Even a visit from Mother had proved surprisingly reassuring. She had not insisted Cecy join the others in riding; she obviously felt Cecy had done enough to win Lord Abbotsbury’s affection, saying as much when she relayed his concern.
“Oh, but he is enchanted by you! You have done well, my dear girl.”
The day had indeed proved restful, save for that moment when she’d watched the gentlemen ride out with Miss Fairley, and her heart had snagged. But no. She tilted her chin. That was for the best. She needed to forget him. Today, however, would prove the greater challenge, and she hoped the strength she found in God’s promises would be enough to steady her heart when she finally met him once again. She could do this. She would do this. She had to forget him.
She grasped the newel post at the bottom of the stairs, ignoring the concerned look of another footman, and progressed to the breakfast parlor from which came the sound of talk and laughter.
“Miss Hatherleigh!”
All eyes turned to her, forcing her to smile, to murmur greetings.
“How glad we are to see you looking so well.” Lord Robert stood, drawing close, offering her a smile. “Please, sit here beside me.” He drew out a chair. “Now, what can I tempt you to eat?”
She sank into the seat so gestured to, mentioned something about tea and toast, which he relayed to the butler standing in the corner.
“Please, make yourself comfortable.”
“Thank you. But really there is no need to—”
“Oh, but Miss Hatherleigh, we are so pleased to have you well again,” chirped Miss Hastings. “Wouldn’t you agree, Lord Abbotsbury?”
The look she shot the marquess appeared to hold more of a plea that made Cecy wonder why she was so keen for his agreement. But his gladness at her return amongst them certainly held nothing to wonder over; his smile, the light suffusing his features, his enquiry after her health certainly easy to comprehend. Mother’s approving nod only seemed to seal matters, and Cecy found herself relaxing in the warmth of his smile in a way she had never done before in her one-sided schoolgirl infatuation with Ned Amherst. Him she had yet to look at, his presence enough that she had cast a general smile and murmured appreciation for their good wishes at that end of the table without meeting anyone’s eyes.
Her plate was placed before her, and she carefully spread her toast with lime marmalade, “made from our own limes,” Lord Robert boasted proudly.
“Truly, Miss Hatherleigh, it is the most delicious compote I have ever tasted,” Miss Fairley said, smiling at her host in a manner which made Cecy suspect she wished to one day preside over this table.
“It is very tasty,” she agreed, when finally she could taste a bite.
“Now, I wonder what plans you all had for today. Perhaps the ladies might enjoy some more craft activities in the drawing room?” This being met with no positive confirmation, their hostess moved on to the next suggestion. “Well, it is a little warmer out. Perhaps some of you may wish to be driven about the estate. I don’t know if any of you are interested in ponies, but I’m told we have some very sweet little creatures in the enclosure beyond the stables.”
The half-hearted affirmation suggested this, too, had fallen short.
“Mama,” Lord Robert said, “I believe that the grounds are now well and truly dry enough for riding, so I propose those who wish to ride might find today makes for some good sport. We could even take some guns out and see if we could bag some pheasant or partridge.” He looked around the table. “What say you to that, eh?”
The enthusiasm this met with put his mother’s rather tamer suggestions well and truly in the shade, the younger ladies expressing their willingness to accompany the gentlemen on their sport. When Miss Fairley and Miss Hastings said as much, there was an exchange of glances which suggested the young gentlemen were, perhaps, not so enthused to be accompanied. But this soon passed as Miss Fairley’s gushing words about Lord Robert’s likely superiority in shooting prowess became a hotly contested issue for some minutes.
Cecy was forced to suppress more than one smile as she concentrated on her tea and toast. That was, until she heard Ned finally speak.
“I do not think Miss Hatherleigh will want to be around the guns.”
Her inner smile vanished. She placed her teacup down. “I beg your pardon?” She refused to look higher than his neckcloth. Higher, at his lips, or worse, his eyes, and she might lose the semblance of self-control with which she had armed herself this morning.
