Summer House Party

by Regina Scott

  “Oh, it was the silliest thing.” Miss Widtsoe waved her hands in the air. “Genevieve told me she didn’t know how to waltz so I was showing her the basic step, but I forgot I was on such a narrow path and lost my footing.”

  Christian glanced at Miss Marshall, who winced as if she blamed herself for Miss Widtsoe’s fall.

  “It was foolish, I know,” Miss Widtsoe continued, drawing his thoughts. “But I wanted ever so much for my dear friend to know how to waltz.”

  He quirked a smile. “Perhaps in the future you ought to restrict dancing lessons to a larger, flatter area.”

  Genevieve Marshall let out a small gasp. “Oh, no, Mattie! I hope your ankle is strong enough to dance tonight.”

  “Ohh,” Miss Widtsoe practically wailed. “How can I dance on it now?”

  Miss Marshall’s expression turned earnest. “We’ll try every remedy we know. Perhaps if you rest it all day and we wrap it?”

  “I suppose.” Disappointment clouded Miss Widtsoe’s features.

  “We’ll think of something, Mattie,” Miss Marshall promised.

  They reached the outer gardens, circled around to the back, skirted a ha-ha separating a field where sheep grazed from the back lawn, and headed to a portico.

  Christian glanced at the young lady next to him. Her bonnet hid her face from him. Still, the quality of her breathing sent increasingly wild little fingers of awareness over him. She was not only one of the more beautiful ladies he’d ever seen, there was something about her, a quality of elegance and genuine kindness. His father would say something about still waters running deep.

  She was the perfect opposite of Miss Widtsoe. Where one was exuberant, the other was restrained, not because she didn’t have strong emotions, but she held them in check, as if she only brought them out for special moments. One chattered freely with almost childlike charm, the other spoke after careful consideration, weighing each word to assure it contained the exact meaning to deliver her thoughts. And though Miss Widtsoe seemed cheerful and sweet, there were moments when he suspected her of being childishly self-absorbed. Yet Genevieve Marshall’s unselfishness, the way she cared for others, and sought to show her friend in the best possible light, while remaining quietly on the sidelines, won his respect.

  Admirably—and regrettably—the young ladies were loyal friends. If he spurned Miss Widtsoe’s affection, he certainly could not pursue her friend. Not that he would, regardless of how tempting.

  When they’d gotten the cart as close to the house as possible, Christian offered his arm. As before, the strain of practically hopping on one foot showed in Miss Widtsoe’s face before they’d gotten very far. His duty as a gentleman was clear. He almost heaved a sigh.

  “Miss Widtsoe, please allow me to carry you the rest of the way home. We’ll go in a side entrance so you are spared further embarrassment.” With luck, no one would see them.

  She chewed her lip and then nodded. Glancing up at him from underneath her lashes, her expression changed from discomfort to coyness. “You’re so very chivalrous to offer, sir.”

  Christian almost groaned. Wonderful. Now she’d misread his offer, too, and would view his carrying her as some sort of romantic gesture. Could it get more twisted?

  He slid his arms underneath Miss Widtsoe’s legs and behind her back and lifted her. She snuggled against him and placed her arms around his shoulders. There was nothing for it. He started walking, Miss Marshall keeping up with him.

  “Go to the side entrance,” Miss Widtsoe suggested. “No one should be in the library now, not on such a fine day.”

  Something shadowed Miss Marshall’s eyes. Did she fear for her friend’s reputation? Christian had built a reputation for being an upstanding gentleman. Miss Widtsoe’s behavior was, to his knowledge, exemplary. Miss Marshall was present. And surely the circumstances necessitated some flexibility. Still, had he made a mistake in carrying the girl inside? But, dash it all, what else was he to do?

  Miss Marshall glanced up at him. “Are you getting tired?”

  He glanced at her as a wry grin tugged his mouth. “Are you questioning my manliness?”

  “Of course she isn’t!” Miss Widtsoe interjected. “She’s just being the little mother again and taking care of everyone.”

  In truth, his arms warmed uncomfortably. “I can get to the house, never fear.”

  Miss Marshall glanced up at him again. Sadness shadowed her soft eyes. Surely she wasn’t so upset about her friend being unable to dance? “I’ll make sure the room is empty.” She strode ahead.

