The lazy sweep of her eyes over his features had him thinking she might agree to let him do that, too.
“One more thing,” he held her back before she left him, stiff and throbbing with need of her.
“Anything.”
“Hmmm. May you always say that.”
“To what?” she asked, part imp, part wayward angel.
“Do not come near me in the village.”
“No?” She swayed closer as if he mesmerized her. That he had that ability filled him with pride. “Not to dance round the pole and wish each other good harvests?”
“No dances round any pole, Mary. Our harvests together will always be bountiful.”
Her lively blue eyes went limpid. “Blake, you are a devil.”
“Go,” he said, a glance at others in the room who took notice of their conversation. “Tonight is ours.”
* * *
He waited a good five minutes before he turned to leave. Just as he would have gone, Millicent Weaver strolled into the salon.
“Good morning, Miss Weaver.” He’d had a few minutes of conversation with her last night during dinner. But he’d wished for more privacy than the table allowed. This was the finest opportunity to speak about a topic that was dear to him.
She had a book under her arm, her reading spectacles in her hand. “Good morning, Captain. Or should I now address you as Lord Bridges?”
“In truth, my status is not confirmed. I may leave the service, but have no firm idea yet of my future. Bridges will do, Miss Weaver.” He extended a hand toward two chairs. “May we sit and talk?”
“Yes, of course.” She was a willow in form, tall and lithe. Her hair, the color of gold with bold sun-bleached streaks around her heart-shaped face. He could see how his friend Langdon would be drawn to her beauty. From what he’d said of her, she had a shy demureness to her character as well. Save for the last unwise business which had torn them apart.
“I understand this is your second time here at the Frolic.”
“Oh?” She looked curious as to who might have told him that, but she did not ask. “No. Really, it is my third. My last visit was in May of ‘fourteen.”
The opening he’d hoped for. “Might I assume you are then the same Miss Weaver who met a friend of mine here that year?”
Suspicion clouded her hazel eyes. “Who is that, my lord?”
“The Earl of Langdon.”
She sucked in a breath. “Yes, I know him.”
“He spoke of you with high regard.”
“Did he?” she asked, but clearly did not believe him.
“I assure you, he did. He was most unhappy that he had to return to his duties before he could pursue his friendship with you.”
“Was he?” That, too, sounded skeptical. She smoothed her hand over her book. “I wonder if you could tell me if you are still in communication with him?”
“I was. Until a few weeks ago. Only lately have I returned to England and so my mail, I am certain, sits in Paris.”
“I see.” She did not know where to look to escape the riot of emotions that ran over her delicate features. “Might you…? Would you please tell me how he is? I heard of his injuries and I am most distressed about him.”
“He recovers, though slowly.”
“I’d understood he returned home to Cranfield Haven last summer. I remember how he loved it and I hoped he’d recover quickly there.”
“I understand he does.”
“But his arm… Has he regained use of it?”
She knew quite a bit about him and that indicated her continuing interest in Langdon. “Not completely, no.”
She shot backward in her chair. Pain drained away her curiosity. “I am very sorry to hear that.”
“Miss Weaver, I hope you will forgive my forwardness if I tell you that—”
She put up a hand. “Do not criticize me, please. I do that enough myself.”
“He cares for you, Miss Weaver. If you could find it in your heart to write to him, he—”
“I have written, sir. So many letters. So many… He does not reply.”
That saddened him. “I’m sorry. I did not know.”
Her gaze snapped to his, bold and hard. “What happened between us was my fault, Lord Bridges. I was silly, and asked a friend of mine to help me make James jealous. I take full responsibility for it. It turns out that I did a very good job of it. So good, I destroyed what fine opinion he had of me. I shall forever regret it.” She got to her feet. “So if you’ll excuse me?”
And without waiting for a reply, she left him where he sat.
