Karen Harbaugh

by The Reluctant Cavalier

  Mr. Wentworth nodded. “I thought of that, as well. But we know who he is now, and so are armed against him. I promise you, Lady Smith, that I will not allow Miss Smith to come to harm while I am here. If she needs to go anywhere about the estate, or away from it, I will make sure she is accompanied, either by a servant, or myself.”

  There was a silence for a moment, then Lady Smith looked at him uncertainly. “It will sound ungrateful, I know, but Lord Grafton’s reputation is such that I cannot help wondering if it is a little like the fox watching the henhouse—”

  “Oh, Mama! For heaven’s sake!” cried Annabella covering her heated face with her hands. She cast an embarrassed glance at Mr. Wentworth and saw he had blushed as well.

  “No, no, Miss Smith, I can understand your mother’s concern,” Mr. Wentworth said, looking a little miserable nevertheless. “I know my family’s reputation, and my brother’s in particular. There is even some truth to his reputation, and I do not blame your mother for her worry or even that she may think I am like him.” He gave a short, mirthless laugh and turned to Lady Smith. “But I can assure you I will not let Miss Smith come to harm, ma’am. Not from any assailant, from my brother, or from myself.” He looked away for a moment, his lips pressed together again, and this time Annabella thought it was from some frustration. She glanced at her mother and saw her put her hand out to him, obviously regretting her words.

  “I am sorry ... I should not have said ...” Lady Smith cleared her throat, saying more firmly: “Please, Mr. Wentworth, I can see you are an honorable man. I have been frightened and hurt, and it made me say what I should not even have been thinking. If you will forgive me ...”

  A small, wry smile formed on his lips. “There is nothing to forgive, ma’am. I would have said the same thing in your place.” Lady Smith smiled at him and visibly relaxed against the pillows.

  “You are most generous, Mr. Wentworth. I thank you.”

  Another slight blush suffused his cheeks, and he bowed, seeming unable to say anything. He glanced at Annabella, hesitated, then said: “I will have breakfast—or luncheon—brought up to you, Lady Smith, if you would like some—and for you, too, Miss Smith, if you wish to dine with your mother.”

  “I thank you, sir,” replied Lady Smith. “But my head is so dizzy still that I do not think I could stomach more than some tea.” She looked at Annabella and waved a dismissing hand at her. “Do you go, Bella, and accompany Mr. Wentworth. I shall want to rest afterward, you see.”

  “But Mama—

  Lady Smith raised her hand. “No, my dear. I promise you I shall not go into an apoplexy or a fainting spell. I am merely dizzy and intend to stay where I am, like a good, obedient patient.” She smiled ruefully. “I think I am the one who needs to make amends this time, for implying that Mr. Wentworth is not trustworthy. Do go, Bella.”

  “If Miss Smith wishes not to have breakfast downstairs—” Mr. Wentworth began, but Annabella shook her head.

  “Of course I wish to have breakfast with you, Mr. Wentworth.” She felt sorry for him, for he was clearly nothing like his family, and it was wholly unfair to judge him by their actions instead of his own. She rose from her chair at her mother’s side.

  He gazed at her for a long moment, then nodded. “I thank you, Miss Smith.” He turned to her mother. “And you, ma’am. I shall have your tea—and perhaps a little toast, in case you might wish for it later—brought up to you soon.”

  Annabella went up to him then, and put her hand on his arm. “Shall we go, sir?” she asked. Again, he seemed surprised, as he had at the Bowerlands’ card party. He nodded, and she smiled at him and allowed him to lead her from the room. Really, her mother must see by now that Mr. Wentworth posed no threat to her virtue. He was clearly a kind, trustworthy man, wholly in command of his servants’ respect and Doctor Robinson’s, as well. His only fault was an extreme modesty, and in that he erred on the side of good. How unjust it was that people should judge him by his family’s reputation!

  As they went downstairs to the breakfast parlor, Annabella reflected that though he was not at all dashing and brave as the Cavalier or as elegant and handsome as the Duke of Stratton, there was a certain attraction in his gentleness. She smiled to herself. She was sure she would not develop a tendre for Mr. Wentworth, however.

  She suppressed a sigh. No, she would not be forming a tendre for Mr. Wentworth, or for the duke, for that matter.

