“Hush, people are coming,” Caro said.
Merriment ensued, and before long, the Pimm’s was depleted and all were ready for croquet.
Caro was partnered with the Marquis of Cleaverings. It so happened that croquet was her game. She was very good at it. Beverley was partnered with Violet, who was not. As the game progressed, Caro read irritation in his clenched jaw and was very glad they were not teammates. He would have thrown her badly off her game.
On the other hand, Cleaverings was very satisfied with her performance. “It has been years since I have played croquet. I am rusty, unfortunately. How lucky I am that you are my partner, Miss Braithwaite. You are jolly good at this.”
“That is because I was raised alongside Jack. We were always in competition. I used to practice a bit on my own. I will never forget the day I bested him.”
“She did, too,” Jack said. “I will not deny it. Caro has a wicked eye and is a cunning shot. You should see her at the billiards table.”
Beverley said nothing, but she could read his scowl. Could he actually be angry that she was good at something? She learned as the game progressed that this duke was exceedingly competitive. Poor Violet was near tears.
When the lady missed her wicket for the second time, Caro said, “Never mind, Miss Archer. Croquet is only a game. It is not a matter of life and death, however some people might regard it.”
In fact, now that Caro saw him in this less than chivalrous light, she began to think perhaps she had had a lucky escape, despite her continued physical awareness of him. How would life be with a man who could not see himself bested at anything? Had Lady Sarah left him for another? Perhaps that was the real source of his “broken heart”—losing out to someone else.
This insight into Beverley’s character was a bit shattering. As she carried off the bouquet of roses that was their prize for winning, she asked herself how she could have fallen so disastrously in love with someone she knew so little.
While they were taking tea in the conservatory after their game, she enjoyed getting to know the Marquis of Cleaverings. “Have you children, my lord?” she asked.
“Yes. Two boys. My eldest, Harry, is fighting on the Peninsula. William will have the living in our parish church.”
“Are their lives likely to be changed by your new status?”
“Yes. Harry is not happy about it, but as my heir, he must sell out. He cannot risk his life any longer. And now that there is this vastly improved living in my gift, William can afford to marry. That, at least, is a change welcome to him.”
They discussed his pleasure in his new estate. Caro could not help but realize that the Duke of Beverley was eavesdropping on their conversation behind a conveniently leafy dieffenbachia.
Cleaverings said, “I should like to ask you a personal question, if you do not mind.”
She smiled and teased him, “Our acquaintance is a very short one, my lord.”
“You must look upon me merely as a father figure.”
“Ah! I see. Well, in that case, I will be happy to divulge all my secrets.”
“A young lady such as yourself must have many suitors. Is there anyone you favor most particularly?”
Had he not assured her that she was to look upon him in the light of a father, she might have balked at this question. However, with Beverley listening, she was only too happy to answer, “No one, my lord. I am quite unattached.”
“I assure you, I do not mean to be impertinent, but Harry will be home next week. I think he might very much like to make your acquaintance. He is a particularly presentable young man, though I do say so myself. Been mentioned in dispatches for his bravery, et cetera.”
“I look forward to an introduction, my lord. If he favors his father, I am certain he is not only handsome, but kind.”
At this, the duke moved from behind his leafy protection. “I could not help overhearing you, Cleaverings. Our Miss Braithwaite is too modest. You must know that she has half the men in London besotted with her. Her court is of epic proportions.”
Caro said, “This is a private conversation, your grace. And what you say is a gross exaggeration.” She was genuinely peeved and longed to accuse him of impertinence, but he was a duke, whatever else he might be.
Beverley pretended to take offense, raising one of his exquisite dark eyebrows. “Pardon me. I merely meant to warn the marquis, that his hopes might not be dashed.”
“You seem to imply that I am the veriest flirt.”
“Are you not?” the duke asked. “But facing Napoleon’s canons may have prepared him to enter the fray.”
Before she could reply to this piece of vilification, the duke made her an exaggerated bow and moved off to speak with Somerset.
Turning back to the Marquis of Cleaverings, she said, “You will be thinking the worst of me. I assure you that the duke’s assessment of my character is mistaken.”
“You need not tell me so. I believe his attitude to be very dog-in-the-mangerish. Was he once a suitor?”
She colored and looked down into her tea cup. “Not precisely.”
At that moment, the dowager joined them. Caro breathed a sigh of relief.
“Now, my dear Stephen, what are you saying to make our Caro blush?”
“I am by way of making a match between Miss Braithwaite and Harry. Do you not think that they would suit, Serena?”
“I could not say. He will have to be bang up to the mark, as they say. Caro is very sought after.”
“I can imagine,” the marquis replied.
CHAPTER FOUR
IN WHICH OUR HERO ATTEMPTS
TO REDEEM HIMSELF
He should never have come, Beverley ruminated. It seemed Caro Braithwaite brought out the worst in him. He’d no idea why. One might think she was the one who had jilted him.
His valet assisted him in dressing for dinner in the sky-blue satin dinner jacket, cream silk waistcoat, and cream knee breeches that complemented his dark looks. Beverley vowed to pay her no more attention. He knew not whether it was Jack or Ruisdell who had fancied him as a partner to the divine Caro, but whoever it was, they were off the mark. He was finished with any and all excursions into the petticoat line.
