Footmen began trooping into the dining room with platters of fish.
“I do apologize,” Mr. Seymour replied to Jo, reseating himself. “I should have told you at once.”
“And you would’ve, I vow, had I let you speak at all today.” Jo laughed, glancing at Mary. “I started talking the moment I caught sight of Johnny in the park, and I suppose I haven’t stopped since.” She turned back to Mr. Seymour. “You are forgiven, sir.”
Mr. Seymour clapped a hand to his chest. “I cannot tell how you relieve me, my lady. I should never wish to be in your bad graces.”
Mary found her lips twitching as she finally remembered where she’d heard the name Johnny before—Jo had called her mysterious love Johnny.
She looked between her sister and Mr. Seymour with more interest with the realization.
The earl cleared his throat now, his brow heavy as he helped himself to fish. “Thought you were off on the Continent, Seymour.”
“That’s where I planned to be,” Mr. Seymour replied ruefully. “But there’s a veritable plague in Paris, and I thought it better to simply come home rather than risk disease amongst the frogs.”
“Oh, goodness,” Lady Angrove exclaimed worriedly. “Indeed you did the right thing, John.”
Mary took a careful bite of her fish, making sure to swallow before she asked, “Why were you in Paris?”
Mr. Seymour turned to her. “I was on a grand tour. I was rather at…loose ends and thought it best to go abroad for a bit.” Mary noticed that Jo looked down at her plate at this. “Rome and Athens and Vienna. All the interesting places. Took me most of the last year, and what have I to show for it? Two broken busts I picked up in Italy and a scar from a footpad in Venice.”
“A scar!” exclaimed Jo.
He looked at her, a smile spreading across his face. “Only a small one, and that because I tripped and fell running away from the tough. Ended up tearing my breeches and having to dig a bit of gravel out of my knee—hence the scar. Most embarrassing, I can tell you.”
“I don’t know that I’d be so eager to boast about cowardice,” the earl said.
Beside her, Lord Blackwell stiffened.
Jo looked anxiously at her father.
Seymour’s smile fell. “No, of course not. Er…It was more a sort of jest.”
The earl ate a bite of the fish without replying.
“Well,” Lady Angrove said a trifle loudly. “I’m glad you’re back in London. You’ll be able to attend the ball we’re having to introduce Cecilia to society.”
Mary clutched her fork. “A ball?”
“Yes, dear,” the marchioness said. “Best to immediately show that we’ve acknowledged you. If we wait, it will only fuel rumors.”
“I see.” Mary looked down at her fish, feeling a bit queasy.
“It will be so exciting!” Jo clapped her hands. “We’ll have new ball gowns and dancing slippers.”
“A fortnight,” the marchioness stated firmly, pinning Mary with her stare. “The ball will be in a fortnight.”
Mary swallowed. Two weeks. How was she to learn everything she needed to move in society—at a ball at which she would be the center of attention—in only two weeks?
The marchioness seemed to know what she was thinking, for she smiled thinly. “I suggest we continue your instructions immediately after luncheon.”
Henry watched as Mary’s face paled, her eyes on her plate. She was quite obviously worried over the lessons.
The apprehension in her face made his heart ache. He wanted to comfort her and wipe that expression from her face.
He leaned toward her and whispered, “I look forward to teaching you to dance.”
She turned to him. “I thought I was to have a dancing master?”
He shrugged. “But you’ll need to practice, yes? Who better than your fiancé?”
Her eyes narrowed at him, but at least she was no longer wearing that pinched expression. “You never fully answered my question.”
“What question?”
“What book you were looking for at Adams and Sons?”
“Ah.” He sat back as a footman refilled his wineglass. He frowned at the reminder of how close she’d come to being shot. “We were interrupted, weren’t we?”
“Yes.” Her lips twitched as she peeked up at him. “Are you trying to avoid telling me about the book you went to Adams and Sons for? I’m now convinced that it was quite scandalous.”
