Stephen glanced back at the table and saw Sir Arthur listening with rapt attention to Robert’s scheme.
“Perhaps he’ll find a backer outside the family?”
Henry followed Stephen’s eyes. “Sir Arthur? Come now, Stephen, do you really think the Malcolms have money to throw about?” He nearly alluded to Miss Malcolm’s dress—three seasons old—but her utter embarrassment over the matter made him think better of it.
“I’ve never thought about whether they do or not. But maybe you’re right.” Stephen said. “And in that case, what exactly are Rufus’ intentions in bringing Miss Malcolm here?”
“What are you saying? That everyone should follow your lead and be on the lookout for an heiress?”
Stephen reddened. “Is that what you think of me?”
“No, no,” said Henry, clapping him on the shoulder. “I jest.”
“What are you two whispering about?” demanded Rufus. He had grown tired of Robert’s effusions and was looking for a way to escape.
“Just how incredibly dull it is to be in our own company,” said Henry. “Why don’t we rejoin the ladies? I know that Stephen, at least, will favor that idea.”
“You seem to favor the idea as well,” said Walter Turold. “Any particular reason why?”
Henry held his breath momentarily. It was the first time in years that Walter had addressed him directly. “A very particular reason,” he said, forcing a smile. He would maintain his charade to the end. “The lovely Miss Malcolm and I are old friends. I can introduce you to her if you like.”
“I fear you’re behind the times in that regard,” said Rufus with a smirk. “Walter’s the one who pointed out Miss Malcolm to me.”
“Oh?” said Henry. “And how did Miss Malcolm catch your eye, Walter?”
Stephen nudged his friend’s arm.
“But perhaps a question better answered when the lady’s father is not present,” said Henry, without any discomfiture. He gave a friendly bow to Sir Arthur. “Shall we, gentlemen?” And without waiting for a reply, he stepped out the dining room door and crossed the corridor to enter the drawing room.
* * *
Eliza folded and unfolded her hands, rubbing her palms against the golden overlay of her skirt. As soon as they had entered the drawing room, the two older ladies had taken a seat on the sofa and begun to talk of events twenty or thirty years past, when France still had its king and when America still served the crown. It was the only thread that bound them together, their common age—and it was a thread that neither Eliza nor Lady Adele shared.
“Come, sit by the window with me,” directed Lady Adele, and Eliza soon found herself secluded in an unexpected tête-à-tête with the duke’s sister.
“What do you think of Mr. Blount?”
Eliza wondered if the question were a test. “He seems very polite.”
“He’s courting me, you know.” Lady Adele took one of her brown curls in hand and began to twist it around her finger.
Eliza was not sure whether this last was a statement of fact, an exuberant boast, or a warning against trespass.
“I am…glad to hear it.”
“I haven’t decided yet, of course,” continued Adele. “He’s handsome and kind, but not exactly a catch…well, for me at least.”
Eliza felt herself gaping and closed her mouth. She had never had a friend speak this frankly to her before. Her mother was forthright enough, but never on such a topic.
“Do you have a good many other suitors then?”
“Oh, Lud, yes,” said Lady Adele. “Well, that is to say, I did after my coming-out ball earlier this year, but I may have put them off a bit by showing such a preference for Steph—that is, Mr. Blount. But if I should decide against him, I suppose they’ll all come back again.”
“It seems cruel to keep him in suspense,” said Eliza, feeling genuinely sorry for anyone at the mercy of this pretty tyrant’s whims.
“Oh?” Lady Adele’s eyebrows lifted like a topsail catching the wind. “And are you not keeping my brother Rufus in suspense?”
Eliza’s face reddened. The situation was not the same! She had never given him encouragement; he had simply shown an interest all on his own. And if, over the course of this visit, she learned that she could not return that interest, she would most certainly tell him at once.
The two women considered each other’s faces, until Eliza became flustered and dropped her eyes. Lady Adele beamed like a child who has won her first hand at piquet.
“And what do you think of my brother Henry?”
