However, to Stratford’s surprise, it was not Mr. Richards who headed toward them, but Mr. Amesbury. He directed a quizzing glance at Major Fitzwilliam.
“It was Richard’s idea,” the major said. “He was called away on urgent business, and when he met Mr. Amesbury at the club, who’d just returned to London, and discovered Amesbury was—” Fitz paused, trying, it seemed, to keep a straight face, “a great favorite with the ladies of the party, he thought it a perfect way to make up for his absence without skewing our numbers.”
Stratford directed his gaze to Miss Daventry, and she returned it with a long-suffering look that had him choking back a laugh. She could say plenty with one look. Well, he would not have chosen Miss Daventry’s past suitor as an ideal companion for their outing, but it would not hinder him from spending the day with her.
Amesbury rode up. “I believe I have beat my own record by a full two hours in having left my premises at such an ungodly hour. Worthing.” He nodded and seemed about to greet the rest of the party, but caught himself when he came to Miss Daventry and settled instead for an all-encompassing nod.
Phoebe was delighted with the day ahead of them, and not even Mr. Amesbury’s dour face could mar her enjoyment. Having redistributed the supplies for their picnic, Stratford gave the order to move forward, and they set off. The London streets were sparsely populated this early in the morning, and it was not long before they’d left town and rode down the country lanes that led to their destination.
“Who’s got the picnic basket?” Anna asked her sister.
“Stratford has provided it, and he’s given a portion to Major Fitzwilliam to carry and another to Sir Braxsen,” Phoebe responded. “Lydia was in charge of bringing the blankets we are meant to sit on, although I don’t see if she’s got them. Never mind. We shall contrive somehow.”
“If Lydia remembered, I shall own myself astonished. You know she’ll be the first to cry out when she realizes it. She can’t bear to be seated in the dirt and ruin her dress.” Anna’s face showed what she thought of such paltry behavior.
“Lydia will have to learn to get accustomed to dirt if the major’s suit prospers, as I expect it will,” Phoebe said. She sat up in the saddle and breathed in the smell of freshly turned earth.
“The major’s suit.” Anna looked at her askance. “She will never accept him. I don’t see how he dares pursue her. Ingram won’t stand for it.”
“Anna,” Phoebe returned with a rare smile of smug complacence. “How little you pay attention. Next you will say our brother does not mean to add to our sisterhood by taking a wife.” She looked pointedly at Eleanor, who was riding ahead with Stratford.
Anna’s face took on a belligerent look. “Although I prefer her to Judith, I cannot see why he must needs get married now. What can he possibly see in her, apart from a bit of land that will add value to his own? I grant you, some men will marry for such a thing, but not our Stratford.”
Phoebe looked at her in surprise. “Are you so opposed to the match? They will suit very well.” Anna looked unconvinced, and Phoebe continued. “She’s not a flirt, she’s not a scandal-monger, she’s not bracket-faced …”
“I agree with you. She is none of those things,” Anna said, with no trace of her usual teasing. “But what is she? She’s not vivacious, she’s not taking, she’s not witty. She is nothing. I can’t picture our brother hitching himself to her.”
“She is one who will love our brother back,” Phoebe said, simply.
Anna’s jaw was set and her eyes were unusually somber. However, she had no time to reply as the group heard voices calling out to them.
“Hallo! What’s this? Have you had the same notion as us to get up a picnic in the country to enjoy the fresh air?” Phoebe and Anna turned to see a party of four, led by Judith Broadmore and Sir Delacroix, with a redheaded woman and a dandy of a gentleman trailing behind. The party pulled up short to greet them, and Phoebe saw shock register on her brother’s face.
“Shall we join parties?” Judith asked.
“Of course we shall,” Mr. Amesbury said, his eyes on the other woman riding with Judith. “The greater the number, the more entertaining the party.”
Stratford looked at Mr. Amesbury for a long moment. Then, after glancing at Miss Broadmore, he clicked his tongue and his horse shot ahead.
