‘Strickler.’
‘Yes, milord.’ The servant stepped from the corner of the dressing room, a fresh pressed waistcoat on a hanger and various dressing articles in hand.
‘I will need a bag packed for two nights, at most.’ Penwick tugged at his shirt sleeves to straighten his lines.
‘Yes, milord. Will you need formal attire to accompany your daily wear?’ Strickler removed the garment from the hanger and offered it forward.
‘No, thank you. Nothing for evening is necessary, nor my fencing plastron and breeches, although I would like my epee and gloves included. One never knows when a sword will come in handy.’ He slid his pocket watch into his vest and attached the chain to the silk thread loop.
‘As you often say, milord.’ Strickler stepped away and returned with black Hessians. ‘Will I accompany you on this travel come morning?’
‘Again, that won’t be necessary.’ He paused, exhausted by the formality of it all, desiring a more congenial relationship and not adept at the transition. At a loss, he blurted out his quandary. ‘I am confounded by my impending nuptials and need a bit of time away.’
Strickler stood silent, as if caught unaware by the personal declaration, and he likely was, Penwick not forthcoming with matters of weighty consideration.
Strickler nodded his head as if he understood without further explanation. ‘It is a natural occurrence. Not all gentlemen transition into husbandry with the natural fluidity experienced by others.’
‘That was very well done of you, Strickler, but the truth prevails I’m concerned I’m making a mistake.’ Voicing the words aloud, at last, proved incredibly freeing. He took a deep breath, and then another, invigorated by the sheer act of confession. ‘Claire is a comely, biddable miss.’
‘How do you feel when you are with your betrothed?’ Strickler busied himself with periphery tasks.
‘I feel as I should – capable, decisive and strong.’ A flare of shame swept through him at his failure to say more, but listing Claire’s attributes neither resolved his unrest nor convinced him he’d made the right choice.
‘And how do you feel when you are with the lady who’s caught your interest?’
Penwick’s head shot up from where he’d worked the buttons at his cuff. He matched eyes with his valet. How did Strickler know? Lord, was his turmoil so apparent? He turned towards the cheval glass, choosing his words carefully. ‘I cannot think. I cannot reason. She overcomes my senses, and from it, I am weakened.’
‘Then indeed you have a decision to make, milord.’
The silence which followed imposed a heavy burden until at last Strickler broke the quiet.
‘I will make the necessary arrangements and see you have all necessities in your valise. Is there anything else, milord?’
Penwick might have chuckled from the irony. ‘No, thank you. You are dismissed.’
Chapter Thirteen
It is unusual and rare to forge a strong friendship through correspondence, yet I feel in kind to the sentiments expressed in your last letter. I haven’t looked into your eyes or waltzed with you or had the ordinary pleasure of hearing your delightful laughter, still I understand as well as I know the sun will rise come morning that someday all these wishes will reach fruition and we shall be together. You live in my heart.
The day had arrived and the house hummed with excitement. Musicians tuned their instruments in the ballroom, servants bustled through the hall placing floral bouquets and polishing marble and brass, while no less than three cooks prepared sumptuous platters of plentiful food from exotic appetisers of Scotch collops, oysters with white wine, and pickled radish with caviar, to clever side dishes of Jerusalem artichokes, buttered rusks and stewed vegetables with capers. Main course selections included roasted pike with pudding in the belly, crab and salamagundy, boiled fowl and cold neat’s tongue accompanied by custard with snippets, and roast partridge with plum sauce. Livie was too invigorated to think about food, although if all went as planned she would recover her appetite by the dessert course, never one to refuse imported macaroons or candied orange peel. Dashwood had arranged for an assortment of Gunter’s ices to be available and the temptation of the refreshing treat after an evening of ballroom dancing promised the perfect ending to her new beginning.
And there was, best of all, the promise of Penwick.
