Theresa Romain

by It Takes Two to Tangle

  “Just a suggestion,” Henry said lightly.

  Emily paused. “This plan of yours. Dinner at home. Hal… it was a good idea.” Her brows puckered, an expression of doubt she wore with enviable rarity. “Perhaps I should have arranged more small events like this one, instead of the grand ball in the Argyll Rooms next week.”

  Such an admission was akin to Bonaparte saying that perhaps he should have stayed on Elba and not caused so much trouble on the Continent.

  “It’s all right, Emily,” Henry said, hiding his astonishment. “Thank you for arranging the dinner tonight.”

  Her aplomb reappeared in an instant. “It’s all part of the plot,” she said with a dismissive flick of fingers.

  “The throwing-me-a-ball plot?”

  “No.” She peeked over the high back of her chair, then ducked down and whispered, “The finding-a-wife plot.”

  “Ah. Yes. That.” Discomfiture knotted Henry’s stomach. After his first introduction to Caro, he had wanted to take on the rest of his courtship without interference.

  At least, without any interference besides what he sought out on his own.

  It was damned difficult to keep up a wall of confidence when no one had faith he could rebuild his life. Maybe not even himself. Why else would he have asked Frances to help him win Caro, if not doubt that he could triumph alone?

  He peered around the back of his own chair. Frances was laughing and sliding coins across the card table to her partner, Bart. Caro gave an exaggerated sigh and tossed her cards down. “Jem,” Henry heard her say, “we’re going to be roasted and toasted, you and I.”

  Chagrin, confusion, unease—whatever one called it, it twisted through Henry’s chest at the sight of Frances’s smile. Already, he had wrapped her tightly into his fledgling courtship of Caro. He couldn’t write a letter to Caro without recalling Frances helping him shape letters; he couldn’t give her flowers without thinking of Frances’s advice. He couldn’t hear Caro’s voice or see her face without his eyes seeking Frances, his ears sifting sounds for the careful speech and wicked laugh of his own ally.

  And yet, with all the help Frances had given him, he had given her very little in return. It was hardly flattering to ask the help of an unmarried woman in winning the hand of another. It implied that she wasn’t worthy of attention herself… didn’t it?

  He didn’t mean to do that. It certainly wasn’t true. She looked vivid in the low glow of fire and lamp, her strong features all shadow and light. Deep eyes and a mouth made for secrets. Chiaroscuro, that stark Italian technique, would be the perfect way to paint her.

  If he could paint.

  Which he couldn’t.

  Which was why he needed Caro.

  There was no denying the countess was as lovely as Botticelli’s Venus. If he could persuade her to look his way, it would be no hardship to look back at her.

  That was the odd thing, though—she hadn’t looked his way much this evening. Certainly not as much as one would expect from the partner in a secret correspondence.

  “Excuse me, Hal.” Emily had perked up. “They finished their rubber of whist. I shall arrange things to further our plot.” She called, “Jemmy, do deal me a hand. But I shall scream if I have to partner you.”

  She glided over to the card table, while Henry stared at the grate. The coals were glowing, not much more than ash now, occasionally split by faint fire. He could see the slanting flickers through the milky glass of the fireplace screen. It was walnut framed, painted with a snowy marble temple flanked by two sturdy oaks, their wavy branches intertwining.

  It had been Henry’s wedding present to Jem and Emily a decade before. He’d thought himself very clever, representing the story of Baucis and Philemon: the couple who grew old together, kindhearted, and were transformed into trees after their deaths so they could live on side by side.

  The story was apt. But he hadn’t been clever enough to fix his colors. The glass hadn’t been fired well after he had painted it, and the paints had bubbled and dimmed, the colors smoky.

  Oh, well. It still looked better than Aunt Matilda’s greasy red-painted baroque table.

  He heard Emily shriek, heard the others laugh, and realized his sister-in-law had been paired with Jem after all. So someone else would come to join Henry at the fireside now. Fair enough. He could handle these small bites of friendship, which he need not lift a finger to consume. Which was well, since he had only half the usual working complement of fingers.

