An Unlikely Courtship: Regency House Party: Somerstone

by Kimball, Heidi

“And you do not? You are by no means on the shelf. You cannot be older than twenty-two.”

  “Twenty-three,” Isabel corrected. “Soon to be twenty-four. And my age isn’t the only reason.”

  The countess adjusted the pug in her lap. “Please enlighten me.”

  Isabel considered for a moment, weighing the advantages and disadvantages of confiding in a woman she hardly knew. The truth was the countess had probably already deduced most of what Isabel might tell her. And, as a friend of her father’s, the woman might even be able to help Isabel’s endeavors.

  “My father . . .” she finally began.

  The countess sat forward, her features softening. “I’m not sure you need to elaborate on the matter, Miss Townshend. How long has it been since that cloudy look replaced the twinkle in his eye?”

  Isabel exhaled. “Several years, but it’s gotten steadily worse these past few months.”

  “It pains me to see it. He was one of the sharpest men of my acquaintance, full of wit and charm. It reminds me I’m not as young as I once was.” She gave Isabel a fleeting smile.

  “We never speak of it.” Isabel took a sip of her tea, though the beverage was now only lukewarm.

  “The truth can be hard to face.” The countess set down her pug. The dog stretched his short legs, yawning. “So help me understand. You seem to think your father’s condition is somehow related to you giving up hope of making a match.” The countess’s nostalgia disappeared, her brusque manner returning.

  Isabel traced the stitching on her sleeve. “Our financial state is precarious. We have very few options. The only reason I’m admitting all of this to you is because I could use your help in appealing to my father.”

  “And how, exactly, might I be of assistance?”

  * * *

  Anthony hurried back after seeing Sir George settled, cursing the enormity of the house. The countess never arranged to speak with anyone alone unless she had something very interesting to say, and Anthony was determined to hear as much of it as possible.

  He approached the sitting room, quietly leaning against the wall and inclining his head toward the crack of the door.

  “And you wish me to spread the word that Anne’s dowry is more . . . substantial,” said the countess. Anthony raised his brows, vastly intrigued.

  “Precisely,” came Miss Townshend’s response.

  A slight creak came from the floor above, and the countess’s pug let out a short yip.

  After a moment of silence, the countess spoke again. “Anthony, is that you?”

  Anthony took a few silent steps back, before letting his footsteps be heard as he entered the sitting room. He cast a surreptitious glance toward Miss Townshend, for at once she’d become a thousand times more interesting.

  He gave an exaggerated bow. “At your service, Lady Du’Breven.”

  4

  Four: Too Close

  “And now,” said the countess, rising from her seat, “if the men will be so good as to forego their port this evening, we will retire to the grand drawing room for an evening of music.”

  Like clockwork, everyone stood, including Anthony. Leaving dinner was a relief after being seated by Mrs. Bloomsbury and her incorrigible son, Mr. Bloomsbury, for the last hour and a half. Anthony was sure that finding a more aggravating duo was quite impossible. His only entertainment had been in throwing out opinions he knew to be offensive to them and watching as they rose to the bait most vociferously. Well, that and the smiles he’d earned from Miss Standish in the endeavor.

  Normally, he would have made use of that sort of investment and stayed by Miss Standish’s side for the evening, for he found her dark hair and soft features quite becoming. But tonight, he had other plans. Miss Townshend had made a concerted effort to avoid him before dinner, making Anthony all the more determined to have a word with her.

  He jockeyed for position as the group followed the countess through the dark cherrywood doors of the dining room. Miss Townshend saw him out of the corner of her eye just as he fell into step beside her. One side of her mouth ticked down. “Come now, Miss Townshend, are you not looking forward to the evening? Do you enjoy music?”

  “I am sure the performers will be of the highest quality.” She stared straight ahead, not even sparing him a glance. Did she somehow suspect what he had overheard?

  This would not be a battle easily won, but Anthony was nothing if not persistent. “And will you be among tonight’s performers?” His arm brushed hers, and she moved her arm away, pretending to tighten her glove.

