by Julia Quinn
Hugh did not know what she intended with her statement. Was he meant to feel guilty? Had they wanted to remain at the party? Or was this more of an insult? Perhaps Lady Sarah was trying to tell him that he was so repellent that her cousins could not tolerate his presence.
So he said nothing. He did not wish to make an incorrect reply. But then something niggled at his brain. A puzzle of sorts. Nothing more than an unanswered question, but it was so strange and out of place that he had to know the answer. And so he asked, “What did you mean earlier, fourteen men?”
Lady Sarah’s mouth flattened into a grim line. Well, more grim, if such a thing were possible.
“When you first saw me,” he reminded her, although he rather thought she knew precisely what he was talking about, “you said something about fourteen men.”
“It was nothing,” she said dismissively, but her eyes shifted the tiniest bit to the right. She was lying. Or embarrassed. Probably both.
“Fourteen is not nothing.” He was being pedantic, he knew, but she’d already tried his patience in every way but the mathematical. 14 ≠ 0, but more to the point, why did people bring things up if they didn’t want to talk about them? If she hadn’t intended to explain the comment, she bloody well should have kept it to herself.
She stepped rather noticeably to the side. “Please,” she said, “go.”
He didn’t move. She’d piqued his curiosity, and there was little in this world more tenacious than Hugh Prentice with an unanswered question.
“You have just spent the last hour ordering me out of your way,” she ground out.
“Five minutes,” he corrected, “and while I do long for the serenity of my own home, I find myself curious about your fourteen men.”
“They were not my fourteen men,” she snapped.
“I should hope not,” he murmured, then added, “not that I would judge.”
Her mouth fell open.
“Tell me about the fourteen men,” he prodded.
“I told you,” she insisted, her cheeks flushing a satisfactory shade of pink, “it was nothing.”
“But I’m curious. Fourteen men for supper? For tea? It’s too many for a team of cricket, but—”
“Stop!” she burst out.
He did. Quirked a brow, even.
“If you must know,” she said, her voice clipped with fury, “there were fourteen men who became engaged to be married in 1821.”
There was a very long pause. Hugh was not an unintelligent man, but he had no idea what this had to do with anything. “Did all fourteen men become married?” he asked politely.
She stared at him.
“You said fourteen became engaged to be married.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to them, I would imagine.”
He’d thought they were done with histrionics, but Lady Sarah let out a cry of frustration. “You don’t understand anything!”
“Oh, for the love of—”
“Do you have any idea of what you’ve done?” she demanded. “While you sit in your comfortable home, all cozy in London—”
“Shut up,” he said, only he had no idea if he’d said it aloud. He just wanted her to stop. Stop talking, stop arguing, stop everything.
But instead she stepped forward and, with a venomous glare, demanded, “Do you know many lives you have ruined?”
He took a breath. Air, he needed air. He did not need to listen to this. Not from her. He knew precisely how many lives he’d ruined, and hers was not one of them.
But she would not let up. “Have you no conscience?” she hissed.
And finally, he snapped. Without a thought to his leg, he stepped forward until they were close enough for her to feel the heat of his breath. He backed her against the wall, trapping her with nothing but the fury of his presence. “You do not know me,” he bit off. “You do not know what I think or what I feel or what measure of hell I visit each and every day of my life. And the next time you feel so wronged—you, who do not even bear the same surname as Lord Winstead—you would do well to remember that one of the lives I have ruined is my own.”
And then he stepped away. “Good night,” he said, as pleasantly as a summer day.
For a moment he thought they might finally be done, but then she said the one thing that could redeem her.
“They are my family.”
He closed his eyes.
“They are my family,” she said in a choked voice, “and you have hurt them beyond repair. For that, I can never forgive you.”
“Neither,” he said, his words for his ears alone, “can I.”
Chapter Four
Back at Fensmore
In the drawing room with Honoria, Sarah,
Harriet, Elizabeth, Frances, and Lord Hugh
Right where we left off . . .
