Lord Carlton, however, bore consideration. He had invited her to dance at the very first opportunity, though that might have had more to do with his generous nature than any sudden tendre he’d felt for her.
The second time they met he was squiring his younger sister to the Pantheon Bazaar, and Eleanor was quietly impressed he didn’t try to excuse his presence in such a feminine and common setting as he performed the introductions. Then, at Eleanor’s come-out ball he’d requested two dances with her, adroitly assuring Lydia he wouldn’t dare deprive Miss Ingram from her crowd of admirers for more than one dance. He behaved just as he ought, entertaining Eleanor in conversation and offering to bring her a lemonade before restoring her to Lady Ingram.
It was only when their paths crossed at Hyde Park that she began to suspect he might feel something more. With a hasty promise to return, Lydia flagged down an acquaintance while Eleanor chose to continue, her gaze on the bucolic scene.
“Miss Daventry,” cried Lord Carlton. “I’d hoped I might meet with you here. And Miss Ingram is deep in conversation with the Billinghams. Excellent. I shall have you to myself. Are you headed toward the lake?”
“Yes. It’s an afternoon that begs to be enjoyed.” Eleanor smiled at him, shading her eyes with her hand. It was a crisp day, and she turned to let the sun warm her face as the wind made the wisps of her hair dance next to her cheeks.
“It is indeed. And I could add that the flowers pale when compared to your beauty, but I suspect you don’t care for flattery.” Lord Carlton glanced at her sideways.
Eleanor laughed. “Am I so transparent? No, my lord, I abhor it. It serves only to gratify the speaker of his eloquence or the listener of attributes she’s already convinced she has.”
Lord Carlton’s brow went up in mild protest. “I will not embarrass a lady by unwanted attention, nor will I contradict one who contests the truth. Even if truth is not subjective. It’s only true.”
She sighed. “Such glib words. Are you destined for politics, Lord Carlton?”
“Would you care for a man in politics?” His smile vanished when he saw the frown his words produced. “Now I have teased you beyond what is pleasing. Do forgive me, Miss Daventry.”
“Readily. If only we will limit our conversation to something innocuous. Like the weather.”
“Whether the cook will find strawberries in season for her tarts.” He swiped at a flock of ducks intercepting their path.
Eleanor followed the turn of discourse willingly. “How many of these milkmaids are indeed from dairy farms.” She indicated the women distributing fresh milk for a few coins from the small herd of cows on the meadow.
“That is indeed a subject for profound thought.” Lord Carlton waved to his sister, who stood at the lakeside throwing bread crumbs to the swans, and the uncomfortable moment was brushed aside.
At home, Eleanor puzzled over their conversation, wondering if Lord Carlton had been deliberate in his line of questioning and, if so, whether she could return his regard. When she thought of her conversations with Lord Worthing, which produced such an array of emotions, she was convinced that the steady, pleasant attention from Lord Carlton was what she longed for. At other times, when she remembered the earl’s apologies, his laughter and intent regard, the way she was conscious of him the moment he stepped into a room, she was sure she couldn’t accept something so complacent as her feelings for Lord Carlton.
However, when the butler announced Lord Carlton’s arrival at the Ingram residence after a stream of admirers for Lydia, Eleanor was glad to see him. It was a nice change that someone would come for her, and surely Lord Carlton deserved his chance. She met his smile with her own as he made his way to exchange greetings with Lydia. Before he could bow over Eleanor’s hand, the butler had returned, announcing Mr. Amesbury. Custom dictated Lord Carlton not sit until he had first greeted Mr. Amesbury, and before he could claim his spot, Lydia called out to him to settle whether there would indeed be a card room at Mrs. Buxley’s ball.
Meanwhile, Mr. Amesbury had taken the chair next to Eleanor so that when Lord Carlton returned, he had to take a more distant seat and listen to Mr. Amesbury’s discourse about the horse he had just gotten for a song from a young fellow in a hurry to gain some funds after a run of poor luck.
