by Claudia Dain
“What word is that?” Iveston said.
“I leave you to determine it, though if the word is aversion, that puts me third,” Cranleigh said upon a half smile.
“Then the word must not be aversion,” Edenham said, “as I am quite certain I must be found quite high upon the list. I leave you to choose my word for me, Lady Dalby.”
“Arrogant it is,” Sophia said with a chuckle.
“No, not arrogant,” Penelope said impulsively, “for that would change the game, wouldn’t it? Are we not supposed to choose our own faults, not note the faults of others?”
For what could she do? She had to defend the duke’s honor, did she not? Particularly as he was to be her husband. And, as a small aside, she did not think they should follow Lord Iveston’s suggestion, a small matter of spite. He was quite eager to throw a fault upon her, without doubt.
To judge by the general reaction of the room, it was quite possible she should have taken the time to consider another choice of action. The mood shifted downward, rather like a tile falling from the roof.
“If we are to list the faults of others,” George said into the horrid silence, “then I am compelled to name logic as Penelope’s greatest fault. Hardly a fault in normal circumstances, I know, but then, when are circumstances ever normal?”
How completely sweet and entirely like George. He had a knack for turning most everything into something quite pleasant, which just now seemed his greatest talent.
“In a woman? I would have said never,” Iveston said. “How unexpected to find logic residing in female form.”
Penelope turned and looked at Iveston, quite truly perplexed at how much he had found to say, most of it quite unappealing. Perhaps he was not the dullard she had thought him, though finding he was a boor instead was hardly a noteworthy improvement.
“How right you are, Lord Iveston,” Sophia said. “Miss Prestwick is that rare thing: an original.”
Why, the way Sophia said it, it didn’t sound like a fault at all. How extraordinary.
Five
AN original? Is that what she was? Iveston was more than certain she was the most ordinary of things: a woman looking for a husband. In this instance, the Duke of Edenham. It was more than obvious, wasn’t it? She had that look about her. Putting on that pretty, smiling, insipid creature that all women became when a likely man was in the room.
Of course, Miss Prestwick was mauling the whole thing badly. She was forever saying the wrong thing, wasn’t she? Couldn’t seem to help herself, poor lamb, and if he were any sort of gentleman, he’d feel some sympathy for her, perhaps even help her along with a friendly word to soothe things over.
He’d do nothing of the sort.
She wanted Edenham? Well, let her fight to get Edenham, like they all fought … like they all usually fought to get him.
He was a bit disgruntled. He could admit it. Here he was, in the full flush of his manhood, so to speak, and there was Edenham, three wives behind him and buried, two children to take on, and this little wisp of a girl preferred Edenham to him?
And her brother claimed logic as her fault. Logic? There was nothing logical about it. Nothing logical about her either. In fact, she might be a bloody imbecile. She gave every appearance of it, didn’t she? Here he was, available, completely desirable in every conceivable way, and she had nothing but disdain and scowls for him. Why, he’d never been so dismissed in his entire life.
What was worse, Cranleigh clearly saw the situation for what it was and was having the devil of a time not laughing out loud. In fact, he might give way at any moment.
“How very true,” Cranleigh said, crossing his legs casually. “There is certainly no other woman I know of who is so adept at horticulture, and with roses, too, known to be so difficult. I saw quite a few varieties whilst in China, yet none eclipse the perfection of Miss Prestwick’s roses. When do you think the weather will be mild enough to remove them from the house, Miss Prestwick? Or do you keep them in all year?”
Every eye in the room was fixated upon Miss Prestwick, who did not look at all pleased by the attention. Most peculiar girl.
Penelope Prestwick looked first at Cranleigh, then at her brother, giving him something of an accusatory glance, then looked stonily at Sophia Dalby. Sophia returned the look and made no effort to reply. Indeed, the entire party was waiting in near comical anticipation for her reply about the summer location of her roses.
They were very nice roses. He’d been in the conservatory during the Prestwick ball and seen them. Very nice. It was actually a point in her favor that she could tend them so well, a full bounty of them, too. The room nearly filled to bursting with red, pink, and blush white roses. One would think she’d be eager to display her talent for roses, but Miss Prestwick was decidedly unpredictable in her responses to the most straightforward of prompts, one being her romantic and marital inclinations.