It was a rare moment when silence fell on a gathering of Smythe-Smith cousins, but that was exactly what happened after Lord Hugh gave a polite bow and exited the drawing room.
The five of them—the four Pleinsworth sisters and Honoria—remained mute for several seconds, glancing at each other as they waited for a suitable amount of time to pass.
You could almost hear them all counting, Sarah thought, and indeed, as soon as she reached ten in her own head, Elizabeth announced, “Well that wasn’t very subtle.”
Honoria turned. “What do you mean?”
“You are trying to make a match of Sarah and Lord Hugh, aren’t you?”
“Of course not!” Honoria exclaimed, but Sarah’s negative howl was considerably louder.
“Oh, but you should!” Frances said with a delighted clap of her hands. “I like Lord Hugh very much. It’s true that he can be a little eccentric, but he’s terribly clever. And he’s a very good shot.”
All eyes swung back to Frances. “He shot Cousin Daniel in the shoulder,” Sarah reminded her.
“He’s a very good shot when he’s sober,” Frances clarified. “Daniel said so.”
“I cannot begin to imagine the conversation that revealed such a fact,” Honoria said, “nor do I wish to, this close to the wedding.” She turned resolutely back to Sarah. “I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Please say it does not involve Hugh Prentice.”
“It involves Hugh Prentice,” Honoria confirmed. “I need your help.”
Sarah made a great show of sighing. She was going to have to do whatever Honoria asked; they both knew that. But even if Sarah had to go down without a fight, she was not going to do so without a complaint.
“I am very much afraid that he will not feel welcome at Fensmore,” Honoria said.
Sarah could find nothing objectionable about that statement; if Hugh Prentice did not feel welcome, it was hardly her problem and nothing more than he deserved. But she could be diplomatic when the occasion warranted, so she remarked, “I think it is much more likely he will isolate himself. He’s not very friendly.”
“I find it more likely that he’s shy,” Honoria said.
Harriet, still seated at the desk, gasped with delight. “A brooding hero. The very best kind! I shall write him into my play!”
“The one with the unicorn?” Frances asked.
“No, the one I’ve just thought of this afternoon.” Harriet pointed the feather end of her quill toward Sarah. “With the heroine who is not too pink or green.”
“He shot your cousin,” Sarah snapped, whipping around to face her younger sister. “Does no one remember that?”
“It was such a long time ago,” Harriet said.
“And I think he’s sorry,” Frances declared.
“Frances, you are eleven,” Sarah said sharply. “You are hardly able to judge a man’s character.”
Frances’s eyes slitted. “I can judge yours.”
Sarah looked from sister to sister, then back at Honoria. Did no one realize what an awful person Lord Hugh was? Forget for the moment (as if one could) that he had nearly destroyed their family. He was horrid. One had only t
o speak with him for two minutes before—
“He does often seem uncomfortable at gatherings,” Honoria admitted, breaking into Sarah’s inner rant, “but that is all the more reason for us to go out of our way to make him feel welcome. I—” Honoria cut herself off, looked about the room, took in Harriet, Elizabeth, and Frances, all watching her with great and unconcealed interest, and said, “Excuse me, please.” She took Sarah’s arm and steered her out of the drawing room, down the hall, and into another drawing room.
“Am I to be Hugh Prentice’s nanny?” Sarah demanded once Honoria had closed the door.
“Of course not. But I am asking you to make sure that he feels a part of the festivities. Perhaps this evening, in the drawing room before supper,” Honoria suggested.
Sarah groaned.
“He’s likely to be off in a corner, standing by himself.”
“Perhaps he likes it that way.”
“You’re so good at talking to people,” Honoria said. “You always know what to say.”
“Not to him.”
“You don’t even know him,” Honoria said. “How terrible could it be?”
