by Liana Lefey
To top it all off, tea with Sorin’s mother yesterday had been exceedingly awkward and uncomfortable. The enjoyable event she’d come to anticipate had turned into a stiff, stale discussion devoid of any amusement at all after he had elected to join them. One simply couldn’t talk of certain things in the presence of a man, including Rowena’s being enceinte. He would have been honor-bound to inform Charles.
Eventually, Lady Wincanton had taken the matter in hand and asked her son outright why he’d suddenly decided to intrude. He’d flushed to the roots of his hair and excused himself at once, apologizing profusely for his unwanted presence.
Though she’d felt bad for him, Eleanor couldn’t help also wondering why he’d done it. It wasn’t as if there were any other males present from which she must be protected.
Sighing, she reflected that it didn’t really matter. Her weekly tea appointment with Lady Wincanton would only last until Sorin married. The moment he brought home a bride, there would be no more time for ‘little Ellie’ in their lives. In all honesty, she’d count it a blessing, for it would save her from having to endure further torment.
Tears welled in her eyes. The one thing she hadn’t expected in all of this was how much it hurt to have all of her assumptions regarding Sorin’s perception of her confirmed. Not only was she no closer to her goal of staying in Somerset, but the thought of remaining there and seeing him married to someone else made her positively ill.
“Heaven preserve me from my own idiocy!” she muttered, tossing aside her brush and swiping at her eyes.
A soft voice called from the doorway. “Ellie? Whatever is the matter?”
Turning, Eleanor tried to put on a brave smile for Rowena’s sake, but it was no use. Such was her misery that it could not be hidden. “If you must know, I’m not looking forward to tonight.”
“Why not? Are you unwell?”
She considered saying yes, but Rowena’s alarmed expression stopped her. Given her delicate condition, Eleanor could not in good conscience deliberately cause her distress. “Oh, no. Nothing like that. I—I fear I’ve made a terrible mistake.” At Rowena’s askance look, she elucidated. “I promised to help…someone…make a match this Season, and now I’m not certain I can go through with it.”
“Has Caroline been causing trouble again?” asked Rowena, her voice turning sharp.
“Not at all.” Eleanor looked at her and made a decision. “It’s Sorin. He asked me to help him select a bride.” Rowena’s brows rose in evident surprise. “I told him I would. And now…well, now I’m forced to keep my promise, despite…despite…”
To Eleanor’s mortification, the tears she’d thought under control escaped to run down her face. Grabbing a handkerchief, she rushed to blot them before they could spot her gown. “Oh, Rowena! He trusts me to help him, and I simply cannot.” Gentle arms closed about her shoulders, and she sagged against them. “Whomever I choose will be all wrong for him, I’m certain of it. I don’t want to be responsible for his happiness.”
“You know, the man has some say as to whom he offers his hand,” answered Rowena, her tone wry. “But tell me, why do you assume you’ll err? Do you not know him better than anyone else, save perhaps his mother?”
“There are times I think I do, but then he says or does something that proves me wrong. He can be so frustrating at times!” Feeling utterly wretched, she dashed away more tears.
“Then he is no different from any other man,” said Rowena, laughing a little. “Charles drives me absolutely mad on a daily basis, yet I love him to distraction. He knows it, too.” She paused, and then, “I believe Lord Wincanton knows how deeply you care for him, Ellie, else he would not have singled you out to ask for help. He trusts you, because he knows you would never want him to be anything less than perfectly happy.”
Yes, and it was making her perfectly miserable! “I know, and that makes it even more difficult. I don’t think anyone can possibly be good enough for him.” Though I would have tried my best… She buried her face in her hands. “What am I to do?”
Rowena sat silent for a long moment. “Let us approach this from a standpoint of logic. What particular qualities does he seek in a wife?”
She thought back. “He never actually listed them,” she blurted, blowing her nose with vigor and not caring that it made a loud, honking noise like that of an angry goose. Sorin would certainly not have approved. And there’s one answer. “He’s always been most adamant that a lady’s manners and sense of propriety must be beyond reproach.”
