The Offer

by Sara Portman

  Chapter Nine

  The real Lord Ashby, Lucy noted upon their introduction, was a stiff and somewhat distracted gentleman who gave the impression of having decidedly more important things to do elsewhere. Having met both Lord Ashby and his wife, she wasn’t entirely certain the man even knew he possessed daughters. She couldn’t imagine he bothered himself with their education. She could well imagine that approaching him in the way she had mistakenly approached Mr. Brantwood would have been a thoroughly humiliating disaster.

  She made every effort not to think about the encounter that had ensued instead as the duke presented Mr. Brantwood to Lord and Lady Ashby. Lucy’s efforts to ignore the curiosity inspired by said encounter were, of course, complicated by the very close proximity of the man who had incited it.

  Even as Mr. Brantwood greeted their host and hostess, Lucy could feel his unspoken taunt as though he had flung it at her. She knew at some basic, instinctual level that he was taking the measure of the man for whom he’d been mistaken and was no doubt thoroughly entertained at being reminded of the entire debacle—at knowing she had been reminded.

  True to his promise, however, he said nothing—not even to Lucy—when the introductions were complete and their small party continued onward into the parlor. She could have sworn, however, that a quirk of amusement hovered at the corner of his lips when he briefly met her gaze.

  She turned away, dismayed at having been caught watching him. Why should she be looking at him, anyway? All was well, was it not? They had agreed. They were confidants.

  She sighed, then immediately chided herself. She hated dishonesty, even to oneself. She knew very well why she was looking at him. She had thought of very little besides Mr. Brantwood in quite some time.

  She would not be so intrigued by him, but for the fact that she could not know for certain whether it was the simple matter of the kiss, or with whom she had shared it. That, she thought with an inward sigh, is the consuming question.

  The parlor at the Ashby townhouse, Lucy noted once she’d plucked herself from the depths of her preoccupation, was quite crowded.

  “So many for just a dinner?” she whispered quietly to Emma, feeling unsophisticated even as she voiced the observation.

  Emma sighed. “It is a greater number than I expected. Lord Ashby is quite well connected. I imagine it is rather difficult to keep the attendance reasonable when one cannot invite Lord A without offending Lord B, or Lady X without inviting Lady Y.” Emma leaned more closely. “Lady Ashby is much better at this sort of thing than I will ever be. I avoid the entire situation by mostly inviting only family to dine. Anyone who is not blood has no reason to be offended.”

  “But I am not blood,” Lucy couldn’t help pointing out.

  Emma gave a beleaguered eye roll and whispered, “Apparently, you’re the hired help.”

  Lucy giggled.

  “What are you two finding so entertaining?” the duke asked, looking indulgently at his wife.

  “Only that I suffer from utter lack of ambition as a hostess,” Emma said, smiling back at him.

  The duke laughed. “One of the myriad of reasons we are perfectly matched, my darling.”

  Lucy felt a warming in her heart to see the two of them so enamored of each other. Emma deserved her happiness.

  “You are a perfect hostess, my dear,” Emma’s aunt assured her.

  “Ah, Your Grace,” a shrill voice carried in their direction. In the manner that lightning is followed by thunder, the voice was followed by the presence of a lady who managed to appear as threatening as a storm despite her diminutive height. The cluster of menacingly sharp feathers protruding from the woman’s hair contributed to her fierce demeanor, as did her resolute expression—that of a hunter charging to intercept her prey.

  Emma smiled at the woman, but Lucy easily recognized it for the obligatory expression that it was. “Lady Grantham, how very nice to see you.”

  “And the same to you, Your Grace. Felicitations on your happy news,” she effused.

  Emma’s chin dipped in acceptance of the kindness. “Thank you, Lady Grantham.”

  The older woman simpered as though she knew the gratitude was her due. “Why I was only just saying to Mrs. Woodley,” she continued, “how surprised I was that you are even attending this evening. I told her I was certain you would be too cautious with the duke’s heir to be concerned with social invitations.” Her smile was tepid and did not reach her eyes. “But I was wrong and here you are.”

