A Regrettable Proposal

by Jennie Goutet

  Miss Broadmore’s smile grew brittle. “My lord,” She turned back to her quarry, “I haven’t seen you at any assembly this past week. Will you be at Almack’s on Wednesday night?”

  The tension between Miss Broadmore and his sisters increased Stratford’s desire to move on. He gave a curt nod. “Yes. I will be escorting my sisters.”

  “I must own that it will be good to meet again in more exalted company.” Miss Broadmore gave a sideways glance to where the Ingrams’ box was just visible through the opening. “Only at Almack’s can you be sure to meet the most select of the ton”—she turned back to Stratford and gave her hand—“unlike here where anybody may attend.”

  Stratford ignored what seemed to be a slight toward Miss Daventry. Perhaps Judith suspected some interest for Miss Daventry on his side. “Yes, well … good evening,” he said.

  “Until Wednesday,” Anna cooed, wiggling her fingers. She rolled her eyes as soon as Judith left.

  They came across Ingram as he was escorting his mother to the hall. “Ah, just the thing,” he said, as their party came into view. “Stratford, I rely on you to attend to these two young ladies while I bring my mother for some air. There’s only one of me, and I’m frequently reminded it’s not enough.”

  “How well do I know it,” Stratford replied with a good-natured laugh. “Do not forget I have two sisters and an aunt, and my odds are usually worse than yours.”

  “Well then.” Ingram clapped his hand on Stratford’s shoulder. “Our year of sacrifice has come upon us. It must happen to every man, I suppose. May they marry quickly and well so we can go about our business again.” His voice rang out cheerfully, but he was somewhat quelled under the look his mother gave him. “No, no, Mother, I shall not continue in this vulgar strain. Come, let us have a bit of refreshment.”

  When Stratford and his sisters arrived at Ingram’s box, Lydia moved to the back row and called Phoebe and Anna to her, exclaiming at their dresses, one in a demure rosy sheen, and the other in a deep lilac. “Are you never tempted to dress exactly alike? Think how you could fool everyone.”

  “Anna has tried,” Phoebe said, with a gleam of mischief in her eyes. “She wants nothing more than to have fun at other people’s expense. I, however, thwart her plans by choosing dresses she would not be caught wearing.”

  “It’s so vexing,” Anna exclaimed. “I know the styles that become you, and you refuse to acknowledge my superior taste.” She began to fan herself. “Have you seen Sir Delacroix? He’s come to town just before we did, but some of Stratford’s old friends say they knew him before and that he left under suspicious circumstances. They won’t say what.”

  “No!” Lydia’s face lit up. “Do you not know anything more?”

  Stratford had made a pretense of listening to the beginning of the conversation, but partly from fear of being applied to and partly from desire, he addressed Miss Daventry. “Are you as taken with Madame Catalani’s singing as everyone else?”

  “It’s the fashionable thing to be, is it not?” Miss Daventry replied. “I fear I’m too green to give her only the temperate praise the world expects of me. I must be enthusiastic.”

  “Must you?” Stratford smiled. “Feigning boredom is outmoded.” Eyes on Miss Daventry, he willed her to turn and look at him, but she remained facing forward, and he wondered if it were out of shyness or if she were thinking about Lord Carlton.

  “I am modish then, quite by chance.” Miss Daventry shot him a smile then turned to watch the throngs of people milling in and out of boxes and into the corridors. Stratford continued to study her profile, enjoying the sensation of being at rest while the opera house buzzed with activity.

  For no other reason than to see her face turned to his again, he asked, “What are your plans after the London Season?”

  “Oh.” Miss Daventry gave him a startled glance. “I’m planning to seek out employment. I would prefer to teach at a school rather than accepting a post as governess, though. At a school, I might find girls like me who have no parents, and I think I could be of real use to them.”

  He could picture her speaking to her young charges, her lips moving as she guided them with that gentle but firm voice. That image swiftly changed to one where he kissed those lips, and the answering shock that went through him forced him to look straight ahead. Before he could reply, Lord Carlton appeared at the entrance to the box. That man is always where he is not wanted.

