Elton nodded. He walked with him, frowning up at Bradford. “I say, old fellow,” he said as they reached the refreshments table. “You do look a bit queasy. Are you sure we shouldn't go?”
“No,” Bradford shook his head, reaching automatically for the first glass a footman handed him. “I'm fine. Just too much heat. I should probably go out onto the terrace a bit.”
“Maybe,” Elton agreed, swallowing down a mouthful of something from a fluted glass. “I reckon I could do with some cool air too.”
“Let's go,” Bradford agreed, sipping his own drink gratefully. He looked round the room, towards the rear doors. He felt oddly wistful as they headed that way, remembering the encounter from a few moments previous.
It's strange, but I'd like to talk to her again, set things to rights.
It was only as he cleared his throat, intending to excuse himself to go and talk to her, that he realized that he didn't know her name.
Chapter 3: A closer acquaintance
What is the matter with me? Mirabelle asked herself, distracted. She had no idea what had possessed her. Why was it that, no matter how hard she distracted herself, she couldn't take her mind off the impudent fellow who'd walked into her in the doorway.
She had never experienced such a feeling before. No matter how resolutely she made herself focus on something else – the velvet chair she sat on, the glass of cordial in her hand, the music – some chain of thought would lead her back to the hazel-eyed gentleman and the talk they'd had.
“It's the rudeness,” she said stolidly. “It offended me.”
“What was that?” a friendly voice interrupted. “Am I interrupting?”
Mirabelle looked up, startled. She gave a laugh of surprise.
“Marguerite! It's you!”
“I suppose it is,” her friend said, lips twisting in a wry grin. “At least, last time I looked it was me. Hasn't changed since, I reckon. Mirrie! It's been so long!”
Mirabelle stood and felt herself wrapped in a tight embrace. Her heart ached and she was not surprised when, leaning back, she could feel tears running down her cheeks. She noticed Marguerite was blinking furtively, as well.
“Marguerite,” she said, sighing. “It's been so many years.”
“It has,” her friend agreed, smoothing a strand of brown hair out of one eye. “How is it you came to be in London, and I didn't hear about it?”
Mirabelle sighed. Her old friend – she'd known Marguerite, daughter of the Earl of Barrowley, since she was fifteen – was probably the only person she could have told about her worries. But seeing that kind, earnest face, she found she couldn't lay her burdens on her.
“I chose to come up suddenly,” she said, taking a step back from her friend and sitting. “I thought it felt right.”
“Indeed it did,” Marguerite nodded vigorously. “Well, I'm so glad you're here. We have so much to talk about!” She took the seat opposite and smiled at Mirabelle.
Mirabelle nodded, swallowing hard. It had been years since she saw her friend, Marguerite Bracewell. She had no idea of how much had passed for both of them in that time. She tucked a stray curl behind her ear and tried to think of where to start.
“It's a hot evening.”
“It is!” her friend agreed, fanning herself with high drama. “I can't bear the heat in these crowded venues. Give me an afternoon tea or a glass of sherbet and I'm happy as a lamb. But in here...whew!” she fanned herself again.
Mirabelle smiled. She had forgotten quite how much she enjoyed this woman's company. Dry, sophisticated, with a wit that could sharpen glass, Marguerite was a good friend. She was also funny.
I am glad I came to London.
The evening was turning out to be rather pleasant. If it was not for the Dennhursts, and their ilk, and the crowds, and the oafish young man at the doorway, she would be completely peaceful.
“So,” Marguerite said, leaning forward. “You came to join the dances?”
“Me?” Mirabelle chuckled sadly. “I'm too old for that sort of thing, I reckon.”
Her friend's brow shot up. “Too old to dance! That's dramatic of you,” she said.
“Well,” Mirabelle frowned, feeling shy. “I haven't danced for years, and...” she trailed off as her friend interrupted feelingly.