“Of course I’ve met him. I don’t think there is anyone left in London I haven’t met.” Sarah considered this, then muttered, “Pathetic though that seems.”
“I didn’t say you hadn’t met him, I said you do not know him,” Honoria corrected. “There is quite a difference.”
“Very well,” Sarah said, somewhat grudgingly. “If you wish to split hairs.”
Honoria just tilted her head, forcing Sarah to keep talking.
“I don’t know him,” Sarah said, “but what I’ve met of him, I don’t particularly like. I have tried to be amiable during these last few months.”
Honoria gave her a most disbelieving look.
“I have!” Sarah protested. “I wouldn’t say I’ve tried very hard, but I must tell you, Honoria, the man is not a sparkling conversationalist.”
Now Honoria looked as if she might laugh, which only fueled Sarah’s irritation.
“I have tried to speak with him,” Sarah ground out, “because that is what people do at social functions. But he never replies how he ought.”
“How he ought?” Honoria echoed.
“He makes me uncomfortable,” Sarah said with a sniff. “And I’m fairly certain he does not like me.”
“Don’t be silly,” Honoria said. “Everyone likes you.”
“No,” Sarah said, quite frankly, “everyone likes you. I, on the other hand, lack your kind and pure heart.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Merely that while you look for the best in everyone, I take a more cynical view of the world. And I . . .” She paused. How to say it? “There are people in this world who find me quite annoying.”
“That’s not true,” Honoria said. But it was an automatic reply. Sarah was quite sure that given more time to consider the statement, Honoria would realize that it was quite true.
Although she would have said the same thing anyway. Honoria was marvelously loyal that way.
“It is true,” Sarah said, “and it does not bother me. Well, not very much, anyway. It certainly does not bother me about Lord Hugh, given that I return the sentiment in spades.”
Honoria took a moment to wade through Sarah’s words, then rolled her eyes. Not very much, but Sarah knew her too well to miss the gesture. It was the closest her kind and gentle cousin ever came to a screaming fit.
“I think you should give him a chance,” Honoria said. “You’ve never even had a proper conversation with him.”
There had been nothing proper about it, Sarah thought darkly. They had nearly come to blows. And she certainly hadn’t known what to say to him. She felt ill every time she recalled their meeting at the Dunwoody engagement fête. She’d done nothing but spout clichés. She might have even stamped her foot. He probably thought her an utter imbecile, and the truth was, she rather thought she’d acted like one.
Not that she cared what he thought of her. That would ascribe far too much importance to his opinion. But in that awful moment in the Dunwoody library—and in the few brief words they’d exchanged since—Hugh Prentice had reduced her to someone she didn’t much like.
And that was unforgivable.
“It’s not up to me to say who you will or will not get on with,” Honoria continued after it became clear that Sarah was not going to comment, “but I’m sure you can find the strength to endure Lord Hugh’s company for one day.”
“Sarcasm becomes you,” Sarah said suspiciously. “When did that happen?”
Honoria smiled. “I knew I could depend upon you.”
“Indeed,” Sarah muttered.
“He’s not so dreadful,” Honoria said, patting her on the arm. “I think he’s rather handsome, actually.”
“It doesn’t matter if he’s handsome.”
Honoria leapt on that. “So you think he is handsome.”
“I think he’s quite strange,” Sarah shot back, “and if you are trying to play matchmaker . . .”
“I’m not!” Honoria held up her arms in mock surrender. “I swear it. I was merely making an observation. I think he has very nice eyes.”
“I’d like him better if he had a vestigial toe,” Sarah muttered. Maybe she should write a book.
“A vestigial—what?”
“Yes, his eyes are perfectly nice,” Sarah said obediently. It was true, she supposed. He did have very nice eyes, green as grass, and piercingly intelligent. But nice eyes did not a future husband make. And no, she did not view every single man through the lens of eligibility—well, not very much, and certainly not him—but it was clear that despite her protestations, Honoria was casting her thoughts in that direction.
