by Martha Keyes
Somehow, though, she doubted whether she was capable of carrying out such a plan.
the vicomte walked with them down the lane, and the ill-temper he had harbored upon meeting them dissipated as they conversed, providing Cecilia ample opportunity to observe the gentler and more amusing manners which had been absent during their interaction the night before.
How could such an amiable gentleman have no intention of marrying? Pleasing manners, a sense of humor, undeniably handsome, wealth, and a title. What was there not to like?
When they parted, Cecilia found herself trying to stifle the hope that he would indeed be present for dinner the next day.
"I am sorry, Cecy," said Letty, after Lord Moulinet had left them. "He is not usually so unamiable, but he obviously has taken Lord Retsford in dislike for some reason."
Cecilia swallowed and stared at the dirt path below. "You know, Letty, there is something to be said for his opinion of the marquess. You remember my telling you to be cautious of associating too freely with libertines?"
Letty nodded, her eyes alert and watchful.
"Lord Retsford is very practiced in the art of making himself agreeable, Letty. But the truth is that he simply knows how to please when he wishes to. He has had years to discover how to make young women like you and me feel as though we are special and unique.”
"Oh," Letty said, disheartened. Her forehead wrinkled. "But your mother said that you are seen in his company frequently of late."
How could she explain it all to Letty? "It is true, but I have much more experience than you in keeping gentlemen at arm's length. My heart is quite hardened to men like Lord Retsford, you know."
She had thought her heart hardened to all men, in fact. And it was for that reason alone that she had looked upon the prospect of marriage to someone like Lord Retsford with any degree of equanimity, for, though her heart would remain untouched, at least she would have position and wealth to ensure a comfortable life.
The stirrings Lord Moulinet had produced in her heart were minor—and confusing—but unexpected enough to make her second-guess her goal of achieving the most brilliant match possible. The irony was not lost upon her that the first gentleman to rattle her desire for the highest peer she could acquire was one who seemed to want her not at all.
If the vicomte did attend dinner, perhaps Cecilia would have the opportunity to realize that her sudden hesitation had been as silly as it seemed, and she could put such irrational thoughts back where they belonged. She needed a reminder of why she had been so thrilled upon learning that the marquess had taken an interest in her, of why emotion need have nothing to do with marriage.
5
Jacques dusted the toe of his boot, watching the way the light from the window gleamed off the Hessians.
He hoped he wouldn't regret agreeing to dine with his aunt and cousin at the Cosgroves. He had never met Mr. Cosgrove, but he had heard enough about him to guess that he wouldn’t take to the man. But while Jacques was unlikely to find him agreeable, Mr. Cosgrove was reportedly always anxious to get on good terms with any nobleman, French or otherwise.
Jacques had often felt sick inside when he attended such gatherings, knowing that he was being welcomed into an abode where his presence would never be countenanced, were the truth known.
But with toadying people like he understood Mr. Cosgrove to be, he often found it amusing instead. His amusement at the prospect, however, was quickly dampened by the thought of Miss Cosgrove—the person he had so recently chastised for inauthenticity.
The disappointment Jacques had felt upon seeing Letty and Miss Cosgrove in the company of the Marquess of Retsford had been unaccountably acute.
That he was afraid of Letty's susceptibility to the man, there was no doubt. Jacques could too easily imagine Lord Retsford's attentions bringing about recklessness and impropriety on Letty's part if she were to succumb to his charm or become infatuated with him, as Jacques had already heard of so many other young women doing.
To add to the misgiving he felt, he had been angry to see Miss Cosgrove as the party responsible for introducing Letty to the marquess. Did she think she was doing her cousin a favor by exposing her to such a man?
Jacques shook his head and sighed as he left his bedroom. He had hoped better of Miss Cosgrove after witnessing her guidance to Letty the night before.