  Confronted with the crowd assembled, Lord Carlton sighed, his gaze glued to Miss Daventry at Stratford’s side. “Ah. Miss Ingram, I see I’m too late to gain the favor of conversation with you. I suppose it’s unsurprising your box is always full.”

  “We were just leaving, were we not, Phoebe?” Anna stood and beckoned to her brother. “Stratford, I’m parched. We were to go in search of refreshment before the second act. Goodbye, Lydia. Miss Daventry.”

  Phoebe stood as well and reached over to clasp Eleanor’s hand. “We will see you at Almack’s then.” She gave a warm smile and, with a glance at her brother, followed Anna into the hallway.

  Stratford had no choice but to leave, hating that he hadn’t finished his conversation with Eleanor Daventry, and hating the feeling of having lost ground to Lord Carlton.

  Miss Daventry employed? Surely that was not the sum of her ambition. She might look much higher. In the natural order of things, he would have courted her properly, from the beginning, as she deserved. Of course, this was now unthinkable after such an inauspicious start. One time he drank too much. One time.

  Anna turned at the entrance of the box and looked back. “Oh, do stop scowling, Stratford, will you?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Eleanor’s thoughts were disordered as Lord Carlton took his place at her side. Instead of attending to him, she found herself reliving her encounter with Lord Worthing. He had regarded her in a strangely intense way for a moment, and it had almost looked like … desire. But then he ripped his gaze away, and she wondered if she had imagined it.

  “—Basilio’s part was supposed to be played by Frangini, but the stand-in is quite good.”

  Eleanor snapped to attention. “Yes, I’ve been enthralled.” She turned to give Lord Carlton her full consideration. “Are you here with your sister?”

  “No, I’ve come with Miss St. Clair and her family. We’re sitting in the middle of that row there.” He indicated the box where Miss St. Clair had been watching them, and now looked away. Next to her, in the adjoining box, was a dark-haired gentleman, who stared at Eleanor in the most peculiar manner and did not look away when caught. It was an intent, questioning gaze, which made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

  “Lord Carlton—” Eleanor hesitated, fearful of calling more attention to herself.

  When she didn’t speak again, he prompted, “What is it?”

  “I wonder if I might ask you to look at the gentleman sitting in the box to the right of Miss St. Clair—if it is indeed Miss St. Clair wearing the yellow dress—and tell me who he is. Please—” She stayed Lord Carlton with her hand. “Do not let it be known you are looking at him.”

  Lord Carlton obeyed by turning his face to the stage, then sweeping the entire audience with a glance, pausing at the gentleman in question. “I’m afraid I was not very subtle. But that is le Vicomte Delacroix. He is received everywhere in society, even Almack’s I am told, though we’ve never crossed paths there. His family came over during the Great Terror.”

  Eleanor chewed her lip as she pondered this information, and Lord Carlton leaned in. “May I ask why? Need I feel threatened?”

  Eleanor returned a look of mild exasperation. “My lord, please do not tease.” She risked a glance at the box again and saw that Sir Delacroix was still staring. He lifted his hand slightly as if to wave, but she averted her gaze before he could. “It is only that he seems to stare at me so, and we’ve not been introduced.”

  “He must have heard your praises sung, Miss Daventry. I can think of no other reason
.” The bell chimed, signaling the curtain was about to rise. Lord Carlton stood partway, then sat down again and murmured, “He didn’t hear it from me, though. I know better than to show the Babylonians all the treasures in the temple.” He stood again and bowed over her hand. “Good evening, Miss Daventry. Miss Ingram, your obedient servant.” Turning to the friend who had come into the box with him, he added, “Bower, shall we go?”

  As soon as they left, Frederick Ingram appeared and looked around. “Is Mother not back yet? She will expect me to escort her.” He did an about-face, and returned minutes later accompanied by his mother as the final movement of the audience settled to a quiet hum. The curtain opened.

  The rest of the opera was lost on Eleanor, who was busy thinking of the drama that played out in her own life. Lord Carlton’s interest was too marked for her comfort. It’s not that there was anything wrong with him. In fact, from what she could see, he seemed genuinely attached to his mother and sister. He had displayed to advantage at the museum with Phoebe’s younger cousins. Handsome enough—not that it mattered. Illogical as it might be, her hesitation was based only on feelings, and the fact that he did not seem to ignite very remarkable feelings in her.

