by Claudia Dain
She watched carefully this time and could make out that George did something very subtle involving the angle of his chin and a single eyebrow. The footman, the same one this time, reappeared with his tray. She rid herself of her empty glass and reached for a full one. George took a glass as well, though he did not look at all eager to drink from it.
Ah, well. His loss.
“Miss Elliot,” he said, “I don’t know if you’re aware, indeed I should be much surprised if you were, but Edenham spoke with Sophia Dalby and that has, at least lately, resulted in certain highly unlikely marriages being made at what some would say is an alarming speed. My own sister to Iveston for one.”
“Oh, I’ve been made aware, Mr. Prestwick,” she said, waving her glass in the general direction of his face. “What you may not know is that I have spoken to Sophia Dalby. I shall not be wed. Not to Edenham. Not to anyone here.”
She said it with some pride, a great deal of certainty, and not a little annoyance.
“I see,” he said, looking down at her, his brow furrowed in concern.
Clearly, he was concerned. He didn’t want her to marry the most handsome duke in England, did he? Of course he didn’t. He couldn’t marry Edenham himself, obviously, and his only sister was just this day married to an heir apparent, which would simply have to do, wouldn’t it? That die had been cast. If Penelope had wanted Edenham, she should have put her back into it, that’s all.
“You are confident that Lady Dalby will . . . take your part in this?” Mr. Prestwick asked.
“Why shouldn’t she? I asked for her help and she was very glad to give it,” Jane said, sounding just the slightest bit soggy to her own ears. She looked at her glass. It was empty. She tucked her chin down and raised both eyebrows. No footman appeared. Stupid English footmen. “I take it that no one else thought to talk to Sophia directly when they found they’d been . . . targeted?”
“I don’t think so, no,” Mr. Prestwick said, a smile starting to replace his frown. Good. He was no longer concerned. But she did wish he’d do that dip, lift motion with his face that resulted in a brimming glass of Madeira.
“How silly of them,” she said. “When trouble comes, one must face it, Mr. Prestwick! One must bring one’s cannons round and blow the matches! One must act, Mr.
Prestwick!”
“I completely agree,” he said. “What happened after you acted, Miss Elliot? Did the Duke of Edenham simply . . .
sink?”
“He foundered, Mr. Prestwick, make no mistake of it,”
she said, pressing her glass against his chest for emphasis.
Rot it, she’d meant to point to his chest. She did hope she hadn’t got wine on his shirtfront. Where was the deuced footman?
Oh, there he was. She set her glass down with barely a clink and reached for another. George Prestwick raised his sable brows, yet kept his mouth closed. Good man. One didn’t need a man who didn’t enjoy the benefits of a lovely Madeira at a wedding. Ruined the mood completely. How nice for Penelope that she had a brother who knew how to enjoy himself, and was clever enough to allow others to enjoy themselves.
Not at all like her brothers, naturally. Her brothers, now that she considered it, were complete rotters. Sailing the globe, having adventures, leaving her at home with Ezekiel and his heavy hands. If a girl was going to be left home, leave her with some handsome bloke, some man who knew what he was about. Someone not unlike Edenham.
Oh, not Edenham himself. No, no, no. He was not at all the sort of man a woman wanted. He’d been married too many times and had all those children. Why his nursery must be enormous! How else to fit in the ten or twelve Williams and Sarahs and Ophelias he had stashed in there, hiding under beds and behind the drapery. Simply too many, too much, too handsome, too charming, too willing . . . oh, yes, too exceedingly willing. Why, a woman wanted a man she had to fight for! A man who went down swinging. A man who showed the slightest hesitation to . . . what did they call it here? . . . get leg-shackled, that was it. A man who ran to the altar, what was that to a woman? He was clearly marriage-mad, marry anything that moved, wouldn’t he? Put him next to a black swan and he’d run to the parson with his coat on fire. No, it was all wrong. A man should only be eager because the woman inspired eagerness.
Desperation would be even better. Yes, a desperate man was precisely the sort of man she wanted to marry. He should be desperate to have her, but only her, not skipping to the church because he had a habit of marrying.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard it phrased in that particular way before,” George Prestwick said.
