Riya touched her head to Eliza’s. “How fortunate we are that our chosen paths intertwine.”
“Yes, we are very fortunate.”
Eliza’s life would be her own.
And that was enough.
Chapter Eleven
Sebastian looked around the dinner table and thought there was nothing a gathering of men and women resembled so much as a chessboard. He enjoyed chess, in theory. Poking and prodding one’s opponent into doing exactly as one wished was great fun. In practice, however, he lost interest in following the precise course of action that would lead to victory and would often forge a different path, much to his father’s consternation.
“What the devil are you about, Sebastian?” his father had asked, exasperated, after one memorable match when he had been a boy of twelve. “You weren’t to move your rook there. You were supposed to capture the knight. This is no way to win.”
“If I had wanted to win, I’d have done so when your king was castled behind your bishop. But what I wanted was for you to move that particular pawn to C6 on your eleventh move. So, here we are. It is your move.”
“Never tell your opponent your thoughts, Seb. Now that I know your plan, I won’t make that move,” he said.
“You will if you want to win.”
His father’s eyes narrowed. He surveyed the board. And then he saw it—the winning move. His lips flattened as he reached for the pawn and flicked it forward to C6. “Checkmate,” he grumbled. “But why?”
Sebastian had lifted his boyish shoulder. “Why not? It amused me.”
Sebastian now eyed the lords and ladies seated at the ornately carved oak table that had graced this dining room for the past hundred years. The seating arrangement was a thing of genius, if he did say so himself. True, Miss Benton was between Lord Devand and Mr. Vidyasagar, but that was a relief. He still hadn’t forgiven her for luring him into seriousness in the orchard earlier. Besides, she was close enough that he could hear her conversation, even if he couldn’t participate in it.
He turned to the pawn on his right—that is, Lady Freesia—and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You’re welcome, my lady.”
Lady Freesia arched her auburn brows but smiled with good humor. “For what, Your Grace?”
“Why, for ensuring Colonel Kent was seated nowhere near you for dinner, of course.” Sebastian gave attention to his bowl of white soup, dipping the spoon into the creamy center slowly and with great care. “I saw that he was with you in the orchard this afternoon. No doubt he bored you relentlessly, yammering on about habeas corpus and jailed innocents and other dreary topics.”
“He didn’t bore me. That is, he didn’t discuss the matter with me.” She cleared her throat and glanced across the table to where the colonel was seated next to Miss Mukherjee. A small frown puckered her forehead. “What is habeas corpus?”
“The right to stand trial for one’s accused crimes. Or, as Kent so passionately argues, the right to prove one’s innocence rather than spend a lifetime in Newgate. Don’t let yourself be caught in his company too long, dear lady, or he will dull you with the details of a hundred men, possibly innocent of any crime, and the horrors they face, never knowing whether they will see their families again.”
“Are they innocent?”
“How is anyone to know? They haven’t had a trial.”
There was a pause as Lady Freesia digested this. She reached for her wineglass and took a small swallow. Sebastian enjoyed another bite of white soup.
“That doesn’t seem fair,” she said at last.
“What has fairness to do with law? It is within Lord Sidmouth’s authority to throw any person in prison as he sees fit, so says the Habeas Corpus Suspension Act we passed last parliament. Well,” Sebastian added after a moment’s contemplation, “not just anyone, I suppose. Not me, or you. Merely those without any say in the matter.”
She frowned around a mouthful of soup. “We? You voted for this law, then?”
“That is doubtful, though I can’t remember, to be perfectly honest. These things don’t interest me and there are so many votes in a session, how am I to remember them all? I vote as your brother tells me, and beg him not to bore me with details. But he is often of the same mind as Kent, you know.”
“Oh. I see.” She looked pleased.
He then turned to Lady Jane on his left, giving Lady Freesia a moment with her thoughts. It wouldn’t do to be rude to his possible future duchess. “Miss Benton tells me she has never heard a voice as gorgeous as yours. Do you enjoy having an audience? Perhaps we will have a musical gathering before dinner tomorrow, and you will give us the pleasure of hearing you.”