* * *
The guests strolled the country lane to the small village of Ablemore. Mary craned her neck to try to spot Blake in the crowd but did not see him. Nor did she spot Lord Charlton. Worry beset her as she wondered if Charlton had stayed at the Hall with Fifi. That would cause tongues to wag.
“Are you looking for Lord Bridges?” Ivy came abreast of her. “He’s gone ahead with Lord Collingswood.”
She nodded.
“No need to keep it a secret. We know you like each other. Quite well, I add.”
“I do.”
“Ah. I see. We will not speak of it lest we jinx it. Fine, fine. Another subject then? Good. I hoped Fifi might join us.” Before Mary had dressed to walk to the village, she’d gone to Fifi’s door and knocked. Welles had answered and told her that Fifi met with Esme in the orangery at Esme’s request. That sparked alarm in Mary because the cousins always quibbled. This time, if Fifi still clung to her belief that she should have Northington as beau and husband, the two women had much to argue over.
“I understand Fifi is to take the pony cart here in a few minutes.”
Ivy leaned closer. “Did you know she and Esme talked just now?”
Mary felt a frisson of apprehension. “I do. I hope it was peaceful.”
“For once, you mean?” Ivy looked skeptical. “Esme told me last night she wished to make amends with Fifi.”
“Do you think she means it?” Mary had her doubts. Esme never seemed to regret anything she did in regard to charming men. Any man.
“Grace says so. She’s always been closer than the rest of us to Esme, closer than you to her, too. Grace believes love and marriage has made a woman of our capricious girl.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Someone who manipulates others is not a person you want to call friend.”
Ivy’s remark stung. Not only because Mary had never been so critical of Esme, but also because she worried that hers and Fifi’s charade was silly. Pretense interfered too much in the normal course of relationships and she should not have suggested a charade to Fifi. Even at that, she failed so far. She’d failed two years ago when Millicent Weaver asked for her help to make Lord Langdon jealous. She should have known then to stop. Millicent had cared for the earl more than she’d known. After their quarrel, he’d returned to the Army and been wounded, badly. Millicent faulted herself for that. She attended here again this year, looking like a ghost of her former self. “Do you think of Esme as controlling?”
Ivy’s bright emerald eyes lit upon her, hard as stone. “Don’t you?”
Mary’s heart clamped. Ivy had never been so pointed with her. Did she know what I’d done to separate Millicent and Langdon? “I thought of her as…peculiar.”
“I always used the term ‘coy’.” Ivy frowned and yanked at her gloves. “It’s true. Call me judgmental and unforgiving, but Esme was cruel when she was younger. I didn’t like her. Grace claimed what she wanted was attention. Needed it.”
Mary shook her head. “Odd. Her mother gave her enough to cosset ten girls.”
“Exactly. She learned to crave it. Plus she’s beautiful. Men always thought her a diamond. Even when she was twelve. And she invited them to admire her. As if she’d flirt with any man. I didn’t like that in her. It felt…unsafe.”
“She hasn’t done that for years.”
“No.” Ivy said the word as if it wer
e a minor concession. “But don’t you wonder if she loves Northington?”
“She does. I had a letter from her the other day. She’s never been so frank with me. I believe she truly wants to be friends with Fifi and show her that she does care for Northington.”
“Let’s hope he returns the sentiment.”
“What do you mean?”
Ivy searched her gaze as she fought some inner battle. “Ugh. All right. I’ll tell you. Grace told me the other day that Esme fears he marries her for her dowry.”
Mary’s mouth fell open.
“I know,” Ivy said with no satisfaction. “That worries me too.”
“Esme believes he loves her.”
“Wouldn’t every bride want to believe that?” Ivy asked, but didn’t sound as if she were convinced.
“Why would she think he wants her money more than her?” Mary halted in her tracks.
But her father’s words about the Duke of Brentford rang in her ears. Years ago when her father wanted to improve the land above the river, he and Brentford had had a falling out. “Brentford will spend a fortune to live like a king, but won’t spend a penny on his own coffin,” her father had complained. “He’d rather rot in the earth in his shroud and leave his creditors to bankruptcy.”
