by Wilma Counts
Zachary raised an eyebrow, but decided not to pursue a topic that was, after all, none of his business. “As I said, I wish you happy and I shall be glad to witness your wedding.”
“Thank you.” Henry lifted his cup, drank, and said, “There’s more.”
“More?” Zachary paused in the act of shoveling a forkful of egg into his mouth and returned the fork to his plate.
“When Father died last year and I became the earl, my solicitor drew up all the necessary legal documents, including a new will for me.”
“A will seems a bit premature.”
Henry rushed on. “And I’ve named you as executor-trustee and guardian of all property and persons for which I am responsible until my heir is of an age to be so.”
“What? You did this without even asking if I would be willing to take on such a huge responsibility?”
“You were in the Peninsula. Takes weeks—sometimes months—to get word back and forth. And, frankly, you are the only one I’d trust. Bertie Cummings is too stupid and Percy Laughton is always up the River Tick with gambling debts—there’d be nothing left of the estate for an heir.”
Zachary rested his head in his hands. “Oh, Good Lord.”
“You’ll do it, won’t you?” Henry sounded anxious. “Phillips, the solicitor, will help you. If it should come to that. But of course it won’t.”
“From your lips to God’s ears.”
“So, is it all right? Will you do it?”
Zachary nodded. “If you insist.”
“I intend to be around another forty or fifty years. In less than half that time, my heir—surely I will have a son—will be able to handle things himself. So you see? It’s just a legal formality.”
“From your lips to God’s ears,” Zachary had repeated.
He brought his mind back to the Assembly Rooms and tried to focus on the meaningless chit-chat around him. Better appreciate seeing pretty girls in stylish gowns while you can, he told himself.
CHAPTER 4
Half an hour later, having managed to fob Miss Holmsley and Miss Kenmore off on men eager to dance, Quintin and Pelham made their way about the crowded ballroom not nearly as aimlessly as Pelham perhaps thought. Finally Zachary spotted his quarry. She stood—quietly for the moment—with her cousin Herbert and his mother.
The two soldiers greeted the Carstairs party, then Zachary said, “Miss Waverly, if you are not engaged for the next set, perhaps you’d care to stroll about a bit with me?” He leaned closer to say for her ears alone, “You owe me, you know.”
She looked a little chagrined, but he liked that she did not try to dissemble and pretend she did not know what he meant. She placed her hand on the arm he offered and they began to circle the ballroom. She looked up at him, her eyes dancing. “I—uh—suppose I owe you an apology?”
“You do. But I shall forgive you if you will go out driving with me tomorrow—weather permitting, of course.”
“D-driving?”
“An open carriage and only about town and through the park. Nothing in the least improper.”
“Such an outing would be lovely.”
“It’s settled then. I shall call for you at, say, two o’clock?”
She nodded, but he thought he detected a certain reluctance in her demeanor. Then her expression brightened, almost as though she deliberately brushed away a concern, and she introduced a new topic. “Have you been in Bath long, Lieutenant Quintin?”
“A little over a month. The mud baths were recommended therapy for my type of injury.”
“Is the treatment working?”
“I think so. I am certainly walking better. Not dancing yet, mind you, but I haven’t fallen in the last day or so.” He said this with a deprecating laugh. “What about you? Are you in Bath for long?”
“Only for three weeks.”
“Three weeks! That is hardly sufficient time—”
“For what?”
“To see the sights.” He found himself becoming strangely serious. He’d meant this to be an idle, light, teasing exchange. “To establish a friendship, fix one’s interests, make an impression.” The words were out before he’d had time to plan them. He paused and held her gaze for a long moment.
Finally, she looked away. “Please let us not engage in meaningless flirtation,” she said softly.
“I am not doing so.”
“I don’t mean to be rude,” she said, “but I now have less than three weeks here, and then I must return home to face a—a deal of responsibility.”
He smiled. “Then Cinderella returns to her chimney?”
“Something like that.”
“I shall be returning to the Peninsula about the same time. Seems Fate is being decidedly unkind to both of us. So—shall we make a pact, Miss Sydney Waverly?”
“What sort of pact, Lieutenant Zachary Quintin?”
“We shall endeavor to enjoy our time here in Bath and not allow considerations beyond to intrude.”
She smiled and said, “I quite like that idea.”
But that smile, along with a light perfume that was both flowery and woodsy, already threatened his resolve.
“You know,” she said, “I rather disagree with what you said earlier.”
“What I said—?”
“About time for making an impression. I think first impressions are often instantaneous—and accurate.”
“I would say they are mostly hasty and often downright wrong,” he said partly just to challenge her.
“Do you not find yourself responding to people and even things—like food, or art, or books—with a positive or negative view within minutes of encountering them?”
“Well, yes, but all too often I then must revise that initial opinion as I become more familiar with that person or object.”
“But finding things that support your initial reaction comes more naturally, more easily, than searching for those that contradict it, would you not agree?”
“Perhaps,” he conceded. “But I at least try to be open-minded and give an artist or writer the benefit of doubt. For instance, I’ll grant an author a few paragraphs or pages before I put the work aside.”
“Oh, generous man!” she scoffed. “And people?”