No one mentioned whether the Earl had accepted the invitation Dashwood sent, but with such short notice Livie conciliated Penwick hadn’t time to respond and would show in time for a waltz as fluid and heavenly as when they’d floated across the tiles at Monsieur Bournan’s dance hall. She would save a space on her card. And then, as she’d conspired with Esme, she’d request the Earl’s assistance on the terrace with a claim she needed a breath of fresh air, for no other reason than to tempt another kiss. Her heart beat hard at the thought of the expectant happening.
Now she meandered through the dining room, admiring the colourful streamers in every shade of rose, the table linens set to complement the brilliant silverware and gleaming crystal. The centrepiece plateau included fresh orchids surrounding almond marzipan paste sculptures in miniature butterfly shapes, and beside each place-setting a tiny sugar basket rested, filled with delectable candied bonbons shaped to resemble jewelled fruit. Whimsy had worked tirelessly to create the most wonderful debut and, with a sigh of contentment, Livie realised how very loved and special she felt at this moment.
She left the dining room and hurried to the salon, anxious to thank her aunt, sister and brother-in-law for their efforts and contributions towards her day. She found them together, discussing arrangements and finalising details before guests arrived at eight in the evening, and with a quick glance to the wall clock, she noted that soon she’d need to begin her own preparation.
‘I don’t know what to say.’ Her throat constricted with emotion, the words pure sentiment. ‘Kirby Park is transformed. I couldn’t imagine a lovelier party. Thank you. I love you all so very much.’ She rushed forward, anxious to embrace them in a hug of appreciation, but stopped as Aunt Kate stepped forward, a prettily wrapped package in her hands.
‘This is for you, Lavinia. We’re so very proud of all you’ve accomplished. We can’t wait to see what the world has in store for you.’ Aunt Kate’s voice rang with indubitable pride and sentiment.
She kissed Livie on the cheek, followed by Whimsy and lastly Dash. More than a little emotional, Livie settled in the overstuffed chair beside the hearth with the tiny box upon her skirts. ‘Well, it’s too small to be slippers.’ Her giddy laughter was contagious. ‘May I open it now?’
‘Of course.’ Wilhelmina and Dash joined Aunt Kate beside the chair. ‘We hope you like what we’ve chosen.’
‘Oh, I know I do already.’ She glanced upward and then quickly removed the decorative wrapping, followed by the lid of the box. Her breath caught, the jewelled pin composed of diamonds and golden yellow stones in the shape of a monarch butterfly. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘As are you, Livie. And what an amazing alteration has brought you to this point.’ Aunt Kate leaned down and pressed another kiss to her cheek.
‘I will wear it tonight. It will be the perfect addition to my gown.’ She stood and hugged everyone in gratitude. ‘You knew all along, didn’t you, Whimsy? When you were fussing with my neckline and the sash at my waist? You were already calculating where I’d place the brooch.’ They shared another laugh and then the quartet scattered to their respective bedchambers, the process of preparing for the evening’s event a time-consuming endeavour, but well worth every minute.
Penwick rode towards Essex on the finest horse in his stable, a Berber thoroughbred with excellent stamina. It made little sense to leave London with eight days until his marriage, but if the effort cleared his mind it proved time well spent. He’d left Strickler with a long list, arrangements for the wedding trip and instructions for the solicitor to ensure all marital documents were in order, matters he should attend in responsible actuality
.
Claire was likely overwhelmed with fittings and letter writing, shopping for her trousseau and the plethora of customary traditions females endured as the wedding day drew near. He heaved a breath of frustration, anxious to surrender the undercurrent of tension to the rhythmic cadence of Viceroy’s hooves pounding the dirt road as he led out of Mile End Green towards the cloud-hazed horizon. With any luck he would return to his childhood home by late afternoon, secure a room at the inn and reconcile whatever discontent consumed him.
