by Lavinia Kent
Rose resisted the urge to call her sister a twit. Earlier, she had called into doubt the suitability of the feminine mind, and now this! Rose had to remember that Marguerite was fresh from the schoolroom, and had spent her whole life being squelched by her mother. It might be years before she understood her own potential.
“I think women can be very powerful. My late husband, Burberry, actually believed the feminine mind could be more cunning than a man’s. He believed that what women lacked in physical strength they could make up by planning. He was always citing examples.”
Lady Smythe-Burke looked over with interest. “Oh, do go on, my dear.”
“Well, look at our own Queen Elizabeth, or Cleopatra. Burberry used to tell the most wonderful stories of Helen of Troy.”
“Fiction, surely,” Wulf mocked.
“According to most, yes, but Burberry was never so sure. He used to read from an account that had Helen the mastermind of the whole affair. He would read to our daughter for hours, as if he believed her baby mind would be expanded by his tales.” She smiled to herself at the memory, but then caught herself as she watched Wulf pale at her words.
Mitter, who had slipped into the room to stand behind Wulf, started as if he, too, were in on her secrets. Rose was surprised to see him. He must need to consult with Wulf on some bibliophilic question.
Wulf, shaking off the effect of her words, bent down and whispered something in Mitter’s ear before turning back to Rose. Mitter looked reluctant, but eased back into the hall.
Wulf turned to Rose with studied ease, his tone sharp. “Helen, the mastermind of a war? I couldn’t imagine it. I must admit that I do believe a lady’s mind can be . . . cunning, that was your word, wasn’t it? Even devious at times, I daresay. Ladies will go to great lengths to get what they want. Don’t you agree, Lady Burberry?”
She felt like a swimmer being swept out to sea in the undercurrent of his words. She fought the urge to fire back, and instead clenched her fist, but answered coolly, “Devious, Major Huntington? Don’t you consider that a little harsh?”
Lady Clarington giggled. “Yes, can you see anybody describing me as devious?” She fluttered the lace of her handkerchief over her neckline, her eyes never leaving Wulf. “I am sure any man would understand instantly what I want. I can’t imagine myself keeping secrets.”
“No, Lady Clarington, you are a master at making yourself very clear.” Wulf’s glance moved from Rose, to Lady Clarington, to her husband, the Earl of Clarington, who stood next to Marguerite. “No, you may even make yourself too clear. Being more devious might suit you better.”
“I am afraid I just don’t understand at all. It just goes to show that the masculine mind is too sharp for me after all.” She fluttered her lashes at Wulf. Her husband, oblivious to the whole interplay, turned to Marguerite and addressed a low question to her. She flushed and stammered a reply, uncomfortable with the attention.
“No, my lord, I don’t care for riding. I am afraid that even though I grew up in the country, I never did like horses. They’re so large.”
Lord Clarington coughed. Rose could see his mind whirling as he tried to comprehend a person who didn’t care for horses.
Sensing a chance to escape Wulf’s frozen gaze, Rose got to her feet and walked over to her sister and Clarington, ignoring the green eyes that traced her movement. “I believe what Marguerite is saying is that she has not had much exposure to horses.” She gave her sister a firm look. “Her mother has always been in delicate health and so, even though residing in the country, Marguerite has largely been housebound.”
“Actually I just don’t care for –”
Rose stamped on her sister’s toe.
“–oh, yes, that’s it exactly. I am sure if I had more familiarity with horses I might feel differently.”
Clarington’s lips curved up at this sensible explanation. Rose stepped back from Marguerite and deftly turned the conversation to the fine weather, hoping that even Marguerite and Clarington could manage that subject. As she stepped back, a frisson of awareness shot through her. Wulf had come to stand behind her and the heat from his body radiated forward, encompassing her. Her toes curled as he bent forward, his warm breath brushing her ear.
“You started to talk about your daughter. You should tell us more. Stories of children are always so entertaining.”