“I hope I am not unduly harsh with people. I withhold an opinion until I feel I know the person reasonably well, but generally I find that once an impression is established, it does not change.”
“Never? Nothing—positive or negative—changes your mind?”
“Rarely,” he temporized. “But I will agree that an event or given behavior might well change one’s view of another.”
“That is good to know,” she said. “I may now view our drive tomorrow as my act of redemption.”
He laughed and their conversation drifted to other topics as he identified for her such persons as he could among the dancers and they were companionably amused by the high shirt points of a dandy that made turning his head difficult, or by the outlandish ostrich feathers on the headdresses of certain of the women. Zachary felt genuine regret when her partner for the next dance came to claim her, but comforted himself with thoughts of the morrow.
That night Sydney pleaded a headache to forestall the bubbling Celia who wanted to rehash the evening. Sydney needed to be alone, to examine, if she could, precisely what had come over her. Never had she experienced such a visceral reaction to a man as she had toward Zachary Quintin. That tightening in her chest when their eyes first met had been as nothing to the overwhelming thrill that surged through her body when she’d put her gloved hand on his arm. Heavens! What would it have felt like had it been bare skin touching bare skin? What would it be like to kiss him?
This thought did not shock her, but it did make her feel somewhat ashamed. After all, in a mere four weeks she would be marrying Henry. As a betrothed woman, she had no right to these feelings about another man.
Besides, it was probably just pre-wedding nerves that had her engaging in such nonsensical imaginings. She took re
fuge in clichés: the die was cast; there was no going back now. Too much and too many depended on her following through with the plan two fathers had hatched between them many years before. She had accepted this marriage wholeheartedly as a solution to the problems the Waverly family faced. She had given her word.
“What’s done is done,” she told herself, then smiled at the absurdity of applying Lady Macbeth’s famous line about murder to the happy occasion of a marriage that would resolve so many difficulties.
The next morning Sydney arrived in the breakfast room to find only her aunt Harriet there before her. The older woman had finished her breakfast, but sat enjoying yet another cup of tea as she sorted through the mail. Aunt Harriet was of an age with her brother, Sydney’s father. With graying auburn hair, she was an attractive matron who had been widowed some ten years ago. Sydney had always liked her for her “live and let live” approach to life and for her sense of humor. Aunt Harriet had always listened intently, and non-judgmentally, as children and then young adults explored and experimented with even the most outlandish ideas.
“Celia and Herbert are not down yet?” Sydney asked.
“Oh, goodness! Those two slugabeds won’t be down for another hour, I am sure,” her aunt replied. “ ’Tis just as well. I have wanted a private word with you. But get your food first, my dear.”
Sydney selected bacon, eggs, and a muffin from the sideboard, then poured herself a cup of tea and sat.
“I have been thinking of your proposed outing with Lieutenant Quintin, my dear,” Aunt Harriet said.
“You disapprove?”
“Um—not exactly. He seems a fine young man. However, I am concerned that he may be under the impression that you are an eligible parti when, in fact—according to your father’s letter—you are not.”
“Oh.” Sydney considered this for a moment, then said, “I assure you, Aunt Harriet, I have no intention of engaging in a flirtation during my stay here. I find the lieutenant to be an interesting person—as a possible friend, nothing more. In any event, I am quite sure he is not looking for a match. He intends to rejoin Wellington’s army in a month or so.”
“Still, I cannot help but think it would be wise to make a public announcement of your betrothal.”
“Perhaps it would, but Henry—Lord Paxton—wished to keep it very simple and not draw undue attention—and, frankly, Papa and I agreed with him. It’s not as though ours is a great love match, or one of those lavish ton weddings that intrigue the gossips for weeks before and after the event.”
Aunt Harriet shook her head and sounded reluctant. “Well, I suppose you and his lordship know what you are about. I will honor your wishes. I have not mentioned it to Celia or Herbert.”
“Thank you, Aunt Harriet.”
Privately, Sydney conceded that her aunt made sense, but, since there was no way of discussing the matter with Henry at this point, she simply shrugged it off and determined that she would make the most of these days her father had so generously given her. It crossed her mind that Lieutenant Quintin was the most interesting person she had met in years. Such a friendship might well prove one to cherish.
Soon after breakfast a florist delivered two bouquets to the house on Queen Square. Celia received a dozen pink roses. Sydney received a nosegay of violets with a card reading “Carpe Diem.” She smiled, for “seize the day” was, indeed, her plan for this sojourn in Bath.
Later she went shopping along Milsom Street with her aunt and Celia. She would not enter the married state with a lavish new wardrobe, but her father had assured her a few new day dresses and a ball gown or two would not do irreparable damage to the family budget. Paxton might not expect his bride to set fashion trends, but he would expect her to be presentable in the loftiest of ton circles. Once they eventually removed to London, she would have to be outfitted with a traditional court dress, but that could come later—and at Paxton’s expense. Sydney had never equaled her female friends and relatives in their zeal for that time-honored female pursuit: shopping. One perceived a need for a particular item; one searched for and found it; one purchased it or arranged to have it made. And that was that.