“You have discovered my weakness, Your Grace. My voice is splendid, and I dearly love to share it.”
Sebastian paused, his wineglass halfway to his mouth, and his eyebrows rose with surprise. She returned his gaze with a sly smile, and he laughed. “You’re teasing.”
“Not at all. I am completely in earnest. Was I supposed to demure and simper and allow you to convince me out of my shyness? I’m not very good at that. I have trained my voice and studied very hard, you see, and performing is my greatest joy. The shock and wonder on the faces of my audience, and then bliss and euphoria. I give them that, and I won’t pretend it means nothing.”
He replaced his wineglass and gave her his full attention, turning slightly in his seat to look at her. “I wouldn’t want you to.”
“No?” She appraised him slowly. “I am glad to hear that, Your Grace.”
The soup was cleared away. Taking its place was venison, fragrant with garlic and mushrooms, and pea hen with roasted apples. Asparagus, peas, and carrots glazed with honey were heaped on petal-thin porcelain platters.
“Would you care for venison, Lady Jane?” he inquired, his knife at the ready. She nodded and he carved a slice of tender haunch and laid it on her plate. That done, he turned to his other companion. “Lady Freesia?”
“Fairness ought to have something to do with law,” was her non sequitur reply.
“Pardon?” he said, as though he had forgotten their earlier conversation.
“What has fairness to do with law? That is what you asked. And here is my answer. Fairness, justice, righteousness—these things ought to have not merely something, but everything to do with law. They ought to be the very basis for it. The law ought to ensure freedom, not confiscate it.” She crossed her hands over her lap. “Yes, I would like some venison, please.”
He obliged. “So you, too, will insist on discussing these matters against my express wishes not to be bored. Why, pray? I will vote Abingdon’s conscience next parliament, but that is not until spring. Kent cannot vote at all, as he is neither a lord nor has he won a seat in the Commons. Why bother me with these things? Tell someone who cares. Tell Lord Sutton and Lord Devand.”
Lady Freesia gave a slow blink. “Lord Sutton and Lord Devand? Why in heaven’s name would I… Why?” she asked in a way that made Sebastian wonder if she thought very much of the intellect of those gentlemen.
“They have the ear of the home secretary.” He laid a slice of venison on his own plate. The footman appeared and served him a generous portion of asparagus, his favorite.
“Then why does Colonel Kent not speak to them on this?”
Sebastian gave her an exasperated look. “No doubt he has. But as Kent has no vote and no power of his own, they don’t really much care what he thinks, do they? Quite frankly, I’m not sure I do, either. He has become tedious on the subject.”
Lady Freesia regarded Sebastian coolly. “Has he, indeed.”
He could almost see the wheels of her brain clicking and whirring behind that reproving gaze. It was the Eastwood family way—they couldn’t help themselves. They cared; it was simply who they were. Yet, for all their fervor, they had little success at bringing their ideas to reality. Pe
rhaps they were too radical, or Abingdon was too shy, or Nick ought to spend more time making friends than enemies.
But Sebastian had higher hopes for Lady Freesia. It was absurd that neither her brothers nor Kent recognized her value. She was as beautiful as she was conniving, both traits that Sebastian held in high regard. Lady Freesia would get it done, and then he wouldn’t have to hear about it anymore.
“Shall we turn now to more agreeable topics?” Sebastian suggested. “Lady Jane has agreed to a musicale tomorrow evening. She will sing for us, but who shall accompany her on the pianoforte? Would you be willing, Lady Freesia?”
“I would be delighted. Although you ought to ask Lady Abigail instead. She is very accomplished, certainly more so than I.”
“Not Lady Abigail,” Lady Jane interjected. “She is certainly accomplished, far too much so to be merely the backdrop for my voice. She must play for us, but in her own moment. Have you heard her play Mozart’s Concerto Number Twenty? It is divine.”
“Then it must be me who accompanies you, for my skill is exactly as one would wish for the task,” Lady Freesia said, laughing.