There was a decanter of brandy standing on the chest in his room. He poured himself two fingers, tossed it off, and poured himself another. Holding the glass, the duke moved over to the window and looked out on his view of the placid lake that fronted Northbrooke’s ancestral home. Jack seemed indecently happy. And Ruisdell . . . well, his content was legendary. Perhaps Sarah had not been the duchess he would have chosen had matters been different. She was biddable, at least. Or so he had thought. Drat the woman! He was determined to do his duty by her, be she ever so difficult.
Whoever would have imagined Caro would be a dab hand at croquet? Or billiards? She must be a bit of a rebel to embrace a purely masculine pastime. Funny. That did not march at all well with his impression of her when they were in London.
Drinking off his whiskey, he decided that he would spend the interminable evening ahead of him giving his attention to Miss Archer. He owed it to the poor young woman after behaving like such a blister during their game.
Egad! When did I become so vain of my consequence?
* * *
Jack was singing his wife’s praises when Ned joined the group in the drawing room, telling all and sundry that she was making his barn of a mansion into a place in which he did not mind living.
“And she is an artist, as well. Not to seem overly taken with myself as a subject, but she has done a decent portrait of me." The group gathered around the fireplace to study the painting of the Marquis of Northbrooke that hung above it.
It is deuced good. Jack is a lucky dog.
Going to the side of the marchioness, he inquired as to whether he might take her in to dinner.
“It would be my pleasure,” Kate murmured, looking up into his face with a smile.
At the table, he was partnered on one side by Miss A
rcher and on the other side by Caro Braithwaite. Setting out to make himself agreeable, he asked the former, “You work in the duchess’s soup kitchen for wounded soldiers, do you not?”
The little woman’s eyes sparkled. “Yes. Dear Elise. It has been a remarkable success, you know. Our host and the duke have been able to find work for many of the soldiers.” She paused to take a spoonful of jellied consommé. “Of course, as long as the war continues, we will continue to get more soldiers. It is wonderful to be able to do something so important for them.”
“Most women of your station are uncomfortable with any discussion of war, never mind doing anything about it.”
“You would be surprised,” Miss Archer said. “Most of my acquaintance have joined us in the effort. Miss Braithwaite was just telling me that she would like to add herself to our numbers when next she is in London.”
“Caro?” he blurted. “At a soup kitchen for wounded soldiers?”
Unfortunately, the woman on his other side overheard him.
“You are very free with my name, your grace. And why do you find that so strange?” Caro asked. “Do you fancy me an empty-headed, vain, and useless debutante?”
Turning to look into her face, he saw her eyes were alive with fury. Startled and a bit shamefaced, he said, “I beg your pardon, Miss Braithwaite. Perhaps I do not know you as well as I might.”
“I would venture to say you do not know me at all, your grace.”
A footman removed their soup plates. Another footman placed a fillet of turbot before them. How do I go on from here? An apology?
“You must forgive me. I am unpardonably clunch-headed. It is not often that one finds someone who is an Incomparable also possesses a charitable heart.”
“The entertainments of the ton are not of the sort that one can come to know any person’s true character, your grace. You are forgiven.” However, after so saying, she turned abruptly to Lord Cleaverings on her other side.
Silently slicing a bite of turbot swimming in some kind of sauce, he realized that what she said was certainly true. If he had not come across Sarah in the middle of an awkward predicament, he never would have realized the range of her temperament. In fact, when he had found her abandoned on the Great North Road, he failed to recall seeing her in a London ballroom at all. She had easily escaped his notice, with her ordinary coloring and ordinary features. Hadn’t he been worshipping daily at Caro’s temple, determined to engage her interest? Hadn’t his competitive spirit been urging him to become more than just one of the many who admired the loveliness of her face and form? She had indeed been this season’s Incomparable.
Miss Archer recalled his attention. “Are you a sporting man, your grace?”
He gave her what he hoped was a kindly smile. “A Corinthian, you mean?”
“Well, yes.”
“Not like Jack, er. . . Northbrooke. I like the odd horse race, but I actually do not spend an inordinate amount of time in London. I must come up to take my seat in Parliament, of course, so I am in Town during the Season. But most of the time, I enjoy living on my land.”
“And where is your seat, your grace?”
“Cornwall. Not far from Launceston. Where is your home, Miss Archer?”
“I grew up near Elise, the duchess, in Shropshire.”
He lowered his voice and leaned closer to her. “Tell me. I am longing to know. Is the duchess’s mother as much a termagant as Ruisdell claims?”
“Her sobriquet is Lady Hatchet, your grace. And, I must say, at the risk of being uncharitable, that the name suits her down to the ground. Not even the duke can intimidate her.”
They conversed amiably until the arrival of the main course, at which time he realized he must make peace with his other neighbor.
“You left London before the end of the Season,” he said to Caro. “And you were making such a success of it.”
“I tired of Town,” she said.
“What? Of all the balls, the theater, the picnics. . . You must be very hard to please.”
