by Anna Bradley
“That sounds like an excellent start to the day.” Appraising horseflesh was a favorite pastime for them both.
“My lord.” Clarke, the butler, had entered bearing a silver plate with a single envelope on it. “Lord Benberry’s groom has arrived with this letter for him.”
Nick had just taken a sip of his tea and sputtered it back into his cup. He’d left instructions with his household in Bristol regarding any letters from Bath. Should such a missive appear, one of his grooms was to bring it to him immediately.
Clarke walked over to Nick and presented the tray.
Still clearing his throat, Nick took the letter. Damned if it wasn’t the handwriting of the lady who called herself Pence. Wide-eyed, he stared at it then gave a nod. “Thank you, Clarke. Is the groom still at the door?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Please tell him, well done and to rest and get something to eat before he returns to Bristol.” Nick couldn’t take his gaze off the letter.
“Very good, my lord.” The butler bowed and retreated through the doorway.
“What is it?” Daventry had finished his plate and was now slathering butter on a last bite of roll.
All but speechless, Nick turned the letter over in his hands. This one was addressed to Lord Denys again, but of course she didn’t know his name and could hardly address him as Devil. “It’s from her.”
“Indeed?” Daventry’s brows swooped up elegantly. “Your mysterious letter writer? How novel. But how was she even able to write to you? Well-bred young ladies do not do such things with strange men.” He contemplated the bit of well-buttered roll then wolfed it down. “Perhaps she’s a widow.”
“If you recall, she was sent to stay with her aunt for misbehavior and her father forbade her from dancing.” Nick shook his head as he turned the letter so that the seal was on top. “That sounds more like a young woman just out, or not yet out.” He popped the seal with such force it sprang up and landed in the middle of his eggs.
“If she’s not yet out, you’d best leave her strictly alone.” With a censorious shake of his head, Daventry took another sip of his fragrant coffee.
“I suspect she’s out. Why else would she even have the expectation of attending dances here?” Carefully, Nick unfolded the letter and caught his breath.
To the gentleman calling himself “Devil,”
First of all, I must give my opinion that you, sir, are no true gentleman. Had you been, you would’ve simply returned my letter with a provisional note telling me of my uncle’s remove from your current place of residence and nothing else. As you instead read a letter that was not meant for your eyes in its entirety, I do not see how you can still style yourself “a gentleman,” although your additional moniker of “Devil” seems heartily justified.
As for the grossly flagrant foisting of your unsolicited advice upon me to “be careful to whom you speak and when and where” and your offer to school me in the best methods of gossiping, I can assure you I shall take the former sentiment to heart and thereby take my leave of this correspondence and, more particularly, of you.
I only hope you have some other occupation—save gossiping—to engage your time in Bristol so that you will spare me, or any other young ladies with whom you are not acquainted, your sanctimonious instructions.
Pence
“Good Lord!” Nick laughed aloud as he read, shaking his head in delight. The lady’s spirited retort to his brazen suggestion was truly marvelous. He simply must meet her.
“It’s good news, then?”
Nick glanced up to find his friend staring at him, waiting. “She censures me soundly for my impudence in trying to instruct her and calls my honor as a gentleman into question because I read her first letter when it was not addressed to me.”
“In other words, setting you down smartly.” Daventry beamed at him. “I think I like her as well.”
“Then help me find her, old chap.”
Tossing his napkin onto his plate, his friend rose. “Not possible, Benberry, and you know it.”
“There has to be some way.” Nick rose as well. “She’s enchanting, even when she’s disparaging me.”
“I suspect she’ll be forever enchanting you, then, but from afar. We’ve already discussed the many reasons why searching her out is not an option. It’s done, Nicholas. Accept that.” The serious cast of his friend’s face softened. “Come, let’s walk down to Johnson’s for a look at his cattle then we’ll come back by way of Pulteney Bridge. Lots of shops with pretty girls selling a variety of wares. Take your mind off your troubles.”
Sighing, Nick nodded. “I know you’re right, but…” He stared at the letter still in his hand.
“Let your mystery woman remain a mystery. Ladies are often so much better that way.”
