Let Me Be The One

by Jo Goodman

  "Deuced uncomfortable. But it is our lot to suffer in silence. I am told it impresses the ladies." He glanced sideways to measure the effect of his words. Elizabeth appeared vastly unimpressed, which Northam approved of immensely.

  What Elizabeth found to her liking was his plainspeaking. "I am not wearing a bonnet," she said in the manner of a confession.

  "I noticed." His gaze passed briefly over her hair. She was not strictly a brunette. Streaks of gold lent her hair a permanently sun-kissed coloring. It was one of the first things he noticed about her. Those strands of glinting, curling gold were what caught his eye each time she peeked out from behind her easel. "Would you put it on if I said I objected?"

  Elizabeth did not answer immediately. She gave the question serious thought. "You know," she said finally, "I do not believe I would."

  His eyebrows lifted as he challenged her in dry tones. "Not even if I commented on the spray of freckles appearing on your nose?"

  She shook her head. "I don't freckle."

  "Then for the simple protection of your fair skin from the sun?"

  "No, not even then. Not today. It is a glorious sort of day to be bareheaded, is it not?"

  "Indeed."

  Elizabeth felt the urge to laugh again. She gave in to it because it seemed so natural and right, as if surrendering were a victory of a kind, not one that came in the aftermath of a battle, but one that arrived in the course of time, like spring treading lightly on the heels of winter. She could not say that, of course. He could not possibly understand what she barely understood herself. Still, he was in some way responsible for this moment, while she could take comfort that she finally had the capacity to enjoy it.

  Northam picked up the threads of their earlier conversation regarding his friend Eastlyn. "As to the matter of his lordship, the marquess, what I meant was that without Marchman, South, or me being present at the baron's table... well, it is not the same thing at all. There is a tendency—regrettable, some would say—to encourage one another in certain lapses in conduct."

  Elizabeth pulled her gaze away from Northam's forearms before he noticed she was staring. They were not nearly so pale as her own and the fine hairs that covered them were like gold dust. She concluded this was not the first time this summer that his lordship had rolled his sleeves to his elbows and enjoyed the out of doors in a more natural state. "Lapses in conduct," she murmured before her thoughts continued down a most wayward path. "I suspect you are putting a good face on it. No doubt you were all terrors in your days at Hambrick Hall."

  "Terrors?" He shook his head. "No, not even the worst we could come up with would inspire someone to call us terrors. We were..." He paused, searching for the right description. "Cheerfully annoying."

  "I see. And now?"

  "Now we are simply ill-mannered."

  Elizabeth laughed. "I rather doubt anyone thinks so, else you would not be so in demand."

  "In demand?"

  "Oh, come now. There is no need to be modest. You must know it is quite a coup for the hostess when you accept an invitation."

  "Are you speaking of me alone, or of me and my friends?"

  "Actually I was referring to you all individually because, in truth, I did not know you were fast friends."

  "So the baron and baroness are very well pleased to have all of us here?"

  "Well, yes. Can you doubt it? Though I don't understand about Mr. Marchman. I don't remember writing out his invitation, and I cannot say with any certainty when he arrived."

  "West came as a favor to me—with our hostess's blessing, of course. It seems she answered this correspondence on her own."

  "As she is wont to do from time to time. I do wonder that she never mentioned it to me." The oversight was odd. The baroness usually made a point to apprise her of all changes. "He was not at dinner last night either." And his absence had not caused the same disturbance that Northam's and Southerton's had. Clearly Lady Battenburn hadn't been expecting him until the picnic.

  "No, he is only here for the day. When we finish our business he will be leaving."

  Though curiosity goaded her, Elizabeth could not inquire about the nature of their business. "Why do you call him West?"

  Northam shrugged. "We had to call him something, and the other directions were already taken."

  Northam. Southerton. Eastlyn. It was easy for Elizabeth to imagine that as a young boy at Hambrick, Marchman must have despaired of fitting in. "Poor Mr. Marchman."