“Look at that.” Ivy nodded toward Northington. The marquess stood before the May Pole and there in broad afternoon sun, Northington—dark and gruff and angry—argued with his future father-in-law, Lord Courtland.
“I don’t know,” Ivy speculated and opened her parasol with a whoosh. “Perhaps if we knew what that altercation is about, we might have insight. But frankly, I don’t want to learn.”
“Esme must have had reason to believe he did love her. She wouldn’t have agreed to marry him otherwise.”
“Not even if her mother demanded it of her?”
“No.” Mary was certain of that. “Esme would not marry for a title.”
“I hope you’re right. Because if he doesn’t love her and she does not love him, they may both have more problems than they do at the moment.”
“Oh, Esme would never commit…” Mary could not finish.
“It happens. You know it does, Mary. And if he doesn’t love her, do you think he’ll stay committed to his vows?”
Mary could not bear to answer.
Chapter 8
How she got through the afternoon, Mary had no idea. She smiled and applauded the young village girls who pranced about the green in their pretty pale gowns, their colorful hair ribbons a trail of rainbows. When they took the ends of the wide ribbons attached to the top of the rough-hewn pole, a ten-foot tall oak the men had cut down from the nearby copse, they were sprites of spring. The smaller children sang simple songs welcoming bright hope of coming harvests, and took their own turns winding the ribbons round the trunk while minstrels played in the streets. Men of the village followed in a parade, bells sewn on their padded shins, in rhythm to the music of drummers and flutists. The music was gay, some of it—said many villagers in the lanes—old as Queen Bess. The beer and ale flowed.
The sky opened now and again in a downpour, straight as needles to the ground. And stopped in a minute only to return a third time. The rain was enough to refresh everyone but not to discourage them all to return home.
The clock in the tower headed for half one o’clock when Blake appeared at her side. They’d stood side by side for a few minutes as the mummers danced past them, but then Blake had gone off to talk to Lord Courtland and she, to talk with Grace. Still she kept him in view. In his navy frock coat and green waistcoat and buff breeches, he was mouthwateringly handsome. She pondered what it would feel like to dance in his embrace again. And forever more. To dance as other women did with confidence in their style. With confidence that the man who held her wanted her there for all the days to come. Tonight, might she risk believing in those possibilities?
“I’m returning to the Hall,” he said, his voice low. “I’d love for you to come with me, but we would set everyone to talk.”
“Our conversation this morning at the piano was enough.”
“Not for me,” he said and wiggled his brows.
“Go!”
She counted the minutes after he’d gone. She had to follow soon, because she worried. Not about him. No, never. But Fifi had never arrived. Nor had Esme. Or Charlton.
“I’m returning to the Hall.” She told Ivy and Grace.
“I’ll go with you,” Ivy said. When they were on the path, she offered her apologies. “I didn’t intend to be so mean. Forgive me.”
“I will admit I found your views…interesting.”
“You think me a witch.”
“Never.”
“I say, may I join you ladies?” Winston was upon them, a smile for Mary and a grin for Ivy.
“We’d like that,” she said to her cousin. And though she knew he returned to the Hall to have the meeting with Northington and Blake, she joked, “Do you return to take a nap, dear sir? You must be rested to dance with us tonight.”
“I plan on many dances. With each of you, I hope.”
* * *
Mary descended the grand staircase, her new ball gown of thin India muslin, flounced with rich Chantilly lace and satin tucks, swishing round her new white kid shoes. Tonight she imagined herself appealing. Never had she done so before. Blake was responsible for that and her fluttering heart picked up a pace as she reached the bottom of the stairs and caught appreciative looks from a few gentlemen. If Blake insisted she dance with him, she was prepared to show off her flair for contemporary fashion, if not her agility on the floor.