“It’s a bad thing when a gentleman is forced to sell,” Lord Carlton interjected. “It’s not something I would wish on anyone. Miss Daventry,” he said before Amesbury could respond, “have you visited Bullock’s Museum, which is newly opened? It’s something one must see if you are to be au courant in London.”
Eleanor eagerly latched onto this new thread. “We’ve spoken of it, but I’ve been unable to tempt Lydia with the idea.” She shot an affectionate glance at her friend, and Mr. Amesbury jumped in.
“If you wish to see the Egyptian exhibit, it will take only the small part of one afternoon. Once you’ve seen the thing, you can add your mite in the conversations when people talk about it.” Mr. Amesbury crossed one leg over the other, displaying a shiny Hessian boot that sported a large tassel in the middle. “I daresay I can find time to squire you there.”
Eleanor opened her mouth and then shut it, and a silence ensued. Just as Lord Carlton was about to speak, she found her words. “That’s excessively kind of you, Mr. Amesbury, but I had planned to visit it in the morning when the rooms are less likely to be crowded.”
“Before lunch!” Mr. Amesbury shuddered. “Nothing could induce me to leave my lodgings before noon.”
“I will be happy to take you there.” Lord Carlton caught Eleanor’s gaze with a mischievous smile. “I’m an early riser myself, and visiting the museum while it’s quiet before the grand public descends is just the way the exhibit should be seen. If Miss Ingram does not care to rise early, I’ll bring my sister with me.”
“I would be delighted.” Eleanor beamed with pleasure, which was only enhanced when Mr. Amesbury took his leave shortly afterward, muttering something about people not adhering to decent hours for civil society. She was careful not to catch Lord Carlton’s gaze for fear she might betray herself.
“I’m sorry,” murmured Lord Carlton. “I have scared off your swain.”
“Heavens, no,” said Eleanor. “You have performed a rescue. I’m grateful.” She looked up as the door opened, and the butler brought in an arrangement of flowers that was the biggest one yet to arrive in the Ingram drawing room. The vase was filled with white lilies, dewy pink roses, and black tulips, the entirety interspersed with purple violets.
“Oh, who could have sent this?” Lydia jumped up and grabbed the card as Eleanor and Lord Carlton shared a conspiratorial smile. One of Lydia’s admirers was certainly determined. Envelope in hand, Lydia looked at Eleanor, shocked. “It’s for you,” she said in disbelief. “From Stratford!”
Taking the card from Lydia, Eleanor opened it, conscious of her shaking fingers.
Miss Daventry, it said. As per your request last night, please consider this missive to be the last of its nature. However, I could not let things stand without assuring you in a more formal manner of my heartfelt apology for ill-advised words in the past and my earnest desire that my words do you justice in the future. Yours, Lord Worthing.
Lydia’s gaze was intent, but she wisely did not ask her what the note said. Lord Carlton also looked at her, his friendly face showing the closest Eleanor had ever seen to a scowl. “Miss Daventry, I must take my leave. I promise to secure tickets for Friday morning.” He bowed. “Miss Ingram.”
No sooner had he exited than Lydia came to sit by Eleanor, eyes wide. “Stratford has never sent anyone I know flowers. Except perhaps that Miss Broadmore. Eleanor,” she breathed. “He has a tendre for you.”
“No, Lydia—”
“No, he does. He does. I can see it all now. He will be so perfect for you. And our families are such friends.” Lydia grasped her hands until Eleanor could do only one thing. She handed Lydia the note.
Lydia read it, her brows furrowed. Sh
e looked up. “An apology? What did he say to you?”
“Nothing of import—”
“It must have been significant for him to realize he’d done something wrong and send flowers. He’s the most difficult, arrogant—although really he’s loyal and such a good friend … it’s just sometimes he’s so dense.” Lydia gave a sharp look. “He would never dishonor you …”
“No, no, nothing like that.” Eleanor smoothed the card Lydia had returned to her. “He merely hinted I was invited here as a companion because I was too plain to pose any threat to your chances.” She smiled at Lydia, “which we both know to be true.”
Lydia stood abruptly. “It is not true. When did he say this? You should have told me. I’ll have his hide. How dare he insult my best friend.”