“I beg your pardon?” she said, holding her glass to her breasts. It felt suspiciously light. She looked down. It was empty again. Oddly small glasses for a wedding. She would have thought Aunt Molly would have been more generous to her guests on such a special day as this. Yet another difference between their countries. In America, at least the guests were kept well watered! Where was that footman . . .
“I don’t think anyone has ever before described the Duke of Edenham as having the habit of marrying,” Mr.
Prestwick said. “It might be quite apt.”
Oh, mercy. But of course she hadn’t meant to say any of that out loud, but now that she had, well? It was all true, wasn’t it? She’d stand by her words. She had a right to her opinion, didn’t she? She was the equal of any man here.
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal . . . Just so.
“The evidence seems quite compelling to me,” she said.
“But I wouldn’t think of presuming to speak for you, Mr.
Prestwick. No, you must form your own conclusions. But the evidence, Mr. Prestwick! The evidence!”
“Quite so,” he said, smiling. “Three wives and two children. He might well be a man out of control.”
Two children? Oh. That wasn’t so many, was it? The cooper they used most frequently had fifteen, but of course, he was much older than Edenham, had a head start, in a manner of speaking.
“How old is he, do you think, Mr. Prestwick?” she said, her voice hushed as she leaned toward him. Mr. Prestwick took her glass from her hand and passed it to a footman.
Oh, now he came round. Typical. “He must be horribly old, yet he does seem to be wearing it well, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know, Miss Elliot,” George answered her. “He’s reached his majority, that much I vouch.”
“Oh, don’t be coy, Mr. Prestwick,” she said, leaning back from him. “I shan’t think less of him to find that he’s well above forty or even fifty. A man matures. It is nothing of which to be ashamed. I know a man who’s been married five times and he’s not yet sixty! Edenham is well on his way. Quite enthusiastically, too, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Happily, Miss Elliot,” he said, waving the footman away. Wave him forward, man, forward! But no, off he went. Jane sighed and gave Mr. Prestwick a most reproach-ful look. “You do seem to have enjoyed meeting the duke.
And he you, naturally. Did you get on well? Find common ground between you?”
Jane stood as straight as a stick and said solemnly, “I always enjoy meeting new people, Mr. Prestwick. I am very, very cordial. Which cannot be said of everyone, if you take my meaning.”
“I’m not sure I do, Miss Elliot,” he said, a very worried look skittering over his brow. Dear man, to be so concerned. How nice that he was in the family now, although by a very thin thread stretched over a very great distance.
“Was the Duke of Edenham not cordial to you? He gave every appearance of it.”
“Ha!” she said, nodding vigorously, which gave her a most unappealing fuzzy feeling between her ears. “Ha, again I say, Mr. Prestwick. The appearance of cordiality is not the same as a true and proper attitude of pure cordiality. I have been cordial. Edenham has been . . .”
“Yes?”
“Familiar,” she whispered. “Not at all the same. I trust y
ou comprehend the difference?”
“Most assuredly, Miss Elliot,” Mr. Prestwick answered.
“I confess to being quite astounded. I can assure you that he does not have that reputation here, and certainly no history of excessive familiarity with lovely young women. Perhaps you inspired some sharp emotion within him?”
“Are you suggesting that I am responsible for his shoddy behavior, Mr. Prestwick?” she said a bit loudly. Yes, well, she’d been hideously insulted, hadn’t she? This man was in her family? Thank Providence that an ocean separated them. “I had thought better of you, Mr. Prestwick. I had thought you exceptionally cordial. Now I cannot but wonder if you are to be ranked in the same class as Edenham.
And by class, of course I mean, rank.”
He looked confused. Preposterous. Her meaning was entirely clear.
“I am sorry if I have offended you, Miss Elliot. It was the farthest thing from my intention.”
“Intentions are slippery things, Mr. Prestwick,” she said dolefully. “In this country the Proclamation of Intention is very often used to smother a host of offenses. I speak, of course, of A Proposal of Marriage, which if done poorly, and even you must admit that it was done most poorly, is the most thinly veiled of insults. I trust you take my meaning.”