  He gritted his teeth. It was tedious how his mind worked sometimes. How dearly he would love to forget that anything had changed. Or barring that, have it not matter.

  Enough.

  He shoved himself out of the chair and joined the rest of the party.

  “What’s all the screaming about?” he said in a jovial voice as he skirted the card players.

  “Oh, Hal,” Emily collapsed into a chair at the velvet-draped card table. “I am ruined. Your brother can never remember the cards that have been played, and I shall lose all my pin money.”

  “And I shall win it,” said Frances, snapping and bridging the cards before handing them to Jem to deal. “Or we shall, Mr. Crosby.” She flashed a bright smile at her partner, Bart.

  Henry suddenly wished very much that he were part of the game.

  But if he was not, Caro was not either for this rubber. “So you have been dealt out, Lady Stratton?”

  Caro smiled. “Indeed. I am not sure now whether I have been lucky or unlucky.”

  “You are lucky if you were partnering Jem. I only thank heaven Hal is not playing,” Emily said with mock innocence. “He cheats.”

  “I do not,” Henry protested.

  “Good lord, Em,” Jem interjected. “It’s a good thing you’re not a man. You’d be called out for saying such a thing.”

  Emily rearranged the cards in her hand. “My dear husband, it’s a good thing I’m not a man for many reasons besides that one. Besides, I am only teasing Hal. I do it out of my bitterness, knowing that I am going to lose my pin money.”

  “I’ll give you more,” Jem said. “Only you must remind me what trump is. Hearts?”

  Emily shot Henry a what-did-I-tell-you look. “Yes, my dear heart, it is hearts. Caro, would you be willing to sing something to keep us company?”

  Frances didn’t even look up from her cards. “I would consider Lady Stratton’s singing to be a blatant attempt to undermine our concentration.”

  “Would it?” Bart sounded interested. “Are you very accomplished, my lady?”

  Caro shook her head. “Not at all. I sound like a raven crowing. Or croaking, or whatever they do.”

  “Caw, maybe.” Henry peered over Bart’s shoulder. Not a trump in his hand, poor fellow. “Good lord, Bart. Seven trumps? Jem is clearly the one who cheats, since he’s dealt you so many.”

  “You are a child, Hal,” Emily said, her brow furrowing as she selected her next play. “You are almost as bad as my Stephen, who reads out everyone’s cards, and he is only eight years old.”

  “I was the one who shuffled the deck,” Frances said. “Does that mean I cheat at cards too?”

  Henry smiled. “I would believe you capable of anything, Mrs. Whittier. You are sinister; you told me so yourself.” He was inordinately pleased to see color rise to her cheeks.

  Caro began to peep at the hands of each of the card players. “My, my, Emily. Your pin money is surely gone. Frannie is frighteningly capable. I believe she could have cheated at cards anytime, and none of you would have suspected a thing.”

  Frances slapped a low diamond onto the table with a frown. “If I truly cheated, I would have made certain that I got a better hand.”

  “Or that I did,” Bart murmured. “I only wish I truly did have seven trumps.”

  Jem tossed his cards onto the table, facedown. “Jupiter’s nightgown, how am I to think with you all talking? Is everybody cheating now?”

  “Jemmy, how unkind of you. I shall call you out if you say such a
thing again,” Emily said. “Drat; no, I won’t. With you dead, we would surely lose the rubber.”

  Jem blinked. “Was that a compliment, Em?”

  She sighed. “I suppose, though I only implied that you played better than a corpse.”

  Before Jem could reply, there was a scratch at the door then the butler Sowerberry peeped his angular head into the drawing room. “I beg your pardon, Lord Tallant, but Master John and Master Stephen are asking you for a…” He paused and enunciated the next words as if they were in a language he did not understand. “A bedtime story, my lord. They insist that you promised them one if they spent the evening without breaking anything. They have requested that it be horrible.”

  Henry smirked. “Oh, it’ll be horrible.”

  The cuff on his shoulder as Jem stood felt blessedly normal. But after Jem left, Henry felt slow and stupid as he tried to think of the perfect thing to say. Or anything to say at all.

  Because if there was one thing he could not do, it was take his brother’s place in the game and hold a sheaf of cards for whist. Not with one hand.

