She hadn’t seen Ross in years. She’d been at Lowell, but she might not have encountered him, anyway. Mary Skerries’s letters to her mother had told her he’d been enjoying manly pursuits—hunting in the shires, shooting at various estates around Britain, and managing the Irish estate traditionally allocated to the Skerries heir.
Even if nearby, they could be worlds apart. She’d visited Epsom racecourse in the summer, but she’d sat with the ladies far from the muddy areas where the men inspected horses and laid bets.
She’d missed her friend, but hadn’t thought it more than that until that encounter in Oxford Street. He’d been carrying a number of packages, which he’d explained as commissions for his mother.
“Just back from Ireland,” he’d said.
She supposed she’d made a sensible response, but something odd had been happening inside her.
He’d seemed older, in a way that improved a man of twenty-four. His cheeks had been leaner, and something or someone had polished him a little. He’d been wearing a cravat instead of a simple knotted cloth, and his boots had been polished.
They’d chatted about family and old times, but he’d not delayed. He was to set out for Cherryholt in a few hours.
Pen hoped she’d shown none of the turmoil inside, but a week later she’d broken off her third and, she vowed, last engagement to wed. How could she marry another when she’d been in love with Ross Skerries since girlhood? But how was she to attempt to win Ross, especially when he didn’t seem to feel the same way about her? He’d shown no interest in lingering in Oxford Street, said nothing about meeting again in the future.
Now she was approaching Cherryholt, which would give her an opportunity, and she was resolved to capture the prize if it was at all possible. After all, some men, especially the sporting types, seemed slow to arrange marital matters themselves but happy enough when settled.
It was do or die. If she left here uncommitted, she would remain a spinster all her days. But by the Lord Harry, she’d be an adventurous one. Quill work could fill only a small part of a life. If England didn’t offer her enough scope, she’d travel. Europe had to open to English tourists one day soon, and there were ever more distant places—Canada, India, Egypt, Araby.
Anywhere that was far enough from the Honorable Cardross Skerries.
The coach drew up beneath a porte cochere, and servants waited. Pen braced herself. She must show nothing of her thoughts and feelings, nothing.
As soon as they were inside the house, petite Lady Skerries rushed forward. “Ellie! It’s been far too long since we were together, and even longer since we enjoyed your company here. And Pen, dear Pen. My, how you’ve grown!”
Pen smiled and accepted a hug, but inside she winced. She was rather tall, so perhaps she shouldn’t have purchased a new bonnet as they were very high-crowned this season. Thank heavens she’d brought some French berets and turbans.
Lady Skerries and her mother chattered all the way to a handsome bedroom. “Here you are! I’ll have washing water and tea brought to you, and of course you must command anything you desire. We dine at seven, but if you’re fatigued . . .”
“Of course not,” Pen’s mother said. “I don’t want to miss a minute of this pleasure.”
Indeed, she looked younger, and in a way even young, as did Mary Skerries, despite the gray in her blond hair. There was an alchemy in long friendship.
Pen untied her foot-high bonnet, wishing she had a friendship like that, forged in childhood and strengthened by lives that followed a similar pattern. She had some childhood friends, but they were all married now, and with children, which seemed to fracture the bond.
But above all, from childhood the friend of her heart had been Ross. They’d been apart more than they’d been together, but it hadn’t seemed to matter. Whenever they were apart she’d written him long letters, and he’d replied, if only briefly, with stories of school pranks, horses, or guns.
As they’d grown older, the letters had seemed to shuttle between different worlds, and when Pen’s mother had hinted that she was too grown up to bother a young man that way, she’d ceased writing. She’d hoped that would inspire him to write of his own accord, but it hadn’t. All connection had ceased except for the occasional mention in a letter from Mary Skerries to her mother.
But he was here now, somewhere nearby. When they met, when they talked, would it become like the old times, as it had with her mother and her old friend? Pen hoped so, but she wanted more. She didn’t only want a friend.
Lady Skerries left, and Pen sat to comb her hair.
“I do wish you’d not cropped your hair, dear. It was such a lovely mass of curls.”
