Deliberately, she turned her back on the dusty Bible and left the bedchamber without her cane. She would manage without it. Someone would lend her his arm to lead her into dinner.
Miss Irving met her inside the great hall, as though she had been waiting to pounce before the guests arrived. “You are looking very fine this evening, Miss Bainbridge.”
Cassandra smiled graciously. “Not as fine as you always do.”
“How kind of you considering . . .” The older lady laid her hand on Cassandra’s arm. Her face was earnest, perhaps even a bit tense. “Are you quite certain your betrothal is over?”
“Yes, of course I am.” Cassandra looked Miss Irving in the eye. “If Lord Whittaker decides to court you, do not give me a moment’s consideration.”
“Thank you.” Miss Irving bowed her head. “It would please my father so much if I married a title.”
“But would it please you?” Cassandra asked, but Regina Irving had already turned toward the far side of the hall where Whittaker and his mother had arrived, and she either did not hear or ignored the query.
“And would it please Whittaker?” Cassandra asked no one at all.
Seeing him take Miss Irving’s arm and lead her to a chair, Cassandra knew a courtship between them would not please her. She was such a dog in the manger there. Cassandra did not want him, but she did not want anyone else to have him either.
Except she did want him. She simply knew she could not have him. She offered him nothing that he needed—the right airs to be a countess, enough money to ease his financial straits, the beauty he deserved.
Not wanting to trail behind Whittaker and Miss Irving, Cassandra hesitated inside the hall and fiddled with a button on her glove. If she waited long enough, surely someone else would arrive.
Someone else did, in the form of Mr. Kent and Mr. Sorrells. They greeted her with enthusiasm and vied for which one of them would lead her to a chair. Amusement diminished her tension, and she could greet the other guests with her head high, if her walk still a bit unsteady.
Then dinnertime arrived. As she was the highest-ranked lady other than his mother, Lord Whittaker led her into the dining room and seated her on his right side. Lady Smithfield, the young and jolly wife of a knight, sat to his left. She commanded most of his attention, and the young man to Cassandra’s right seemed more interested in the food than conversation, so she was spared the necessity of talking to Whittaker at any length. He did, however, manage to murmur before Lady Whittaker led the ladies back to the hall for cups of tea, “I will talk to you later.”
Cassandra did not have the time to say she could not. She needed to follow her hostess and the other females.
“I have chalk for your slippers, since I have learned that my nephews’ tutor plays the pianoforte rather well. He has moved it onto the gallery above us.” Lady Whittaker removed a small wooden casket from the drawer of a Pembroke table and held it out to Miss Irving with an apologetic glance at Cassandra.
“Can you not dance at all?” Miss Irving asked.
“Perhaps something more sedate like a minuet.” Cassandra stared down at her silk-covered legs. “But no one dances the minuet anymore.”
“A pity. It is such a pretty dance.”
It was a courting dance, with all the bowing and curtsying and partners moving toward and away from one another.
“If you change your mind,” Miss Irving said, “I will help you chalk your slippers.”
“Thank you.”
Such kindness now that she seemed to be catching herself a title to please her father.
And Cassandra had rejected a title to please hers. To please both her earthly and heavenly fathers, both of whom now disapproved.
She had her flying. She must remember she had her flying.
Had she been at a larger party in London, she would have sought out the library once the dancing commenced. It would not have been the first time she had done so at a ball or party. The heat and smoke from the candles, added to numerous perfumes and pomades, made her head ache. She favored the company of a good book, preferably one she had not discovered before, to ballroom flirtations.
Even with only five couples dancing to the music drifting rather romantically from above them, the amount of laughter and couples staying for extra sets with one another suggested considerable flirtations, especially between Honore and the major, who, beneath Cassandra’s watchful eye, seemed to cling gloved hands a little too long before the figure of the dance separated them.
No hand holding pressed the contact between Whittaker and Miss Irving, but they danced two sets in a row, and both seemed to smile a great deal. When Cassandra saw them lock eyes at the end of a reel, she murmured something about turning music for the tutor and skirted the hall to the staircase. Gripping the rail, she climbed with care until she reached the first floor, where she had not ventured in the weeks she had been at the Hall. The gallery stretched to the left, bright with candles. To her right ran a long corridor with two rooms brightly lit and awaiting the needs of the guests. She turned left and approached the pianoforte, then passed it to watch the hall from behind the screen of the carved balustrade.
“You have gone too far if you intended to turn music,” Whittaker said behind her.
She spun around and caught her balance with a hand against the railing. “What are you doing up here? Do they not need you for the set?”
“Only four couples are needed for a quadrille. Miss Irving took herself off to repair her hem after Kent trod on it, and I asked Mama where I would find you.” His smile was gentle, teasing.
Knee-melting.
“What do you want?”
“To apologize for not making our rendezvous yesterday morning.” He stood in front of her, away from the balustrade but close enough for his sleeve to brush hers. “I was followed and did not wish to risk your safety by drawing him to you.”