“He seems a fine gentleman.” Eliza had certainly not thought that at first, but over the course of the last half hour, she had decided that his intervention in the dining room more than made up for his rudeness in the saloon. But why Lady Adele should be asking this question, she was not at all sure. It was the duke who had invited her to Harrowhaven, not his brother!
“I am surprised that we never crossed paths while I was in town this season, with you and Henry being such particular friends.” There was a sly look in Lady Adele’s brown eyes.
Eliza floundered for a moment. It was hateful to have to maintain this fiction that Lord Henry had forced on her. However kind he may have been at dinner, he was still a scoundrel through and through. “You know your brother.” She smiled wanly. “He keeps his own counsel about a good many things.”
“Yes, that is true,” said Lady Adele slowly.
Eliza breathed easier. Apparently she had said the right thing. She looked over to where her mother sat talking with the duchess, anxious for this game of cat and mouse to end.
“And I am sorry for that,” said Lady Adele, an air of decision in her voice, “for I should have liked to have met you before. You must call me, Adele.” She took Eliza’s hand and pressed it. “I think we shall be fast friends.”
“Yes, of course,” said Eliza, taken completely by surprise. She stammered out the necessary reciprocation. “And…and…you must call me Eliza.”
“What’s this? Sharing secrets?” asked a good-humored voice. Lord Henry was the first of the gentlemen to enter the drawing room, and he immediately approached the window where the two young ladies sat.
“I was simply telling Eliza that it was quite horrid of you not to bring us together during the course of the season. I could have used another friend at Almack’s or one of those card parties Mother was forever attending.”
“Horrid of me, was it?” Lord Henry seemed amused by the accusation. “Perhaps I was enjoying having Miss Malcolm all to myself.” He put his hands behind his back and took up a stance in front of the nearby fireplace, an action formed by habit, not necessity, for it was much too warm indoors to even think of lighting a fire. His tight coat strained at the seams.
Eliza’s pink lips opened with a faint cry of protest. It was the outside of enough for him to be claiming such things! “Perhaps I would have preferred meeting your sister, Lord Henry.”
Her tormentor’s face fell into a full grin. If she had not thought he was laughing at her, she would have appreciated how handsome he looked when a smile lit up its features.
“Oh, come now, Miss Malcolm! You were not so cruel the last time I saw you promenading in Hyde Park.”
“And when was that?” demanded Eliza, determined to catch him out in his falsehoods.
“The fifth of April, the day after the fourth of April when you waved your hand to me at the opera. Do not tell me you have forgotten!”
“Sir!” said Eliza, astounded at the detailed nature of his fabrications.
“Upon my word, Henry!” said Adele, glaring at her brother. “You are embarrassing Eliza. Perhaps she would rather forget the things you mention.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Lord Henry. Stepping over from the fireplace, he reached for Eliza’s hand. “It shall not happen again.”
“No,” said a cold voice from the doorway. “It shall not.”
Eliza looked over to see that Rufus was entering the drawing room. His gray eyes were fixed intractably on his brother. She had never seen murder on someone’s face before, but she suspected that this might be it.
Her right hand was still trembling slightly from the pressure of Lord Henry’s fingers. She looked up at him and saw that, rather than being dismayed by his brother’s entrance, he was, in fact, reveling in it. He had wanted Rufus to witness that exchange.
* * *
Henry walked back to the fireplace, a satisfied smile on his face. Rufus was angry. Well, let him be! He deserved to stew a little at the thought of another man taking something that belonged to him.
Not that Miss Malcolm belonged to anyone, thought Henry, casting an appraising eye back at the auburn-haired beauty. In that golden dress, she was a diamond of the first water. He had almost penetrated her reserve with that last round of banter. He wondered what it would be like to really have a conversation with her—uninhibited by convention, by prying eyes, or by her own reticence.
Rufus had walked over to her now. He rested his hand on the back of her zebrawood chair, a sign of ownership, of proprietorship. Henry watched Miss Malcolm return Rufus’ pleasantries with a half-smile and polite response. What did she see in him, anyway? A dukedom, no doubt. Henry’s jaw jutted forward.