“Miss Hatherleigh, I am only concerned that if you felt unwell yesterday then it might be precipitous for you to be near the loud shots of gunfire today.”
If she felt unwell yesterday? Did he doubt her? Chin tilted, she returned her attention across the table to where Lord Abbotsbury sat, his forehead pleated.
“Perhaps Amherst is right,” he said. “I certainly would not wish your headache to return.”
“Thank you for your consideration,” she said, smiling as warmly as she knew how, “but I do believe some fresh air would be just the thing I would enjoy.”
“Then perhaps a walk might prove sufficient.”
“Perhaps it would,” she said with an archness she never knew she possessed, “but I do believe I would infinitely prefer to ride.”
“Forgive me, Miss Hatherleigh,” Ned interposed, “but I really feel riding would not be the thing for you at all.”
“Thank you for your concern, sir, but I am certain I am quite well.” How dare he make assumptions about her, acting for all intents and purposes as though he cared? She would not permit him to speak for her.
“I do believe my friend is a mite concerned about your welfare,” Lord Abbotsbury said in a low voice.
“Which is kind, but quite unnecessary, I assure you.”
“I do think Cecilia is of an age to know her own mind,” Mother said, her gaze fixed on the marquess. “Your concern towards my daughter is most appreciated, I assure you, my lord.”
Lord Abbotsbury inclined his head, his lips tweaking to one side, as he acknowledged Cecy with a twinkle in his eye. “Forgive me, Robert, but perhaps we could put off shooting until tomorrow. I for one would much prefer to explore the forest without guns.”
“Oh, but—”
“I agree with Abbotsbury,” Ned said, forcing her to peek at him again, to wonder at his continued consideration. Not that she cared. She didn’t care at all!
No more was said at the table about their proposed excursions; it seemed their hostess had resigned herself to only having the company of the older ladies, with everyone under the age of five and thirty deciding to ride. Cecy thought that was the end of it, until, as she was exiting the dining room, her name was called by that voice she did not want to hear.
“Miss Hatherleigh.”
She stiffened as Ned drew close, grasped her elbow, smiled. Her senses pricked at the delectable scent. A tremor within begged her to respond in kind. But no. She must be strong!
“Please, may I have a word?”
She eased her elbow from his grasp—who was he to treat her in such a proprietary manner?—and inched away. “I am sure whatever it is you wish to say can be said here.”
“I’m sure it cannot,” he murmured, a texture in his voice which instantly drew her eyes to his face.
Then wish she hadn’t. She glanced away, willing her oh-so-foolish heart to beat normally.
“Please, Cecy.”
Again, her breath suspended. She could count on one hand the number of times she had heard him speak to her in such tender tones, heard him dare to use the name none but her family used. But it meant nothing. He meant nothing! Lord, help me forget him, she prayed.
“I say, Amherst,” Lord Robert interrupted. “Do you plan to go riding with us? I think Abbotsbury is right, and we’ll put the shooting off until tomorrow. You may wish to let Miss Hatherleigh go so she can get changed. Pretty though her gown may be, I’m sure it would be rather tricky to ride in.”
“You are right,
sir.” Cecy curtsied. “If you’ll both excuse me.”
She moved to go past Ned. “Please, Miss Hatherleigh,” he said, in a voice throbbing with entreaty, “I truly wish to speak with you.”
Her traitorous heart! How could she, after all her talking to herself yesterday and the past two nights, still wish to respond to him? Lord, help me forget him. She straightened her spine. “Forgive me. I must go and get ready. I would not have my host and hostess upset because I am making everyone late.”
She hurried to the staircase, surprised to see Miss Fairley at the foot of the stairs. She would have supposed she had gone upstairs to change long ago.
Miss Fairley linked her arm in Cecy’s. “My dear Miss Hatherleigh, I am so glad you are feeling better.”
Why did her voice hold a note of artificiality?
“I wonder,” she continued as they slowly ascended the grand staircase, “would you indulge me if I ask a question of a more personal nature?”
She could ask; it didn’t mean Cecy would answer. “What is it you wish to know?”