  “Yes.” Emma’s eyes narrowed. “Here I am.”

  Lucy thought the woman could not have been more cutting in her remarks, but she was mistaken.

  “My own daughter, Lady Welton,” she said, stressing the title as though it might otherwise go unnoticed, “is spending her confinement in Kent.”

  “Is she?” Emma asked, all false interest and excessive politeness. “How restful that must be for her, to be away from…town.”

  Lucy nearly laughed aloud at the collapse of Lady Grantham’s expression. At least the woman had been clever enough to catch the subtle barb.

  Emma’s aunt, Lady Ridgely, stepped forward into the rapidly deteriorating exchange. “How very pleased you must be for your daughter’s happy situation, Lady Grantham. I know I am anxiously awaiting the arrival of my grandniece or nephew.”

  “Of course.” As Lady Grantham turned her attention to Lady Ridgely, her expression recalibrated to one of pity—the type that was far more condescending than charitable. “I’m sure you are, poor dear,” she said, reaching forward to pat Lady Ridgely’s gloved hand with her own. “You were unable to have your own children, after all. What a burden that must be for you and the earl.”

  Lady Ridgely’s delicate hand slowly but surely retreated from the contact. She swallowed, but gave no retort.

  Lucy, astonished at the spiteful woman’s remarks, turned to take in Emma’s reaction. Not surprisingly, her expression was no longer restrained. If this was an example of typical behavior, Lucy could well understand why her friend had chosen to avoid London society for so many years. Emma no doubt would have given the horrid woman a thorough dressing-down in defense of her beloved aunt had they not been joined by their hostess.

  “Ladies,” Lady Ashby interjected, unaware of the simmering dislike thrumming in the group, “you must come and meet my new friend, Lady Constance. She is the Comtesse de Beauchene, but prefers to use her English honorific now that she is widowed and returned from France.”

  “I have heard of the comtesse,” Lady Grantham announced sharply. “I understand she arrived in town, immediately let the largest house available, and began planning dinner parties as though she had never left. Very presumptuous, I would say.”

  “Of course, that is only gossip. One must meet a person to know the real truth,” Emma pointed out, and Lucy silently cheered her defense of the absent comtesse.

  Lady Grantham pursed her lips skeptically. “She is French, after all.”

  “If I recall, Lady Constance is the daughter of the fifth Earl of Marbury,” Lady Ridgely said, with more pique than she usually displayed. “She is very much English.”

  “But she has spent the past three decades in France,” Lady Grantham insisted. “She is certainly more French than English now, and it appears she has adopted their manners.”

  “She may a bit outspoken,” Lady Ashby said, in an obvious attempt to smooth the disagreement. “But she is quite gracious and thoroughly civilized, I assure you.”

  “I should be very pleased to make the acquaintance of the comtesse,” Emma said.

  “As should I,” Lady Ridgely said, stepping forward once more into the fray.

  “And I,” Lucy added in solidarity, championing the woman she had never met.

  * * * *

  The Comtesse de Beauchene, as it happened, did not appear to be a woman who required champions. She was
a handsome woman of indeterminate age—as the most lovely women always seemed to be—but Lucy guessed she possessed at least a half century of accumulated life. Life in years of age was not the kind that most distinguished the Comtesse de Beauchene, however. Her rarity was in the life—the spirit—she exuded from the moment of observing her. Her blue eyes sparkled with youthful mischief despite the creases that edged them. Her smile was wide, somehow both knowing and sweet. And she sat, tall and regal, in a delicately painted chair, surrounded by a rapt group of attendants, giving one the impression that she had crossed the channel from France to assume her throne, much as William of Normandy had done centuries before.

  “Lady Constance,” Lady Ashby interjected, drawing the woman’s attention from her audience. “I have brought some friends I would very much like for you to meet.”