By the puzzled look on his face, it appeared he did not.
“There are many women who would welcome a proposal of marriage from the Duke of Edenham, no matter how it was delivered. I think you might not realize how very desirable it is to have gathered a duke to your breast, loosely speaking,” he said.
“To my breast, Mr. Prestwick?” she said, her voice booming with all the gentleness of a musket shot. “To my breast? I think you must apologize, sir, or I shall call you out. I’ll permit no man to talk about my breasts, no matter how desirable they are.”
The room was very crowded and many people had listened to the exchange between Miss Elliot and Mr. Prestwick; this last statement settled silence over the room like a shroud.
“Miss Elliot,” Prestwick said, his voice quite low as his eyes scanned the room, “I apologize most ardently. I meant no disrespect to either your character or your person. I misspoke and beg your indulgence.”
“My indulgence is given,” she said with queenlike dignity, if she did say so herself. “I do think the wine has affected you, Mr. Prestwick. A steady hand, there, if you please. I distinctly dislike being offended, particularly in regards to my . . .” She waved one of her hands in front of her breasts, nodding at him conspiratorially. He hadn’t meant any harm, she was certain. Mr. Prestwick was quite cordial as a general rule. “Now, about the insult I’ve been dealt by Edenham. I do think you have missed my point, sir. He has pronounced, has he not? He has proclaimed. He has decided. Ha!” she burst out, shaking her head at him. It made her dizzy. She stopped immediately. “He has not proposed. He has not . . .” What was the word she was looking for? She couldn’t think of it, but she knew he’d bungled it badly.
“Pursued?” Prestwick offered.
“Suffered,” Jane said grimly. “A man must suffer. It is in their suffering that they are made great.” She gave Mr.
Prestwick a most dire stare. And then she smiled and said brightly, “I heard a sermon on that once. It made a profound impression upon me.”
“I can see that it has,” Prestwick said, smiling. He was a smiling sort of man, was Mr. George Prestwick. She liked that about him. It reminded her of Joel.
“Something to do with fire and dross and gold,” she said. “Most moving, most illuminating. I do think Edenham should be put to the torch, metaphorically, of course.
Although . . .” Her face grew gleefully grim just thinking about it. Not at all the face one wore to a wedding celebration. She righted herself almost immediately, hoping that Aunt Molly hadn’t seen her.
Where was Aunt Molly? Wasn’t she a good deal responsible for Edenham plopping her down on that bed? Who’d arranged for the bed to be in that room, anyway, if not Molly? Oh, yes, a fine turn at playing Machiavelli. No wonder her mother had insisted she bring a small and tidy firearm with her to London. As it was in her bedchamber, it had done her no good at all against Edenham. Perhaps she could lure him upstairs to her room? Given his pen-chant for bedchambers it didn’t seem at all a difficult thing to accomplish.
“You do not think he suffered at the hands of your brothers, Miss Elliot?” George asked, his black eyes glittering with good humor. As they were laughing at Edenham she found his humor quite well developed.
Jane made a dismissive motion with her hands, and it should be noted that no matter what she did with her hands or her face, no footman appeared with a tray of wine, which did stink of collusion, did it not? “A touch, Mr. Prestwick, the laying on of hands in a nearly spiritual sense, wouldn’t you say? What were they supposed to do? Allow that man to put his hands on me with impunity? Never, Mr. Prestwick. We Elliots hold ourselves to a higher value than that.
One may not, even if he be a duke, behave with impunity toward an Elliot. I am an Elliot, Mr. Prestwick. I shall not be—”
“Undersold?” George said.
“Mr. Prestwick, this is not the marketplace and I am not a loaf to be carted home from the ovens,” she said sternly.
“You seem to be of a mind with that duke. Could that be possible?”
“I hardly think so, Miss Elliot,” George said cheerfully.
“I am merely the son of a viscount. Edenham is a duke. We could scarcely share one mind.”