  "I would not refine on West's tender feelings too long. He will grow into his name the same as we all have."

  Elizabeth's brow puckered. She turned to look at Northam. "What do you mean?"

  "I was not Northam at Hambrick," he said.

  She expected more in the way of explanation, but Northam fell silent. He was not looking at her, but staring out across the stream to the bank, the field, and the wood beyond. She followed the direction of his gaze and could see nothing remarkable to capture his attention. Birds fluttered in and out of the boughs, making them dip and sway. A rabbit stilled in the grassy bank, his senses made wary by the slow, halting progress of a snapping turtle up from the water.

  In profile Northam appeared unapproachable. The lines of his face were drawn with sharp, bold strokes. There was nothing forgiving about the set of his mouth, no weakness in the hard cast of his jaw. He did not seem to be thinking so much as steeling himself. Even his nose, with that slight bump on the bridge, was thrust forward aggressively. Only his long dark lashes, in perfect contrast to his thatch of sun-colored hair, made him seem in the least vulnerable.

  Then he turned on her, and every impression of a granitelike countenance faded from Elizabeth's mind. He smiled easily, a trifle sheepishly, and offered an apology for woolgathering. Elizabeth accepted him at his word and did not challenge his explanation. She did not believe for a moment that his mind had been anywhere but in the present. He had not been collecting his thoughts. He had been collecting himself. Perhaps it had something to do with his business with Mr. Marchman, but she did not think so.

  "Had you many invitations for this time?" she asked. In honor of Wellington's victory at Waterloo three years past, invitations to celebrate barraged the ton like cannon shot. This was a battle from which Wellington himself would have run. Every hostess threw herself into the fray. A reputation for sponsoring the premiere event could be set for a lifetime or positively ruined by those who did not arrive at her gala. Thus far, the baroness had done very well for herself. The fortnight affair at her country home gave people time to come and go at their leisure. Over the course of the occupation—this was war, after all—the very best of society would collect at Battenburn.

  "Many invitations?" Northam mused. "It was impossible to remove oneself from the line of fire. But it was not difficult to decide among them. I very much wanted to be here."

  Elizabeth smiled warmly, accepting this on behalf of their hostess. "The baroness will be so gratified to know. To choose her party among all the others... well, you can imagine that she would take this as a high compliment indeed. You don't mind if I tell her, do you?"

  "Not at all, though perhaps you should not tell her the reason I wanted to be here."

  Elizabeth's smile faltered, then faded completely. A small vertical crease appeared between her brows. "I don't understand."

  "Don't you?"

  "I just said so, didn't I?"

  One of his brows lifted at the impatience communicated in her tone."Then I have overestimated your perceptiveness or been sadly lacking in my attention toward you."

  "I believe I am perceptive, my lord."

  He nodded. "I believe so, too. That means I have not made my interest clear."

  Elizabeth wished herself anywhere but where she was. The sun no longer seemed so warm, and beneath her fingertips the stone was cool. Her desire to leave was clearly communicated in her face.

  "Now I have made you uncomfortable," Northam said calmly.

  "No, it's just that—"r />
  "Please. Do not prevaricate. I can see plainly that you wish I had not spoken so openly. Perhaps I can ease your mind, since my interest has caused some offense."

  Elizabeth did not know where to look. She was mortified that he had so easily discerned her thoughts. She was not an artless ingenue. At six and twenty years she had learned something about schooling her features and presenting a public face. She had an urge to turn away, much as he had done earlier, until she was all of a piece again. Instead, she regarded him boldly and stayed her ground. She only wished there was something she could do about the color in her cheeks.

  "I am not offended by your interest," she said coolly. "Merely made suspicious by it. I am politely referred to as 'firmly on the shelf' since I marked my twenty-sixth year in April. I am regarded as a bluestocking because I continued to read and show an aptitude for studies after I left the schoolroom. While it is well known that a handsome settlement will accompany me into marriage, it is also well known that I have no wish to turn over the handling of my fortune. It has not escaped your notice that I am ungainly—some would say crippled. I am not the sort of companion one chooses for life, but rather for rounding out the numbers at a dinner party. And finally, if all of that were not enough to dissuade would-be suitors, my father is the Earl of Rosemont, a difficult and contentious individual in the best of circumstances. It stretches my imagination to think of the man who would embrace him as a father-in-law."

