“And I cannot hide that my inheritance comes from trade.” Miss Irving sighed. “Thus here I am, five and twenty and unwed. Quite a shame to my mama, which I believe is why she has taken herself off to India with my father.” She emitted a trill of mirth.
“Perhaps,” Whittaker suggested as he settled on the backward-facing seat across from the ladies, “you should go to India. I should think a host of younger sons would be more than happy to meet you.”
“Geoffrey,” Mama snapped as though he were a schoolboy. “That is rude of you.”
“Not at all.” Miss Irving met and held his gaze, her lips curved into a half-smile. “Younger sons from the right family can often be an excellent prospect.”
He was a younger son. Or had been one. But if she were indicating that she intended to chase after him, she would catch cold.
“You will not find any eligible titles tonight,” Whittaker said by way of warning her off.
Her smile simply broadened.
Mama let out a delicate cough. “I simply think this will be excellent entertainment, and the food is always very good. Some dancing for the young people. Some young ladies singing.”
“You mean caterwauling?” Whittaker grinned at her. “Remember the last assembly and Miss Dunstan?”
“Do not remind me.” Mama clapped her hands to her ears as though the young lady produced her tuneless shrieking in the confines of the carriage.
“Dear me.” Miss Irving’s smile faded. “Will she be there tonight, do you think?”
“I expect she will. She is seventeen and her parents want to launch her next spring.” Mama sighed. “She is quite pretty. They simply need to teach her to keep her mouth shut more often. Nothing worse than a chattering—” She stopped and laughed. “A chattering female like me.”
“You do not chatter, Mama.”
“I have done a bit of singing at soirées,” Miss Irving announced. “It is one way to endure them—participate in the entertainment. But I assure you I neither screech nor caterwaul, and I can hold a tune. Singing is actually a great pleasure of mine.”
“Perhaps Miss Honore could accompany you one evening.” Mama sounded anything but enthusiastic, but the remark was expected of her.
“I thought the harpsichord was broken,” Whittaker said without thinking.
Mama shook her head. “I did not mean accompany on the harpsichord. We have a pianoforte. Your brother bought one shortly before . . . Well, it is a good instrument I have kept in fine repair. Much more modern than a harpsichord.”
His brother had purchased a pianoforte shortly before he died? Whittaker did not even know John played. No one in the Giles family was musical, or had taken the time to find out if they were, in at least two generations, thus the ill repair of the only instrument that had been in the never-opened music room—the ancient harpsichord.
“Where is this pianoforte?” Whittaker asked.
“In the music room, of course.” Mama laughed. “If you would come home to Lancashire for the house instead of the mills, you would know this. I had the harpsichord moved into a bedchamber, and now the pianoforte sits for me to play quite badly upon, until recently when Miss Honore went in there and played quite delightfully.”
“Major Crawford also plays—” Miss Irving pressed a gloved hand to her lips as though she had spoken out of turn.
Perhaps she had. She and the major barely seemed to know one another.
“I thought I heard him tell Miss Honore something of the sort,” Miss Irving continued too quickly. “Oh, look, here we are. What a charming little inn.”
The inn was not precisely little, since it contained a common room large enough to accommodate the gentry within a twenty-mile radius, which trended toward fifty or sixty people in attendance during the months when the hunt did not bring a hundred more along and the gatherings grew more exclusive. For Miss Irving, however, Whittaker Hall was probably a charming little house, since it possessed only thirty bedchambers to her two hundred in the home her father had purchased from a noble family that had fallen on hard times. Or, more accurately, bad luck at the gaming tables.
Where the Hall had come too close to going out of the family.
He should consider creating an entail for the estate. What did it take? The current owner plus two heirs in succession who had reached their majority? That meant waiting nine years until Laurence reached his. No worries there. Neither he nor his uncle was a gamester, and Laurence was too young if something happened to his father or Whittaker. But if something happened to the mills and the income dried up—
“Geoffrey.” Mama tapped him on the arm with her fan. “You are woolgathering again.”
