by J. A. Rock
Warry’s insides turned to ice. He would be there of course. Balfour would insist on it. But the day of Balfour’s ball also marked the end of the week that Balfour had given their courtship before he turned up at the Warringtons’ to declare his intentions to the earl. Would the Warringtons have two engagements to announce that night?
Warry wrinkled his nose and strove to keep his tone sullen rather than panicked. “Of course I will. Though nobody will even notice me with Becca and Hartwell to gush over.”
“Nonsense, darling.” Lady Warrington sat beside him on the chaise longue, smoothing the fall of her dress with a delicate, practiced hand. “Getting your oldest child engaged is like finally pulling the stuck cork out of a bottle. It pops free, and all the contents come rushing out!” Her brow creased, and she reached over to pat him gently on the knee. “Did I just compare my darlings to a bottle of wine? Perhaps, but no matter—now that the cork is popped and Becca is engaged, you will start to receive plenty of interest. As will Charlotte, though she’s only seventeen!”
Warry nodded warily. Obviously his father hadn’t yet spoken to her of Warry’s interest in his “friend” Lord Balfour. Or maybe he had, and this was her way of reminding him that he still had plenty of prospects to choose from, and perhaps he should be looking elsewhere. Warry doubted it though; his mother had never been one for keeping her feelings on a subject to herself, especially when the subject was her children. She was direct to the point of shocking bluntness on occasion, a sin gladly forgiven by her large circle of friends because she was beautiful, rich, and tangentially related to the House of Hanover. Warry loved her desperately and wished he had inherited her same forthrightness instead of the awkward timidity he’d got from…well, he wasn’t entirely sure where it had come from. Perhaps he was just the useless runt of his parents’ otherwise robust litter.
And speak of the devil.
A small figure barrelled through the doorway, his leading strings trailing from his frock. At three, Clarence was almost old enough for a skeleton suit and probably far too old for leading strings, but he was something of an escapee and had never seen a doorway—or a window—he didn’t try to rush through in search of new adventure.
He glared at Warry and his mother, and then made a beeline for Warry’s leftover cake.
“Oh, where are your manners?” Lady Warrington chided as Clarence smashed a fistful of cake in his face as though she hadn’t just done the same thing, albeit with more delicacy. “You could choke, darling!”
“We can only hope,” Warry said sardonically. He personally thought that, when it came to swallowing cake, Clarence could unhinge his jaw like a snake’s.
His mother didn’t seem to notice. She clapped her hands together like a young girl. “Oh, isn’t it just wonderful? I have invited the Hartwells to tea this afternoon to celebrate the soon-to-be joining of our families.”
Warry’s stomach dropped. If this day could get any worse, he wasn’t sure how. “Please stop saying ‘isn’t it wonderful,’” he muttered.
“When it stops being so wonderful, I shall stop saying it is so.” She frowned at him, tugging his unknotted cravat lightly. “You really should change before tea. You look frightfully discomposed.”
Warry glanced at his trousers. Passed a hand through his mussed and dirty hair. “I shall not come to tea.”
“Don’t be absurd. We must have the whole family assembled. Even the little ones.” She glanced fondly at Clarence, who had crumbs all over his plump, sticky face.
“Ah yes, that makes me so much more inclined to attend.”
His mother shot him a glare of warning. “Stop being difficult.”
“Top berng difficuwt!” Clarence echoed through his mouthful of cake.
“I have a headache.” Warry hoped he sounded reasonable, despite the childish whine trying to creep into his voice.
“Oh, pooh. Some fresh air will do you good. It’s a lovely day. We will serve tea in the garden.”
“I said I do not wish to be in attendance!” he snapped.
His mother stared at him, her shock evident. Warry felt a flash of guilt, but it was quickly replaced by anger. He fairly launched himself upright and stalked out of the room, slapping the doorframe as he exited—a gesture that was both less satisfying and more painful than he’d expected. He pounded up the stairs, shutting his bedroom door so firmly behind him that it echoed through the house.