  As for Lord Worthing, his interest seemed more friendly than particular, and so she was wrong to set any store by it. It was just that … she felt interesting when he was near. For just a moment she allowed herself to remember the sensation of his arm touching hers, his coaxing gaze and the awareness in his look. And when Madame Catalani sang her celebrated aria, Eleanor’s heart soared with the notes.

  R

  At Hookham’s the next day, Eleanor perused the newest titles, deaf to Lydia’s entreaties to make her choice and be done with it. She’d already chosen the Ann Radcliffe novel she’d not had time to finish at Worthing estate and was now looking for a second book. The Ingram library was centuries old and seemed to hold little more than Latin prose and ancient farming manuals. She would not waste this opportunity to choose from a greater selection.

  “I need a new bonnet with coquelicot trim, Eleanor. And you need one in white, might I remind you. We have only this very short while before we must return—”

  “You go then,” Eleanor said, pulling out one of the titles and flipping it open. Ah, this one has plenty of dialogue. It’s sure to be good.

  Lydia scrutinized her, then looked around the empty aisle before launching her attack. “Stratford came to see Ingram this morning while you were out walking, and he said you wished to be a governess. Eleanor, what kind of nonsense is this?”

  Eleanor looked up in surprise. “I’ve told you I wouldn’t marry for anything less than true attachment. Why should you be surprised?”

  Lydia leaned in to catch Eleanor’s gaze. “I’m surprised because you seem to think such a thing so out of your reach. You have plenty of beaux.”

  “I need only one, Lydia.” Two women entered the aisle, discussing the merits of Belgian lace, and Eleanor stepped aside to let them pass.

  “You shall have only one then,” Lydia retorted. “You have your pick. Why should you think about taking a hired position?”

  “I must make my life on my own terms,” Eleanor said. “If I do not find someone who will suit this Season, I’ll have employment to fall back on until I find someone who does.”

  Lydia shook her head with such adamancy, Eleanor was surprised. “No. You will only take yourself away from London, where such opportunities might be found. And even if you find a position in London, you will place yourself so far removed from society, it cannot be breached. Do not do it, Eleanor.”

  Eleanor met Lydia’s look with one of her own. She would not say anything to try to dissuade her, but Lydia had no financial concerns to worry her. What in heaven’s name did she imagine Eleanor would be doing while she waited for this elusive offer of marriage? Despondency threatened to wrap around Eleanor like a damp blanket, but she refused to give into it. “I will think on it,” she said.

  Lydia hugged her. “Do. I’ll just run over to the milliner’s across the street. I won’t be but a few moments. Shall you wait for me here?”

  Eleanor knew that Lydia, in search of a new hat, would not be content until she’d seen at least twenty. “Go on. I shall be perfectly content here.”

  When Lydia left the library, Eleanor continued her perusal, wondering if Lord Worthing would remember to solicit her hand at Almack’s as he’d promised. He didn’t seem the type to forget. She reminded herself to dampen any hopes where Lord Worthing was concerned until he had given her more cause to raise them.

  Ah. Here was The Absentee—a book only just come out. Running her fingers over the blue leather binding, she decided to borrow the library’s only remaining copy while she had the chance.

  Taking it with her, Eleanor found a seat and opened, not the Radcliffe novel she needed to finish, but the new one by Ms. Edgeworth. She turned to page one and allowed the bustle of the library to fade away as she read the opening page, then the first two chapters.

  “Miss Daventry.” Eleanor was yanked out of the deeply engrossing story and looked up until the pink face of Mr. Weatherby came into focus. “Miss Daventry, I say, it’s a pleasure to run into you. First time we meet out of a ballroom. Choosing a book, are you?”

  He seemed to be trying on personalities for size because gone was the confiding, nervous young man who was counting dance steps. In its place was a garishly dressed fop affecting indifference. “Do all young ladies love to read?” he asked.

