“It was gracious of the Ingrams to include me this Season, but it was never my intention to draw any notice to myself.” She added simply, “Lydia is my dearest friend.”
“She is lucky to have you.” Major Fitzwilliam seemed to wrestle with himself for a moment. “Miss Daventry, might I … would it not be too forward if I …” He stopped short with a wrinkled brow.
Eleanor stepped into the pause. “You may safely confide in me, Major Fitzwilliam, if that’s what you’re asking.”
His shoulders slumped in relief. “I should just like to know whether Miss Ingram’s heart is previously engaged and, perhaps, what sort of things she likes.”
Eleanor remembered how her friend’s eyes sparkled as she bantered with the major in the drawing room and had formed her own opinion, but it was not one in which she was at liberty to share. “Miss Ingram has not confided in me any prior attachment. She likes to dance, is an excellent horsewoman, and adores strawberry ices and white peonies.”
Major Fitzwilliam’s grave reply was belied by his wink. “Your intelligence has provided me with my next strategic move. I fear I don’t show to advantage on horseback—not alongside a bruising rider—but dancing, peonies, and Gunters I can do. I’m lucky to have had my intelligence from someone who is so close at hand.”
She nodded, reflecting that this had been her second most pleasing dance. If only the others might be as friendly.
Eleanor caught glimpses of Lord Worthing. Here he was talking to Lydia and Lady Ingram. There he was heading into the card room with Major Fitzwilliam. There again he was dancing with a pretty debutante, and he did not so much as glance Eleanor’s way when he passed her in the dance figures. Eleanor then threw herself into the evening—reveling in the new sensation of being in the spotlight, dancing the lively reels with abandon, and laughing more brightly at each sally—all out of a desperation she could not explain to herself.
Lord Worthing remained at the ball nearly as long as the hosts, and although he could not have known Eleanor’s dance card was full, he stayed on the sidelines most of the night. Eleanor, reckless and sparkling, danced until the wee hours of the morning, never once having been solicited by the earl.
R
A week later, Lord Worthing held his coronet ball, disguised, it seemed, as a ball for his sisters. “Stratford will not draw attention to himself,” Lydia explained.
Eleanor was invited, of course, because she accompanied the Ingram family. It would be her first formal outing since the come-out ball, and she was relieved to attend an event where she would not be a prominent feature. Lydia thought of it as sharing the spotlight with childhood friends, for it was inconceivable she should disappear completely into the backdrop.
When their party came in from the brisk outdoors, Lord Worthing was at the head of the receiving line. He shifted when she came into view, and his gaze searched hers, but she couldn’t read his thoughts. Eleanor stood apart as the two parties greeted one another as old acquaintances.
When Eleanor was before Lord Worthing, he looked as though he wished to address the lingering awkwardness. Instead he gestured to his right and said, “May I present my aunt, Mrs. Shae, and my two sisters, the Misses Phoebe and Anna Tunstall.”
Mrs. Shae acknowledged Eleanor’s curtsy with a gracious nod before returning her focus to the door, apparently tired and ready for this part of the evening to be over. Eleanor then found herself staring at two curious, identical faces with smooth blonde hair, eyes so blue they bordered on violet, and smiles—one demure, one mischievous. She noticed Lord Worthing watching the exchange.
One of the twins spoke. “Stratford mentioned we are to be neighbors. You’ve inherited a portion of our property.” Eleanor couldn’t discern any malice, though the words themselves sounded cutting. What must they think of the circumstances surrounding her inheritance?
She couldn’t imagine how to respond to the question and only nodded. Grasping for conversation, she asked, “Will you tell me again, please, which one of you is Miss Anna Tunstall and which one is Miss Phoebe?” Tonight, at least, one wore a white dress with blue accents and one wore a white dress with red.
The one who had spoken answered first. “I’m Phoebe.” She gestured to the other in red accents. “And this is Anna.”
Eleanor smiled. “I will remember now. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” Risking another look at Lord Worthing, she attempted to move on, but he stayed her with one hand.
