by Meg Cabot
Nicola looked, and was somewhat astonished to see the Grouser as well as the Milksop staring in her direction. The Blenkenships were not, of course, standing anywhere close to the line for the Catch Me Who Can, the Grouser being too old, and the Milksop entirely too low-spirited ever to set foot on any such thing. Still, they had clearly come to observe others riding in the contraption . . . and the Grouser, in particular, did not look too pleased to see that one of those riders had been one of his own relatives.
Stuff and bother! Could Nicola never do anything to please the wretched man?
"He isn't my uncle," was all Nicola said, but she raised a hand to wave to them, as they were too far away to call to. Ladies, according to Madame, never called greetings to anyone from across crowded public squares. The Grouser did not return the wave, but the Milksop did, all too eagerly.
"My goodness, Nicola," Honoria said, taking Nicola's arm as the two of them strolled back toward the Bartholomews' carriage, "but Mr. Blenkenship seems to be holding quite a torch for you."
It took a moment or two for Nicola to realize what the Lady Honoria meant. When she did, she was so appalled she stumbled to a halt and stared at her friend in disbelief.
"Harold?" Nicola cried. "Oh, my lady, you must be joking!"
"Not at all," Honoria said, looking puzzled. "I noticed it at Almack's the other night, as well. He looks at you like . . . well, the way Papa looks at the Catch Me Who Can. I think he must be in love with you."
Nicola was glad breakfast had been so long ago, or she was certain it would have all come back up. The Milksop! In love with her! Impossible!
Nicola shook her head. "You are mistaken. The Milk— I mean, Mr. Blenkenship only looks at me because he is so disgusted with my lack of business sense. His father wants me to sell my childhood home, you know."
But Honoria was adamant, "It's hardly disgust I see in his face when he looks at you, Nicola," she said, "Quite the opposite, I should say. I would have a care with him. You know what Madame said."
Nicola did, for Madame Vieuxvincent had been quite firm on the subject: there was nothing on this earth that could do more damage to a girl's reputation than a string of lovers scorned.
But Harold? In love with her? Surely Lady Honoria was imagining things.
Fondly, Nicola patted her friend's arm and said, "I will have a care, my lady, because you ask it. But I assure you, my cousin feels nothing for me."
Indeed, Nicola was quite certain the Milksop was devoid of any proper feeling. For what sort of creature could pass up a ride, as he had done, on the cunning little Catch Me Who Can?
Because the thought was so utterly ridiculous, Nicola put it from her head . . . particularly when, at the door to the Bartholomews' carriage, Lord Sebastian offered her his hand to help her up the carriage steps. In that instant, Nicola was flooded with the memory of how his strong arm had felt about her shoulders.
And then she could not, for the life of her, think of anything else at all. Well, what girl could?
CHAPTER FIVE
The Lady Honoria Bartholomew had not, it was true, been blessed by nature—at least not in the manner that her brother had. She was distinctly horsey about the face, and unfortunately possessed her brother's broad, athletic frame.
This would, Nicola knew, have not been such a disadvantage—indeed, it might almost have been a boon, for statuesque women could wear the high-waisted gowns that were so fashionable that season very well indeed—had her ladyship not insisted upon adorning her gowns and bonnets with feather trimming. In Nicola's opinion, feathers, on a large woman, looked ridiculous. What the Lady Honoria needed were clean lines and classic trimmings, to draw attention away from her heavy shoulders and thick waist and toward her better features, which included her really lovely thick blond hair and exquisitely azure eyes.
What Lady Honoria needed, then, was not feathers, but braid and the barest minimum of lace.
Convincing her ladyship of the truth of this, however, was proving difficult.
Nearly a month had passed since Nicola had come to stay with the Bartholomews, and it was now approaching the height of the season. But Honoria, unlike a good many other graduates of Madame Vieuxvincent's, had yet to receive a single marriage proposal. It was not unusual that a girl like Nicola, who possessed such a small yearly income, and was freckled besides, had been overlooked by a good many of London's most eligible bachelors. But Lady Honoria? Why, she had nearly five thousand pounds a year! Horse-faced or not, she ought to have had suitors banging down the door . . . as Eleanor, who lived just a few streets away, did.