Jane shook her head at Mr. Prestwick in woeful disappointment. “All men are created equal, Mr. Prestwick.
Believe it, for it is true. You must not make light of yourself.
Nor, equally, more of Edenham. He is hardly worth it.”
“Miss Elliot,” he said softly, “I can see that you have formed a firm opinion of the Duke of Edenham in a matter of hours. I should think he has done the same of you. You two do seem to have found a connection of sorts, a sympathy of hearts, perhaps?”
“Hardly that, Mr. Prestwick,” she said.
How utterly absurd. She only knew Edenham well enough to dislike him thoroughly, though if he could be made to suffer she was certain she would like him far better. It was a problem, seeing to his suffering, though she did have such energy for it. What could she accomplish if she only put some small effort into it?
Arrogant, power blind fool, to try and force her into marriage by way of ruination. She was no woman to be forced to anything! She was an Elliot. She could not be forced.
Damned silly way to get a woman anyway. Couldn’t he simply put forth the effort to win her? Oh, she didn’t want him, but as he wanted her, by his own words, couldn’t he work for her?
Suffering. The man was shy on suffering. Not of the heartrending sort, for clearly he’d endured enough of that, but of the man-making, backbreaking, sweating blood sort.
The simple, healthy sort of suffering.
Jane smiled just thinking about it.
Twenty-one
It was the worst luck that Louisa was standing not fifteen feet away from her mother-in-law Molly, a woman who had not quite warmed to her, which was the usual way of things, wasn’t it, when Blakes, his brother George at his elbow, accosted her with a cold gleam in his blue eyes and a very sharkish quality about his movements. Blakes was often sharkish. It made dealing with him a bit of a tussle. It made being married to him deliciously unpredictable. Now did not look to be one of the delicious times.
“What are you trying to do to Jane?” Blakes said under his breath, taking her by the arm and pulling her across the blue reception room into the music room. As she had been quite on the opposite side of the room, it made for quite a march.
“Nothing!” she said, which was practically true.
“You made some sort of wager with her,” George Blakesley said.
“Nothing of the sort,” Louisa said stiffly, giving George a look of pure outrage that she was being
so maligned.
George was tall and rather severe-looking, quite an arrogant man given that he was merely a third son. As Blakes was a fourth son, his lack of arrogance was readily explained. Blakes, Lord Henry as the world called him, was not arrogant precisely, but he was sharp. As sharp as a blade or a shark’s tooth. Far more chilling than being arrogant, not that George seemed to have discerned that.
All that to explain why she was not at all intimidated by George and far more careful of Blakes. Shark’s tooth: That did say it all. “I would never bet money with a relative,”
she said.
Blakes narrowed his eyes in that way he had when he’d caught her out. “Not money, then, but what? What have you done, Louisa?”
“Nothing. I am hardly a liar,” she snapped, turning to walk away from him. Blakes grabbed her wrist until she turned back to him. If they weren’t in a crowded room, for the music room was full of people, even if far fewer than the blue reception room, this wrist-grabbing argument might have led to interesting destinations. She could see that Blakes was thinking the same thing. She did love that about him, as well as everything else.
“We shall not waste time in listing all the things you deny being,” he said. “Why is Jane pursuing Edenham?”
All thoughts of lovemaking fled. Louisa’s mouth dropped open and she snatched her hand out of his grip. “Jane pursuing Edenham? If that isn’t just like a man. Can’t you see that he’s nearly falling out of windows for her? Why, the man hasn’t taken a straight step since he first saw her. Jane is moments away from running down Piccadilly to avoid the man!”
“An overstatement,” Blakes said. “Kindly stick to the facts. You tricked her into pursuing him.”
“Lady Lanreath overheard you discussing it with Amelia,” George said, apparently thinking he was the final nail in the coffin. Men. How could anyone communicate with them when they simply insisted on seeing things through their own distorted lens?
“If I tricked her into anything,” Louisa said, “and I’m hardly admitting to that, it was only to give her a reason to give him a chance to pursue her, and that after he made a dribbling fool of himself over her first! Pursuing him, indeed.”