“Of course not! How silly of me. Well! You're in for a surprise. The Polonaise is all the thing nowadays...and we're seeing more waltzes, which surprised me. Overly-lively sort of dance, I think,” she added with a lift of her slender shoulder. “Well, Continental fashions. What can I say?”
Mirabelle laughed. She had forgotten how much she missed this sort of thing. “I will prepare to be amazed.”
Her friend shot her a sidelong glance. “Then you're a sort that finds amazement in odd places, my friend.”
Mirabelle laughed again.
Her friend grinned. “Well, I don't know if you are, but I'm absolutely parched. Would you care for a cordial? I'm going over there to get one right now,” she added, pointing out the refreshments table. Mirabelle nodded.
“I'd like another, yes,” she said, gratefully, as her friend took the glass from her hand.
“Well, your wish is my command,” she grinned. “As long as it's not lime flavor. They ran out in the first twenty minutes. I saw.”
Mirabelle was still chuckling softly as Marguerite threaded a path through the tight-packed ballroom. That was typical Marguerite – so lively and outrageous, in her own way. She looked out over the scene of the dancers, watching little groups talking earnestly together, and for the first time that evening started to feel at ease here. She took a deep breath, eyes gently unfocused as she looked into the golden candle-lit room.
“I hope I'm not interrupting?”
Mirabelle's head whipped round in annoyance, and found herself staring into the same hazel eyes as earlier. She felt a swift anger fill her, a feeling that was foreign to her usually-peaceable nature.
“As you see, there is nothing to interrupt. Apart from my equilibrium, which, it seems, is of little consequence to you.” She saw him blink and had a sudden thought that he might not have understood the words she used. A savage smile twisted her lips. She might enjoy this after all.
“Um, well, I think your equilibrium is important,” he said hesitantly.
She raised a brow. “Well-answered,” she said, before she had a chance to stop the words.
He blinked in surprise. She couldn't help regretting her earlier harshness just a little. He was an innocent, to be sure, but he was a harmless one.
“Thanks,” he said hesitatingly. “I think.”
This time, she had to smile. It came to her lips unbidden, a big, generous smile such as she hadn't smiled for a long time.
“I did mean that,” she assured. “It was a quick answer, well-given.”
He blushed and looked at the floor. “Well, I meant it too,” he said. “I didn't mean to interrupt you, my lady.”
“Well, as I said, that would have been difficult. I wasn't doing anything, after all,” she said lightly.
“You were watching the ball,” he pointed out shyly. “And thinking, I think.”
She smiled. “I tend to do that.”
He grinned. “I guessed.”
That really did make her laugh. Dash it, but the fellow was rather sweet. She guessed him to be perhaps six and twenty years of age. It made her feel at once maternal and wistful. The gap of years was almost nothing but, for her, it felt as if she was a lifetime older. He was an innocent of so many things, whereas she had seen too much.
“I'm not sure whether to be pleased or insulted by that,” she said archly. “In some circles, to say a woman was “thinking” would be considered rude.”
His brows lifted. “Milady! I assure you. For me it was no insult. I like thinking. It's something I don't do often enough.”
She found herself laughing. She looked up at him and into that sweet, genuine face, and smiled, and realized, suddenly, that this was the first time
she had in years.
“Well, I assure you, if that is true, you have found benefit from that lack. I find you refreshing.”
He blinked again. This time, he looked really surprised. She bit her lip, wondering if, perhaps, she had gone too far.
“By refreshing, I mean different,” she said carefully, looking out over the guests again. She felt her cheeks warm with embarrassment and swallowed, wishing he would just go away.
He said nothing and she waited a while longer. When he had still not said anything, she looked up at him questioningly. He cleared his throat.
“Milady, thank you,” he said. “I...it's good to be refreshing.”
He sounded sincere and shy and Mirabelle felt a twinge of warmth in her stomach and a smile lifting the corner of her lips.
“Well, I'm glad you don't mind the comment,” she said. Her voice sounded strained and she cleared her throat, too. Dash it, where was Marguerite with the cordial?