  For she was very much afraid she was frivolous enough to have begun to form one for the mysterious Cavalier, a man of whom she knew nothing. He was dashing and brave, feared nothing, was a man of action and supreme confidence. He was quick-witted and could have a ridiculous sense of humor, which appealed to her. And ... and he was attracted to her.

  Annabella cast a quick glance at Mr. Wentworth, glad that he was not looking at her, for she felt her face heat at the memory of the Cavalier’s last kiss. She had been shameless, but how could she have helped it? She did not know how it had happened that she had come into his arms, or how she had come to look up at him at just the right moment for his lips to cover hers.

  No, no she would not think of it. Annabella pushed the memory of the kiss firmly away. She had determined this morning that she would put aside any thoughts of refusing the Duke of Stratton, and be a dutiful daughter for once. The next time she saw the duke—after she and her mother returned home—she would tell him.

  She let out a short, tight breath, and looked up to see Mr. Wentworth looking at her, a question in his eyes. She shook her head. “It is nothing, Mr. Wentworth. Merely thoughts of the things I must do for the future.”

  He gave a brief smile in return and nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I understand,”

  It was all he said. Yet Annabella felt comforted somehow, and suddenly wished he could be her friend. Perhaps, since she would be at Wentworth Abbey for at least a week, they could come to know each other better, and he would not be so shy around her. It would be a good thing, she reflected, if she could bring Mr. Wentworth out of himself a little, so that he felt more at ease in company. It was the least she could do for him, after all his kindness.

  They came to the dining room at last, and when the door opened, there were other guests there having their breakfast. Mr. Wentworth’s arm stiffened under her hand, and she glanced up at him. His expression had become cool, and then he looked down at the sideboards, as if suddenly concerned only with the selection of his meal. Annabella looked away from him and caught the Duke of Stratton staring at her. He smiled slightly as their eyes met, and nodded to her, but his smile faded as he saw Mr. Wentworth at her side. Again she glanced at her companion and saw that he had acknowledged the duke with a curt nod.

  She frowned slightly to herself. Was there some enmity between the duke and Mr. Wentworth? She had heard nothing of such a thing ... perhaps it was merely some dispute over property. Whatever it was, it was no concern of hers.

  Instead, Annabella bent herself to the task of her breakfast and being pleasant to those guests who spoke to her. She tried to draw out Mr. Wentworth a little, but it seemed he had retreated into himself again. Though he was pleasant enough and answered her cordially, he did not volunteer much of himself. At first she thought perhaps she had said something that had put him off, but then saw that he was the same to the lady to the other side of him. Annabella smiled wryly to herself. It was clear Mr. Wentworth was not at his best in company.

  A slight touch upon her shoulder at the end of her meal made her look up. It was Stratton, and he smiled slightly at her.

  “I was wondering, Miss Smith, if you would care to walk about the grounds with me?” he asked.

  Annabella was conscious of the speculative looks from the other guests around her and the stillness of Mr. Wentworth beside her. A stifled feeling came over her, and she could not help feeling a little angry that the duke had asked her in the presence of so many people, making it difficult to do anything but to accept. She felt half inclined to refuse. But she suppressed the
inclination and the resigned sigh that came to her lips. She had promised her mother she would consider the duke’s proposal and try her best to come to know him.

  She looked away briefly and then made herself smile at him pleasantly. “Why, I would be most pleased to do so, Your Grace.”

  “In perhaps an hour, ma’am?”

  “Yes ... although perhaps an hour and a half would be better,” Annabella replied. She could not help wanting to delay their meeting; it was petty of her, perhaps, but she did not wish the duke to dictate all the terms of their acquaintance.

  Stratton smiled slightly. “An hour and a half, then.”

  Annabella nodded and returned to her breakfast when he turned away from her. She looked to her left, intending to attempt more conversation with Mr. Wentworth, but he was not there. He must have excused himself while she was talking to the duke... and she did not hear him. She felt sorry for it and hoped that she might see Mr. Wentworth again, perhaps after her walk with the duke.

