The duke smiled. “Nonsense. I assume you haven’t yet put anyone in the nursery? I thought you must have overlooked that possibility. So the child and her nurse can be quite easily situated there. Mrs. Greeley can find a cot somewhere for Lady Reyne’s maid. Which leaves only Lady Reyne herself to be accommodated.”
“Only?” the duchess said. She sounded as if her teeth were gritted.
Lady Stone gave a little chuckle and turned to the military gentleman. “Five guineas says the duke wins out,” she said, not quite under her breath.
“There is still one empty bedroom in the main wing,” the duke said blandly. “Since my valet has kept it locked, I’m quite certain it is not in use.”
The duchess pulled herself up even straighter and puffed out her chest like a pigeon. “If you are referring to the empty room next to yours—the bedroom that will one day be used by your duchess—”
One of the bridesmaids gasped.
“—I think not, Simon. Not unless you plan to obtain a special license before the evening is over!”
The military gentleman rubbed his jaw and leaned down toward Lady Stone’s ear, but his voice resounded as though he were on a parade ground. “Make that wager ten, Lucinda, and I’m in. He won’t try to get past Iris on that one.”
“Sadly,” the duke said, “much as I would like to put your mind at ease, a special license could not be acquired on such short notice. I believe you will bear me out in that regard, Mr. Blakely?”
Until then, Olivia hadn’t noticed the vicar standing in a corner of the drawing room. In his plain black, Mr. Blakely seemed to fade into the shadows.
The vicar looked uneasily from the duke to the duchess, clearly trying to calculate if there was any way to agree with one while not offending the other. “I believe you are correct, Your Grace,” he said, and for a moment Olivia wondered which of the Somervales he was addressing. “Though I have heard a rumor since my arrival that the archbishop may be visiting somewhere in the vicinity. High Wycombe has been mentioned. If Your Grace were determined—”
The duke cut smoothly across the flood. “Rumor seems an inadequate foundation for making such a long ride with the outcome so uncertain.”
Olivia wondered what he would have done if the archbishop’s presence had been more than just a rumor. He’d find a different excuse to leave the archbishop in peace, no doubt.
“In any event,” Olivia said firmly, “I couldn’t possibly agree to use a room that is reserved for the future duchess.”
To Olivia’s surprise, the duchess eyed her with something resembling respect. “Your guest has far more common sense than you do, Simon. Lady Reyne, I am sorry to be so disobliging, and I am in your debt for understanding my predicament.”
The curly-haired young woman on the sofa stood up. “An easy solution is available, Your Grace—one that would suit everyone.”
“Yes?” The duke and his mother spoke at the same instant. Despite their very different voices, Olivia thought she heard an identical note of fear in each one, and she had to fight down the hysterical urge to laugh.
The duchess glared at her son before she turned to the young woman. “Do share your insight, Lady Townsend.”
So that was Lady Townsend, Olivia thought, the young woman Kate had called Penny.
Lady Townsend moved away from the slightly shabby gentleman who had been leaning over her on the sofa. “We—my husband and I—are perfectly content to share a room.” She laid a hand on the arm of a handsome dark-haired gentleman who had been standing by the mantel and looked at him with what appeared to be adoration in her eyes. “I would be happy to have my things moved into your room, my dear, unless…”
For the barest instant, the gentleman beside her looked as if the mantel had come loose from the wall and tumbled onto his head.
Lady Townsend went straight on. “Unless you would prefer to come to me instead and leave your bedroom free for Lady Reyne to use?”
***
By the time Etta had finished pulling, tugging, poking, and prodding, Penelope was relieved to go down to the drawing room to face Halstead’s other guests and wait for the dinner hour to arrive. Most of the company was assembled already when she came in, but she barely glanced at the other faces once she noted the earl was not yet present.
Kate gently freed herself from yet another of Colonel Sir Tristan Huffington’s seemingly interminable stories about the war.
Penelope said, “I’m sorry, Kate. I had intended to help you today, and then I… well, I forgot entirely.”
