Mother sighed. “I had envisaged so much more for our girl.”
“You can envisage all you like, but it cannot change the fact that there needs to be some degree of interest from the opposite party. No, Frederica, I know you do not like me to say it, but our girl is hardly a simpleton. If Hawkesbury had not played her false and given rise to speculation, then perhaps she might have snared an earl. But the fact remains he did not offer, and we must find someone who will suit.”
Mother’s small hands clenched and unclenched. “Perhaps if you were to exert yourself a little more in this quest, then we might not be feeling like this.”
“Of course.” He folded his newspaper. “I might be a mere husband and a father, but I can tell you that any red-blooded man will not be searching for a wife at an Asquith musicale.” He made a movement reminiscent of a shudder. “She’d be far better off playing to a different strength, like her riding.” He glanced out the window. “Pity those clouds look like rain.”
“The ability to ride well is hardly the kind of activity a young man requires when searching for a wife.”
“Nonsense! It shows she is healthy, and spirited, and not one of those dull young misses too frightened to go outside.”
“Really, Phillip. You speak as though she is a horse!”
Their quarrel was cut short by the knock and entrance of a footman. He glanced apologetically at Mother before saying, “A Mrs. Harrow, a Miss Kemsley, and a Mr. Kemsley to see you, my lord.”
Father glanced between them. “I gather this visit is chiefly for your sake, Clara. Shall we agree to be in?”
“Yes, please,” she murmured, fighting a frisson of excitement as the footman withdrew.
Mother frowned. “Do they have no idea about paying social visits?”
“But weren’t you just complaining about how they had not sent anything?” Clara murmured. “Surely being paid the honor of a call in person is to be valued more highly than a posy of flowers delivered by a servant.”
“It depends on the flowers—oh, dear Mrs. Harrow, how delightful to see you again, and so soon.”
The elder of their female visitors flushed. “I trust it is not inconvenient.”
“No, no,” Mother oozed. “We are quite at our leisure, aren’t we, Clara?”
“Quite.” Clara turned to Tessa, smiling as warmly as she knew how. “I hope you enjoyed last night?”
“Oh, how could we not? Lady Asquith was a very generous hostess, and I felt so very privileged to be in such company.”
Clara sneaked a peek at Mother, pleased to see she appeared not a little mollified by this ingenuous speech.
Mother bestowed upon Tessa one of her more gracious nods. “Penelope has been a friend of mine since girlhood. I’m sure she’d be gratified to learn of your appreciation.”
Mrs. Harrow nodded. “We sent her a card and posy this morning.”
Clara’s smile broadened, and she resisted the urge to look at how her parent was taking this admission of social nous. “Would you care to stay for tea?”
“Oh, we could never presume,” said Mrs. Harrow.
Tessa nodded. “Fifteen minutes only, Benjie said, else we’ll overstay our welcome.”
“Did he?” Mother said, studying him curiously, as if finally seeing him for the first time, before issuing instructions for tea.
Clara finally permitted herself to look at the male guest, the only gentleman whose words last night had flickered an ember of interest. He seemed uncomfortable in the gold-toned drawing room, his height and breadth making the delicate furnishings seem a little too small and fragile, leading her to wonder how long the chair he’d stuffed himself into would bear his weight. His expression was polite, yet closed, as if he’d been well trained in not displaying boredom with social engagements not to his liking. But the keenness of his eyes, the way his lips quirked at prosy comments, were suggestive of a quick mind and a fast decision maker. Had he made a decision about her? Did he remember her yet? What did he think of her? Her cheeks heated. Of her family, that was all.
His blue eyes bent to her. She glanced away, murmured something inconsequential to Mrs. Harrow about the weather.
Reprieve was supplied by the entrance of the footman bearing a loaded tray, as if Cook had been ready with such offerings, had indeed been looking for an opportunity to show off her culinary creativity.