She spotted her friend in a group near the refreshments table, her back to them, one glass in each hand. She felt at once impatient and wistful, wanting Marguerite to hurry and save her from embarrassment, but also wishing she would stay a little longer and let them discuss.
“You're just arrived in London, milady?” he asked, interrupting.
She nodded. “I arrived the day before yesterday.”
“And you're already attending a ball at Almack's! A strong constitution.”
She smiled, though there was little humor in it for her. “I felt some pressure to do so,” she said. The thought made her a little sad and she managed to stop herself touching the necklace at her throat. That was the reason she was here, no other. Sitting here, talking to this young man, she wished she had other, more diverting reasons to attend a ball.
I missed conversation like this.
Dalford might be charming and beautiful, but she had been shut away there, deprived of diverting company.
“Well! I wager you have a more-pressing social circle than I do,” he said with a wry smile. “I myself am hardly in demand.”
He looked away when he said it, almost nervous, and Mirabelle had the sense there was a story there. Was he outcast from his London circle for some reason? Or was he simply an infrequent attendee at these parties? She made a mental note to find out.
“I'm sure you are welcome in most circles,” she said quietly.
“You think so?” He raised a brow, as if he couldn't quite believe she'd said that. His expression was so tender that she felt suddenly overcome. She stood, swallowing hard, and turned away.
“Well,” she said. “I think I should join my party. They're over there.”
He looked at her with some surprise. “You know Lord Arundel and his lot? Hellfire!”
She bit her lip. He sounded at once impressed and slightly upset, as if that put her in a group very different to himself. She supposed it did. Arundel was one of Marguerite's friends, a noted intellectual and part of the poetry set. Mirabelle was once involved, but had long since left.
“Well, I know them distantly,” she said. “Excuse me – I had better go.”
At that moment, Marguerite turned round and caught sight of her, waving at her cheerily. Mirabelle nodded.
“Good evening, sir.”
“Good evening, milady.”
He bowed and she curtsied and then she hurried off across the room, cheeks burning, to join Marguerite and the rest of them.
“There you are,” her friend smiled. “I see you were talking to Lord Scallywag there.”
Mirabelle frowned. She didn't recall the fellow's name just now – he had introduced himself so quickly – but she was absolutely sure it wasn't that!
“Why say you that?” she asked.
“Well,” Marguerite chuckled warmly. “He is one! A veritable scoundrel, or so the ladies said.”
“A cad, by all accounts,” Arundel drawled. “Not fit for your company.”
Mirabelle felt the blood drain from her face. Was he? Why would anyone think that? And, if that was his reputation, had anyone jumped to conclusions about her?
“Um, well, he was asking after an acquaintance,” she said quickly.
That seemed to make sense to Arundel, who looked slightly calmer. He turned to the woman on his right, an older woman with a serene countenance Mirabelle distantly recalled, and resumed their discussion about a couplet in Byron.
Marguerite looked concerned. “Mirabelle! You look quite ill. It must be the heat. Shall we go out?”
“No, I'm fine,” Mirabelle stammered. “It's just the standing. I need to sit down again. I'm not used to it.”
“Of course,” Marguerite nodded. “Let's go back to the chairs before they're taken. Come, my dear. I forget, you've been living quietly for a while. This London hubbub is too much for anyone at the best of times!”
With that she linked her arm through Mirabelle's and propelled her on towards the seats.
Mirabelle looked around the ballroom, feeling slightly dazed, and wondered where he had gone, that young man with the mixed reputation and the brown eyes, whose name she didn't know.
Chapter 4: A matter of friendship
The sun shone over the rooftops, turning the slate to pewter gray. Bradford sipped his tea and stared out over the scene from the window of the breakfast-room. He felt oddly wistful, looking out across the old town landscape. Like part of him was somewhere else, not in the breakfast room at North Place, breaking his fast.
Dash it – why am I still thinking of her?
“So, brother. To the park?” Elton said.
“Mm?” Bradford frowned.
