Miss Richardson Comes Of Age (Zebra Regency Romance)

by Counts, Wilma

  “Oh, how very romantic,” gushed Mrs. Sawyer.

  “Wordsworth, no doubt,” Annabelle muttered sourly to herself. But she smiled blandly and answered coherently when someone directed a specific question to her.

  Luke approached and Annabelle gave him a broad smile of welcome and bade him sit with her in the windowseat.

  “Thought you looked a bit out of sorts,” he said.

  “What? Me? Never,” she said. “Besides, has no one bothered to inform you that that is not exactly a conversational ploy to use with a lady?”

  “I thought that sort of nonsense applied only to ladies on whom one had designs.”

  “Are you telling me you no longer have designs on me?” she teased.

  “I think you cured me of that,” Luke said. “I like you better as a friend anyway.”

  She impulsively squeezed his arm. “Oh, Luke, I am so glad. I have much more need of a friend than a suitor.”

  He looked into her eyes with the sincere devotion of friendship. He patted her hand on his arm and they went on to talk animatedly of other matters.

  She looked up to catch Rolsbury looking at them. She could not read his expression, but she thought it might be disapproving.

  Very late in the evening, when they had already bade their guests good night, Thorne sought out his younger brother and offered him a nightcap of brandy.

  “You must have something on your mind,” Luke said and Thorne thought he detected a hint of trepidation in his tone.

  Thorne finished pouring and handed his brother a glass. “I have. I have been thinking of what you said several weeks ago.”

  “About what?”

  “About your being nearly of age and your capability of deciding certain matters for yourself.”

  “Is that so?” Luke sounded confused.

  “I merely wanted you to know that I shall put no obstacles in your way should you wish to pay your addresses to ... well, to any young lady.”

  “I ... I do not quite understand.”

  “What I am trying to say is that, should you decide to marry, I will not stand in your way. Nor will I deny you access to your fortune in that event.”

  “Oh. Well . . . that is nice to know—gives me a deal more freedom, does it not? Annabelle will be surprised. I told her you were a great gun!”

  This comment confirmed Thorne’s view of the relationship between his brother and Miss Richardson.

  The next morning Annabelle arose to discover it had rained during the night; in fact, there was still a fine drizzle coming down.

  “The weather has effectively postponed our picnic outing,” their hostess announced with regret at breakfast.

  “Never mind, Lady Conwick,” Aunt Gertrude said. “I feel certain we can all busy ourselves indoors.”

  And so they did.

  Annabelle knew the gentlemen gathered in the billiards room located on the ground floor. It opened onto a covered terrace, thus allowing them opportunity to go out and smoke occasionally. The ladies all gathered in the drawing room where Helen Rhys played the pianoforte softly as others sat around reading, doing needlework, or playing cards. Annabelle sat at a small writing table which had a pull-down leaf with a blotting pad. Behind the leaf were concealed quills, ink, and other paraphernalia for writing. A drawer beneath contained fine vellum paper with the Rolsbury crest. She had been intending for some weeks to write Mr. Murray. Only lately had the idea for a new book jelled in her mind and now she burned to get it down for his approval.

  She wrote quickly, dipping the quill pen repeatedly as her fingers fought to keep up with the words forming in her mind.

  “Oh, dear!” she murmured softly as the quill slipped from her fingers at one point, sending scattered splatters of ink across the page. She sighed and began to recopy the page, finally slipping the damaged page to the bottom of the stack of paper. When she was finished, she folded her letter carefully, sealed it with wax, and slipped the missive into her pocket. She would ask Marcus to frank it for her later.

  She then wandered over to the card table where Celia and Letty were at play with Mrs. Sawyer.

  “Will you join us, Annabelle?” Letty asked. “ ’Tis more fun if we have partners.”

  “Oh, yes! Isn’t it just?” Celia gave a naughty giggle.

  “Celia, dear, do behave,” Letty admonished as the others laughed.

  Annabelle joined them and they passed the time until luncheon was announced.

