“Miss Jones, are you quite well?” Lady Marpool asked as they entered the dining room. “You look pale.”
She blinked and tried to appear more herself, discovering that Aunt Arrington was now studying her, too. “She’s right, Lucy, my dear. If you’re not feeling quite the thing, you ought to go upstairs and rest. No one will miss you, I assure you.”
Lucy knew she only meant to be kind, to assure her no one would think her rude, but there was too much truth in her aunt’s words. Sebastian was too engrossed in Miss Wright-Gordon to notice if she was missing, and she was of no importance to anyone else at the table.
Tempting though it was, she would not flee. She was not ill, and to pretend she was would be cowardly. “No, ma’am,” she said. “I am quite well.”
“Very well,” Lady Marpool said. “But do retire early if you are at all tired. You are not used to travel, after all.”
By then the gentlemen had arrived. Lord Almont and Lady Marpool took the places of honor at either end of the table. Portia and Aunt Arrington sat on either side of the marquess, and Lady Marpool was obliged to invite the highest-ranking gentleman among the guests—who happened to be the kilted Scottish earl—to take the place of honor at her right.
The remainder of the company was left to politely maneuver for a place beside a pleasing partner or within easy reach of a favored dish among the dizzying array laid out for them on the great table. There were some thirty diners in all, and Lucy, who had never dined with more than ten, was at a loss as to where she ought to sit. She wanted to remain unobtrusive, and above all she wanted to avoid Sebastian and Miss Wright-Gordon.
She cast her gaze around the rapidly filling table. Unluckily, Miss Wright-Gordon was the first person to catch her eye. With a sunny smile, she indicated the empty chair on her left. Sebastian, of course, already sat to her right. Her expression could not have been more friendly, but it felt like a dagger through Lucy’s heart. Yet what was she to do? It would be rude to refuse an invitation so kindly meant, and Lucy had spent her life learning to be polite and to hide her true feelings. She took a reluctant step forward.
“Miss Jones!” She turned and saw Lord Selsley smiling at her, just as friendly as his sister and infinitely more welcome. “I would be honored if you sat here,” he said, drawing out the chair between his place and his uncle’s.
Surely Miss Wright-Gordon would not think her rude for accepting her brother’s invitation instead of her own. Lucy took the offered chair, not without a moment’s wonder that she, Lucy Jones, who had just last month considered it a great honor to dine with the vicar and the squire, now sat between an earl and a viscount at table in a marquess’s castle. As the meal began, the earl served her asparagus and the viscount made sure she had generous portions of fricasseed chicken and macaroni pie.
While Lady Marpool and Lord Dunmalcolm began a stilted conversation about the weather and the prospects for a fair harvest, Lucy and Lord Selsley ate in silence for a moment. For her part, Lucy could think of nothing to say, and try as she might she couldn’t stop her gaze from drifting to the far end of the table, where Sebastian talked steadily to an admiring Miss Wright-Gordon.
“It won’t last,” Lord Selsley said softly.
Irrelevantly, she decided she liked his voice. It was low-pitched, and somehow she felt it in her spine. “Sir?” she asked, confused.
He canted his head toward the other end of the table. “Your cousin and my sister,” he said, still in a murmur. “These sudden enchantments tend to wilt as quickly as they sprout.”
In her shock at his candor, she almost said, I hope you’re right, but she caught herself just in time. Instead, she grasped for a neutral reply. “Your sister is very charming.”
“Oh, she is,” Lord Selsley agreed. “And your cousin is tall and handsome. Ten to one there’s no more to it than that, and they’ll be bored with each other within a week.”
This was not at all proper dinner conversation. “It’s hardly my concern whether they are or not,” she said, as firmly as she could manage.
“I’d find that easier to believe if you didn’t persist in staring at them.”
Now she stared at him. “I beg your pardon.”
“Forgive me,” he said. “I know I’m overstepping the mark, but in my experience, it’s always better to appear to ignore such a situation than to draw attention to oneself by taking too much notice of it.”
Was she truly so very transparent? She blushed and stared down at her plate in confusion, pushing at her asparagus with her fork.
