instead of with appreciation for a fine piece of art, or even a leer for a desirable woman, something akin to puzzlement crossed his expression as if unable to determine why a girl half his age had captured his attention.
“Suffolk?” he said as if repeating something Miss Marshall had said. “Yes, I have land in Suffolk, among other places. I don’t spend a great deal of time there, more’s the pity. I divide most of my time between my county seat and London.” He smiled coolly. “I assume you’ve been to London for the Season, bowed to the queen and all that?”
“Er, no, my lord,” she said in subdued tones. “I’ve been to London—once—but not for the Season, and I’ve never taken my bows to the queen.”
The normally buoyant Miss Widtsoe planted her feet and wound her arm through Miss Marshall’s. “Miss Marshall and I have only been ‘out’ two years, you see, my lord, so even if she had been to London for the Season, it’s unlikely her path would have crossed with such a mature lord as yourself.”
Christian almost smiled. Touché. A clever way to remind the man he was too old for Miss Marshall. Miss Marshall had a loyal friend.
Lord Wickburgh’s eyes narrowed. “Our paths have crossed, child, you recall.”
“Well, yes,” returned Miss Widtsoe, practically quailing under his unnerving stare, “but only because you know my father.”
Miss Marshall stood and dropped a hasty curtsy. “If you will excuse us, my lord, I believe—”
He brought up his cane, blocking her path. “Stay.” He tried to soften his sharp command with a smile. “I beg you.”
Christian’s hackles rose. “Forgive the interruption but I am come to ask Miss Widtsoe and Miss Marshall their opinion on a setting I’m considering for painting Miss Widtsoe’s portrait. If I may show you both what I have in mind, I welcome your insight.”
“Oh how lovely!” Miss Widtsoe enthused.
Christian nodded a farewell to Lord Wickburgh and held out an arm to the ladies. They each took an arm, offering him equal expressions of gratitude and relief as he led them to a far corner of the room.
“Thank you,” Miss Marshall said quietly.
“What did you have in mind?” Miss Widtsoe asked. She practically batted her eyelashes at him.
Christian faltered. Surely Miss Widtsoe knew he’d contrived that statement as an excuse to extract Miss Marshall from the unwelcome attention of a gentleman. Perhaps she intended to ensure the ruse appeared believable.
He gestured to the pianoforte. “I thought perhaps I could paint you at the piano.” He led her to the instrument. “Sit on the bench as if you are playing. Good. Now, act as if you have completed and are turning to receive your applause. There. Hold that pose. Miss Marshall, if you would be so kind.” With her arm still on his, he stepped back to give her a look at the setting.
Miss Marshall glanced over her shoulder in Lord Wickburgh’s direction. She drew a breath and then turned her full attention to her friend at the pianoforte. She took a moment to consider before nodding. “That’s lovely. The wall painted in those subdued colors to imitate brick, and the light coming in through the windows gives her an excellent backdrop. Matilda, you take a look.” The ladies traded places.
Miss Marshall sat surrounded by a halo of soft lighting, her mouth curved in an affectionate smile. The setting sun cast fiery burgundy lights in her hair in an array of colors it would take Christian days to mix and blend to get just right. If he were to paint Genevieve Marshall, he’d move the carved black cats out of the way, drape a sheer curtain behind the piano, add a vase of flowers, and perhaps some potted plants to invite the garden inside, accenting her fairy-like quality.
“I like it,” Miss Widtsoe announced. “It would show off my talent for music, and I like the Egyptian influence. It adds a touch of the exotic, don’t you think?” She beamed at Christian.
The vision of Miss Marshall filled his senses so completely that he barely managed to nod in acknowledgement.
“How soon can we start?” Miss Widtsoe asked.
He faltered, trying to remember what she wanted to start, and scrambled for a reply. “Perhaps tomorrow afternoon, to catch the best light.”
“Perfect!”
It was all he could do not to wince. She enthused about the portrait, but his attention returned to Miss Marshall, whose focus shifted to something behind him. Her peaceful countenance clouded. He glanced back. Lord Wickburgh stared at her. Miss Marshall arose and joined Miss Widtsoe and him.
“Stay close,” Christian said softly to Miss Marshall. “He’ll get the mess
age.” If not, Christian would have to have words with Lord Wickburgh about leaving the lady alone.
She nodded.
