A Regrettable Proposal

by Jennie Goutet

  “How lovely you both look this evening,” said Miss Broadmore in a soft voice. “Miss Daventry, is it? You were fortunate to secure the notice of a peer in your first Season. Now you need not fear for partners.”

  Lydia returned the glittering smile for one of her own. “Oh, she’s had no lack of partners, I assure you.”

  “No—is it so?” Miss Broadmore fanned herself slowly, her gaze never leaving Eleanor’s. “I suppose an inheritance will make anyone appealing to the ton. Where was it you hail from?” Her lips parted, showing tiny pearl teeth.

  “From 28 Grosvenor Square.” Lydia gave a smug smile. “The Ingram residence. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we were on our way to get some air.”

  Five minutes spent away from the bustle, breathing in the fresh air that poured into the windows Lydia had wrenched open, and Eleanor began to find an inner calm. She examined dispassionately everything Lord Worthing had said, ignoring her unruly feelings from when they’d danced together, and chastised herself for thinking he had begun to seek out her company because he appreciated it.

  She could find humor in his having spoken, once again, without thinking, because she was certain he would eventually realize it, and that when he did, he would feel chagrined. He would wrestle over the decision of which course to follow. Give Miss Daventry the apology she deserves or obey her directive to cease with the apologies all together.

  Find humor she must, however, because she could not allow herself to dream about a future with Lord Worthing when it was clear he had not made up his mind about a future with her. She suspected he felt some degree of attraction. The way the air snapped between them was difficult to ignore. But this was not the conversation of a man decided.

  “Eleanor, you’re so quiet. Are you feeling more the thing?” Eleanor knew Lydia was making an heroic effort to wait patiently for her to recover when, all the while, gentlemen were probably searching for Lydia in vain.

  “I am recovered. Thank you for coming with me.” Eleanor reached over and shut the window, wishing to leave everything as she had found it, and linked her arm through Lydia’s. They entered the swarming mass of people, and Eleanor followed in Lydia’s wake. If only she could find someone comfortable, she might take refuge there for the remainder of the evening.

  Sir Delacroix intercepted them both. “Good evening, Miss Daventry. I was just coming to request your hand for the next waltz. Will you do me the honor?”

  Eleanor could think of no reason to refuse, though she wished to. “I’ve not filled my dance card yet,” she said, and handed it over to him. He wrote his name for the next waltz.

  “A toute à l’heure,” he said, with a wink, and took his leave without requesting an introduction to Lydia. She didn’t offer.

  “Hmm,” said Lydia. “A vicomte, is he not? He has such … continental features, which is not in fashion just now. Still, I find him pleasing to look at. And he seems to be interested in you. My dear friend, I knew you would be all the rage in London.”

  “Oh, Lydia,” said Eleanor, dispirited. “You knew no such thing. It’s that cursed inheritance.”

  “Cursed? You will make a brilliant match because of it.” Lydia squeezed her friend’s arm.

  “Yes,” Eleanor said sadly, “but it won’t be for love.”

  Stratford was not good company. His sisters were well in hand, with one dance after another. Lydia seemed to have disappeared, along with Miss Daventry—the two of them sought out for every dance. He had not liked the way he’d left things with Miss Daventry. Perhaps he had spoken without giving weight to his words, but when Carlton headed her way, he’d felt the full force of how wrong such a match would be. Wrong in every way … except, perhaps, what logic dictated when an eligible man sought out an equally eligible young woman for matrimony. It was only his own feelings that revolted at the thought of Carlton and Miss Daventry together.

  Marriage. He couldn’t consider such a prospect himself until he had his own life in order. His foolish proposal to Miss Daventry at Worthing had only happened because he was reeling from having seen Judith so soon upon his return, was doubly crushed under the weight of a peerage and the unexpected twist in inheritance that involved Miss Daventry—and because he’d been dead drunk. Until he was fully ready to pursue the thought of taking a wife, it was not fair to Miss Daventry to present himself as a serious suitor. Surely she must appreciate his disinterest and protection of her feelings and her future.