With a sharp laugh, Nick nodded and, tucking the letter into his pocket, followed his friend out. He’d allow Daventry to think he’d let the lady go, although he had no intention of doing so. He’d write to her again when his host wasn’t looking. What his friend didn’t know wouldn’t hurt either of them.
CHAPTER 5
The crisp December air stung Portia’s nose, a mere pittance to pay for the excitement of shopping with Aunt Phoebe along the Pulteney Bridge. Small shops lined either side of the short expanse, each establishment’s doorway or window draped in festive greenery beckoning Portia to enter. Enticing displays of goods had her stopping at every shop, peering in at mouthwatering baked goods, beautiful swaths of fabric, and decorative cannisters of tea.
“You may enter any shop you wish, my dear.” Aunt Phoebe laughed when Portia flattened her nose to the window, attempting to get a good look at a bolt of scrumptious pale blue silk embroidered with delicate trees and birds in white.
“May we please go in and see about this fabric, Aunt? It would make such a lovely gown.” Portia stepped back from the window and glanced at her companion. “I can just imagine what it would look like on the dance floor of the Assembly Rooms.”
Lips pursed, Aunt Phoebe took her arm and led her on down the street. “I am certain it would become you, my dear. However, must I remind you that you will not be attending the dances while you’re here? I cannot betray your father’s trust.”
“Humpf.” Why must her aunt take her father’s edict to heart so thoroughly? “Does he not realize that I could meet a gentleman, a peer, perhaps, who would fall in love with me if I were given the chance to dance with him at the Assembly Rooms? If I married, Father wouldn’t need to worry about me coming home and making some other faux pas in the village.”
“Perhaps you should write to him making that very argument.” Aunt Phoebe chuckled as they passed a greengrocer. “Oh, I meant to stop here.” She turned back and opened the door. “Mr. Henderson always has the Lady Apples I like to use in the kissing bough.”
“Kissing bough?” Startled, Portia followed her aunt.
“Does your family not put up a kissing or mistletoe bough each Yuletide?” Her aunt threaded her way down the narrow aisles between tables heaped high with every kind of bright produce: apples, pears, oranges, figs, pomegranates.
Portia slowed after the sleeve of her spencer knocked against a stand of neatly stacked red and green peppers. “Well, yes, we do, although we don’t call it that. Mama calls it the mistletoe ball.”
“But people do kiss under it, do they not?” Aunt Phoebe had reached a table of very small green apples with a blush of deep red on them.
“Mama and Father do. No one else.”
Her aunt gave her a knowing look. “That will change, now that you are out. Young gentlemen will try to catch you under it and steal a kiss.” She inspected the small fruits. “Mark my words.”
“But if I am not allowed to go to the Assembly Rooms—”
“Portia, please.” Aunt Phoebe frowned at her then chose a particularly round apple and popped it into her bag. “I am tired of hearing about this. I assure you, you will be invited to other entertainments where there will li
kely be a kissing bough. You will have to settle for that.”
Sighing, Portia held her tongue. Apparently, nothing would sway her aunt on the matter of the dances. She might as well help with the apple selection so they could move on from this establishment to others more interesting. A bright round apple peeked out from under several greener ones. “Will this one do, Aunt?”
“Which one?” Aunt Phoebe looked up just as Portia pulled the apple free.
A shower of Lady Apples cascaded off the table, bouncing and bumping across the floor.
“Oh, drat!” Portia immediately stooped to snatch at one apple that threatened to roll beneath the counter. She captured it and stood back up, glancing about to survey the mayhem.
Several more apples had made good their escape by rolling under the stands of fruit and vegetables. Others had fetched up against the polished Hessians of two gentlemen who’d just entered the greengrocer’s shop.
Portia gulped and her cheeks tingled with heat. What must these two very good-looking gentlemen think of her? Mortified, she turned toward Aunt Phoebe, whose mouth twitched. Behind her aunt, an older gentleman was making his way over to them while the short, rotund greengrocer stared at her with wide eyes. All Portia could think to do to conceal her humiliation was drop to the floor and hide her face while she attempted to recover the wayward fruit.