“Miss Daventry—” He stopped short when he saw that Anna’s attention was on him, and Eleanor wondered what he was about to say. She was quite certain it was not what came next. “I fear I may be preoccupied tonight with the duties of a host and unable to see to your personal comfort, but it is my sincere wish that you should enjoy yourself.”
Eleanor nodded and followed the Ingrams down the stairwell to the ballroom. That meant Lord Worthing would not ask her to dance tonight. Suddenly the prospect of the evening felt flat. It was incomprehensible that she should care for him after his disastrous proposal and blundering speech at every turn. Yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling that deep down there was something redeeming in him, something likeable, even.
Then she remembered his words. I suspect Lady Ingram felt you posed no real threat to Lydia’s chances.
Lord Ingram, looking as if he wished to be elsewhere, escorted his mother to the sidelines, leaving Eleanor and Lydia near the circle of dancing couples. Major Fitzwilliam was not long in making his appearance at their side. “Good evening, Miss Ingram, Miss Daventry. I came to solicit a dance, and to beg your company for a ride in Hyde Park Tuesday.”
Eleanor wondered at Major Fitzwilliam’s choosing to ride when he’d said he didn’t show to advantage but murmured a response that she was free. She looked a question at Lydia, who was scanning the ballroom, and her heart sank for the major. It would take a miracle for his suit to prosper. Lydia was too accustomed to adoration from men more handsome and titled than he. Furthermore, whether Lady Ingram would countenance such a match was more than Eleanor could say, despite the familiarity in discourse between the major and Lord Ingram that suggested they had campaigned together. Perhaps he might find a champion in that quarter.
Just when Eleanor thought Lydia wouldn’t answer the question, she turned to the major. “What vehicle do you drive, Major Fitzwilliam?”
“An ordinary phaeton,” he replied. “But I propose we ride. Shall I come for you at eleven?” Major Fitzwilliam clasped his hands behind his back, his eyes alight, and Eleanor chuckled to herself. He, at least, had not suffered any doubt over her eventual reply.
“Why, Major Fitzwilliam, that is not the hour to be seen in Hyde Park.” Lydia raised her eyes to his in astonishment.
“I don’t wish to be seen,” he replied promptly. “I only wish to see you.” He gave a friendly nod to Eleanor. “And Miss Daventry, of course.”
“You are bold, major,” Lydia returned, not without some degree of admiration. “Is it your habit to lay siege to young ladies in this way?”
“I cannot say. This is the first time I’ve been tempted to. But my furlough is over in June, and now is not the time to retrench. Come, what say you?” His smile included both women, and Eleanor hid her own. Lydia would have to be made of sterner stuff than she was to resist.
Behind Lydia, Lord Worthing descended the stairs in the wake of his sisters and aunt. He caught her glance before she could look away and held it, his mouth forming the beginning of a smile. He lifted his hand as if to wave but stopped when he saw Lord Carlton approaching her.
“Miss Daventry, you look …” Lord Carlton followed her gaze to Lord Worthing, then paused until she pulled it away. Her thoughts were not so obedient. I wish it were Lord Worthing asking me to dance, though I would rather die than admit it, infuriating man.
“… lovely,” finished Lord Carlton, his intent expression insisting upon her notice, his gloved hand tugging hers when her gaze had wandered back to the staircase.
&n
bsp; Then he released her, stood back, and said with an arch look, “Have mercy on us lesser men, Miss Daventry. We can’t all have Lord Worthing’s address.”
“Nonsense,” Eleanor replied, the shock at being discovered sharpening her wit. “For myself, I prefer a man with more amiable conversation.”
After Lord Carlton had claimed his dance, Eleanor sat on the sidelines fanning her neck. Almost immediately, Lord Worthing wound his way through the crowds, pausing only long enough to return a greeting, and came to Eleanor’s chair.
“Miss Daventry, may I sit beside you?” he asked.
When she nodded, he took his seat. Grasping his ruby and gold fob, he passed it from hand to hand and seemed unsure how to proceed. Eleanor bit her lip and looked over the crowd of dancing couples.
“I wished to say earlier … that is, with my sisters there, I couldn’t …” His words came out in a rush. “I did not consider my words before I spoke at the Ingrams’. I’m sorry.”