“Thank you.” She inched away. “Do have more care for yourself.”
“I am having a care for you, even if it means we cannot meet for me to tell you—”
“It is best we did not meet. I told Miss Irving she has my blessing on a courtship between the two of you. Or near as told her that.”
“And you and Sorrells are practically in one another’s pockets of late, I know, though he is paying a great deal of attention to Miss Dunstan right now.” He held out his hand. “Do not hide up here, Cassandra. We want your company.”
“No, Geoff—Whittaker, I am decidedly de trop down there.”
“You could never be de trop.” His voice was soft, his gaze softer. “I wish—no, I need to talk to you still.”
A flutter of movement at the top of the steps drew Cassandra’s attention to Miss Irving waiting, her lips set.
“Your lady is impatiently awaiting you,” Cassandra said.
He glanced over his shoulder, nodded, then turned back to Cassandra. “I need your advice, your intellect.”
Miss Irving started toward them. “The quadrille is ending, my lord.”
She emphasized my a little too much.
Cassandra ground her teeth, though she knew she had no right to care. She had given the other lady permission.
“The orangery,” Whittaker mouthed and turned to Miss Irving, his smile in place, his hand outstretched to her.
Cassandra waited until everyone was engrossed in the next set of dances, then descended the steps one tread at a time, trying to bear little weight on her right foot, until she reached the ground floor. Then she slipped along the wall to the door to her wing of the house. She was about to open it and escape to her bedchamber when she noticed four couples instead of five made up the formation of the quadrille.
Honore and Major Crawford were missing.
26
Whittaker’s gaze followed Cassandra leaving the hall for her wing of the house, and he trod on Miss Irving’s foot. She gasped, glared at him, and spun away to meet her next partner in the figure of the dance. Over the head of his next partner, p
lump and pretty Miss Dunstan, he tried to catch Mama’s eye to signal for her to bring Cassandra back to the party and barely stopped himself from treading on Miss Dunstan’s toes too.
The ever-changing pattern of the dance swept him to his next partner, then the next, and then he faced Miss Irving again and realized Miss Honore was not part of the group. Nor was Major Crawford.
“The little fool.” Whittaker released Miss Irving’s hands and stepped out of the line. “I know this is rude of me, ma’am, but I must find Miss Honore.”
“She and the major slipped out that door while you were talking to her sister.” Miss Irving indicated the door through which Cassandra had vanished.
Whittaker headed for it, Miss Irving at his heels.
“I expect they are in the orangery,” she said.
“I expect so.” He spoke through clenched teeth.
Miss Honore Bainbridge did not know the meaning of discretion, let alone how to act it out. Of all the parties during which to disappear, she chose one so small she was missed in minutes. Whether he was an eligible suitor or not, slipping away to be in private with Major Crawford was not appropriate behavior for a young lady who had recently completed a disastrous first Season.
“Do go back and join the party,” he told Miss Irving at the door. “I will manage this with her sister.”
“But I am part of this . . . family, am I not?” Miss Irving smiled. “I have been encouraging her in her alliance with the major, as she has told me all about her misalliance last spring.” She lowered her lashes. “Amongst other things.”
Whittaker shoved open the door with more force than necessary. “What things?”
“Let me see.” Miss Irving tapped her fan against her chin. “Miss Bainbridge falling down steps at the opera house. You and Miss Bainbridge being . . . indiscreet in the library . . .”
What was Miss Honore thinking in talking about such things?
Whittaker picked up his pace down the long passageway. “The past between Miss Bainbridge and me is . . . past.”
“I wish it were.” Miss Irving caught up with him again. “We did not know that the Bainbridge ladies would be here. After all, your betrothal was over, or so we heard.”
“It was. It is.” And the pain felt as raw as it had the day he’d received Cassandra’s message.
He glanced back at the heiress looking every bit as wealthy as she was, beautiful enough to not need rich fabrics and jewels to enhance her looks into being a diamond of the first water. If she received introductions into Society, she would find herself another title in moments and all her money would go elsewhere.
Which it should if she and another man were that mercenary.
In that moment, chasing down Cassandra and Honore Bainbridge, he knew he was not that mercenary. God might be placing barriers between him and Cassandra marrying, but in no way did the Lord want him to wed a woman for whom he was gaining some liking yet for whom he felt no attraction beyond admiration of her appearance—as empty as admiration for a finely executed painting.
He stopped in the middle of the corridor and faced the heiress. “Miss Irving, you are one of the loveliest females I have ever had the privilege of meeting. In London, with the right introductions, you would make a splash in any circle.”
“But I have made no splash with you.” Her smile was tight, brittle. “I doubted this would work, but I had to tell Papa I tried.”
“But you feel nothing for me either,” Whittaker concluded.
“No.” She shook her head. “I think I could quite happily marry you. You are, um, more than attractive to me, courteous, kind, intelligent, if somewhat inattentive to your guests, though I do understand you have the responsibilities of the mills right now. Of course those mills are one reason why my father and your uncle, who are great friends, thought this might be a grand alliance—you would not mind so much my father making his money in trade. But you are not even paying attention to me.” Miss Irving pouted, but her eyes sparkled. “Thinking of Miss Bainbridge?”