  Miss Townshend swallowed, her words stiff. “I’m sure there are many who will be more than willing.”

  Anthony’s mouth quirked up, enjoying the amount of effort Miss Townshend was exerting to put him off. At the door of the drawing room, he was forced to let her go ahead. Once through, he lengthened his stride to catch up. “Ah, but I’m quite partial to music. And the possibility of hearing you display your musical talents.”

  Finally, Miss Townshend turned to face him. Her dark-brown eyes crackled with annoyance, and, though she stood a half-foot shorter than him, he had the impression she was looking down on him. “And I find that I am quite impartial to your partiality.”

  With that she ducked past him, taking the last open seat on a sofa next to her sister and Miss Easton.

  Anthony shook his head. He should feel disappointed, but the slightest thrill coursed through him. Anthony took a seat behind the threesome, taking pleasure in the fact that she was well aware of his presence.

  The countess took a seat of prominence near the front of the room and surveyed her guests as they took their seats. Despite his earlier words to Miss Townshend, the night did not promise much enjoyment. Even among such an accomplished crowd as this, it was rare to find much real talent.

  The countess cleared her throat, and the room quieted. “Miss Barton, would you care to start us off?”

  Miss Barton looked up in surprise, then nodded her head, acquiescing. Her talent was passable, but Anthony quickly grew bored and wished he’d taken a seat near Lord Ian or Beauchamp.

  Next, Miss Standish was called to the front. When the music began, she took a deep breath that almost sounded like a hiccup and began singing very off key. Anthony struggled to keep a straight face, despite the embarrassment he felt on Miss Standish’s behalf.

  Out of nowhere, Lord Ian stepped forward, joining Miss Standish at the piano. Anthony could hardly believe his eyes—or his ears, for that matter—for if Ian was trying to be noble by shielding Miss Standish, he was having quite the opposite effect. Though they sang the same words, their notes were blatantly discordant, and it seemed each was trying to outdo the other.

  After singing the final notes of the second verse, the two looked at one another with perplexed expressions, and Miss Standish gestured for the accompanist not to go on. The whole room breathed a sigh of relief to be spared more of the painful rendition.

  The room sat in awkward silence until Miss Winters was called forward. Though she had a beautiful voice, Anthony found his gaze drawn toward Miss Townshend. The words he’d overheard the countess say this morning ran through his mind. And you wish me to spread the word that Anne’s dowry is more . . . substantial. What could Miss Townshend mean by it, except to deceive the other houseguests into a pursuit of her sister? Anthony was surprised at the disappointment he felt. Just when he’d begun to believe that Miss Townshend might be different from other women . . . but she was just as much a vixen as the rest of them.

  When Anthony looked up next, Miss Easton was singing. Her voice was clear and pure, if a little high for Anthony’s taste. His eyes drifted back to the woman who sat in front of him, and he took the moment to study Miss Townshend’s profile. All of her attention was turned toward Miss Easton, and her face had a soft, almost tender look to it. It irked him, knowing how easily she could conceal her schemes.

  The song ended and everyone applauded as Miss Easton returned to her seat. Miss Townshend leaned toward her
and whispered a word of congratulations.

  “And for our final performance tonight, shall we have the Misses Townshend?” called the countess.

  Miss Anne shook her head. “To follow such accomplished performers . . .” she breathed.

  “Oh, come now,” encouraged Miss Easton, “surely you are equal to the task.”

  “If Isabel will agree to play for me.” Miss Anne looked toward her sister.

  Miss Townshend hesitated briefly before nodding.

  They rose together, and Anthony saw the opportunity he’d been seeking. As soon as Miss Townshend was seated and she and her sister had determined which song to perform, he rose, walking toward the piano in brisk strides. “Allow me to turn your pages,” he said, giving a slight bow. He smiled to himself, knowing Miss Townshend could make no quick escape.