He was in his absolute prime.
Miss Prestwick seemed to collect herself, gathering a rather firm breath, and then said in a rush, “I put them out on June the first, Lord Cranleigh, and then promptly back in on the fifteenth of September. I have them on a very strict schedule that is designed to both give them ample opportunity to flourish under the gentle summer sun and to protect them from an erratic wind. I have yet to lose a single bush.”
Why she sounded so martial about it, he had no idea.
Her brother coughed and straightened himself on his chair, keeping his gaze on his feet.
Cranleigh recrossed his legs and nodded amiably. Cranleigh never did anything amiably. Iveston knew in that instant that something was very amiss regarding Miss Prestwick and the Prestwick roses. Given that he was in his prime and she appeared blind to that fact, he decided to probe the wound, even if lightly.
“And your lovely roses weren’t damaged the night of your ball, Miss Prestwick? I believe that many of your guests enjoyed the beauties of your conservatory that night, myself included.”
Miss Prestwick fixed him with a glittering glare. Her eyes were quite dark, nearly black, and glittered quite spectacularly. “Roses have thorns, Lord Iveston, and therefore protect themselves most efficiently.”
Which, naturally, brought the subject round to Amelia’s torn gown and the haggard mess of Miss Prestwick’s shawl. Most stupid of her to mention thorns, unless she wanted to muddy Amelia’s name. But with Cranleigh in the room? She couldn’t be that backward, could she?
It did seem possible.
“But not from an erratic wind, it would seem,” Sophia said into the somewhat brittle silence. Miss Prestwick did seem to do that to a conversation. Could it possibly be intentional on her part?
Ridiculous notion.
Iveston glanced at Edenham. Edenham, far from looking put off or even bored, looked very nearly jolly. Was it possible … could it be that Edenham and little Miss Prestwick had formed an attachment of sorts? But when? And more to the point, why?
Iveston looked at her again. Yes, yes, she was pretty enough, the shape of her face quite nice and her brow a thing of true greatness, but her nose … it was a bit small and wasn’t it a bit like a dairymaid’s in pertness? Not at all the thing. Still, her mouth wasn’t at all bad and her bodice filled out more than respectably.
But Edenham’s latest duchess?
Impossible.
Fredericks, Sophia’s butler, entered at that moment to announce another caller.
“Viscount Tannington is calling, Lady Dalby,” Fredericks said, surveying the room with a nearly amused gaze. How odd, but then, Fredericks had that reputation.
“At this hour?” Sophia said. “It’s half six. But he does owe me money, so let him enter, Freddy. A man with coin is always welcome.”
“It’s how I got in,” Edenham said cheerfully.
“I brought the vase,” Cranleigh said, looking at Iveston.
“I brought the man with the vase,” Iveston said. “An escort, you might say, to ensure safe delivery of the vase.”
“I brought Penelope for the very same reason,” George Prestwick said, looking at Penelope. “An escort, ensuring safety.”
Oh, dear, another impromptu game and Miss Prestwick quite out of her shallow element.
“I’m afraid I’ve only brought myself,” Penelope said, looking quite miserable. Iveston could almost feel some pity for her. And then he looked at Edenham and the thought passed.
“Which was quite more than enough,” Sophia said. “Men must bring gifts. A woman need only bring herself, for her companionship is worth at least a small stack of gold coins.”
“Is it?” Edenham asked.
“It is to me,” Sophia said. “Oh, Tannington, how good of you to come,” she said, rising to her feet to greet him. They all rose with her to greet the Viscount Tannington.
He was a tallish, leanish, sharkish-looking fellow with either a slightly sinister or slightly dangerous aspect, depending on the lighting. At the moment, he was looking more dangerous than sinister, but it was the sort of dangerous look that women seemed to find compelling more often than not. Iveston glanced at Penelope. She did not look compelled in the slightest. He found it strangely gratifying.
“I beg your pardon,” Tannington said softly. “I had anticipated finding you alone.”