“Do not refine upon it, Miss Jones,” he said kindly. “Truly, I’m certain no one other than myself has noticed yet. Everyone else is too busy with their own concerns, their own conversations. But I was paying attention to you.”
Somehow his words made her face feel even hotter, and she looked up at him again. He truly had remarkable eyes, such a deep clear blue, and striking coloring, with those dark eyes and black hair against fair skin. “Thank you for your good advice, Lord Selsley,” she said.
“You’re quite welcome. Now, shall we embark upon a proper dinner conversation?” He grinned.
The expression was infectious, and she felt a small laugh bubble up in response despite her anxiety about Sebastian and Miss Wright-Gordon. “Certainly.”
“Very well, then. Ask me a proper question.”
She took a bite of chicken to buy time to compose herself. Lord Selsley was correct, of course. If she allowed herself to show any outward sign of jealousy or anxiety, she would only make herself an object of at best pity and at worst ridicule. Her position was secure. As a man of honor, Sebastian would not break his engagement to her. Of course, she did not want a reluctant bridegroom, always longing for another…but she pushed the unwelcome thought away. If Lord Selsley was right about the other, too, Sebastian’s infatuation with his sister would be merely transient, soon forgotten. It would not matter once Lucy and Sebastian were married, as long as she was sensible and did not make herself pathetic now.
Lord Selsley waited expectantly as she chewed and swallowed. What should she ask him? What would be a proper question, something that would open a suitably diverting conversation? “I understand your father was in India,” she said at last, remembering Lady Marpool’s statement that the Selsley fortune reeked of curry. “Have you ever been there, sir?”
“I have not,” he said. “My father returned to England before he married my mother, and he never went back. I have many of the treasures he brought home with him, though. When you come to Orchard Park, please remind me, and I’ll show them to you.” He smiled, a flicker of inward amusement. “The ones that are fit for public viewing, that is.”
Lord Selsley certainly had a knack for putting her to the blush. She couldn’t help wondering what was so very naughty about the treasures that weren’t suitable for display. “Thank you,” she said. “I shall look forward to seeing them.”
He took command from there, describing his father’s paintings and statues. He compared the Indian and English styles of portraiture, then smoothly drew the conversation to her own drawing and painting. She could not help but warm to the topic, and she found it easier to forget Sebastian and Miss Wright-Gordon than she would’ve dreamed possible half an hour before.
Lord Dunmalcolm spoke kindly to her, as well. When she made a diffident comment on his attire, it was enough to launch him into a series of tales of his family’s history, its great deeds under various Scottish kings. Lucy listened, amused by Lady Marpool’s visible discomfiture, though that lady affected total absorption in her left-hand neighbor’s conversation.
Soon enough the time came to leave the gentlemen to their port, and Lucy and the other ladies followed Lady Marpool from the room. As they entered the drawing room, Lucy again wondered how best to position herself. Mrs. Cathcart and her daughter had seemed friendly and unpretentious. She looked around, but before she could find them, Miss Wright-Gordon was by her side, laying her hand on Lucy’s arm.
Lucy forced a smile and allowed herself to be led to a low sofa along one wall. What choice did she have, after all? She could hardly tell Miss Wright-Gordon that she had no wish to speak to any lady so determined to flirt with her betrothed. If only Aunt Arrington hadn’t sworn her and Sebastian to secrecy!
“If I may ask, how did my brother happen to fall from his horse this morning?” Miss Wright-Gordon asked, perfectly oblivious to Lucy’s turmoil. “After we left you, we talked of other things, and I forgot to ask him.”
“I’m afraid that was my fault,” Lucy said, relieved she hadn’t mentioned Sebastian. “I had been sitting on the stone wall, sketching, and the wind caught my cloak just as Lord Selsley was setting his mare to jump the fence, and she refused.”
“I’d hardly call that your fault, simply a strange series of chances. In any case, no harm was done.”
“You and your brother are both very fine riders.” Lucy was determined to at least make an effort to be civil.
“Thank you very much. I’m not sure I should pass the compliment along to James, though. He’s terribly vain of his horsemanship.”
