His chest grew hot just thinking about it. Was it some veiled reference to Lavinia? He had merely eyed the man who would call him brother and drawled, “In my experience, some young gentlemen are not as they claim, either.”
That comment had flushed the young man’s cheeks to accord with his sister’s, and Nicholas had left them soon after, but the entire episode had left him troubled. Could he really align himself with people who cast such aspersions?
“Here we are, Hawkesbury.” Danver’s eyes seemed lit with excitement as the carriage rolled to a stop. “I trust tonight proves diverting for you.”
“I hope so, too.”
Nicholas ascended the steps into the town house, nodding to people he recognized, including several lords from Parliament and people whose faces he recalled seeing at church.
“See that lady over there?” Danver nudged him. “That is Miss Farren, the former actress, now the wife of the Earl of Derby. Edward certainly did not marry to suit societal expectations.”
Well good for him. Nicholas forced a polite smile. How long must he stay?
The conversations grew louder, the chatter eating into his frayed nerves. He accepted a glass of wine as Danver introduced him to countless people whose faces soon blurred into non-importance. Someone commenced talking about the proposed Corn Laws and their impact upon the working man, which soon escalated into an argument he wanted nothing to do with. He glanced around the room at the press of dark-clothed men of varying ages, interspersed with more vividly dressed ladies. Somewhere music was being played well, a harmonious backdrop to the cacophony of shrill laughter, high-pitched voices, and loud exchanges.
“Come. This is a veritable crush.”
He followed Danver through a door into another, less populated reception room, the gilt-laden walls echoing gently with the pianoforte being played in the corner.
Danver’s face softened. “There she is.”
Nicholas followed his gaze to see a dark-haired, well-dressed lady talking animatedly to an older couple. Danver moved to her side, spoke quietly, and she turned.
“Miss West!”
Danver frowned. “This is Lady Patience Westerbrooke.”
He stared. The stylish woman before him seemed a world away from her no-nonsense Gloucestershire self. While still somewhat unadorned—especially in contrast to the peacock-feather-wearing woman beside her—her dress and poise suggested experience at such events.
She came forward. “Hawkesbury. We certainly did not expect to see you here.”
“It is a day for surprises, Lady Westerbrooke.” He raised a brow.
Her cheeks pinked. “Yes, well, that is rather a long story.”
“One I’m sure I’d find fascinating.”
A smile flitted across her face, but she held her peace as Danver smiled warmly at her. “I was telling Hawkesbury about your niece.”
“Which one? I have two, you know.”
Nicholas’s jaw sagged. “I beg your pardon? I thought Miss Ellison an only child.”
“She is.”
“But she never mentioned—”
“She did not know.” She shifted as if to walk away.
“Please, Miss West—I mean, Lady Westerbrooke, is Lavinia in London?”
“Lavinia, is it?” Her brows rose as she subjected him to a hard stare. “Are you not affianced to Miss DeLancey?”
“Yes! That is—no.”
“Which is it, Hawkesbury? You do not sound like you know your mind, and until you do, I’m afraid I will not be able to recall where either niece may be.”
Her challenge blazed truth across his soul, burning away the shrouding uncertainty of weeks. Regardless of his fortunes, regardless of his mother, he would not—he could not in all good conscience—connect himself with someone he might learn to like but could never esteem, could never love. Faith demanded courage; his future required hope. “I am not engaged to Miss DeLancey, nor,” he added firmly, “do I have plans to be so.”
Weight dropped from his shoulders. He exhaled. Truth freed, indeed.
“It appears your mother does not share your plans. Remember, plans can … change.” Her gaze flickered to Danver. For a second, he glimpsed regret mingled with anguished yearning before her eyes shuttered again.
Startled by this revelation, his voice was softer than it might have been. “My mother’s plans are not mine. Miss DeLancey is amiable, but she can never compare to Lavinia.”
She nodded. “I’m glad to see you possess some degree of common sense.”
He glanced around, his heart thumping with hope. “Is she here?”