“It all worked out. But I’m longing to know where you disappeared to instead, you and your husband. How lucky you are to be able to just go—without chaperones or… And what has happened to you, Penny? You seem so different.”
Penelope couldn’t stop herself from giving a little squeak. If Kate could see at a glance that something enormous had taken place today…
“Indeed she does.” Andrew Carlisle lifted two glasses from a footman’s tray and handed one to Penelope. “I was just telling myself you’re looking even more delightful than usual tonight, Lady Townsend, very sleek and modish. What have you done differently with your hair?”
Kate rolled her eyes and walked away.
Penelope knew she should have been relieved to discover that her unusually glossy curls, and not her afternoon in bed, were making people notice her. No doubt Andrew Carlisle had really meant that she’d been quite the antidote before Etta had arrived to take her in hand, but Penelope couldn’t find space in her heart to care what Mr. Carlisle thought. Or perhaps her lassitude was only because Etta had laced her corset so tightly tonight that Penelope had no room for anything. For the other women in the room, the discomfort of being limited to shallow breathing might have been a small price to pay for a compliment—but not for Penelope.
“Tell me how you and Charles found things at Stoneyford,” Andrew said.
Penelope considered. The earl had been so secretive about his intentions to visit his estate that she suspected few people had any suspicion how bad conditions really were at Stoneyford. Was Andrew Carlisle fishing for gossip? “Much as he expected, I believe.” She kept her voice expressionless. “Relatively unchanged from his last visit.”
“If the situation has not grown worse, it is good news. Come and sit down and tell me all about it.” He guided her to a long sofa and sat down beside her. But after a few minutes of jumping up repeatedly as each new lady came into the drawing room, he gave up his seat with a smile and leaned against the back of the sofa instead.
“I think your questions would be better directed to my husband,” Penelope said.
“You’re plainspoken, my lady. It’s a refreshing attribute, you know. Very well, if you don’t wish to speak of Stoneyford, we shall not. How is it you had lost touch with Miss Blakely?”
Suddenly, as surely as gravity pulled a dropped handkerchief to the earth, Penelope’s gaze slid to the doorway where her husband stood.
Always before when Penelope looked at him, she had seen the earl—aristocratic, elegant, perfect in dress and bearing. This time she saw him differently—as a young man bearing up under burdens she could not imagine. She could even detect traces of the boy who had watched helplessly while his inheritance was ruined.
His gaze flicked past her and on to the group by the mantel, and a moment later he joined Colonel Huffington and Lady Stone.
Penelope bit her lip. How easily he had dismissed her!
Andrew Carlisle leaned a little closer. “If I might offer a word of advice, my lady. A little lighthearted flirting with another gentleman often brings a husband’s attention back where it belongs.”
Was she so very obvious? “Your knowledge of such things must arise from your vast experience as a flirt, Mr. Carlisle, since I believe you have exactly none as a husband.”
He grinned. “That’s precisely the way to do it, ma’am! Now you lean a little closer and smile at me as if I’ve amused you greatly. And if you could manage just
a tiny giggle…”
Penelope couldn’t help laughing. “You do amuse me greatly, Mr. Carlisle.” However she behaved, she told herself, the earl would probably not notice. He had turned his back toward her to concentrate on the colonel. So she might as well occupy herself in whatever way she could find to make the endless hours pass more quickly.
“Amusing people is my greatest talent,” Andrew Carlisle confided.
“And I am persuaded your willingness to be of assistance to a lady has no connection with your desire to discourage the attention directed at you by the bridesmaids.”
“I believe I have already been successful there.” His gaze roved over the guests. “Yes, not a one of them is paying me the slightest heed. Being a mere wage-earner has advantages, my lady.”
“But are you fulfilling your promise to the duke by taking yourself out of the running?” Penelope looked up archly only to realize Andrew Carlisle was not looking at her any more. She followed his gaze to where the duke and Lady Reyne had just appeared in the arched doorway.