  He had barred his heart securely after his disappointment with Judith, and no one had come close to breaching its gate. Until now. Stratford thought of Miss Daventry in his arms as they waltzed, sweet-smelling, her eyes closing each time they spun, and the look of pure joy on her face that melted his defenses. The vision did not quit his senses for some time.

  Sir Delacroix was on time to claim his waltz, and Eleanor knew no pleasure from being held so closely. When Lord Worthing held her, it felt intimate without compromising her. When Sir Delacroix took her in his arms, she felt ill. Any attempt to create distance only caused them to dance more awkwardly. It was not the sensation of flying she had experienced with …

  “I was perhaps forward in seeking an introduction,” Sir Delacroix began, “but I was desirous of making your acquaintance after hearing your praises sung in the most unusual quarter.”

  Eleanor looked desperately to the sidelines to see if there were no one she could stand with when the dance was over. There was more than one young lady eyeing her with something akin to envy. It seemed not every debutante had high aspirations for marriage. Some, like Lydia, were attracted to her partner’s Byronesque looks.

  “Will you not ask me who it is that sings your praises?” he teased.

  Her gaze snapped to his. “I do not care to hear that my name is bandied about in any crowd. I don’t wish to know more.”

  “You wrong me, Miss Daventry. The praises came from one person who can have no harm in singing them. I was in Paris. Was it … oh, it appears to have been ten years ago. I was a greenhorn then.” He looked at her, but she revealed no signs of comprehension.

  “And I saw a woman who must have been ten years my senior—a woman whose name had once been Daventry. She was in the company of le Comte de Chambourd.” He leaned down as if to impart secret knowledge. “He was a particular friend of my family’s, the count, and although I won’t call him a fool for choosing to return to France when anyone can see his standing there was not the most secure, I will say he was un bon vivant. Shame I’ve not heard from him since.”

  Eleanor’s pulse beat erratically in her throat. Blackness threatened to cloud her vision, but she forced it away by sheer will. Lips clamped together, she made herself look at him.

  “Your mother was exquisite.” He whispered the last word, turning and sweeping her with him. “Men received her favor as a benediction, though I own she was most devoted to her count.”

  Eleanor willed the song to end and could no more cause a scene than she could free herself from his grasp.

  “You don’t favor her,” he said reflectively. “Not in looks. But perhaps you favor her in temperament?” He smiled. “As I said, I was most desirous of making your acquaintance.”

  Eleanor did not speak until the waltz was over, which was less than a minute later. Sir Delacroix bowed before her, and she curtsied, keeping up the pretense until the end. She’d had her share of insults and rebuffs as a young girl and knew how to bear it. Fortunately, her guardian’s decision to put her in school in a distant county spared her from further recriminations. It had been some time since Eleanor had to mask any fear, anger, or sadness from faces eager to drink in her downfall.

  She took his arm as they made their way to the sidelines and spoke in the space of the short steps until they reached it. “Sir Delacroix, I was not raised by my mother. I was raised by my aunt and my nurse, and the teachers in a select academy for young women, all of whom were carefully chosen by my guardian, the Fourth Earl of Worthing. You are mistaken in the reading of my
character, and I will be most obliged if you do not solicit conversation with me in the future. Good evening.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Stratford stared at the spot of sunlight on the table next to his seat at White’s. Usually the room needed candles in the sconces, even in daylight, but today the sun pierced the room’s gloomy interior. It couldn’t reach his spirits, however, as he continued to wrestle with what he was coming to identify as the dilemma. Was he willing to hold on to his freedom as a bachelor at the risk of losing Miss Daventry forever?

  Surely she could wait until he was more certain of his heart? In the meantime, his attention to her was patent enough to show interest without giving undue cause for hope. It was not every young lady he treated with the care he gave his own sisters. And they were, in some way, connected after all. His uncle obviously felt the need to continue his guardianship from the grave. Why else would he give her such a lucrative piece of his property? Stratford paused. Why indeed? He would have to see if Billings knew any more to the story. The butler had been in his uncle’s employ since he was a boy.

