by Farr, Diane
The duke coughed. The conversation was obviously growing a little too crude for his austere taste. “Sarah, child, come you here,” he commanded, patting the stool before him. “Tell your Grandpapa what you did today.”
Sarah obediently left Derek’s side and went to sit with her grandfather. Derek, still holding Pippa, pulled Malcolm aside.
“I’ve listened to Natalie all afternoon. Now I’d like to hear what you think,” he said, lowering his voice so the others could not hear. “Is it true that your brother and his brood are hanging about, waiting for her to deliver the babe? Can we do anything to encourage them to leave?”
Malcolm gave a short laugh. “Well, that’s frank,” he remarked.
“Sorry! I’ve nothing against Lord Grafton—”
Malcolm waved this off. “I know, I know. But you’re quite right; Arthur and his lot have no business crowding round while my poor wife is trying to deliver a child. The weight of everyone’s expectations is a bit much. I feel it myself.”
“His Grace referred to the babe a moment ago as >he.’”
Malcolm’s lips pursed ruefully. “He does so on a regular basis. And the rest of the family has fallen into the same habit, I’m afraid.”
“I say, Malcolm—” Derek hesitated, then plunged ahead. “They do think of Natalie as a Chase by now, don’t they? What I mean is—”
“I know what you mean,” Malcolm interrupted. “And yes, they do. Her acceptance here is not contingent upon her producing a boy.”
“Well, that’s all right, then,” said Derek, relieved. “The thing is, you know, Natalie once feared that your family would disapprove of her. I’ve always been grateful that your parents seemed to accept her without a murmur—but I’ve wondered, and I daresay Natalie has as well, how much of that was due to… well… the circumstances of your marriage.”
Malcolm grinned. “You mean the fact that I never mentioned her to my family until I had already married her?”
Derek grinned back. “Well, yes. Since you put it so bluntly.”
Malcolm shrugged. “If my parents felt any qualms about my choice of bride, they never expressed them. Perhaps they never felt any.”
“The point is, dear chap, we’ll never know,” said Derek dryly. “Since you presented them with a fait accompli.”
Malcolm’s gaze traveled to his wife, and his expression softened. “I admit, it never crossed my mind at the time. I wanted her, and I married her. I daresay I should have dragged her up here and put her through her paces beforehand—to set her own mind at ease, if nothing else. But Natalie has a natural elegance about her, an elegance of mind as well as an air of good breeding. And if that weren’t enough to win over my starchy relations, the fact that she makes me very happy—not to mention my little Sarah—was more than enough to seal the bargain. Everyone adores her, Derek, as I knew they would.” He turned back to his brother-in-law, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. “She knows it, herself, when she’s not suffering through the end of a pregnancy. Producing a child apparently turns a woman’s brains to mush.”
“So I’ve heard.” Derek cocked an eyebrow at Malcolm. “It occurs to me that if you can’t convince the others to depart, you might take Natalie somewhere else. Even the dower house—”
“Out of the question.” Malcolm rubbed his chin, frowning. “Tempting as it sounds. My father would be furious, in his own subtle way.” He straightened, animated by a new thought. “It’s bad enough that the family is hanging about, but did you know we’ve got outsiders here as well? Ghastly. You’ll meet them in a minute, I daresay. The Ellsworths. They’re very old friends, but this is the wrong time to fill the house with people whom Natalie doesn’t know. And then, to top it off, Lady Ballymere and her daughter landed on us—complete strangers, at least to Natalie and me—and we’re stuck with them as well.”
Derek had spent the better part of an hour mentally preparing for this moment, when someone would mention Cynthia. Still, he had to consciously relax his shoulders to keep his tension from showing. “That’s odd,” he said casually. “What brings those two here?”
Malcolm shrugged. “Apparently Lady Cynthia was invited by Hannah, God alone knows why. You’ll remember Hannah, Derek. Arthur’s middle daughter. The two eldest married last year and the two youngest aren’t ‘out’ yet, so Hannah is the young lady of the family these days. At any rate, once she invited Lady Cynthia, Lady Ballymere had to be included. And now they mean to stop here until the roads improve.” His voice had gone very dry. “Since the roads are generally abysmal in England, no one can fathom how long their visit might last.”