An hour later, he was seated at the garden table in fresh clothes. Becca sat to his right and Hartwell across the table from her. Warry snuck occasional glances at Hartwell, who looked well in a gold waistcoat with a crisp white shirt underneath. Hartwell studiously avoided looking at him, which was just as well.
Warry was still smarting from the chiding his mother had given him through his bedroom door. But the mood at the table was every bit as horrid as he had been imagining. His mother chattered gaily, his father offering a grunt of agreement every now and then around a finger sandwich. The Duke of Ancaster kept laughing heartily as though every word out of Lady Warrington’s mouth were a witticism while the duchess, Hartwell’s mother, remarked repeatedly on the excellent quality of the tea. The only saving grace was that Warry’s Clarence had made such a fuss that he’d been sent from the table in the company of the governess.
Becca kept a placid smile on her face throughout but seemed a million miles away. Hartwell put far too much effort into appearing glad of his engagement, even taking Becca’s hand at one point, which turned her serene smile to a look of confusion before she seemed to realise she should be pleased at the display of affection. Charlotte had a series of questions for Becca about how Hartwell had proposed, and it was clear from Becca’s vague answers that the proposal story was not one worth sharing. Warry imagined it had been made in haste—and in anger—by a pathetic, selfish man who could not make up his mind what he wanted.
Or was it he who had strung Hartwell along? he wondered guiltily. His head pounded such that he could no longer recall who had begun whatever strange game they were playing. He only knew that he was miserably ashamed of himself, for many reasons.
And that Hartwell had embraced him that night in Ancaster’s library. Had fairly begged him to say what was on his mind.
I do not like to see you hurt.
Warry had been the one to walk away.
Hartwell had returned Warry’s kiss. He had returned it with such passion and tenderness, with such undeniable need. But then, instead of saying aloud that he desired Warry, instead of praising Warry’s beauty or murmuring sweet words to him, he had pushed him away. As though Warry were once more the annoying younger brother following along on an adventure. Go home, Warry. You are not needed here.
“Go back to him. Since you care for him so.”
Warry had already spent most of the Marchlands’ party in forced conversation with Balfour about the man’s many fine possessions, tensing each time Balfour let slip hints about what he might like to do with Warry once they were wed. He had made himself smile. Made himself laugh, made himself dance. Made himself recall that he deserved this for putting Becca in danger. To kiss Hartwell after all that had felt like salvation, however briefly. To be pushed away and ordered back to Balfour had been…
He ought not to think of it.
All he knew was that he would rather spend another evening on a settee with Balfour, attempting to appear bright and animated through a one-sided conversation about Balfour’s sherry collection than spend another moment in the garden.
He drained the last of his tea and stood. “If you’ll excuse me—” he began.
“Oh, Warry!” His mother waved him back down. She addressed the table. “I fear our Warry is a bit envious to see his sister so happily engaged.”
The blood drained from his face.
She went on. “I told him not to fret. Rebecca having been spoken for—with the Season scarcely underway, I might add—he will see an outpouring of attention. He will make a match of his own in no time!”
The blood flooded back to his face in hot streaks as the Duke of Ancaster laughed and agreed.
“I am not envious,” he said, trying hard to keep the fury from his tone. “I merely wish to rest.”
Charlotte tugged Warry’s sleeve. “Oh, Warry, do stay. I never see you anymore.”
He was aware of the message behind the words: Sit down. Smile. Act as though everything is marvellous, or mother will have a fit later.
Warry, coward that he was and always had been, discounting one brief and ill-fated moment last night, sat. All eyes were on him—except for Hartwell’s, which were determinedly on his plate.
“Perhaps Warry does not desire a match,” Becca said suddenly, loudly. “Some people do not, you know.”
Their mother’s smile faltered. “Yes, well. Some may believe it is not what they want, but marriage is one of life’s great joys.” She turned to her husband as though for affirmation.
