A Week in Brighton (Timeless Regency Collection Book 13)

by Jennifer Moore

  Before Andrew could return to questioning what had happened at the shore the day before, she decided to approach the conversation from a different angle. “I’ve been meaning to thank you for not dismissing my interest in the sciences.”

  Andrew cocked his head and looked her way as their steps clicked and clacked against the cobbles. She felt herself blush under the weight of his stare. At last he looked away and replied, “I think every young lady should exercise her mind across any and all subjects she finds interesting. Such an endeavor can only expand her intellect and be a benefit to everyone in her sphere.”

  “Some people would argue that expanding a young lady’s intellect, indulging in her curiosities, is reason enough to discourage studies beyond the traditional list of what it means to be an accomplished gentlewoman.” Julia walked beside Andrew as she thought of how few people in her life viewed her love of learning with anything other than a negative eye. Her parents had always tolerated her thirst for knowledge but encouraged her to keep the expanse of it somewhat unknown publicly; they feared that a studious young woman would be less likely to attract offers of marriage. And perhaps they’d been right. The older Julia became and the more seasons that passed without an offer, the less they seemed concerned about her studies, almost as if they assumed she’d be a spinster now, and therefore, further book learning would do no harm.

  After all, no one paid any mind to an eccentric spinster. Young ladies with marital prospects, however, were another matter.

  “Some people are ignorant,” Andrew declared. “Women, whether mothers or not, are a benefit to themselves, their families, and society as a whole. All benefit when a woman is educated. I say, educate all women, and more than the men.”

  “Careful, or someone will think you’ve gone mad,” Julia said. “Though I believe you are the most sane and intelligent of men to say so.”

  Part of her wished she could be secure in knowing what her future held: would she be a spinster with enough money to live on? If so, she’d be able to happily feed her mind without limit. She might be able to teach or explore or do any number of things to benefit society. Perhaps she might make a scientific discovery that would change the world.

  “I’ll take your opinion as a compliment,” Andrew said. “I am like any man in the sense that I appreciate looking upon a beautiful woman. But beauty alone is not enough to tempt me.”

  “Oh?” Julia said. With a teasing grin, she said, “Do you then seek someone plain for a wife?”

  “I did not say that,” Andrew said, giving her a laughing side eye. “However, beauty, unlike marriage, doesn’t last. And even if it could, I can think of no greater tedium than spending life with a woman who is beautiful but without anything of substance to recommend her.”

  “If beauty is not a requirement, perhaps being accomplished is.” Some of the teasing had left Julia’s voice. She found herself curious about the kind of woman Andrew would one day marry, hoping that whoever she was, his wife would be amenable to Julia’s friendship with her husband.

  “I don’t put much stock into knowing every last bit of etiquette, being able to speak six languages, or knowing how to play any number of pieces on the pianoforte. Those things are lovely in certain instances, I suppose . . .”

  When his voice trailed off and he hadn’t spoken in three more steps, Julia repeated, “You suppose . . .”

  “Those things are wonderful for public consumption, but when one is not attending a ball or other social engagement, what use are they? I’d much rather have someone who is my intellectual equal, with whom I can discuss Plato and Descartes. Someone I can read and talk about literature with. Most of all, a woman who doesn’t pretend that her husband is somehow all knowing and always correct. I could not bear to experience counterfeit fawning.”

  Julia placed her free hand over the one already slipped through the crook of his elbow, so she was effectively holding his arm with both hands. “I have a suspicion that you are rather alone in your perspective. I no longer wonder at your bachelorhood.”

  “I suspect that other men feel the same, but I’ll never know.”

  “I must confess, dearest Andrew, that you are a most curious, unusual man, which is precisely why we get along so well.”

  “I suppose I am odd,” he said with a chuckle. “But I’ve never understood why women are supposed to be more alluring when they appear intellectually lacking. I find such women to be a trial of my patience.”

