by Megan Daniel
“Yes,” he said slowly. “You have done well by her, Aunt. She looks wonderful.”
The sharp old eyes slid sideways to study his face, but her tone remained light. “Yes, thank goodness. It will make my task the easier.”
“Task?”
“Yes. You see, I have decided to find the girl a husband.”
He snapped his attention from his cousin on the floor to his aunt at his side. He looked as though he had been slapped. “Not Kneighley, surely?”
“Kneighley? Don’t be ridiculous. The fellow’s a complete twit.” The rector was dismissed with a wave of her hand. “He will be got rid of easily enough.”
“And yet you practically forced her to dance with him.”
“Oh, yes. For the moment he is serving a useful purpose.”
“Purpose? What purpose?”
But Lady Eccles had apparently decided that enough had been said for now. The ruby-studded turban bobbed lightly in time to the music; one foot tapped out the beat. Derek might have ceased to exist, for all the answer he got.
“Servant, ma’am,” he finally muttered and wandered off to join his captain across the room.
Lady Eccles watched him go, still humming the quadrille, a slow smile of satisfaction creasing her face.
Captain Durrant greeted his lieutenant with warmth. “Want to thank you for standing up with Melly,” he said. “She’s nervous, you know.”
“My pleasure, sir. She’s a charming girl.”
“Yes, she’s a pretty little brig.” The Captain beamed. “Too young to be sailing such high seas, though, in my opinion. Only sixteen. Smooth fellows making up to her. She don’t seem to notice ’em much, though. I’ll give her that. If you ask me, it’s that young cousin of yours she’s got an eye for. More her speed.”
“Neil?” asked Derek. “No need to worry, then, sir. He’s all right. Young, of course, and far too serious, but a good lad.”
“I can see he is. Raised pretty much by his sister, wasn’t he? Now there’s a fine girl.”
“Saskia?” he asked, then paused a long moment. “Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, she is.”
“Bright, capable, but nothing sour or stiff in her. Only look at how well she’s handling that booby she’s dancing with. He wouldn’t know a poop from a yardarm. But she’s steering him well to leeward of the others.”
Derek watched the dancing couple for a moment, noting the twinkle of amusement that Saskia, despite her embarrassment, had been unable to suppress. “Yes,” he said. “I see.”
“That girl’d make a fine first mate for any captain’s home. That she would.”
Derek whipped his eyes back to his captain, wondering just how much was implied in the words, and won-
dering why he should care so much. Saskia van Houten and Captain Durrant would make a fine, handsome couple. A memory focused in Derek’s mind, the feeling of the icy sea closing over his head as he struggled for life, his captain’s and his own. He had to force himself to breathe.
He stared at Saskia, bright beautiful Saskia, gliding gracefully about the floor, and suddenly, blindingly, came the recognition of something he had no desire to recognize. No! No, it was not possible! He could not be in love with this uppity girl! She was pert, proud, and managing. She didn’t even like him. And what’s more, she was his rival, threatening the rosy future he had dared to envisage. He would not consider it!
Giving his head a firm shake, he excused himself to Captain Durrant and headed for the card room, hoping fervently that someone, anyone, would give him a stiff drink.
The quadrille went on forever, it seemed to Saskia. She hadn’t worked so hard on a dance floor in years. Keeping Delbert Kneighley from coming a cropper was full-time labor. By the time it finally ground to an end she was getting the headache. At least she need not dance with him anymore tonight, nor ever again if she could possibly help it.
Almost without thinking, she searched the faces lining the room for her cousin as she made her way back to her aunt. But there was no sign of him. Had he gone? Surely he would not leave without bidding his aunt good night.
“I wonder if Cousin Derek will dance with Trix again tonight,” she said as nonchalantly as she could.
“I’ll see that he doesn’t,” replied Lady Eccles with a nod. She watched Saskia look around the room with a great deal of satisfaction. “I believe he’s gone into the card room. Perhaps he doesn’t intend dancing anymore this evening.”
“Do you think not?” asked Saskia quickly. Too quickly.
Her reaction was not lost on her Aunt Hester, who
added, equally nonchalantly, “But perhaps I am wrong. Ah, there he is now and seemingly looking about for a partner.”
Derek stood in the door of the card room, and he was, indeed, sweeping the room with his eyes, apparently in search of someone. He had an odd look on his handsome face. Grim and, well, determined, thought Saskia. Yes, that was the word. His eyes paused briefly as they touched her, and she gave him her warmest smile. But he made no move toward her. His scowl only deepened, and his eyes passed on. She felt as if she’d been slapped.
When he found the object of his search and began a resolute approach toward it, Saskia couldn’t help herself turning to stare at his goal. Griselda Kneighley! Why on earth was he making for her? He’d never ask her to dance, surely! And besides, she’d never accept. But it was most certainly Griselda Kneighley, in all her proper blackness, for whom he was headed. He favored her with his charming smile and shook her hand, then took a seat beside her. The two were soon deep in animated discussion, Miss Kneighley’s fluttering eyes wandering now and then in Saskia’s direction with a frown or a nod.