“Well, the roads are in bad shape at the moment,” Derek admitted. “I can vouch for that. But you’re right; even in the best of conditions, one never knows when a sudden downpour will render the roads impassable. What’s their game?”
“Game?”
“What’s their true reason for coming here? If you know.”
Derek realized, too late, that his tone sounded unnaturally urgent. Malcolm looked mildly surprised. “That’s a strange question. Do you think they have some ulterior motive?”
The answer was yes, but Derek could not say so without opening a can of worms. While he wrestled with how to reply, Pippa suddenly began squirming. “Down,” she demanded. Derek obliged, and she scampered off to clutch at her mother’s ample skirts.
The door was opening again. Derek’s nerves jangled briefly, anticipating Cynthia’s entrance, but subsided when Malcolm’s older brother, Arthur Chase, Lord Grafton, entered with Lady Grafton. Three of their five daughters trailed in their wake. Directly behind them came several persons whom Derek did not recognize. His interest piqued, he studied them intently. These must be the Ellsworths—the hapless targets of Cynthia’s greed.
Sir Peter was a genial-appearing soul. Lady Ellsworth seemed pleasant as well. The son, however, was the member of the party that irresistibly drew Derek’s eye. He was younger than Derek had thought he would be—and utterly unremarkable. Modest of height, modest of dress, he had a slightly pompous way about him that added nothing to his consequence. He wasn’t ugly. He was simply ordinary.
Derek felt slightly let down. He had hoped to find something spectacular about John Ellsworth. Whether he had anticipated spectacular loathsomeness, such as Filey had had, or spectacular worthiness, he hardly knew. But something. Nothing whatsoever stood out about Mr. Ellsworth. In fact, the chap was downright muffin-faced.
Apart from his wealth, was there anything about Mr. Ellsworth that might honestly attract a female? Especially a female of Cynthia’s radiant beauty? Derek burned with unholy curiosity. As soon as he decently could, after greeting Lord Grafton and his family and making his bow to Sir Peter and Lady Ellsworth, he went to shake John Ellsworth’s hand. He was determined to engage the fellow in conversation. He was a little ashamed of the impulse that drove him, but he could not resist.
Mr. Ellsworth’s face was round and his hands were soft. He was so much shorter than Derek that Derek could see where, notwithstanding his youth, Mr. Ellsworth’s hair was thinning at the crown of his head. Still, he seemed a harmless sort of chap. He beamed up at Derek in a vague, good-natured way upon making his acquaintance.
“Whittaker, isn’t it? Ah de do? They tell me you’re Lady Malcolm’s brother.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Well, well. Daresay she’ll be glad to have a familiar face about.”
“I hope so.” Derek cudgeled his brain to think of something to say. “I understand you live in Derbyshire.”
Mr. Ellsworth perked up. “Yes, that’s right. D’you know Derbyshire?”
“No.”
“Ah.”
There seemed to be nothing more to say. Mr. Ellsworth hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat and rocked on his heels, humming under his breath.
“You a sporting man, Mr. Ellsworth?”
“Eh? Oh—ah—not much. I’ve been known to take a rod out from time to time. Bit of an angler, you k
now.” He illustrated his words with a helpful casting motion, to prevent misunderstanding.
“Is the fishing good in Derbyshire?”
“Tolerable. Tolerable.” He rocked again, humming. “Don’t get out as often as I would like,” he added at last.
The conversation ground once more to a halt. Derek opened his mouth to try again, but the drawing room door opened and he made the mistake of glancing up.
Whatever words he had been about to say died on his lips. His brain seemed to disconnect from his body and float up to the ceiling. There his wits hovered, out of reach, while he gaped like a hapless idiot below.
Cynthia. The sight of her caused him actual, physical pain. It was as if Cupid’s evil shadow had arrived, firing arrows dipped in poison. How could a man harden his heart against such beauty? The answer was, he couldn’t. All he could do was stand his ground while the arrows hit home, one by one by one. A quiverful of anguish, aimed unerringly at Derek’s bosom. He could almost hear their stinging onslaught: Ping. Ping. Ping.
