“And then what? It still comes down to elopement or license. Your father would lock you away if he heard the banns read.”
Agnes’s shoulders slumped as her maid slipped the underpetticoat over the shift. “Nathan doesn’t like to talk about it.”
“Well, Lord Driffield needs to—what are those?”
Hazel gasped when the lady’s maid tightened the stays, the movement tugging the short sleeves of the shift further up Agnes’s bare arms. Only the arms were not as bare as they should be. Old, yellowing bruises encircled each upper arm.
Agnes waved away Hazel when her friend rose from her chair. She nodded for her lady’s maid to continue dressing her.
Not meeting Hazel’s eyes, Agnes said, “You know how Father can be.”
“He’s never been like that.” She pointed at the bruises even as Agnes tugged at the sleeves to cover the evidence.
“They don’t hurt if that’s your worry. He held my arms a little tighter than he anticipated is all.”
“But why?” Hazel could think of no rationale for anyone holding someone so tightly they left marks.
The lady’s maid secured the panniers before turning to the petticoat.
“He was concerned. He saw me having a word with the gardener, you see, and was fraught we might have spoken about more than the flowers.” With a laugh and smile that did not meet her eyes, Agnes said, “Imagine his reaction if he found out about our party. How diverting!”
Hazel scowled. “There’s nothing diverting about it. Have you told Lord Driffield? Tell me you tried sneaking a letter to him. He must do something! I don’t care what his grandmother says; if he loves you, he needs to bring you under his protection.”
With the stomacher pinned in place, the lady’s maid retrieved the robe à la française from its hanger, slipping Agnes’s arms into elbow-length lace and satin sleeves before pinning the gown to both stomacher and petticoat. Agnes watched her lady’s maid in the mirror, ignoring Hazel for a time.
Hazel fidgeted, her cup of chocolate forgotten on the tray. If only there were something she could do! Lord Driffield needed to make good on his promises. The life of an earl was not uncomplicated, she knew, but love should not be this complicated. She could not see why the two could not marry now and sort out the details later, the grandmother being an easy conquest once she got to know Agnes. Who would not adore Agnes once they got to know her?
Her friend twirled and tittered. “Do I look good enough to marry?”
“One look and any man would be besotted.”
“Perfect. Because Nathan is coming to the hunting party.” Agnes laughed at Hazel’s widening eyes.
The afternoon sun reflected off the diamond windows of the Elizabethan manor. It was a perfect day for a garden party. Nothing could keep the partygoers indoors, not even the dampness of the lawn from yesterday’s rain or the chilly September air. Guests arrived at their leisure throughout the morning and afternoon. Dotting the landscape an array of colorful dresses and frock coats pranced, posed, and lounged, worn by more aristocrats than Hazel had ever seen in a single gathering at one time. Mr. Trethow was known to host a gathering from time to time but never like this. Never so posh. Never so well attended.
Agnes sat across from Hazel on a decorative picnic sheet, twirling her parasol. They were a contrasting pair, Hazel observed, Agnes in her ivory and Hazel in her periwinkle, Agnes with blue eyes, Hazel with green. Even their features opposed. Agnes bore a lean, slender face with an aquiline nose, and showed to advantage a figure to match, long limbs, sultry bosom, and hips to envy. Hazel was all hearts. Her face was heart shaped, her nose pert, her lips cherubic, and her physique an inverted triangle with shoulders wider than hips, an ample enough midline to take the stays to task, and a cherry bosom, that was to say, more the size of cherries than the shape, although they were that too. No one seeing Agnes and Hazel side by side would confuse them for sisters, but they did share one similarity: their hair. Although both ladies sported brown hair, Agnes’s being hickory and Hazel’s auburn, the powder dusting their curls transformed the shade to a matching snowy white.
Hazel never envied Agnes her beauty, for there was nothing in the mirror Hazel did not like. Never vain, but confident. The gentlemen waggling their eyebrows at her from across the lawn felt likewise.