“A good place to begin,” said Rowena with a thoughtful nod. “You ought to be quite the expert at judging such things, given that he himself often instructed you in comportment.”
So I should, she told herself bitterly. Manners and propriety! What good had they done her? Her thoughts turned to that paragon of virtue, Saint Jane. “And…I suppose she must be biddable, compliant, and meek of temperament.”
This earned her a doubtful frown. “Are you certain? Look at the women closest to him. Neither you nor his mother are any of those things, if you’ll pardon my saying it. You are both strong-minded, and I doubt he has ever described either of you as being ‘meek’.”
It made her smile, as doubtless intended. “Lady Wincanton is quite a force of nature. But a man might not want to marry a woman so like his mother.” Like me.
Pursing her lips, Rowena nodded slowly. “Perhaps, yet it seems to me he prefers the company of strong women.”
“Not so when it comes to his bride,” she replied sadly. “His first choice, Jane, was—according to him—‘perfection’, and he always described her as the most temperate of women.”
“The choices made in one’s youth are not always the right ones,” answered Rowena. She folded her hands in her lap. “I met her, you know. Jane. She was lovely and sweet, but I remember very clearly thinking she was all wrong for him. Timid to a fault, she was. Constantly needing reassurance. I recall hearing him once tell her not to be so fearful of everything.”
“He’s never said such a thing to me,” Eleanor responded with a grimace. “If anything, he’s always adjured me to have more caution and curb my impulsivity.”
“And yet I’ve always heard him praise your courage,” mused Rowena. “He cares for you a great deal, you know.” Again, she paused as if debating what to say next. “Enough that at one point, I actually thought of proposing a match.”
Hearing this only made Eleanor feel worse. But he does not care for me the way a man cares for a woman he wishes to marry. Oh, how she wished he did! And not just so she could stay in Somerset. She longed for him to see her as a woman. But it was not meant to be. “It would never have worked,” she said aloud, her chest constricting. “He looks on me as a sister.”
Rowena’s eyes took on an expression of deepest compassion. “And…how do you view him?”
The question brought Eleanor up short. In her mind’s eye she pictured Sorin, his mouth quirked in a gentle smile, the sun on his hair, the light in his hazel eyes as he laughed. He is everything I want and cannot have. The shock of realization prickled across her flesh like a thousand stings. She didn’t just want someone like Sorin—she wanted him. All of him. His heart, his mind, his tall, lean body—with a ferocity that shook her to the very seat of her soul.
Her mouth formed very different words, however. “He is ever my dearest friend.” She dredged up a watery smile. “Worry not. I will help him, as I promised. I’m sure there must be someone worthy of his good name.”
A knock saved her from having to answer any more uncomfortable questions. Fran informed her that Lord Ashford was awaiting them downstairs.
Eleanor avoided Rowena’s eyes, took up her accoutrements, and trudged out and down the stairs, her feet leaden. Her cousin greeted them with a grunt, a frown creasing his brow. He was alone.
“Is Lord Wincanton not here?” she asked him, almost afraid to hear his answer.
“I’m afraid Wincanton won’t be joining us tonight. He’s just s
ent a note saying he’s been detained. He’ll meet us at the ball if he can manage to get away.”
It was with the greatest effort that she kept her face passive. “I hope it’s not anything too serious.” She looked around again. “Where is Caroline?”
“Here,” said her friend from the top of the stairs. “I went to find you a moment ago to ask your opinion, but you’d already gone.” She descended and turned, showing the beautifully draped back of her new gown. The pale azure silk complemented her vibrant coloring perfectly.
“You are an absolute vision,” Eleanor told her, smiling. “You’ll be the toast of the Season, Caroline. I just know it.”
“I think you both look lovely,” said Rowena, joining her husband. “Come, it is time we were on our way.”
Eleanor was relieved to see she looked as if their conversation of a moment ago had never happened. Her spirits rose an increment. With Sorin otherwise occupied tonight, she would at least have a chance to regroup.