“Oh, I just had wondered about whether you have feelings for Lord Robert.” She simpered. “I would not normally dare to ask someone such a thing, especially someone with whom I am a new acquaintance, but he seems to have taken a special interest in you, and I wanted to know if his feelings were reciprocated.”
Cecy removed her arm and turned to face her. “Miss Fairley, I do not believe this to be a matter that I am comfortable to speak about.”
The blue eyes filled with tears. “Oh, I knew I should not have said anything! Only it is so difficult to pretend not to care, especially when it feels like the gentleman one’s heart is set on is oblivious to one’s very existence.” She sighed dramatically. “And I do so want to know if I can dare to hope.”
Her feelings so exactly expressed what had been Cecy’s own for so many years that her indignation at the impertinence was assuaged. She said slowly, “I fear you quite mistake the matter. Lord Robert only demonstrates kindly interest in one of his guests, which is nothing more than anyone would do. If you believe him to hold warmer feelings for me, then I believe you are mistaken, and I certainly hold nothing of a partiality towards him.”
“Oh, Miss Hatherleigh, you have given me hope.” And her bright smile and little hug seemed to affirm that, as did her skip down the corridor to her bedchamber.
It was a good thing one of them had hope, Cecy thought sourly, yielding to the ministrations of the maid as she helped her into riding dress. The encounter downstairs had only served to confuse her muddled emotions, to make her dare to think hope might exist where none had before. That look in his eyes!
But no. She had to forget him. Had to! It was but two nights ago when she had written out her vow before God. When she had written the words she had felt a strange release, almost like her emotions lived in the ink, loosening the coils around her heart. Perhaps such a thing could be done again. As soon as she dismissed her maid she hurried to open the lap desk, to retrieve her pen, and quickly scrawled:
I do not care for Edward Amherst. He is too presumptuous, too proprietary, and I have no wish to further our acquaintance.
She dipped her pen, thinking. Did it work the other way, too? Could she make the feelings happen by writing them down? Not that she believed her pen to hold magical properties, but there was something powerful about the written word, something that made her eyes communicate to her brain then communicate to her heart that what was written must be true, and therefore what she wrote had power for her future.
She studied her page for a long time, then began to write.
I find the Marquess of Abbotsbury everything a young gentleman ought to be. And I would have no wish to see anything hinder our further acquaintance. Fortunately, Mother seems to agree …
He next saw her walking out to the stables, her close-cut riding gown nipped in to show her tiny waist and perfect figure to advantage. Somehow, he knew her avoidance of his eyes at the breakfast table would only translate to a refusal to let him help her mount her horse, so he held back, let Simon boost her into the saddle, where she spent a moment arranging her skirt until she pronounced herself satisfied.
He did not understand. What had changed that his neighbor, his confidante, his little friend, no longer wanted to look at him, no longer wanted to speak with him, in fact seemed to have a bevy of people surrounding her to ensure he could not? Every time he wanted to speak with her someone else interrupted. Frustrated envy filled the cavern of his chest, a hot, boiling mass. But how could he begrudge his friend, the one who was far more suitable to offer her marriage? How could he deny her the happiness she would surely find with Simon, in a way that she was less assured to find with Ned? He could not do that to her, could he?
Muttering a prayer for help, he joined the others at the start of the long drive. Cecilia was bending down to her mother, smiling at her mother’s wishes to be careful. Ned wished he might have the right to offer his promise of protection, but it appeared Simon had already done so, and was receiving the thanks he wished he could obtain.
“I wonder, Mr. Amherst,” cooed Miss Hastings beside him, “if you would mind adjusting my girth.”
Ned glanced at her, saw her look of innocence, and rather than summoning a groom to assist her—which she very easily could have done—slid from his saddle, handing her the reins, and tightened the leather strap as she requested.
Miss Hastings chattered at him all the while, her conversation and smiled attentions wearying. Once he glanced up to see Cecy look away. A second stolen glance saw her attention firmly fixed on Simon. His heart grew sore once more.