“I say, do allow me to help with that.” A lovely baritone voice spoke up loudly and a man appeared beside her on the floor. He scrabbled underneath the table and brought out two of the Lady Apples. “Here you go.”
Portia got to her feet, bringing the gentleman to his. She scarcely wished to look at him, so great was her embarrassment. However, to avoid his meeting his eyes when he’d come to her rescue would be terribly rude. So, unwilling as it was, her gaze strayed upward to deep, dark brown eyes and a kind smile. “Thank you, sir.”
“Not a’tall.” He looked about confusedly then thrust the apples into her hands. “Happy to help whenever I can.”
“And I as well.” The gentleman’s companion, a head taller with a face like Caesar’s on an ancient Roman coin, had gathered the apples that had landed at their feet and now stood with his hands full, a rueful smile on his lips. “I fear you’d be too burdened with this lot.” He cast a glance at the fruit table that held the Lady Apples, now sadly depleted. “Daventry, perhaps you can help me put these back—”
“Oh, of course.” Portia didn’t wait for him to finish. The gentleman’s bright blue gaze made her insides tremble. “Let me just put these two down.”
“Uh, no, miss…my lady.” The tall gentleman began to juggle the apples in his hands as he attempted to take the two from hers. “Quite awkward you know, since we haven’t been introduced. I don’t know how to address you. But, no, please. Let me take those.” He glared at his companion. “Daventry, by all that’s holy, help me.”
The shorter gentleman, who seemed oblivious to his companion’s dilemma, started then grasped the two apples he’d just given her. “Where do you want me to put them?”
“On the table, man.” Looking as though he wanted to roll his eyes, the tall gentleman managed to divest himself of some of the fruit before the greengrocer appeared.
“Allow me to take those, my lord.” Twittering to himself under his breath, the little man had all the fruit piled back on the table in perfect order quicker than Portia could’ve imagined.
“I do beg your pardon, Mr. Henderson.” Aunt Phoebe spoke up for the first time. “Por—Miss Willingham is usually so adept in shops.” She cut her eyes toward Portia, making her heart sink.
“I am so sorry, Mr. Henderson.” If she could’ve been swallowed by the floor that moment, she would’ve been eternally grateful.
“Nothing to worry about, Mrs. Peterson.” Mr. Henderson beamed at Aunt Phoebe as though she’d given him a splendid present. “I assure you everything is now just as right as rain.” He turned as another customer approached his counter. “I do beg your pardon, ma’am.” Nodding, he bustled away.
Which left Portia standing in an uncomfortable silence with Aunt Phoebe before the two unknown young gentlemen and the older man who’d come to stand beside her aunt. She’d never been in such an awkward situation. Not having been introduced to the gentlemen, she certainly could not converse with them, never mind how much she might wish to do so. Raising her brows, she turned hopeful eyes to her aunt.
With a sigh, Aunt Phoebe shook her head and sent an appeal to the older gentleman who’d come up to assist and now stood beside her. “Miss Portia Willingham, may I introduce to you Lord Marksby, an old friend of the family?” Her aunt nodded to Lord Marksby. “So nice to see you again, my lord, although I regret it hasn’t been under more peaceful circumstances.”
The two young gentlemen exchanged looks then the shorter of them stepped forward eagerly. “Marksby! I say, my lord, you remember me, do you not, from The Pulteney?”
The older man looked him up and down then smiled knowingly and bowed. “Lord Daventry, isn’t it? Good afternoon, my lord.”
“Good afternoon. Delighted to see you.” The young gentleman indicated his companion. “And may I make known my friend, Lord Benberry? We were on the way to the club when we stopped in here.” He sent Lord Marksby a pleading look.
“Lord Benberry.” The older man gave a gracious bow.
“My lord.” The young man bowed then also looked expectantly at Marksby.
Shaking his head, Marksby turned to Aunt Phoebe. “Where are my manners? Mrs. Peterson, Miss Willingham, may I present to you two gentlemen of my acquaintance?”
Two pairs of eager eyes stared at her aunt as Portia’s heart tried very hard to beat its way out of her chest.