“But of course you did, darling,” Sophia said smoothly, “and of course, I am just as surprised as you are, but here we all find ourselves.” Sophia shrugged. “Yet isn’t it always pleasant to find oneself in such company, so unexpectedly? The unexpected does add such a thrill to what could have been merely a drizzly, quiet May afternoon.”
Tannington sat. They all sat. Sophia smiled seductively at Tannington. Edenham looked on and smiled tolerantly. The look on Edenham’s face put any thoughts of Edenham being amorously connected to Sophia Dalby out of Iveston’s head, not that he’d had any thoughts of that nature to begin with, but one did hear so many rumors about Sophia that nothing, and no one, could be discounted.
Mr. Prestwick was watching his sister.
His sister, the peculiar Miss Prestwick, was watching Sophia. Cranleigh cleared his throat and uncrossed his legs. Cranleigh was preparing to leave, his gift delivered. Iveston, quite unexpectedly and completely out of character, did not want to leave. He could hardly stay if Cranleigh left; that would look most odd. But he did want to stay, though he couldn’t have said why.
Miss Prestwick had turned her gaze from Sophia, who appeared unreasonably amused by Tannington, to look at Edenham, who did not look at her.
It was a most peculiar form of entertainment, yet Iveston found himself strangely amused. It was clearly high time he got out of Hyde House more often; he was becoming quite eccentric in his amusements.
“We had a bit of an amusement going,” Edenham said to Tannington, “just before you arrived. In the spirit of the game, and not to intrude, but are you here to give something to Lady Dalby?”
Tannington’s pale-eyed gaze went from Edenham, circled the room, and back to Sophia. He was in the process of going from dangerous to sinister in his aspect, which did not speak well of his sense of fair play and pleasant dealings, did it?
“As you do owe me on a wager of some days past, I do hope so,” Sophia said.
Tannington looked at Sophia, nodded, and said, “As it will please you, then I shall freely admit so, Lady Dalby. I have come to pay my debt to you.”
“And never was anyone welcomed with more joy than upon those words,” Sophia said with a smile.
Tannington, by every appearance, did not look the sort to be amused at being a part of a jest that had begun before he arrived. As to that, Iveston was not entirely certain Tannington was capable of enjoying a jest no matter when it began. He was that sort of man. He was not so very many years older than Iveston, perhaps five, and perhaps five years younger than Edenham, and a man who kept to himself more than was usual, though the same could be said of Iveston. Still, Iveston had done it for Cranleigh, not that anyone knew that, Cranleigh included. Why did Tannington keep such solemn and solitary company?
Tannington was a hard-featured man, though not an unattractive one. Quite the sort of wolfish, rakish type that women liked to giggle over.
Iveston stole a quick glance at Miss Prestwick again. She was looking at Edenham again. Edenham was ignoring her completely. It was quite strange but Iveston almost felt like chuckling, which was something he never did outside of the bounds of Hyde House. He simply wasn’t the chuckling sort, never had been. Until now, apparently.
“Another wager, Sophia?” Edenham drawled. “You are not intemperate in that regard, are you?”
“Unless it is considered intemperate to win, which I am certain it must not be,” Sophia replied.
“You do seem to make a habit of winning,” Cranleigh said.
“A lucky habit to have,” Mr. Prestwick said.
“Not so much a habit, Mr. Prestwick, as a vocation,” Sophia replied with a smile.
“I don’t suppose you lost much,” Edenham asked of Tannington.
“Not more than I can afford to lose,” Tannington answered, which was not at all friendly as replies went.
“A small wager,” Sophia said, “concerning Caroline and Ashdon. I do confess to having an advantage, though Lord Tannington was willing to take the risk.”
“More than willing,” Tannington offered with a bit more warmth that he had as yet displayed.