Ah, the gentlemen. A veritable cornucopia of available bachelors! If a young lady could not find love here, there was little hope for her. The competition would be stiff. Unmarried ladies, each with their own beauty, moved from one intimate group to another, sheep herded by the scent of eligibility.
“No more talk of Nathan,” Agnes was saying.
Hazel turned her attention from the frocked fops under the yew tree to her friend.
“Let’s talk about you,” Agnes continued. “You never told me what happened with Lord Brooks.”
Leaning back, palms to the lumpy sheet, Hazel said, “Because there’s nothing to tell. He took his leave the moment we were alone.”
“That’s unexpected. From the rumors I’ve heard, he’s on the lookout for a wife.” Dropping to a whisper, Agnes added, “Not to mention the other rumors.”
“About his being Casanova in hiding from the law?” Hazel snorted a laugh.
“No, about his being…you know.” Agnes mouthed her next words. “A grand lover.”
Hazel barked a laugh loud enough to turn a few nearby heads and send Agnes diving for her fan to cool her reddening cheeks.
“I shall never know.”
Wafting the fan until her cheeks lightened to pink, Agnes said, “Don’t be discouraged. He might only need a stronger nudge. But if not him, you’ll find someone else, someone who makes your soul sigh, your heart pound, and your resolve melt. We’ll both marry our true loves in the end. Wait and see.” She set her fan aside to squeeze Hazel’s hand.
Movement from the terrace caught their attention before Hazel could reply. More guests had arrived. Agnes craned to see around the group blocking the view of the double doors. Hazel spotted them first.
“Melissa!” She squeaked.
Clamoring to her feet, she waved her arms to catch her friend’s attention. A few other heads turned in the process, accompanied by snickering. Hazel did not care a whit. They could call her an uncultured West Country bumpkin if it suited them.
Hazel did what she did best. She flashed a smile.
Chagrined, the heads turned away. Meanwhile, Lady Melissa Williamson caught sight of them, gave a little wave in return, and excused herself from Sir Chauncy and the group that had stopped them upon entering the terrace.
She was pretty in pink, Hazel admired. Green eschelles laddered her stomacher with matching green bows where the satin met the lace at her elbows. The hem of her dress-robe, framing the petticoat, flounced and bounced more green bows. Not to be out fashioned by her friends, Melissa’s ebony hair was curled in rows above her ears and powdered white, a pleasing contrast with her dark complexion.
“Hazel. Agnes.” Melissa approached with outstretched hands, kissing Hazel’s cheeks first, then taking Agnes’s hands in hers as she knelt to join the ladies. “I’m relieved not to be the youngest here. Is it me or is this hunting party intended for the dotage?”
Giggling, Agnes said, “Look under the yew tree. They’ve gathered en masse, Miss Evans leading the unmarried ladies on rounds to tempt the eligible gents.”
“Yes, I see.” Melissa wrinkled her nose. “When did you both arrive? I’ve not yet had the opportunity to rest. I hope we’ll have time to do so before supper.”
Hazel’s attention turned once more to the terrace as another set of visitors arrived. “Yesterday. A tedious supper with the Butterbests.” Before she could elaborate, she gasped a breathy, “Oh my.”
Agnes and Melissa followed her gaze.
Viscount Brooks stood next to the Earl of Driffield, the pair exchanging ple
asantries with Lord and Lady Collingwood. Hazel’s heart caught in her throat to see the rogue who had rejected her. Across from her, Agnes made to rise until Melissa’s hand caught her arm to stop her.
The trio watched the gentlemen in silence.
However impossible, Lord Brooks was more handsome than he had been at the Longfirth party. Ringed fingers waved in a bed of lace as he spoke. A beauty patch adorned the corner of his mouth, drawing attention to his rouged, supple, kissable lips. Hazel sighed. Her father would be disappointed to know the train of her thoughts, but it was not her fault Lord Brooks was here rather than Mr. Toad Hobbs. She could not very well sigh over the baron’s heir if she had not yet met him. Although she doubted he could contend with Brooks’s foppish fabulousness, without doubt the most desirable man present.