There were women aplenty—and their parents—who were willing to put up with a scoundrel for the sake of a title or the accompanying fortune. Miss Malcolm’s father, Sir Arthur, seemed quite taken by what Rufus had to offer. Was the mother the same? He doubted that Miss Malcolm would resist a suitor’s advances if parental pressure was applied.
“Lord Brockenhurst,” said Lady Malcolm, signaling Rufus from the other side of the room. “I was just asking your mother about the little white church on the edge of the forest nearby.”
“Ah, yes,” said Rufus. “A pretty building. It is part of the Brockenhurst estate.”
“Is that the church we shall be attending for services tomorrow?”
Henry glanced back at the group in the corner and saw that Adele was barely suppressing a giggle. He could certainly understand why.
“Tomorrow?” said Rufus. “Ah, yes. I had forgotten that it was Sunday.”
Lady Malcolm sniffed in evident disapproval. Apparently such a lapse in memory was unacceptable.
“Yes, we shall certainly attend there,” said Rufus, trying to recover his footing on this new, unsteady ground. “Reverend Ansel will be pleased to see the Malcolms join us in the Rowland family pew.”
“You’re going to church?” asked Adele incredulously. Henry reflected that someone really ought to teach the girl the art of tact. Still, in this case, it was amusing to see Rufus caught out.
“As I always do when I am able,” replied Rufus. There was an edge to his voice, warning their sister to mind her tongue.
Henry noticed Miss Malcolm looking over at the duke with a perplexed look on her face. She obviously valued piety, the same as her mother did. He wondered if she would see through the mask Rufus was donning before it was too late.
“And what about you, Henry?” asked Adele.
Now it was Henry’s turn to squirm. “I am not fond of Reverend Ansel’s preaching,” he said curtly.
It was as good an excuse as any, and not too far off the mark. He would gladly attend a service in any church but that one. As long as Reverend Ansel—and his family—occupied the adjoining parsonage, he would keep his distance.
“Oh, come now, Henry,” said Walter. It was the second time he had addressed him this evening. “Afraid of a little sermon?”
Henry gritted his teeth. Walter, out of all the people present in that room, knew exactly what he was afraid of. “You might say that.”
He could see Miss Malcolm’s eyes on him now. It was only too apparent what she thought of his refusal to attend divine services tomorrow. It vexed him to think that he was falling lower in her opinion. It vexed him even further to realize that the first matter vexed him.
What was wrong with him? He had commenced this foolery to torment Rufus, not to be tormented himself. He leaned an arm against the mantelpiece. He would not allow himself to be jealous.
“I think it’s time we said our good-nights,” said Lady Malcolm, rising to her feet. Her husband and daughter, apparently used to obeying, rose from their seats as well.
“Good night,” said Rufus, giving Miss Malcolm a long look and taking her hand in his. Henry was disgusted to see his brother rub his thumb across the back of Miss Malcolm’s hand. No, he was not jealous, he reminded himself. But all the same, it would be better if he left on the morrow.
* * *
When Ollerton came to Eliza’s room to help her dress for bed, Lady Malcolm came as well. Eliza sat down in front of the mirror, and the maid began to unpin her hair. Lady Malcolm stood in the center of the room, lips pursed, hands folded. “You must be tired, Mother, from all the day’s events,” said Eliza.
“I’m sure we all are, child,” replied Lady Malcolm. She took a seat on the bed and began tapping her foot against the floor. Eliza knew instinctively that her mother had something to say.
“Thank you, Frances,” said Lady Malcolm, once the maid had helped Eliza slip into her dressing gown. “I will help my daughter brush her hair out tonight.” And taking a comb, Lady Malcolm began to run it through Eliza’s long auburn hair while Ollerton hung up the discarded dress and then disappeared down the hallway.
“My dear,” said Lady Malcolm.
Eliza sensed that a criticism was forthcoming.