  Northam said nothing for a moment. He regarded her set face, the challenge in the almond-shaped eyes. He noticed that they were almost the same color as her hair, and like her hair, they were flecked with gold. "Indeed," he said dryly. "Then I count myself as much relieved that my interest in you is not in the nature of leg-shackling. I do not believe I would want the most disagreeable Earl of Rosemont as a member of the family."

  Some gremlin thought prompted Elizabeth to point out, "He certainly would not want you."

  Northam took no offense; rather he was amused. "It is just as well."

  "Nor would I," she added firmly.

  His amusement deepened, but he was careful not to reveal it. He was also more than a little intrigued. It was clear to him that when Elizabeth Penrose mistook his interest and attention as an overture to pursuit, she was not flattered by it. Panicked was the word that came to mind. "Then we are agreed. We would not suit."

  "No, indeed."

  "It is good, then, that the colonel had no expectations in that regard. I am not of a mind to disappoint him."

  "The colonel?" Elizabeth felt her breath catch. "You know Blackwood?"

  "I do. He was my commander in India."

  "How is he?" she asked softly.

  "Well. He inquires the same about you."

  Suddenly Elizabeth understood. "He asked you to look after me."

  "Something like that. He has not heard from you for months. It is my understanding this is unusual."

  "I have been remiss in my correspondence."

  "No doubt you have little time for you own. Attending to the baroness's affairs must occupy your energies."

  Elizabeth did not think she mistook the note of censure in his tone. "What is your relationship to Blackwood?"

  "As I said, he was my commander in India."

  "That is a connection. Not a relationship." There was some relationship, she thought, that would lead Northam to believe he had the privilege of taking her to task.

  "You have never served under him. In the military it is possible for one to be very much like the other. When the colonel leads, others are inspired to follow. I was merely one of many. And when he asks a favor of me, even in his retirement, it does not occur to refuse."

  Elizabeth nodded. She understood perfectly the loyalty and admiration the colonel inspired. Before the wasting illness that left him without the use of his legs, Blackwood stood firm for a promotion that would have put him squarely in Wellington's boots. It might have been Blackwood in command at Waterloo. When Elizabeth had pointed this out to the colonel, he laughed without any tinge of regret "God forbid, m'girl," he had said. "Boney might have got the best of me, and then where would we be? Speaking French, I tell you. That would be the way of it, and not at all to the king's liking. Wellington's brilliant. Always was."

  "Colonel Blackwood is my mother's cousin," said Elizabeth. "After she died he fancied himself my guardian. That did not endear him to my father, who found the colonel's inquiries interfering. It was just as well he was often abroad. Had he served here, I probably would have been forbidden to visit him. As it turned out, I was able to write him steadily over the years. I believe the colonel watched me grow up through my letters."

  "Then you are close."

  "Yes, I like to think we are." Elizabeth's fine features did not so much soften as ease. "I will write to him this very evening and allay his concerns. It is something of a surprise that he has not commanded me to appear."

  "He entertained it. He thought you might refuse."

  "And it would never do to mutiny in front of one of his soldiers. That's what you are, is it not? One of his soldiers."

  "I believe I said as much. It makes little difference that I no longer wear a uniform. Neither does he."

  Elizabeth looked down at her hands. They were folded quietly in her lap, yet she knew if she unclasped them the finest of tremors would be running through her fingers. "What precisely is the nature of your assignment?" she asked calmly. "You've been quite clear that it does not involve leg-shackling."

  Northam listened for any note of disappointment in her tone and heard none. His impression remained that she was relieved. He decided to press her a bit."I am not considered a bad catch, you know. Mothers parade their daughters in front of me. At Almack's I am often called upon to partner young girls who are taking their first waltz."