But underneath those two emotions, he had known a sliver of jealousy. Aunt Emily had mentioned that the marquess was growing more persistent in his attentions to Miss Cosgrove, so to see evidence of the intimacy so soon had been discouraging. The two glimpses she had given him—albeit, one unknowingly—of what lay underneath the surface had piqued Jacques's interest and intrigued him. It was absurd, of course, but he found himself curious to see more of Miss Cosgrove.
He handed Aunt Emily and Letty into the coach, hopping in deftly behind.
"I am so glad you decided to come, Jacques," said Letty, adjusting the silver comb in her hair.
"Indeed," Aunt Emily said, "you are always a wonderful addition to any party, my dear."
"It is true," Letty confirmed. "Mrs. Wheeler says that you have the most obliging manners of any gentleman she has met, and the type of breeding that can only be born, not learned."
Jacques stifled a laugh. For some time, his father had been concerned that people would be able to sniff out their low origins, but Jacques had found the beau monde to be as inaccurate as they were confident in their assumptions about such things.
"So, you have forgiven me, then?" he said with a teasing wink at Letty.
She smiled widely at him. "Of course I have. I could never stay angry with you. And besides, you were right."
He raised his brows. "I was?"
She nodded. "Yes, for Cecilia told me herself that Lord Retsford is not the type of gentleman whose attentions I should encourage."
Jacques felt his pulse quicken. So, she had lent her support to him, had she? But then why would she herself encourage the marquess’s attentions?
"Lord Retsford?" Aunt Emily said with curiosity. "Has he shown an interest in you? I admit that his reputation gives one pause, but—a marquess!"
Jacques grimaced.
"I admit," Letty said, "that I was quite taken with him at first, for he made me feel as though I was someone quite out of the ordinary, but I see now that he is simply an expert at gallantry."
Jacques and Aunt Emily met eyes, unalloyed relief in hers and amusement in his.
When he saw Miss Cosgrove in the drawing room, his impulse was to go to her immediately. Apart from his aunt and cousin, she was the only person in the room he knew, after all. But he suppressed the desire and instead waited patiently for his aunt to introduce him to Mr. Cosgrove, whom he found to be garrulous and irritating.
Miss Cosgrove stood across the room, speaking with a gentleman, but when her eyes met Jacques's, her eyelids fluttered, and she smiled hesitantly at him.
His eyes warmed responsively—he would take the uncertain smile a thousand times over her arch looks.
He felt his arm taken hold of firmly. "Come, my lord," said Mr. Cosgrove gaily. "I must introduce you to my daughter."
Jacques found himself face to face with Miss Cosgrove, the man next to her tossing off whatever was in his glass.
"Allow me to present to you my fair daughter Cecilia. I give you fair warning though, Moulinet, that with such a face and figure as she possesses, there are gentlemen and lords fairly lined up to pay their addresses to her."
Jacques drew back in surprise and watched as Miss Cosgrove's face flushed and she averted her eyes.
The gentleman standing next to Miss Cosgrove looked at Mr. Cosgrove with disgust. He was certainly a brother to Miss Cosgrove—at such proximity, Jacques had no trouble seeing the resemblance.
"Forgive me," said Miss Cosgrove, her voice high-pitched, and her chin raised. "I have a touch of the headache." She executed a swift curtsy to Jacques and then turned on her heel, leaving the room in a dash of white
muslin.
Her brother watched her departure with a grimace and then turned to his father. "She's your daughter," he said with a wrinkled nose and black brow, "not a bit of horseflesh to be sold to the highest bidder." He set down his glass with a clank on the nearby sideboard table and walked off.
Jacques stared after Miss Cosgrove, aware that Mr. Cosgrove was frowning next to him.
Mr. Cosgrove shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. "I appear to have very touchy children, Moulinet. Don't regard them," he said, clapping a hand on Jacques's shoulder. “I certainly don’t.”
Jacques resisted the impulse to withdraw from the gesture. He found the man repellent.
Mr. Cosgrove looked around the room. "Still waiting on Broussard, are we?"
