Oh, dear heavens. She’d said that bit out loud?
Heat flooded her cheeks. This was awful. Perfectly dreadful. There was no excuse for having made such a comment. And yet she couldn’t stop herself from attempting to provide one.
“I was only . . . What I meant by that is . . .” She told herself to give up the effort before she somehow made matters worse. “One cannot . . . There is no shame in marrying a man with an income.”
And there it was . . . Worse.
Oh, damn.
Leave, leave now.
“Excuse me.” She struggled to untie the ribbons of her mask. She’d put it on, go to the ball, and pray to every deity known to man that Mr. Brice’s low opinion of Sir Robert kept the two men from speaking to each other, or about each other, or near each other, or . . .
“Allow me.” Mr. Brice took the mask from her hands, his long fingers brushing across her skin.
“You’re right,” he said gently. “There is nothing wrong with making a practical match.”
“Oh. Well.” That was very understanding of him, she thought with a sigh of relief. Then she wondered if he might expand on that understanding a little. “You’ll not repeat what I said?”
“On my word.” He pulled the knotted ribbons free and handed her the mask. “The true shame is that you’re given no other choice.”
Was he speaking of the lack of opportunity for women everywhere to make their way in the world, she wondered, or was he referring to her shortage of suitors? She would have asked him, but she was distracted when his gaze flew to something over her shoulder.
She heard it then . . . Footsteps. The sound was muffled and distant, still around the turn in the corridor, but it was growing louder and more distinct.
She winced and stifled the urge to swear. It wasn’t uncommon for two guests to meet in the hall and share a few words in passing, but it was generally frowned upon for a young, unmarried lady to converse with a gentleman to whom she’d not been properly introduced. At seven-and-twenty, she was no longer considered a young lady, but that wouldn’t stop Sir Robert from chiding her for not making the trip to the ballroom in the company of a maid.
She didn’t care for his chiding.
“Please, do pretend we’ve not been speaking,” she whispered and took a step to move around Mr. Brice. Perhaps, if she put a bit of distance between them . . .
Mr. Brice had another idea. He reached over and opened the door he’d emerged from earlier. “This would be easier.”
“Yes, of course.” Hiding seemed something of an overreaction, but it was preferable to having a marriage proposal turn into a lecture.
She brushed past him into the dimly lighted room. The door closed behind her with a soft click of the latch, and she stood where she was for a moment, taking a deep breath to settle her racing heart. It was fortunate Mr. Brice had so quickly interpreted the cause of her discomfort. It was even more fortunate that Mr. Brice had thought to shield her presence while he sent the passing guest on his way. Quite considerate of him, really. Very nearly the act of a knight-errant.
Having never before been the object of a gentleman’s chivalry, the thought brought a warm slide of pleasure and a small, secret smile. But both began to fade as the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She turned around slowly and found herself staring at the small ruby pin in Mr. Brice’s crisp white cravat.
“Good Lord,” she gasped and stumbled back in retreat. “What do you think . . . ?”
Mr. Brice held a finger up to his lips, and she had no choice but to obediently snap her mouth shut. The unknown guest was approaching the door. She could hear his footsteps . . . or were they hers? She couldn’t make out a click of a heel, and there was an odd rhythm to the gait, as if the person was shuffling down the hall.
The noise paused outside the door.
No. Oh, please, please don’t.
She watched in mounting horror as Mr. Brice slowly extended his arm and took hold of the door handle. Surely he wasn’t going to try to turn the key in the lock. Surely he wasn’t stupid enough to open the door.
He wasn’t. He kept perfectly still, his hand wrapped around the handle as if he meant to physically keep it from turning if necessary—which wouldn’t seem at all suspicious to someone on the other side—until their uninvited guest resumed his leisurely stroll.
She let out a long, shaky sigh . . . then froze when the shuffling stopped and a loud creak issued from an old wooden bench not five yards down the hall.
He was stopping to rest. Who the devil actually used those benches to rest? An elderly guest, she realized, or a maid or footman neglecting their duties. It could be Mrs. Cress’s mastiff, Otis, for all she knew. The dog was always about climbing on the furniture.
Adelaide bit her lip and clenched and unclenched her hands. What was she supposed to do now? She couldn’t be seen leaving a dark room without causing raised brows . . . But Mr. Brice could. Gentleman could get away with all sorts of suspicious behavior.
She waved her hand about to catch his attention, then pointed a finger at the door and mouthed the word “go” as clearly as possible.
Apparently, she wasn’t clear enough. He gave a slow shake of his head.
She pressed her lips together in frustration and jabbed her finger more emphatically.
He shook his head again.
Idiot.
He lifted a finger and pointed behind her. “Go.”
Glancing over her shoulder, she saw doors leading onto the terrace. The dark terrace that led down to the dark garden. The ballroom and lighted side of the terrace and garden were on the other side of the house.
She turned back with a scowl and shook her head.
He nodded.
She had the most ridiculous urge to shake her fist at him.
She fought it back. The silent battle of wills was getting them nowhere, and the longer they remained in the room, the greater the chance of discovery. With no other option left, she gave him a final resentful glare, then spun about and headed for the terrace doors.