I cannot stay in Somerset if he weds another. Perhaps I can find a dedicated spinster to serve as my companion. I’ll buy a nice cottage for us to live in—in another county… It would mean being far removed from her loved ones and her childhood home—everything familiar would be lost, but it was the only viable option.
Almost as soon as the carriage began to move, Rowena propped herself against a cushion in the corner and closed her eyes tightly. Eleanor hoped she would last the night. Charles, thankfully, seemed totally absorbed by the view from his window.
“I’m hoping Penwaithe will notice me this evening,” whispered Caroline as they wended their way through London. “I wore my hair this way just to catch his eye.”
“I wondered why it was up like that,” Eleanor whispered back, eyeing the arrangement. Rather than the profusion of fiery curls that were Caroline’s hallmark, she wore her hair in a high coronet, every strand tamed into submission by pearl pins. “You look very regal.”
“That was my intent,” said her friend, eyes sparkling with excitement. Taking up her fan, she opened it and held it up between them and Charles. “He made such a fuss over a statue of Athena we saw in the gardens during the picnic.” She leaned closer, her voice lowering so that it was barely audible over the noise of wheels against cobblestones. “I said in jest that she must not have had red hair, and he replied that indeed he could not imagine a goddess like Athena with such hair as mine, so tonight I shall prove him wrong.” She giggled softly. “He said the only goddess likely to have hair like mine would be Aphrodite rising from the sea. A promising comment, would you not agree?”
Certainly—if one were seeking an illicit affair! Calming herself, Eleanor leaned even closer so there would be no chance of Charles overhearing her. “Caroline, I know you won’t like what I’m going to say—I can see you frowning already—but as your friend I must speak honestly. Such a comment was nothing short of an indecent proposal. Any man who would compare you to a deity known for debauched behavior is obviously lacking in respect for you.”
As anticipated, Caroline’s lips thinned, her delight exchanged for hot wrath. “You would make every comment from a man mean something lewd!” she hissed. “He made a jest, Eleanor! Nothing more. I wore my hair this way tonight merely to let him know that I was paying attention and to further the rapport between us. The man has a sense of humor, and now he will see that I do as well—unlike some people!” Snapping her fan shut, she leaned back against the squabs and folded her arms.
Now it was Eleanor’s turn to open her fan and use it as a screen. “I stand firm in my opinion,” she insisted quietly, ignoring the barb. “By playing to his ‘jest’ as you call it, you might very well send him the wrong message. You don’t want him to think you’re willing to engage in improper behavior!”
But Caroline’s expression remained recalcitrant. “You presume that I’m too ignorant to know when a man has lascivious intentions,” she whispered back. “I can assure you I’m not. As it is with you, this is not my first Season.” Her anger faded into hurt. “Why can you never simply trust me?”
Guilt slithered into Eleanor’s heart. “You are one of my closest friends. If I’m overly protective, it is simply because I cannot stop worrying that someone will hurt you, the thought of which causes me great pain. Just…be careful with him. Please?” She glanced at Rowena, who was still slumped in the corner with her eyes shut. Bending, she murmured directly into Caroline’s ear. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Rowena has not been well of late.”
“I have indeed,” replied Caroline in just as quiet a voice. “Is she…?”
Eleanor nodded. “And she needs no additional burdens to worry her,” she added pointedly.
The light of battle died in Caroline’s eyes. “I will give her none.”
Glancing across the carriage at her cousin, Eleanor realized he was peering at them with curious eyes. Snapping her fan shut, she offered him a quick and, she hoped, reassuring smile.
No excitement stirred in her breast when their carriage arrived at its destination. This was the first real ball of the Season, and she ought to have at least a tiny thrill of joy at the prospect of dancing. But without Sorin to dance with, there was no charm in it. No matter who she partnered with, she knew she’d only imagine and wish that it was him.