“Hmm?” Earl Warrington glanced up, his mouth full of seedcake, which he promptly swallowed. “Oh, yes. Yes, it’s…something.” He coughed. “To be cherished,” he added hastily.
“I wasn’t even sure I wanted to marry George at first,” the Duchess of Ancaster confessed, placing her fingers over her lips as though to belatedly stifle the small squeak of laughter she let out.
The duke laughed uproariously. “I only had to ask her three times!”
There was general laughter, including a peal of giggles from Charlotte, who looked back and forth between members of the table as though she was uncertain what, precisely, they were all laughing at.
Then Hartwell’s voice boomed out, cutting through the near-manic gaiety. “Well, of course Warry wants a match. One need only note the happiness in his eyes when he looks upon Lord Balfour.”
Silence fell. Warry felt something inside him wrench painfully, but he was far too shocked to speak.
Hartwell chewed the last of his seedcake, glancing around the table. “I’m so sorry,” he said in unconvincing penitence, his gaze meeting Warry’s for a mere second. “I assumed it was common knowledge that Warry and Balfour are courting.”
Warry stared at Hartwell, hoping upon hope that the force of his anger might be enough to drop the fellow dead. It was not, alas—nor was the vicious kick Becca dealt Hartwell under the table—and the marquess remained very much alive. He met Warry’s eye and held his gaze this time, speaking deliberately. “You did say you were no longer afraid for Society to know how much you cared for him. Forgive me.”
Lady Warrington had initially made a small, sharp gasp at the news, and now she said tentatively, “Lord Balfour?”
Earl Warrington cleared his throat. “I was not sure when Warry wished to make it public, but I suppose congratulations are in order on that end too.” He raised his teacup as though it were a champagne flute and knocked his tea back with such haste it seemed his throat would be scalded.
“You knew?” Lady Warrington demanded.
Ancaster seemed to have run out of things to laugh at. He addressed the earl seriously. “You would allow your eldest son, your best hope for an heir, to court a…a man?”
Earl Warrington’s eyes narrowed slightly. There was tension between his father and the duke that Warry had not noticed before. “I wish for my son to do what makes him happy.”
“Well, Balfour certainly makes him happy,” Hartwell said, taking a page out of Earl Warrington’s book and throwing back his tea as though it were a stiff belt of whiskey.
“If only anyone gave a single thought as to what might make me happy,” Becca said archly.
“Whatever do you mean?” Hartwell’s reply fairly dripped sarcasm. “Surely we are the happiest couple in London right now?”
Charlotte was glancing up and down the table once more. “I’m confused. Is everybody…not really happy?”
“You know”—Ancaster suddenly placed both palms firmly on the table—“I could do with a bit of exercise. William has told me you have a wonderful archery range on the other side of those trees.” He gestured at the copse.
“Ooh!” Charlotte squealed. “Yes, let us have an archery practice!”
Even Becca seemed genuinely cheered by the prospect. “Oh, might we?”
Hartwell clearly struggled to smile. “An excellent idea. I should like to know who the better shot is between my future wife and me.” He glanced across the table. “Warry? What do you say we fire a few arrows?”
Ancaster went first and proved himself a respectable shot. His son followed and did abysmally, managing to land one arrow of three on the outer edge of the target. The others were lost somewhere upon the grass.
Becca went to retrieve the arrows and then returned to the line, panting and fanning herself. “I ought not to have changed into my archer’s jacket,” she said breathlessly, laughing. “It may give my arms more freedom, but I am sweating like a hog.”
“Becca,” her mother hissed. “Ladies do not speak of sweat. Or hogs.”
“Or freedom,” Becca muttered. She took her place before the target, nocking her first arrow. “Come, watch how it is done, William!” Everyone’s mood seemed to have improved significantly, except for Warry’s. He would have bargained with the devil to get the day to end.
Becca sank her first arrow into the centre of the target. Then her second, then her third.
She crowed in triumph; the sound echoed by Charlotte. Hartwell whistled and hurried to fetch the arrows.
“See that you don’t ever get on the wrong side of your future wife, William!” Ancaster called jovially.