  He tried not to admire the grace of her walk nor the way her dress accentuated her slender curves as the wind flattened the fabric against her.

  “Don’t you just love Genevieve?” Miss Widtsoe chirped. “She is the dearest thing! I hope she finds a man to marry—someone who deserves her. But if she doesn’t, maybe she’ll come live with me and help me raise my family. That would be sublime!”

  “I’m sure she won’t have any trouble finding a gentleman who will want to marry her. Someone worthy of her might be more difficult to find, but she isn’t meant to live as a spinster.”

  “I’m sure you’re right!” she gushed.

  Had he spoken his thoughts aloud?

  “So,” Miss Widtsoe said, “you come from a large family. Do you hope to have a lot of children when the time comes?”

  “I haven’t really thought about it.”

  “Oh.” She paused. “If you could live anywhere, where would it be?”

  He paused. “I like Bath.”

  “Anywhere?” she emphasized.

  He thought it over. “Perhaps the seashore. I’ve always wanted to visit Italy, to paint there, but I’m not certain I’d want to live there. We have some property up in Scotland. Beautiful country. Perhaps there. Why do you ask?”

  Miss Marshall opened a side door and vanished inside.

  “Oh, just curious. I would love to see those places, too.” Miss Widtsoe took another pause. “You excel at art and music. And you like riding and fencing and boxing. What other interests do you enjoy?”

  He wanted to squirm under all her questions. “I like to read.”

  Her exuberance faded. “Oh. I’m not much of a reader. Jenny reads even more than she sews. It’s very tiresome to be in a room with someone who’s reading. But I applaud that interest in men. I can certainly keep myself amused if my husband likes to read.” She cast an anxious look at him.

  Christian only barely managed not to wince at her obviousness. He carried his burden up the stairs to the portico and headed for a set of French doors.

  Miss Marshall stepped out and gestured to him. “This way. It’s empty.”

  Christian carried Miss Widtsoe inside, and he set her onto a nearby chair. As he straightened, he glanced at Miss Marshall, but her bonnet shielded her face. She sank down on her knees in front of Miss Widtsoe and began removing the half boot.

  He took a step back. “I’ll leave you now. I hope your ankle mends quickly, Miss Widtsoe.”

  She beamed. “I’m sure it will. Thank you so much for helping me. You are a true hero.”

  At that, Miss Marshall turned her head toward him, a secretive smile curving her beautifully formed lips. He wanted to push back her bonnet and run a hand over her silky head and lower his mouth to hers . . .

  He almost groaned out loud. There were so many reasons why that thought was wholly inappropriate.

  “It was nothing.” He sketched a hasty bow and left.

  He did not need a woman in his life right now. He must care for the earl and manage the estate. His brothers would produce heirs to ensure the continuation of the Amesbury line. Therefore, Christian had no duty to have children. No, he’d spend his life trying to atone for a host of failings and not drag some poor, undeserving lady into his world.

  Chapter Seven

  Genevieve and Mrs. Widtsoe applied every kind of remedy upon Matilda’s ankle, but by the time she planned to meet Mr. Amesbury for her first sitting
, her ankle had swollen enough to discourage the wearing of all but the softest slippers, and the skin had darkened to purple.

  Letting her breath out in frustration, Genevieve glanced at Mrs. Widtsoe. “No dancing?”

  The dear lady shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”

  Matilda’s face crumpled. Genevieve tried to offer consolation, but Matilda only sobbed. How could Genevieve help her friend? And how could she do it without allowing her jealousy to rule her?

  Moments later, a note arrived for Matilda from Mr. Amesbury, asking if she still wished to sit for her portrait today.

  “Oh!” Matilda clasped the note to her bosom, her irrepressible spirit restored.

  As a maid arranged her hair, Matilda placed cool packets of lavender and chamomile over her face to help reverse signs of tears. “Never mind, Jenny. I will enjoy myself today at the sitting and tonight at the ball, no matter what. And when you aren’t dancing, you’ll sit with me, won’t you?”

  Genevieve would have given her a stern look, but Matilda had packets over her eyes. “Need you even ask?”

