by Amanda Scott
“Alicia,” she said as her sister moved toward the stair, “please guard your tongue in future. You simply must not let your enthusiasm fly away with you as it did just now. Bad enough that you told Tony, but you simply must not babble such stuff to anyone else. Only think what will happen if news of our escapade should reach Papa’s ears.”
“Oh, pooh, Tani, as though I were such a ninny.”
“Well, what a thing to say, when you just bellowed the information to Tony, whom you must have known would be incensed.”
Alicia grinned at her. “It does him good to be stirred up now and again.”
Brittany sighed. “I am glad you think so. I for one would just as lief he stayed unstirred. I despise a row.”
But as usual Alicia was unrepentant, saying only that it would benefit her sister to vent her feelings once in a while instead of preserving her calm at all costs as she did. Brittany might have debated the matter; however, there was no more time for discussion if they were to be ready to accompany their mama on the evening’s round of activities. In her bedchamber, she wasted no time on Alicia’s comment but turned her thoughts instead to the discovery she had made earlier. What should she do? Odd that she had not felt more distressed. Surely, any self-respecting bride-to-be would be beside herself at discovering that her betrothed was in love with her younger sister. Instead, she felt merely some small annoyance that Faringdon had apparently mistaken his affections. She would have to break off their engagement, of course. The duke would no doubt be a good deal more annoyed about that little detail than she would be herself, but there was really nothing else to do now that she comprehended the true state of affairs.
These thoughts crossed her mind only to be rejected, however. If she broke the engagement, Faringdon would avoid the house out of respect for her supposed sensibilities. That would never do. Not if anything were ever to develop between him and Alicia. That last thought startled her more than any other that had crossed her mind since the moment of seeing Faringdon’s unguarded look of adoration. Did she truly wish to stir something between the scapegrace earl and her headstrong little sister? The answer came clearly. She did, indeed. Some little voice deep inside her head suggested that they would be the making of each other, and so it was that she felt no distress at all as she descended to join the rest of her family for dinner, only a strong desire to discover some means by which a happy outcome might be effected.
Leaving the duke to enjoy his postprandial port in solitude, the ladies gathered their wraps and met again in the front hall. Pinchbeck moved forward to greet them, bowing slightly as he held out a delightful little nosegay composed of violets and pale-yellow primroses toward Brittany.
“This, my lady, was delivered a short time ago. There is a card.”
The card had been tucked into the greenery, and Brittany opened it eagerly, though she knew beforehand the sort of thing it would say. Indeed, it was briefer than usual, though no less flattering. Inscribed in bold masculine scrawl diagonally across the card, it read, “With the compliments of one who admires perfection from afar.”
“How pretty,” said Arabella, who was looking particularly well that evening in a simple gown of transparent gauze, trimmed with pink bows of net, and bound around the hem with mint-green satin ribbon. The body and sleeves were made of satin and blond, and the skirt was fancifully trimmed with pink net that was likewise bound with the green satin. She wore white kid gloves and white satin sandals. “The flowers will go admirably with your dress, Tani.”
“Indeed, my love,” agreed the duchess, looking her daughter’s nosegay over critically, “though I still cannot think it wise of you to flaunt such gifts when you know not from whence they come. Faringdon has been prodigiously patient about this unknown admirer of yours, but one cannot hope that any healthy young man will turn a blind eye forever. He is bound to become annoyed before long.”
Brittany paused, regarding the nosegay quietly. Her gown was of white lace worn over a primrose satin slip. Its skirt was finished at the bottom with a trimming of lace looped up at equal distances with pipings of silver satin surmounted by wreaths of embroidered violets. The bodice was rather full, with sleeves of lace confined with pipings of the silver satin and edged at the bottom with the same. Truly, the nosegay seemed to have been chosen with just this costume in mind. As for Faringdon, she mused, it would do no harm to see if he might yet be stirred to jealousy. There was always a possibility, no matter how remote, that she had misread his emotions earlier. It would be as well to find out one way or the other as soon as she might.