I love him. Over and over, the three words repeated in her mind. Is this what being in love is like? Every tragic poem she’d ever read on the subject of romance came flooding back. She’d hoped to spare Sorin such cruelty, and now she was caught in its nets herself.
She waited half an hour, but still he failed to appear. Finally, and only because Rowena was giving her “the look,” she allowed Marston to partner her in a quadrille after which she was fair game for the other gentlemen who’d been hanging about. Her dance card was filling with alarming speed. Taking a moment in the powder room, she wrote false names in the few remaining empty spaces left later that evening just in case Sorin showed up.
Why am I even bothering? Yet she continued to write.
Back into the fray. After nearly an hour without pause she scurried, head down, off the ballroom floor to sit out the next dance somewhere quiet.
Just as she approached the safety of the stairs, she heard a familiar voice and looked up. Dread filled her at the sight of Yarborough with his head tilted back in laughter. She altered course before he could spot her, but then spied his mother heading toward her from the opposite direction. It was stand and be pinned down or hide. She took the better part of valor and ducked behind a potted tree, praying she’d not been noticed by either of them. After a moment, she risked a peek.
“I was hoping to find you before the next dance.”
She nearly screamed in fright, only just catching herself in time to release her breath in a more dignified manner. Turning, she faced Sorin with as pleasant an expression as she could muster, given her mortification over having been found crouched behind an ornament. “Lord Wincanton. I’m so glad to see you were able to join the festivities.”
“My apologies, I did not mean to startle you.” His brows knit. “Whom are you trying to avoid?”
“The Yarboroughs, of course. I’ve been fortunate thus far, but you just witnessed a very near miss.” A tiny curl of warmth unfurled in her belly as the tension eased from his face. She knew beyond a doubt that he’d been worried her answer might be him. Do I dare hold to such thin hope?
“Allow me to assist you.” He offered his arm, which she took. “I’m sorry I could not be here sooner.”
Did he really mean that? Or was he merely being gentlemanly again? “As am I.” How else could one reply? Silence stretched between them, intensifying her nervousness.
She longed to reach out and touch him, to know the feel of his strong arms around her, the texture of his skin, the taste of his kisses. It was the sort of yearning that made imprudent ladies fly into men’s arms and surrender all respectability. Say something! “I’ve been waiting for you—to tell you about Miss Margare
t Rutherford,” she amended quickly, grasping at straws.
He frowned. “Miss Margaret…who?”
I made a promise, and this is as good a way to keep him talking as any. Steeling herself, she elaborated. “Miss Margaret Rutherford is the daughter of Mister Rutherford, a coal magnate, and Lady Abigail Rutherford, formerly Lady Fentonwick. She remarried after the death of her first husband, the Earl of Fentonwick, and her son’s subsequent assumption of the title.” She waited, but he said nothing, so she continued. “I realize, of course, that Miss Rutherford is only a Miss, but her mother was once a countess and has raised the children born to her second marriage thusly. Margaret is a modest young woman of impeccable reputation whom I vow would be a credit to any gentleman.”
He stared at her and did not answer.
She rushed on, determined to see this through. “If Miss Rutherford is not to your liking, then might I suggest Lady Rothchild’s daughter, Lady Eugenia? She would bring you both wealth and beauty, and her reputation is equally without blemish. If you would like, I would be happy to make the introductions.”
Sorin’s stomach roiled as though he’d just swallowed a large mouthful of something particularly vile. She was playing matchmaker. For him. That it was exactly what he’d asked her to do mattered not at all. She was staring, waiting. He needed to say something. Something other than the flood of invective currently held back only by his tightly clenched teeth. “I…confess I did not expect you to find suitable candidates so quickly.”
“I was fortunate enough to meet both ladies on the day of the picnic,” she explained. “They are acquaintances of Lady Blithesby, a friend of Rowena’s. Her ladyship had only the highest words of praise for them both.”
“I see.” He took a breath to steady himself. “Well then, I suppose I ought to meet these paragons.” His heart sank as a proud smile lifted the corners of her mouth.