  "Now that is high praise indeed."

  He went on as if she had not commented. "I am thought to be not without some qualities to recommend me. I have been told I have a modestly handsome face. I have my wits about me. On occasion I have been known to use them." Northam saw that while Lady Elizabeth appeared to be studying the pattern of violets in her dress, she was also tamping down a smile. "I am a steady friend. I attend church more Sundays than I fish. I make wagers as the mood strikes me, but I have never gambled what I could not afford to lose. I am passionate about horses and Mrs. Wedge's roast beef. There is little else that raises my blood. I drink in moderation and I speak tolerably well of others."

  "You, sir, are a paragon, and I find myself regretting the colonel did not fancy himself a matchmaker." She glanced at him and made no effort to hide the laughter in her eyes. "Does that satisfy your wounded sensibilities?"

  "It certainly helps. Thank you."

  "Who is Mrs. Wedge?"

  "The cook at Hampton Cross. She's been in residence since there was a Hampton Cross." He saw Elizabeth's skeptical look. He held up his right hand, palm out. "It is only a slight exaggeration, I swear it. She was easily a hundred years old when I was boy. It is of constant amazement to me that she does not age at all, while I continue to grow older."

  A strand of hair loosed itself from the ribbon wound through Elizabeth's curls. She tucked it behind her ear only to have it fall forward again. It tickled her as the breeze buffeted it against her cheek. "Every home must have one Mrs. Wedge," she said. "At Rosemont we have Mrs. Gatchel. I cannot say that her roast beef is in any way remarkable, but I have never tasted a steak-and-kidney pie that compares."

  Northam's eyes were fixed on the hair fluttering at Elizabeth's cheek. "I do not think I can summon any sort of passion for steak-and-kidney pie."

  Elizabeth brushed at the strand again, this time a bit self-consciously. "I see your point." From somewhere behind her there was a shriek of laughter. Elizabeth turned to look back on the guests. Lord Allen was gesticulating wildly to a group of avid onlookers. She faintly could hear them calling out to him. "They're playing charades," she said. "Perhaps you would care to join them?"<
br />
  "No," Northam said firmly. "I would not."

  "It appears your friends are going to enter the game."

  "That does not entice me in the least." He drew in a breath, bracing himself, and gallantly posed the question. "Would you prefer to play?"

  She laughed. He was so obviously hoping for a negative response. "No. I'm not very good at the pantomime."

  "Neither am I."

  Elizabeth could not resist goading him a bit."But I rather enjoy watching."

  "Very well," he said somewhat stiffly. "I will escort you back."

  "Have a care, my lord. If you give into this whim, where will it end? Next you will be putting on your frock coat because I insist." In fact, he was already picking it up. "Please, do not trouble yourself. We can watch from here. It's better, I believe. As long as the players do not completely obscure our view we can make our own guesses and be right every time. Look! Lord Allen is hopping mad."

  "A hop toad is more like it."

  Whatever the robust Lord Allen was trying to communicate to the other players was finally identified, and the baroness herself commanded center stage. Louise Edmunds, the Honorable Lady Battenburn, favored the group with her wide, engaging smile. She was an attractive woman just shy of her fortieth year. Her figure erred on the side of plumpness, but somehow she made it seem earthy and voluptuous. She removed her flowered bonnet and handed it to Lord Southerton.

  Under his breath Northam said, "She will be fortunate if South doesn't clamp that bouquet on his head and call himself a garden."

  "He is being quite considerate of it. Look how gingerly he has it tucked under his arm." Her attention went back to Lady Battenburn. "But what is her ladyship doing?"

  The baroness was threading her fingers through her hair and making the russet curls stand out wildly.

  "She has certainly entered into the spirit of the game," Northam said.

  "She looks positively mad like that." Elizabeth bit her lower lip as Louise flung her arms out to the side and began to spin in a tight circle. Her cambric dress puffed out like a balloon as she continued to twirl. "Why, I believe she is a dervish."