by Tuft, Karen
Dressed as he currently was, Lord Cantwell seemed less nobleman and more jungle cat, like the beasts Elizabeth had observed at the Royal Menagerie on occasion. It was as if he were less restrained in this garb, his masculine strength not disguised by fashion.
He smiled knowingly at her.
She looked down at her feet—now clad in scuffed half boots. How mortifying to be caught staring at him like that!
“So, Mrs. Osbourne, are you ready to go? You look quite fetching, by the way.”
“I am dressed to go, as you see. I wouldn’t say I am ready to go, by any stretch of the imagination. I still think this is a mistake.”
“Now, now,” he said, crossing over to her to offer his hand. “Our objective for this evening is to have fun—to get a bit of exercise, hear lively music, and observe happy people enjoying life. Food for the soul that will lift our spirits.”
Elizabeth wasn’t sure she even knew what having fun meant. She’d spent her entire life feeling fearful of saying or doing anything that would bring her parents’ wrath down on her head. Doing something so utterly contrary to the way she’d been reared filled her with an overwhelming sense of panic.
“That may be your objective,” she replied, still embarrassed at her reaction to his appearance and that he’d noticed. “Mine is to remain incognita.” If Mama were to find out about this, it would be the final straw.
“Well, if you wish for that to occur, you may want to watch your use of Latin,” he replied. “They’ll be onto you before you can snap your fingers otherwise. Now, shall we be off? Timmons has been good enough to lend me his umbrella, although the rain has diminished significantly since this afternoon.”
“Have a good time, my dears,” Lady Walmsley said from her chair next to the fireplace, placing a finger in the book she was reading before closing it so as not to lose her place. “Mr. and Mrs. Osbourne, I mean. What a delightful ruse! You must be sure to act the happily married couple—newlyweds, to be sure. I remember the first dance Walmsley and I attended after our nuptials . . . well, that’s a story for another time. Be off now, the two of you.”
“You’re sure you wouldn’t like me to remain behind and keep you company?” Elizabeth asked one last time, even though she already knew what the answer would be.
“Not at all. I’ve got this delightful Gothic novel to keep me company,” she replied cheerily.
Lord Cantwell opened the door. “After you, Mrs. Osbourne,” he said.
“Very well,” Elizabeth said reluctantly.
***
The prospect of the village dance, the idea of Kit discarding his gentleman’s attire for the evening, and seeing Lady Elizabeth Spaulding dress like her maid and attend the dance with him was so utterly beyond the boundaries of acceptable Society that no one in London would believe him if he were to tell them—even if he were to swear on his grandmother’s grave. Kit found the idea highly entertaining.
Lady Elizabeth was currently walking beside him, her hands firmly clasped in front of her, while he held Mr. Timmons’s umbrella over them both to ward off the occasional droplets of rain that continued to fall. Her face looked tense and resolute, as though she were indeed walking toward her execution. Her expression was so tragic as to be almost humorous.
And yet, it wasn’t humorous, at least not to her. He wished she could let her guard down for a single minute and enjoy herself, as she had during their three-legged race.
They managed to skirt the muddiest puddles on the high street and eventually neared the assembly room. Fiddle music wafted through the door as the occasional attendee entered the hall. They were still several yards away, however, when Kit decided to make certain they had their story straight and were in accord on how to behave during their time inside.
“Come with me for a moment,” he said. He took her gently by the elbow and led her down a nearby alley, keeping the umbrella above them both. “Starting now, you are Lizzie Osbourne, my new bride and the apple of my eye. And I am your beloved Kit.” He stared straight into her eyes while instructing her so she would understand that he understood her concern and recognized that she was not a willing participant. “And as far as I’m concerned, I would prefer if you were to refer to me as Kit from now on anyway. We are traveling home to London after a brief visit with some of your relatives and from thence on to Oxfordshire. Not that we are going to volunteer any of this information, mind you; the less said the better. We will strive to keep introductions to merely our names and fill in the gaps only if pressed.”
“I don’t see how this can possibly work. We’ll be dancing in lines and squares and circles with nearly everyone there. It’s not like they’re going to be playing waltzes at a village dance. People will only feel it proper to introduce themselves. Word will get back to Mama.”
“When was the last time you were truly out among the people here?” he asked. “Marham Cross isn’t even the village nearest the manor—it’s the nearest one with the best lodging. So when was the last time?”
“I don’t recall,” she confessed in a grumpy tone.
“There, you see? Nothing to worry about. People must pass through here all the time, and the villagers will have no more curiosity about us than they would any other of the many strangers that come and go at the inn. We’ll take precautions, nonetheless. So let’s try it on: we are merely a couple who arrived here to stay at the inn on a day, coincidentally, that a village dance is being held, so we decided to join in. You are Lizzie, and I am . . .” He waited for her to say his name. “Lizzie and . . .” He urged her again, and then he noticed that she’d gone pale—even paler than usual, if that were possible—and that her hand trembled when she pushed a strand of hair from her cheek.
“I . . . I really don’t think I can do this,” she said, a tremor in her voice. She broke free of his grasp, and—blast it all!—she began to hurry back the way they’d come. What the devil had happened to the young lady who’d run a three-legged race with him?
