But why had such a woman gone on to accept a further invitation from such a man? When she was clearly so much better than the Marquis, why did she persist in such self-defeating aims?
And that was why he could not simply dismiss her from his mind. That and the fact that she had shown him a little of herself outside the haberdashery in the little Hertfordshire town of Colington.
George smiled, the noise and action of the play now as nothing to him as he remembered the moment he had seen her standing there.
George had been on his way to see one of his oldest and dearest friends, Mrs. Constance Dalton, and could hardly believe his luck to stumble upon the red-headed beauty right there in the street.
And it was then that she had truly displayed the spirit within. As much as he knew he was right in all he said, he admired the way that she fought against him, dismissing him easily with her sharp-tongued intelligence.
George smiled, staring into one of the lanterns until it almost blinded him. It was easier to picture her that way. How cross she had been, and how she had raised her voice just a little the more he had annoyed her. And how energized George had been by such a fiery little exchange.
And in as much as he had walked away from her insisting that she must live her life if that was what she wanted, George Wentworth knew fine well that his days of interfering in the world of Miss Esme Colchester were far from over.
Chapter 12
With the summer in full swing, Esme found herself pleased that there were more than the usual number of balls that year in Hertfordshire. Ordinarily, during the London Season, things tended to go a little more quietly in the country. But this year they seemed set to enjoy as much merriment as the country’s capital enjoyed. Not, of course, that Esme had ever attended the London Season. Her father had never been ambitious enough to push his daughters quite so far.
“Lady Asquith always puts on a very good ball, does she not?” the Marquis said to the little group gathered about him, Esme being one of them.
“Yes, but it is not quite London, is it?” Esme had been dismayed to walk into Lady Asquith’s small ballroom to discover that Michael Burton and his sisters were also in attendance.
Worse still, Daniel Winsford seemed very pleased to be in their company.
When they had first arrived, and the Marquis had ushered her into their little group, Esme had found herself somewhat dismayed not to find Lady Rachel there. If nothing else, she would have taken the edge off the disquiet she felt in Eliza and Henrietta Burton’s company.
She had really wished for her sister’s company at that time, but they were in conversation with their parents and Lady Longton. That good woman really did want the Colchester’s to be a part of her world.
But Esme, although only a few feet away, felt as if she were in another county altogether. She blamed the Burtons entirely, for she was certain that it was their pernicious presence which made her feel so insecure.
“Well, it is not, is it?” Henrietta Burton continued, determined to have an answer. “Would you not rather be in London, Lord Longton? It is the place to be at this time of year after all, is it not?”
“I suppose I still enjoy the country in the summer, my dear Henrietta,” he said and smiled indulgently at the young woman who wore more adornments than the average peacock.
She really was overdone with an expensive gown, a fulsome head-dress full of feathers, and a heavily jeweled necklace which was clearly worn to display her family’s wealth.
But even so, Daniel Winsford seemed to like her. And it pained Esme to hear him talk to the woman and address her by her first name. She had no idea how many weeks or months of courting would have to be undertaken before he would address her as Esme.
Esme knew it was a petty jealousy, but she really did not like Henrietta Burton and she wished with all her heart that the man she had so much interest in did not like her either.
“I suppose it is all very well if you do not mind the fact that your company here will inevitably lack sophistication,” Henrietta said and cast an all too obvious and lengthy glance in Esme’s direction, her stare taking in every aspect of Esme’s appearance.
But Esme was much surer of herself that evening, wearing a simple but striking dark blue gown with short sleeves and pristine long white gloves. She knew dark blue suited her rich chestnut hair and she was glad not to be wearing the ridiculous confection that Henrietta Burton sported on her head.
But nonetheless, she felt one or two other pairs of eyes on her and wondered how long her determination and confidence would hold out.
“But that is all part of its charm, my dear,” the Marquis said and gave a braying sort of laughter.
Even though he had not specifically aimed his comments at Esme, still she felt the barb.
How could she not be a part of the unsophisticated company that Henrietta had alluded to and Daniel was laughing at? She was the only one in their company of her particular station in life. She came from a very fine family, she knew, but her father was upper-middle-class at best and she felt certain that Miss Burton was intent upon making the very most of the fact.
“Ah, the band is striking up,” Henrietta said and deftly removed the small dance card from her velvet wristlet, tapping it gently and raising her eyebrows at the Marquis.
“I am ready to do my duty, Henrietta,” the Marquis said humorously and bowed at her.
“As long as you do not forget your other duties.” Eliza Burton tapped her dance card similarly and Esme realized that the first half of the Marquis’ evening would be lavished upon those two appalling creatures.
Worse still, she was certain that each of the Burton women studied her for her reaction in the whole thing. And as determined as Esme was to remain dignified, she was certain that her countenance must have given away at least a little something of how she was feeling.
With her own dance card entirely empty, Esme simply stood as a spare on the edge of a group of people who seemed not to want her there. Michael Burton was loud and overbearing, and Eliza was watching her sister dance with the Marquis and continually commenting upon how fine they looked together.