Growing up in Essex he’d had the advantages of living close to London, though he’d visited no more than a handful of times, preferring countryside to city life. And while he’d sold his family’s manor house and property once he’d inherited the title, he hoped the new owner would not mind if a stranger, though former owner, wandered onto the surrounding land to stare at his old friend, the paperbark maple. He laughed, the sound lost in the wind. He was losing his grasp on intelligence if he’d chosen to travel for hours on horseback to talk to a tree. He kicked Viceroy into a faster gallop. No, it was more the comfort of returning to his roots and the perspective offered that would assuage his unrest and assist his refocus. No one with the slightest sanity would throw away their life’s plan after experiencing one kiss. Yet in a half-dash decision so out of character he almost abandoned the idea, he’d forced the issue, most especially after his conversation with Strickler, the servant able to offer unbiased advice. The two days were not wasted if Penwick regained his equilibrium and found the inner calm he craved.
The time spent riding brought a relaxed resolve, and once he’d offered Viceroy to the stable hand at the inn’s facility, Penwick affirmed he’d made a quality decision. After reserving quarters in the private wing of the inn, he set off on foot down the uneven dirt road to view the home of his youth, a half mile from the centre of town.
He never expected the scene that met his eyes as he rounded a bend in the roadway. The large manor existed as nothing more than a burnt shell of beams and charred broken frame, his former home victim to a consuming fire. With sadness in his heart he walked towards the forsaken plot and came to a stop where the paperbark had once stood, faithful and patient, his dependable comrade. It, too, had succumbed to whatever tragedy ravaged the property, now nothing more than a blackened stump, a concrete omen he needed to extinguish his unsettled feelings. With a heavy heart he considered the loss of fond memories.
He’d helped his father manage their modest estate, ride the property, visit tenants and settle issues to things to right. Some would call it a simple way of life, but it had proved effective and satisfying.
Without a doubt he needed to relinquish the past, move forward and, most of all, discard the cursed letters which prevented his future happiness. He shook his head with gravity. Was it all an excuse, a convenient wall of protection he used as handily as his kiss with Livie? There was no way to rationalise his obsessive desire for her. She consumed his thoughts, waking and asleep.
If ever there had existed ambivalence on his part, the slightest notion or harboured hesitation with the chaos of thought which consumed him, it vanished, the choice clear. He could never marry Claire, or worse, condemn her to a life of compromise with a husband who married out of a sense of duty. She deserved better. Perhaps he did, too.
He propped one foot on the tree stump, the burnt wood polished clean by rain and weather, unsure how long he waited there until, more than a little disillusioned, but confidently resolved, he walked back to the inn in search of dinner and a glass of brandy.
Livie nabbed Esme’s hand as she manoeuvred across the noise-filled ballroom, dragging her friend through clusters of guests and attentive servants, her goal the terrace. The same terrace where she’d hoped to invite the Earl of Penwick and enjoy his heavenly kiss. But no, with the hour at half two, and her celebration nearing its finish, she no longer anticipated his appearance.
Oh, it had proved an enchanting evening in every aspect. She’d danced to each jovial number, smiled at countless handsome gentlemen and conversed with presumptuous dowagers to acknowledge their sage advice. She’d collected introductions with gratitude and met every expectation for her come-out but for one blaring malignity which made her heart ache with disappointment.
Penwick hadn’t shown.
‘Wait.’ Esme tugged hard on Livie’s hand in an attempt to free herself. ‘I’ll follow you, just don’t walk so fast. I can’t keep up.’
Livie answered by opening the French doors to the terrace, relieved no one had entertained the same idea and stolen outside for an embrace. Most guests had already taken leave, the fruit and dessert course finished long before, the musicians’ schedule of dance tunes completed. Conversation continued, as well as discreet socialising in the card room for the elder guests and gentlemen who had tired of the function, but overall, everyone knew the party approached conclusion. Livie held on to hope until midnight, relinquishing her last dance with a despairing sigh.
‘Perhaps he became ill.’ She whirled on Esme who shut the terrace doors with care. Her words, weak and wondering, did little to convince her heart.
‘It’s possible.’ Esme frowned with empathy, wishing to comfort. ‘Have you asked Dashwood? Could Penwick have sent a note and no one noticed due to the preparations? The house has been turned upside down for days in arrangement of this event. Your sister probably wouldn’t think to mention it with all the festivities and fanfare.’