Eleanor watched the earl gallop to the head of the party and sought comfort in the fact that he had barely afforded Miss Broadmore a glance. Eleanor rode alone, as the only available gentleman was Mr. Amesbury, and he studiously avoided her, preferring to attach himself to Miss Redgrave, never mind that the gentleman she had come with was shooting daggers at Mr. Amesbury with his eyes.
Lord Worthing slowed his horse’s steps and eventually came to a halt while he waited for the others to catch up. Lydia rode past with Sir Braxsen, and Major Fitzwilliam followed, entertaining both Anna and Phoebe Tunstall. When Eleanor came abreast, the earl matched her pace.
“For a moment, I forgot that this was a day for company,” he said, “and that I was fortunate enough to have yours.”
“It is of no matter.” Eleanor turned to face him with a bright smile. “We have the day ahead of us.”
Lord Worthing returned her smile and then called out, “Look ahead,” and pointed to the open countryside in front of them. “Now we shall have a good run.” Eleanor had been waiting for only that, and though the earl had had a head start, she quickly matched his pace.
The party reached the fortress just before noon, and when they set up the picnic, Lydia discovered she had indeed forgotten the blankets. “Never mind,” she said equitably, “although I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you all.” She darted forward to take the portion of the picnic lunch, handed to her by Major Fitzwilliam. “A simple fare,” she exclaimed, “It is just as I would wish.”
Since Lydia appeared to be on excellent terms with the major, Eleanor could only surmise her earlier indifference had indeed been due to jitters that had now passed, and she was glad for Major Fitzwilliam’s sake. She was glad for Lydia’s too. He would be good for her.
“How did they find an imposter who so resembles our Lydia,” Anna muttered just loud enough for those around her to hear. Lord Worthing laughed out loud.
Stratford was content watching Miss Daventry fill her plate and then lean back to take in the scenery around her. She presented a charming picture. Lunch was simple with cold meats and hard-boiled eggs, cut tomatoes, and wedges of country bread. However, they did manage to bring some dishes of jelly that had been carefully packed so as not to spill.
Mr. Amesbury and Sir Braxsen’s attention to Miss Broadmore and her friends was so thorough, Stratford had managed to avoid all notice of the interlopers. He did spare a moment to find humor in the gentlemen’s rivalry for Miss Redgrave’s attention that had caused even Braxsen to put aside his distaste of the “foreigner” and mingle with Delacroix. Now, Sir Delacroix’s foppish friend offered to entertain them all with a game of charades, and his proposal was met with resounding enthusiasm.
Stratford stood. “You will not miss two from the party, I hope.” He looked at Miss Daventry. “There is a patch of tulips that are growing wild near the ruined farmhouse over there. Would you care to come help me gather them?”
Miss Daventry glanced at the others in the group, then grasped his outstretched hand and stood. “I believe it would please Lady Ingram if we did not come back empty-handed.” As they walked past the others, Stratford noticed the calculating look in Judith’s eyes, but he ignored it. Nothing would distract him from today’s pleasure, and now, walking with Miss Daventry, he felt as free as the open field before them.
“It’s a fine day,” Miss Daventry said, taking brisk steps, as one accustomed to walking. She sounded as happy as he felt.
“It’s fine company I keep,” he responded. “May I?” He held out his arm, and she put her hand in it so that he was able to pull her close. When they approached the swath of color, part of which had been
hidden from view by the dip in the land, he took pleasure in her gasp of surprise. At one point, these tulips had been planted, but over the last century, they had spread into a riot of colors of all sizes.
“Where shall we begin?” she asked, wide-eyed.
“Here,” Stratford said, and he bent down to snap the stem of a white tulip, the tops of whose petals were tinged with pink. “We will start here, and I will gather a bouquet so enormous that when I present it to you, you will be hard-pressed to see over your horse’s head to ride home.”
“How thoughtful,” Miss Daventry murmured, and with a mischievous grin, added, “You do like enormous bouquets, my lord.”