“Miss DeLancey? I think not. Discussions about anything beyond her looks seem sadly beyond that young lady.”
He chuckled despite himself. “Your wit, ma’am, will soon prove my undoing. Is Miss Ellison here?”
She smiled and glanced at the corner. Bodies shuffled, and suddenly he saw tonight’s pianist—smiling up into the eyes of a gentle-faced young man.
His heart burned. Who was he? Why did he stand so close to her? Why did she let him? But he could not blame him. Lavinia looked lovelier than he ever recalled, her hair glowing gold under candlelight, her pale green gown simple yet graceful. She laughed at something the man said, before shifting, her gray eyes sifting the crowd to alight on him.
Her eyes widened, the smile faded, the music ceased. Something like sorrow crossed her features, and she turned a soft white shoulder to him, angling away so he could not read her face.
The ache in his heart grew. He took a step toward her, pausing as the man beside her murmured something in her ear. She shook her head and remained seated, her face lowered as Nicholas made his slow approach.
“Miss Ellison.”
She glanced up, her gray eyes tinged with caution. “Lord Hawkesbury.” The space between them felt vast, strained, awkward. He cleared his throat. “This is an unexpected pleasure. I did not think to see you in London.”
“London is rather a large place. I could be easily missed.”
“You have been,” he answered in a low voice.
Pink stained her cheeks, and he smiled as some of the wariness in her eyes melted away.
She gestured to the man standing beside her. “Lord Hawkesbury, this is Mr. Chetwynd, who has poetical aspirations. Mr. Chetwynd, this is Lord Hawkesbury, who holds none.”
Nicholas ignored the edge in her voice and nodded as the man murmured a greeting. “I claim no poetical aspirations, it’s true, but as for aspirations, I am not completely without hope.”
She glanced quickly at him before moving her attention past his shoulder.
He followed her gaze to where Danver continued chatting with Lavinia’s aunt, whose face was softer than he’d ever seen.
He cleared his throat. “Are you enjoying London?”
“It has been”—she eyed him—“tolerable, I suppose.”
Chagrin filled him at remembrance of his ill-natured comment that first evening in St. Hampton Heath. “I trust, like others, your first impressions may be permitted to improve?”
“I have found that decided opinions made upon a fleeting acquaintance rarely stand the passage of time.”
“I, too.” He glanced at Mr. Chetwynd, mouth agape at the conversation. “No doubt a poet can find beauty in regret, but I am a simple man and not so fortunate.” He faced Lavinia. “I can only offer remorse for past failings and claim a faith that offers hope to imperfect men such as myself.”
Her eyes shimmered. She glanced down, her eyelashes fanning her cheeks.
Mr. Chetwynd mumbled something and moved away. Around them the hubbub of conversation continued, but Nicholas’s focus remained solely on her. “Miss Ellison?”
She glanced up.
“May I call on you tomorrow?”
Her eyes shadowed. “Wouldn’t your betrothed mind?”
What a fool he’d been to become snared by the ambitions of others. He fumbled a silent prayer that nothing be misread or detract from the hard-won conco
rd wavering between them. “Miss DeLancey is not my betrothed, nor will she ever be.”
Emotion played across her face. His heart paced faster than during Midnight’s run this morning as he silently begged her, willed her, to say yes. “Please, Miss Ellison? I cannot dare to hope that you have missed me, but I confess I have missed you immeasurably.”
She bit her lip. Time stretched between them.
“Then,” her luminous eyes lifted, “I would enjoy your visit.”
And her smile filled his heart with hope and sent his spirits soaring.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“AND ITS DEDICATION to Saint Paul the apostle dates back to the first church on this site, which was founded over a thousand years ago.”
“AD 604.” Lavinia murmured. Papa’s historical professor friend had been most adamant.
“Ah”—the elderly guide consulted his notes—“it appears the young lady is correct.”
“But of course.” The earl smiled. “I am only surprised the young lady does not feel qualified to act as our guide.”