  A vision passed before his eyes of Miss Daventry last night wearing a dress in a cream color so pale it looked as if the fabric were a continuation of her skin. Miss Daventry looked elegant until she smiled. Then her crinkly eyes, and her white, uneven teeth that stretched between two perfect dimples transformed her look to mischievous. Kittenish. Odd that the memories he had of her in his home, wearing a simple brown dress, delighted him just as much as those of her wearing her finest. He pictured her in the kitchen, asking the cook for headache powder, and a reluctant smile came to his face. Nervous though she’d been, she had seemed to belong there.

  The door opened, and Stratford looked up, giving a mechanical salute in response to Sir Braxsen’s greeting. The latter indicated the empty chair with a lift of his eyebrows, and Stratford replied, “No, it’s not taken. Have a seat.”

  Sir Braxsen set down his high crown hat and rested his cane against the table. “Are you going to the cockfight Friday?”

  “No,” Stratford said shortly. “I don’t care for them. You?”

  “I abhor watching bloodshed, even if it’s just animals. I seem to be alone in my disdain, however. You’re the first I’ve met who will miss it. Will Ingram attend?” Sir Braxsen fiddled with the edge of the discarded newspaper on the dark wood table.

  Stratford shrugged and signaled the waiter to bring another glass. He leaned forward. “Braxsen, do you think about the Peninsula? Are you able to forget it while you’re here?”

  Sir Braxsen drummed his fingers on the table, looking bored, but he paused before answering. “I think about it enough that I don’t have any immediate desire to return.”

  The waiter appeared, and Stratford leaned back as he poured a glass for him and then for Sir Braxsen. “I lost track of you while you were over there. Where were you stationed?”

  “I arrived in oh-nine and followed the trail from there. Was in every significant battle, except for Badajoz, when I was sent with a couple of fellows as a rear guard that was not needed.”

  “Oh, that was a bad one. I was there.” Stratford took a sip of his drink, eyes downcast. “You missed a bloody mess. I’m glad you were not there to see it.”

  “No,” Sir Braxsen said, shoving the newspaper away and leaning back. “But my brother fell there. Came across his body when we rode the trail back to the regiment. It didn’t appear to be near the fighting, and I can’t think how he came to be there.”

  “I’m sorry,” Stratford said, setting his glass down.

  “What division did you lead?” Sir Braxsen asked when the silence stretched long enough.

  “I led the Ninety-Fourth Foot. I was with them right until I left. I’d be with them still if I were going back. What about you?”

  Sir Braxsen shrugged. “I’ll go to the same regiment I left off. My father did not leave me with what one might call a fortune, so I have little alternative. But for now, I’ll spend time contemplating the choice food and drink at the clubs and the feeling of clean breeches.” He attempted a smile, which to Stratford looked resigned.

  “So you’re done then,” Sir Braxsen added. “With the inheritance and the title …”

  “I sold out,” Stratford said. “I like to see a job well done and would have seen it through to the end of the war. But in my case, there’s no one left to inherit. It’s time I settled down and produced an heir.” He leaned back, lip curled, and he knew his face revealed more than he wished.

  “Duty calls for each of us in different ways,” Sir Braxsen said, his voice heavy with irony. He pushed his chair back as if to go, but Stratford detained him.

  “I think this is the first I’ve seen you without Major Fitzwilliam. It was good of you to take him up in London. How came you to be friends with him? He’s from Norfolk, is he not?”

  Sir Braxsen fingered the silver handle to his cane. “He chanced upon that rear guard envoy of ours while he was on mission. And though we didn’t see any action from where we expected, we were fired upon from the trees on the hillside. Fitz went out into the gunfire to pull me to the rock that shielded us from Boney’s men. I got leave because I was wounded, and he came at the same time with intelligence to bring back to London. At least that’s what I suppose to be true.” He shrugged. “I guess he still feels responsible for me.”