  By noon the rain had stopped and most of the guests welcomed the chance to be outdoors in the clean-smelling air. A number of the gentlemen went off for the afternoon to hunt pheasants. Other men stayed behind to accompany their ladies on ambling walks along the graveled paths in the Manor’s extensive gardens. In the evening, when the gentlemen rejoined the ladies after dinner, there were more card games and a lively game of charades.

  As she climbed into bed, Annabelle thought that, all in all, it had been a very pleasant day. Not once, so far in the visit, had anyone even mentioned Emma Bennet or her work.

  The next day dawned sunny and bright and the picnic was back on the day’s schedule. The abbey ruins—remains of a once-magnificent achievement of man—were enhanced by the magnificent achievements of nature that surrounded them—woods and a lake.

  The Rolsbury guests reached the site of the picnic after a carriage ride of a quarter of an hour. Several of the gentlemen, including their host, chose to arrive on horseback. The Rolsbury servants had already set up a table with covered dishes of food. And there were a number of blankets spread upon the ground.

  Off to one side, Annabelle noted that the hoops and pegs for a game of Pall Mall had been set into the ground and there was a basket with the colored balls and wooden mallets needed for the game. A net for lawn tennis had also been set up with the “court” marked out on the grass with powdered chalk.

  “Goodness! Rolsbury’s staff must have been out here at dawn,” Harriet commented as the vehicle carrying her, Celia, Letty, and Annabelle arrived at the picnic spot.

  “I would venture to say that the reclusive Earl of Rolsbury has outdone himself these last few days,” Letty said. “Oh, thank you, dear.” The marquis, the first of the riders to dismount, extended his hand to assist his wife and the other ladies from their carriage.

  Annabelle noticed that Thorne performed the same service for the ladies in the next carriage, including Helen Rhys. She immediately took herself to task for her recurring twinges of jealousy. She had never before resented others’ happiness or friendships. Why should he not seek out the blond beauty? They would probably be a good match. But this idea sent her spirits plummeting.

  “Annabelle!” Luke’s voice distracted her from that pointless train of thought. “Would you care to go on the lake?”

  “On the lake?” she asked blankly, looking toward the water.

  He laughed. “There are rowboats. I am not asking you to walk on water—though I daresay an angel such as you might manage such.”

  She grinned as he came to take her arm. “If you continue with such taradiddles, the devil will be after you!”

  Luke led her toward the lake. Sure enough, there were several rowboats that had been previously hidden by a small rise in the ground. He held a boat steady as she got in and sat down, then clambered in himself and used an oar to push the vessel away from the bank.

  Both were silent until they were some distance out. Annabelle looked back to the bank where the ladies’ colorful dresses and parasols stood out like bright flowers against the more staid greens and grays of their natural surroundings. She trailed her hand lazily in the water.

  “What a glorious day,” she said.

  “Thought you seemed a bit blue-deviled earlier.”

  “You, sir, are too perceptive by half.”

  “Do you want to talk about whatever is bothering you?”

  “Maybe—sometime. But not now. This day is too perfect to be marred with petty problems.”

  He gave her a penetrating lo
ok. “As you wish, fair lady. But if you need a friend’s ear, you know where to find one.”

  “Thank you, Luke. I am so glad we have come to that.”

  “To what?”

  “Being friends. I like you so much better as a friend ...” Her voice trailed off as she worried that she might be embarrassing him.

  “Better than a suitor, you mean,” he said frankly.

  “Well . . . yes.”

  She saw color flood his face briefly. “I suppose I was pretty obnoxious,” he admitted glumly.

  “Well . . . yes.” She deliberately repeated her words and smiled to take the sting out of them. “But I must own that such attentions were flattering, too. Mind you,” she warned, “I need no more such flattery.”

  “Never fear, my friend. I learned my lesson. If Thorne had not impressed it upon me, that Bennet woman’s ridiculous story would have done it!”

  “Did that story hurt you so very badly then?”

  “Truthfully?”

