Until now.
Until now, Annabella thought, then shook her head and pushed the thought away. Briskly, she picked up her dress, shook it out, and eyed it critically. She gave a nod of approval, knotted the thread, and cut it. Her mother had picked out this dress for her, and she liked it very well. It would have been a pity had she ruined it.
Quickly, she put on the dress and adjusted it around her. The mirror’s reflection told her she looked well, and that she had sewn it quite neatly. She turned, then frowned. The thread had not matched the dress’s fabric exactly, and she had done her best to sew the tear so that it would not show. But there was a small bit that did show—she must have been a little distracted at that point.
The mismatch annoyed her sense of neatness, but a glance at the clock on the mantelpiece made her shrug. She’d been quick about her sewing, and so she would not be missed if she chose not to go back to the drawing room for a while. Surely, that was not a bad thing, for Lady Bowerland had said her guests could wander the main part of the house as they pleased.
She’d not seen all of the Bowerlands’ gallery, which Annabella had most especially liked when she had last called upon them. Her own home did not have one such, as it was a relatively new house, and newly inherited.
But when she got to the gallery, it was already occupied. A man, hands clasped behind his back, was gazing intently at the paintings. Mr. Wentworth, it was—Annabella could tell by his hair tied back in a queue. He turned suddenly, his body quickly tense, and stared at her.
“I—I am sorry, I did not mean to disturb you.” Annabella smiled apologetically and began to leave.
“No, don’t—” Mr. Wentworth said. He looked away, then gazed at her, his expression stiff and cool, his chin raised just a little. ‘That is, you need not. I was not intending to stay long.”
Annabella hesitated, then came forward. The room was brightly lit with candles, for the Bowerlands took pride in their collection of portraits and landscapes and liked to have them displayed well. But the light displayed Mr. Wentworth ‘s countenance just as clearly, and his cheeks took on a momentary darker tinge. She realized, suddenly, that he had blushed—just as he had in the drawing room.
Annabella smiled a little. Could it be that one of the wild Wentworths was not so wild?
“Please do not leave on my account,” she said, smiling at him. “I do not mind company.”
He seemed to hesitate, then bowed, almost curtly. “Very well,” he said and resumed his perusal of the paintings.
Annabella stood next to him, gazing at a particularly dull portrait of a sallow-looking man who looked as if he had just eaten a lemon. It was not well executed at all. She wondered why the Bowerlands had included it in their collection. Really, it was not worth staring at with such concentration as Mr. Wentworth was bending upon it. She glanced at him, and at the same moment, caught him looking at her.
“Why do you keep looking at me, Mr. Wentworth ?” Annabella said abruptly, then blushed, for she had not meant to be so forward,
“Was I?” He gazed at her fully now. She could see the muscles in his jaw clench, and she thought she saw a brief flash of anger in his eyes. And then he turned and stared at the portrait again, and his cheeks darkened even more. Annabella pressed her lips together to keep a smile from coming to them.
“Yes, you were.”
There was silence once more, and Mr. Wentworth flicked another glance at her. This time, she was sure a different emotion showed in his eyes: agonized embarrassment.
Poor man! No doubt he was very reserved and shy, not at all used to company, which was no doubt why he came here-—to escape the guests in the drawing room. Perhaps, too, he was not very quick-witted, and so kept away from company so as not to expose his disability. A soft warmth crept into Annabella’s heart, and she put her hand on his sleeve in a comforting manner.
“I do not mind it, really. It is just that I am not used to being stared at,” she said.
“I—I am sorry. I did not mean to stare, I assure you.” He grimaced. “I suppose it is best if I leave.”
“No, no, don’t leave! That is, I would much rather have company here than not.”
‘Then I am surprised you do not go down to the drawing room again.”
It was Annabella’s turn to grimace. “Not that much company.”
“Do you not like the company that Lady Bowerland keeps, then?” Mr. Wentworth seemed to relax a little, and this time he gazed at her steadily.