No wonder Mr. Carlisle was staring, she thought. Even in an outdated dress, Lady Reyne had a presence Penelope herself would never be able to command.
Her flirtation with Andrew Carlisle had died aborning, before she could take it too seriously. She let her gaze drift once more to her husband—only to realize he, too, was focused on Lady Reyne.
Penelope told herself not to be silly. She wasn’t jealous. Every eye in the room, not just those of the gentlemen, was upon Lady Reyne. The way the duke and his mother were squabbling—with level voices and perfect manners, to be sure; but the truth was they were squabbling all the same—over whether Lady Reyne should remain at Halstead or be sent home to her dour little cottage had drawn everyone’s attention.
Penelope knew she couldn’t have handled the strain with anything like the calm Lady Reyne did. Perhaps that was the true difference between ordinary people and the quality.
She looked back at the earl, and this time she couldn’t pretend she wasn’t feeling green with envy. If just once he had looked at her in the way he was studying Lady Reyne… But he was her husband, and there was no changing the fact. Perhaps she should act the part.
“Lady Reyne, I am sorry to be so disobliging,” the duchess said, “and I am quite in your debt for understanding my predicament.”
Penelope stood up. “An easy solution is available, Your Grace—one which would suit everyone.” She felt the gaze of every person in the room turn toward her. The enormity of what she was about to do made her light-headed, and she took an instant to get her balance before she moved slowly toward her husband.
“We—my husband and I—are perfectly content to share a room.” Her timing had been impeccable; before her words had a chance to register, she laid her hand on the earl’s arm and turned her face up to his with what she hoped looked like adulation. “I would be happy to have my things moved into your room, my dear, unless you would prefer to come to me instead and leave your bedroom free for Lady Reyne to use?”
The earl’s arm twitched under her hand. “What the devil are you thinking?” he said quietly.
Penelope didn’t bother to lower her voice. “Only that you are always so thoughtful of a lady in need. Surely you would not want to see Lady Reyne be required to undertake the journey back to the village late at night.”
The duke seemed to be trying not to laugh. “It’s very generous of you, Charles, even though I’m sure you’ll be… ah… suitably rewarded for your selflessness.”
Penelope noted the morose look on the earl’s face. Was he struggling to keep from pointing out that he was not the one who had made the offer, generous or otherwise?
Colonel Huffington nudged Lady Stone, who looked disgruntled. “That’s ten guineas you owe me, Lucinda. I told you the duke wouldn’t buck his mother.”
In the doorway, the butler cleared his throat and announced dinner. The ladies gathered up their possessions, and the gentlemen began to seek out their dinner partners.
The earl stood frozen. “We will discuss this later.”
Penelope’s knees were quivering, but she kept her voice level. “Yes.” She flipped her fan open and looked at him over the lace trim. “I just made certain of it.”
Twelve
Perhaps the duchess had tired of her experiment in seating her dinner guests purely at random, Kate thought. Or maybe the addition of a few more gentlemen had encouraged her to return to the usual pattern of arranging her table by rank.
Though Kate realized where that system would place her—toward the center of the table, well away from the titled guests who clustered around the duke at one end and the dowager at the other—she hadn’t given thought to the question of who her dinner companions might be. So she was startled when Andrew Carlisle bowed before her in the drawing room and offered his arm.
“You?” she said, before she could bite her tongue.
Andrew merely looked thoughtful. “Surely you’re not suggesting the duchess could have erred in her calculations of our respective ranks? Let’s see. The daughter of a vicar and the younger son of a baronet… Ponsonby, Chadwick, and Warren all outrank me, so…”
“I was not impugning Her Grace’s manners, merely regretting the way I snapped at you earlier, Mr. Carlisle. Under the circumstances, it cannot be comfortable to be dinner partners.”
“No, Kate. I am the one who must apologize for asking uncomfortable questions.”
The knot inside Kate’s stomach unclenched a little. He sounded sober, thoughtful, and considerate.