He dragged his eyes from the vision that was Cynthia and forced himself to concentrate, however dazedly, on the woman who entered with her. This must be Lady Ballymere. She was a slim, pretty, nervous-looking woman, as high-strung and graceful as a thoroughbred mare. As she glided into the room, she gave a rather artificial-sounding laugh.
“Dear me! We always seem to be the last to arrive. I hope we have not kept you waiting, Your Grace.”
“Not at all, Lady Ballymere,” said the duchess placidly. “We have still several minutes before the hour strikes. Are you acquainted with everyone here, I wonder? I think you may not have met Mr. Whittaker; he has only arrived this afternoon.”
Lady Ballymere turned to Derek with an overly bright smile. “No, I don’t believe we have met.”
The duchess extended her hand, indicating that Derek should step forward. “Pray allow me to introduce you. Lady Ballymere, this is Lady Malcolm’s brother, Derek Whittaker. Mr. Whittaker, Lady Ballymere.”
Derek managed a creditable bow and said the expected phrase. “Your servant, my lady.”
What a blessing social rituals were. At times of crisis, they were invaluable. No need for rational thought; one simply moved and spoke as one had moved and spoken a hundred times before.
Lady Ballymere’s sharp gaze flicked over Derek. Her smile, already patently false, cooled even further. “How do you do?” she said coldly.
This was so strange that Derek’s befuddled wits gathered and focused. Lady Ballymere was evidently taking him in dislike. He could not imagine what he had done to offend her. Nothing whatsoever, it seemed, since he had never laid eyes on her until this moment.
It occurred to him that this must be where Cynthia had learned her manners. His lip curled in cynical amusement.
The duchess, oblivious to the hostility gathering in the air around her, gestured toward Cynthia. “Lady Cynthia, may I present Mr. Whittaker?”
Cynthia had stayed in the shadows near the door. Now she moved quietly into the light. “Thank you, Your Grace, but Mr. Whittaker and I have already met.” She paused. Derek wondered whether she would acknowledge meeting him in London. Evidently she would not. She continued with, “He very kindly escorted me back to the house today, after my mare cast a shoe.”
“Indeed?” The duchess looked from one to the other. Derek had no idea what, if anything, his expression conveyed; he could feel a muscle jump in his jaw as he tried to appear impassive. Cynthia gave nothing away. She stood with eyes downcast, detachedly studying the carpet. He envied her her poise.
“Well, that was highly fortunate,” said Her Grace, with her customary calm. “I am sorry to hear that your mount went lame. So distressing! I shall send word to the stables that they must be more careful. I’m glad you were not hurt, my dear.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
Lady Ballymere was still watching Derek through slightly narrowed eyes. “I vow, ‘twas monstrous kind of you to take my daughter up in your carriage, Mr. Whittaker.”
She did not sound grateful. She sounded highly suspicious. Nettled, Derek gave her an urbane smile. A‘Twas even kinder than you think it was, Lady Ballymere, since I had no carriage. We had to share a horse.”
He had hoped, uncharitably, that his words would annoy her. But the effect was more than he had bargained for. Lady Ballymere’s eyes widened in momentary shock—and, he could have sworn, fear. She shot a look at Cynthia that he could not interpret, then turned back to him.
“I hope my daughter did not inconvenience you,” she said. Her lips were stiff with disapproval.
What was the matter with her? He tried to make his smile more convincing. “Not at all.” He meant to reassure her. However, he could not resist adding, “It was my horse that was inconvenienced. I was merely crowded a trifle.”
Lady Ballymere plainly did not like the picture that his remark conjured. Her lips compressed into a thin line. “Crowded? I see. But I suppose you could have relieved the crowding, had you elected to lead the animal.”
“Certainly,” Derek agreed. “That would have been easier on the horse. But not nearly as enjoyable for me.”
John Ellsworth gave a muffled guffaw, and Lord Grafton’s three daughters giggled. But the duke and duchess were not amused, and neither was Lady Ballymere.
Cynthia’s glacial calm seemed undisturbed, but Derek was hyper-aware of her. He sensed, rather than saw, the anxiety that quivered through her at his jibe. She immediately intervened to break the moment, stepping languidly forward to say—with every appearance of boredom—“It was a large horse, Mama, and the distance was not great. I believe Mr. Whittaker is joking you.”