The soft pad of his footsteps trailed behind her. Damn it all, he was following her. She would be in the garden, at night, with a complete stranger.
Without another thought, she grabbed a sturdy brass candlestick from the mantel. Instantly, he was beside her, his large hand covering hers on the candlestick. The scent of him filled her senses—the hint of soap on his skin, the light touch of starch on his clothes. His breath was warm and soft in her ear as he bent his head to whisper.
“It’s the poker you want.” His hand slid over hers until he grasped the top of the candlestick. He drew it away from her slowly and replaced it on the mantel without moving his mouth from her ear. “Longer reach.”
She heard the edge of amusement in his voice and could have cheerfully murdered him in that moment. At the very least, she would have liked to snatch the weapon back and take aim at his head. But ever the practical woman, she took the poker instead and slipped out the doors and into the garden.
Mr. Brice fell into step beside her. “There’s a rarely used door around the back of the house. It opens to a short hall and stairwell that will lead you back upstairs.”
“I know that.” Her sister, Isobel, had an insatiable curiosity. She’d explored every inch of the house on their first day and then given a detail accounting of the building that evening. Adelaide made a mental note to apologize for the lecture she’d delivered to Isobel on the perils of snooping.
“Why are you following me?” she demanded.
“What sort of gentleman would allow a lady to traverse a dark garden alone?”
“The gentlemanly sort.” Her eyes scanned the grounds for other guests, but their side of the garden was still and silent as a tomb. “Why on earth did you come into the room? You should have remained in the hall.”
“I should have? Why not you?”
“Because . . . You opened the door. I assumed—”
“That I opened it for you? There’
s a fine bit of arrogance.”
She tried to remember if he had motioned her inside the room or not and was forced to admit he hadn’t. “Nevertheless, you should have remained outside once I had gone in.”
“You were not the only person hoping to avoid a particular guest,” he reminded her.
How was it she could be walking in a dark garden while carrying a fire poker and fearing for her future—all because of the man beside her—and still feel as if she needed to apologize for the circumstances?
She was not apologizing. Probably. She would reconsider the matter when she was safely back inside. For now, she needed to concentrate on the best route through the garden.
The single path before her split into three. The one to the right went to the front of the house. The path to the left led to the back, but it wound about the flower beds close to the house. It was visible to anyone who happened to look outside. The path in the center led deeper into the garden where they would be shielded from view by a hedgerow. She could make her way to the back of the house from that path, but she hesitated at the thought of going further into the darkness with a near stranger for company.
“If I wanted to hurt you,” Mr. Brice said conversationally, apparently aware of her line of thought, “I’d not have troubled to introduce myself first. Nor suggested a better choice of weapon.”
Adelaide had to admit that he made a sound point. But, all the same, she readjusted her grip on the poker before setting off down the middle path.
Chapter 2
The trip through the garden began in silence. Adelaide steered them past sweetly scented flower beds and shrubs, a pretty stone fountain, and a small reflection pool that sparkled in the light of a full moon. The warm air was cooled by a soft breeze, and the occasional hum of music could be heard in the distance.
When they passed under a long arbor thick with climbing roses without incident, Adelaide let out a quiet breath and loosened her hold on the poker. If Mr. Brice was interested in assault, he could not have chosen a better spot than what essentially amounted to a long, dark tunnel. Evidently, he wasn’t interested.
“May I speak now without sending you into a faint?” Mr. Brice inquired.
He’d been so quiet until now that the sudden intrusion of his voice sounded unnaturally loud in the stillness of the garden. She started a little and wished she hadn’t.
“I’d not have fainted.” She might well have swung the poker at him if he’d startled her before the arbor, but she wouldn’t have fainted.
Flicking a glance at him, she saw he was striding along beside her with his hands behind his back, his long legs taking one step for her every two. He turned his head, caught her eye, and smiled amiably, looking for all the world as if they were out having a perfectly innocent, perfectly harmless evening stroll.
“You’re being very cavalier about this,” she muttered.
“I’m remaining calm,” he corrected. “Would you prefer I panic?”
“No.”
“Would you like me to distract you from your panic?”
“I am not panicking.” Not yet, she added silently. If they didn’t reach the end of the path soon, that might very well change.
“I’ll distract you for my own amusement, then. Do you suppose there are more of us?”
“Us?”
“Refugees from the ball. People hiding amongst the roses and hyacinths.”
They weren’t taking refuge so much as they were trapped, but the image of guests scattered about the garden peeking out from behind the plants brought a reluctant smile.
“Hyacinths grow no higher than twelve to fourteen inches,” she informed him. “And they’re not in bloom.”
“I imagine a few of the guests fancy themselves dainty enough. Sir Robert amongst them.” He smiled at her scowl. “Twelve to fourteen inches. You’ve some interest in horticulture.”
“Two insults in under a quarter hour. You’ve some interest in Sir Robert.”
“Indeed, I do.”
He didn’t comment further, and she didn’t ask him to explain. Mr. Brice’s opinion of her suitor didn’t concern her at present. Her primary focus was to find the safest, most expedient way through the garden and back to the house.