“That, sir, would be most presumptuous indeed, and as you well know, I am never presumptuous.” His chuckle reverberated around the high stone arches as she continued. “Mr. Hollins is doing a marvelous job, and I am learning so much.” She smiled at the aged man, who appeared somewhat gratified.
He led their small party down the aisle, pointing out other features that Lavinia found fascinating and Charlotte and Henry did not yawn about. Lord Hawkesbury’s interest she had yet to ascertain.
“And this is the Great Dome.”
Lavinia joined the others in staring up. A bank of windows, interspersed with statues, spilled light to highlight eight scenes from the life of Saint Paul. “It is wonderful, is it not?”
“It’s enormous!” Charlotte said. “I shouldn’t like to be up so high.”
“How else will we get to the Whispering Gallery, Lottie?” Henry said with a boyish eagerness somewhat at odds with his usual inclination for more worldly pursuits. “Surely you want to see if it’s true about the whispers.”
“I assure you it is true,” their guide said to Henry, walking with him and Charlotte to the side. “Even the softest murmur can be heard on the other side …”
“I have felt like Saint Paul sometimes.”
Lavinia glanced at the earl. “Shipwrecked in Malta, fending off snakes?”
He smiled. “The snakes I’ve survived were not from Malta and tended to be more of the two-legged variety. No.” He studied the pictures overhead. “Like Paul, I was blinded by my arrogance and could not see.”
“We are all guilty of pride, my lord.” She added, softly, “Especially those of us who claim to see.” His gaze caught hers, and they shared rueful smiles.
“Come”—he offered his arm—“we best not keep Henry waiting. He may never forgive us.”
She accepted his arm as they followed their tour guide around the cathedral. This side of the earl—this thoughtfulness, this valuing of others she’d seen hints of during her illness—had been on full display in the past days. Since the evening party at Holland’s last week, the earl had visited every afternoon, much to Aunt Constance’s dismay.
“My dear girl,” she had said, “you cannot expect our family to welcome anyone of his. Think of your poor mother!”
“But I do. Mama was always full of grace to others.”
“Oh.” Her brow had knit. “But he is promised, is he not? To that DeLancey chit? Though really, I don’t blame him for seeking you out over her. You might say outlandish things, but at least you’re not stupid! No”—she shook her head—“I simply cannot have him here. If he insists on coming, I will end up having another of my spasms!”
So his visits had become excursions, often accompanied by Henry and Charlotte, and had consisted of expeditions to Richmond Park, an outing to Astley’s Amphitheatre to see the horse riding—which had led the earl to laughingly allude to Swift’s Houyhnhnms—as well as to a performance at Drury Lane, together with Aunt Patience and Lord Danver. The earl’s solicitude was evident throughout, just as now.
He leaned down to murmur, “Thank you, Miss Ellison, for consenting to my driving today. I have enjoyed this immensely.”
“Oh, I’m glad! I don’t think Henry and Charlotte have very much, although perhaps the crypts were a little dark for Charlotte. But how could one possibly miss seeing memorials to so many notables? To ignore Lord Nelson’s tomb would be a crime!”
“I cannot believe how quickly some choose to pass that of Sir John Donne. Indeed, to not appreciate such poetical elegance marks one as a fool.”
The word made her stiffen as memories surged of his last visit in St. Hampton Heath. She moved to withdraw her fingers from his sleeve, but he stayed her with a gloved hand. “Miss Ellison?” His brow knit. “You seem troubled.”
How to explain the bruise his word had left on her soul? She couldn’t. Perhaps it was best to just forgive, and try to forget, like Mama surely would. “I … I did not think you cared for poets, sir.”
“Like Mr. Chetwynd, you mean? I confess I’ve always had little inclination for the overly romanticized nonsense of so many of today’s poets, but these past few months I’ve come to see how a man can fall into folly.”
She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Did he refer to his association with Miss DeLancey, or something—someone—else? She lifted her gaze, searching his face for the truth.
“Ah, those eyes. I can never hide long from such silvery perception.” The amusement in his eyes drained away, replaced by something akin to regret. “You know I called myself a fool a thousand times that day we parted. I’m so terribly sorry. I treated you abominably, to my eternal shame.”