That was to be expected, wasn’t it? It was Sophia, after all, and men did react in certainly a very well-documented fashion toward her. Which could hardly be comfortable for Miss Prestwick, could it? Iveston looked again at Miss Prestwick. She was not looking at Edenham, which was a bit of a surprise; she was looking at him. That was actually nearly a shock and he did find it almost impossible not to sit a bit straighter, though Cranleigh hogging the settee did make sitting elegantly nearly impossible. Iveston, as discreetly as possible, elbowed Cranleigh in the ribs. Cranleigh, which was quite like him, refused to give an inch. He did twist his hips so that Iveston was very nearly pushed off the end of the settee. Iveston put both feet flat on the floor and leaned toward Cranleigh.
“Fredericks,” Sophia said sweetly, “do bring another chair forward for darling Lord Iveston. He appears quite miserably uncomfortable.”
“I beg your pardon, Lady Dalby,” Iveston said stiffly.
“Don’t be absurd. It’s perfectly understandable, Lord Iveston. I’ve yet to meet siblings who can comfortably share anything so personal as seating. I should never have put you in this awkward position.”
Which of course prompted him to glance at Miss Prestwick again, for when the word awkward was used, whom else to think of?
Miss Prestwick was looking at him most strangely. Not exactly daggers. No, hardly that, but rather in a sort of tepid and lethargic disbelief. In fact, she was looking at him in something quite close to boredom.
The Marquis of Iveston, heir to the Duke of Hyde, was in no way accustomed to inspiring boredom in eligible young women. Or old women, for that matter, eligible or not.
Fredericks offered him a chair. Iveston, by merely a look, indicated that Cranleigh should take it. He was keeping the settee, precedence and all that. Cranleigh, grinning, left the settee and took the chair.
A small victory, but he did feel he deserved it.
“Perhaps I should return another time?” Tannington said quietly to Sophia.
“If you’d like,” Sophia answered pleasantly, keeping her gaze not on Tannington, but on Iveston. Iveston could plainly see that Tannington did not like it in the least.
Fredericks, who had not got fully out of the white salon, stuck his head back in, a truly abysmal bit of butlering, and said, “Are you in for the Marquis of Ruan, Lady Dalby?”
“I do believe I am,” Sophia said, her dark gaze flicking over Lord Tannington, who was looking more sharkish by the second. He did seem a most volatile sort. Not the calm eye of reason in a storm of lunacy that Iveston knew himself to be.
The Marquis of Ruan ent
ered the room with an elegant stride that halted fractionally when he saw that Lady Dalby was not alone in the white salon. Indeed, the room was becoming very nearly cozy with people.
They all rose, Tannington the most slowly.
Bows and curtseys were exchanged, Miss Prestwick looking very nearly annoyed as she dipped her dark head. Iveston found that mildly amusing somehow.
“Lord Ruan,” Sophia purred. “What a surprise to see you.”
“Not a delight, Lady Dalby?” he countered, his own voice a husky purr. “I’m devastated.”
“Have you brought money or goods, Lord Ruan?” Sophia said, sitting down upon her sofa and arranging her muslin skirts. “Everyone else has done, Miss Prestwick excluded, and I find it so much easier to rise to delight when I have something of value in my hands.”
“I’m quite certain I can accommodate you there, Lady Dalby,” Ruan purred, his green eyes twinkling devilishly. “I rise to delight most regularly and can nearly effortlessly induce it in others.”
Yes, well, that bit was obvious, wasn’t it? Iveston glanced over to Miss Prestwick. Not a blush marred her cheek. She didn’t drop her gaze or look discomfited in the least particular. No. In fact, Miss Penelope Prestwick looked intrigued.
Most peculiar behavior for a virgin to display. Which did beg the question, didn’t it?
Mr. Prestwick stood, as was most appropriate of him, and said, “I do believe we should be off, Pen. Lady Dalby, a pleasure.”
Miss Prestwick did not rise. Miss Prestwick did not look at all inclined to leave. Mr. Prestwick did seem to have his plate full with his unusual sister.
“I’ve a bit of a headache, George,” Penelope said. “I do think it best if I sit here until it passes.”
“It wouldn’t pass at home, I don’t suppose?” George said. As they lived just down the street, it was a most logical question.
“I shouldn’t think so,” Penelope Prestwick answered in a clipped tone.
George sighed, smiled, and sat.