He had to laugh. She had not forgotten the apology bouquet he’d sent to the Ingram drawing room. “For that trick, ma’am, we shall have a competition. I propose that for one quarter of an hour, we go our separate ways. I will attend to the patch of tulips on the other side of that hedgerow, and you gather safely here in full view of our party. When I return, whomever has gathered the most … unique bouquet wins.”
“And what is to be the reward, my lord?” she asked, her face turned up in earnest.
Stratford’s gaze flicked to her lips, then to her eyes again, the corner of his mouth lifting. “That remains to be seen.”
Miss Daventry’s eyes widened in surprise, but Stratford turned before he could see more of a reaction. He did not want to tempt fate. Beyond the hedgerow, there was a patch of black tulips, purple ones, and yellow so deep as to be gold. He would create for her a bouquet made of these three varieties.
Eleanor had finished gathering a large bundle of tulips in a multitude of colors. She stood and looked around, her arms as full as she could carry, but didn’t see Lord Worthing on the other side of the hedge. She had gathered so many tulips, it was nearly impossible to carry them all, but she was determined to leave not one behind.
Looking down at her awkward bundle, she laughed at her folly in having tried to win their little contest. Reward, my lord? Or punishment. The smile died on her lips when she saw Miss Broadmore heading her way carrying a basket.
“Miss Daventry,” Judith said. “I noticed you’d gone off without bringing anything to carry your flowers. I’ve brought you a basket. You may put your tulips in here to carry them back to our picnic.”
Eleanor mistrusted the gesture coming from someone who had never been kind to her, but with her hands full of cut blossoms, the green stems threatening to stain her riding habit, she had no choice but to accept the offering. “Thank you. You are right. We did not come prepared.”
“I aim to be of service,” Miss Broadmore replied. Darting a glance toward the hedgerow, she added, “You’d best return with your flowers and find a method of transporting them so Lord Worthing may use the basket in his turn.”
Eleanor held the handle with one hand and carefully placed the tulips in the basket by twos and threes. It allowed her the moment’s reflection she needed to decide how to respond. Insisting she stay behind to wait for Lord Worthing would be equal to declaring her regard for him in front of his former fiancée. She could not do it.
“Very well,” Eleanor said. Turning, she walked toward their group.
Stratford had gotten his tulips arranged in just the way he wanted them, with the blacks interspersed with purples encircling the golden ones in the middle. He rounded the hedgerow, eager to see Miss Daventry’s reaction to his offering, but instead nearly ran into Miss Broadmore. Impatient, he searched the field beyond her, already having an inkling she had scared away Miss Daventry.
“I brought her a basket to carry her tulips,” Miss Broadmore said. “Have no fear. She will empty the contents into something suitable and will walk back to meet you. In the meantime, would you allow me to put my hand in your arm, my lord? The ground is uneven, and I’m afraid of twisting my ankle.”
Stratford couldn’t refuse. He shifted the tulips to one arm and held out his other arm. Having performed this service, he walked as quickly as he could with Judith hobbling alongside him.
“Wait, Stratford,” she said in a sharp voice. “You will be the one to cause me to fall if you force me to gallop about at this pace. Only think how tiresomely slow it will take us all to get home then. You won’t be able to attend to your Miss Daventry.” Her last words came out in a sneer.
“You knew it was over between us,” Stratford said. “The nature of my current interest is none of your concern.” He could see Eleanor ahead, her back to him as she searched through her saddlebag. For something to hold the flowers, he thought. What a stupid thing not to have brought spare baskets with me. Beyond her, the party was still caught up in the game of charades.
Judith’s voice brought him back to his surroundings. “You didn’t even give us a chance,” she said, her voice low and angry. “I’ve changed, and it didn’t occur to you to notice. To think I turned down Lord Garrett for you.”
Startled, he faced her and pulled her hand out of his arm. “That was foolish. I would not have had you do that after three years with no contact between us. How could you know whether I still had any feelings for you or whether I’d moved on?” He strode forward while she struggled to keep up.
“You could not have,” she hissed. “You were at war, and there was no time for a betrothal.”
They were almost upon the party, and Stratford shook his head. “Still. It was most foolish of you, Judith.”