Miss Hastings finally declared herself ready, and he remounted, glad the delay was not so long that they had been left behind. Honor demanded he ride beside her—it would not be gentlemanly to gallop ahead as he might prefer.
They began to trot down the avenue, the stately trees either side giving Aldershot House a grandeur that suggested it had been here for hundreds of years, rather than the mere seventy its newer construction suggested.
His companion kept up her ceaseless chatter, enquiring for his opinion about everything from the chirrup of a bird (“a starling”) to what type of tree was that (“an oak”). He had not realized until that moment that her primary aim seemed to be to fix her interest with him, and her delaying tactics were enough for him to spur his hack to greater speed, with a shouted call for a race, a race fueled as much from desire to leave her as from desire to rejoin the others.
He found the rest of the party near the clearing he’d stumbled across once before. A few nods, a few knowing glances almost put him to the blush, but he could not afford to add greater consequence to suspicions, and made an effort to mingle with the rest of the party.
But Miss Hastings appeared to want none of that. “Oh, Mr. Amherst, what do you think of my riding bonnet?”
“Very fetching.”
“Oh, thank you! You are a true gentleman. Is he not?” She glanced around as if to make enquiry of the other riders, seemingly unaware that it was not precisely the thing for one gentleman to make comments about another. Such disregard did not dissuade her.
“Do you not think Lord Abbotsbury rides very well?”
“I do.”
“These mud puddles are really quite extensive, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“I do not think Miss Hatherleigh is enjoying this ride very much, do you?”
He glanced over to where his neighbor rode stiffly, her face holding such an expression that he strongly suspected she was not taking any pleasure in this ride. He frowned. Since when did she ever truly enjoy riding? That was her younger sister’s domain, not Cecy’s, who had always been one more for indoor pursuits and personal sacrifice rather than pleasure. So why now? Was it so very presumptuous to think it might have something to do with him?
His heart writhed. This was akin to agony. How could he pretend her refusal to look at him did not hurt? He needed to make
things right, if it was the last thing he did. Lord, give me an opportunity …
The tension lining his heart eased a mite. Somehow, he would have to trust God to work things out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FİVE
WHAT KIND OF fool pretended she wanted to ride when such a thing only caused her bottom and head to ache? Cecilia Hatherleigh’s particular brand of fool, she grumbled to herself, her legs and back already paining. Really, one should have had some type of practice before resuming the saddle, something she had not done in weeks. But pride, her stupid, stupid pride had not bent to Ned’s proffered wisdom, and instead she was riding in a cool breeze when really she’d prefer to be curled up warm and toasty, reading in bed. At least Sorrel was prettily behaved, she thought, patting her mare’s dark mane.
“Miss Hatherleigh?” Lord Abbotsbury glanced at her, concern writ in his eyes. “Are you well enough?”
She smiled her reassurance. “Well enough.”
He nodded, his face lighting as he smiled warmly at her. Oh, why could she feel nothing for him, why could she not find his many excellent qualities sufficient to charm her heart? Were she to make a list of the marquess’s good qualities and compare them to someone else, she would be sure to find his qualities extended much, much further. Lord, just a spark of interest would be enough! Surely just a spark could, by extensive contemplation on his good qualities, be enough to kindle to something warmer, something deeper, something real. Love was not merely about physical attraction, after all. She could recognize and appreciate such qualities already; surely it would only be a matter of time before something stronger would develop. Wouldn’t it?
She sighed, thankful for the thud of hooves and snatches of conversation that hid her discontent. How much longer need she stay? When would be an acceptable time to return? She suspected few of the gentlemen would wish to return so soon—although perhaps the slightly more portly Mr. Bettingsley might—and the other ladies appeared to be inclined to continue their ride, seeing as their main goal was to secure the interest of the young gentlemen they were with. She held her gaze away from Ned. It did not matter with whom he spoke. He was behind her. She was forgetting him. Lord, help me forget him!
Underestimating Miss Cecilia Page 25