Somehow Lucy was not surprised. Lord Selsley did not strike her as a humble man.
Of course she would never say such a thing, but something of it must have showed in her expression, for Miss Wright-Gordon gave her a conspiratorial smile. “You noticed, didn’t you? I’m afraid vanity is a failing of my family’s. James and my cousin Alec—that’s Major Gordon, of the Sixteenth—are vain of their horsemanship. My aunt and uncle are vain of our family. If I had a guinea for every time my aunt reminded us that we are descended from kings—the old Stuart kings, and it’s a very distant connection, nothing worth making a fuss over, I assure you—I’d be richer than Lord Almont.”
Despite herself, Lucy smiled. Miss Wright-Gordon was difficult to loathe. “And you, Miss Wright-Gordon,” she asked daringly, “are you vain?”
“Oh, entirely,” she answered blithely, her eyes sparkling. They were very different from her brother’s, light green rather than that engrossing deep blue. “I’m vain of my music, among other things.”
“You play and sing?” Lucy asked. If only they could continue conversing thus, and avoid any mention of Sebastian, she could endure until the gentlemen rejoined them and gave her an excuse to move away.
“I do—pianoforte and harp. And you?”
“Pianoforte, but not harp.”
Miss Wright-Gordon nodded toward the magnificent pianoforte in the far corner of the room. “I’m sure Lord Almont will ask for music when the gentlemen join us. He always does, and I shall be sure to invite you to play, if you have a piece prepared.”
Lucy shook her head vehemently. “Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly.”
Miss Wright-Gordon frowned in concern. “Are you unused to performing before company? I assure you, everyone here tonight is most kind. You needn’t fear any criticism.”
Though she was unused to playing before so large an audience, Lucy wasn’t afraid of that, at least not in the way Miss Wright-Gordon thought. But Portia had always resented that Lucy was a more gifted musician than she, so Lucy had long ago formed the habit of avoiding her ire by pretending an attack of the nerves whenever anyone suggested she play for guests. She looked down at her hands. “I don’t have a suitable piece prepared.”
“Of course you needn’t play unless you wish it,” Miss Wright-Gordon said kindly.
“What will you play?”
Miss Wright-Gordon described a Beethoven sonata, and Lucy talked diligently of music until the gentlemen appeared. She then murmured something about needing to speak to her aunt and hurried away before Sebastian came into sight. If only he would come to her. But no, he walked straight to the place she had just vacated and took a seat by Miss Wright-Gordon, a moth drawn to a flame.
James sighed to see Lieutenant Arrington hurry straight to Anna when they rejoined the ladies. Earlier, he and his uncle had, by unspoken mutual consent, cornered Arrington over port. Any man who paid Anna such marked notice must in turn receive the attention of her male relations.
Uncle Robert had been impressed. Gordon pride notwithstanding, he was never quick to find fault with anyone. Arrington had spoken courteously; he was an officer, and moreover an officer serving under one of his sons. As such he would have Anna’s guardian’s tacit permission to court her, should their enchantment with each other last beyond this evening.
But James still could not like the fellow. When he had advised Anna to consider marrying an officer, he’d pictured someone like Alec—an active, quick-witted man, someone who was already a captain at the very least, and with the fortune, connections and gift for command to ensure that he would rise higher. Anna must not throw herself away on a callow subaltern of no great fortune and, as best as James could judge, of no great wit or brilliancy either. She could do much better, and so James would’ve believed even if he weren’t so very bothered by the predatory gleam in Arrington’s eye whenever he looked at Anna—not mere lust, but somehow a cold lust.
He shrugged and hoped he was worrying over nothing. But though it was far from the first time some gentleman had been thunderstruck upon meeting Anna, never before had he seen her share the reaction.
At least the other young lady he had been looking out for was well situated for the moment. Miss Jones sat beside her aunt, attended by Ned Cathcart, Squire Cathcart’s heir, and by John Fitzroger, second son of a baron and vicar of a prosperous parish. Both were respectable young men, and if by some chance either of them ended up courting Miss Jones, James would be very happy for her. Indeed he would.