  “Even the prettiest ones?” Julia couldn’t help but speak the thought; it popped out on its own. In her experience, the prettiest young women were also the most likely to have a filled dance card. They were the ones who behaved as Andrew declared he did not enjoy: they giggled around men, complimenting them on their physical and mental prowess, pretending they knew nothing and could do little without aid. She’d seen Andrew succumb to some such antics, although now that she thought on it, he hadn’t been flattered into looking weak-kneed in the last year or two.

  He didn’t answer her question for several moments, but when she eyed him as they walked, waiting for a reply, he seemed to be contemplating her question deeply. At last he said, “I cannot deny that a woman beautiful of face has, at times, captured my attention, but ’tis a rare woman who keeps my attention. For while beauty may draw me near like a moth to a flame, if nothing substantive exists within the woman—no thoughts of her own, no intellect to challenge mine, no opinions that make me want to think and understand—then no matter how beautiful she may be, she will become dreadfully dull.” They walked on a few more feet before he added, “Does that make the slightest bit of sense?”

  Julia’s usual instinct to tease didn’t come to the surface, and she surprised herself by saying in a reflective tone, “Truthfully, your words make more sense than I ever would have supposed. I must say that your possession of such a mind must be why I like you so much: you don’t find my curiosity and studying to be tedious or, worse, a threat to your manhood, as so many men seem to.”

  “I suspect your intelligence and determined nature are in good measure why I like you so much as well.” Though his words contained a sliver of humor, his tone was reflective too, and they slipped into a comfortable silence for the rest of the walk to the Royal Pavilion.

  Why couldn’t life always be this easy and comfortable? ’Twas a pity she and Andrew couldn’t spend their days as a bachelor and a spinster discussing all manner of topics for the rest of their lives.

  Stringed music floated from the pavilion and seemed to fly up the onion-shaped domes, up into the night sky. The sight was magical. Caroline had been right in every respect. The Royal Pavilion was nothing short of amazing.

  To her surprise, Andrew reached for her hands on his elbow and, turning for face her, held both of her hands in his and trained his warm brown eyes on hers. The heat and intensity of his gaze seemed to warm her from the inside out, and her knees threatened to unhinge altogether.

  From behind them, the elder men caught up, and her father called to Andrew. “My boy, go inside with Mr. Lambert. He has much to tell you about his business with us.”

  “I’d be delighted to, Mr. Hughes,” Andrew said, then nodded to the other gentleman. “Mr. Lambert. I’ll be right in.”

  The two men went ahead, and Andrew faced Julia again. “May I have a dance tonight, Miss Hughes?”

  The sound of her formal name sent an odd thrill through her, one she could not explain. Perhaps it was the romantic setting of the night sky, the glowing pavilion, the music and dancing within. Whatever the cause, Julia felt her heart pick up its pace in a delicious fashion, and she wished that her hands weren’t gloved, that she could feel his skin next to hers.

  “You may, Mr. Gillingham,” Julia said, making sure to use his formal name as well. “I—I quite—look forward to it.”

  Had Andrew always been so handsome, or was it the flickering shadows that made him look so much like a Roman god? Why was she suddenly stammering?

  Andrew bowed in
her direction, kissing her glove. He looked up at her and, with a voice as smooth as warmed honey, said, “As will I, Miss Hughes. As will I.”

  “Come along, Mr. Gillingham,” Mr. Lambert called from inside the doors.

  Andrew winked at her, straightened, and entered the pavilion.

  She hardly noticed her father stepping to her side, taking Andrew’s place. He held out his elbow to her. “Shall we?”

  His voice pulled her back to the present moment, away from the spot where Andrew had slipped into the crowd with Mr. Lambert and disappeared.

  Putting on a smile, she slipped her hand through her father’s arm and said, “Let’s.”

  Together they entered, and immediately Julia found several images of dragons—a few small statues and several others as part of the metalwork of a chandelier lining the long hall ahead of her. She and her father followed the queue along the luxurious red carpet, and she found similar dragons in other fixtures as well.