“Kemsley.” Father said, once the cups had been distributed. “Now I remember. I’ve been trying to recall for several weeks now how I knew your name. Any relation to that sea captain responsible for the incident off Africa a few months ago?”
Mr. Kemsley cleared his throat. “If you mean the Ansdruther, then yes. I am he.”
“Ah.” Father nodded, a pleased smile on his face. “Well! It is an honor to have you in our house for tea.”
Clara watched as the sunburned face reddened. The spark of appeal prompted by his kindness last night kindled into deeper interest. What was so remarkable that her father seemed to approve of this bluff, blunt-spoken man?
Ben had never seen the point of tea parties. They seemed but weak excuses for ladies to engage in polite fencing around matters of gossip and fashion that held zero interest for him, while drinking tepid, tasteless tea and eating the barest amount that only scraped the sides of his hunger.
That was until today.
This tea must have been imported from Ceylon, for it bore all the flavorsome qualities he remembered from his time on that isle. If he were to close his eyes, he could almost imagine himself there—save for the inanities of his hostess, whose icy sneer at their arrival had gradually thawed as she apparently realized they weren’t quite the savages she’d obviously imagined. The viscount’s attitude he had yet to determine; neither could he definitively interpret the daughter. He’d thought he’d caught a flicker of interest in her eyes upon his entry, but she gave little away, had spent much of their visit not looking in his direction.
He took a bite of the large slice of cake, the crumbs of goodness filling his mouth, sliding down his throat. Upon being offered a second piece, he was forced to revise his earlier opinion of his hostess. For all her snobbishness, she seemed aware that a healthy young man’s appetite was not the same as a gently bred young lady.
“I hope we’ll have the pleasure of hearing you play again sometime when you return to Brighton, Miss DeLancey,” Tessa said.
Miss DeLancey murmured something noncommittal, but he caught the glance she slid at her mother, as if seeking her approval. Lady Winpoole’s stiff countenance did not alter a jot.
“Would you tell us something of your last voyage?” Lord Winpoole asked.
Ben fought a sigh. Would his life be forever shaped by events on the other side of the world? Glancing at the room’s other inhabitants, he caught the flare of something that could be interest in Miss DeLancey’s green eyes.
“I’m not sure if the ladies would be that keen—”
“Oh, stop being modest. I’m sure they’d be fascinated by your adventures.”
He glanced again at his host’s daughter. Definitely interested, judging from the tilted head and intent gaze. He nodded, and set himself to answer. “We were travelling from Ceylon to England. I was the captain of the Ansdruther, an East Indiaman, charged with returning soldiers and a few families back to Portsmouth. During a fierce gale we hit a reef, just off Cape St. Francis, and the boat began to break up.”
The memories rushed in anew. The great wall of water, a huge black mass rolling towards them. The desperation. The cries and shouts. He swallowed, forced himself to complete the story. “I thank God that despite the encroaching darkness and the furies of the waves, we were able to reach shore without loss of life, save one soul.”
He heard a quiet exhale from the young brunette opposite. He looked up; her gaze was fixed on him, soft with something that looked like sympathy.
“We spent the next two nights watching the ship slowly break apart, trying to salvage what we could, while different me
n searched for ways to scale the cliffs and try to find help.” He gave a small smile. “There was no way. It required going back into the sea. Fortunately the storm had passed so the sea wasn’t nearly so rough as before. And the sharks weren’t there, either. Not visible, anyway.”
Miss DeLancey’s eyes widened, her gasp identical to one emitted by her mother.
“So you went back into the sea?” his host asked.
Ben shrugged. “I had good lieutenants and knew they could keep order. I also knew I was the strongest swimmer, so I remained the best chance of finding help. Which I eventually did.”
“After swimming for a day then walking five more, so the newspaper reports said.”
“It was only three days walking,” Ben said, his gaze lowered to his boots. “The southern cape is remote, but not completely devoid of human habitation.”
“What an ordeal,” Miss DeLancey murmured.