Mrs. Cathcart hailed him from near the pianoforte, and he took a chair beside her. As he had expected, she wanted to talk of horses. She adored her hunters even more than he did his Arabs, and she proposed that next spring she breed her favorite mare to his prize black stallion, Ariel.
Before they could settle on a stud fee, Lord Almont proposed music and announced that his betrothed would lead the way. Smiling complacently, Miss Arrington sat at the pianoforte and played and sang two pieces competently enough, though her soprano was a trifle thin and weedy. After she retired to polite applause, Anna took her place and performed a Beethoven sonata with her usual skill and passion. She had a rapt audience in Lieutenant Arrington, but after she had finished, he appeared to remember he had a cousin.
“Lucy, you must play for us,” he said.
So Miss Jones was a Lucy. A pretty name, and it suited her, though he would’ve expected a Welsh name for a girl with brothers named Owen and Rhys. James idly wondered what it stood for. Lucinda, perhaps, or Lucilla? Or even Lucretia…but no, she did not look like a Lucretia.
She froze for a moment, then shook her head. “Thank you, Sebastian, but I haven’t anything suitable prepared.”
“Nonsense! Play the Mozart piece you were practicing at Swallowfield.”
“I couldn’t possibly. I haven’t yet memorized it, and I didn’t bring my music along.”
“Then play something else. Come, Lucy, I insist.”
James felt his lips curl. How dare Arrington insist, when his cousin was so obviously reluctant? He tried to catch Anna’s eye—surely she must see what a boor the fellow was—but she was only smiling encouragement at Miss Jones.
Miss Jones looked from Lieutenant Arrington to Anna, and then over her shoulder at Miss Arrington, who was glaring at her cousin. What’s this? James wondered. After a moment Miss Jones lifted her head, her nostrils slightly flared, and got to her feet, no longer the meek mouse of a poor relation she had been all evening.
“Very well,” she said. “Since you wish it, I shall play.” She sat down at the instrument and played a few scales and chords to loosen her fingers and grow comfortable with the unfamiliar keys. Even as she warmed up, James sensed her ease and confidence. Whatever the source of her reluctance, it was not lack of ability, nor the terror that se
ized some when faced with an audience. He leaned forward expectantly.
She played a simple, flowing melody on the pianoforte, as gentle and soothing as a lullaby. Soon she began to sing in a clear, full soprano. James didn’t recognize the language, though he guessed it to be Welsh, but it didn’t matter. He was swept up in the wistful, yearning melody and the purity of Miss Jones’s voice. Their eyes met over the pianoforte, and he smiled at her. She colored faintly, then veiled her dark eyes beneath her long lashes.
James looked away, curious to gauge the reaction of the rest of her audience after the little drama that had drawn her to perform. Lieutenant Arrington, he thought, looked complacent, though Anna, for the moment, was not paying attention to him but listening to Miss Jones with the honest admiration of a true musician acknowledging the talents of another.
Miss Arrington, however, looked perturbed but not unhappy, and James thought he understood. Miss Jones was by far a better singer than her cousin. Her voice was richer and rose effortlessly to notes Miss Arrington’s had strained to reach. James recognized that Miss Jones could play and sing much more complex pieces when she chose. She wasn’t the virtuoso that Anna was, which was just as well. For one young lady to be able to sing and play like Anna and draw like Lucy Jones would have been an excess of accomplishment. But she was better than Miss Arrington, and he suspected Miss Arrington resented that fact.
Really, Miss Jones had been most clever in her choice of song. The lullaby or love song or whatever it was displayed her lovely, soaring voice to excellent effect. And by choosing such a simple piece she avoided drawing attention to the fact she did not play quite so well as Anna—and that Miss Arrington could not equal her.
Miss Jones finished her song to general applause and yielded the pianoforte to the next young lady. He stood, planning to pay her a compliment, but Anna was there before him, quickly joined by Cathcart and Fitzroger. James shrugged and strolled along the wall toward a door he knew led outside to the Almont rose garden. Perhaps he would step out for a breath of fresh air.
A Marriage of Inconvenience Page 5