But Eleanor, of course, was a beauty . . . on top of which, having been Nicola's particular friend for so many years, Eleanor had learned how to dress. Feathers on Eleanor, who was petite, would not have been at all inappropriate. But on the Lady Honoria . . . Disastrous! Nicola knew some drastic measures were called for, and so one morning not long after their trip to the Catch Me Who Can, Nicola stood before the open doors of the Lady Honoria's wardrobe, a grim expression on her face, and a pair of scissors in her hand.
"They're all going to have to go," was her final, very firm assessment.
Lady Honoria, perched on a tasseled stool some feet away, let out a sad cry.
"Oh, Nicola! No! Surely not all."
"All," Nicola said firmly.
Even Charlotte, the Lady Honoria's maid, who was French and knew instinctively that what Nicola was saying was true, could not help letting out a sigh of dismay.
"Alors," she said to Nicolas maid, Martine, who had brought the scissors. "Many 'undred pounds they pay for each of zese gowns. Zey are from Paris."
"It is too bad," Nicola said, overhearing this. "It cannot be helped."
And, holding her scissors aloft, she reached for the first of the feathered monstrosities in her friend's wardrobe, and began industriously to clip away the soft marabou. "We'll replace this," she said, as she hacked, "with jet beading. Martine?"
Nicola's maid consulted a box filled with assorted trimming that her mistress had collected over the years, and without which she never ventured very far.
"Oui," Martine said, holding up a strand of black beads. "Jet beading ready."
"Excellent." Nicola tossed the denuded gown to Charlotte. "Next."
They had made their way through almost half the contents of Lady Honoria's wardrobe before a housemaid tapped at the door and announced, when she'd been bidden to enter, "A Mr. Harold Blenkenship to see you, Miss Sparks."
"Stuff and bother!" Nicola cried. She'd forgotten that the Milksop had written to ask permission to take her riding that morning. Under ordinary circumstances, she'd have declined the invitation with an apology that she had a previous engagement.
Unfortunately, however, she had already turned down five such invitations from Harold. Another refusal might be taken as insulting. As it was, she had had to apologize repeatedly for the incident involving the Sir Roger.
For, much as she disliked the Milksop, Nicola did not want to hurt his feelings. Madame had always been clear on one thing: Friends can be shed like gloves, but your family cannot. Best not to antagonize them, as they will be around for a while.
"I must go," Nicola said, giving her upswept hair a pat. Since it was only the Milksop, of course, she was not particularly concerned with her appearance. Still, she accepted the bonnet Martine brought her, one that she'd only just the day before trimmed in green satin to match a newly dyed green jacket. "Kindly refrain from touching anything while I am gone," she went on, with a warning look in Honoria's direction. She suspected the girl might try to salvage one or two boas, and that, of course, would be deadly. Nothing looked worse on a horsey girl than feathers about the face. "When I return, we will go through the rest of your closet."
Lady Honoria said nothing, merely looked sadly at the gowns Martine and Charlotte were stripping of fronds.
It was, Nicola supposed as she tied her bonnet strings into a neat bow beneath her chin, a hard thing to learn that, mu
ch as one might like feathers, they were not necessarily one's friend. This was true of many things, of course, not just feathers. The sun, for instance. She had the freckles to show for that. And many a woman had met her downfall through chocolate.
Still, if Lady Honoria had a hope of marrying someone at all presentable, she was going to have to surrender the ostrich down. She looked simply ridiculous in it.
And really, she ought to be thankful, Nicola supposed, that that was all she'd have to do in order to secure a husband. Many a girl had had to sacrifice far worse. Such as high-heeled boots.
With a nod at Martine, who nodded conspiratorially back, Nicola turned and went downstairs to meet her cousin.