Thus it came as a surprise to her that she entered into this shopping expedition with such enthusiasm. She experienced a moment of downright shock when, as she was trying on a pert little straw bonnet, the vision of a certain soldier admiring her in it popped into her head.
“Oh, good heavens!” She hastily removed it.
“Sydney!” Celia protested. “It’s perfect for you. You simply must have it. And it will go splendidly with the green print you saw at the dress shop. Never say you will pass it by.”
Torn, Sydney put the offending hat back on her head. “What do you think, Aunt Harriet?”
“Celia is right. You should have it.”
As the shopkeeper put the hat in a box, Sydney turned her mind resolutely to imagining how Paxton might view it. But she had no idea how much interest her future husband might take in women’s clothing. His compliments had been of a very general nature.
Vanity won out later in the day as she wore the new bonnet for the drive with Lieutenant Quintin. He had arrived punctually and, after polite greetings with her relatives, handed her into his curricle. He placed his cane on the floor of the vehicle and somewhat awkwardly hoisted himself into position beside her to take up the reins.
“I’ve not quite mastered my technique for getting into and out of a vehicle with grace,” he apologized.
“I thought you did very well,” she said, feeling again that strange but not unpleasant physical sensation that had so astonished her the day before.
He glanced at her, smiled, and said, “I’m told on good authority that ladies like to be complimented on their headgear. And I must say you look very fetching in that bit of straw and ribbons.”
“Why, thank you, kind sir.” She was glad she had given in to temptation and worn it.
Both were silent as he maneuvered the carriage through the worst of the city traffic. Then he said, “Alexandra Park is on a hill and affords a very nice view of the city. Gives one perspective.”
“That would help get me oriented,” she said. “I was in Bath once before, several years ago, but I was too young to appreciate what I was seeing.”
“There is much to see and your time is short. However, a good deal of the city is best seen on foot—the Roman Baths, Pulteney Bridge with its shops, the Abbey.”
“And I do want to see it all,” she said.
“Perhaps you will allow me the pleasure of being your tour guide.”
“Oh, but you just said much is best seen on foot,” she blurted, then blushed with embarrassment at drawing attention to his infirmity.
He gave her a rueful smile. “I am not so lame as all that, Miss Waverly. As a matter of fact, I am encouraged to walk as much as possible. So, you see, you would be doing me a great favor.”
“Oh, well—if you put it that way—”
“That’s settled. Now what shall we talk about? The terms of our agreement last night put the future out of bounds.”
“Hmm.” She pretended to be puzzled. “I suppose there is always the weather …”
“ ’Tis a fine day. Let us hope it does not rain.” He paused. “Now what?”
“The royal family? No. Some of that would not be quite proper.”
“And is Miss Sydney Waverly—that champion of women’s rights—always so very proper?” His tone was teasing, but she thought there was sincere interest in the question.
“Oh, my. How does one answer a question like that without seeming either pompous or hoydenish?”
He laughed. “With the truth?”
“The truth, then.” She thought hard for a moment. “I suppose the truth is that I am, indeed, ‘proper’ in terms of behavior, but somewhat unorthodox in my thinking.”
“And you do not see that as being hypocritical?”
“No. Merely practical. One must live in the real world, even though it is not id
eal.”
“A thought definitely worth pursuing,” he said, “but here we are.” He reined in his team to position the carriage to allow a panoramic view of the city. “See? All the major landmarks lie before you.”
“It is like having the world at your feet.”
“Yes, a peaceful, serene world.”
She thought she heard a sense of longing in his tone, so she said lightly admonishing, “No future now.”
“Right,” he agreed heartily. He leaned close to point out sights to her. “See the Royal Crescent there? It was the work of John Wood the Younger. His father built the Circus—just down the street, there. And way down there is the Abbey.”
She was intensely aware of the warmth of his nearness and the subtle spicy scent of what must have been his shaving soap. “It’s beautiful,” she said and turned to him. “You were right. This view gives one wonderful perspective.”
He held her gaze for a long moment and she thought he might be going to kiss her, but she forestalled that by lowering her lashes and turning back to the scene below them, feeling confused and somewhat bereft as she did so.
“Yes, indeed, very proper,” he murmured almost inaudibly, then in a more forceful tone, “I suppose we should be getting back. I would not have Mrs. Carstairs think I had spirited you away.”
She laughed nervously. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”
They chatted amiably of weather and traffic and Bath history until he handed her down at the Carstairs door.
Zachary made no specific assignation with Miss Waverly as he bade her good-bye, but he was confident she would be in the Pump Rooms the next afternoon, for her aunt had mentioned such earlier. In any event, he knew everyone was likely to be in the Pump Rooms several times a week, if not daily. Not only did one “take the waters” of the medicinal fountains there, but the accompanying tea rooms were the social center of the spa community.
He had been shaken by that moment in the park with her. He had wanted to kiss her, had been on the verge of doing so, then sensed reluctance or conflict in her and the moment was gone. He found her intriguing—and that bothered him. He could not afford the sort of commitment of time and attention a woman like Sydney Waverly would require—would deserve. In a month he would be back on the Peninsula, slogging his way to and through the Pyrenees.