Miss Widtsoe glanced between them with a puzzled frown tugging at her brows. “Jenny?”
Miss Marshall’s mouth curved into a reassuring smile that failed to touch her eyes. “Don’t mind me. I’m only being a goose.”
Keeping his posture casual and his steps unhurried, Christian led both ladies towards Miss Marshall’s parents who stood conversing with another couple. “I don’t believe I’ve had the opportunity to meet your parents. Would you do me the honor of introducing me?”
“It would be my pleasure.”
“Oh, the Marshalls are just wonderful people!” Miss Widtsoe beamed at Christian. “Did you know her father was a sea captain during the war? Why, his ship was instrumental in the victory at Trafalgar. That makes him rather a war hero, doesn’t it?”
“Indeed.”
The Marshalls turned at their approach, and Christian greeted them as Miss Marshall made the introductions to the distinguished gentleman and his diminutive wife, an older but attractive version of Genevieve. Christian made a casual glanced about the room. Lord Wickburgh stood engaged in conversation with another gentleman and no longer focused on Miss Marshall.
The hostess called for a game of charades. Throughout the evening, Christian covertly observed Lord Wickburgh, but the older man made no further attempt to approach Miss Marshall. Perhaps he’d gotten the hint.
Unfortunately, the more Christian tried to keep his attention off of the beautiful lady, the more he stared.
As the games ended, guests broke off into smaller groups, chatting and laughing. Others retired for the evening, including the earl. When Genevieve Marshall left with her parents, he relaxed; she’d be safe from Lord Wickburgh in their company. Christian would also be spared the agony of trying not to look at her.
Christian also bowed to the host and hostess. “Goodnight, sir, ma’am.”
The overly enthusiastic Miss Widtsoe appeared at her parents’ side. “Retiring so soon, Mr. Amesbury?”
“I wish to be well rested for the hunt tomorrow.” He bowed and turned to leave, but her voice stopped him.
“Oh, of course. Do you enjoy hunting, then?”
“What I enjoy most about it is a good bruising ride through the countryside,” he confessed.
“Oh, yes. My friend Jenny does as well. I believe I heard you like the steeplechase?”
He blinked. How did she know that? “I do, very much.”
She smiled so brightly, so hopefully, that he practically fled.
As he prepared for bed, his thoughts circled back to Genevieve Marshall, no matter how much he tried to cast her out of her mind. Could he ever be deserving of the love of such a lady?
Chapter 5
Genevieve ducked to avoid a low hanging limb and tapped her horse lightly with the riding crop to urge him forward. She didn’t dare fall behind the hunting party and give the men a reason to suggest she return home to sit with the ladies sewing while the men had all the fun. Besides, riding sidesaddle at breakneck speed over rugged terrain filled her with an exhilaration few other activities could provide.
The woods thinned and the group charged down a hillside following the barking, howling dogs. She galloped along with the hunting party, her body moving in harmony with the horse’s stride. She laughed for sheer joy as the wind sang in her ears. Fresh, woodsy scents around her filled her lungs, reminding her of rides with her father back home.
Christian Amesbury glanced back at her again. Whether he checked on her so often out of simple chivalric duty, or a belief that she couldn’t handle herself, she did not know. But each time he did, a warm flush lit up her toes. The other men gave their full attention to the hunt, except Papa who occasionally shared a grin with her.
As dogs barked, tack jingled, horses whinnied, and hooves pounded, the party raced along a ravine and then up the other side, winding between trees and scrub. The dogs’ barking and howling reached a crescendo, and then all at once, they lost their prey. No amount of sniffing and false starts found the scent. Their quarry had vanished. Some of the men voiced their displeasure but many shrugged and said it was all part of the game.
Christian Amesbury wheeled around, grinning and rosy-cheeked from the chill morning air. “Race you back?” he called out to the nearest few riders.
Though not specifically included, his challenge was general enough that Genevieve joined in. They galloped, leaping over fallen trees and stumps, crashing through brush, and dodging rocks in their path. As they reached the perimeter of the abbey’s gardens, Mr. Amesbury’s stallion pulled ahead. His nearest two contenders leaned over their horses’ necks and made a valiant effort, but Mr. Amesbury reached the paddock first. Genevieve arrived only seconds behind them.
The men laughed good-naturedly and congratulated each other on a fine run. Genevieve walked her horse around the perimeter to cool him before returning to the stable doors.