Lady Honoria, Nicola soon saw, was not the only person in need of a wardrobe consultation. The Milksop was in another one of his foppish sensations, this one in the form of fawn-colored velvet breeches and a matching waistcoat. Over this he wore a coat of a shocking shade of aubergine. Nicola was quite appalled by the sight the two of them would make in Hyde Park, as her neat green jacket would look quite odd beside all that purple.
"Nicola," the Milksop said, his piggy eyes quite lighting up when he saw her. "A vision, as usual."
Nicola was not used to Harold calling her a vision. Nor was she used to him following her with his gaze, as, she was realizing with a sinking heart, Honoria had been quite right about him doing. Ever since he'd seen her with her hair up, it seemed to Nicola that the Milksop had been paying a marked bit more attention to her than usual. Which was all the more odd when one considered that her feelings for him had undergone no such significant change. She still despised him quite as much as ever. It was all terribly puzzling. Why couldn't, Nicola wondered, Harold go and fall in love with a girl who welcomed his attentions? Why did he have to bother her? Why did everything have to be so complicated?
"Harold," Nicola said to him, coolly extending a hand. Surely he could not fancy she felt anything for him but sisterly tolerance with a greeting such as that.
Much to her mortification, however, the Milksop did not shake her hand. Instead he raised her fingers to his lips and laid upon them several light kisses—right in front of the Bartholomews' butler, who was politely pretending he did not notice, but who felt, Nicola was certain, quite as embarrassed over the gesture as she did.
"Harold!" Nicola wrenched her fingers from the Milksop's grasp, and hurried to draw on her gloves. "Really. What's come over you?"
But the Milksop only laughed in what Nicola supposed he considered a debonair manner, and swept her out the door to his waiting phaeton, which, to Nicola's relief, she saw was a smart vehicle in yellow and black, with a fine pair of matched bays to pull it. So at least she needn't worry about any foolishness over broken wheels or thrown shoes causing them to arrive home at some scandalously late hour, and—perish the thought—forcing them to wed merely to save Nicola's reputation.
Still, just to be on the safe side, she said, loudly enough for the Bartholomews' butler to overhear, "I simply must be home no later than one o'clock, Harold. Lady Honoria and I are going to Grafton House this afternoon to look at buttons."
It was a lie, of course, but the Milksop did not need to know that.
Still, it didn't appear to bother him in the least that Nicola was deigning to give him only an hour of her time. After helping her into the carriage seat, he sprang up beside her and took the reins.
"You had better hang on, Nicky," he said to her, with a smile she supposed he thought looked wicked, but which merely looked self-congratulatory. "These are some spirited animals, and sometimes it's all I can do to keep 'em from bolting."
Nicola, annoyed by this, because she was quite certain it was perfectly untrue, unless of course the Milksop rode his horses with such a heavy hand that they had occasionally to rebel, snapped, "Well, then you had better sell them at once and purchase a pair you're better capable of handling."
This was apparently not the response the Milksop had been looking for, as he appeared quite disappointed. Nicola supposed, with some disgust, that he'd been hoping she'd cry, "Oh, Harold! Protect me!" and fling her hands around his arm. As if it had been she, and not he, who'd been too scared to try the Catch Me Who Can!
Looking irritated, Harold chirruped to the horses. As Nicola had expected they would, the fine animals broke into a steady trot without any sudden lurches, being well-trained and intelligent creatures . . . far more intelligent, she was certain, than their owner.
"I was quite surprised to see you at Euston Square the other day," the Milksop began as they entered the park. "I did not know you were fond of trains."
"Oh," Nicola said airily, keeping a steady eye on the carriages about them, and hoping that no one she knew would see her with a man who'd willingly wear such an ugly color. "I'm not particularly. But Lord Farelly adores them. And really, I found the whole thing quite diverting. It was thrilling to go so quickly." She darted a sly look in his direction. "Didn't you think so?"
Harold, as she'd known he would, looked embarrassed. "Well, I didn't actually ride the thing. Looked a bit dangerous to me."
Nicola, recalling how Harold had run from her anytime she'd happened to dig up a worm to show him during his occasional visits to Beckwell Abbey, was not at all surprised to hear that so fainthearted an individual would find Mr. Trevithick's invention threatening.
