She treated him as a person—not the son of a duke, not a strategic acquaintance who could be of advantage to her. A perfectly ordinary person. Someone no different to the drover or the grocer or Heaven knows who else in that village. He hid a smile. He would never have thought how liberating it could be to simply be seen as a person. A person with value as such.
When they arrived at the manor, Nicholas looked up at the house. He found his heart pounding eagerly. He could see lights at many of the windows, and he felt a knot of anticipation that he hadn’t expected to feel. Now that he was here, he was excited about it.
“Return at midnight, please,” he told the coachman as he jumped down into the dark.
“Yes, My Lord.”
Nicholas walked up to the door as the carriage crunched through gravel on the drive.
He swallowed hard, feeling uneasy and nervous, but he pushed the feelings to the back of his mind. It was a recital, not a firing-squadron in the Peninsular war!
“My Lord! Good evening,” Lady Weston greeted him upstairs, in the hall before the steps to the ballroom. She was wearing a dark blue gown, her hair pulled back severely from her face. Nicholas could see she was a beautiful woman, if terrifying in some indescribable way. He glanced sideways at Lady Amelia, and kissed her hand. She wore a white gown with spangles that sparked in the candlelight. Her hair, ringlets caught in two bunches, framed her face. She looked lovely, and she also looked afraid.
“Greetings, My Lady,” he said.
His eyes fell on Lady Martha.
Once he had seen her, he found he couldn’t look away. Her hair was coaxed into ringlets, too, and framed her pert face in a cloud of copper curls. She looked up at him, hazel eyes twinkling, and he felt as if everything around him silenced and transformed. In that moment, he was aware of her alone.
“Lady Martha,” he said, taking her hand.
“Lord Calperton.”
She dropped a low curtsey. She was wearing blue—a muslin gown that shimmered when she moved. It was round-necked and plainer in every respect than Lady Amelia’s spangled white gown, but he thought she looked brighter than the candles.
“Lord Calperton?” a loud voice broke his contemplation. He realized, firstly, it was Lady Weston, and secondly, that he was holding up the line.
“Oh! My apologies.” He bowed low to the guests who had arrived behind him, and hastened down the stairs into the ballroom.
The room was lofty and high-ceilinged, with a floor of small white tiles, the roof vaulted and supported here and there on thin, white columns. He thought that, grand as it was, the room had not been refurbished in at least two generations.
The Westons are highly influential, but not more than reasonably wealthy, at least not if compared to the estate at Dellminster.
His father insisted on redoing the decorations every two or three years, to ensure his house was up-to-date. Architects and designers who worked for the royal family worked also at their home, ensuring that noble appearances were maintained. Nicholas wondered how they afforded it…he suspected his father had quite considerable debts with all those architects and designers.
And despite all that—or maybe because of it—the place never felt like a home to me… not in the least bit.
Here, he could feel more comfortable than in the modish, marble-clad ballroom of his home. He glanced back at the doorway and caught sight of the reddish curls of a certain lady.
“Calperton…you’re staring at her,” he told himself aloud. It was that much of an effort to look away. With strength, he forced himself to study the ballroom instead.
The room was quite full, which surprised him. As a newcomer in this place, he hadn’t known how many local gentry there were. He could count perhaps five-and-twenty people, standing about and talking in low-voiced groups. The women wore spangles or dark, bold colors—the older and more influential they were, the darker and bolder their gown—and the men wore dark tail-coats. He looked about nervously, seeing no one he knew.
He caught sight of some people he’d met at Lady Weston’s before—the Huddersfords from the previous dinner, the older knight whose name still escaped him, and familiar faces who he couldn’t identify. His eye moved to the pianoforte, which stood at the front of the room. Everything was set out for a recital. A discreet footman was handing out drinks at a small trestle on the left, and the sound of conversation—bright and scintillating—filled the air.
May as well take a seat.
He was about to go and sit down when he heard the doors shut. The guests were all here.
He shrugged and walked on towards the seats—nobody he knew had arrived yet, and so there was no point in seeking out someone to start a conversation with. He was refined and cultured, but he was also a little shy. He found a seat and was about to sit when he heard a voice behind him. He turned around.
“Good evening,” said Lady Martha. “Are you settling in?”
He felt his heart thud and suddenly he felt alive and his world sparkled as bright as the candles overhead.
He was not sorry, after all, that he’d had to attend the occasion.
Chapter 9
Martha looked over to where Lord Calperton sat. He was just a yard away, on the chair in front of where she stood. Her stomach was tying itself in knots, and she found it hard to know what to say.
He looks so handsome tonight.
He was wearing a black tail-coat and white cravat, and he looked grave and interesting. For his part, she thought, he also looked as awkward as she felt. He was smiling, his head tilted to one side in a mannerism that she’d noticed before when he was feeling out of his depth.