  “How wonderful. I should love to meet any friend of yours.” She rose from her chair, as did others in the assembled group. Several pushed chairs back to make way for Lady Ashby and her newcomers.

  Lady Ashby presented the duke and duchess. Emma then performed the introductions of Lord and Lady Ridgely, and next Lady Grantham, who had insisted on joining the group despite her unkind opinions. “Mr. Brantwood is my husband’s cousin,” Emma said, completing the lengthy list of companions, “and Miss Lucy Betancourt is my dearest childhood friend.” Lucy curtsied to the comtesse and found it was easy to smile at the woman when her eyes possessed such laughter and she greeted without any sense of reserved judgment.

  “How very charmed I am to meet you all,” Lady Constance said, giving as much attention to Lucy and to Mr. Brantwood as she did to the duke and duchess. Lucy liked her very much.

  “Lady Constance, I understand you are the daughter of the Earl of Marbury,” Lady Ridgely said. “I believe we may have been introduced on one occasion before your marriage.”

  “Is that so?” the comtesse asked, brightening at the possibility. “You must remind me of the occasion.”

  As Lady Ridgely began her account of a years-past meeting, Lucy sidled toward Emma. She spoke quietly at her friend’s side. “If you really intend to serve as a reference, you should probably be introducing me as your companion, rather than as your dearest friend.”

  Emma smiled and squeezed Lucy’s hand. “I love you with all my heart, Lucy, but I will not introduce you as my companion.”

  Lucy squeezed back. “Why ever not?”

  Emma tilted her head. “Have faith, Lucy. I fully intend to help you find a post, but I will not pretend I am employing you.” She turned to face Lucy then. “I would gladly pay you, only I know you would not accept it. Or worse, you might accept it and then stubbornly insist on behaving as though you were a member of the household staff.”

  “I would not,” Lucy said, but her denial lacked vehemence. She knew in her heart she could not shirk duties for which she was compensated.

  “Mr. Brantwood,” Lady Constance crowed, drawing Lucy’s attention. “You are lurking in the back there. Come forward, don’t allow me to frighten you.”

  He laughed and Lucy found herself watching him. Bex, she decided, was a fitting name, though she had not yet decided why. “I do not frighten easily, Lady Constance. I would never presume to interrupt ladies’ conversation.”

  Lucy looked around at his words and noted that he was the only remaining gentleman. She had not noticed the duke or Lord Ridgely depart, but they must have done so following the introductions.

  “Don’t be silly, Mr. Brantwood, the interruption of a young and handsome gentleman is never troublesome for ladies, and as I am old enough not to be coy, I may readily admit it.”

  His laughter deepened, and she gestured to a vacated chair at her side. “Come and sit, Mr. Brantwood, and I shall dismantle all your misconceptions of proper ladies.”

  “How can I deny myself such an opportunity, when men have sought for centuries to understand the mysteries of ladies?” He moved to sit where she indicated.

  Lady Constance laughed lightly. “I offered to reveal misconceptions, Mr. Brantwood, not mysteries. A lady never shares her secrets.”

  Bex murmured a response that elicited further laughter from the comtesse, but Lucy could not hear it, despite straining to do so.

  “Come sit with us as well,” the comtesse said, waving at Lucy and Emma.

  Lucy’s cheeks immediately warmed, fearful that she had been too apparent in her curiosity. Nevertheless, she and Emma pulled empty chairs into the conversational circle and sat. Lucy cast a brief glance at Bex and caught him watching her. He winked. Winked. How was she supposed to respond to that?

  The comtesse turned her attention to Emma and Lucy. “I understand you are expecting, Your Grace. Congratulations to you and your husband.”

  Emma nodded. “Thank you, Lady Constance.”

  The comtesse leaned toward Emma and said, without any trace of malice or irony, “I believe this would be the moment when a matron would provide some tidbit of maternal advice, but as I am not a mother, I am not qualified to do so. I will simply wish you great happiness, and leave it at that.”

  Emma’s eyes widened. “Oh…I…thank you.”