  Her father leaned in and whispered into her ear. “How many townhouses do you think could fit along this hall, end to end?”

  “I had no idea it would be this large,” she whispered back. She felt as if she needed to speak softly, as if the pavilion itself might overhear anything she said and be dismissive if she was too impressed with its luxury. The rug alone must have cost more than her father would earn in his entire lifetime. She could not fathom what constructing the entire thing—pier, pavilion, decorations, landscaping—would have cost. Better not show that she was overwhelmed; that would only serve to prove to others that she wasn’t part of the ton.

  Her family lived comfortably compared to the majority of Londoners. But that did not make them wealthy, titled, or of especially good name. Her father had a respectable profession, but it was a profession—one he needed to be paid for. Their family had no inherited estate to manage or live off of.

  How precisely had they gotten their invitation to the ball? Her father had explained at one point, but she couldn’t recall the details now, possibly because they hadn’t particularly mattered to her at the time. What did she care about the upper class and nobility?

  Yet now, surrounded by colorful gowns of the latest styles and most expensive fabrics, she could not help but feel self-conscious in her simple, worn slippers. Compared with other ladies’ footwear, visible as they stepped along the lush carpet, hers seemed ragged, and she was grateful that her dress hid all but the toes as she walked.

  Julia had always scoffed at her peers’ yearning for the latest in fashions, for a new hat each year, and at their constant worry about what others thought of them based on nothing but their appearances. Goodness, just moments ago, she and Andrew had shared a similar conversation—the outer shell of a woman mattered far less than what the inner part of her possessed in her mind and heart.

  Had she turned into one of the foolish girls she’d always disdained? In some respects, she was afraid she had. No matter how it had occurred, she could not deny that standing there in the massive ballroom, with women and men from the highest places in society, she felt embarrassed over her simple dress of printed cotton. It had no stains and did not look worn, though she’d had it for five years already. She’d always loved this dress, which was a pale color somewhere between yellow and orange, one of the colors that splashed across the sky as the sun went down. Beside all of the other dresses—the satins, silks, brocades—hers looked simple, plain, and old-fashioned.

  They entered the ballroom, which was even grander, with huge chandeliers, walls papered in red, gold, and green, and doors with intricate painted molding. She followed her father, who walked along the periphery of the room, greeting people as he went. Julia smiled at those they passed and curtsied with a proper “How do you do?” whenever her father introduced her to someone.

  Where was Andrew? Between introductions and promises to dance with various eligible young men her father made sure she met, Julia surreptitiously looked about the room in hopes of finding him. He was the one person in all of Brighton who could make her feel comfortable and once more at ease.

  “Miss Hughes, you say?” A deep, mysterious voice said her name, and Julia turned quickly to see who it was. Silas. She gathered her wits—or tried to—then amended silently, Mr. Hayward.

  He had his hand out, as if expecting to take hers. Was her father making an introduction? How did her father know Mr. Hayward? He waited, hand outstretched, and one half of his mouth curved into an amused smile as he waited expectantly.

  With his hand on her back, her father steered Julia closer to the man she’d first seen on the beach. “My dear, this is Mr. . . . uh . . . that is . . .”

  “Mr. Silas Hayward, at your service.” Hayward bowed to them.

  Her father continued as if he’d merely forgotten the name of his associate. “Yes, Mr. Hayward, I am pleased to introduce you to my elder daughter, Miss Julia Hughes.”

  As she held out her hand, Julia felt certain that her father did not know Mr. Hayward at all and that the man had pretended an acquaintance to enable an introduction. She wasn’t sure whether to be more shocked by the breach in etiquette or flattered at the efforts he’d taken to meet her.

  “A pleasure,” Hayward said, taking her hand and bowing.