“Alas no,” he said. “I fear I was only on the hunt for Mr. Izaak Walton’s The Compleat Angler.”
“Truly?” She stared at him interestedly. “I had not thought such a prosaic book and hobby would catch your fancy.”
He felt his eyebrows rise. Did she think him so featherbrained? “Indeed there are a great many things that interest me, some of which might surprise you.”
“Oh?” She took a sip of wine. “Such as?”
He grinned, for she’d put him on the spot and it was entirely his own fault. Quickly he racked his brain. “I have a tremendous interest in birds.”
She looked at him skeptically. “Birds.”
He nodded with all the sincerity he was capable of. “Oh yes. Sparrows, hawks, the odd robin or titmouse. They all are completely fascinating.”
“Including pigeons?” she asked very gravely.
He looked at her, at her straight black brows and the big brown eyes regarding him so seriously, and yet with a spark of humor, and it was as if something turned over in his chest. She was playing with him, this woman. Playing on his own level with the same sort of wit he himself used.
He wanted to grin. To catch her up and swing her about.
But he’d taken a touch too long to answer her—she was staring at him with her eyebrows arched now.
“Forgive me,” he said quickly. “I was lost in thoughts of pigeons because of their utter fascination for me.”
Her lips twitched. “Naturally.”
“Indeed.” He fought to keep his expression sober. “The gray ones, the bluey-green ones, and of course the white ones.”
“Those are doves, surely?”
“No,” he said kindly. “Doves coo.”
“Don’t pigeons as well?”
“Yes, but doves are brown or gray and have a ring about their necks—unless of course they’re the white ones. Also, they roost in trees and call mournfully in the evenings so that one thinks someone is weeping.”
“Do you know,” she said thoughtfully, “I’m not sure I know the difference between pigeons and doves. I mean outside of the neck ring. They both do look awfully alike.”
“But the doves and pigeons must understand their differences, don’t you think?” He smiled at her. “After all, the dove doesn’t form a misalliance with the pigeon.”
“No,” she said, sounding troubled for some reason. “In that they are just like us, I suppose.”
“How so?”
She looked at him frankly. “Well, you would never have thought of marrying me had you not recognized me as an Angrove daughter that day in the bookstore. Had I merely been a maidservant of no name you would’ve passed me by without a second look. We humans don’t marry between classes any more than pigeons mate with doves.”
Henry opened his mouth, for he wanted to refute her.
But Mary was speaking the truth.
He frowned, ill at ease. “You’re right. I wouldn’t have thought of marrying you, though you are wholly wrong on one point: I certainly would’ve given you a second look.”
She shook her head slightly. “If you had looked, it would’ve been with an entirely different thought than marriage.”
He bowed his head. “I don’t mean to insult you.”
“No,” she said. “I only speak the truth, for I have been on both sides, you see. I’ve been both a pigeon and a dove. We may think that little separates us. That one woman is like any other—she has eyes and ears, a mouth and throat, a heart that beats and a mind that thinks. We may think that what differe
nces there are between women are small: one woman may dance until dawn while the other must rise at dawn to sweep the steps. But those same differences are everything when it comes to marriage.” She smiled a little sadly, her large brown eyes so discerning it took his breath away as she said softly, “A man such as you will never even consider taking to wife a maidservant—any more than the ringed dove would think the common bluey-green pigeon a proper wife. That is the way of the world—both in humans and in birds—and I think nothing will ever change it.”
He took her hand, which had been lying beside her plate, and raised it to his lips and murmured close to her knuckles, “You are wise beyond my understanding. I must think myself incredibly lucky that fate has given you to me to marry.” He glanced up, meeting her eyes, trying to convey to her his utmost sincerity. “I am blessed that you are Lady Cecilia Angrove and thus will be my wife—and I hope to never forget that.”
She smiled shyly at him.
He straightened and turned his head, catching the Earl of Angrove’s eye. The man didn’t look particularly glad to see his newfound daughter happy, but then Henry had always thought the man a bit of a cold fish. Angrove hadn’t even been terribly perturbed when Henry told him they’d been shot at.