“How was your journey from Headly House this evening? Not too bad, I suppose?” she asked him. Her voice was bright.
He nodded, looking surprised. “Yes. It was nice. Quite warm outside today. Tonight, rather.” He chuckled, self-consciously. “I suppose half an hour past seven is night, yes?”
Martha nodded. She was staring at him, she realized. But, then, he was staring at her, his gaze fixed on her. She felt her cheeks go red.
“Are you fond of the pianoforte?” she asked him, trying to think of something to talk about.
“I’m not uncaring of it,” he said with a smile. “I have no talent myself, unfortunately. I’m lucky it’s ladies who are accomplished.”
Martha felt her own eyebrow go up. She herself was not very good at the pianoforte, and somehow the assumption that she ought to be, simply because she was a lady, was annoying.
“Wolfgang Mozart wasn’t a lady,” she pointed out tightly.
Lord Calperton nodded. “You are right, My Lady. I am wrong to hide behind my manliness. I am not much good at anything musical. I can sing, but I wouldn’t recommend it to an audience.”
Martha giggled. “Lord Calperton, I assure you—I feel the same way.”
They were both laughing when Lady Weston came over. Martha tensed. She shouldn’t have come to sit down without their mother.
“Ah! Lord Calperton. You found yourself a good seat. You know to watch the hands, then?” she gestured at where Lord Calperton had placed himself, sitting opposite where the pianist’s hands would be. Martha nodded. She hadn’t noticed, but Lord Calperton had claimed the best place.
He knew more than he let on about music.
“Yes,” Lord Calperton nodded. “I enjoy music. As I was saying,” he gestured to Martha fondly, “I’m not very good at it. But I like it.”
Martha tensed.
Mama won’t be charmed with us for talking to one another.
Martha waited for her mother to point out, with some barbed comment, that he shouldn’t have been talking to her. And, as usual, she was right.
“Music can be a nice distraction,” her mother agreed. “Like other distractions from the goal at hand.” She raised her brows, looking at Martha.
Martha went red. She looked down at her hands, too shy to meet anyone’s eye. When she looked up, she found that Lord Calperton look
ed furious.
“Distractions can be very nice, indeed,” he said coolly. “And all the more so, when all of life must be thought of as goals or tasks.”
He said it directly to her mother. His expression was hard. His voice was stiff and Amelia, standing beside Lady Weston, stared with round eyes.
Martha glanced at her mother, waiting for the explosion. As it happened, though, she didn’t say anything. Lips pursed, she stepped down the row and took a seat beside Martha.
“I am about to open the proceedings,” she said, striving to keep her voice neutral. “I will sit here a moment to soak up the atmosphere. Amelia?” she called to Amelia, who came and sat down dutifully beside her.
Martha glanced at her sister. She could see that she was looking at her hands. She could also see that she wanted to chuckle. Martha’s own eyes sparkled and she pressed her lips together, trying not to show that she was amused. It was terrible, but sometimes seeing their mother get a return on her meanness was quite nice.
After a minute of all sitting silently, Lady Weston stood.
“Lords, Ladies and gentlemen!” she greeted the guests, striding to the front of the ballroom, beside the pianoforte. “Welcome to Weston Manor, and thank you so much for attending. I would like to invite the first young lady up, who wishes to perform?”
Her voice was cultured and low.
Martha looked at Amelia, who looked pointedly at her fingers. Fortunately, another lady—Harriet Pricely—went first.
Amelia slumped forward with relief. Martha knew how hard she’d been working, and that she was still not confident in the piece she would play.
As it happened, Amelia went second. Martha watched her go up, feeling worried for her.
She watched Martha start playing, then found her gaze drifting to Lord Calperton. He was leaning back with his eyes shut, enjoying the piece.
As she glanced at Amelia, she saw her eyes move to the door. Her sister’s expression changed subtly, but Martha spotted it. Without drawing attention to herself, she looked in the same direction. And stared.
Lord Alton was in the doorway.
Martha knew their mother had conspired with the Gracefields to make sure he was out of town today. But, apparently, he guessed something was happening, and came back early. As she watched, she saw his lips lift in a smile.
She felt her own heart flood with happiness for her sister, and she glanced sideways at their mother. She mustn’t see!
Amelia completed the piece and everybody clapped. Martha watched her drift back to her seat distractedly, as if she was lit up inside. Clearly, having Lord Alton there made all the difference.
She looked at the doorway again. Lord Alton was still there.
Their mother seemed to have guessed something was happening, because she was frowning at Amelia, as if trying to place the piece that didn’t quite fit. She began to look around the room. Martha felt her heart flutter nervously and quickly sneezed, distracting her.
It worked. Everyone’s eyes, including Mama’s, focused on her.