  * * *

  Isabel couldn’t believe the audacity of Lord Anthony. It took every ounce of effort she possessed to hold her tongue and act unaffected. The man had been hounding her all evening, for what reason she couldn’t surmise.

  There was little choice but to move forward; she wouldn’t allow him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, she glanced up and gave him a slight smile. “Thank you, Lord Anthony. Your goodwill knows no bounds.” Then she turned to face Anne, waiting for a nod to indicate she should begin playing.

  Anne had chosen a simple folk song, which Isabel was grateful for. Her sister had a fair voice, but it was nothing in comparison with some of the other talent they’d heard this evening. Anne took a deep breath and nodded, and Isabel began to play, ignoring the man who stood at her side.

  He bent down, shuffling the page for her and whispered, “Miss Townshend, would you care to explain why you asked the countess to spread false rumors about your sister’s dowry?”

  Only years of practice kept Isabel from missing a note. What a scoundrel! Had he overheard her entire conversation with the countess this morning? Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment. But why would he think she wanted the countess to spread false rumors? Perhaps he hadn’t heard everything.

  “That, sir,” she said, keeping her voice inaudible to the others, “is none of your affair.”

  He leaned over her to turn the page, and the faint smell of bergamot and leather reached her nose. “Ah, but it is my affair to assure that no gentleman is duped into marriage under false pretenses.”

  She played the next half page, trying to concentrate on a more difficult section of the piece before answering. “You have no idea of what you speak, especially if you think the countess would help me in such an underhanded endeavor.”

  The next passage of the song was a piano solo, and Isabel fought to keep her composure while feeling the force of Lord Anthony’s gaze burning into her. Once Anne began to sing again, Lord Anthony leaned over once more, preparing for the final page turn. “Miss Townshend, I may not know precisely your motives or what you plan to do, but let me assure you, I will find out.”

  The threat hung over Isabel as she played the last few measures of the song. Inwardly, she was seething. How dare he eavesdrop on a private conversation and then riddle her with accusations? The gall! She cut the last chord short, too upset to sit another moment.

  She stood abruptly, colliding with Lord Anthony’s nose just as he leaned over to gather the music. All at once, white pain crackled through her temple. She heard a low moan as she swayed on her feet and sank back down onto the bench, head in her hands.

  “Are you quite all right, Miss Townshend?” Lord Anthony asked.

  Anne appeared at her side in an instant, followed by Miss Easton. “Oh dear, it’s already swelling. Someone should get some ice.”

  In the background there was a great deal of talking and commotion, but the throbbing pain in Isabel’s brow drowned it all out. The only coherent thought in Isabel’s mind was that Lord Anthony must not find out the state of their financial affairs.

  5

  Five: Ever at odds

  Isabel eyed the breakfast Dorothy had left on her bedside table. She eased herself up, gingerly touching her temple, and wondered if she dared look in the mirror to assess the damage. A dull pounding still echoed in her head, and she could only hope that Lord Anthony had suffered equivalently. The nerve of that—

  A knock sounded at the door, interrupting her thoughts, and Anne walked in. “When I came to check on you before breakfast, Dorothy said you were still asleep. How does your head feel this morning?” She took Isabel’s face in her hands and turned it toward the light from the arched window.

  “Like I banged it into a very hard-headed man,” said Isabel dryly.

  Anne smiled. “Ah, but Lord Anthony was so attentive to you last night, volunteering to turn your pages. It was merely an accident.” She sighed a little, her mouth turning downward. “Well, it won’t be easy to hide. But everyone knows what happened, so it isn’t as though people will speculate.”

  There was a sing-song quality to Anne’s voice, and her cheeks were flushed with the kind of happiness that could only mean she was well on her way to falling in love. Despite her aching head, that was all the motivation Isabel needed to get out of bed and join in the day’s activities.

  Hopefully, after the debacle at the musicale, Lord Anthony would have the decency to keep his distance. Either way, after his threat last night, it was imperative that Isabel keep an eye on him. Heaven knew what artifice he would use to uncover her secret.