The others in the party to whom she had been introduced seemed little interested in holding any sort of conversation with her either. She wanted to cross to her sisters but knew that Michael and Eliza Burton would surely be amused by it.
To take the edge off her own awkwardness, Esme looked vaguely about the ballroom. When she came eye to eye with none other than Mr. George Wentworth, she wondered if the evening could get any worse.
He smiled at her, but Esme did not return it. There were more than enough people mocking her that evening without her allowing George Wentworth to take his share.
It was at that moment that Esme realized she must make her excuses for a little while at least. Everything seemed too much to bear, and she knew that she should have listened a little more closely to Lady Rachel. This was undoubtedly one of those evenings when the Marquis’ mood was going to swing in the other direction altogether.
And as much as she had tried to persuade herself that it would simply be a matter of getting used to it all, Esme knew that she was not quite ready to ride out such a storm. If practice was what it took, she knew it would be some time before she was proficient.
In the meantime, she would take a little air.
Politely excusing herself from her company without a word of explanation, Esme demurely made her way to the edge of the ballroom. She continued to stay close to the wall until she found herself at the immense double doors which lead out into the corridor beyond.
In no time at all, she found her way into the morning room and let herself out through the French windows and into the night.
It was late, and even though it was a summer’s night, there was a chill in the air. She stood on the terrace and breathed deeply, taking in the rich and soothing bouquet of the night-scented stocks. Even though she could still hear the music and the chatter, it was distant, muffled,
and the sounds of the night took over.
She heard an owl somewhere off deep in the woodland on the edge of Lady Asquith’s estate. It hooted in a most determined fashion, waiting for a response that never came.
“It is a little chilly to stand out here, Miss Colchester.”
Esme gasped in surprise and turned sharply to see George Wentworth standing a few feet away from her in the moonlight.
“For heaven’s sake, are you following me?” she said in a snarl, realizing that she was aiming all her annoyance at one man.
“Yes, I am following you,” he said plainly.
“Why?”
“Because you looked upset, Miss Colchester.”
“I am not at all upset, Mr. Wentworth,” she said, although she felt a little ridiculous saying it considering the tone of her voice.
Of course, she was upset, and of course she looked it.
“Forgive me, I have mistaken the whole thing,” he said and took a step towards her.
“I am just taking a little air, Mr. Wentworth, that is all,” she said in a less confrontational tone. “I only mean to be out here for a moment or two.” She turned away from him and stared out across the moonlit lawn.
“Then at least take this for the time being,” he said and, with her back still turned to him, she felt him lay his tailcoat over her shoulders.
The smooth skin of her shoulders was instantly warmed by the coat. Not for the protection it provided from the chill of the evening, but from the warmth of the man himself. The very warmth he had given to that coat as he wore it was the very warmth she now felt against her skin.
It was a most curious sensation, and one that was even a little pleasurable. For all the fractious nervous energy of the evening, she suddenly felt a little peace. It was the peace which came from quiet protection.
Esme bit her bottom lip and stared up at the moon; how Jane would have loved to hear her describe such an event and in such florid, romantic words.
“Thank you, Mr. Wentworth,” she said, having no idea how to proceed with the conversation.
“I hope you will not lose many hours of sleep on account of the Marquis of Longton, Miss Colchester.” It was clear that Mr. Wentworth was not at all lost for words.
“Oh?” she said, trying to keep her antagonism at bay whilst she enjoyed the warmth and protection that Mr. Wentworth’s tailcoat seemed to symbolize.
“You are too fine a young woman for him, I am sure of it.”
“Tell me, Mr. Wentworth, are you at all acquainted with Lord Longton?” She finally turned to face him, his shoulders looking all the broader as he stood in just his shirtsleeves and waistcoat.
“We have never been introduced, I am pleased to report,” he said and chuckled.
There was something confident in his chuckle and she was not sure if it amused her or annoyed her. His eyes, which she knew to be pale blue, looked almost black by moonlight and she could see his fair hair lifting a little here and there in the light breeze of the evening.
“Then how can you state with certainty that I am too fine for him?”
“The evidence of my own eyes and ears does not need great swathes of time in which to come to a conclusion, Miss Colchester. And any other young lady might be pleased, even flattered, to be told that she is too good for a Marquis.”
“Ah, but I do not know exactly who it is who gives this compliment, do I? If I did, it might make your compliment somewhat more believable.”
“Do you really need to know my station in life to accept my kindness?” he asked, and she could hear the familiar amusement in his voice, the same amusement she had heard outside the haberdashery in Colington town. “Or do such things as kindness and caring not exist without a pedigree?”
“You are deflecting my question, Mr. Wentworth. And you are doing so by being very clever once again. You will remember, I am sure, that I am left a little annoyed by your deftly worded mockery.”