“Bless you,” she said with some acidity.
When she looked back, Lord Alton had gone—he must have known Lady Weston might see him and decided against the risk.
The evening progressed. After a few pieces, Mama declared a break in the proceedings, and everyone stood to stretch their legs, take refreshments or do whatever was necessary. Martha let out a relieved breath as their mother stood and walked to the refreshments table.
Amelia’s eyes were bright and Martha smiled at her. Her sister beamed back.
“So,” Lord Calperton said, looking at the two of them with a hesitant smile. “Does anybody else think it’s too hot in here?”
“Yes,” Martha said, but only after waiting for Amelia to reply.
“Why don’t you go out onto the terrace?” Amelia asked brightly after a moment. “I…I need to go upstairs.” She beamed at Martha. “You could accompany him.”
Martha gaped at her sister. She could guess that Amelia would try to see Lord Alton, but she had not expected that Amelia would suggest she and Lord Calperton spend time together. She frowned.
Has she noticed?
“I’ll go out with you,” Amelia said, gesturing to the terrace. “And then I’ll go inside.”
Martha stared at her and tried to smile. It was a fine plan. She felt a flutter of tension go through her.
She stood up and the three of them walked together to the terrace. Martha saw their mother glance their way, but she was pleased, it seemed, to let them head out together.
Outside, the air was fresh and cool. Martha drew in a grateful breath and looked around. It was also quieter out here. People were standing and talking in hushed voices, by the rail or walking on the flagstones. The sky was dark blue, the stars winking like spangles strewn across the dark velvet surface.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Amelia said as they reached the end of the terrace, where it led into the garden. “I’ll just go upstairs. I need to fix my hair.” Her voice was bright and fresh.
Martha, who could see nothing disheveled about Amelia’s hair, hid a smile. “Of course, sister. We’ll see you in the ballroom later.”
When Amelia had gone, disappearing around the side of the house, Martha turned to Lord Calperton. Her heart was thudding like a drum and she couldn’t quite believe it.
Here I am, on the terrace, in a ballgown, with Lord Calperton.
It seemed like a dream, only it was certainly real. She looked up at him and saw that he was looking down at her, and her stomach tightened with excitement.
“Do you like it here?” Lord Calperton asked. “I mean, at night.” He gestured at the garden. It was silent, the lawn and bushes black against the blue sky.
Martha nodded. “I do. My favorite part of the garden is the rose garden,” she added, gesturing at it on her left. It was a knot of shadows now, and she thought it looked exciting and beautiful at this time of night, even if it would be impossible to see the flowers clearly.
“I see,” Lord Calperton said. “My Mama liked roses. Her garden is still well-tended.”
Martha looked up at him. She hadn’t asked about his mother—she presumed she had passed away. “Your mother is…”
“She died when I was two. Riding accident.”
“Oh.”
Martha looked at her hands. She didn’t know what to say. She could sense no bitterness in Lord Calperton’s tone, only acceptance. But she didn’t know how to reply to that, and so she said nothing.
“There are some memories of her still in the house. Her boudoir is exactly as it was. I sometimes wonder about that.” He sniffed.
“You would prefer it gone?” Martha asked. She knew how he felt—to have it as a constant reminder seemed macabre to her.
“Yes,” he said, and she could see he looked surprised. “I find it upsetting.”
“I’m sure,” Martha said. She looked up into his eyes and felt her heart melt. They were so dark and so uncertain. She wished she could say something to reassure him. Their hands were very close on the railing and she became aware of how warm his fingers were, the flesh pale and firm, tiny wrinkles and veins like marks on chiseled stone.
“I never mentioned it to anyone.”
“Oh?” she looked up at him. He looked taken aback, as if his trust of her surprised him. It surprised her, she realized. She looked up at him trustingly, and his lips lifted in that uncertain grin. It tugged at her heart.
“No. It seems natural to confide in you.”
Martha raised her brow. “You know my secrets already,” she replied. She was speaking boldly, hoping to lighten the conversation, but inside her heart was beating impossibly, her spirit soaring.
It felt amazing and wonderful that he trusted her.
He smiled. “I think I will never know all your secrets, Lady Martha. You are a constant source of fresh surprises.”
Martha stared. He had spoken softly, and she wondered if she had heard him rightly. Had he re
ally said that she, Martha Gray, was a source of surprise?
I always thought I was about as interesting as a cold soup!
She stared into his eyes and he grinned hesitantly at her. She could see so many things in his expression—happiness, sorrow, hesitance. She didn’t know what to say, and so she said nothing.
“I should go inside,” Lord Calperton said softly. “I think they are about to resume the music.”
Martha nodded, but stayed where she was. He turned to go, but his eyes meet hers before he did so, and the look in them ignited her inside.
In a Perfect Mess With the Marquess Page 8