He rushed after her.
“Lizzie, my pet,” he said loudly enough to be heard by the couple across the street headed to the assembly room who looked at them with too much curiosity. “I’m sure you locked the door to our room before we left . . .” When he reached her side, he took her gently by the arm again, securing the umbrella over them both and keeping it low and as intimate as possible. “Look at me,” he whispered to her in as demanding a tone as he could, all things considered. “You are altogether too concerned about being found out. The world does not revolve around you or your family. Most of the people here have their own lives to live and are not spending it giving a second thought to the Duke of Marwood, living or dead.”
Her eyes welled with tears.
“I didn’t mean that as harshly as it sounded,” Kit said, running his hand up and down her arm, attempting to assuage the sting of his words. “But, in truth, the villagers here will see only a young couple, because they won’t be expecting anyone dressed like us to be anything else. Let’s try to enjoy ourselves; I doubt you’ve done anything much in the way of entertainment since I saw you last summer. That’s way too long a time . . . Lizzie, my girl.” He smiled encouragingly at her.
She brushed away the single tear that threatened to fall. “Very well . . . Kit.”
His smile broke into a grin. “Excellent.” The sound of his name on her lips was a bright, warm victory.
He retraced their steps back to the assembly room, handed off the umbrella and his cap and her shawl to the girl in the entry hall assisting in such matters, and then led her on through the doors of the room and out onto the floor, where a group of people was already forming a line.
“Shall we dance then, Mrs. Osbourne?”
“Very well, Mr. Osbourne.”
The music began.
***
Since the musicians had already begun the opening strains of the music, there wasn�
�t time to formally meet the other members of their dance line, so they were greeted only with welcoming smiles and nods before Elizabeth and Kit—he wanted her to call him Kit—were thrust into the steps of the country dance. Concentrating on each move gave Elizabeth something to think about besides the people surrounding her, who—as Kit had assured her—seemed more concerned about their own dance steps and laughing and joking with each other than wondering who she or Kit might be.
Eventually, however, the dance ended, and her anxiety returned, and she felt completely lost about what to do next. In any other situation, social or private, Lady Elizabeth Spaulding, the duke’s daughter, would know precisely how to greet each individual; she would know the correct thing to say.
Lizzie Osbourne had no idea.
Mr. and Mrs. Timmons were heading in their direction, and Elizabeth looked at Kit, hoping he would take the lead in the conversation.
“Mr. Timmons,” Kit said jovially, “and Mrs. Timmons too! What a pleasure! I was just telling Mrs. Osbourne here”—he emphasized the name so anyone nearby could overhear it—“that we hoped we’d see you. I, for one, would enjoy a dance with you, Mrs. Timmons.”
“Ah, yes,” Mr. Timmons said with a knowing smile. “And I would consider it a great honor if I could dance with you, Mrs. Osbourne.”
“How delightful,” Mrs. Timmons exclaimed. “I was watching you dance just now, and such fine dancers you both are! So elegant!”
Had they been too elegant in their movements? Elizabeth wondered, her worries rising anew.
“You may chalk that up to youthful exuberance and hearts full of love and joy,” Kit said. “We’re newlyweds, you know,” he added in a stage whisper.
A man standing behind them chuckled, and the woman next to him swatted him on the arm.
“Newlyweds, indeed,” Mr. Timmons said. “Mrs. Osbourne, I believe the next dance is about to begin. Will you do me the honors?”
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said, hoping it came out with something of a village accent.
Mr. Timmons smiled and nodded subtle encouragement to her, and Kit offered his arm to Mrs. Timmons.
There wasn’t a lot of opportunity to speak at length during the dance, other than the occasional small remark, which Elizabeth left mostly up to Mr. Timmons. Besides, the laughing she kept hearing from Kit and Mrs. Timmons distracted her.
“Mrs. Osbourne.”
What was Kit saying now? The moves of the dance had temporarily put him with a different partner. She and Mr. Timmons would trade partners next.
“Mrs. Osbourne.”
Goodness! She was Mrs. Osbourne. She turned to Mr. Timmons, who was the person who’d been trying to get her attention.
“Yes?”
“Smile, Mrs. Osbourne. I feel like I’m leading you in a funeral procession, and yet the music is more, shall we say, lively than what one would find at church on such an occasion.”
“Right. Of course.” She smiled.
The dance steps demanded that she be briefly partnered with a middle-aged man, whom she presumed by the weathered look of his skin to be a farmer, before being reunited with Mr. Timmons.
“I remember Mrs. Timmons when we were newly wed,” he said, resuming their earlier conversation as another couple traded partners and took their turn in the dance steps. “Such a comely lass she was back then—still is, in my opinion. I couldn’t believe that one such as she would consent to be my bride—me, with nothing to show for myself, callow young man that I was, but a willingness to work hard and do right by her.”
Elizabeth was struck by his words. “That’s a lovely sentiment, Mr. Timmons.” And yet it left a pit in her stomach. She had been taught that hard work was for laborers, not for members of the upper classes and definitely not for a duke and his family. But Mr. Timmons had worked hard, by all accounts, for he owned an inn that seemed to do a thriving business. What he was doing seemed admirable.