“I am so sorry.” He started up and leaped to the ground to assist the ladies down. From the corner of his eye, he watched Major Crawford laughing up at one of the ladies in the other carriage. Whittaker gritted his teeth and proffered his hand to Miss Irving.
She took it, clung to it for a moment too long as she flowed out of the carriage and set rather dainty feet for a lady so tall onto the freshly raked gravel of the inn yard. She remained at his side, waiting for Mama to descend, but the instant Miss Honore and then Cassandra emerged from their carriage, Miss Irving grasped Whittaker’s arm and all but shoved him toward the brilliantly lit rectangle of the inn’s front door.
It stood open to spill chatter, laughter, and the strains of a violin onto the yard, along with the aromas of roast chicken, baked apples, and a blend of perfumes. The Whittaker Hall party appeared to be amidst the last to arrive, judging from the crush already inside.
“So provincial.” Miss Irving spoke directly into Whittaker’s ear, close enough to stir his overly long hair. “I do wish to go to London.”
He moved his arm away from his side to place some distance between them. “It is not much different, Miss Irving. The entertainments are much the same. The crowds are just ten times larger.”
“But so much more elegant, and one never sees someone one suspects is nothing more than a freehold farmer playing at being a gentleman.” She sighed and used the excuse of stepping over the inn’s threshold to tuck herself closer against him.
“Some of those freehold farmers,” Whittaker pointed out with no thought to the propriety of his remark, “have a larger income than do I.”
“And so, no doubt, do I.” Miss Irving let out a trill of laughter that rose above the strains of the quartet of string instruments in one corner.
Several people swung around. Their eyes flicked from Whittaker to Miss Irving and back to Whittaker. Eyebrows raised. A few smiled. Some frowned and turned away. Most began to press forward, greetings already on their lips.
Those were the highest ranked of the local Society. They wanted to know what beauty his lordship escorted into the assembly. Most knew Cassandra from her four London Seasons. All knew of the broken betrothal. All had heard of guests at Whittaker Hall, and the speculation as to what Whittaker’s intentions toward Miss Irving might be shone in their glances, rang in their questions.
“How long will you stay here in Lancashire, Miss Irving?”
“We are certainly seeing more of you here in the country than we ever have before, my lord. Do you plan to make a habit of it?”
“Can we count on you for the hunt?”
“Do you ride, Miss Irving? Not to hounds, of course, but some of the ladies like to play at following the fox.”
Whittaker squirmed and tried to see where Cassandra had settled herself. Miss Irving preened and dissembled and continued to cling to Whittaker’s arm until a set began to form for the first of the country dances. Spying Cassandra perched on the edge of a chair across the room, Whittaker extricated himself from Miss Irving’s clutches, introduced her to a gentleman he remembered from school, and slipped through the crowd to Cassandra’s side.
“May I fetch you some refreshment?” he asked.
She started, then glanced up at him. “You should be dancing, my lord. I believe there is an uneven number of
ladies to gentlemen tonight and they need you.”
“Not me.” He touched his injured arm, tender inside the form-fitting sleeve of his coat. “The jostling would likely unman me in less than a set.”
She laughed her low chuckle. “I doubt anything could unman you, Geoff—” Her teeth flashed down on her lower lip.
He touched her shoulder where the satin of her skin met the silk of her gown. “You may always call me Geoffrey, Cassandra. We were friends long before I acceded to the title.”
“It is quite improper now.” She turned her face away from him and said something else, but he did not catch it in the tumult of six musicians accompanying the thud of feet stamping and skipping across the wooden floor, and shouts of correction or laughter when someone made a misstep.
Speech had grown impossible. He remained at Cassandra’s side nonetheless, watching the dancers and her in turn. She sat motionless, her face impassive, save for the telltale tapping of her right foot in time to the tune. Not much more than a yard away, Miss Irving and Miss Honore spun and glided and pranced with the fluidity of soaring birds, as though gravity meant nothing to them.