“No, I couldn’t. I am sure you’d all be bored to tears.”
She had to stop this now. She would not discuss Anna with him. Rose turned to Lord Clarington, trying to ignore the fluttering in her belly. Surely Lord Clarington would save her. She couldn’t imagine he’d want to hear about her daughter.
“Delightful idea. Always liked children. Such a shame Minerva and I had only Simon. Don’t know where that boy’s gotten to. Should have better manners than to disappear after dinner. But, yes, let’s do hear about your daughter.”
Lord Clarington turned to her with interest.
“Anna is four.” Maybe, if she was brief enough they’d lose interest. She’d stick to facts Wulf already knew. She would stop this conversation, now.
Unfortunately Marguerite did not know Rose’s intentions. “Oh, she is the most delightful child, and ever so bright. She was quiet at first, but now she chatters away. I’d never had much experience with children. Mama didn’t like the noise. But, when Anna smiles, my heart just melts. That’s not to say she can’t be willful, though.”
Marguerite smiled back at Rose, waiting for her to fill in the details.
“Yes, she does have a mind of her own.” Keep it brief, don’t give him any fodder. She danced from foot to foot as she felt him inch closer.
Wulf nodded at her words, then turned back to Marguerite. “You seem to have a particular story in mind.”
“I was hoping Rose would tell it. She’s much better at telling stories.”
“I am sure that’s true.”
Marguerite was momentarily thrown by his answer, but rapidly recovered. “I am afraid you’re right, but I’ll do my best anyway. I do have one particular favorite . . .”
Rose wished she could kick them both, hard. Instead, she stared at her sister, willing her to stop. This evening was turning into a disaster and she hadn’t even tried to speak to James Percy, Earl of Sommerton, or Sir Barton. How was she supposed to find a husband when she couldn’t let Wulf out of her sight for more than a moment? Who knew what mischief he’d start? He was not to be trusted. She would protect her daughter, whatever the cost.
Rose deliberately turned her eyes upon the two men who stood across the room, considering their physical features, slightly round and dark, versus angular and fair. Neither one raised the uncomfortable shivers of the man beside her, but she wanted contentment, not sparks. She flicked her gaze back across her group and met Wulf’s bold glance. Not sparks, but flames. She spun to face Marguerite as her sister’s words penetrated.
“And then Anna wedged her way under the armoire and would not come out.” Her sister continued the story she had started. “She was adamant that she was not going back to the nursery until Nanny said please. She did not understand why she always had to say please and Nanny did not. Nanny refused to even think about saying please if Anna was going to act like a street urchin. Then, just when they worked it all out, Anna discovered she could not get out. It took four footmen to lift the armoire off her.”
Wulf chuckled, but as his eyes met Rose’s she caught a glimpse of some darker emotion hiding underneath.
“She sounds very stubborn. I wonder where she got that?” He refused to drop his gaze from hers.
Lord Clarington coughed once. “I wouldn’t know. I always heard that Burberry was famous for his flexibility, his ability to compromise himself into a winning position. Doesn’t sound like your daughter picked up that characteristic.”
Wulf finally turned away to address Lord Clarington. “No, it doesn’t sound like she takes after Burberry.” He turned back to Rose, his eyes focusing on her lower lip. She chewed on
it nervously. Where was he taking this discussion?
“Are you particularly stubborn, my lady?” He stepped towards her.
Marguerite glanced up suddenly. Rose met her gaze and sent a silent plea. Thank God, for once Marguerite seemed to read her appeal. She stepped forward, drawing Wulf’s appraisal. Rose almost sighed in relief as his glance left her.
“I have not finished the story,” Marguerite stated. “The truly delightful thing was that no sooner was she left in her bed to sleep than she snuck back down to crawl under the armoire again. She apparently liked the attention. We had to put lifts under its legs so that she would not become caught again.”
“She sounds like a very independent young lady. I do believe I’d like to meet her,” Wulf said. “I may yet yield to our hostess after this telling example. It sounds as though that child would have a thing or two to teach me about battle strategy.”