The odd conversational pairing soon became a trio as Mr. Kneighley joined in, and the discussion continued throughout the next dance. Saskia, partnered by a dashing young major in scarlet regimentals, had little attention to spare for her partner, and nearly strained her neck in an attempt to keep her cousin in view as she negotiated the figures of the dance.
Then he disappeared into the card room once more.
Soon the evening was nearly over, the clock creeping up on eleven—Bath was definitely not London—and there was but one dance remaining. And Derek Row- bridge asked Saskia van Houten for the honor of partnering her in it.
As soon as they took their places on the floor, he was looking ever so grim, almost as though he were angry at her. She couldn’t for the world think why he should be,
but then he never seemed to need a reason. As the music rose and fell and they slid gracefully through the moves, his eyes never left her face. She was beginning to feel uneasy at this scrutiny and was near to making a sharp remark when she noticed that it was not anger in his face. He looked sad somehow.
“Well, Cousin,” she said brightly in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere to match die bright music. “I have been trying to think what you and the Kneighleys could have found to talk about so earnestly all this time. I shouldn’t think you had very much in common with either of them.”
‘Wouldn’t you? Do we not have you in common, Cousin Saskia?”
“Me? But whatever could you have to say to one another about me?”
“Is it not common to discuss mutual friends at social gatherings? I quite thought it was all Society ever did.” She was glad to see that some of his seriousness had left him, and she replied in a bantering tone, “And are you going to tell me what you were saying?”
“Probably not. You are far too proud already.”
At this she laughed outright “Oh, come, Cousin Derek. You’ll not gammon me into thinking you were singing my praises. Nor, I am sure, was Griselda Kneigh- ley. She is not at all in favor ef me.”
“No, she is not,” he said with a little smile.
“Now Mr. Kneighley, he might put in a kind word in my behalf, but you were most likely filling him with all manner of horrid and ungentlemanly things about me.”
“Most likely.”
"Wretch!” She laughed back at him. “Tin sure y
ou were. But he won’t believe you, you know. Difficult as it may be to believe, Mr. Kneighley likes me.”
“Really?” By now his smile had grown and spread to his eyes. “But then we both know the man is a fool?”
“Oh! You are odious!” She wished she could stamp her foot, but it didn’t fit with the steps of the dance. She took a pet and decided to say no more. They danced awhile in silence.
He was not be deflected from the subject, however. “You really must not marry him, you know,” he said very quietly.
“Why must I not?” she snapped. “I must marry someone, I suppose. Mr. Kneighley is a very solid, respectable man.” She couldn’t think why she was defending Delbert Kneighley to her cousin as she no longer had the least intention of marrying him—she’d known that for some days—but she couldn’t help herself.
“Oh, yes,” Derek went on. “There isn’t a particle of harm in him that I can see, beyond his unbearable foolishness. But that doesn’t make his society any the more agreeable or his conversation any the less insipid. You’d die of boredom in less than a month, if you didn’t kill him first.”
Despite her best efforts a bubble of laughter escaped her. “It’s true. And I don’t imagine I should find it very comfortable to be hanged for his murder.”
“You can do far better, you know.”
“But I don’t know any such thing.”
“Don’t be a fool, girl. Only look at all the fellows who’ve been after you tonight. Durrant, for instance.”
“Oh, the Captain has been so land. Thank you for introducing us to him, Cousin Derek,” she answered with enthusiasm.
He wished he had never set eyes on Ned Durrant. “And only look at all your other suitors. You haven’t missed a single dance.”
Who would have imagined he would notice that, she thought. “Yes. Isn’t it diverting? There are certainly benefits to being the sister of the prettiest girl in the room.
Trix couldn’t dance with all of them, so they settled for »
me.
“I should hardly call it 'settling”,” he said quietly. “You look extremely lovely tonight, Saskia.”
She turned a deep becoming pink, whether from pleasure or embarrassment she didn’t know herself.
“Thank you, Derek,” she murmured, then hurried to change the subject. “Do you not think Trix is radiant tonight?”
“When is she not?” he replied. "I doubt that I have ever seen a more beautiful girl than Beatrix. Sometimes I’m almost afraid to look at her lest a closer inspection reveal some flaw. But when I am drawn to do so, it is only to find her more perfect than before. It is quite astonishing.”
So ardent were the words that Saskia failed to note the lack of warmth in his tone. He spoke dispassionately, as one might describe a particularly fine statue. His eyes held none of the fire they contained when they looked on Saskia herself.
But she was not looking at him. She did hot see his expression. She heard only the excessive admiration for her sister, recalled his laughter as he danced with her, remembered how handsome they had looked together. Suddenly the long day seemed to catch up with her. She felt very, very tired.
Chapter Sixteen
The rain began early next morning. The sky seemed to have suddenly discovered its error in granting several days of exceptionally fine weather, and decided to correct it with a vengeance. No soft drizzle this, no gentle spring rain to caress the daffodils and coax the new leaves to spread to its touch. This was the deluge.
The sky opened to pour torrents of stinging water on anyone and anything foolish enough to venture out of doors. Blossoms were knocked from the trees; tender young shoots just venturing out to test the spring air were pummeled back into the ground for their presumption; and all sane people, and most of the not-so-sane, kept their noses firmly behind their own doors and close to their own fires.