  “Not all young ladies,” Eleanor said with a smile, thinking of Lydia. She stood to greet him. “But this one does, at least. You must, too, if you are here.”

  Mr. Weatherby’s hand flew to his chest. “I cannot lie to you, Miss Daventry. I’m not bookish. It’s only that my friend saw you through the window and desired an introduction. Do you know Sir Delacroix?”

  Before she could register her surprise, the same gentleman from the opera, whose swarthy features were at odds with his slender limbs, stepped around Mr. Weatherby and made a low bow. Mr. Weatherby went on. “Will you allow me to make the introduction?”

  “Of course,” she murmured, assessing Sir Delacroix’s face for clues as to why he would seek her out.

  “Miss Daventry,” the gentleman said, “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “Have you?” she asked, not quite pleased. “I am not generally thought to garner much interest.”

  “Oh, the person who spoke of you was quite interested,” he said with a mysterious grin. “Quite interested, indeed.” He paused to see if she would question him further, and when she did not, he cleared his throat. “Will you attend the rout at Mrs. Maxwell’s house?”

  Eleanor replied, “We’ve received the invitation, but Lady Ingram did not think it quite the thing as we are both of us in our first Season.”

  Sir Delacroix answered with an arch smile. “Is it? You seem so experienced, one would hardly guess it was your first.”

  Eleanor frowned and was saved from answering by Mr. Weatherby, who retorted, “Miss Daventry is the picture of modesty. Don’t make me regret having introduced you.”

  Sir Delacroix was momentarily silenced and said, “My levity carries me too far. I beg your pardon. We shall meet again at Almack’s, I daresay. Now that we have been properly introduced, may I claim a dance with you there?” He performed another elegant bow at this request.

  Eleanor’s heart sank at the thought of conversing with him for the entirety of a dance, but she didn’t know how to refuse. With relief, she spotted Lydia entering the library and waving, two parcels in hand. “The hats are not yet ready,” Lydia announced, “but I found just the gloves I will need for my riding habit, and I had them for a song. I would take you there, but James is waiting. Are you ready?” Only then did she perceive Mr. Weatherby and Sir Delacroix standing in the aisle of books.

  “I’m ready,” Eleanor said, and moved toward Lydia.

  “And my da
nce?” Sir Delacroix called out.

  Eleanor paused. “If there is still room on my card,” she replied. Lydia nodded to the two gentlemen and led the way outdoors. Eleanor wasn’t able to breathe again until she was seated out of sight against the squabs of Lydia’s carriage.

  Before the door was shut, Lydia began. “Goodness, have you met Sir Delacroix then? Who introduced you? If it was Mr. Weatherby, he shouldn’t have done it. Sir Delacroix is not thought to be quite the thing, you know. He’s welcome at Almack’s through his connection with Princess Lieven, and because of that, no one dares cut him. But he has a reputation for being rather fast. No mother is keen to let him dance with her daughter, even if his fortune appears to be intact, and that despite his love of all games of chance.”

  Lydia paused to take a breath after this galloping monologue, but Eleanor remained silent. “He made you promise him a dance, has he?” she continued. “He is handsome.”

  Eleanor looked up in alarm. “Lydia. No—”

  “How can I help it? You know I favor Byronesque men, with dark curls and melting brown eyes.” Lydia grinned mischievously and, when Eleanor continued to peer at her in reproach, finally retracted with a laugh. “But I’m grown now. I will surely end up with someone respectable, like Major Fitzwilliam.”

  Eleanor softened. “Oh, do you like him? He’s so reliable, and … and good.”

  Lydia retorted, “No, I do not like him. Or—he’s nice enough, but he doesn’t catch my fancy. He will make someone a respectable, if stodgy, husband.”

  “Do you think so?” Eleanor asked in amazement. Lydia was saying this now, but Eleanor had seen the way she looked at Major Fitzwilliam and was certain she was not unaffected. “Don’t you see that he is someone whose attention will never wander, whose household will never suffer from ill-management, whose children will never have to endure bouts of disagreeable temper?”

  “Oh, if you like him so much, you marry him,” Lydia said, crossly. Eleanor wisely kept her thoughts to herself.