“Certainly, Lord Marksby.” Her aunt smiled serenely, although Portia could’ve sworn the woman was as excited as she.
“Mrs. Peterson, Miss Willingham, Lord Daventry, a member of The Pulteney, and his friend, Lord Benberry.”
“My lords.” Aunt Phoebe curtsied.
“Lord Daventry.” Portia sank into a curtsey on legs that threatened to fail her.
“Delighted to meet you, Miss Willingham.” The handsome lord’s broad smile and attentive manner might’ve had something to do with her infirmity.
“Lord Benberry.” After drawing herself up to her full height, which was still half a head shorter than the towering lord, Portia breathed slowly as she carefully curtsied again. It would not do to have an attack of the vapors after everything else today.
“My pleasure indeed, Miss Willingham.” He bowed, a lithe movement that all but took her breath away. The dark hair, startlingly attractive face, and graceful demeanor had Portia’s head in a whirl. What were the chances of finding two such incredibly handsome and well-mannered young lords? At the Assembly Rooms, perhaps. But at the greengrocer’s? Might Fate have played a hand in this?
“I must thank you both again for coming to my rescue. I don’t know what happened. I didn’t think they would all fall so spectacularly.” She truly mustn’t babble on so. What would they think of her?
“So happy to be of service, Miss Willingham.” Lord Daventry beamed at her, his smile lighting his face.
“If there is any other service we may perform, you have only to name it, Miss Willingham, Mrs. Peterson.” Lord Benberry spoke to them both, but his gaze rested solely on Portia.
A shiver raced down her back and ended at her toes. “You are very kind, my lords, although there is nothing else I can think of.”
“Are you planning to attend the dress ball at the Assembly Rooms this evening?” Lord Daventry stood straighter and took a slight step toward her. “If so, I would like to request the first dance.”
“And I the supper dance, if you still have it free.” Not to be outdone by his friend, Lord Benberry inched toward her other side, his closeness making her stomach flutter pleasantly.
How she would have loved to accept both gentlemen and danced away the entire night at the Assembly Rooms. But she need not even ask th
e question. Portia glanced at her aunt, who was conversing quietly with Lord Marksby, then sighed. “I thank you, my lords, for your kind requests, however, I regret I will not be able to accept you. We will not be attending the dance this evening.”
“I am sorry to hear that, Miss Willingham.”
“As am I, Miss Willingham.”
Their crestfallen faces were flattering, to say the least, although not enough to assuage her disappointment at having to refuse them. Perhaps they would meet at some other entertainment while she was here.
“A moment, Miss Willingham, my lords.” Aunt Phoebe had come forward to stand beside Portia. “My dear, we had not fixed our plans for this evening so completely.” The arch look Aunt Phoebe sent her made her catch her breath. “If you would prefer to attend the dress ball instead of the other entertainment, we can postpone that outing for another evening.”
“Oh, yes, thank you!” Portia squeezed the strings of her reticule to keep from jumping up and down with glee. “I would rather attend the Assembly Rooms than anything else in the world.”
“Then you may accept Lord Benberry’s and Lord Daventry’s requests if you wish.” Aunt Phoebe’s smile, though a bit strained, was genuine.
“My lord,” Portia said, turning to Lord Daventry, who had asked first. “I am happy to be able to give you the first dance this evening. And Lord Benberry, you may indeed have the supper dance.” She beamed at them, her heart filled to the brim with excitement. “I am very much looking forward to it.”
“Come then, Miss Willingham.” Aunt Phoebe took her arm. “We must finish our shopping and return home in order to prepare for the dance.” She glanced at the gentlemen and curtsied again. “Lord Marksby, Lord Benberry, Lord Daventry. Good afternoon.”
The Lady Apples quite forgotten, Aunt Phoebe steered her out of the shop and onto the busy Pulteney Bridge. They walked briskly for some minutes down the street, Portia so stunned by the turn of events she could not speak. They would go to the Assembly Rooms and she would dance with what had to be the two most handsome gentlemen in all of Bath. She could scarcely take it in.