  “Sorry. I’m letting my insecurities show.” She removed the compresses from her eyes. “How do I look?”

  Wearing an elegant blue evening gown, and with only the sides caught up and the rest of Matilda’s thick golden curls tumbling over one shoulder and down her back, her skin creamy as ever, and once more bright-eyed, Matilda looked exquisite. If she didn’t turn Christian Amesbury’s head, he wasn’t a man.

  Truthfully, Genevieve said, “You look like an angel.”

  Matilda rewarded her with a bright smile. “I hope he likes it.”

  They used a wheeled chair a footman found in the attic to convey her down the corridor, and two footmen carried her, chair and all, down the stairs to the drawing room. Along the way, Genevieve reminded herself that her task was to ensure Mattie and Mr. Amesbury had enough nudging to fall in love. Once Genevieve ensured Matilda’s happiness, she’d give a thought to her own future. Perhaps she’d meet a fine gentleman later in the summer during their stay in Bath who would make her forget all about her improper fascination with Matilda’s true love.

  Mr. Amesbury sat behind an easel, preparing a palette of paints. He wore a large, paint-stained smock over his clothes. Focused on something only an artist would see, he held his lower lip between his teeth.

  Mama sat with Mrs. Widtsoe in the corner of the room, chatting quietly as they sewed, their voices creating a soft murmur. After wheeling Matilda to the bench next to the pianoforte, Genevieve helped her out of the wheeled chair and onto the piano bench. Once Matilda got settled, Genevieve arranged the folds of her skirts. Then she turned her attention to Matilda’s hair, carefully placing her curls.

  She turned to find Mr. Amesbury looking at her. A soft smile curved his full mouth. His intensely focused gaze locked on her face, probing into her eyes. As tangible as a caress, his attention brought a rush of heat to her cheeks and a quiver in her midsection.

  Gesturing to Matilda, she said, “Do you think she will do?”

  He shifted his gaze to Matilda, blinked, then cocked his head as if remembering he agreed to paint her portrait. “The color suits her complexion and is the perfect hue against the background.”

  Matilda offered an uncertain smile and glanced hesitantly at Genevieve. Genevieve wanted to yell at him. Didn’t he see how much his opinion meant to Matilda?

  He seemed to realize his error. “You look very pretty, Miss Widtsoe. Perfect for a painting.”

  Her signature smile blazed, and all was well again. As Mr. Amesbury called out instructions for Matilda to turn her knees slightly to the side, raise her chin, and angle her head, Genevieve withdrew.

  As she approached her mother sitting in the corner of the room with Matilda’s, Mama nodded her way. “Jenny, dear, the rest of the guests are just about to begin a game of croquet. Do join them on the east lawn.”

  “Very well.” Better to avoid being in the room with the beautiful Christian Amesbury while he gently wooed her friend. Just as she’d hoped he would. Didn’t she?

  She grabbed her gloves and her bonnet, tying it firmly underneath her chin, and hurried to the east lawn. The guests were already pairing up, but a slender young man with brown curls that made him look like a mischievous boy stood off to the side alone, holding his mallet and ball.

  As Genevieve approached, she threw out convention and called, “Sir Reginald, isn’t it?”

  Instantly smiling, he bowed. “Yes, Miss Marshall.”

  “Are you, by chance, in need of a partner?”

  “I certainly am. Your arrival is most timely.” He fixed warm brown eyes on her and handed her a mallet and matching ball.

  The cheerful young man with the fashionable Cherubin hairstyle proved an enthusiastic and skilled partner. He teased her into smiling, making outrageously flirtatious statements and inquiries about the size of her dowry. One part shocked and two parts charmed, she shook off her melancholy. By the end of the game, she and Sir Reginald were laughing like old friends.

  Clouds flirted with the sun as the merry group completed their game, calling dares, wagers, and jeers. The only blight in the afternoon came from Lord Wickburgh, who watched Genevieve too closely. He’d left his cane somewhere, which confirmed that he only carried it as a fashion statement. Fortunately, he remained at a distance, so she soon forgot him and focused on her friendly partner who felt rather like a brother. Without Matilda nearby to absorb all of her attention, Genevieve enjoyed getting to know the other guests.