The path widened into a graveled clearing featuring several small iron benches with elaborate scrollwork. She rushed through the opening, eager to get to the other side where the end of the hedgerow marked the boundary of the garden. Once she rounded the corner, it would be but another forty or fifty yards of clear lawn to the house.
She stepped out from the small courtyard, careful to stay in the deep shadow of the hedges, and had just enough time to catch a glimpse of the open lawn and the house before Mr. Brice grabbed her arm and pulled her back.
“We’ve an obstacle.”
He jerked his chin toward the house, and when she peeked around the bushes again, she saw the door she’d been hoping to use, and a heavyset man sitting on a bench not six feet away. Her premature relief died a swift and painful death.
“Oh, no.” Oh, damn. She glared at the back of the man’s head. They didn’t have an obstacle. Obstacles could be gotten over or around with a bit of maneuvering. What they had was a blockade.
“Can he hear us?” she whispered.
“Not unless we shout.”
That was something, anyway.
“Right.” She worried her lip with her teeth. “Well . . . There are other doors. Other rooms.”
“All leading to the main hall, the kitchen, or the servants’ quarters,” Mr. Brice reminded her. “You’ve a far better chance of returning undetected if you use that door.”
“Not at present.” She went back to biting her lip. “Perhaps . . . Go up there and . . . and ask to be shown to . . .” She had no idea to where a gentleman might wish to be shown. “To somewhere. The library.”
A short pause. “Everyone knows where the library is.”
“Then ask for something else. Just make him go away.”
He leaned to look around the bushes. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because that”—he pointed toward the door and the man—“is Mr. Birch. He has known me for fifteen years and not believed a word to come out of my mouth for the last fourteen and a half. If I try to lead him into the house, he’ll march straight for the garden.”
She took a long, slow, deep breath through her nose and held it. She would not panic, nor would she shout at Mr. Brice, because neither response would bring her any closer to a solution.
He gave her a sheepish smile designed to charm. “Shall I apologize for a misspent youth?”
Rather than answer—and risk the temptation of punctuating her answer with the fire poker—she began to pace, a habit that always helped focus her thoughts and settle her nerves.
“He must be made to move. My absence will be noticed. A maid will be sent to my chambers. My sister will tell them I left—”
“It’s a masquerade, Miss Ward.” Mr. Brice settled his tall frame on one of the benches. “No one will know you’re not amongst the guests.”
“Sir Robert will know. You said he was waiting for me.”
“He was. And now he probably isn’t.” He shrugged, looking very much at ease with the situation. The blighter. “The man has a remarkably short span of attention.”
“You should go back inside, through the study, and—”
“I’ll not leave you in the garden alone.” He leaned against the back of the bench and stretched his legs out before him. “What if you should run across Sir Robert in the dark?”
“This is not a jest,” she snapped. “Go back and—”
He held a hand up, cutting her off. “That last was a bid to make you smile, I admit, but I meant the first. This is a masquerade, Miss Ward. The house is crawling with revelers, gentlemen emboldened by an excess of drink and the anonymity afforded by their masks.”
Again, he had a point. She’d never attended a masquerade before, but she’d heard h
er share of stories. Masquerade balls could be quite wild in nature. Several of the younger ladies at the house party had been denied participation by their chaperones.
Evidently, Mr. Brice was—in a roundabout and rather ineffectual way—attempting to be a gentleman. It was only fair she acknowledge his efforts.
“I appreciate your concern,” she said at length. “And I apologize for being short with you.”
To prove her sincerity, she propped the fire poker against the hedge and stepped away . . . But not too far away. She was apologetic, not stupid.
Mr. Brice nodded. “A very nice show of faith.”
Pleased he thought so, she resumed her pacing, taking care to not walk too far from the poker.
There had to be another way to sneak into the house. There had to be a way to make the man move. There had to be a way to make Mr. Brice stop staring at her so she could think of a way to make the man move.
Nothing about the way Mr. Brice was watching her was overtly threatening. But everything about it was distracting. He was so very . . . present. His large frame looked out of place amongst the feminine benches and moonlit blooms. And yet he appeared perfectly at ease, perfectly content to sit still and silent and follow her every movement with those piercing green eyes.
She tried to put him out of her mind, but her body stubbornly refused to cooperate. Her pulse raced, and her skin grew over-warm under the silk of her gown. She gave brief consideration to walking a bit further into the garden so she could pace in solitude, before deciding he would only follow.
“May I make a suggestion?” He gestured to one of the benches across from him. “Have a seat. Settle your nerves. Our obstacle will bore of the night air soon enough. Another quarter hour at most. You’ll be free to return to the ballroom, and Sir Robert will be none the wiser for your little adventure.”
She shook her head. She couldn’t sit still when she was anxious.
“Then again,” he continued, “he might be a little wiser if you return looking as if you walked a half mile down the road.”
“What?”
“Bit of breeze tonight,” he said and pointed to her mask. “And you’re kicking up a fair amount of dust.”
AN Unexpected Gentleman Page 2