“And—do you think you could find happiness with me?” Mr. Hartwell asked nervously, and Cecilia had the traitorous thought that she’d always envisioned her dream man as someone masterful and self-assured. That is, when she wasn’t picturing him as a wealthy lord of the realm. But she forced herself to dismiss such thoughts and answered truthfully, “I think I can, but I’m not sure.” She found that though she had believed herself so very certain she wanted to marry Mr. Hartwell when he no longer wanted to marry her, now that he was hers for the asking, her former doubts had quickly returned.
“What do you think it would take to make you sure?” Mr. Hartwell asked, and Cecilia just shook her head, embarrassed to admit that she did not know, that as fond as she was of him, she still felt as if she could be missing out on something better if she committed herself irrevocably, and she was reluctant to do so. However, she was saved from having to explain herself further, because when she shook her head she neglected to look where she was walking and kicked some stone paving, causing her to cry out in pain.
“Oh, ow!” she howled.
“Cecilia! What is it? What is the matter?” Mr. Hartwell asked, wonderfully concerned.
“My toe,” Cecilia managed to say between gritted teeth, as she pulled up her skirts slightly and lifted her injured foot to take the weight off of it. Before she could do anything else, she was shocked by Mr. Hartwell lifting her in his arms as if she weighed no more than a child.
“What are you doing?” she asked him, though it was fairly obvious what was happening when she found herself clasped against his chest.
“I am carrying you. So that you do not put any weight on your injured foot.” He turned in a complete circle, still holding her, searching the small walled garden for somewhere to sit. He turned so quickly that Cecilia put her hand against his chest in protest saying, “Mr. Hartwell, you are making me dizzy.” Then, realizing she was actually touching a man’s chest, she pulled her hand back as if she’d burnt it.
Mr. Hartwell had not noticed, so intent was he on finding somewhere to set his precious burden. But when it became obvious there was no such place nearby, he lowered himself to the ground with her in his lap. This was much too much for Cecilia, who had almost forgotten her hurt toe, so shocked was she by what had happened next. “Mr. Hartwell!” she protested, finding herself both scandalized and delighted, though unsure which feeling was the predominant one.
Mr. Hartwell suddenly became aware of the impropriety of what he had done, as well as his current position, sitting on the grass in a walled and secluded garden, the woman he loved in his lap. But he still put Cecilia’s comfort above everything else. “How is your foot? Are you still in much pain?” he asked her.
Cecilia wasn’t even aware she possessed a foot, though she was becoming aware of other portions of her anatomy she hadn’t known existed prior to this experience. She just stared at him without replying, his face so close to her own that she could feel his breath tickling her ear, conscious that her chest was pressed against his and that his heart was beating wildly, as if it were about to explode. Or was that her own?
“Cecilia,” Mr. Hartwell whispered, and she realized he had now used her Christian name more than once, though he’d never done so before today. And then he took a far greater liberty, pressing his lips against her own.
He drew back far too quickly to please Cecilia, who had forgotten she was supposed to protest such an action. But then, after studying her face in silence for a moment as he held it gently cradled in his hands, he kissed her again.
Cecilia was completely lost to time and place, and later blushed to realize she was not the one to call a halt to such improper behavior but would have eagerly continued until the rest of the party found them. Thankfully, Mr. Hartwell was far too much the gentleman to take advantage of the situation before it progressed any further, and he pulled away, even gently resisting when Cecilia attempted to pull his head back down and raised her lips to his.
“No, Cecilia, we must not, this is not right; I do beg your pardon. But you’re so sweet, and I—but I shouldn’t say anything more until I’ve spoken to your mother. I’ll do so immediately—” he said, and Cecilia was abruptly returned to her senses when she heard the words “your mother.”
“Oh, God, what am I doing? Mr. Hartwell, what must you think of me?” Cecilia asked, horrified, and scrambled out of his lap and onto her feet, heedless of any pain, as her bruised toe now seemed the least of her concerns.
Mr. Hartwell got to his feet as well, brushing himself off. “Cecilia, I will tell you exactly what I think of you as soon as I have your mother’s permission. And I will show you as well,” he said, his voice deepening.
“But, I told you, I am not sure . . .” Cecilia said, her voice trailing off as she saw Mr. Hartwell’s fond expression change to one of disbelief.
“You certainly did not act just now as if you were ‘not sure.’ Good God, Cecilia, you can’t go on and on encouraging a fellow, and kissing him, and then expect him to run away like a blasted puppy until you whistle for him again. I won’t be treated like a dashed Pekingese!” He was glaring at her and Cecilia realized how terribly she’d spoiled the moment.
“You are right. I am so sorry; I don’t know what came over me. You’ve been so patient with me and I’ve been horrible to you,” she said. “It is no wonder you like Emily Woodford.”