  The comtesse turned to Lucy next. “And you are Her Grace’s longtime friend, if I remember correctly?”

  “I am. We have been friends from the time we were very young. My father is vicar in a village where the duchess’s family owned a cottage.”

  “So you are here for the birth of the child, then. Is this your first time in London?”

  “It is.”

  “And how do you like it?”

  “I have found it very interesting, Lady Constance, but there is much I have yet to see.”

  The comtesse nodded sagely. “Yes, it is always interesting.” She turned abruptly then to peer more closely at Bex. “And you are the duke’s cousin, Mr. Brantwood. Are you visiting the duke and duchess, as well?”

  “I am not. My father and I have a townhouse here.” He leaned comfortably in his chair with the air of a man who did not question whether he fit in. Lucy wished she could emulate that confidence.

  The comtesse glanced at Lucy after his response, and she wondered again if she had been too transparent in her interest in him. She did not address Lucy, however, but turned back to Bex. “Why is it, Mr. Brantwood, that you are tolerating conversation with an old woman rather than talking with some nice girl your own age, or hiding in the card room with the gentlemen?”

  “I never play cards, Lady Constance,” he said, failing to provide an explanation for the first part of her question.

  Simply noticing he had failed to answer a question, Lucy reasoned, did not necessarily imply she had an interest in the answer. She was, after all, an observant person.

  “And you?” Lady Constance said, turning her attention to Lucy. “Why are you not off husband hunting with the other pretty young girls?”

  Lucy smiled at the woman’s candor. She would very much like to be so outspoken someday. “I am not on a ‘husband hunt,’ as you call it.”

  “And why is that?” Lady Constance asked. “Are you an independent heiress, then, and have no need for the security of marriage? Because, I would be quite happy for you, ma petite, were that the case.”

  “It is quite the opposite, I’m afraid,” Lucy said without shame or hesitation. “I lack sufficient family wealth or connection to draw the attention of any of the gentlemen of this set.”

  Or any other set.

  “Is that so? Wouldn’t you at least enjoy dancing and flirting for an evening? There is no point in sitting in the corner when you’ve bothered to dress and leave home.”

  Lucy smiled and willed herself not to look in Bex’s direction. “There would be very little point in dancing and flirting, just to become enamored with a gentleman far outside my reach. I would only arrange for my own disappointment. Or worse, draw the interest of a gentleman who
would be disappointed himself upon making inquiries and learning he has wasted his time and attention.”

  “It is of no use, Lady Constance,” Emma interjected. “I have tried on several occasions to encourage Lucy to be less sensible, but have had no success in encouraging impulsive behavior.”

  Guilt speared Lucy that she had not confided in Emma her recent impulsive behavior. She felt Bex’s gaze on her but looked to Lady Constance instead, who peered at her with great interest. She had the distinct feeling the woman was taking her measure.

  “You are an extremely practical sort, aren’t you?” Lady Constance asked finally.

  “I do try to be,” Lucy replied. “It is kind of you to notice.”

  Lady Constance laughed at her reply. “You would take it as a kindness, whether I meant it as such or not, wouldn’t you?” She leaned toward Lucy. “I approve. And there are not a lot of you, I imagine.”

  “I should think practicality a very desirable trait in a person. I imagine there are a great number of us wandering about if one takes the time to look.”

  Lady Constance nodded. “Perhaps you are correct, ma petite, and if I kept better company, I might have the same observation.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Lucy rushed to explain. “I never meant to give offense to you or anyone of your acquaintance. On the contrary, I’m sure many are quite practical.”

  Lady Constance laughed in a pleasant way that made her surprisingly youthful eyes sparkle more brightly. “Oh, I am certain they are not, ma petite. I have spent the past three decades with the French.”

  “Yet now you have chosen to return to England,” Lucy said. She knew the declaration contained an indirect—and likely impertinent—question, but she was intrigued enough to ask and somehow sensed the lady would not take offense.