  She pushed the remainder of her breakfast about on her plate, her appetite gone. She excused herself and rose from the table. It was no use staying when the company seemed so dull; she might as well ready herself for her walk. As she left the dining room, she saw that the sun had come out of the clouds, and felt oddly discontent that it was so bright that it caused the duke to think that a walk outside in the sun would be a pleasant thing.

  * * * *

  “A pleasant day, is it not, Miss Smith?” the Duke of Stratton said.

  “What—oh! Yes. Yes, it is.” Annabella brought her attention back to her companion and felt her face grow warm. She had been ready far sooner than the amount of time she had told the duke she needed, but she had purposely made him wait the whole hour and a half. Now she was being more rude than ever. “I... I am sorry. It is just that I am distracted by worry over my mother.”

  Stratton gave her an inquiring look.

  Annabella swallowed down tears and looked away. “My ... my mother was attacked by someone last night at the masquerade and has been badly hurt. I feel I am to blame; I begged to come to this masquerade, and I should not have.”

  The duke took her hand and patted it. “It is true, you should not have come, but I suppose if your mother chaperoned you, it is not such a bad thing. But see what has come of it, even so. It is an activity that encourages licentiousness, and even the most sterling of characters are tempted to go beyond acceptable behavior.”

  The tears that had threatened to overcome Annabella dried up as a fiery irritation replaced them. She removed her hand from his grasp and raised her eyebrows haughtily. “Surely, you are not saying my mother was tempted to act in a manner unbecoming to a lady, and encouraged the attack upon her?”

  Stratton raised his hands in a gesture of mock-surrender and his smile was amused. “Did I say that?”

  “No ... not precisely,” Annabella admitted. “But it sounded as if you were implying it.”

  “I am sorry if it seemed so.” The duke’s voice was apologetic, and yet there was still a hint of humor in his voice. Annabella felt a mix of chagrin and irritation, at once sorry that she had attempted to put him in the wrong, and wishing he were not a duke and that she had not been raised to mind her manners so that she could snub him thoroughly.

  How contradictory she was! And she was hardly giving him the chance to know him better as she had promised her mother. She made herself smile at him.

  “And I am sorry that I have been rude. An irritation of the nerves ... the incident last night upset me, and I am not thinking clearly as I should.”

  “I understand. You might have been attacked also and are rightly frightened.”

  Annabella bit her lip to keep herself from snapping at him. How was she to answer that? It was not fright for herself, but her mother that she had felt, and yet if she corrected him, she would seem defensive.

  “It is an unpleasant subject,” she said at last. “Let us talk of other things. The grounds we are walking upon, for instance. Have you grounds like these?” She gestured at the green lawn before them and the bursts of color that came from the rhododendron bushes nearby. It was a pleasant view, the arrangement of trees and plants seeming to come from nature’s dictates rather than that of human planning.

  “My estate is comparable in size to Wentworth Abbey, but you must excuse my pride if I say that it’s better planned than this.”

  “You like a less natural setting, then?”

  Stratton waved his hand at the bushes and the tumble of roses that coursed over one corner of the house. “I prefer a more formal, classical style. There is something pleasing in neatly ordered rows of shrubbery and a distinct design.”

  “Perhaps,” Annabella said. “But do you not think that an arrangement that blends with that of nature is easier and more pleasant to the eye?”

  The duke smiled slightly. “That which is easier and pleasant is not necessarily good. Purity in line and conception—in all things, in fact—is far preferable.”

  There was little to argue with in his statement, but Annabella felt a deep discontent. His words made her wish to do something contrary, untidy and riotous, like the sprays of roses that climbed upon the walls of Wentworth Abbey and flung their trailing branches wantonly across their path.

  The path narrowed somewhat, and His Grace stepped neatly over one rose branch. But Annabella’s skirt caught in it, and she had to bend and release it from the thorns. When she rose and met his eyes, his smile had turned ironic.

  “You see?” he said. “Such untidiness cannot be anything but troublesome. These roses should be removed, for they are clearly a nuisance, and ruin the straight lines of this finely built house if you were to look at it from a distance.”

  She disagreed and wanted to tell him so. But she had promised to be pleasant, and she supposed it would be best if she learned more about his opinions, especially if she was going to consider him as a potential husband. She gave a little sigh and smiled pleasantly.

  “Perhaps,” she said, and turned the conversation again.