It was like a tapestry, whose tawdry tangled picture she’d only seen from the reverse, had suddenly turned to reveal its glorious front. “You said that about yourself?”
“Of course. Why, you did not possibly think I could call you a fool?”
Her cheeks heated.
“Ah, my dear Miss Ellison, whose ‘pure and eloquent blood Spoke in her cheeks’—”
“You know Donne’s works?”
“I might never aspire to write poetry, but I can appreciate the gifts of others.” He smiled. “You may be many things, but a fool you never will be, my dear Miss Ellison.”
His words wrapped tenderness around her heart. Why, one might almost suppose the earl held feelings for—
“Lavinia, did you want to see the Whispering Gallery?” Henry called. “I have an engagement at Manton’s in an hour that I’d rather not miss.”
The earl sighed. “Lord Featherington has a most unfortunate sense of timing, has he not? I suppose we must follow.” He brightened. “Perhaps Donne may be able to lend me other words, and we can see if they travel to you on the other side of the wall.” He leaned closer, his gaze warm. “‘Dear love, for nothing less than thee would I have—’”
“Hawkesbury!” The shrill voice echoed through the nave.
The earl’s eyes closed briefly before he offered Lavinia a tight smile and turned. “Miss DeLancey, Mr. DeLancey, what a surprise. I did not think you liked to frequent churches.”
“We saw your carriage outside.” Clara’s eyes scanned Lavinia from top to toe. “What are you doing here with her?”
“Do you possibly refer to Miss Ellison? Miss DeLancey, I would have thought it obvious what we are doing.” His affected drawl contained a whip-like touch.
Clara’s face reddened. “We missed you last night.”
“As I explained in my reply to your mother’s note, I had a previous commitment and could not—”
“With her?”
Lavinia stiffened under the siblings’ angry gazes.
“Mr. DeLancey, no doubt you heard me say the young lady’s name is Miss Ellison.” The earl’s eyes glittered dangerously. “And why you concern yourself in my affairs, I do not know. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we must not keep Lord Featherington waiting any longer.”
Lavinia offered a quick nod in farewell as the earl drew her away.
“Do not worry, Miss Ellison,” he murmured as they walked to where Mr. Hollins waited with her cousins, their faces alive with curiosity. “The DeLanceys play an imprudent game.”
Memories flickered. She pulled her hand away. “I’ve heard that you play games with people also.”
He sighed. “Your Miss Milton, I suppose?”
She blinked. “You know?”
“Thornton told me, amidst the biggest dressing down of my adult life.” He grimaced. “What she heard was merely my attempt to avoid my mother’s machinations. You can see how well that turned out.”
She answered softly, “But I do not want to be the subject of your manipulations, sir.”
“I assure you”—his eyes darkened as a sweet smile crossed his lips—“your happiness is my only wish. Now tell me, do you plan to attend the Bathurst ball Thursday week?”
But throughout the remainder of the visit, even as the earl sought to regain the lightheartedness prior to the DeLancey interruption, she could see his troubled frown, which only fueled her unease. If Clara could see the earl’s affections had altered, did that point to his lack of fixed character? And if so, how long until his affections changed again?
Nicholas stifled a yawn as the Winpoole dinner party droned on and on. He glanced down the table to see his mother chatting excitedly with Lady Winpoole.
“Lord Hawkesbury,” Clara’s voice cooed, “we are wonderfully grateful you have chosen to dine with us this evening. After the unpleasantness yesterday …” She pouted.
His lip curled with scorn. “I am prepared to overlook the unpleasantness if you promise it will not happen again.”
Her eyes widened. “Sir! I did not mean—”
“I know exactly what you mean, Miss DeLancey, and I find it hard to believe that anyone as sweet natured as you would expect me to turn my back on my neighbor. Tell me that could not be true!”
Her brow furrowed. “I would not have you think so ill of me.”
“I knew you would not. Now, please tell me about your music.”
The Elusive Miss Ellison Page 25