“Oh, I find the guests quite amiable, but sometimes ... sometimes company becomes oppressive, and one needs some relief from it. I suppose I shall return after a while.”
“Procrastinating, Miss Smith?” His voice had lost some of its stiffness and almost sounded congenial.
Annabella’s lips turned up briefly, and she returned her gaze to the portrait. “Do you not find this painting quite dull, Mr. Wentworth? I wonder that we have looked at it so long.”
A chuckle made her look at him again. “Definitely procrastinating!” he said.
It was Annabella’s turn to stare. It was the first time she’d seen Mr. Wentworth smile—a wide grin, his teeth white against his browned skin, his hazel eyes twinkling. He was, she realized, handsome. No, not quite handsome, for his features were not at all classical. Or rather, handsome in spite of what fashion dictated. She could not decide. Charming, perhaps, for there was something in his smile that made her smile in return. It reminded her, somehow, of a sunny spring day, just after the rain—fresh and clean and bright.
She mentally shook herself. What nonsense! She was becoming quite fanciful—no doubt she had been reading too many novels, just as her father had said. How could such a reticent man be charming?
“No, sir, merely one who appreciates art too much to miss her host’s collection.” She made her lips prim and pointed to a still life of flowers next to the portrait. “Now, do you not think that is a far more pleasant thing to look at?”
He smiled. “Yes,” he said, but he was not looking at the painting at all, but at her.
“Mr. Wentworth, you are looking at me again!”
“I am afraid I am not as great an appreciator of art as you, Miss Smith.”
“Prevaricating, Mr. Wentworth?”
He turned his eyes to the still life she had pointed to. “I cannot like still life paintings, Miss Smith,” he said. “I prefer flowers in their natural setting.”
“Definitely prevaricating!” she said.
He laughed, and it made her smile widely. It was a pleasant sound, husky, soft, and natural. She felt, almost, as if she’d been rewarded, hearing it; one had to work a little to coax a smile from him. He had not lifted even a corner of his lips while with the company in the drawing room. But she had, at last, made him laugh.
A distant clock tolled the hour, and tolled the end of his laughter, too, for a startled look came over Mr. Wentworth’s face. His expression grew stiff again. As he glanced away, Annabella felt as if a warm light had suddenly disappeared.
“I suppose it is time I should return,” Annabella said.
There was a brief silence before he said, “I suppose I should, also.”
Annabella merely nodded, went forward a step, then looked back at him.
“Well, Mr. Wentworth?”
This time a blush followed his startled look, and he belatedly held out his arm. She put her hand upon it, and they descended to the drawing room once again, saying nothing as they went. The descent seemed too quick to Annabella, and she wished she was back in the gallery again. Mr. Wentworth put out his hand to the door, but before he opened it, she stayed his hand.
‘Thank you,” she said.
He looked puzzled and cocked his head to one side, a skeptical gesture. “Pardon me?” he said.
“Thank you—for a most pleasant half hour, Mr. Wentworth.”
“I ... you are welcome, Miss Smith,” Mr. Wentworth replied and bowed. She almost smiled, for an astonished expression had flitted briefly acro
ss his face.
He opened the door then, and Annabella found she had been holding her breath. A few heads turned when she and Mr. Wentworth entered, but she did not mind them, for he pressed her hand briefly and it comforted her somehow. She thought, for one moment, that a look of anger flashed in the Duke of Stratton’s eyes. But no, his face was smoothly cordial, and when she nodded at him, nothing could be more admiring than his smile.
Chapter 5
Parsifal whistled cheerfully as he strode toward the lake. The early morning was just creeping above the horizon, and a small breeze touched his face with the cool hand of night. The air, fresh and clean from last night’s rain, filled his lungs as he breathed. No gloom threatened this morning. He felt... happy.
He laughed and ran the rest of the way to the lake, a good half mile. There, he quickly took off his clothes and dived into the cold water headfirst.
The shock of the cold water made him gasp when he surfaced. He had done this many times—every day, unless the weather was freezing cold. It cleared his mind of sleep, and he always came out of it feeling cleansed and ready to meet the day.