He only hoped that the earl cared enough to worry for his daughter’s safety.
Chapter Eight
A castle could be seen from the shore, and Clio set out for it with Triton stomping morosely behind. The first land man they met apparently thought that Clio would make a good wife, but Triton changed his mind by punching him in the stomach. He had to dissuade four other potential suitors before they made the castle, but then they had a bit of luck: the prince was on his horse in front of the castle gates.…
—From The Curious Mermaid
Late the next morning Mary took a deep breath and reaffirmed her determination not only to learn to dance but also to refrain from doing bodily harm to Mr. Pierre Lafitte, the dancing master.
“Again!” Mr. Lafitte cried in a horrible French accent that Mary was beginning to have grave doubts about. He slammed the long cane he used to keep time on the floor.
Mr. Lafitte’s assistant, an elderly man with a full-bottomed white wig, started awake at his place at the harpsichord and hastily began playing.
Lord Blackwell, her unfortunate practice dance partner, bowed, a small smile playing about his mouth.
The mouth she’d dreamed about last night. In her dreams he’d kissed her again, and it had been every bit as exciting as the kiss in the garden.
Would a second kiss in reality live up to that first one?
She curtsied, trying to will down her embarrassment. It was simply excruciating learning to dance in front of her fiancé. She felt a clumsy fool.
“Lower!” snapped Mr. Lafitte. He was a short little man with an extravagantly curled white wig, and he held himself as importantly as a king.
Mary felt heat climb her cheeks at the reprimand, but she obediently sank lower.
Lord Blackwell held out his hand, and Mary placed her fingers in his palm as they slowly paced around each other.
“Buck up,” he whispered. “You’re already a better dancer than half of the ladies I escort onto the dance floor.”
Mary gave him a small smile even as Mr. Lafitte called out more instructions.
“There you are,” he whispered as they stood side by side, arms raised, hands linked, and carefully paced forward. “The gentlemen will be lining up to dance with you. I shall be overcome by jealousy and have to call them all out.”
She sent him a chiding glance as they separated and paced back down the room, an invisible line of dancers between them. When they met again, she murmured, “Don’t be ridiculous.”
He cocked his head at her as they moved through the steps of the dance. “It’s hardly ridiculous to defend your honor from the men who will want you.” He looked more somber as they paced around each other. “And there will be men who want you.”
“Do you?” she asked before she could think better of it. “Want me?”
“Oh yes.” His gaze was entirely serious now, and something seemed to burn behind his blue eyes. “I think of you at night when I’m in bed and I wish you were there so I could—”
“Enough!” Mr. Lafitte cried suddenly, making his assistant strike a discordant note. “We will attempt the dance once more, this time without discussion.”
Mary wanted to cry at the interruption. What had Lord Blackwell been about to say?
Mr. Lafitte lifted his stick again, presumably to slam it back to the floor, but before he could, the viscount spoke.
“I’m terribly sorry to bring the lesson to an end,” he said, not sounding sorry at all, “but I think it time I take my fiancée on a turn about Hyde Park.”
Mary shot a smile at him in relief.
Mr. Lafitte scowled. “Lady Cecilia’s dancing will suffer, I think, if you do this, my lord.”
“Nonetheless.” Lord Blackwell addressed Mary as he bowed over her hand. “Even the most dedicated of dancers must refresh themselves now and again.”
“A-hem.” The marchioness cleared her throat from the doorway. “What’s this?”
“My lady.” Lord Blackwell bowed to the elderly lady. “I’m about to take Lady Cecilia for a ride around the park.”
“The gel needs her lessons,” the marchioness said, scowling.
“Of course,” the viscount replied smoothly. “And she also needs to be seen in my company so that society knows that I’m pleased with this match. A jaunt in the park does just that.”
Mary held her breath, glancing between Lord Blackwell and the marchioness.