“Have you considered your behavior in encouraging Henry Rowland?”
“You mean Rufus Rowland, Mother?”
“I mean Lord Henry Rowland,” said Lady Malcolm grimly. “The duke’s brother. You were much too familiar with him tonight, and I think it gave the duke and his family concern.” She began to brush her daughter’s hair more vigorously.
“Oh….” Eliza colored as she felt pain shooting across her scalp. “I’m sorry, Mother. I didn’t mean to do any such thing.”
“Yes, well, you did.” Lady Malcolm sniffed. “And I heard him claim an acquaintance with us, but I cannot recall in the least laying eyes on him before.”
“It must have been at one of the balls this season or last,” said Eliza, sickened by the idea of lying to her mother. “Perhaps I danced with him and he remembers it.”
“No.” Lady Malcolm dropped the brush onto the vanity. “I would remember it. I remember everyone you have danced with, my dear. That Mr. Turold stood up with you once, you recall.”
“Did he?” said Eliza, delighted to turn the conversation away from Henry Rowland. “I thought he looked familiar.” He had claimed no acquaintance, however—probably just as happy to forget a girl he had danced with once and would never speak to again.
“Consider your behavior tomorrow, child,” said Lady Malcolm, walking over to the door of the chamber. “You would not wish to ruin your chances with the duke through over-friendliness to the wrong party.”
Eliza grimaced. No one had ever accused her of over-friendliness before. “I did not think you cared for the duke or his suit, Mother.”
“Perhaps I was over-hasty,” said Lady Malcolm, her fingers pausing on the handle of the door. “He is courteous and well-spoken, and not so opposed to religion or godly living as I originally thought.” She looked at her daughter with a wry smile. “Your father was not dissimilar when first we were married.”
And not so dissimilar now, thought Eliza, but kept it to herself. She said goodnight to her mother and, left to herself, walked aimlessly over to the window, watching the sun begin to set over the forested horizon.
Ruin her chances with the duke? It was Lord Henry who was aspiring to do exactly that. And her mother was right—she must be more
careful, for he was well on his way to succeeding. It was surely for the best that he was not attending church with them tomorrow, for she doubted whether she would be able to keep her mind on the sermon with Henry Rowland in the same pew.
6
Henry went to bed irritable and awoke early the next morning without his mood having improved. He stared up at the canopy over his bed. “I am not fond of Reverend Ansel’s preaching.” What a bumblebroth he’d made of things! He imagined Miss Malcolm’s pretty, puzzled face curling into a sneer of derision. And the worst part was that it was about as far from the truth as Sussex from Northumbria. Reverend Ansel was a masterful preacher. He liked the man—he was simply afraid to face him.
Henry threw back the covers and kicked one of his pillows over the side of the bed. Why was he wasting his time playing games with Rufus? He should have gone back to the Blue Boar, shared a pint with Ned, and already been on his way at daybreak.
He found Frederick, the footman-turned-valet, waiting at his door with a freshly brushed pair of Hessians. Henry had packed one clean shirt, and the footman removed it from the cavernous wardrobe.
“Will you be breaking your fast before church, my lord?”
Henry yanked the white cambric shirt over his head and closed the buttons over his broad chest. “Yes, a quick breakfast and then I must be off.” He refrained from mentioning that it was the metropolis, not the church, that was his intended destination. “Will you pack my satchel and send it downstairs? I’ll not be back to the house.”
“Of course, sir,” replied Frederick with a hint of surprise in his voice. But he did not ask why—the mark of a good servant, noted Henry approvingly.
Still in a fit of blue devils, Henry fastened his cravat—a quick, serviceable knot—and shrugged into yesterday’s jacket, a far more comfortable fit than the blue dinner jacket from last night. With Frederick’s help, he slipped his Hessians on over his pantaloons, and snatching up his beaver, he headed down the hall and towards the stairway. The morning was young, and with any luck he would be out of the house before any of the other inhabitants had woken.
The Duke's Last Hunt Page 5