The game of charades was at its peak with Phoebe making the most ridiculous gestures by twisting her fingers to make spectacles around her eyes and then pointing to her legs.
“A monkey.”
“A rabbit.”
“I’m sure this is not decent,” Phoebe protested.
“My great-aunt Helen!”
There was a round of laughter, and Phoebe stood with her hands on her hips. “Bluestocking,” she said in exasperation. “It was bluestocking.”
“You’re not supposed to tell us,” Lydia said. “You’re ruining the game.”
“Stratford has returned with his treasure, and I’d enough of making a fool of myself,” Phoebe replied, glancing at his tulips.
Stratford, his mood spoiled, was anxious to start back. “Come. Let us saddle up our horses. We’d better get a start if we are to return before tea.”
When everyone had begun gathering their belongings, he sought out Miss Daventry, glad that no one had made a comment about his bouquet. She was giving a lump of sugar to her horse, but she turned as he approached.
“Miss Daventry,” he said in a low voice. “This is your bouquet, but I will not make you carry it, of course. Can you guess what it is?”
She looked at his artfully arranged bouquet in blacks and purples, with the deliberate point of gold in the center, and shook her head.
Stratford raised an eyebrow. “Think on it, and hazard a guess. And only then I will tell you,” he said.
Eleanor could only wonder what had transpired between Lord Worthing and Miss Broadmore, but whatever it was, it gave her cause for hope. Upon his return, Lord Worthing had sought her out immediately while Miss Broadmore, eyes glinting, marched over to Sir Delacroix and leaned over to whisper something to him.
On their ride home, Lord Worthing spoke little to Eleanor, but neither did he leave her side. The two groups parted ways at the street where they had chanced upon Miss Broadmore earlier, and their own party reached the Ingram house in time for tea. Fatigued by emotions as much as exertion, Eleanor put her reins to the side, preparing to dismount, but Lord Worthing jumped down from his horse to assist her. His gaze held hers as he reached his hand up to help her alight.
Retaining Eleanor’s hand in his, he passed the reins to the stable boy and led her to the shaded awning. She could hear the major asking Lydia about the Skeffington ball, but they were shielded from view by the edge of the mews.
“Have you divined the meaning of my bouquet?” Lord Worthing asked.
“You expect your answer so soon?” she asked. “No, my lord, I cannot hazar
d a guess.”
His eyes searched hers, and under his scrutiny, her chest rose with quick breaths. The earl seemed to accept her answer because he asked, instead, “Lady Ingram said you will attend the Skeffington ball?”
Eleanor nodded, breathless.
Lord Worthing took a step closer. “I would like to escort you into dinner there,” he said. “I find that I’m increasingly desirous of your company and have little enough chance to enjoy it.” Before she could respond to his words, or even register them, he reached up and touched his gloved fingers to her cheek. “Will you save the dance before dinner for me?”
“Yes,” Eleanor whispered. Her cheek tingled, and she could feel a coursing joy sweep through her, tugging at the corners of her mouth.
Then Lord Worthing leaned down, his cheek close to hers, to whisper, “The bouquet is a metaphor.”
He stepped away. “Till Thursday then, Miss Daventry.” Tipping his hat, he strode to his horse and called out to the footman standing by. “You there. Take these flowers and bring them to Miss Daventry’s room. Provide some water for them.”
Eleanor stood, rooted to the spot. She was not sure she could move, even if she tried. Five days. She must wait five days.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Eleanor dressed for Mrs. Skeffington’s ball in a state of dreamy anticipation. She had hoped to catch a glimpse of Lord Worthing in the days before the party, particularly at Mrs. Penniwraith’s assembly, but he did not make an appearance. At least, he didn’t come before they took an early leave, the crush proving too much for Lady Ingram.
Her selection of new dresses had dwindled to nearly nothing, but she chose with an eye to looking her best and settled on a sage green gown, cut in a low square neckline with lace extending from the cap sleeves. Lady Ingram’s maid curled her hair and attached a necklace very like emeralds, but in paste, to match the dress.
A Regrettable Proposal Page 26