But it was not what she had been taught.
Kit laughed, and Elizabeth turned to look—and to hide her face from Mr. Timmons. She wasn’t sure what her expression would reveal. She wasn’t sure what she was thinking.
She had never done a day’s work in her life. She wasn’t supposed to have done a day’s work. But that wasn’t entirely true either. Was it?
Mr. Timmons took her by the hand, and she realized she’d missed one of the steps of the dance. “That’s all right now, then,” he said in a low voice. “But your smile disappeared as quickly as it arrived. Surely I’ve not been such tedious company as all that. What will Mrs. Timmons think of my geniality if she spies that somber look of yours?”
“I’m sorry,” Elizabeth said.
“If there’s one thing I would hope for you, my dear ‘Mrs. Osbourne,’ it would be that you stop being sorry and start enjoying life,” Mr. Timmons said as the dance drew to a close and he led her back to Kit. “Mrs. Timmons and I are still doing just that. You’re such a pretty young thing, but you wear a cloud that makes you seem older than your age. But never mind; I’ve said more than I should have—or would have—in more normal circumstances. I hope you’ll forgive me my bluntness.”
“Certainly, Mr. Timmons.” She honestly didn’t know what else to say.
“Thank you. Ah, here’s your young man now, with my dear lady.” He bowed over Elizabeth’s hand very elegantly. “Thank you once again, my dear. May you have all the happiness you deserve.” He looked straight into her eyes—why was everyone looking into her eyes in such a manner this evening?—but then she found herself captured by his expression.
Mr. Timmons was about the same age as her father. And he was looking at her with such . . . kindness and concern, and with the sense that he knew more about her than she knew about herself.
She’d never seen such a tender look on her father’s face. Oh, how many times during her life had she longed for such a look from her father!
She wanted to weep.
Kit offered his arm to her, and as they turned away from Mr. Timmons, she whispered, “Please take me out of here.”
“Certainly,” he replied, and she was grateful, for she’d feared that he’d refuse, and she couldn’t, she simply couldn’t continue on, not right now.
He led her out of the assembly room and down a hallway and around a corner. The hallway was dimly lit, with only one small window that would allow for light, but since the evening was rainy, hardly any light filtered through.
Kit stood facing her, his features barely visible in the shadows. “What is it?” he asked. “Did Mr. Timmons upset you?”
“Mr. Timmons was very kind,” she said automatically.
“And yet, you couldn’t get out of the assembly room fast enough,” Kit said. “And while I wouldn’t have described you as being in grand spirits when we arrived, it does seem as though your mood has dropped since we danced together. What happened?”
“Mr. Timmons was very kind,” she said.
“You said that already. I’m glad he was kind; he and his wife seem like wonderful people. It doesn’t explain what has upset you though.” He took her hands in his and rubbed them between his own, and she discovered her hands were cold. She hadn’t noticed before.
She didn’t know how to answer Kit’s question. She didn’t know. A sob broke free from her before she even recognized it was there.
***
Kit quickly caught Lady Elizabeth as a low groan escaped her lips. He wrapped his arms around her, and she fell against him, burying her face in his shirt. He could feel her tears seep through the thin fabric. Her shoulders heaved, so Kit held her close.
He was entirely out of his depth here.
A handkerchief wouldn’t go amiss. Relieved he had thought of something useful to do, he rummaged through his pockets for the handkerchief he’d brought with him and handed it to her. She cried into his shirt anyway.
An
eternity later, although it was probably only ten minutes or so, her tears began to slow and then eventually cease—thank goodness. He released her so she could blow her nose and otherwise tidy up her face.
“I must look a fright,” she muttered as she dabbed at her nose with his handkerchief one last time. “I’m sorry.”
“You look absolutely ghastly,” he replied.
She stared at him in alarm.
“You are wearing what has to be Sally’s oldest dress. Its original color is barely decipherable after so many washings, and it was clearly not created to enhance the female figure. Your half boots are scuffed. Your hairpins are failing in their occupation to keep your hair in its simple knot.” He watched her pat her hair to investigate. “Were you to walk into Almack’s at this moment, the patronesses would collapse in a dead faint.”
The corner of her mouth twitched upward briefly. It was a good sign.
“Now,” he continued. “If the patronesses were to ignore the clothes and look more closely, they would see an extraordinarily beautiful woman. But that woman is troubled.”
“Yes,” she said.
“What upset you?” he asked, hoping she’d calmed enough now that she could answer.
“Mr. Timmons was kind,” she repeated.
It was precisely what she’d said before—twice. “And . . . ?” he prompted this time.
“My father was not,” she answered.
He did what seemed the natural thing to do since she already had his handkerchief: he ran his hands up and down her arms in an attempt to comfort her.
“Neither was my mother,” she added.
“Surely growing up, you and they—”
“Not really, although I don’t think I was entirely aware of it at the time. I had a nursemaid and a governess or two. They were always kind. My parents were busy with their obligations, and I was busy with dancing lessons and harp and needlework and standing and serving tea properly. I was always attentive to my studies so they would be proud of me.”