  “Yes, truthfully.”

  “At first I was mad as hops about it. People kept giving me these sly looks, you know. But then, after a while, I reread the thing. It really is pretty funny.”

  “Do you truly think so?”

  He chuckled. “Yes. Especially the part where the older brother was giving ‘Lester’ advice how to butter up a young lady with flummery.”

  Annabelle said nothing, but she squirmed inwardly.

  Luke went on. “ ’Course, Thorne didn’t think it was so funny—at least not then.”

  “And he does now?” She wondered if Lord Rolsbury would be able to forgive and forget.

  “I don’t rightly know. He hasn’t said anything lately. I imagine he’s still peeved about it, though. Thorne usually just blows up about things—and then it’s over. He has not been able to vent his anger at the unknown Miss Bennet, you see.”

  “Oh, I would not say that,” Annabelle argued.

  “You refer to that article he wrote?”

  “Yes, he was quite specific in his criticism there.”

  “I suppose he was.” Luke’s tone was rather vague. “Don’t tell Thorne, will you? ... But I didn’t read all of that article. Not my cup of tea, you see.”

  “Oh, yes. I do see.” She was silent for a few minutes, then a movement near the boat caught her attention. “Look, Luke! Look! There’s a fish. It’s hu-uge!”

  He laughed. “Not that huge at all. But this lake is full of carp and they can get quite large.”

  “Well, it looks big to me,” she said defensively.

  A number of others had joined them on the lake and there was some banter about the fish and competition among the rowers. Annabelle was glad to leave the subject of Emma Bennet.

  Thorne was very conscious of Annabelle’s going off with Luke. Was Luke even now attempting to advance his suit with her? Well, so be it, if that were so. And if he were to be successful? Well . . . Thorne had no idea how, but he would learn to live with such a possibility.

  Thorne had included on his guest list other young, single people in addition to his brother and Miss Richardson. There were the Rhyses, of course, as well as Clara Wentworth, a red-headed sprite who had made her come-out this Season. She had arrived accompanied by her parents. Thorne was well aware that the mama in that quarter harbored some hope of her daughter becoming a countess.

  He was therefore pleased but puzzled by Luke’s behavior. Having returned from rowing on the lake with Annabelle, that infernal boy joined a party including Miss Wentworth to go off hunting wildflowers. Later, Luke joined Miss Wentworth when the luncheon was served.

  The meal was an al fresco affair with the food arranged attractively on a table brought for that purpose. A server stood behind the table ready to offer assistance and replenish dishes as needed. Guests filled their plates and then found convenient spots at any of a number of rustic tables with benches that seemed permanent fixtures at this site. When they were settled, footmen offered them a choice of drinks.

  Seeing Annabelle momentarily alone, Thorne thought to join her, but he was waylaid by Helen Rhys.

  “Will you join my brother and me?” she asked brightly. “Oh, and do allow me to assist you, Thorne. I am sure that infernal stick of yours is most inconvenient.”

  He found himself rather resenting her ostentatious kindness. After all, had he not planned this affair carefully so that he would not need such assistance? Immediately, he also wondered why he felt resentful toward Helen. Had he not on previous occasions happily accepted such aid from Annabelle?

  Nevertheless, he joined the Rhys brother and sister and the Sawyers. The meal over, a number of guests, fully sated, stretched out on the blankets. Others took leisurely strolls around the abbey ruins. Certain couples chose this time to go rowing, and Thorne saw that Luke had taken Miss Wentworth out this time. Helen hinted strongly about going out on the lake, but Thorne managed to escape this by pleading duties as host. He made a small show of conferring with his aunt to cover what might otherwise appear to be rudeness.

  Lady Conwick chuckled softly. “That gel’s got to you, has she?”

  “I ... uh ... which one?”

  She laughed even harder, though discreetly, and leaned closer. “I wondered how long you would welcome those clinging ways. Miss Rhys has her eye on you—or I miss my guess.”

  “Aunt Dorothy! Do you never cease seeing possible matches in unmarried persons?”