“It was an experience I’m not keen to repeat, although I do remain extremely thankful for God’s protection throughout.”
“You were very lucky,” the viscountess said, wide-eyed. “The luck of the gods!”
“Not lucky, and any protection was not from any so-called gods. There were many prayers being prayed throughout, and only one God to whom they were addressed.”
She looked slightly abashed, covering it by offering him another piece of cake, as if feeding him more now might go some way to helping him forget the pangs of starvation.
As if obeying a silent summons, Clara refilled his cup, her fingers accidentally brushing his as she passed it to him.
Fire rushed up his arm. Awareness filled his senses. He sought to hide such feelings by having another bite of cake, washing it down with tea.
Conscious their eyes remained on him, he sought for a way to turn the conversation, but it seemed his hosts were not content to move on.
The viscount frowned. “And the people remaining behind?”
A sigh rumbled from his inner depths. “My only regret is that I did not return as quickly as I had hoped. I was tired—”
“You would have been exhausted!” Tessa interrupted.
He shot her a grateful smile and continued. “I needed some time to recover, and it took a while for the villagers to understand me. By the time I got back, some of the injured soldiers had died.”
“How awful!”
The sympathy pooling in Miss DeLancey’s eyes clogged his throat. He swallowed, wishing he had not begun to tell the tale that now threatened to unman him. He needed to change the subject, and fast.
Ben gestured to the cake. “Please pass on my compliments to your cook. This is one of the most tasty I’ve had the pleasure of eating.” He slid a look at Tessa. “Do not tell Mattie I said that.”
Tessa giggled, as his hostess nodded, murmuring something appropriately gracious. So he hadn’t appeared too uncouth then. Encouraged, he addressed his hostess once again.
“I must confess, Lady Winpoole, that most opportunities of this nature seem more fitting for a man of a wasp-like appetite than one more used to hearty eating.”
“Oh!”
Her startled look suggested he wasn’t gaining ground in her favor regarding his manner; rather, losing it. He smiled somewhat desperately, and sailed on. “I gather your generosity comes from having experience of a son.” He glanced between his hostess and her daughter. “I seem to recall something about a brother.”
“Richard,” the viscount said, frowning.
“Richard, yes. I remember.” Barely, but if it helped win him favor. “Where is he these days?”
He glanced between the stony faces, as the room’s atmosphere immediately chilled. And realized their visit must conclude, any hope of winning favor sunk as deep as the wreck he’d just described.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
TIME SPENT IN London reminded Clara of different things. Like how she used to love performing. How much she enjoyed opportunities to wear fine clothes. And how much she enjoyed riding in Hyde Park.
“Come on, Blackie,” she urged her hack. It was too early in the morning for many of the ton to be out and about. Therefore it was safe to ride faster than decorum demanded, which meant she was free to give the horse its head. Free to enjoy the trees and flowers, quivering scented color in an early June breeze. Free to thank God her brother had yet to show up as he’d threatened. Dear Richard. She hoped it proved just another of those things he said to worry her.
She turned into Rotten Row, nudging her mount to pick up speed. For a moment escape felt possible, that if she only kept riding she might leave her past behind. If only—
“Miss!”
Clara glanced behind her at Button, the groom, desperately flailing his steed to keep up. She slowed to a more decorous pace. If only societal expectations did not constrain one so. She sighed, patting her mount’s glossy mane. It would not do for a poor horse to bear the brunt of her need to escape the demons in her mind.
They rounded the curve. She looked up. Recognized a large black stallion—and its owner.
Her heart panged. It was too late to turn around now. Any opportunity to alter course would be so obvious as to raise speculation. But would he think she’d come deliberately to spy on him? That she’d come with the wish to relive past encounters? Bile rose; she swallowed it. There was no escape. Perhaps if she slowed a little—but no. He had neared. Had glanced up.
“Miss DeLancey.” The surprise in Lord Hawkesbury’s face quickly melded into something akin to revulsion.