  “You haven’t touched your breakfast,” said Anne. She reached for the tray and set it in front of Isabel.

  “Yes, and my stomach is protesting,” said Isabel. “Thank you.” She picked up a scone from the tray and buttered it.

  “The breakfast room was quite crowded today, despite your absence. Several more guests arrived last night after the musicale.”

  Isabel swallowed her bite and took a sip of her chocolate as Anne chattered on.

  “Thank heaven there was a spot open near the Eastons, or I would have floundered awkwardly for names I could not remember.” Her mouth was raised in a half smile.

  Isabel waited to see if Anne would mention which of the Easton brothers had caught her interest. Having been denied their sisterly chat for the second evening in a row, thanks to the head-thumping incident, Isabel realized how much she’d been missing her sister. “It seems you and Miss Easton are developing into fast friends,” she volunteered.

  “Oh yes, I feel as though I’ve known her for months instead of just a day or two. Did you know that yesterday she fell in the river with . . .” Anne stopped, growing flustered. “Well, I promised I wouldn’t say anything about it. Her brothers, they’re very protective, you know.”

  Isabel gave her sister a knowing look. “So I’ve noticed. You should feel for me—I must do for you what it takes four grown men to do for Miss Easton.”

  “Yes, yes, you’ve been quite a slave to my protection. And I shall repay you by making you look magnificent for today’s picnic, bruise and all,” said Anne, setting aside the tray.

  “Are my efforts not at least deserving of a second scone?” asked Isabel, reaching past her sister for another.

  “Very well, one more. I shan’t starve you.” She scooted the tray back and rose from the bed, going over to the large wardrobe where Dorothy had hung all of Isabel’s dresses. “You must wear the white muslin today. With my gray bonnet.”

  When the sisters joined the group congregating out on the back lawn, picnic blankets had already been spread, and baskets were being unloaded from a large wagon by some of the staff. Several of the gentlemen were staking out territory to be used for battledore, and two small boats sat docked on the lakeshore for guests who wished to go rowing.

  Anne squeezed Isabel’s hand. “There’s more to do here in one afternoon than I can imagine doing over the course of several weeks at home.”

  Isabel smiled at her sister’s enthusiasm. “Well, don’t feel as though you must wait for me. I’m going to check on Father.”

  “Yes, of course
. But he’s in good hands with the countess. You’re allowed to enjoy yourself as well, you know.”

  Isabel smirked. “I know. Now off you go.” Anne soon began conversing with some of the other guests, but her eyes darted around, no doubt looking for one of the Eastons.

  While Isabel didn’t know any of the brothers well enough to have formed an opinion of them, the family seemed respectable, and it was hard to find fault with such a protective set of brothers.

  Isabel found her father seated next to the countess. “Lady Du’Breven,” she said, curtsying.

  The countess sat forward, scrutinizing Isabel. “Your bruise looks rather ghastly, my dear. I am sorry for what happened last night. I’d like to promise you a day free of incident, but I don’t dare.”

  Isabel only wished for a day free of Lord Anthony. When she caught herself searching the crowd, looking for his tall form, she puffed out a small breath in annoyance and turned to her father. “Is there anything I can get you, Father?” A twinge of guilt surfaced as she thought of the letter she’d just sent off to her father’s solicitor, but she brushed it aside.

  “Oh, stop smothering me and go enjoy yourself, Isabel. Wherever you end up, you’ll be well within shouting distance should I need you.” He gave her a charming smile and waved her away.

  “Very well,” she agreed. “But do shout—if you need something.” Isabel sighed, wondering when she had become so dull.

  From behind her, Miss Greystock called her name from an adjacent blanket. “Do come join me, Miss Townshend. At least until I am called on some errand.”

  Isabel laughed. “Yes, you are in great demand,” she said, taking a seat. “Though the countess seems to be taking an inordinate amount of satisfaction in an afternoon orchestrated entirely by you.”

  Miss Greystock raised her brows, but kept quiet, perhaps not wanting to speak ill of her employer.