  * * * *

  “Lady Smith and her daughter to stay with us—a week? Or more?” Lady Grafton stared at Parsifal in consternation, her hand halting in the act of dropping a sweetmeat into the jaws of her pug dog. The dog’s whine echoed loudly in the large drawing room, but she ignored it. “To be sure, it cannot be helped, but I am surprised you did not tell me at the outset, Parsifal!”

  Parsifal eyed the dog, wondering if the animal ever wished to bite the sweetmeat from his mother’s fingers. It was a well-trained dog, however, and never did so. He drew in a deep breath and let it out again. “I did not, Mother, because you were abed by the time Doctor Robinson made his diagnosis. I trust it will not cause an inconvenience?”

  “No, no, of course not,” replied Lady Grafton and frowned a little. “It is just that I like to be consulted on such things, so that I may let Geoffrey know when he comes home. He is the head of the household, after all.”

  Parsifal reflected it was not likely that his brother would care who stayed at their home since Geoffrey was rarely in it himself, but did not say so. A surge of discontent accompanied the thought, a thing he had not felt before. He blinked, surprised at himself. He was feeling quite unlike himself lately, impatient and impulsive.

  “However, I do not mind it, really,” his mother was saying, and the sudden complaisant note in her voice brought his focus back to her. Parsifal gazed at the smug smile on her face and his suspicions rose. He did not trust that look on his mother’s face. It usually meant she had a scheme—usually ill-conceived—on her mind.

  “Indeed, Miss Smith is a very pretty-behaved young lady, is she not?” she continued. The pug whined again, and she dropped the sweetmeat at last. With a snap the pug’s jaws closed—like a trap, thought Parsifal. “To be sure, her lineage is not as old as ours, but it is quite respectable. Indeed, I have thought how ... convenient it is that her father’s land marches with ours.” She pursed her lips thoughtful
ly. “Parsifal, my dear, has Geoffrey said when he might return from London? I thought he would be here by now.”

  Parsifal almost groaned, but suppressed it and the surge of despair that came with it. His mother’s matchmaking efforts with Geoffrey had always failed in the past, and there was no reason to think that he would abandon his mistress and marry the very meek and compliant misses she brought before him. Inevitably, Geoffrey would leave, and it was left to Parsifal to act the host and try to soothe any ruffled feathers or shocked sensibilities—which rarely worked, anyway. But now it was Annabella she was thinking of— Oh, God.

  Anger flared suddenly in him, and he bit back a heated retort. Taking a deep breath, he said: “My brother did not inform me exactly when he would return. I think, Mother, that it would be inappropriate for you to encourage Geoffrey’s attentions upon Miss Smith. She cannot be in a state to appreciate his troub—his attractions. Her mother has just been attacked on our grounds and badly injured. It has been a severe shock to Miss Smith, I am certain. She will not be in a state to contemplate a courtship of any sort. I think it would be better if you wait until her mother recovers before you make any matrimonial plans.”

  “How inconvenient that he did not tell you!” she replied, frowning. “However, I am sure if I wrote to him, he would come forthwith!” She pulled a bell rope. “I shall send a letter to him today. Surely, he will see he cannot pass up such a chance as this!”

  It was useless. Parsifal turned on his heel and left the drawing room. She would not listen, and there was no reasoning with her, Parsifal thought, and he fought back a fiery irritation. He did not know why he even tried.

  The house closed in on him, the air was stale and stifling. Quickly, he ran down the steps and went to the back of the house and out of the doors to the stables. There was the new bay, as yet untried. He would ride it, away from the house into the woods.

  The stallion gave him a wild look when Parsifal came near. He took in a deep breath and let it out again, and calmed himself. Trying out a horse when the rider’s emotions were not under control could make a horse’s training more difficult than usual, later. He patted the bay’s neck in a reassuring manner, and gave it a piece of dried apple he had snatched from the kitchens on his way out. The horse was descended from one of the Darley Arabians, and it showed in its graceful lines and proud head. He rarely purchased stallions or rode them, for geldings were more practical and easier to train. But he could not resist buying this horse when he saw it, for it was truly a magnificent beast. He’d use it for stud was his excuse at the time, but he knew it was not for that reason he bought it. Regardless, it deserved to be treated with care.