Rose again curled her fingers into a fist, fighting not to let her tension show. If she wasn’t careful, she’d have permanent dimples in her palms.
“I thought you’d sold your commission,” Rose said. “And besides, I hardly think the presence of my daughter would add to the atmosphere of civility I endeavor to achieve. I am afraid she is one delight you will have to do without.” Rose pretended that ice dripped from each word. If only such ice would cool her! “Now, if you’ll forgive me, I must attend to my other guests.”
“As you say, my lady. We can leave our discussion of daughters and delights until later.” Wulf gave a curt nod.
Rose turned and did her best to glide away, ignoring the heady sensation of green eyes burning into her back and the unspoken threat in his words.
With a pasted smile she approached Sir Barton, wishing that his watery brown eyes and round belly reminded her less of a basset hound.
“How are you this evening, Sir Barton? Have you found enough to entertain you?”
“Well, thank you, Lady Burberry. Your home is most exquisite. I am looking forward to seeing the park tomorrow. What have you planned for us?”
“If the weather holds, I thought the gentlemen would ride in the morning and then, when the ladies had risen, we could all join together for a walk down to the lake and perhaps a picnic.”
“Oh, sounds delightful. I hope you’ll have time to show me around personally.” His eyes moved from her face to her bosom and his tongue flicked at the corner of his mouth. Again the image of a plump hound came to mind. No wonder Lady Smythe-Burke had called him a puppy.
“I look forward to the chance. I am hoping we can become well acquainted during your visit.” The moment the words left her mouth, Rose wished she could swallow them back. Sir Barton clearly read more into them than she intended. Please let it be only her imagination that he was actually panting.
“Delightful, delightful. I shall look forward to it. Always best to let the ladies plan things. Don’t mind if I join Clarington. He’s got a horse I am interested in.” With one last look at her neckline, he ambled off in the general direction from which she had just come.
She tried to resist the urge to let her eyes follow him to his destination. If she didn’t look at Wulf, she could just pretend he wasn’t there. Then everything would be so much simpler, more in accordance with her original plan. She risked the slightest peek, and caught Wulf, still watching her with calculation. She turned with a decided twist, ignoring the continued burn in her belly, and set off towards Lady Clarington and Lady Smythe-Burke, who had Lord Sommerton firmly entrenched between them. He looked in need of rescuing, and Rose knew she was just the one to do it.
As she approached, she let her gaze move over him. While not as tall as Wulf, he was of decidedly athletic figure. His hair might be growing a little sparse, and she never had cared for a hook nose, but he had a kindly look about his eyes and Rose rather imagined that he would be appetizing enough, according to Marguerite’s criteria.
He looked at her with a desperate gratitude as she joined the conversation.
“Ah, Lady Burberry, I am so glad we have the chance to speak. I am most grateful for your invitation. Things can be so trying in London at this time of year.”
Rose didn’t really understand Lord Sommerton’s allusion. After one brief season she’d done her best to avoid town and all that social silliness, and so she knew little of the differences between one time of year and another, but she nodded in agreement. “Yes, you’re quite right. The country is most pleasant at this time of year.”
“If you are fond of a slow pace,” Lady Clarington interjected, clearly displeased the conversation had strayed out of her control. “Personally, I find myself hungering for more action.”
Lady Clarington’s eyes caressed Sommerton. Did she know no shame?
“I do rather enjoy the slow pace myself, Sommerton rejoined. “It gives me time for my own pleasures.”
“Mmmm, as long as one has pleasures.” Lady Clarington was actually cooing. “Maybe you can invite us up to your house later in the summer. I hear your gardens are lovely. Although I am never sure if Clarington will be free to join me.”
“I am not sure that would be possible, my lady.” Sommerton inched away from Lady Clarington. “I much prefer to visit my own estates as little as possible. I detest always being hounded by a secretary or manager. I pay them to take care of things, don’t understand why I should have to be bothered.”