  Sir Reginald nodded his chin toward a group ahead of them near a spreading oak. “Mr. Ashton keeps looking at you. I believe you have captured his interest.”

  Genevieve glanced in the direction to catch the gaze of an attractive, dark-haired young gentleman she’d met previously but couldn’t recall his name until Sir Reginald reminded her. “I can’t imagine how. We’ve hardly spoken.”

  Sir Reginald grinned. “Speaking isn’t requisite to admiring beauty.”

  “No, I suppose not.” The first moment she saw Christian Amesbury, she had admired him without exchanging a word with him. With a sigh at what could never be, she focused on the game. They finished in the middle, not victors, but at least not last place.

  Sir Reginald bowed. “It was a pleasure to partner you this afternoon, Miss Marshall.”

  “The pleasure was mine, sir.” She grinned at the guileless young man.

  As they put away their mallets and balls, a shadow fell over her. “Miss Marshall.”

  With a start, she met Lord Wickburgh’s gaze. Quickly, she looked down to escape that oddly searching stare and curtsied. “Lord Wickburgh.”

  “You seemed to enjoy the game.” Nothing in his tone sounded improper. Then why did he unnerve her so?

  “Yes, I . . . I did, due to the company, I’m sure.”

  Sir Reginald eyed her curiously and took a few hesitant steps away.

  She held a hand out to her partner. “Pray excuse me, my lord. I promised Sir Reginald I’d walk with him after the game.”

  At her words, the young man squared his shoulders and offered her his arm. She curtsied to the viscount and took Sir Reginald’s arm gratefully.

  Several paces away, she murmured, “Thank you.”

  “Is he bothering you?”

  “Not precisely, but something about him makes me nervous. Thank you for playing into my ruse.”

  “Always a pleasure, Miss Marshall.” They fell silent as they strolled toward the house. “You and Miss Widtsoe are fast friends, I take it?”

  “Oh, yes, for years.”

  “She has spoken of you often.” He let out a sigh. “She’s so beautiful. The loveliest creature I’ve ever seen.”

  Genevieve smiled. “She does turn heads.” At his smitten expression, she debated whether to discourage him. Perhaps it would be kinder to warn him that the way to Matilda’s heart was barred. “I am persuaded she will make a match very soon.”

  His face fell. �
��With that Amesbury fellow.” It wasn’t a question.

  She held her expression steady. “Perhaps. They have no formal understanding, mind you, but . . .” She let her voice trail off.

  Another sigh. “I am less than two years her senior, so I have only just reached my majority—I couldn’t court her until then. But I have admired her for years. Then when we danced in London . . .” Another sigh. “Do you think I’m too late?”

  She wanted to tell him he was not too late, that he had a chance. The temptation arose to even help him try to wrest Matilda’s interest away from Christian Amesbury. But that would be disloyal, and she did not wish to raise Sir Reginald’s hopes where hope might not exist if Matilda and Mr. Amesbury made a match.

  “I don’t know if it’s too late,” she said. “She has a clear preference for him. Whether he returns her regard is anyone’s guess.” There. That was honest.

  The young gentleman’s mouth twisted to one side. “I see.” Then he brightened. “I don’t mind a little friendly competition. His father might be an earl, but my grandfather was the Duke of Suttenberg—not the present one, of course, he’s a second cousin—but his father. And Amesbury is only a few years older than I. Do you think she prefers blond over brown?”

  Genevieve almost tousled his curls which made him seem younger than his age. “I can’t imagine the color of your hair would deter any sensible young lady.”

  He grinned. As his gaze fell on something off to the side, he pointed with his chin. “Look. I think the younger set have started a game of Blindman’s Bluff. Shall we join them?”

  She looked back at Lord Wickburgh, but he had already mounted the steps leading to the abbey, absorbed in conversation with a gentleman his age. She wouldn’t have to worry about his disturbing presence if she stayed outside.

  And Christian Amesbury remained inside with Matilda, where he should be. They should be together. And she should be happy for them. There was no compelling reason for her to enter the abbey at the moment.

  “Yes, I’d love to play Blindman’s Bluff.” Anything to keep her away from temptation.