Jacques nodded. "I believe my uncle was coming here straight from White's, sir. I imagine he will be here shortly, but, if you will excuse me, I will go inquire of my aunt." He gave a shallow bow and walked away.
Everyone in the room was engaged in conversation, so he touched Letty on the shoulder, told her he was going out for a breath of fresh air, and left the room.
He rubbed the back of his neck as he closed the door behind him softly and stepped into the corridor, with he knew not what destination. He found himself often needing such respites at social gatherings. People like Mr. Cosgrove were one of the primary reasons Jacques's own position was difficult. The man's words had ignited his temper—one which seemed to be unusually sensitive of late—and reminded him of everything he disliked about the set of people he was obliged to live his life among.
Of course, he didn't wish to return to the life he had led before coming to England, but he had tired of the charade he was required to assume—and the charades of everyone around him, who seemed intent on parading around town day after day and night after night with never a glimpse of what kind of people they truly were. They spoke incessantly of one another in whispering tones, ensuring there was never a chance to speak on any meaningful topic.
But what he had seen of Miss Cosgrove had given him hope. For her, at least.
But people like Mr. Cosgrove made him wonder if the majority of the ton wasn't perhaps every bit as superficial and empty as it seemed.
The sound of footsteps ascending toward him on the nearby staircase met his ears, and he slipped through the partially-open door on his left. He wasn't doing anything wrong, being in the corridor, and yet he still felt the impulse to hide.
He looked around the room he had entered—a salon decorated in green—and froze.
Miss Cosgrove sat on one of the chairs near the window, staring at him with wide alert eyes, which she hurriedly wiped free of the tears trickling down her cheeks.
"Oh," Jacques said, blinking quickly. "I apologize—I didn't know you were in here."
She rose from her seat and shook her head quickly. "I shall leave."
Jacques grimaced. "Miss Cosgrove," he said, and she stopped just in front of him, squeezing her eyes shut.
"Please, don't," she said. "Don't say anything. I can already guess what you think of my father. And me."
Jacques frowned. "I imagine that your guess of what I think of you would be very wrong." He exhaled sharply. "I only wanted to thank you."
She looked up at him, a glint of surprise in her eyes. "Thank me?"
He nodded slowly. "For warning Letty against Lord Retsford." He smiled wryly. "Your opinion seems to hold much more sway than mine. Whatever you said, it convinced her completely of his unsuitability." He met her eyes, noticing how a tear still clung to her dark lashes. He suppressed the impulse to dry it. "So thank you."
She swallowed, frowning. "It was the least I could do. When he came upon us in the park, I tried to look for a way to avoid giving an introduction, but it was useless."
"I understand. Men like Lord Retsford know just how to obtain what they wish for." He watched her carefully.
Why—if his aunt's stories were correct—would she encourage someone like the marquess, of whom she didn't seem to approve, in his attentions toward her? Was his wealth and title so alluring as to cancel out all his flaws?
Jacques would be disappointed if that was the case, even though he knew that those were the two main concerns of the society he operated in.
"I hope you mean to join us for dinner," he said with a half-smile. "If you leave me to entertain and respond to Letty’s constant dialogue alone, I shall never forgive you."
Miss Cosgrove's smile broke through her furrowed brow, and she looked up at him hesitantly, the smile fading as quickly as it had appeared. "My father..." she shook her head.
"I won't pay him any heed." He paused a moment, but his boldness won out. "And you shouldn't either. Come. I shan't let you escape this evening's entertainment when your presence was the only reason I accepted the invitation in the first place." He sent her a teasing smile, feeling unaccountable lightness fill his chest as he watched her laugh softly and follow him.
6
Cecilia sat down at the dinner table, her chin up and her shoulders down. She didn't wish her father to know how his words had affected her—and she didn’t know why they had suddenly done so. She was accustomed to the way he spoke.
Lord Moulinet sat down on one side of her, and she shifted in her chair. Did he pity her now? Did he feel he somehow had to protect her?
It would almost be more unbearable than knowing he held her in contempt.
She caught eyes with her brother Tobias, who nodded at her with a thoughtful expression.