Her anticipation battled with her fears for Fifi. Welles had assured her as she dressed Mary’s hair that Fifi was well, but wanted no visits from Mary. She honored her friend’s wishes, but worried that Fifi was cutting herself off from friendship in an hour of need. Unable to contain her curiosity, she’d asked if Welles knew anything about Esme after her meeting with Fifi. Welles told her that neither young lady had appeared downstairs since their meeting this morning.
“But Fifi comes to the ball, doesn’t she?” Mary feared she’d sit in her room all night. Alone, too.
“She does. She says I am to see to all your needs first.”
“Kind of her.”
“It is.” Welles avoided Mary’s gaze.
“She doesn’t want you to talk about her, does she?”
“No, my lady.”
Mary nodded, unhappy at that. Did Fifi not trust her? Millicent didn’t and with good reason. “I won’t attempt to change her mind.”
Welles gave her a small smile that revealed vast relief.
Mary had left her room, having told herself she’d done what she could for her friend. And now, she must focus on what to do about her own desires for Blake Lindsey.
* * *
Tonight the guests in the house gathered for champagne before the footmen opened the ballroom doors. Lady Courtland had come round to each of them during the village celebrations to tell them that they’d hold no receiving line. “We shall not be so formal to do that. But my husband and I will open the ball ourselves with a few of our friends. A country dance for four, I think. Do join in. We shall introduce our Esme and her fiancé for the next set.”
Mary took a flute of bubbling wine and drank heartily. Courage—and hopefully dexterity on the floor—came in a wine glass. Tonight she needed all she might get. Her friends from school felt the same as they clustered together, each one emptying her glass with a grin. Ivy and Grace were deep in debate with Willa Sheffield, who’d arrived just as Mary had returned from the village. Esme spoke with Millicent Weaver. Both of them looked far too involved with some topic to welcome another in their midst, so Mary strolled toward their hostess, Lady Courtland. In the far corner on the dais, the orchestra played a sedate little tune. Mozart. Soothing, too.
“You look charming, my dear Mary,” Esme’s mother was always gracious to her. “A new ensemble?”
“Do you like it?
”
“Your signature lace. Your mother would approve.”
Mary regarded the lady with a rueful laugh. Her mother and Esme’s had been such good friends that one knew the other’s thoughts without uttering them. Truth was not fragile between them and since her mother’s death, neither had it been between Lady Courtland and her. “You don’t really think that.”
Lady Courtland chuckled and took a sip of her champagne. “She regarded your love of lace as one you should’ve outgrown.”
Mary sighed theatrically. “She’d be so disappointed.”
“Not in your choice of men.”
Mary’s gaze strayed to the sight of Blake who appeared on the threshold. Tonight, in his black evening clothes and elaborate white stock, he upheld the ideal of a man to be claimed. Across the expanse he saw her, held her gaze with his own blue fires and acknowledged her with a discreet nod.
“He does steal one’s breath,” the lady confided with an elegant lift to her delicate brows.
“He was even more devastating in his Army uniform.”
“I might well imagine.”
Northington appeared beside Blake. As dashing in a darker, more menacing way, the marquess spoke with Blake as he scanned the ballroom and locked on the vision behind Mary. That was Esme. She did hope he sought out Esme.
“You are pleased with this marriage, aren’t you, my lady?” No sooner were the words from Mary’s lips than she wished them back.
“I am,” she admitted without guile or forethought. That she had stated it so promptly shocked Mary as much as her own spontaneous question. “She loves him. And would have him. I wanted a different man for her.”
That took Mary aback and she drained her glass to counter her surprise.
“Are you as stunned as I?” The lady faced her, a blank expression ruling her features.
“That she loves him?”
“That she takes him to husband all of her own volition. You know me and Esme too well. All of you girls know me. How I pushed her. But in the past few years, I cannot any longer move her. I wanted the Duke of St. Martin for her. He is much more agreeable.”
Lady Mary's May Day Mischief: Four Weddings and a Frolic, Book 2 Page 7