  Maybe Emily noticed his sudden awkwardness, because she shrugged off the idea of further cards. “Well, that game was brief and combative. I am sorry for that. Though I am relieved not to lose any money to you flock of carrion crows. Mrs. Whittier, do come and play the piano, so Bart and I can have a dance.” She laughed when Bart’s face reddened at her teasing.

  Briskly, Emily sorted them all out. Frances shuffled through music, and Caro joined her, exclaiming over a waltz. “Rather fast of you, isn’t this, Em?”

  She looked as light and lovely as one of Leonardo’s angels as she shifted a lamp into place to study the music and began humming tunelessly. Next to her, Frances fell into shadow.

  “Not a waltz, please,” Bart said, growing still more red.

  Caro laughed again and set the scandalous music aside. “Perhaps a reel, then, for two couples? Frannie could play for us.” Her bright eyes twinkled as she held a hand out to Bart.

  It felt like she’d slapped Henry with it.

  So, she would write to him in private, but she wouldn’t acknowledge their closeness even in such a small party? And yet close was exactly how she wanted to hold him. She had written him so.

  He felt hot-headed and hot-blooded, wanting to cut in and take her hand, wanting her to extend it to him.

  Instead, he beat a strategic retreat to the fireside, unwilling to watch himself be defeated.

  “I think I’ll sit out the dancing, ladies, if you don’t mind,” he said. “Though I’ll be happy to observe and critique your form.”

  When all three women pulled faces at him, Henry knew his grin had stayed in place and no one suspected the truth.

  Namely, that he had to fabricate a new kind of courage or he would never get even the ashes of what Baucis and Philemon had shared.

  With a rustle of fabric, a woman dropped into the chair next to Henry. The faint, crisp scent of citrus told Henry it was Frances, even before he turned his head.

  “Mrs. Whittier.” He straightened in his chair, glad she sat to his left, his good side.

  “Mr. Middlebrook,” she mimicked. “I hope you don’t mind if I sit with you. I have been evicted from the piano. As it turns out, your friend Mr. Crosby is by far the best musician of us all.”

  “So Emily is dancing with Caro?” He twisted, peering around the broad circular back of his chair. Hmm. So she was.

  “Most women learn to dance with one another, you know,” Frances said. “I do believe your sister-in-law is more comfortable at leading than at following.”

  “I completely and wholeheartedly believe that,” Henry said drily. “What shall we do, then? Shall we play a game of our own?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Very well. I’m thinking of something with blond hair and a red gown. Do you care to guess what it is? It’ll be easy because you’re probably thinking of it too.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Ha. You are riotously funny.”

  “A transparent attempt to dodge the question. You have no guess, then?”

  He settled himself into his chair, wedging his numb right arm firmly in the angle where the seat back met the side. “Of course I have a guess, but you may not like it.” He gave her The Grin, his most charming smile. The old, carefree expression hadn’t sat so easily on his face for a long time.

  “Try me.” Her tip-tilted eyes looked roguish.

  “The queen, of course. I’m a devoted servant of the Crown.”

  Frances snorted. “Nonsense; the queen hasn’t been blond for at least thirty years. And why shouldn’t I like that guess?”

  “Because I spoiled your fun.” He gave a little shrug. With his right arm wedged into the corner of the chair, he could almost believe its stillness was normal.

  She held up a hand and ticked on her fingers as she replied, “At the present moment, I’m not losing money at cards, I’m not bumbling through a minuet on the piano, and I’m not racking my brain for the steps of a reel. So how could you think you’ve spoiled my fun?”

  “If I’m the only remaining option, I should try to be more amusing.”

  “Please do.” She folded her arms and looked down her nose at him in one of the haughtiest expressions he’d ever seen.

  “Good lord, Frances, you’re as stiff as a fireplace poker.”

  She relaxed, grinned. “At least I’m sitting in the right seat, then, in front of this lovely warm fire.”

  “It is lovely, isn’t it? I painted the fireplace screen, you know.”

  “Well, it’s only an early effort. You are still relearning how to paint with your left hand. I am sure you will get better with time.”