“Thank you,” Lady Jane said simply, not bothering to argue with Lady Freesia’s assessment of her own worth as a pianist.
Sebastian smiled at that. He liked Lady Jane exceedingly well. Miss Benton had done an excellent job in finding her. He caught her eye across the table and raised his glass to her in a subtle toast. When she blinked in surprise, he tilted his head slightly in Lady Abigail’s direction. Understanding dawned. Lady Jane’s expression warmed, and a glimmer of a smile hovered on her lips as she raised her glass in return.
He shouldn’t be surprised that Miss Benton had chosen Lady Jane. In fact, Lady Jane reminded him a bit of Miss Benton herself, now that he thought of it. Miss Benton couldn’t sing worth a damn, but they were both delightfully frank, in that charming way that never turned cruel.
They didn’t look alike, despite them both being fair. Lady Jane was golden sunlight where Miss Benton was silver moonbeams, and Miss Benton’s eyes were a darker shade of blue than Lady Jane’s. Furthermore—
Sebastian halted his thoughts.
What in God’s name was he doing? He never compared women—what would be the point? They were each wonderful in their own right, excepting the very few who weren’t, and a comparison indicated a choice must be made. He’d never had to choose before. If two women pleased him, then he would simply have them both, one after the other, or at the same time, should the ladies prove willing.
Now he must choose, but the choice was not between Miss Benton and anyone. It would do no woman any favors to be compared to Miss Benton. He must stop that nonsense forthwith.
Lady Jane would make an excellent duchess.
Except…whispered something from deep inside.
He shoved it down ruthlessly and stabbed a piece of venison with his fork.
There would be no except.
Chapter Twelve
Eliza half reclined on a chaise—a gorgeous, soft thing of deep blue velvet that amplified the color of her eyes and creaminess of her skin, a fact of which she had been aware when she chose her seat—her eyes hooded over the languid sweeps of her fan as she watched Wessex watch Lady Jane stun her audience into stupefied worship with the beauty of her voice.
And, Wessex being Wessex, indulged in stupefied worship of her breasts, too, as they rose and fell with great aplomb for every long, lovely note Lady Jane sang.
Would he look quite so rapt if her voice was more barnyard chicken than nightingale? Or if her hair was the color of wash water rather than sunshine?
Why, oh why, was Lady Jane possessed of both beauty and talent? It hardly seemed fair, when so many women could boast of neither.
She had her faults, of course. Despite her beauty and voice, Lady Jane had never been the ton’s darling. She wasn’t docile, or hesitant, soft-spoken, eager to please, or any of the other usual feminine traits held in high regard by wife-seeking peers. She bestowed smiles like a benevolent queen acknowledging her loyal subjects, accepting their admiration as her due.
Which was at least one of the reasons Eliza had selected her as a prospective bride for Wessex. Vanity and confidence—both of which the duke had in spades—did not frighten him. He would not be threatened by her talent; he would exalt it. He would adore her for precisely the same reasons that made the ton uncomfortable— Lady Jane knew her own worth and didn’t bother to hide it.
She was, in short, perfect for Wessex.
The gentle breeze from Eliza’s fan became a virulent tornado. Next to her, Riya widened her eyes, her dark brows swooping up like alarmed question marks. Eliza returned to gentle flicks of her wrist, and the storm abated.
“Her voice is so stirring, is it not?” she whispered. “It gives me such a feeling here.” She pressed her palm to her bosom.
Riya nodded agreement, but her lips pursed into a dubious frown. “The duke certainly seems to agree.”
“Indeed,” Eliza said crisply.
“You must be so pleased.” Riya’s tone mirrored the doubtful expression of her mouth.
Eliza fidgeted with the lace trim of her fan and lowered her gaze to hide her confusion. She was pleased. Of course she was! In fact, she was feeling triumphant in her success. Wessex had solicited her help in selecting a suitable wife, but she had done far more than that.
She had found him a woman with whom he could be happy.