Eleanor stood and gave Lydia a hug. “You are the very best of friends, but please do not say anything to him.” She turned Lydia to face her. “Promise me. You will only embarrass us both.”
Lydia rolled her eyes. “I suppose you’re right. Though I really want to take him down a peg. He’s too arrogant for his own good.” Hands on hips, she examined the flower arrangement. “At least he did this one thing right. I shall only compliment him on his choice of flowers.”
Eleanor, preferring the matter never to be mentioned, knew her friend could not be persuaded to say nothing at all and had to be content with that.
Chapter Fourteen
Stratford’s sisters rode with their friend, Miss Emmett, in the newly crested carriage in Hyde Park, and he rode alongside on horseback. They were slightly earlier than was fashionable and the crowds were thin, so when their path intersected that of Judith Broadmore’s, Stratford found he could not avoid her without giving the cut direct.
Miss Broadmore was accompanied by the same friend as when Stratford had first chanced upon her in London and the French gentleman from the club—Sir Delacroix, whom Ingram had spoken of as a man to watch. Her companions had pulled over to greet a newcomer, but Miss Broadmore brought her horse directly to Stratford’s side, her gaze fixed on him.
“Good day, Miss Broadmore.” He gave a civil nod and pulled his horse forward, attempting to cut the conversation short.
“Stratford,” she called out in a throaty voice. “How delightful to see you about. We’ve not met recently at any society gatherings.”
“I’m accompanying my sisters,” Stratford replied, shooting a glance at the carriage as it moved forward.
“I trust you’ve not forgotten how to entertain yourself in London?” Miss Broadmore gave an inviting smile. It was as if Stratford hadn’t made himself perfectly clear at their last meeting. What was she playing at?
In the distance, Stratford thought he saw Ingram’s carriage, and he focused on discerning the crest. Would Miss Daventry be in it? Anna said Lydia always rode at this hour. Eyes forward, he murmured, “Where there is good conversation, I must always find amusement.”
The carriage came fully into view, but it was not the Ingram crest. He turned to Miss Broadmore in time to see a calculating look to her eyes.
“Well, you shall have to do without mine for the next two weeks. I’ve promised to go on a repairing lease with my friend Miss Redgrave.” She nodded at the elegantly dressed redhead, who was in conversation with Sir Delacroix. “Miss Redgrave’s father has ordered her to their country estate while he sorts out some business there. She begged me to come and keep her company so she wouldn’t go out of her mind with boredom.”
Determined to leave the conversation at all possible speed, he called out to Sir Braxsen, who was riding by at a slow trot. When Braxsen reached them, Stratford turned to Judith. “I hope you can contrive to be entertained while you’re there. Good d—”
She did not give him a chance to finish. “How do you do, Sir Braxsen?” Miss Broadmore held out her hand, and keeping both men captive, she went on, “Yes, it will be vastly entertaining. We have little card parties planned, and there promises to be enough young people to form a set for a dance. But Christine is happier in London and will be most anxious to return. She’s collecting riddles from some of the ton and is planning on hosting a soirée pour les plus malins on her return. Everyone is to guess not only the answer to the riddle but also who wrote it. You must tell her you’ll participate.”
“I shall have to think of a clever riddle first,” Stratford answered. He caught Anna signaling to him from the carriage. “I must go. Shall you join us, Braxsen?”
Sir Braxsen shook his head. “No, I would find out more about this soirée.” With a practiced air, he waved to Miss Redgrave and pulled his horse alongside Judith’s. “Whom have you invited to attend?”
Breathing a sigh of relief, Stratford left them and rode to join the carriage. If he didn’t see the Ingrams today, he would have to pay them a visit tomorrow. What did he expect, that Miss Daventry would send him a thank-you note for the flowers? No. If he wanted to see her, he was going to have to seek her out. He hoped she would be glad to receive him.
As he rode up behind his sisters, he was in time to hear Anna lean over to Phoebe while their friend was in conversation with the occupants of an adjacent carriage. Her voice carried. “Did you see Stratford smiling at Judith Broadmore? Ugh. I wish she might break out in spots.”