  Stratford accepted this with a nod. It was unsurprising. He had seen a good amount of courage shown by ordinary men, and Major Fitzwilliam was born to lead. The door opened, and Sir Delacroix entered in the company of the Marquess of Egerton.

  Sir Braxsen lowered his voice. “You will think me old-fashioned, but I still don’t understand how he came to gain acceptance at White’s. With the war going on, I, for one, don’t trust the French, even one who was raised on English soil.”

  “You’re not the only one who feels that way. But the greatest danger lies not with the Frenchmen who’ve made their home in England. They are sometimes more loyal than the Englishmen.” Stratford stood, offering his hand. “I must be off. I’ve some business to attend to.”

  He stopped at home to have his horses harnessed, deciding it was a provident moment to visit Ingram. I will not trouble Miss Daventry this time. However, when Stratford was being shown to the library, he couldn’t resist looking across the hallway to see if the door to the drawing room was open. It was not.

  Ingram stood when he entered. “Have a drink?”

  “No, I took one at the club. I came with no set purpose, I warn you,” Stratford said with a laugh. “Oh, I suppose my time with Braxsen has made me melancholy enough to bring me here. There are soldiers on leave who do not wish to go back,” he enunciated with dry humor. “They don’t know what restless work it is to be concerned only with one’s own affairs.” He raised his eyes to his friend. “Do you have plans to go back into the field?”

  “I should not mind it, but the work here is too delicate to turn over to someone else.” Ingram dusted the letter he had just written and, when he’d closed the envelope, melted some wax and pushed his ring to seal it.

  Stratford stared out the window, content to drift off in his reverie, but Ingram broke it. “So you don’t wish to be here and settle down. Now this is a side to you I’m surprised to see. No, no—” Ingram held out his hand in a placating gesture. “I do not think you a coward, nor a sluggard. It’s just … ever since I’ve known you, you wanted nothing more than to lead a quiet life. Marry, raise a family, and establish yourself. I understand your joining up. No one could blame you. But now you have the chance to start a family, and I’m surprised to see you still fighting it. Not every woman is Judith, you know.”

  Stratford leaned on the armrest, chin in hand. “My heart’s not in it,” he said, finally. “Nothing’s ever enticing when it’s forced.”

  “Remove the pressure,” Ingram advised. “You’re no more in need of having to marry now than when you were twenty-one. Go hang it if the estate goes to some distant cousin w
hom you don’t even know. Why should that trouble you? Find yourself someone you like to talk to.”

  Stratford looked at him strangely. “Is that what you’d do?”

  Ingram shrugged. “Well … when the question comes up …” His voice trailed away as his gaze drifted to a spot out the window.

  Stratford thought he would say no more, but Ingram reverted to their former subject. “So Braxsen does not wish to go back. Have you heard any rumblings about people who are discontent with the war? Or who’ve heard of others who are? In other words, any leads?”

  “Nothing unusual. I think Braxsen was upset his brother was killed at Badajoz. He’s unhappy with Delacroix’s presence in the club, though why he should rail about it now I don’t know. Delacroix’s been a member nearly as long as I have.”

  “Unsurprising,” Ingram replied. “As my father used to say, the compassion the last generation felt toward escaping Royalists must naturally come to an end when the two countries go to war. Some who’ve resettled here never lost their heritage.”

  “No,” said Stratford. “But Delacroix is not one of them. He has no ties to the Continent that I know of.”

  “Did he not go in oh-two?” Ingram picked up the letter he had sealed and tapped it against his palm.

  “I was still at Cambridge. Didn’t know him then.” Stratford, seeing that Ingram was collecting his gloves, stood. “People are apt to be edgy in war,” he said. “It will pass as soon as we carry the victory, and the young men go off on their Grand Tour once again.”

  “Save that sentiment for the women folk,” Ingram said. “You know as well as I do this victory is far from being sure.”

  “Perhaps better, since I was on the field longer,” Stratford replied. “But faith is being certain of what you do not see. And where there is no faith, there is no victory.” He pressed his hat on his head and turned toward the door.