The old lady nodded abruptly. “I’m glad to see that you’re not just a pretty face, my lord. Take my granddaughter out to be seen, then. I shall send for her maid to accompany you.”
Lord Blackwell grinned. “I thank you most kindly, my lady.”
He led Mary past the marchioness, who humphed as they went by.
“Thank you,” Mary said as they made the outer hall and she was sure they were no longer in the marchioness’s hearing. “I think my head must be spinning from all that pacing around and around.”
“You mean you didn’t enjoy dancing with me?” the viscount asked as he led her downstairs. He made a comically scandalized face.
Mary bit back a smile. The thing was, she had enjoyed being with him, if not the dancing itself. Strange to think that only days ago she’d judged this man by his handsome face.
She shook her head, musing. “It seems quite silly that dancing is so important to be a lady.”
“Is it?” he asked as they made the lower floor. “I think my sisters enjoy dancing—though perhaps mostly as an opportunity to flirt with gentlemen.”
Mary looked at him curiously. “You haven’t told me very much about your sisters.”
“Good Lord, I haven’t?” he said. “Let me rectify my lapse at once. I have two sisters, both younger: Kate and Becca. You’ll meet them when you come for tea, along with my mother and father.”
“Oh,” she said, rather daunted.
He seemed to sense her distress, for he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “But you needn’t worry about sisters and meeting new people right now. I aim to spirit you away to enjoy the rest of the day, and that’s what I’m going to do. You need only sit and compliment me on my skillful driving.”
“But what if it isn’t?” she asked with grave interest.
It was his turn to arch an eyebrow. “Believe me, sweetheart, that won’t be a problem. I’m quite experienced in handling spirited mares.”
“Indeed?” She fought to keep from laughing. “I do hope that wasn’t a rather clumsy double entendre.”
“Clumsy?” He winced comically. “No, no, not at all.”
Mary was giggling softly when they made the entry hall. Lane was waiting for them, a shawl over her shoulders and a bonnet on her head.
Of course. Mary was a lady now and couldn’t venture
out alone with a man. Which was rather ironic, she reflected as she donned her own bonnet with Lane’s help. She’d spent all her life walking the streets of London alone with no one caring. She’d been only a maidservant, after all. But now suddenly all proprieties must be observed.
“Shall we?” Lord Blackwell held open the door. “I’ve a new team of horses and I’m inordinately proud of them, I’m afraid.”
It was a sunny autumn day. She inhaled the slightly brisk air and turned to smile at him as he helped her into his open carriage. They sat side by side in front, and Lane sat behind, facing backward.
“I think it’s your turn now to ask a question,” Mary said as he chirruped to the horses. The animals were very beautiful—a perfectly matched bay pair.
The reins were threaded through his gloved fingers, and he did handle the two horses very well.
“Hmm.” He kept his eyes on the horses as he spoke. “Well, then, did you have a pet as a girl?”
“A lapdog, d’you mean?” she asked, amused.
He cast a swift glance at her. “Yes.”
“No.” She shook her head and said gently, “I grew up in an orphanage, remember. We didn’t have our own pets. There was a cat who lived there and caught the mice—his name was Soot. Just before I left the home a young girl came who had a little white dog that was her companion. The dog’s name was Dodo. An exception was made for her, but Dodo wasn’t mine. And of course I wasn’t allowed a pet as a maidservant.”
He nodded, his brows drawn together. “I should’ve realized.”
She glanced at him. “Why? You’ve never been a servant.”
“But they’re all around me—us. It’s not as if I haven’t had cause to see what a maidservant’s life is like.”
“Maybe you didn’t look,” she said. “Most don’t, I think—not only the aristocracy, but servants and shopkeepers and all manner of people as well. We don’t think about how it is that others live. Perhaps it’s the nature of humans.”
“You may be right,” he replied gravely, “but that doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t strive for something better.”
She looked at him, at his near-perfect profile and his competent, strong hands. “If you do, then you’ll be unlike most people.”
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