Eleanor, though suffering some compassion for his chagrin, was unable to resist delivering her own riposte. “Perhaps we may end with apologies from here on in. You shall undertake to choose your words with more care, and I—” She turned to him, a smile hovering on her lips, “I shall endeavor to disregard them. By doing so, we shall both be in perfect charity.”
Lord Worthing’s look of surprise gave way to a quiet chuckle. “I deserved that, Miss Daventry.” He reached over to clasp her gloved hand, his expression serious. “Yet I harbor some hope that I might learn to utter words that are worthy of your regard.”
He stood and turned toward the card room, and Eleanor could hear her heart beating in her chest.
Chapter Thirteen
At an early hour the next morning, Stratford met Ingram at Jackson’s saloon. They were well-matched in a fight, and Stratford felt the need to exert his body in an attempt to exorcise his mind. Despite the light banter with Miss Daventry, following his apology last night, he knew he’d done her less than justice from the moment he’d met her, and the thought left him with a restlessness he couldn’t shake. Was it because he acted so out of character whenever she was near?
True, his acquaintance with her had started innocently enough. They’d shared an uninspiring dinner, followed by two brief meetings, with nothing to distinguish her from another woman—that is, until he had seen fit to throw away twenty-nine years of steady character and make a cake of himself by proposing. Drunk.
Ingram pulled his cuffs through the sleeves of his coat. “I admit, Stratford. You haven’t lost your touch these three years. You almost had me winded.”
“High praise, indeed.” Stratford was too tired to offer anything further.
“White’s?” Ingram said, as they quit the boxing saloon, and Stratford nodded, turning south.
“So what do you think of Fitzwilliam? Has Le Marchant sent us someone who can aid in our efforts?” Ingram asked, though Stratford knew he had already formed his opinion.
“He’s not addicted to gambling, that much I’ve discerned,” Stratford replied.
“No, he’s not. I’ve asked him to attend the games at Watier’s but so far he’s come up with nothing.”
Stratford thought it over. “I think he can be trusted. He appears to be a man of good sense and is a likeable fellow.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Make good use of him, if you will. I think fleshing out the traitor will require our combined efforts,” Ingram said. “Braxsen has already befriended him, and if everyone knows you and I have also taken him up, it will open the doors he needs. From there, he’s astute enough to follow the right leads.”
“He seems to have become a favorite of Lydia and Miss Daventry.” Stratford tapped his cane in studied nonchalance. “How is Miss Daventry faring in your household? I’m surprised your mother would welcome her into it.”
“My mother must’ve felt she could do a charitable deed without giving any threat to Lydia’s success or any danger to my heart.” Ingram smiled ironically.
Exactly! “That’s what I thought too,” Stratford said. He couldn’t have erred so badly if Ingram was thinking the same thing. And yet, there had been a bite behind Miss Daventry’s teasing reply to his apology, and he felt he had much to do to redeem himself in her eyes.
“Judging by appearances alone, Miss Daventry does not possess any great beauty, apart from an engaging smile and a trim figure,” Ingram observed. “Men have fallen for less.”
Stratford privately felt her beauty lay in a pair of speaking eyes, but he returned nothing except to ask, “She’s going on well enough then? She and your sister, that is—are they able to withstand the fatigue of the Season?”
“Oh, they’re young enough. Miss Daventry can even outshine my sister in stamina, but I don’t think she takes any real pleasure in society. I think it’s because she wants to be a support to Lydia.”
“Is that so?”
“She would make a capital wife for Fitzwilliam,” Ingram added, and reverting to their former topic, “Ours is not the only good opinion of Fitz, you know. The Beau recommended him to Le Marchant.”
Stratford frowned. “Wellington keeps only men from the best families on staff. I own to being surprised at his taking up Major Fitzwilliam.”
“He’s not a peer, if that’s what you mean. He’s a gentleman, though, on both his parents’ sides, but with no title he can inherit. He’s not on staff, precisely. Not on Wellington’s. Perhaps he’s on mine.” Ingram flashed a grin. “Le Marchant just told me to keep him close and employ him when needed, and that we’d see our next move more clearly when he returns this summer.”