Phoebe leaned in. “She was horrid, but perhaps she has changed. You know she pulled out of an engagement to Lord Garrett. It can’t have been easy. And to be so pretty and still on the shelf. Perhaps she truly desires a love match.”
Stratford made himself visible before Anna could retort with some cutting remark that their companion might overhear. He gave a bland smile to the three women who turned toward him, and it grew broader at his sisters’ consternation when they realized they had been overheard. He rode on, but not before he was made privy to the raptures of Miss Caroline Emmett, who had heretofore thought “Lord Worthing the most severe gentleman I’d ever met” and was now sending the pronouncement to the other end of the trajectory. It was turning out to be an eventful day, one that would have been much improved had he crossed paths with Miss Daventry.
R
A sharp clatter erupted outside Cavendish Square, and Stratford was awake. He sat up, perspiring, his gaze darting back and forth until he remembered he was in London. The house was still unfamiliar, but he made out his coat, brushed and ready at the foot of the bed, and his empty trunk next to a spindle-backed chair. He leaned over in the dim light and turned his pocket watch face upward. Six o’clock in the morning.
No sooner had he walked across the room to the washing stand than the valet rushed into the room, dressed and sleepy. “My lord, allow me. I will ring for some hot water.”
“Very well,” Stratford said. Then, turning to him in surprise, “Don’t you sleep?”
“I had a restful night, my lord. I always sleep in my clothes. It will not do to be resting while you are needing help in the morning.”
“But I don’t need your help. I was very able to care for myself in Portugal, you know.”
Benchly was not deterred. “My lord, if you will permit my saying, dressing for the field of battle is not the same as dressing for a London outing, although,” he muttered, “I’m sure your batman did his very best.”
Stratford’s mouth quirked upward. “Well, I don’t expect to have to perform any social niceties at six in the morning. I’m just going for a ride.” The valet had, by this time, rung for hot water and was laying out the white neckcloths in case Stratford should care to attempt something more complicated.
Stratford submitted to Benchly’s ministrations, waiting for the hot water to arrive and his valet to shave him. He allowed help with his coat, which now fit tightly across his broad shoulders, having gained back some of the weight he lost during his time on the Continent. When the valet was done pulling on the boots—“the navy blue Hessians with a white band on top, my lord, which will suit your navy coat and cream pantaloons to perfection”—Stratford went downstairs to breakfast, thinking how foolish he’d been
to submit to Benchly when he was sure to come home mud-spattered and in need of a complete change of clothes.
The butler didn’t show any surprise at the earl’s appearing at sunrise and directed the footmen to fill the sideboard with ham and kippers, saying, “I will have the coffee brought in directly, my lord.”
“Very good.” Stratford set about to reading the previous day’s correspondence, which he’d not had time to peruse, and was finished with breakfast just as Phoebe walked in.
She must have seen his confusion because she gave a weak smile. “Do not ask. I’ve not slept well and saw no sense in remaining in bed.” She poured a cup of coffee from the white china coffeepot on the sideboard and sat across from him. “I’ve not had occasion to speak to you of Miss Daventry.”
“What is there to speak of?” he asked, wondering what she knew, as he attacked the thick slice of ham on his plate.
Phoebe raised her eyebrow at his abrupt tone. “I only meant that she is quite the success and already has her pick of suitors if our ball was any indication. Perhaps you can inch one her way that you would deem acceptable as our neighbor.”
Stratford grunted. It was too early for the gleam of mischief he heard in his sister’s tone, besides the fact that it hit entirely too close to home. He cut the herring and put a piece in his mouth. When he didn’t respond, Phoebe took a sip of coffee and set her cup on the saucer. “Her inheritance is not to be despised, so of course there is that to tempt one.”
Provoked, Stratford stood. “A desirable piece of land,” he said, impatient to be off for his ride. “However, I hope it’s not the only reason for her success. I trust any suitor who has made her his ambition will realize that between the land she’s inherited and her hand, she is the greater prize.”
A Regrettable Proposal Page 12