He joined them at Lady Cowper’s house in Berkeley Square, and Brittany could see no lingering signs of his early temper. He greeted them with his customary cheerful aplomb, complimented all the ladies, even Alicia, on their looks, and remained as part of their party as they moved through the large, well-appointed rooms of the Cowpers’ home. Though they were early, there was already a large group gathered, and it was clear that before long, the real crush would begin. People didn’t tend to remain long at routs, of course, so there would be no problem with making an early departure. Everyone by this time in a busy Season had from four to six events to visit in any single night.
As people approached their little group and exchanged greetings and gossip, Brittany found herself watching the newcomers carefully. She did not realize she was watching for anyone in particular until Cheriton passed between two other gentlemen, both of whom she knew very well, and her heart leapt within her breast. Unconsciously, she lifted the nosegay she carried as though to breathe in its delightful perfume. It was only a gesture to cover her confusion, of course, but she found herself feeling slightly piqued when Cheriton did not so much as inquire about its origin.
His greeting was spoken in his usual even tones, and addressed first to the duchess. When that lady commanded his escort a few moments later, informing him that they had stayed quite long enough to avoid offending Emily Cowper, he made no demur, agreeing readily enough to serve as her grace’s escort all evening long if it would please her.
Faringdon chuckled. “You’ve hit the mark there, my lad,” he said in an amused undertone. “She behaves as if she don’t know I’m here when you’re about. Knows which side her bread is buttered on, is all. Daresay she fears it might come on to rain, don’t you know, and she fears I’d let her down, while she knows fair well you’d have her under cover in a trice. Can’t blame her, but hope you will bear with my poor presence as well. Engaged to her daughter, don’t you know.”
Brittany, who had been an amused eavesdropper on this brief exchange, shook her head at Faringdon when he looked up at her with a wicked grin. A moment later, when he tucked her hand proprietarily into the crook of his elbow, she smiled up at him.
“I am glad to see you have recovered your sunny temper, sir.”
“Don’t count on it, m’dear,” he murmured. “Just see you don’t let that minx get entirely out of hand, or we’ll all end up in the briars right along with her.”
“You wouldn’t really tell Papa, would you, Tony?”
He shook his head, then seemed to notice the nosegay for the first time. “Pretty flowers,” he said. “I didn’t send them to you, did I?”
“No, you did not.”
“Thought not. Couldn’t remember, though. Might have. Look here, Brittany, it ain’t the thing to be wearing flowers given to you by someone else. Ought to wear mine.”
“But you never send any, sir.”
“Don’t I?” He seemed rather taken aback.
“No, Tony, never.”
“Well, you ought to have reminded me to, then. What can you have been thinking about?”
She laughed, shaking her head at him, but once they had reached their destination and given up their wraps to Lady Lynsted’s footman, she accepted Cheriton’s invitation to dance the waltz with great relief.
8
THE MARQUESS WAS AN excellent dancer, which was just as well, for once he placed his arm about her waist, Brit
tany suddenly found that it was difficult to breathe properly. She could not fool herself into thinking he was holding her too tightly either, for his embrace was firm but scarcely confining. She could smell the clean fresh scent of him; however, more than that, she could sense a strength in his presence that nearly overwhelmed her. She wanted more than anything to lay her head upon his shoulder, to let him put all her concerns to rest. He could do so if he had a mind to. She had no doubt of that, for he was far and away the most capable man she had ever known. Even more capable than the duke himself, for Cheriton seemed to take command when he wished to without doing anything more than speaking a calm word or two. She had observed this phenomenon more than once. Even Faringdon bowed to his authority without seeming to realize that authority had been exerted. Cheriton’s was a rare gift.