Stratford was tempted to ask on what business but knew it would be an impertinence since it was not merely his friend before him but a rising official in headquarters. He changed tack. “Major Fitzwilliam is not interested in Miss Daventry. His eyes are on Lydia.”
Ingram laughed. “So he told me, to his credit, but she’ll never have him. Even if she did, she’s not the wife for him. She can’t bear to be deprived of her little pleasures, and even if he has the successful career I think he’ll have, she’s not made to follow the drum.”
Stratford nodded. “I can see that.”
“But Miss Daventry,” Ingram persisted, “shirks at nothing. Like I said, she’d make Fitz a capital wife.”
Stratford tipped his hat to an acquaintance on the street, and being sure they were once again alone, said, “I see your heart is untouched. Your mother calculated well.”
“My heart is intact concerning Miss Daventry.” Ingram gave a rueful smile. “Perhaps it wouldn’t be had it not been taken some years ago.”
There had been more than one mention of a Miss Georgiana Audley in Ingram’s brief missives to Stratford, and he assumed it might be she who’d laid claim to Ingram’s heart. Stratford raised his eyebrows, but knew better than to ask questions that would only earn him a rebuff.
Handing his cane to the servant in attendance at White’s, Ingram said, “I thought we’d see more of you at Grosvenor this past week, but I suppose your sisters keep you busy. Unless it’s because you and Lydia are again at daggers—”
Stratford shook his head. That wasn’t it. “I feared I’d offended Miss Daventry. I made the mistake of thinking aloud at the ball the other night. I said Lady Ingram wouldn’t see her as a threat to your sister’s success—” and seeing the look of shock pass over his friend’s features, added, “the same thought you expressed just a minute ago, let me remind you.”
Ingram stared for a long moment, then began to laugh. “Yes, but I’m not such a jackanapes as to say it to her. I expect all the ladies of my acquaintance know of it by now. Our friendship’s finished, Stratford. I’m amazed Lydia hasn’t descended on me with orders to call you out.”
Stratford stiffened. “I’ve apologized. Although—” he paused uncomfortably, “she did say she would endeavor to disregard my words in the future. She was teasing, mind you.”
“Teasing, you say? My dear fellow, you le
ave me in some doubt. After a cut like that?”
Stratford, aware the servants were listening and, he feared, secretly laughing at him, kept silent until they had taken a table. “Perhaps if I sent over some flowers to show my sincerity …”
“It’s the least you can do,” agreed Ingram, trying, it seemed, to keep a straight face.
Stratford took the decanter that had been brought and poured a glass for each of them. He drank and then lowered his glass with a frown. “You know I’m not at ease with ladies.”
“Excepting your sisters and mine. I’ll never forgive Miss Broadmore for that. Well, I hope you aren’t too enamored of Miss Daventry’s engaging smile and trim figure, because in my mind, you haven’t a hope after a blunder like that.” Ingram set his glass down and leaned in, a lurking smile. “Stratford?”
“What?” It came out sharper than he’d meant.
“You’re looking ill.”
Stratford glared at his friend’s perfect nose, wishing they could go another round in gloves. Or without. “I’ll send flowers,” he said.
Perhaps Miss Daventry’s light words masked a deeper hurt. Stratford decided he could not let things stand and should deliver a more formal apology. He must leave her in no doubt of his sincere regard, particularly since the two households were so close. Besides, her inheritance inevitably meant they could never escape each other for long. If nothing else, he and Miss Daventry—and, presumably, the doltish husband she’d shortly acquire—would always be neighbors.
“Flowers,” said Ingram. “Very good.”
R
One suitor left and another arrived bearing flowers and compliments for the sparkling Lydia while Eleanor stifled a yawn. She would have been surprised to learn that some of them came for her and what they deemed ‘Miss Daventry’s comfortable conversation.’
The only one Eleanor suspected of forming an attachment to her was Lord Carlton and, astonishingly enough, Mr. Amesbury, though she was certain his sudden address was due to the land she’d inherited that lay adjacent to his. His suit didn’t count, of course. Her repugnance at a marriage of convenience, particularly one so blatantly pecuniary, drove her to avoid him wherever possible.
A Regrettable Proposal Page 11