But this morning exhilaration sang through his limbs, and his arms and legs seemed to pull and kick with increased length and strength. She—Miss Annabella Smith— had spoken to him and laughed and smiled at him. He had not been clumsy around her—not much, anyway—and she seemed to like him. Perhaps there was hope for him, and it was possible to court her. Oh, he had still not as much to offer her as the Duke of Stratton, but even he could see that she felt more comfortable around him, Parsifal, than the duke.
He flipped over in midstroke, and floated upon his back. The horizon just above the trees was turning pink now, against an increasingly brightening sky, but he frowned suddenly, not seeing the beauty of it, for memories of the evening before flickered in his mind. There had been something wrong ... no, perhaps that was not the word. Everyone knew the duke was a man of honor, a man with an impeccable reputation and easy address. And yet he, Parsifal, had never liked him. He had acknowledged it was no doubt because the duke was everything Parsifal was not: urbane, pleasant, always at the height of elegant fashion, and an excellent conversationalist.
Parsifal had, however, caught the Duke of Stratton’s angry glance when he and Miss Smith entered the Bowerlands’ drawing room. It was quickly hidden, and Parsifal would have thought he had imagined it, had he not been used to watching carefully the expressions of those around him. He felt uneasy. There had been something proprietary in the duke’s expression. That was nothing in itself, especially if the duke was interested in Miss Smith—and who would not be interested in her? There was something else, however.
Once more, Parsifal swam across the lake, this time with slow, meditative strokes. He pondered last night’s card party, and his and Miss Smith’s entrance into the drawing room. The guests’ expressions had been at first speculative, then disinterested, but that was all ... except for the duke’s.
Well, that was to be expected if the duke had an interest in her. But the duke’s expression had been cold, and not directed upon Parsifal, but upon Miss Smith, and her face had shown a brief discomfort as she glanced at the duke in return.
There was no real reason why she should feel uncomfortable about entering the drawing room with Parsifal. He had left the drawing room after she had departed to mend her dress, to be sure, but her departure and the ending of his card game seemed to have signaled a break in the activity amongst the guests. Everyone had risen to walk about or leave the room briefly. Anyone might have come back into the room with her; that he had done so was not remarkable at all.
The guests had not resumed any card playing, but sat about talking, their voices an ebb and flow of sound. Parsifal had watched as Miss Smith nodded pleasantly to the duke and took a step toward him, then allowed herself to be distracted by another guest. Did the duke have some claim on her or not?
He regretted, suddenly, that he had never made much of a push to go out into society. If he had, he would know more about Miss Smith’s situation and whether the duke had been courting her. Perhaps ... perhaps it would be a good thing to go to more assemblies and balls, if only to find out if there was any talk of an impending marriage between Miss Smith and the Duke of Stratton.
Slowly, he swam toward the shore again, climbed out, and picked up a towel he’d brought with him. Parsifal shivered in the chill air and hastily dried himself, then seized his clothes. As he pulled on his breeches, he noted for the first time that they were beginning to fray at the knees, and he grimaced. His clothes were made for comfort, not for gadding about in society. He liked them and felt very much himself in them, not as he did in the stiff formal clothes he was forced to wear when going to parties or balls. He felt gauche in fashionable clothes and very ... exposed, was the best word for it. As soon as he put on a neckcloth and confining waistcoat, he felt a stiffness come over him, as if he were slowly turning into a waxwork. It was always thus when he felt impelled to go to some society function.
Or, no, not always. Parsifal’s hands stilled for a moment in tying his hair back into a queue. He’d felt no real awkwardness at the masquerade ball to which he’d gone the other night. Oh, he had at first. But it had quickly faded, and he had felt— He frowned. He did not know what he had felt, exactly. As if he were himself, yet not himself. That evening he’d come to be as comfortable in his Cavalier costume as he was in his gardening clothes, though he was not conscious of it then. He had moved easily in the costume, danced with greater skill than he normally would—naturally, as if he were moving through his gardens instead of a room full of people.