Cassandra had never been such a fine dancer. Nor had she shamed her partner in the movements. They had laughed together over her missteps and kept going, enjoying the music, enjoying one another.
Losing that camaraderie suddenly felt like a beam crushing down on his shoulders, and he dropped into a crouch beside her so he could speak into her ear right above the pearl drop he had selected himself at Rundell, Bridge, and Rundell. “Will you go into the coffee room with me for some refreshment and less noise?”
She tensed, her hand flying to the ear he had spoken into. Her lips rounded in refusal. Then the dance ended and Miss Sylvia Dunstan stepped up to the harpsichord.
Cassandra glanced at the would-be singer, then nodded her assent to accompany Whittaker.
Feeling as though gravity meant nothing to him, Whittaker took Cassandra’s hand in his and rose. He continued to hold her hand after he tucked her fingers against his forearm and led her from the common room. The door swung shut behind them as Miss Dunstan began to wail out “Nature to Woman Still So Kind” from La Tour Enchantée.
“Such a pretty song to be so—” Whittaker caught sight of Lord Dunstan and refrained from finishing his sentence.
A slight pressure of Cassandra’s hand on his arm told him she understood. Camaraderie between them. They had always enjoyed music together if it was well performed.
Then Cassandra and he had argued during the interval at the opera because she had ignored him in favor of discussing aeronautics with Sorrells and Kent, and nothing had been the same between them since. She forever wanted to discuss ballooning. Not tonight. Tonight he would steer the conversation to something else.
“Would you like food or something to drink?” he asked.
“Some mulled cider, perhaps?” She began to pull off her gloves. “And one of those cheesecakes will go so well with it.”
“And a few other things?” He refrained from mentioning that she was far too thin.
He settled her on a chair in the corner and headed to the refreshment table seconds before the door to the common room flew open and a dozen males charged through on a wave of flat high notes. Amongst them were Philip Sorrells and Roger Kent. Both headed straight for Cassandra’s table.
18
A glass of mulled cider spicy with ginger and nutmeg and a plate of delicacies slid onto the table in front of Cassandra. She flashed Whittaker a smile of thanks without breaking her flow of dialogue with Mr. Sorrells and Mr. Kent.
“So what happened when you added the linseed oil? I do wish you had waited for me before you tried it. And now it will set for two days before we can use it, and I will not be able to—” She stopped before she mentioned going up in the balloon. Whittaker, drawing out the last chair at the table for four, would most certainly interfere if he found out about her plans.
“It smells even worse,” Mr. Kent said.
“But isn’t as thick,” Mr. Sorrells added. “Good evening, my lord. Is that arm of yours giving you pepper?”
“A bit.” Whittaker fixed his gaze on Cassandra with such intensity she felt as though he touched her across the table. “It gives me an excellent excuse to keep Miss Bainbridge company.”
“I should think she would have plenty of company.” Mr. Kent shot a glance and a wink at Mr. Sorrells, who turned red.
Cassandra blinked. Across from her, Whittaker’s jaw tightened. She could not think why. Mr. Sorrells was her colleague in aeronautics, nothing more. Yet that glance, that wink . . . No, it was nonsense.
“We had to escape the caterwauling,” Kent continued. “Whoever told that female she could sing?”
“Her doting mama.” Cassandra wrapped her suddenly cold hands around the hot cider. “I heard her in London a time or two also. Dreadful. My sister Madame de Meuse always said the child will never catch a husband that way.”
“Or someone will wed her so he can make her stop.” Whittaker grinned at Cassandra.
Her toes curled inside her slippers. Her hands tightened on her cup. She lifted it and took a deep draught to wet her dry mouth and hide her face. Surely he should not still have this effect on her. From two feet away, that broad smile and flash of dimple in his right cheek should not melt her insides like elastic gum in a hot cauldron. Oh, she must stay away from him the rest of the evening. Yet with neither of them able to dance, avoiding him looked impossible.