Rather unprecedented for a ton marriage, in her opinion. The higher the title, the more miserable the match, seemed to be the general rule of thumb. Happiness was found with a mistress, or with someone else’s spouse, not one’s own. But the thought of Wessex sharing such a fate was…unbearable, somehow. There was no darkness he could not brighten with his presence, no weariness that was not eased through his nonsense. He was made for joy. The very thought of his being brought low by an unhappy marriage made her furious.
So, of course she was pleased.
And yet a tiny—insignificant, really—part of her also fervently hoped that Lady Jane would suffer an immediate and devastating bout of laryngitis.
Mean-spirited thought, and quite unlike her. She never wished hardships on other women, not even when they deserved it. Neither did she choose furniture based on its flattering color, and yet here she was, thinking uncharitable thoughts on a settee that matched the color of her eyes.
She made a sound of disgust—directed entirely at herself—that was thankfully drowned out by applause as Lady Jane took her bow.
“We should tell her how magnificent she was,” Eliza said. Where she lacked sincerity, she at least made up for it with enthusiasm.
Riya sent her a sly sidelong glance. “She was magnificent, wasn’t she? And so lovely, too.”
“Very lovely,” Eliza agreed. She bared her teeth in what she hoped was a benign smile.
“I spent a few happy moments with her in the orchard,” Riya continued. “Such a clever, delightful wit she has!”
Eliza’s hand twitched with the sudden urge to rap her friend on the forehead with her fan. “Doesn’t she.”
“She’s the daughter of an earl.”
“Quite acceptable.”
“She fulfills the duke’s list of wifely attributes nicely. Except… What was the last requirement? Ah, yes. Friendly with Miss Benton.” Riya turned suddenly and pinned her with wide, guileless dark eyes. “Which she is, isn’t she?”
“Such a question!” Eliza artfully dodged. “I wouldn’t have put her on the list if I didn’t think her a proper match. I like her.” Odd, how friendly and likable did not go hand in hand. For she did like Lady Jane. But her feelings toward the woman—all of a sudden and entirely inexplicably—were somewhat less than friendly.
“I do not doubt that you liked her well enough when you chose her. But you have had a day now to get to know her better
. Have your thoughts changed? I ask because you seem”—there was a pause as her gaze dipped to Eliza’s fan, clenched tightly in her fist—“perturbed.”
Eliza forced her fingers to loosen. She gave an unconcerned, vague flutter of her fan. “Not at all.”
But inwardly, she admitted that Riya had a very precise and disconcerting way of calling a spade a spade. Perturbed was exactly the right word for this restless dissatisfaction that had swarmed her senses like buzzing honeybees and usurped the use of her right hand. It was not jealousy. Oh, certainly not.
For the first time in her twenty-one years, her life was exactly to her specifications. If one imagined that one built a life like one built a house, then yes, one couldn’t deny the foundation was a little shaky, as things built on secrets were wont to be, but it would settle with time. It was a neat and tidy house, everything was just so, and joy, friendship, and hard work were the bricks and mortar that gave shape and protection.
It ought not to matter that Wessex would marry. Three dear friends—Alice, Adelaide, and Claire—had already married, and while those friendships had changed, they hadn’t dissolved. Naturally, she and he could not continue on as they were now, but why should that disturb her so? It was Wessex. It ought not to matter.
And yet, she could not refute that it mattered very much, indeed. It was no good trying to deny her feelings or convince herself otherwise. She was, as Riya had pointed out, perturbed. It was like discovering that the marble pillar one believed to be merely decorative was in fact holding up the bloody roof.
As it were.
The duke was now bowing over Lady Jane’s proffered hand, his lips grazing her gloved knuckles. Such a handsome couple they made. So elegant.
“Aunt Mabel,” Eliza said loudly.
Riya gave a startled bounce and looked around with wide eyes. “I forgot she was here,” she muttered.
Understandable, since Aunt Mabel had selected a brown chair so very near the color of her dress that she almost disappeared altogether. Furthermore, she had dozed off.
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