Parsifal did not run back to the house, as he sometimes liked to do, but walked slowly, pondering. Yes, he had felt very much himself then, until... until he had rescued Miss Smith from Sir Quentin’s assault, and later, when he had ridden madly at the highwayman. He shuddered. Certainly he had not felt much like himself then! A hot eagerness had overcome him, impelling him into action.
Perhaps there was something in wearing a costume that made one act differently from the way one would normally act. Parsifal smiled and breathed a sigh of relief, and his steps quickened. There, that must be it. He needed only think of actors, after all. Did they not wear costumes, and act differently than they did when they did not wear them? And did they not change characters with each costume? No doubt something similar had happened to him. Perhaps the simple wearing of a costume, pretending to be someone else changed one somehow.
A slight uneasiness prickled the back of his neck, but he shrugged it away. It had not changed him permanently, of course. The Cavalier was a made-up thing, and Parsifal felt no urge to rescue fair maidens or travelers from villains at this moment. Indeed, he’d been shocked at his own actions afterward. There was no reason to think he would do anything so impulsive the next time he put on the Cavalier costume.
An eagerness rose in him at the thought. Perhaps going to another masquerade would help him feel more easy in company. Perhaps if he practiced going into society under the guise of someone else, he’d feel less awkward someday without it.
Parsifal laughed softly and began to whistle again. Regardless, it would enable him to meet Miss Smith once more, perhaps even speak as easily with her as he did for the short while they were in the Bowerlands’ gallery. That would be a good thing, certainly!
He remembered suddenly that his mother had promised Caroline a masquerade within a month’s time. He had tried to forget it, as he tried to forget—and avoid—most social functions his family arranged. Perhaps he would go to this one, briefly, and see if he felt as confident there as he had at the Laughtons’ masquerade.
A bird sang above him, and Parsifal lifted his hand to shade his eyes from the sun, now much higher above the horizon. He watched the bird’s flight until he could see no more of it than a speck in the sky. For once he felt more free than he’d felt before, as free as he’d imagined he’d like to be when he was a child, after hearing the stories of brave
knights his nurse told him long ago. Doubt flickered in him for a moment at the thought that it was all because of a costume, and not real, but he dismissed it. He was what he was, and he doubted he’d change at all, truly. But, surely, it could not hurt to play at being a Cavalier, purely for enjoyment?
He dropped his hand, and as he did so, the sunlight caught the flash of metal upon his right hand. The ring flashed again and sparkled brightly, and Parsifal blinked. It was as if the sun had struck rare and precious gems upon the ring, but there were no diamonds or any other stones upon it. Perhaps it was made of a special alloy of metals, or created from some goldsmith’s secret technique. Certainly no ring of simple construction would shine with such brilliance, especially one so old and worn as this.
He stared at the ring upon his middle finger, as he had often done since Lady Laughton’s masquerade. He had carefully cut the threads from the hem of the Cavalier’s jacket, extracted the ring, then had Howell, his valet, sew up the jacket again. Parsifal had put the ring on his finger immediately, for he could not think where to put it, and he had not taken it off since. No one commented upon it, for it was a plain band with only a simple braided design etched into it, and though it was gold, it was certainly nothing compared to the rest of the Wentworth jewels. Not even Caroline had noticed it, even though she was quite sharp-eyed when it came to noticing jewelry, and she seemed to have forgotten about the ring hidden in the hem of his costume.
He closed and opened his hand, and Parsifal noticed again how comfortably the ring fit upon his finger. He did not care for jewelry, in general, but he liked this ring. It was sturdy, and did not pinch at all, and felt as if he had worn it forever, as if it had been made for him. He moved his hand back and forth, trying to catch the sunlight and make the ring sparkle again, but it did not. The ring only gleamed with a dull lustre, like any other old ring might. He had not imagined it, for the ring had sparkled at least three times, even though he was not able yet to make it do so intentionally. If he wore it long enough, he was certain he’d learn how to do so, however.
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