  “No. Never.” There was not a shred of embarrassment in her tone. “I have never understood why anyone would go to a menagerie to watch animals cavort. Watching people is far more entertaining.” They sat in silence for a few moments, then she added, “You know, I have been forced to alter my opinion of Miss Richardson.”

  “Oh? In what manner?” He tried to sound casual.

  “Well, I doubt she is a fortune hunter.” This time her laugh had a touch of irony.

  “No. She is not.”

  “And—now that I have seen her in action, so to speak, I doubt she is one of those misses who measure their own worth by the number of broken hearts they leave in their wake.”

  “Is that so?” He made no effort to hide his amusement at his aunt’s change of heart.

  Lady Conwick’s tone became more serious. “But I fear that young lady is in for real disappointment in life.”

  “Why would you think that? She has looks, wealth, charm—all the attributes that sell well on the marriage mart. And,” he added softly, “she is intelligent, well-read... and ... and, well, interesting.”

  He knew he had said too much when his aunt cocked her head to the side and gave him a questioning look.

  “Well—they do. Sell well. Do they not?” He sounded lame even to himself.

  She apparently decided to let him off the hook. “Oh, yes. Those are worthy traits. But Miss Richardson is an all-or-nothing kind of person. She holds out for a love match.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I heard her talking with her friends, Mrs. Hart and Lady Winters. They were teasing her rather unmercifully about Lord Stimson.”

  “And . . . ?” he prompted, again striving for a casual tone to cover inward tension.

  “And she did not hesitate to put them in their places. Told them very precisely that she would never marry for any reason but love.”

  “Did she now?” He felt a heavy packet of lead lying in his gut. “Well, Luke—”

  “Luke!” Aunt Dorothy issued a decidedly unladylike snort. “No, the wind does not lie in that direction—any more than with Stimson. In three Seasons, that little gel has not found a direction. I wonder if she ever will.”

  Thorne did not respond. Was his aunt right? Was poor Luke doomed to disappointment after all? Why did that notion fill Luke’s brother with relief?

  He looked around and spotted Annabelle in the center of a small group. He saw her lean forward and pat Frederick Hart’s arm, then she threw back her head and laughed, her hair catching the sunlight.

  In that ins
tant, he knew. He was himself in love with Annabelle Richardson.

  Eleven

  So—the stalwart Earl of Rolsbury was not immune to Cupid’s capricious arrows. This discovery rocked Thorne mightily. He tried to hide it away, even from himself. However, for the rest of the afternoon, his eyes strayed to wherever Annabelle was and he noticed—jealously—whoever it was she talked or laughed with.

  When the day waned and chill threatened, the party returned to the Manor house. Throughout the evening he found himself looking first for Annabelle whenever he stepped into a room. Much, much later as he lay abed, he tried to examine this strange behavior. Then it hit him. He had, in fact, been doing these things for weeks. He fell asleep wearing a silly grin. The next morning he would ride with Annabelle again.

  Morning brought a wake-up of another sort. Here he was—looking forward to a meeting with Annabelle, but he truly had no idea of her feelings—or Luke’s. Years of looking out for Luke’s welfare and the more recent ones of watching and guiding as his younger brother bridged the gap between boyhood and manhood would not be forsworn. If Luke’s feelings were truly engaged. . .

  He shook himself. That was not likely. Had Luke not spent most of the previous afternoon with Miss Wentworth? Yes, he had—but he had also been Annabelle’s partner at a card table most of that evening. What was more—or what was worse from Thorne’s perspective—Annabelle always had a ready smile for Luke and the two of them seemed to enjoy a special camaraderie.

  Again, he shook himself. His whole world was turned topsy-turvy. Never before had he been in the untenable position of envying his younger brother!

  He reached the stables only moments before Annabelle arrived. He hesitated briefly before deciding not to ask a groom to accompany them. He might never again have time alone with her and he was in no mood to share her company. So what if they continued to bend the rules of propriety a bit?