“I said, would you like to go to the park after all, today? You did say we might yesterday. To St. James'.”
“Oh, yes. Of course,” Bradford said, smiling. “That sounds nice.”
Elton smiled back, confusedly. “Brother, I don't know what's the matter. There's something on your mind. You're only half here.”
Bradford blinked. Elton was giving him his gentle, blue-eyed smile. He almost confided his worries in his brother. The strong impression the lady from the ballroom had made on him was bothering him. He couldn't stop thinking of the conversation they'd had, going over moments of it again and again in his head. He wondered if his brother would understand it any better than he did, this curious phenomenon, and he wanted to ask him about it.
Better not. He has worries of his own.
“What, brother?” Elton pressed. When he said nothing, Elton only shrugged. “Anyone would think you're the one whose hopelessly in-love now.”
Bradford shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Not only did his brother's teasing feel a little raw on his nerves, but it reminded him of Elton's own pain.
“Brother. I'm sorry,” he said. “Here I am moping about! Did you see her?”
“Yes.”
Elton's voice was hard. Bradford, hearing it, felt his own heart ache for the man.
“You spoke with her?” he pressed gently.
“Yes,” Elton said tightly. “Of course I did. I asked her how she fared, and she said she fared well. She sent her regards, and I gave her mine. What more could I say?”
Bradford sighed. “Brother, you know she...you know how she feels for you. As you for her.”
“Yes, I know,” Elton said, and Bradford saw the beginning of tears in his eyes. He felt his own throat tighten at the injustice and cruelty.
“You can't leave matters like this,” he said briskly. His brother's pain, in trying to find a way to help him too, gave him something else to think about, that wasn't the mysterious woman with the gray-blue eyes. “You have to do something. It doesn't have to stay this way...” he trailed off as his brother shook his head.
“I want to do something, brother. But what can I do? I don't know where to stat.”
Bradford nodded. Suddenly, he knew exactly what they could do, almost as if the necessity itself was starting to suggest the plan to him.
“Well, we could invite Culver – he is y
our friend, or supposed to be, anyhow – to Bainsfield's tea-house with us on Thursday. And he can invite Laurel. And, somehow, we could arrange for him to be, well, engaged in conversation elsewhere to her,” he said carefully.
Elton looked at him, eyes shining. “Brother, you would?”
Bradford nodded. “It's the least I can do.”
To his surprise, Elton patted his hand. “Thanks, brother...honestly.”
Bradford looked away, feeling almost guilty. His brother looked so relieved at even such a small offer of help. He wondered why he'd never noticed how much pain the poor fellow was in before. He should have done something ages ago!
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “Let's do that. Shall you leave a card, or shall I?”
“Can you?” Elton asked carefully, a frown on his handsome face. “I mean, if it's me, Culver might just wonder what I'm up to...he knows I'm not happy with him. I've been avoiding him.”
“Fine,” Bradford agreed quickly. “Well, then, that's settled. I'll go as soon as we've finished breakfast.”
Elton smiled. “Thanks. You know, I wouldn't have told anyone else about this. William knows, but...well...you know how William is. He'd say I should forget about it, not flout convention.” He looked away, sourly
“He's a stickler for the rules,” Bradford nodded, sipping his tea. “He always has been.”
“Uh huh,” Elton agreed, rolling his eyes. He grinned, the expression taking years off him. “Well, we won't tell him.”
“No,” Bradford agreed, chuckling. “We won't.”
The breakfast room seemed more cheerful, the sunshine breaking through the pewter clouds and casting long rays of light on the table between them.
“So,” Elton said, leaning back, talking through a mouthful of croissant. “We'll go to the residence – Culver's at Wescote, with his family – and then we'll go through to the park? It's a good day for it.”
“Exactly,” Bradford murmured, trying to build a picture of the park over the picture in his mind of the lady with the blue eyes, smiling at him.
Her Cool Charms (Brides for the Earl's Sons Book 2) Page 3