She considered the other men she knew. Lord Toby was a practical, down-to-earth soul with a strong sense of what was due to a gentleman in his position who wished to live well. As the younger son of the Duke of Horncastle, Toby had grown up with few grand expectations, but an inheritance from his godfather at an earlier age than had been anticipated had set him well on the road to wealth and had, at the same time, made him the target for any number of matchmaking mamas and their ambitious daughters. Toby was polite to all and sundry but tempted by none. He went his own way, attending first and foremost to his own comfort, but being a good friend to those who meant something to him. Still and all, he had long since become the despair of those selfsame matchmaking mamas, and he was scarcely the man to turn to when one needed both advice and assistance.
Ravenwood, her brother-in-law, was by all accounts quite capable, but Brittany still found that description of him a difficult one to credit. There was in his customarily languid, gently amused air something that precluded belief in his ability to leap into action. Cicely had assured her more than once that Gil was not the lackadaisical dandy he appeared to be, that there was iron beneath the elaborate waistcoats and finely starched shirts and neckcloths he sported, but Brittany found the tales her sister told little short of fantastical. The viscount even drawled his words as though to hurry anything at all was a social solecism. Moreover, he was not in London, so the point was moot.
There were others, of course, among the group of Inseparables who had gone to school and then off to war together. Their host, Sir David Lynsted, was such another. But Sir David reminded her forcibly of Tony, as did most of his compatriots. Roger Carrisbrooke and Sir Reginald Blakeney were rakes and dandies both, and rarely spared a moment for a serious thought. They were precisely the sort of young men mothers warned their daughters about. And Philip Wensley-Drew was a morose gentleman who would most likely see the worst in any situation. His advice would scarcely be welcome to one whose spirits required at least a modicum of support.
Cheriton’s arm tightened briefly when she missed a step. “Woolgathering, my lady?” he inquired gently. “This is not a dance one can do in one’s sleep, you know. One must have a care.”
She looked up, half-expecting to find disapproval in his eyes though she had heard none in his voice. There was nothing there, however, beyond a look of kind inquiry. She smiled up at him, her thoughts racing. If she did ask for his assistance with this odd new problem of hers, she would have to confess the whole business of witnessing the ambassador’s arrival to him. How would he respond to that? She did not think she could bear it if he were to scold her as Faringdon had done. That he had no right to do so did not once occur to her.
She caught her lower lip between her little white teeth when he raised one eyebrow as though to emphasize the questioning look in his eyes. Then, when he said nothing more, she gathered her courage. “I should like to ask your advice about a certain matter, if you will be so good, sir.”
“Indeed, ma’am? What matter can that be, I wonder?”
“I believe you have some knowledge of it already, sir,” she said more boldly.
“Do you, indeed?”
“I do. I believe you saw the same expression on Lord Faringdon’s countenance this afternoon that I saw, and placed upon it the same interpretation as mine. Do you deny that, my lord?”
There had been a look of gentle warmth in his expression, but now it was as though a shutter closed. He said evenly, “Are you quite certain I am the proper person to assist you in this matter, Lady Brittany?”
She could not answer immediately, for he whirled her through a complex pattern of steps just then, but she welcomed the respite, for she was not by any means certain how he had meant those last words. They had sounded almost as though he were challenging her. She decided before the next opportunity came to speak that she had been mistaken and managed to keep her tone as even as his own had been. “I hoped you might help me, sir, for there is no one else to whom I might turn.”
“Then, of course, ma’am, my services are at your complete disposal. Shall we walk in the garden?”
“Walk in the garden?” Just the thought of strolling beneath the moonlight with him sent sharp thrills of excitement racing up and down her spine.
“I presume you wish to discuss this matter in some privacy, ma’am. Such privacy can scarcely be achieved in this room, and it would look rather particular if we were to withdraw into some other, more private chamber.”
She blushed rosily and looked away. “I didn’t think this through, sir. Perhaps this is not the place to discuss the matter at all. ’Tis just that I do not know if I am right, and if I am right, I do not know what steps to take.”