Or so she thought for a full minute. Hot on his buckled heels, another pair appeared at the terrace doors, causing a stir from the guests near enough to greet them.
“Who is that?” Hazel hoped she was not gawking.
“Poor Lord Brooks. Forgotten already,” Agnes chided.
Melissa, who had moved in fashionable circles ever since her marriage to Sir Chauncy, knew everyone worth knowing. “Ah. That’s Viscount Kissinger and his father the Earl of Winthorp.”
Hazel’s “Oh my” this time held a far different meaning than before. How could she possibly be in the presence of so many finely figured men? Love must be in the air!
Melissa laughed. “Yes, he’s available.”
“Did I ask that aloud?” Hazel fluttered her eyelashes.
“Your expression asked on your behalf.”
Agnes poked Hazel in the arm then said to Melissa, “Our Hazel is under strict orders from Mr. Trethow to make a favorable impression on our host’s son. We’ll have to rein her in.”
“Best of luck,” Melissa said. “Rumor has it Lady Collingwood has been inviting the wealthiest women west of London to dine. The wealthiest and most available, that is. No difficulty guessing why. And from the look of some of the guests, I suspect those same women will be vying for his attention the whole of the hunting party.”
“Better to wish them luck than me. He’s not even here to be wooed. How disappointed they must be.” Hazel brushed off the talk of Mr. Hobbs, her eyes riveted on the terrace.
She may have luck in love yet.
Chapter 5
Giving his frock coat a firm tug, Harold descended the main stairs at Trelowen. Although his letter to his father had promised he would arrive in time, supper had started half an hour ago. He was late. Inexcusably late. It could not have been helped. During the trip home from London, he had made good time, but as he reached the outskirts of Exeter, a toppled farm cart had blocked the road. The only reason he had made it in time for a late supper rather than arriving well past dusk was his insistence on helping the man restore order to the felled cartwheel and fallen goods before sending him and his donkey on their merry way.
And so he was late. His mother would be suffering from silent fits of hysteria to see an empty seat at her perfectly planned table, and his father would be piqued. They would experience a greater shock when he walked through the double doors: his hair was unpowdered and bagged. With time against him, he had the choice of either bathing or recruiting Abhijeet to style his hair. He opted for the bath.
Two footmen opened the dining room doors upon his approach. With a grand entrance sure to catch everyone’s attention, whether or not he wanted it, he marched into the room to face a tide of turning faces and stilled cutlery.
“Ah. My son,” Eugene Hobbs, Baron Collingwood, announced, rising from the head of the table and sweeping a hand. “Allow me to introduce my son Mr. Harold Hobbs.”
Harold bowed.
Not until he took his seat and a footman filled his wine glass did the din of voices resume. In a single survey of the room, he assessed the guests.
His first reaction was shock. How much further debt had his father accrued with this extravagance? They could not afford this. A hunting party alone was beyond affordability, but this was going well beyond their financial reach. While the wear of Trelowen remained evident under Harold’s scrutiny, care had been taken to buff, wax, and cover. The dining room shimmered with not just any candles but beeswax candles, the same he had seen in the hallway, stairwell, and vestibule, all burning without the benefit of observation or use, irreplaceable money torched in each sconce and chandelier. The wood paneling, banisters, and floors gleamed with polish. The table fare was one of the finest Harold had ever seen with the choicest meats and a selection of dishes so varied the guests could not possibly try them all in a single meal.
Given this was the third day of the hunting party with several days remaining, Harold could have wept to think of the expense. His father must be confident he could convince the guests to invest at a higher price point so he could recoup the money spent and cover his capital. Harold was not so certain. In his single survey, he had taken the measure of those in attendance.
Prior to leaving for London, he had seen the guest list; some of the names he knew, some he did not, but it was not difficult to distinguish who was who at the table. Only the West Country’s wealthiest were present. The wealthiest and the most likely to take risks. The presence of the wives and children was a red herring from his father’s goal, for his intended guests were the gentlemen, all invited for their pocketbook.