“Is he? I see,” said Lady Ballymere tonelessly. “Very amusing.”
Chapter 5
She could feel his eyes on her. At every lull in the conversation they fell on her, willing her to look up and return his gaze. Resisting their pull took enormous concentration. She longed to meet his gaze. She wished she dared to stare right back at him. She wished he would look away, so she might have the luxury of gazing her fill of him! But that was unthinkable, of course. Even were it possible to sneak a glance at him undetected, she would not dare to try. She must not. Derek Whittaker was not for her.
Avoiding Derek’s eyes seemed to diminish the rest of her senses. She tasted none of her dinner. She heard none of the pleasantries that flowed around her. When called upon to contribute to the conversation, she answered almost at random. By the time the covers were cleared away, her head ached with the effort to behave normally. Beneath her calm exterior, every nerve was jumping.
In addition to Derek’s burning gaze, she was keenly aware of her mother watching her with accusing eyes. Cynthia felt trapped between the two of them. Derek she could avoid—she hoped—but Mama’s recriminations must be dealt with. It was best to get them over with sooner rather than later. When the ladies withdrew from the table, Cynthia deliberately fell into step beside her mother, bracing herself for yet another trial.
She was not kept waiting. Lady Ballymere took her arm at once, leaning in so they would not be overheard.
“You did not tell me that Mr. Whittaker shared his saddle with you.”
Cynthia shrugged, trying to appear indifferent. “Did I not? I suppose it did not strike me as important.”
“It strikes me as important.” Her tone had a definite edge to it. “You are not the blacksmith’s daughter! Why did you not have a groom with you? Or a footman?”
“This is not our home, Mama. We are guests. I thought it would be vastly inconsiderate, to take a servant away from his tasks merely to suit my whim.”
Her mother pounced on this. “In that case, you should have asked Mr. Ellsworth to accompany you. He is a guest as well, with nothing better to do. I’m sure he would have been happy to oblige.”
“It did not occur to me to ask him,” said Cynthia truthfully.
Lady Ballymere frowned in exasperation. “Cynthia, when will you learn to co
nsult me before you act?” she exclaimed. “There are so few situations where a lady may, with perfect propriety, spend time alone with a gentleman! Had you asked Mr. Ellsworth to ride out with you, you might have furthered your acquaintance without poor Hannah following you about like a tanthony pig.”
Cynthia felt herself tense. She did not like to hear her mother speak disparagingly of her one and only friend. Cynthia had many admirers, but friends, she had found, were harder to come by.
“Mama, pray do not forget that we owe our presence here to Hannah’s invitation.”
“I do not forget it,” said Lady Ballymere crossly. “It’s just unfortunate that Lady Hannah demands so much of your attention. Attention that would be better bestowed elsewhere.” This last was said in a significant whisper. “I merely point out that you squandered an opportunity today.”
“Yes, Mama,” said Cynthia listlessly. “I will try to do better.”
Lady Ballymere seemed mollified by this. She patted her daughter’s arm and addressed her in a more affectionate tone. “The truth, I suppose, is that you simply wanted to ride alone. You have ever been thus.”
This was a safer subject. Cynthia embraced it with gratitude. “I am fond of solitude,” she admitted.
“I daresay your father and I have indulged you overmuch.” Lady Ballymere gave a regretful little sigh. “We ought to have impressed upon you that a lady does not ride about the countryside unchaperoned. It is dangerous.”
A ripple of laughter escaped Cynthia. “Dangerous? I am an excellent horsewoman. Papa saw to that.”
Her mother’s irritated frown returned. “I do not doubt your skill, Cynthia. But I’m afraid I must question your judgment. It adds nothing to your consequence, to be seen sharing a horse with a gentleman. I cannot imagine why you consented to do so.” She pulled her shawl more closely round her shoulders, giving the fringe a sharp little tug. “And, to be sure, it says little for Mr. Whittaker’s judgment,” she added tartly. “Taking you up before him, as if you were the veriest hoyden. Most ill-bred, upon my word! Far, far too familiar. But then, he seems a flippant, disrespectful young man. He should have given you his horse. You should have insisted upon it, my dear.”