“A walk in the garden is perfectly appropriate,” he said gruffly. “We shan’t be entirely alone, of course, for any number of others will be wandering about the walks. Sally Lynsted’s garden is well-laid-out for that pastime, I must say. When we meet any of the others, we shall nod graciously but not stop to chat. They will respect our wish to converse, I believe.”
His tone was so matter-of-fact that she had a sudden, quite inexplicable desire to smack him. That errant thought brought another wave of color to her cheeks, making her fear he would ask what she had been thinking. Then, as she glanced up at him from under her lashes, she had the sudden and very peculiar notion that he already knew. The warmth in her cheeks turned to flame and spread downward, firing her neck, shoulders, and breasts. “Y-you are very k-kind, sir,” she muttered, wishing she could disappear on the spot and never have to face anyone again.
His hand tightened once again at her waist, guiding her out of the set toward the expanse of tall, many-paned windows at the end of the ballroom. French doors in the center of the row stood ajar, as though to let a minimum amount of night air in to cool the crowded room. Cheriton steered Brittany through these doors onto a high flagstone terrace overlooking a garden that sloped downhill toward a glistening, silvery pond. The moon, just past its half, shone brightly in a cloudless sky. A gentle breeze carrying the sweet scent of fresh spring flowers stirred leaves on the shrubs edging the terrace, and above their light whisper the sound of voices and occasional laughter wafted to their ears as they stood looking out upon the shadowy, moonlit scene.
“Shall we walk, ma’am?” his voice was calm, low-pitched. He made no effort to claim her hand, merely touching her elbow lightly to steady her as she began to walk down the flagstone steps. They had strolled in silence for some moments before he said quietly, “Tell me.”
There was no question of hesitation now. Somehow the words just tumbled from her mouth as she described Faringdon’s actions over the past several weeks and his violent reaction to their adventure that afternoon. “He was absolutely furious, sir, and I suppose I should not be surprised after his behavior toward her these past weeks that he should vent that anger primarily upon my sister, but he was angry with me as well. Still, even his anger with me seemed to have more to do with Alicia than with myself. He said my letting her go to Charles Street might have resulted in her being injured. That I might also have been injured he mentioned merely as a fleeting afterthought. I suppose I ought to have recognized his
true feelings before that moment. I just never did. Moreover,” she added as an injured afterthought of her own, “he of all people ought to realize that no one can stop Alicia if she is bent upon doing something outrageous. Even Papa cannot, as we all have seen to our cost. But I suppose you will agree with Tony, sir, that I ought to have prevented her going this afternoon.”
“You were certainly not very wise to go with her.” A distinct snap in his tone caused her to look up at him sharply, and by some trick or other of the moonlight she thought she saw a muscle twitch in his jaw. Though she licked her lips, they seemed to remain dry and she found it extraordinarily difficult to swallow. Uncharacteristic tears sprang to her eyes, and the tightness in her throat grew until it became an ache. She stumbled, and at once Cheriton’s strong hands caught and steadied her. “Here is a bench,” he said quietly. “Sit down, my lady. There is no one else nearby to overhear us.”
She obeyed him, feeling as though she had lost control over her limbs. One moment her legs felt as though they were made of rubber, and the next there was a feeling as though pins and needles were shooting through them. At the same time, though her breathing was faster than ever, the air seemed not to fill her lungs at all. When she had seated herself, he sat down beside her and placed his hand firmly in the center of her back. Though he said nothing for a moment or two, the warmth of his hand and something in his very attitude compelled her to relax. At last, when she drew a long, steadying breath, the ache disappeared and the giddiness left her.
“Better?”
She glanced up at him. “I cannot think what came over me. You must think me a fragile flower, sir, and indeed I am not.”
“I know.”
She hesitated, then decided to speak her mind. “I thought you were angry with me, but I cannot think why I should have reacted so oddly. When Papa begins to bellow at Alicia or Cicely, I have been known to feel faint, but I have never reacted like this. It seems most peculiar.”