The first eyes to meet his were Patrick’s, his friend seated at the opposite end of the table near the Earl of Winthorp, father and son separated by a stunning young woman who engaged in turn both Patrick and Lord Winthorp. Harold arched an eyebrow at Patrick. He hoped his eyebrow conveyed the question, Lord Kissinger, the eligible bachelor?
A few of the guests surprised him. The Earl of Driffield, for instance, for the Driffield he knew had been an older man. At some point during Harold’s time in India, Driffield must have passed, and this man inherited. The new Lord Driffield looked a decade older than Harold, but he was a popinjay if ever Harold saw one, frilled and laced to the point of foppishness. His demeanor spoke of a man of leisure, one who spent money faster than his estate could earn and one who thought himself God’s gift to ladies. The man eyed his supper companion—Mr. Worthington’s daughter, if Harold was not mistaken—from beneath hooded eyes. Harold’s jaw ticked.
Viscount Brooks sat across from Driffield, a gentleman who Harold had known by reputation at Oxford. The viscount would not have been a guest Harold would have thought to invite. Wealthy, yes. Risk taker, yes. Sensible, no. Perhaps Lord Collingwood banked on that lack of sense.
Butterbest’s hearty laugh dominated the table, never mind that he sat at the far end near Harold’s mother Helena. Gauging from his conversation, Butterbest would be unlikely to favor the investment plan, for he was in the process of detailing the new horses he had purchased, the new carriage, and the new lake at the east end of his property. If the man had any money remaining, Harold would be surprised.
The chinless Mr. Worthington might also reject the investment opportunity, for he was telling the lady at his side of his extensive travel plans, expensive travel plans to be precise.
Harold’s gaze fell on each guest, gentlemen and relations, and assessed their likelihood of agreeing to the baron’s scheme. As much as Harold regretted the money spent on the hunting party, he held out hope fewer guests would be persuaded to invest, thus deterring his father from finding the capital and proceeding with the deal.
The perusal was not yet completed when Miss Evans, seated to his right, engaged him in conversation. Or tried to. Not to appear rude, he asked her about her modiste, which saved him the trouble of conversing as she launched into a monologue of next Season’s wardrobe and how complementary she would be to the gentleman at her side—wink, wink, her expression said.
Many of the sons and daughters of the guests he did not recognize. None were under seventeen, bu
t they certainly would have been when Harold saw them last, before his departure to India.
The Butterbest twins were among the easily recognized. They sat on either side of a young lady Harold did not know, both singling her out for conversation. The poor girl blushed in demure silence, the pink of her cheeks accentuating the blemishes that no amount of face paste or powder could cover. She seemed just the sort for the twins. If they had not changed in the time Harold spent in India, and he doubted they had, they would prefer a simpering and shy gel, for both men were intimidated by any woman who spoke her mind.
So engaged in his assessment of the guests, his gaze nearly moved past her. Her being his once upon a time intended.
Miss Hazel Trethow sat across the table from him, three chairs removed. Her head was bowed in conversation with the gentleman to her left, Sir Chauncey if memory served. Had not the gentleman married recently? Harold could not recall. He gave little thought for the baronet and focused his full attention on Miss Trethow. It was absurd that his heart skipped a beat at the sight of her. After all, his memory was of a wide eyed and pink faced ten-year-old girl, as silly and giggly as most ten-year-old girls. But she was no longer a young girl.
To think, he had planned at this point to be in Cornwall, calling on her with the intention of marriage.
Her eyes were bright, full of aspirations and dreams, full of the search for eternal love. With a subtle flick of his gaze, he took in her physique, what he could see of it above the table, and just as quickly shifted his attention to his plate. She was perfect.
Interjecting monosyllabic responses to Miss Evans, who was still chattering, Harold glanced back to Miss Trethow.
In that moment, her head turned.
Their eyes met.
Harold’s heart thumped.
With no more than a pout of her lips to acknowledge him, she turned back to her supper companion and laughed. In the space of the next course, Miss Trethow laughed more than anyone else at the table and, in fact, laughed so much that Harold found himself scowling both at his plate and Miss Evans. Only his mother laughed that much.
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