Though some might question the absolute sanity of at least part of the van Houten establishment, even they kept themselves close confined in the luxury of the house in Laura Place. They were capable of entertaining themselves nicely, the result of long practice and a genuine liking for each other’s company. And the recent addition to the household of Mr. Weddington—he hadn’t taken too much convincing at Beatrix’s hands—had added a new element
Derek Rowbridge was not so lucky. Confined within the walls of the York House he was soon in a sorry state. The hotel was painfully thin of company, and he was driven to distracting himself with bottles of brandy and long, involved games of one-handed piquet. Might as well polish his skill at cards, he reasoned. At the rate this damned contest was progressing, he would soon find himself back in the clubs of St. James’s Street playing for shilling points and praying for luck.
But one cannot play cards forever. Derek was left with far too much time for brooding, and brood he did. He soon had to openly admit to himself what he had reluctantly glimpsed and tried to brush away on the night of the assembly. He was madly, crazily in love with Saskia van Houten. And he was terrified.
He gazed deep into the fire, trying to bum her vision from his mind, but she seemed to smile back from the flames. He took a long pull at his brandy and noticed how its color was like the amber sparks in her eyes when she was angry. He gave in to a painful little smile as he remembered their first meeting, such a short time ago really, in the Castle Inn. How those wonderful eyes of hers had flashed! She had made it abundantly clear that she found nothing in him to admire and much to dislike. He had little reason to think she had changed her mind.
It was true that she didn’t seem quite so disapproving lately as she had been that first day. She smiled more frequently when she looked at him. And it seemed she looked at him more often. But she also turned that same wonderful smile on many of her acquaintances, most especially Derek’s closest friend. Captain Edward Durrant and Saskia van Houten made a strikingly handsome couple, he thought, tossing back his brandy and reaching for the bottle. How well-matched they were. Their practical temperaments were perfectly suited. Saskia knew about ships, and she loved the sea. Durrant had always wanted a large family and bemoaned the fact that he had but one child.
And Durrant had begun talking about marriage. What was it he said the other night about Saskia? Something about what a fine first mate she’d make. Well, he was right there. Derek couldn’t imagine any woman who would make a finer wife that Saskia, once you got used to her sharp tongue and her managing ways. He tried to scowl at the image of her in his mind, but he didn’t quite pull it off.
What if he were to offer for her himself? If she didn’t laugh him right out of the room—as she would most probably do—what sort of reaction could he reasonably expect? That she would accept him was out of the question. He had absolutely nothing to offer a wife. No money, no profession, no future, nothing but a large drawer full of bills with no receipts to them.
And this ridiculous contest! He felt fairly confident that she was doing no better that he was—they kept running into each other when they weren’t busy running into blank walls—and it was beginning to look very much as though there would be some very wealthy charities in Turkey one day.
And what of her wishes? Even supposing she loved him—wishful thinking beyond foolishness—she quite simply could not afford to marry a pauper. She had a large family to whom she felt a great responsibility. Durrant, though not precisely wealthy, had a comfortable income and would have no objection at all to taking on the lot of them.
And then there was Aunt Hester. She had decided to find Saskia a husband. Derek knew instinctively that when Hester Eccles set her mind to accomplishing something, that something was speedily accomplished.
And, if all other efforts failed, there was always that twit of a Kneighley waiting in the wings. She would marry him. Even the Delbert Kneighleys of this world had more to offer than he. The realization brought his fist and his brandy glass crashing to the table, showering amber droplets of liquid in all directions.
“Blast!” he exclaimed,
mopping ineffectively at his coat. This was ridiculous! He was actually sitting here getting himself stinking drunk over a sharp-tongued chit of a girl who thought of him with contempt when she bothered to think of him at all. How smugly pleased she would be if she could see him now. Well, he would not allow this to continue. The rain be damned! He would take himself out for a good meal and seek out some convivial company. He would go enjoy his status, however temporary, as a gentleman of leisure. He would put Saskia van Houten firmly from his mind.
Pounding his beaver fiercely onto his head and grabbing his many-shouldered cape, he almost dashed from the room. He absently accepted the umbrella proffered by an astonished footman at the front door of the York House and struck out into the flood.
Ten minutes later, dripping and steaming, he was ensconced beside the fire in die Bull and Boar. He sat quite alone, not touching the plateful of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding on his table, and completely ignoring the happy chorus of voices all around him. A glass of brandy was in his hand; a bottle stood on the table. He proceeded to brood a great deal and get very drunk indeed.
On the first day of one of the worst rainstorms in the history of Bath, Saskia had been quite cheerful. She had always loved rain. One couldn’t grow up in Holland without developing a certain affinity for wet weather. And if one lived in England it was helpful if one didn’t actually hate it. She was also a bit relieved to see the downpour that first morning. She certainly couldn’t be expected to traipse all over town in search of the elusive Mr. Banks in such weather, and since she hadn’t the slightest notion what to try next, she was glad not to have to try anything, and not even to feel guilty about it