“In truth I was not, but now that you say so, I need to retrieve those ladies.”
Miss Irving laughed. “Perhaps I should learn from their rebellion and marry a wholly unsuitable man instead of the titled one my father craves.”
“You should marry a man for whom you feel—” No, he could not say to this acquaintance that she should marry a man for whom she felt passion and respect and liking.
All those things he felt for Cassandra.
“We sometimes walk a fine line between being obedient to our earthly fathers and being obedient to our own hearts,” he concluded.
“I would say the Bainbridge sisters have crossed the former in favor of the latter. Shall we go get them?” Miss Irving tucked her arm through his and headed toward the orangery.
They had reached the short flight of steps down to the glasshouse when voices filled the corridor.
“I do believe,” Whittaker said, “everyone is joining us.”
He took the steps in a single bound and flung open the orangery door in time to hear Cassandra’s voice in a low but harsh lecture.
“You may have more hair than wit, Honore Bainbridge, but surely last spring taught you to behave with a little more discretion than this. And as for you, Major Crawford, you should know better than to walk out of a party that small, where you would be missed in a minute. You are fortunate I found you first and not the entire party. I am ashamed of your behavior, the two of you, and will write Father in the morning. Now come with me before—”
“Too late.” Whittaker strode forward to stand beside Cassandra. “The entire party is coming.”
Indeed, voices and footfalls rang out from the corridor.
“And they will find nothing wrong.” Crawford leaned languidly against one of the steamy windows, one booted foot propped on the edge of an orange tree planter. “Miss Honore was feeling faint and needed some—”
“Air in here?” Cassandra gestured to the burning braziers heating the air to unnatural warmth. “What fool will believe that?”
“Seems to me,” Miss Honore said, her lower lip still managing to puff out in a pout, “that you two are the pot calling the kettle black.”
“Yes, and look how I have paid for it.” Tears filled Cassandra’s eyes, making them appear bigger and darker than they already were. She held her hands out to her sister. “Honore, do not let yourself be led astray like this. If our earthly father does not punish you, God will. Or do you want to end up—” She stopped and pressed a hand to her lips.
But she had spoken into the unnatural stillness of a dozen people holding their breath in waiting silence.
“I do believe,” Mama said from the doorway, “everyone here would enjoy the treat of an orange to refresh themselves after such rigorous activity. Geoffrey, will you assist me in finding the ripest ones?”
“Oh, may I look?” Miss Dunstan darted for the nearest tree. “The last oranges you gave us were wonderfully sweet.”
The party scattered, everyone in search of his own ripe orange. Cassandra grabbed Honore’s wrist and seemed to be dragging her to the door by force, all the while speaking in an undertone. Miss Honore’s lower lip stuck out enough to make a fine bird perch.
Whittaker stood in front of Major Crawford, preventing him from going anywhere. “You, sir, will pack and leave this house at once.”
“Can’t. Have to stay in the neighborhood, as you know.” He grinned.
Whittaker did not take the bait. “There are inns aplenty close at hand. I will not have you attempting to debauch an innocent like Miss Honore Bainbridge.”
“Scarcely an innocent. Or did you think no one knew about her scandalous activity last spring?” The major yawned. “Of course they do not, but they could.”
Whittaker clasped his hands behind his back. Striking the man would not only be wrong, it would be pointless. He kept his voice calm. “You do not need to remind me of my duty. I will have your information for you shortly, and then, if you
do not remove yourself from Miss Honore’s presence, I will have a thing or two to write to your superior officers.” Message delivered, Whittaker spun on his heel to join his mother and guests.
Bearing oranges in their hands like precious gifts, they headed back toward the great hall, laughing and chatting as though they had not witnessed a family contretemps.
“Have you ever considered expanding this glasshouse and selling the oranges?” Miss Irving fell into step beside Whittaker and laughed. “I know—I have the soul of a tradesman.”
“Then so do I, for all my noble heritage.”
“The French do call us a nation of shopkeepers, and we are nothing compared to the Americans. Have you ever met one? All they talk about is profits.”
“I met one at Cambridge who was possibly the most godly man I have ever known. He spoke about his faith more than his income, which, I believe, was considerable.”
“And that is just as tedious. I mean to say, of course I attend church, but who wishes to talk about one’s feelings for God?” Miss Irving lifted the orange to her nose. “What a heavenly scent.”
But not a heavenly minded lady. So of course he could not wed her. What had he been thinking? Not of God’s will for a Christian man to seek a Christian wife. He had been ignoring his faith of late, angry for what had been taken from him, blaming God, and turning away instead of toward Him.
“I have heard,” he said to be polite, “some say these are the golden apples of mythology.”
Laurie Alice Eakes - [Daughters of Bainbridge House 02] Page 24