Her heart panged even more. “My lord.”
The words tasted bitter in her mouth. He would never be hers. He’d made that only too clear last year when Mother’s machinations had led them to a visit to Hawkesbury House during a time of tragedy for the earl and his wife. Precisely what the dowager countess had hoped to accomplish by issuing such an invitation she did not want to know. Precisely what her mother had hoped might come by their acceptance Clara had some idea. She was sure Mother had not meant to be spiteful, but being there, conscious of the earl’s obvious fury, conscious her presence was deemed by Lavinia’s family members to be the utmost in insults, made her wish they had never set foot in the carriage that took them north to Lincolnshire.
Man and horse rushed past her in a blur of black and speed, leaving nothing but a sense of loss. He would never be hers. He despised her. Her eyes filled. He probably felt she was responsible for suggesting the idea to the dowager in the first place. It was done. He was gone. That time was done.
Blinking against the burn in her eyes, she fixed her attention at the oaks that proclaimed Hyde Park Corner. Her chin lifted a fraction. She would need to show him she did not care. Show everyone—especially Mother—that all thought of the Earl of Hawkesbury was long gone.
Even if it felt as though a hook had been placed in her heart that would never be extracted.
Her hack’s hooves thundered along the grass and sand. The scent of horse mingled with summer blossom as a prayer lifted in her heart. Lord, help me forget him.
A snippet from the devotional book Matilda had lent her rose again. Something about forgiveness requiring one to pray blessing over her enemies. While she wouldn’t exactly count the earl as her enemy—even though he might consider Clara an enemy—she could see the advice as something powerful. To wish good for someone who had hurt you surely required something from God, as opposed to natural inclination. When that person seemed to have used you, manipulated you for their personal advantage, then to not only forgive but also to pray blessing on them would surely require something of the divine.
But wasn’t that just what Lavinia had done?
She wheeled the hack around, continued along the park perimeter, then veered closer to a path that led to the Serpentine. The water sparkled under sunny skies, a few ducks paddled, others squabbled on the water’s edge. She’d never really thought about how the earl’s wife might feel towards her, until that moment last year when Lavinia had descended the stairs of Hawkesbury House a few
days after the loss of her child and extended a wan-faced welcome that had shamed Clara. Yet there had been nothing false about it. Instead, the earl’s wife seemed to possess a natural grace, offering kindness to someone who’d been unkind even whilst undergoing personal tragedy. Her heart panged anew. No wonder the earl had preferred Lavinia to herself. Clara would never be able to show such graciousness to someone who had hurt her.
“Miss Clara?”
She glanced over her shoulder. Lost in her thoughts she’d forgotten the groom. She reined in. “What is it, Button?”
He heaved out a red-faced breath. “You were travelling a mite fast for my peace of mind,” he said with a gasp. “I don’t think your mother would be happy to know you’re out here like this.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
He studied her with a suspicious air. “Then might I suggest we slow down to something more appropriate?”
“By all means.”
She forced her steed to slow to the walking pace deemed more ladylike. The surge of emotion in her heart slowed also, as she thought on that reading. Should she pray for God to bless the earl and Lavinia? She didn’t want to. And it still didn’t seem fair that he’d ill-treated her in such a way, making her believe his actions were leading to a permanent attachment. It would never be fair. But how long could she keep carrying this aching hurt inside? Could praying blessings on them really release her from this heavy feeling of unforgiveness?
Clara glanced about her. Button trotted sedately several paces behind, as both he and her parents preferred. Nobody else was near; nobody to see her behave in a most peculiar manner. She drew in a breath of warm grass-scented air. “God?”
She swallowed. Pressed on. “I forgive him. I forgive her. Help—“ She swallowed again, forced herself to speak through the bile rising in her throat. “Help them in their marriage. Please bless them.” Her heart writhed. “Please bless them with a child. Amen.”
The Dishonorable Miss DeLancey Page 10