“I do not wish to mock you, Miss Colchester. In truth, I only came out here this evening to be sure that you were all right. And now I see that you are, perhaps I ought to leave you.”
“Who are you?” she asked again, determined to have some information about him at least.
“I am George Wentworth, Miss Colchester,” he said and bowed.
And with that, Esme carefully removed his tailcoat and handed it to him.
“Thank you kindly for the coat, Mr. Wentworth,” Esme said as she walked around him and back into the house.
Chapter 13
“This is an honor indeed, George,” Constance Dalton said as she handed George a cup and saucer. “Two visits in as many weeks. Now either I have become more interesting in my old age, or you want something.” The elderly woman smiled at him knowingly.
“You have seen through me, my dear Constance, and I will not insult you by attempting to bluff my way out of it.” George laughed.
Constance Dalton was a distant cousin to his father, one he had always liked very much. And even when his father had passed away some eight years before, George had been determined to maintain contact with the fiery old lady.
She was a very fine woman and much admired and respected in Hertfordshire. She had always been one to speak her mind and it was clear that it was a trait which was only becoming more pronounced with age. But George liked that in a person, he liked to know exactly where he stood. And anybody in Constance Dalton’s company could always be assured of that much at least.
“You are a good boy, George.” Constance laughed gently. “So out with it, what are you looking for?”
“Information, of a sort,” George began and, despite knowing Constance Dalton so well, he felt a little trepidation. “Information about a young lady, as it happens.”
“Well, I never, George Wentworth has his eye on somebody, does he?” Constance Dalton said in a gently mocking tone.
“I am rather afraid I do, my dear,” George said in an amusing way as if it were more an affliction than anything else.
“Well, who is the young lady? I presume I know her.”
“You are as sharp as ever, my dear. Yes, I do believe you know her rather well. Her name is Esme Colchester.”
“Oh, my dear Esme,” Constance said enthusiastically. “Yes, I know the Colchesters very well indeed. And Esme and her mother regularly come to play bridge.”
“I had thought as much,” George said, his excitement rising. “But do they have a standing invitation, my dear?”
“Of course, they do,” Constance said with some exasperation. “They have been coming to me for years. And Esme is a very fine bridge player, a very clever girl indeed.”
“Which is why you like her, Constance,” he admitted and realized that it felt quite wonderful to speak his feelings for the young woman aloud.
“And when are they next expected to attend? On what day do you play bridge, my dear?”
“On Thursdays, as a rule.”
“And do Mrs. Colchester and her daughter attend every week?”
“Most weeks, but there are never any guarantees. That is the whole point of a standing invitation, is it not? A person may attend or not attend as their mood and circumstances suit.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“I take it you are looking for an invitation yourself, George?” she said, her shrewd eyes narrowed into slits.
“Indeed, I am, Constance. You really have seen right through me, have you not?”
“You are still a young man, my dear. It is easy for a woman of my years to see through the male of the species now with the benefit of experience and hindsight.”
“You make us sound like very different beings, Constance.”
“You are.” Constance chuckled heartily. “But of course, you may have an invitation on any Thursday you wish. There, is it not time to improve your game? If you are to play bridge, I suggest you have a little practice.”
“Indeed, it has been a number of years since I have bothered with the game.”
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��But something tells me it is not the bridge that you intend to play, George.”
“I would just like the opportunity to get to know Miss Colchester a little better.”
“Then perhaps you ought to invite her to Buckinghamshire?” Constance said and gave him a knowing look.
“I am not quite ready to… to…”
“To admit who you are?” she supplied a little too helpfully.
“It is nice to be in a place where nobody really knows you.”
“But I know you.”
“Yes, and well enough not to give me away. I am fortunate to have many great friends here in Hertfordshire who allow me a certain anonymity so that I might enjoy society a little better.”
“I am not so sure that you enjoy society, George. I think you are a spy, a watcher of society. You are a commentator, looking at the things which change and the things which always remain the same and I rather think you do so disapprovingly.”
“Do you not think that there is much about the way we live which is ridiculous, Constance?”
“Oh yes, indeed I do.” She laughed and paused to sip her tea. “So, you are going to get to know this young lady as Mr. Wentworth before you tell her anything about yourself. Do you not think that is a little unfair? After all, she is a very decent sort of a girl and one who I am sure would not be swayed.”
“I believe that too, and yet still she is being wooed by a Marquis.”
“A Marquis? There is only one I can think of in these parts,” Constance said with an air of distaste.
“The Marquis of Longton.”
“I thought as much.” She shook her head. “But his mother is such a dear. And really, he was such a sweet little boy. But now that he has grown, he is too much like that father of his to be a good prospect for any woman. Can she not be given any little instruction upon his character?”
“Obviously, I have tried, but I am afraid that Miss Colchester sees me as something of an adversary at the moment.”
“But is your friend not staying at Longton Hall at the moment? Dear Peregrine’s widow?”
Love or Title: The Colchester Sisters Page 6