“I will do this for you,” Sarah said, “because you know I would do anything for you. Which means I would throw myself in front of a moving carriage if it came to that.” She paused, giving Honoria time to absorb that before continuing with a grand sweep of her arm. “And if I would throw myself in front of a moving carriage, it stands to reason that I would also consent to an activity that does not require the taking of my own life.”
Honoria looked at her blankly.
“Such as sitting next to Lord Hugh Prentice at your wedding breakfast.”
It took Honoria a moment to take that in. “How very . . . logical.”
“And by the way, it’s two days I must suffer his company, not one.” She wrinkled her nose. “Just to be clear.”
Honoria smiled graciously. “Then you shall entertain Lord Hugh this evening before supper?”
“Entertain,” Sarah repeated sardonically. “Shall I dance? Because you know I’m not going to play the pianoforte.”
Honoria laughed as she headed for the door. “Just be your usual charming self,” she said, poking her face back in the room for one last second. “He will love you.”
“God forbid.”
“He works in strange ways . . .”
“Not that strange.”
“Methinks the lady—”
“Don’t say it,” Sarah cut in.
Honoria’s brows rose. “Shakespeare certainly knew what he was talking about.”
Sarah threw a pillow at her.
But she missed. It was that kind of a day.
Later that day
Chatteris had arranged for target shooting that afternoon, and as this was one of the few sports in which Hugh could still participate, he decided to head down to the south lawn at the appointed time. Or rather, thirty minutes before the appointed time. His leg was still annoyingly stiff, and he found that even with his cane to aid him, he was walking more slowly than usual. There were remedies to ease the pain, but the salve that had been put forth by his doctor smelled like death. As for laudanum, he could not tolerate the dullness of mind it brought on.
All that was left was drink, and it was true that a snifter or two of brandy seemed to loosen the muscle and suppress the ache. But he rarely allowe
d himself to over-imbibe; just look what had happened the last time he’d got drunk. He also tried his best to avoid spirits until nightfall at the earliest. The few times he’d given in and gulped something down, he’d been disgusted with himself for days.
He had so few methods with which to measure his strength. It had become a point of honor to make it through to dusk with only his wits to battle the pain.
Stairs were always the most difficult, and he paused at the landing to flex and straighten his leg. Maybe he shouldn’t bother. He hadn’t even made it halfway to the south lawn and already the familiar dull throb was pulsing through his thigh. No one would be the wiser if he just turned around and went back to his room.
But damn it, he wanted to shoot. He wanted to hold a gun in his hand and raise his arm straight and true. He wanted to squeeze the trigger and feel the recoil as it shook through his shoulder. Most of all he wanted to hit the bloody bull’s-eye.
So he was competitive. He was a man, it was to be expected.
There would be whispers and furtive looks, he was sure. It would not go unnoticed that Hugh Prentice was holding a pistol in the vicinity of Daniel Smythe-Smith. But Hugh was rather perversely looking forward to that. Daniel was, too. He had said as much when they’d talked at breakfast.
“Ten pounds if we can make someone faint,” Daniel had declared, right after he’d done a rather fine falsetto imitation of one of Almack’s patronesses, complete with a hand to the heart and a stellar collection of just about every expression of feminine outrage known to man.
“Ten pounds?” Hugh murmured, glancing at him over his cup of coffee. “To me or to you?”
“To both,” Daniel said with a cheeky grin. “Marcus is good for it.”
Marcus gave him a look and turned back to his eggs.
“He’s getting very stuffy in his old age,” Daniel said to Hugh.
To Marcus’s credit, all he did was roll his eyes.
But Hugh had smiled. And he had realized that he was enjoying himself more than any time in recent memory. If the gentlemen were shooting, he was damn well going to join them.
It took at least five minutes to make his way down to the ground floor, however, and once there, he decided that it would be best to cut through one of Fensmore’s many salons instead of taking the long way round to the south lawn.