"What a shame," she said, secretly thinking it quite typical of him. "It was terribly amusing."
"I suppose," the Milksop said. "Still, it was hardly the sort of thing I'd ever expected to see you take part in, Nicola."
"Me?" Genuinely surprised, she turned to look at him. "Really?"
"Well, you must admit"—the Milksop kept his attention on the reins, though the horses seemed hardly to need any direction, having taken to the track quite as if they did so several times a day, which, Nicola was certain, they most likely did—"it wasn't the sort of thing one would hope to see a lady of one's own acquaintance doing. I mean, cavorting aback a ridiculous contraption such as that."
Stung, Nicola retorted, "For your information, Lady Farelly approved of my riding on it Lord Farelly paid my way, for that matter. He says that one day, people—ladies as well as gentlemen—will think nothing of hopping onto a train and going miles and miles away from home."
"That may be," the Milksop said, "but I didn't notice Lady Farelly riding the Catch Me Who Can. Or her daughter, for that matter. You were the only lady aboard, if I recall."
Really, but this was just too much! It was quite one thing for the Milksop to pester her into going for a ride with him. But then to spend that ride rebuking her for taking part in something she'd had her host and hostess's permission to do! It was too much. If Lady Honoria was correct, and Harold was in love with her, he certainly had a strange way of showing it.
"I've had enough of riding today, Harold," Nicola said with barely veiled anger. "I think you had better take me back to the Bartholomews'."
The Milksop astounded her by looking genuinely shocked to hear this.
"Good Lord," he said, casting her a sharp glance. "You aren't offended by what I said, are you, Nicola?"
"I most certainly am." How could he doubt it? Was he as dense as he was cowardly? "You've no business telling me how I ought to behave, Harold. You're only a second cousin, several times removed, if I'm not mistaken. And though you might be my elder by several years, I'm quite certain I could still thrash you, like I did that day you tried to keep me from going swimming."
Flushing deeply at hearing this brought up—for it was a dark day, Nicola was sure, in any young man's memory that he happened to have been trounced by a girl—Harold cried, "You were only six years old!" He glared at her. "You might have been drowned!"
"In a stream only four feet deep?" Nicola's disgust with him deepened. "There's the turnoff for Park Lane, Harold. Kindly take it."
Only the Milksop didn't take the turn. Instead he pulled the horses to a halt and turned in his seat to face Nicola.
&nbs
p; "I believe I have every business telling you how to behave," he informed her with what, for the Milksop, was a good deal of forcefulness.
Nicola blinked at him. "Oh? Pray tell me what makes you think so. Because I'd be very interested to learn it."
"Because," Harold said with an air of self-satisfaction that was quite unmistakable, "I happen to have every intention of marrying you."
CHAPTER SIX
Openmouthed with astonishment, Nicola could only stare at the Milksop. Had he—or was it her imagination?—just proposed to her?
"Oh, yes, Nicky," Harold said much too loudly, so that the people in the carriages passing by theirs—for Harold had already caused a disruption in the flow of traffic around the park by stopping in the middle of the track—looked at them curiously. "You heard me correctly. We're getting married. I've already asked Father, and he's all for it. He intends to post the banns at once."
Nicola, thoroughly nonplussed, gripped the sides of the phaeton and said to herself, Whatever you do, don't laugh. Don't laugh, Nicola.
But it was too late. A bubble of throaty laughter came welling up from deep inside and burst from her before she could stop it.
As she'd expected, the Milksop didn't at all appreciate his proposal being laughed at. He said with a forbidding glare, "I'm quite serious, Nicola. And I would be a little more circumspect in my reaction, if I were you. You aren't likely to receive many proposals, you know, a girl in your position."
"Oh, Harold," Nicola cried, reaching up to wipe tears of laughter from the corners of her eyes. "I am sorry. But you can't mean it. You know we shouldn't suit one another at all."
"I fail to see why not." Noticing finally the annoyed stares he was getting from the drivers of other vehicles on the path, Harold at last released his team, and they began again to circle the park. "We have a great deal in common, you and I."