It was impossible. Miss Dunstan finished her song and everyone else began to pour into the coffee room for refreshments. The din of voices and clink of utensils against crockery limited dialogue. Gentlemen and ladies paused by their table to greet them before moving on to an empty place.
Cassandra sought Honore. She sat on the opposite side of the room, with Major Crawford dancing attendance and a young man who could barely be out of school trying to gain her attention, much to the frustration of the younger Dunstan daughter, also barely out of the schoolroom. Good. Honore was safe. Father would not like a military man courting one of his daughters again, but Honore might bring him around if the flirtation grew into something more. The major was stationed there in the north, at least until all the rebels were ferreted out and either jailed or scared into behaving. With a wife possessing a fine dowry, he might sell out altogether, unlike her sister Lydia’s first husband. Lydia was happy now, though, and the major seemed urbane enough to keep Honore under control without boring her.
Certain she need not concern herself with her sister, she resumed her discussion of the balloon coating. “May we continue to use the shearing shed, my lord?”
“Of course. I said you could.” He glanced from Mr. Sorrells to Mr. Kent. “Did you keep the formula in a safe place this time, away from tampering?”
“Yes, my lord, we most certainly did,” Mr. Kent said.
“Can’t have anything happening to our best aeronaut, now can we?” Mr. Sorrells smiled at Cassandra.
Much better. Mr. Sorrells’s smile did nothing to her insides, just like his touch did not turn her knees to syllabub. She was not lost to all propriety and Christian ladylike behavior with other men. Whittaker alone. She must avoid him.
Difficult when he sat across from her and remained at her side in the common room, sent shivers up her spine when he spoke into her ear and she felt his warm breath . . .
The cider had made her too warm. She needed air, space. She sat in a corner, unable to move without disturbing the three men at their meal.
Then she spied Miss Irving, beautiful, elegant, and nearly as tall as most of the men in the room. She flirted with a gentleman farmer, no one she would ever wed due to his social rank barely above a yeoman, and caught Cassandra’s eye. From a dozen feet away, Miss Irving arched her delicate brows in question. Cassandra scanned her gaze across her three companions. Miss Irving received the message. After bestowing a brilliant smile upon her interlocutor, she sauntered to Cassandra’s tab
le.
“So the little invalid manages to be grip-fisted with the best gentlemen in the party.” Miss Irving flashed her emeralds as she reached a hand to Cassandra.
She took it with too much gratitude to care about the “little invalid” remark. “Do you know Mr. Sorrells and Mr. Kent?”
She presented Miss Irving to the gentlemen, all of whom had risen at the other lady’s approach, then slid out of her chair. “Do take my seat, my dear Miss Irving. I am quite finished here and really must speak to my sister.” Too slowly, each step painful without the support of her cane, she tucked herself into the thickest point of the crowd and headed for Honore’s table.
She did not need to glance back to know that no one followed her. They were all too polite and well-schooled in manners to do so. She was too polite to interrupt Honore’s reign over a group of mostly young people, so she merely nodded to her sister as she passed and slipped out the nearest door.
It took her into a dim passageway with the clatter of pots and pans and the stronger aromas of baking pies pouring from one end, and the blessed coolness of the autumn evening at the other. She selected the latter, not wanting to intrude upon the kitchen, which must be in a hubbub with all the guests. Fortunately, she found herself in an herb garden, sweetly fragrant even with the plants mostly dormant for the winter. A chill nipped the air, but the wind was calm and the sky clear. Two lanterns hung on either side of the door, shedding some light to the narrow path between the herb beds, and she carefully made her way outside the pool of light to a low, stone wall. Only a few minutes. She would remain for a few minutes, breathe air not tainted with clothes that could have been better washed or aired, too many perfumes, and that sultry heaviness she experienced whenever she found herself in the company of Geoffrey Giles, Earl of Whittaker.
Laurie Alice Eakes - [Daughters of Bainbridge House 02] Page 17