“We have already established that you do not know me well, if at all, your grace.”
“So we have. You must excuse me. What do you find so compelling about Wiltshire?”
“You will laugh,” she said.
“You are secretly enamored of cows and spend your time masquerading as a milkmaid?”
She had the grace to laugh at his silliness. Ned felt some relief. She wasn’t going to be starchy, then.
“I am helping with the church’s summer fête.”
Again, he was surprised. “That task took you from a never-ending round of amusements? You’re doing it much too brown, Miss Braithwaite.”
“You may not believe it, your grace, but my life’s ambition was never to be an Incomparable.”
“You wish to become a vicar’s wife, perhaps?” Was she really so dull? He couldn’t believe it.
“I am a frustrated playwright,” she confessed, again to his surprise.
“And what does that have to do with the . . . er . . . church fête?”
“I am writing a play for the children. Nothing too ambitious. I am basing it on the Mother Goose rhymes.” She flashed him a look of triumph, her heart-shaped face flushed. Take that, your grace! she might have said. “There, now you have it. My dreadful secret life.”
In spite of himself, he began to grow intrigued by the woman.
“You like children,” he said.
“Yes. We are on a level, you see.”
“Well, I see that you are right.”
“About what, your grace?” she looked at him again, eyebrows arched.
“I never would have guessed that the delightful beauty holding court in London ballrooms was secretly longing to be among the village's children, playing ‘Humpty-Dumpty Sat on a Wall.’ ”
Her features contracted in annoyance. “Do not succumb to the temptation to make me all one or all the other. I enjoy dancing. I enjoy parties. But they are not the stuff of which a true life is made.” She sliced her game hen neatly and took a bite. Hoping she would elaborate, he forbore making comment. “For the most part, I had a very happy childhood,” she continued. “I do not know much of the world, but I know enough to see that the majority of children do not. Have a happy childhood, I mean.”
His heart increased by several beats. “You are correct, Miss Braithwaite. Again. So, within your own limited sphere, you are going to attempt to alter that fact?”
Putting down her knife and fork, she turned her full attention upon him. “Why are you so determined to trivialize everything I say?”
His ill humor returned. “And why are you so determined to put me in the wrong?”
“I call it a fortunate circumstance that I have come to know your temper, your grace.”
“Oh? And why is that, I wonder?”
“So I will never again interpret your hand-kissing persona as indicating you have a chivalrous nature.”
With that sting, she took up her knife and fork and turned to face Cleaverings once again. For once in his life, he felt thoroughly set down. Could it really be that this young beauty was not at all enthralled by his renowned charm?
.
CHAPTER FIVE
IN WHICH OUR HEROINE IS
A STRANGER TO HERSELF
While Caro and the other ladies waited in the drawing room for the gentlemen to finish their port and cigars, she wondered at her own boldness in speaking so harshly to Beverley. I sounded like a bitter woman. Did he guess at my feelings for him in London?
While she was thus castigating herself for her bad manners, Kate approached.
“I overheard your conversation with Beverley,” she said. “Well done, Caro. I did not know you possessed such caustic address.”
“At the moment, I am regretting it. It was not like me, Kate. He brings out the worst in me, I fear. Does Jack know any of the circumstances of the duke’s engagement? Why it was broken?”
“He says that even Beverley does not know why it was
broken. She did not even do it in person. She left London suddenly and sent an announcement to the Morning Post,” Kate said. “When he tried to call on her at her brother’s estate, he was denied entrance.”
“How very strange,” Caro said. “Do you think he could have done something to merit such treatment? Had he a mistress or something?”
“I do not know the duke at all. It is certainly possible. However, he is very cast down. Jack says he must have been completely smitten by Lady Sarah.”
“Yes. One day he was at my side, bidding to be the first among my suitors. Almost overnight, he became attached to her. Their betrothal was not long in coming after that,” Caro said. She pleated the golden yellow sarcenet of her evening gown between anxious fingers. “I’m afraid the virulence of my verbal assault at dinner may have been a bit severe.”
Her friend laughed. “I think rather that it made him wonder at his own dubious manners. He was deliberately patronizing. I do not blame you at all.”
Soon the gentlemen entered the drawing room from the dining room, and the group commenced gathering around card tables for whist. Caro made certain that she was not consigned to the Duke of Beverley’s table. Instead, she partnered the dowager marchioness, which was begging for another kind of trouble. She knew well that Jack’s mother was dead serious about her cards. They played opposite Somerset and Kate. Another table was made up of Jack and Ruisdell against Beverley and Cleaverings. Violet and Elise sat on the sofa, speaking together in low tones. Caro wished she could join them.
The bravado she had exhibited at dinner disappeared like ice on a summer’s afternoon. The dowager soon had her second guessing herself, eyeing her with unrelenting sternness and speaking her mind freely.
“Concentrate, gel. That was an ill-advised discard. Get your head out of the clouds!”
They played three games, only two of which they won. Caro summoned her courage and said, “When this hand is concluded, your ladyship, I think you would be happier with another partner.”
“You are correct, Caro. I understand that Beverley is an outstanding player.”
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