Tobias’s personality and her own had never agreed—perhaps because they were too similar in many ways. He had always been fonder of Isabel and, on those rare occasions when he decided to come home for a visit between escapades with his friends, he had inevitably taken Izzy's side in whatever tiffs and debates came about.
When he had returned home upon Isabel's engagement, though, his attitude toward Cecilia had been less dismissive than usual. Whether she had changed or he had, Cecilia simply found herself grateful that they were less at loggerheads than in the past.
"Tell me," said Lord Moulinet, taking some soup from in front of him, "is that your brother?"
Cecilia followed his gaze and nodded. "Tobias. He is the eldest."
The vicomte looked at Tobias and then back to his soup. "I like him."
"I am sure he would be flattered, except that you have not had any chance to interact with him to form such an opinion, have you?"
He made a non-committal noise. "Extended personal interaction is not always necessary to form an opinion of someone's character, is it?"
"For you, perhaps not," she said, smiling over at him. "You seemed to form your opinion of me very quickly indeed."
He chuckled. "Formed and then revised."
"Why?" she said, her hands pausing before her.
His mouth twisted to the side, and he shrugged. "I formed my opinion based on what you chose to reveal to me of your character."
"And then?" She cut a piece of the green goose on her plate, ignoring her nerves as she awaited his answer.
"And then revised it when I realized that your character was not what it had at first appeared to be."
Her hands stopped, and she stared down at her plate. "And what if what you first saw is part of my character? Not a deception but one of many facets?" She looked at him, and his brow furrowed as he searched her eyes.
"Then you do yourself and everyone a disservice by holding back the most engaging and beautiful facets of your character in favor of the facet you've been told is most important."
She swallowed, maintaining eye contact with him, trying to decide whether to take his words as a compliment or an insult. He spoke plainly with her, and she found that she both appreciated and resented it. It was nothing like the roundabout, strategic dalliance she had engaged in with any number of men since her début.
She never knew quite what to expect from the vicomte.
"And what of you?" she said. "You have never yielded to a desire to please
or to conform to what society expects of you?"
He met her eyes with his penetrating gaze, saying nothing as his eyes dropped back down to his utensils. "I have done it often enough that I know how little lasting joy it holds."
"Joy," said Cecilia slowly. "Yes, perhaps no lasting joy. But what of wealth and position and the freedom they bring?"
His hands slowed cutting the veal in front of him, and his mouth drew into a thin line. Looking at her with those piercing eyes that quickened her pulse, he said, "One is hardly free if one is obliged to maintain a façade. I begin to think that price too high. To be loved and accepted for one's true self seems to me the greatest privilege in existence."
She scanned his face, wanting to ask him what he meant, why he looked so grave. He seemed to speak from experience, but she could find no trace of guile or deception in him—so where did he draw his wisdom from?
Her chin came down, and she stared at the champagne in her glass, with its scattering bubbles. "And what if to show one's true self would mean not acceptance and love, but disappointment?"
He shook his head. "No one knows such a feeling better than I. But I assure you that such a fate would not be yours, Miss Cosgrove."
She wanted to believe him. After all, she had already shown more real emotion to him than to any other gentleman of her acquaintance, and somehow he seemed not to have developed a distaste for her company; indeed, he seemed to appreciate her for it all the more.
But he was not like most gentlemen she knew.
When dinner had concluded, Cecilia and Letty walked to the drawing room in the company of Cecilia's mother and her Aunt Emily, leaving behind Lord Moulinet, Mr. Cosgrove, Tobias, and Mr. Broussard.
Letty immediately took Cecilia's arm in hers. "Tobias has become quite handsome, hasn't he?"
Cecilia frowned and glanced over her shoulder at the sight of the four men around the table, her eyes finding her brother. “Has he?"
Letty looked at her with incredulity. "Decidedly he is! Even when he was looking daggers at your father earlier, he looked very handsome indeed. I think that he may even be more handsome than Jacques."