‘That is a possibility.’ A hopeful smile dared lift her mouth. ‘And I know exactly where to find my brother-in-law.’ She hugged Esme, then fled the terrace down the hall to the study where she knew to find Dashwood, not one to enjoy social functions, especially overlong celebrations within his home. She barely knocked before entering and, much as she suspected, Dash sat behind his formidable desk, a ledger or some book of importance opened on the blotter.
‘Is something wrong?’ He stood, at once anxious to assist if a problem existed.
‘No. Not at all.’ She moved to a chair and caught his eye as she sat, a graceful shrug well placed to convince she told the truth. ‘My debut has been everything I’ve imagined. I cannot thank you enough for making this night more magical than I deserve. I know the event has been an inconvenient undertaking in many ways.’
Dash returned her smile and took his seat. ‘You deserve every flower and sweet, Livie. Whimsy and I are thrilled to celebrate with you. The two of you have experienced so much hardship these past few years, a celebration was long overdue. Your sister worked tirelessly to make this evening memorable.’
‘As did you,’ she insisted with a firm nod.
‘I can’t accept credit. Your sister and aunt did all the work.’ Dash chuckled with the admission.
‘But you invited the Earl of Penwick, didn’t you?’ Her eyes locked to his, although she already knew the explanation would not please and she watched his jaw harden as if he deliberated his words carefully.
‘I did not.’ His words were spoken matter-of-factly, though the three syllables slammed into her like individual blows.
‘What do you mean?’ She rose from the chair, her voice climbing an octave in kind.
‘Sit down and I will explain. It is unpleasant, but you should understand, since I suspect you’ve pinned some Arcadian hope to the Earl’s appearance.’ All kind emotion left his face.
‘Of course I have. It was my one request.’ Emotion, the traitorous instigator, caused her voice to tremble.
‘Sit down, and when you do I will explain why I decided against the invitation.’ Gone was her brother-in-law who enjoyed a teasing word or clever jest at her expense.
She acquiesced and held her breath in wait.
‘I’m uncertain what type of relationship you’ve formed with the Earl. When I questioned Whimsy she assured me you’d not been introduced and possessed no idea of any interest beyond your mention at breakfast the other morning.’
Livie inhaled sharply, set to interrupt, but thinking better of proposing a
n objection. It mattered little if he’d conferred with Whimsy. She wanted to hear why the invitation was left unsent when she’d assigned blithe anticipation to Penwick’s arrival. Minute by minute she’d counted the hours and watched the door for his entry. Her heart pined, stealing enjoyment from her debut as anticipation mounted to a critical climax, only to be left empty and broken in the end. She laced her fingers together on her lap and remained silent.
‘I assume you met under unlikely circumstance, but what you may not know is that Penwick is engaged to be married.’
She leaned forward as if she could stop any more words from coming from his mouth, then bolted from the chair as if she was burnt by a stray ember. ‘That can’t be correct.’
‘Livie.’ Dash extended his hand in her direction, beseeching her to pause and listen. ‘Let’s discuss this.’
‘You must be mistaken. He would have mentioned his impending commitment. He wouldn’t have…’ Her voice trailed off as she worried the end of the satin sash at her waist. Her mind spun with every word of their brief conversations, every intentional glance, and the exquisite touch of his mouth upon hers only one night past. With certainty, he was as affected as she.
‘I’m sorry to distress you on this special night. I haven’t shared what I’ve learned with your sister and, up to this point, hoped it all wouldn’t matter in the end, but then you came in and questioned me.’ His voice gentled as he stood, meaning to soothe. ‘Won’t you sit down so we can talk about it?’
‘Tell me the all of it.’ Her direct demand made his brows rise, though he remained silent several moments longer.
At last he spoke and she could tell he took no joy in the telling. ‘Penwick is committed to Claire Allington, the daughter of Bertram Allington, the owner of the jeweller’s shop where we purchased your gift.’
His Forbidden Debutante Page 13