“She appreciates me, at least. If I were to propose to her, she wouldn’t hesitate for one second to accept,” he replied. And while it wasn’t the most mature of comments, Mr. Hartwell was only three-and-twenty himself and had reached the limit of his endurance. “You’d best fix your hair and straighten your bonnet, or you’ll be forced to marry me whether you want to or not,” he said, and Cecilia was shocked by his discourteous tone. She stood there blinking at him, trying to reconcile this passionate, angry gentleman with the diffident, shy young man who had patiently accepted her offhand and thoughtless treatment of him. But apparently he would accept it no more. Still, as she stood there, fumbling with her hair and her bonnet, his innate kindness came to the fore and he approached her, tenderly tucking back her hair with fingers that trembled. Cecilia trembled, too, at his touch, and was tempted to tell him he could speak to her mother, just so he would kiss her again. But something inside her balked at uttering those fateful words and the moment was soon over. Mr. Hartwell stepped back, holding out his arm for her to lean upon with a curt reminder not to put too much weight on her foot.
* * *
The other couple, secluded in their floral-scented bower, were also coming to a realization of the impropriety of their behavior. Sir Edmund drew back, after one lingering kiss, and met Sophie’s wondering gaze. She smiled at him but did not want to be the first to speak. He did not seem disposed to speak, either, and Sophie’s smile began to fade as the silence went on a little too long.
“Was that another lesson in flirtation?” Sir Edmund finally asked, with a lightness that seemed forced.
Sophie did not find the remark at all humorous. He still had his arms loosely around her, so she drew away from him completely before replying, “I would never presume to take flirtation so far.”
“I beg your pardon,” Sir Edmund said. “That was a terrible thing to say, especially as the entire . . . incident occurred at my instigation. Please forgive me. But your nearness, and the romantic setting”—he waved his hand to encompass the beauty around them—“it’s no excuse, I know, but I temporarily lost my head. I sincerely beg your pardon.”
This was not at all what Sophie had expected to hear; she had been poised to accept at the very least a declaration of love and quite possibly a proposal of marriage, and so was conscious of the most crushing disappointment. She could not believe it was all happening again, with an entirely different gentleman, and wondered what was wrong with her that she could apparently inspire admiration but not commitment. She just wanted to get out of
the garden and out of Sir Edmund’s presence as quickly as possible and jumped up from the bench with that objective in mind.
“Sophie, wait,” Sir Edmund said, rising from the bench as well, and Sophie cast him a withering look, wondering how he continued to presume to use her Christian name without permission. Was that the problem? When she had made no issue of that, had he assumed he could take greater liberties with her? But he must have read the significance of her glance, because he quickly corrected himself. “Miss Lattimore, please, there is something I must explain to you. Something similar to what you confided to me about Mr. Maitland.”
But Sophie was in no mood to hear any explanations and so murmured, “I’m sorry, I pray you will excuse me.” She walked quickly back into the parterre gardens, followed by Sir Edmund, who still attempted to make apologies and explanations until they met Cecilia and Mr. Hartwell making their way back to the house and Sir Edmund realized there would be no further opportunity for private conversation.
* * *
If Mrs. Foster found the subsequent behavior of her daughter and niece strange, she knew better than to remark upon it. Cecilia, of course, had the excuse that she had hurt her foot, and she was limping slightly, so that might have accounted for her very serious, unhappy expression, but it did not account for the fact that Mr. Hartwell dropped Cecilia’s arm as soon as he had led her safely to a chair in the drawing room and announced that he was leaving to ride back to town.
Sophie, too, was behaving in a most peculiar manner, refusing to look in her host’s direction even as she thanked him for his hospitality but insisted that they must leave as well.
“Now that Cecilia has hurt her foot, it would be better if we returned home, where I can apply a cool compress to the injury,” she said, and when Sir Edmund said he’d be happy to supply whatever Miss Foster needed, Sophie abruptly interrupted him, still without looking at him, and said, “Thank you, but she’d be more comfortable in her own room, would you not, Cecilia?”
Cecilia, who seemed sunk into gloom, had apparently heard none of this conversation, and it had to be repeated to her before she agreed vehemently that she wanted nothing more than to go home.
Sir Edmund expressed his hope that they would at least stay for tea, and Mrs. Foster had a similar hope, but her niece and daughter would not hear of it and rose to take their leave.
“But what about Mrs. Beswick?” Mrs. Foster ventured to protest. “She has not yet returned to the house.”
However, even as she said it, Priscilla entered the drawing room on her husband’s arm. Though they didn’t appear to be enthralled with each other—Charles Beswick was wearing his usual expression of boredom—they did appear to be the only couple to have remained upon speaking terms after their excursion together. Though Mrs. Foster did wonder how long that state of affairs would continue when Priscilla announced, “I hope we do not reek of horses; Charles insisted upon looking over every one.”
Before she could say anything else, Sophie informed Priscilla that they were leaving immediately, deaf to Priscilla’s protests that she thought they were to stay for tea. “Cecilia has hurt herself,” Sophie said in brief explanation, before curtsying to Sir Edmund in an obvious farewell. “Thank you, Sir Edmund, for your hospitality and for the tour of your house. Newbrooke is lovely.” But as this was said in a polite but wooden tone, Mrs. Foster did not think it sounded very convincing, and so she made her own compliments and thanks in a much more enthusiastic tone of voice, in an attempt to make up for her niece’s inexplicable behavior.