“My turn!” Charlotte cried.
“Be careful,” Becca chided her. “Do not kill anyone.”
“It was one time,” Charlotte protested. “And I didn’t kill Lord Thickbeard. Merely frightened him.”
“Charlotte!” their mother hissed. “We do not name gentlemen according to the thickness of their facial hair.”
Becca rolled her eyes, taking an arrow from Hartwell and passing it to Charlotte. “It was closer than was at all comfortable.”
Two of Charlotte’s arrows missed the target entirely, but the third landed near the bullseye. Charlotte was ecstatic. “Warry, your turn!” She passed him the bow.
Warry stepped up to the line, making a desperate deal with God that if he shot one round, God would send him a thunderstorm or a flood or a rain of brimstone; anything that would put an end to the horrible afternoon and, preferably, wipe Hartwell from the face of the earth. To think he had felt sympathy for the man, wondered if the mess they were in was his own fault. Yes, Hartwell had comforted him in the library and kissed him tenderly in the Marchland’s garden and suggested, on both occasions, that they belonged to each other in some way neither of them seemed able to define. But he had also pushed Warry away last night, announced Warry’s courtship of Balfour to both of their families, humiliated him once more.
“Perhaps Warry will be so kind as to shoot wide and make me feel better about my fiancée showing me up,” the man in question remarked from behind him.
Swiftly, calmly, as though his mind were divorced from his body, Warry fired three arrows, one after the other, directly into the bullseye.
Silence greeted his triumph where cheers had greeted Becca’s, but then he realised he had somehow filtered out all sound that was not Hartwell’s voice, which murmured, “No, I suppose not,” without a trace of its previous good humour.
Becca clapped and bounced on her toes. “I can’t believe my younger brother is beginning to match me in skill! Look sharp, William. You are by far the poorest shot of the group.”
Warry turned and found himself staring directly at Hartwell. “If only you knew what you were aiming for,” he said icily, “perhaps you would not fire so blindly.”
“You fired so many arrows so rapidly. Was it not enough to sink just one?”
“You might tell me.” Warry’s gaze flicked to Becca.
“I’ll try again,” Hartwell said without looking away from Warry. “I feel qui
te warmed up now.”
Becca fanned lightly under her arms. “I’m afraid I cannot make the trek to the target again. Warry, be a dear and fetch the arrows but leave one in the centre. I wish to try to split it after William has had his turn, and I know he won’t plant any in the bullseye.”
Seething, Warry headed for the target, glancing up at the sky to see if God had any intention of making good on their deal. The sky remained a vivid blue with soft white clouds and a bright sun.
He heard Hartwell say, “Where is that extra arrow? Ah, Charlotte, might you show me how you nock it?”
Warry reached the target and pulled several arrows out, leaving one in the bullseye. He started back toward the line, then hesitated, looking back at the holes in the target and remembering a day long ago spent fetching arrows for Becca and Hartwell as they practised. Hartwell had been a poor shot then too.
As he turned round to continue forward, there were gasps, and a shriek—and in the same instant an arrow buried itself in the ground, inches from his feet.
He looked up, not quite sure what had happened. He saw Hartwell standing at the line, holding the bow. Charlotte was beside him, her hands clapped over her mouth.
“I am sorry,” Hartwell said, looking to the others but not at Warry. He sounded rather stunned. “I meant only to practise my form. I did not mean to loose the arrow.”
Becca looked angry enough to tear out her intended’s eyes. “You could have killed him!”
Warry glanced down at the feathered shaft sticking up from the grass, then back at Hartwell.
Yes, he could have. Last night, certainly. If Hartwell had kept going, if he hadn’t pushed Warry away, Warry might have died in bliss. No fewer than a dozen times over the past years, Hartwell could have slain him with a look, a word, a touch, and Warry would have welcomed it.
Ancaster tried to laugh. “Perhaps Lady Rebecca would be so kind as to help my son adjust his form. He seems quite hopeless.”