That sounded promising, like a man who would be happy to have a managing wife. Rose widened her smile.
“Tell me, how do you like to spend your time? I’d thought gentlemen were always busy with their accounts.”
“Only if they’re not capable of finding somebody else to do it for them. The purpose of our class should be to set an example – I mean, to exemplify how life should be lived. We should be an elegant paradigm of all that is possible, not accountants. I believe that spending too much time at studious or laborious activities is actually a disservice to mankind. We should be what all aspire to.”
Oh, dear, that was not so promising! Taking into account Lady Smythe-Burke’s earlier diatribe on the proper management of servants, and Sommerton’s views on the exalted paradigm of the aristocracy, Rose was growing more certain that she had been wise to avoid London society all these years.
“But surely, my lord, you mean once one’s responsibilities are managed.”
Sommerton smiled down at her with only the barest trace of condescension. “Oh don’t worry too much about it, my dear. Ladies are made for lives of ease. You needn’t fret about responsibility.”
“You forget, my lord, that since my husband’s death, I have learned much of responsibility and management.” Not to mention the years preceding his death. “I would never think to put myself before all those I must care for.”
“Ah, yes, you are a mother, and I would never underestimate a woman’s role in that sphere – although I am sure that you have a reliable nanny, and a governess as well. I am sure you don’t need to trouble yourself in the daily care of your child.”
“I enjoy the time I spend with Anna.”
“Of course, you do. You are a woman, after all.”
She must not become discomposed. Drawing room conversation was often exaggerated for effect, and, undoubtedly, that was the case here. Sommerton’s views were probably not half as strong as he stated. Maybe he was testing her.
“Yes, that I most definitively am, but beyond my basic maternal urges, I actually relish getting to know my daughter, the workings of her mind –”
“Let’s talk of something less tedious.” Lady Clarington evidently did not share her husband’s warm feelings towards children. “Tell me, Lord Sommerton, have you heard any of the news about Miss Rebecca Grant and Lord Thompson?”
“Yes, indeed, absolutely scandalous. Evidently they anticipated the wedding a bit, and now that he’s taken off for the Continent, it’s not clear that there will be a wedding. It leaves things in an interesting condition, if you understand my meaning. Not surprising at all, co
nsidering how exotic she is, and those rumors about her mother.”
“Oh, do tell more.”
Rose let them turn the subject. She needed to discover more about Sommerton’s views sometime when they were not on public display. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. He was looking at her again.
“I am afraid I’ve grown rather old for this nonsense.” Lady Smythe-Burke rose from her chair. “Would you walk me to my chamber, Lady Burberry? My legs are weary and I’d like company on the stair.”
Rose just about jumped from her chair, eager to escape both the conversation and the glare from across the room, which threatened to either freeze or incinerate her. While Rose doubted that any part of Lady Smythe-Burke was tired, if the lady wanted to leave, she would not demur. Perhaps, if she lingered long enough, by the time she returned, the company would also be ready to retire and she could avoid further confrontation.
She trailed out of the room after Lady Smythe-Burke.
“Well, what do you think of the lads?”
Maybe she wouldn’t have to wait to find out more details.
“Sir Barton seems even-tempered.”
“He is that. Doesn’t have many cares – wouldn’t bother you much at all, at least not during the day. You would have to avoid hiring pretty maids, but that’s simple enough. Yes, I think he might suit you fine. Pay his bills, point him towards his club and I am sure you’d be well suited. What about Lord Sommerton? You seemed to have a most agreeable conversation. He is quite the epitome of a gentleman.”
“He is handsome.”
“Just hope he doesn’t develop a hump like his father.”
“Oh, I don’t think I see any sign of that.”
“Still, you never know, straight one day, bent over the next. He’d have to order new coats.”
“Ah, yes, he would.” What else could one say to that? “Does he always express such strong views? Surely that display was only for the sake of conversation?”