“May I help you dismount?” Lord Wickburgh appeared next to her horse. Classically handsome and elegant in his red riding coat, the older man smiled and extended a hand. But a chill in his gaze cooled her joy of the ride.
“Er, my father usually helps me,” she said lamely, looking around for Papa.
She found him slapping Mr. Amesbury on the back and laughing with the men who’d encircled the impromptu race’s winner. Papa seemed unaware of her plight.
“It’s no inconvenience to me, Miss Marshall.”
Since there seemed no tangible reason to resist and no graceful way to refuse, she accepted his help dismounting. His hands stayed longer than necessary on her waist. She stepped back and held onto her riding crop with both hands to put some distance between them.
His smooth voice reminded her of melted glass in a glassblower’s shop. “Your riding habit is beautiful. It suits you.”
“Thank you,” she said breathlessly, looking down at her hands to avoid his chilling stare.
A stable hand arrived to take their reins.
The moment the servant left, Lord Wickburgh said, “You ride uncommonly well. I was surprised you chose to accompany a hunt—and surprised your father allows you to do something so dangerous.”
“He and I often enjoy a vigorous ride together.” She gathered up the train of her riding habit and laid it over her left arm. “If you will please excuse me, my lord, I believe I will change.” She bobbed a quick curtsy and strode towards the house, her insides quaking.
Papa caught up to her. “Jolly good morning, eh?”
She hushed her disquiet from her encounter with Lord Wickburgh and found a smile to give Papa. “Lovely weather for a ride.”
“That Amesbury fellow seems to have caught your eye, Jenny.”
“Oh, no, he’s not for me. Matilda has formed an attachment to him. I’m only trying to take measure of his character.”
“Uh huh.” His disbelief rang clear.
“Truly, Papa. I would never encourage the attention of a gentleman that my friend—”
“I know, daughter. I am not questioning your intentions. But he is young, handsome, the son of an earl…”
“He is gallant. And gentle. And intelligent.” She might have listed at least a dozen more qualities she’d observed in him but stopped, lest her father misunderstand her praise. “I’m persuaded that he will be an excellent match for Matilda.”
“Yes, he will be an excellent match for any young lady, even if he is a tad young for matrimony.”
An uncomfortable prickling between her shoulder blades had her glancing over her shoulder. Lord Wickburgh stared after her. He nodded, then turned away, but something about it sent a tremor down her backbone.
Under her breath, she said, “Papa, what do you know of Lord Wickburgh?”
“Very little except that he is a viscount and a man of considerable wealth and influence. He has buried two wives.”
“Oh, poor man. He must be lonely.” That must h
ave been it. She’d misunderstood him. What she’d perceived as a cold sort of ruthlessness must have been pain and loneliness.
“I’m sure.” Her father’s face clouded, and he cast a glance up at the window where he shared a bedroom with Mama during the house party. Did he worry that he might face widowhood soon?
Genevieve linked her arm with his. “Mama has been ever so much stronger lately. Why, the trip didn’t seem to tire her much at all.”
“Yes, I believe you’re right.”
“Don’t you worry about her. Between you and me, we will make sure Mama lives a long and healthy life.”
Papa kissed her temple, and they strolled into the house. After cleaning up and changing, Genevieve joined the ladies in the back parlor where they sat gossiping and sewing. Matilda sat at the pianoforte, practicing a particularly difficult piece, a Haydn, if she were correct. Genevieve sat next to her, careful not to jostle her on the bench. Following along, Genevieve turned the page at the correct time. Matilda stumbled over a particularly grueling passage.
“E flat,” Genevieve murmured.
“I know,” Matilda snapped. She stopped. Sighed. “Forgive me, Jenny. I’m trying to get this right so I can play it tonight for Christian. I want him to like me.”
Genevieve put her hand on Matilda’s back. “I don’t think his good opinion of you will change if you fail to learn a new piece by this eve.”
“I know, but I wish…” She turned sad eyes upon Genevieve. “I confess, I don’t think he returns my regard. He’s very kind but doesn’t appear to share my grand passion. I have to try something to attract his notice.” She returned to her music and worked at the passage until she got it right.
“You are a lovely and accomplished young lady,” Genevieve said. “And he does seem to admire you on some level. Perhaps when he draws your portrait you will have a better opportunity to become acquainted.”