  His head reared back. “I painted the screen long ago.”

  “Oh. You did? It’s… hmmm.” She furrowed her brows, obviously trying to think of something kind to say.

  “It’s been damaged over time.” Henry felt the need to defend himself, though a smile crept over his features. “It was never an astounding work, but I promise you when I finished it, it didn’t look like an ash heap had been sick all over it.”

  “I’d never have described it that way.” The dratted woman was trying not to laugh.

  “No, but you obviously thought it. I’ve been insulted, and by my own fellow soldier.”

  “Oh, come now, you know it’s not your best work. If you want a compliment, you can simply ask, and I’ll think of a much better subject than an old, damaged painting on glass.”

  Citrus caught at him, a sweet scent that reminded him she sat only a touch away. The sound of Bart plunking out “Mr. Beveridge’s Maggot” became dimmer in Henry’s ears. “Would you, now? I wonder what you’d say. Are you trying to be terrifying again?”

  “Why? Are you terrified?”

  A little. “Of course not,” he huffed. “It would be beneath my considerable dignity.”

  “It is considerable. Maybe that’s what I’ll compliment you on. Many men in the ton would be helped by a little more dignity and a little less vanity. Have you seen the dandies who can’t even turn their head within their high collars?”

  “Yes, but surely it’s worth it. Isn’t that fashion all the crack?”

  When she laughed, he felt a hot clench of pleasure in the center of his chest.

  “I don’t know,” she laughed. “I haven’t been all the crack for over a decade, Henry.”

  “Now who’s angling for a compliment? I know this is false modesty, because you notice and remember everything. You could easily be whatever you wanted to be.”

  Her smiled dropped. For a too-long moment after this speech, she watched him, her eyes slightly narrowed. If he’d had ten fingers at his disposal, he probably would have embarked upon a world-class fidget under her scrutiny, drumming his fingers and shifting in his chair.

  Instead, he sat carefully still, and he spoke lightly in a moment that had mysteriously turned heavy. “What is it, Frances? You’re acting like I just transformed into a wolf a
nd howled at the moon.”

  “I’m just wondering,” she answered quietly, “if you meant what you said.”

  “That you had false modesty? Of course.”

  Her mouth curved into a wry little smile. “Never mind. Forgive my distraction. I suppose I’m just distraught over being banished from the pianoforte.”

  That armor of humor she kept—he knew it, because he wore it too.

  It looked well on her. Her rich dark hair was pulled back by a celadon bandeau; her gown was cut low across her bosom, edged with lace of a darker green. Her skin glowed in the wavery light that penetrated the unfortunate fireplace screen. Subdued but so touchably lovely that he wanted to stroke her. Feel her warmth, take it in. He felt it, the want—a clenching hunger low in his stomach.

  “You might be surprised,” she said with a sigh, “at how aggravating it can be to remember everything. Sometimes I can’t get to sleep for all the thoughts jostling at the inside of my head.”

  “I know that feeling.”

  She shot him a quick sideways look. “Yes, I suppose you might.”

  “If you recall—which I’m sure you do,” he said more lightly, “I did give you a genuine, unsolicited compliment.”

  She shot him another look, this one wicked. “On my memory, which is nothing but a parlor trick? Come now, Henry. You must know that women want only to be praised for their bonnets and gowns. There are quite a few common synonyms for you look very nice, you know.”

  With a rueful smile, she turned back to the fire, watching a coal crumble into cinders. Henry saw it lick hotly at the thick glass of the fireplace screen; then its light vanished.

  “You do look very nice,” he said slowly, “but to give or receive a common compliment is no real honor. Anyone might look lovely, but I’ve never met anyone with your gifts of memory or your talent in teaching left-handed writing.”

  The words swelled within him, filling him with an unexpected heat. She did look lovely. She was uncommonly gifted. He felt a pull to her, an ease in her presence, that he hadn’t felt since returning to London. He wanted to capture this feeling, to hold it close, as in a lover’s embrace. His shoulders flexed involuntarily, and he felt the inevitable tug at his right shoulder, the pendulous weight of his still right arm.