  How would her father explain Mr. Hayward’s connection? Julia’s gaze slid quickly to her father’s face and away again. His lips were pressed together, and his gray brows were bunched together as he thought—no doubt searching for any clue in memory about his supposed friend, Mr. Hayward.

  Her father always assumed the best of everyone and would never have imagined that a man who looked as respectable and wealthy as Mr. Hayward would deceive. Father would simply believe that he’d forgotten. “We’ve done some business together,” he managed, looking at Mr. Hayward hopefully. The latter nodded as if agreeing, and her father sighed in relief.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hayward.” Julia curtsied as she spoke and wondered if he could tell that her voice was tight with nerves. She was meeting a smuggler. No wonder her heart hammered in her chest.

  “The pleasure, Miss Hughes, is all mine.” He began to straighten, though he didn’t release her hand. Instead, he stared at her with sultry eyes. “And it is quite a pleasure, I assure you.” The strains of his voice seemed to vibrate something deep within her, as if a bass violin lived in her chest and something had plucked its strings.

  “May I have a dance with you tonight?” Mr. Hayward asked.

  “I’d be delighted,” Julia said with a nod and small curtsy.

  “Not your first dance, however.” The speaker pulled up beside her with his rich, comforting voice—Andrew. “That one is promised to me.”

  She turned, pleased to see him. His presence popped the bubble of fantasy that had been building around Julia’s mind and dropped her back to earth. She just looked at him and blinked a few times, trying to grasp what he’d said so she could make sense of the words.

  Had she promised Andrew the first dance? That didn’t sound like something he’d ask for, and it did not sound like something she’d promise unless it was in jest. Andrew must have sensed her confusion, because he stepped forward, held out his arm, and spoke again. “You’ll recall that dancing with friends can be particularly enjoyable when compared with dancing with those who are only a step away from being strangers.”

  As he spoke, Andrew didn’t look at Mr. Hayward. He didn’t need to; his intent was quite clear. For her part, Julia’s mind cleared enough to make sense of the moment. She and Andrew did indeed have a promise between them, and it did involve dancing together. However, it referenced his years-old promise to always rescue her from a potentially difficult partner. He’d done as much when she’d been practically trapped by a wealthy but very old man looking for a young wife, and on another occasion when an overbearing dolt droned on and on until he nearly made her fall asleep. In those cases, she’d been utterly grateful for Andrew’s way of gently slipping into the situation and extricating her from it, with no of
fense taken on the gentleman’s part, nor any trouble created in regards to her reputation.

  The last time Andrew had used the ruse was months ago—nigh unto a year, if she wasn’t mistaken. Why had he drawn out the old trick now? Couldn’t he see that she’d been pleased to speak with Mr. Hayward—that she was indeed quite thrilled at the prospect of dancing with him? She wished to talk with him for longer than a dance would provide opportunity for. She hoped to take a turn about the room or the grounds now and perhaps later that evening.

  Andrew couldn’t have known any of that. The one truth he likely surmised was that Mr. Hayward had made a pretense of familiarity with Mr. Hughes as a way to meet Julia. She could hardly fault Andrew for growing suspicious on that count.

  “I would be pleased to dance with you, Andrew.” She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and turned to Mr. Hayward. “May I save the second dance for you? Unless you’re already promised for it, in which case, I can certainly wait until the third.”

  Dismay flashed oh so briefly across Andrew’s face. Beside her, his frame tensed. She tilted her head to look at him better and was surprised to see such a strong expression on his face, one of distrust and something more—a warning to Mr. Hayward? Hoping to ease Andrew’s protective, brotherly feelings, she patted his arm with her free hand. Hopefully he’d interpret the gesture as gratitude, even though this time a “rescue” hadn’t been necessary.

  Mr. Hayward bowed elegantly from the waist. “I shall look forward to the second dance, then,” he said. “Miss Hughes.” He nodded at her, then looked at Andrew, whose eyes flared with annoyance, and his jaw held tight. Hayward smiled as if he noted neither. “Mr. . . . I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”