“As for going in to dinner together,” Andrew went on, “I think Her Grace is correct that we make a good match.”
She shot a wary look up at him. Surely he didn’t realize how suggestive he’d sounded. On the other hand, he had not missed the opportunity to flirt with Penny or to stare at Olivia, so he might see pretending to dangle after Kate as mere practice.
She tried once more to escape. “You’re certain no bridesmaid requires your escort?”
“None of them wants me any more.” Andrew sounded pitiful. “I was too successful at discouraging them before you came up with your plan for me to marry the richest one. Which of them would that be, by the way?”
“So you can set about ingratiating yourself with her? If I knew, I wouldn’t tell you.”
Andrew smiled. “I wonder why you have had such a change of heart. But I suppose I must not put you to the blush by asking why your scheme to marry me off to an heiress no longer appeals to you.”
Kate stared at him for a moment, speechless. How had he taken a firm refusal to participate in his game and turned it round to imply that she was flirting with him? “I should think not. Let us change the subject, Mr. Carlisle.”
“As you wish, my Kate. Perhaps later—in private—you will explain.” As they walked across the wide entrance hall, he nodded toward the head of the procession, already at the dining room doors. “Lady Stone looks quite put out. Do you suppose she is trying to renege on her wager?”
“I think she’ll pay the Colonel and then attempt to recoup her losses from Penny.”
“It does seem hard on Lady Stone. She had a sporting chance, I think, until Lady Townsend stepped in to prevent the question from playing out.”
“Yes,” Kate murmured. “Lucky girl.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Had she truly spoken the thought aloud? “Oh, I just meant this entire household has been scrambling to accommodate the number of husbands and wives who are required to attend Lady Daphne’s wedding together but who prefer not to share a roof.”
Andrew’s voice dropped to an intimate whisper. “Much less a bed. Yes, I see what you mean. How interesting that you, too, feel Lady Townsend is lucky in her match. As for the idea of a wife wanting—to put it in delicate terms—to share a room with her husband… Miss Blakely, have you any idea how exciting it is for me when I hear you speak of such things?”
Delicate? He didn’t know the meaning of the wo
rd. “And have you any idea how improper you are to speak of it, Mr. Carlisle?”
But they had reached the dining room, and he showed her to a chair next to the vicar’s.
Just when I was thinking things couldn’t get worse, Kate reflected. She noted the sparkle in Andrew’s eyes and braced herself.
The gentlemen sat down, and as the scrape of chairs faded, to be replaced by the soft clink of serving spoons against china, Andrew said, “Miss Blakely, I hope you were able to remove the moss left on your skirt by this afternoon’s adventure.”
The vicar’s ear perked up and he turned toward Kate, ignoring the young woman with whom he was supposed to be conversing over the soup. “Adventure? My dear Miss Blakely…”
Andrew leaned across her to confide, “I regret to say she appeared to have rolled in the stuff, Vicar.”
“Mr. Carlisle exaggerates. Miss Horatia is waiting to speak with you, Mr. Blakely.”
Andrew settled back into his chair and waited while the footman served their first course. “I don’t think the vicar will thank you for reminding him of his manners,” he said softly. “Did you see the way his jaw went white? Did you get rid of the moss, by the way?”
Over the venison, the vicar questioned Kate about moss stains and the accident in the abbey until she was ready to scream. But eventually, he seemed to accept that she had comported herself like a lady and not a trollop, and he ended by congratulating her for her Christian sacrifice of a riding habit.
“I notice,” Andrew pointed out when she turned back to him with the start of the next course, “he didn’t offer to loan you money to replace it. Tell me, Kate—now that you know the vicar better, do you think he’s truly a man of God? Or does he simply think he is God?”
Kate’s head was starting to pound.
After dinner, as the ladies returned to the drawing room, she had the first opportunity of the evening for a word with Olivia or Penny, who had been seated at the far ends of the table.
The Wedding Affair Page 19