* * *
Sir Edmund was left facing his very confused housekeeper upon the departure of all of his guests. “But, Sir Edmund, I thought you said tea was to be served in the Yellow Drawing Room at five o’clock.”
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Cooper, it was a miscommunication on my part. Pray forgive me; I know it has caused you great inconvenience. Perhaps the staff would enjoy having tea in the servants’ hall,” he offered, but he knew it was very small consolation. The servants had all outdone themselves to present Newbrooke in the best possible light, having come to be aware, he knew not how, that there was a special young lady to tour the house that day, a lady who might, in the near future, become their mistress.
He couldn’t face their disappointed and commiserating looks, so he asked for his horse and rode for over an hour, little conscious of where he went, but not surprised at the end of it to find himself in a certain alcove, rubbing a satiny rose petal with one finger and thinking how similar it was—but how much it paled in comparison—to her smooth, delicate skin.
He did not know what had possessed him to make such an insulting remark. He had as good as accused her of being a coquette, when he had been the one to kiss her! It was the kiss that had caused all of his problems. He’d had no intention of kissing her until they were engaged, and no intention of becoming engaged until he had explained his past. It had been an unthinking reaction to her proximity, to having her so near him, her lips just inches away . . . Why was he trying to fool himself? He would do it again if she were here now.
And really, if he hadn’t made that offhand remark, the kiss wouldn’t have been so terrible. Terrible? It had been wonderful. No, he couldn’t regret that kiss. It was something precious to remember if he were to have nothing else.
If only he had not panicked and angered her with his thoughtless remark. He had not meant what she’d obviously assumed, that he was accusing her of light behavior, of being the type of woman he meant only to trifle with and toward whom he had no serious intentions. She must think him worse than her first beau, that dastardly Maitland!
But he had panicked; thinking that things were progressing too fast, he had tried to lighten the charged atmosphere before returning to their previous conversation. His intention was to make a full confession of his past before proceeding any further. Rather than doing so, however, he had repeatedly apologized for kissing her, as if it had been something distasteful! It was no wonder she had been so upset! If he hadn’t handled things so badly they might be in the drawing room now, opening a bottle of champagne and celebrating their engagement. Instead, he did not know if she would ever speak to him again.
* * *
The drive back to Bath was most definitely not spent in carefree and joyous conversation, as the drive to Newbrooke had been, and thus seemed much longer to the four women trapped together in the carriage. Priscilla, who had never learned that there were times when you should not state the obvious, attempted to remark upon Sophie’s strange behavior, but was the recipient of the most awesome and ferocious glare she’d ever seen upon Sophie’s typically mild and pleasant countenance, so that even she was cowed to silence.
However, Priscilla could never be quiet for long and decided Cecilia might be more inclined to converse. “How did you hurt your foot, Cecilia?” Priscilla asked her.
But this did not appear to be a successful conversational gambit, either, as Cecilia blushed fiery red before saying, “I hit it on a stone, and would prefer not to discuss it.”
Even Priscilla found it difficult to persist in the face of this determined set down and, after exchanging a perplexed look with Mrs. Foster, turned to stare out the carriage window, resolved not to speak again until she was dropped off on her doorstep. However, this resolution was broken once they reached the city. They were just about to pass Molland’s, the confectionary shop, when a child darted into the road and the coachman had to temporarily stop the horses until order was restored. Priscilla, who could see directly into the shop window, was surprised to see someone she knew and exclaimed to the others, “Look! It is Mr. Maitland and Lady Mary!”
The women all looked out the window at her exclamation, but Sophie was the only one on the same side of the carriage as Priscilla and so found herself facing Mr. Maitland at the very moment when he looked out the shop window directly at her. It wasn’t just he and Lady Mary who were in the shop, Sophi
e noticed; his children and their nurse were also present. Sophie was a little embarrassed to be caught gawking at them, but Mr. Maitland did not seem at all disconcerted at being observed. On the contrary, he appeared happy to see Sophie and smiled brilliantly at her, nodding his head in greeting. Sophie nodded slightly in response before the coachman started the horses again and they disappeared from view.
“Well! I would never have thought Mr. Maitland would go on the strut with Lady Mary!” Priscilla said, seemingly offended that one of her soi-disant admirers would appear in public with a woman with no claim to beauty.
“The children like her,” Sophie said, confident that was the reason for the outing, as hadn’t Mr. Maitland told her that he did not think Lady Mary at all handsome? Sophie was not jealous of Lady Mary in the least, reflecting that if there was any woman she had reason to fear would steal Mr. Maitland’s affections from her it was Priscilla herself, who seemed to have an unusual rapport with him. Not that it mattered anyway, because hadn’t Sophie just promised Sir Edmund that she would never marry Mr. Maitland? Oh, Lord, had she really? What on earth was wrong with her? She was going to lose both her beaux and die a lonely old maid.
And the other inhabitants of the carriage were quite startled when Sophie made a faint sound of distress and dropped her head into her hands.
14
Sophie, who had gone up to her room as soon as they returned from Newbrooke and was determined to spend the rest of her life lying in bed, was thwarted in this endeavor by the sound of a knock at her bedchamber door.
Miss Lattimore's Letter Page 15