“And tiresome to care for. See, a comb and I’m done.” She surrendered the chair to her mother. “Shall I brush it for you?”
“Thank you, dear. I miss Peggy, but I didn’t want to burden Mary with another servant, and Peggy will enjoy Christmas with her family.”
“We can fasten each other’s laces and buttons,” Pen said, unpinning her mother’s rather thin hair.
It had once been thick, she remembered, and dark like her own. Was this her future, but without husband, children and home? She might not look womanly, or always behave as society thought a woman should, but she wanted all those womanly things as much as others did.
But only, it would seem, with one man.
She drew the brush carefully through her mother’s hair, making sure not to tug on a knot, and then recoiled it and pinned it in place before replacing the cap. If this venture failed, perhaps she should take to a cap herself. Oh, no, not that. A turban, perhaps, of rich silk with a cockade, but not a spinster’s cap.
She’d look foolish in one, anyway.
She wasn’t sure why she was different, but she always had been. Tomboy had excused it for years, but as she approached and then passed twenty she’d been described as an original. Soon, without doubt, she’d be an eccentric.
She liked her short hair, and she wasn’t the only lady to adopt the style. Some ladies looked positively enchanting with a crop—like Sophie Ashby with her pretty, heart-shaped face and big eyes, or Miss Willoughby, who was considered a beauty.
Pen’s face was not heart shaped or beautiful, however, and in truth would better suit a man. Her jaw was square, her nose long, and her lips did not form a cupid bow. Her mother chose to believe that a mass of hair would make her a beauty, but it wasn’t so.
It had never mattered before, but suddenly it did.
Dreadfully.
No wonder Ross Skerries had never thought of her with marriage in mind. If it would work magic she might have purchased a wig, but she remembered how she’d looked if she’d let her long hair hang loose—like a Restoration rake in full periwig.
She wasn’t an antidote, she reminded herself. Three men had sought her hand in marriage, each expressing intense admiration. When she’d regretfully broken her commitment, each had claimed a broken heart.
Yet Ross Skerries had spoken to her in Oxford Street without looking slain by love, and he’d not sought her out afterward, in person or by letter.
Why was she even hoping?
Because when it felt as if life itself depended upon the matter, she had no choice.
Two maids arrived, one with hot water and the other with a tea tray. They set about unpacking as Pen went behind the screen to take off her traveling gown and wash. She’d worn no corset for the journey, for the dress was substantially made and she really didn’t need one. Her small breasts sat high without needing to be forced up, and no amount of padding could make them look believably plump.
Setting aside the doldrums, she put on her robe and went out to enjoy her tea, but in truth she wanted to dress in her most becoming gown and begin her hunt.
Where was he?
How would he react when they met?
What would she do if he seemed hardly to notice her?
Behave as if nothing was amiss, she told herself sternly. She might not emerge f
rom Christmas a bride, but she was determined to retain her pride.
She dressed for dinner and battle in a bronze silk gown delicately embroidered in gold. She’d put off whites and pastels years ago, for they’d never suited her, especially as she’d never taken enough care of her complexion to keep it pale. Lord Thretford, in wooing her, had called her a pagan goddess in this gown. He’d called her a heartless harpy when she’d dismissed him, and she’d truly regretted any pain she’d caused.
She was heartily glad to be done with that business, even if she did remain a spinster all her days.
Chapter 3
Pen entered the drawing room with her mother, and again Lady Skerries hurried to them, this time with her tall, thin husband by her side. He greeted them both warmly and teased Pen, “Are you still as fearless a rider, Penelope?”
He probably expected a laughing denial, but Pen had abandoned polite lies with her whites and pastels. “Almost, Lord Skerries. Age makes us more aware of what there is to fear, so I’m perhaps a little less heedless.”
He didn’t seem upset. “Then we will have some fine rides as long as the weather stays clear, and you must make free use of the stables as you wish.”
Lady Skerries took them off to meet her youngest daughter, Julia, who was still unmarried. Julia Skerries looked uneasy despite an elegant pale green gown, pearls, and an elaborate arrangement of her brown hair. Perhaps too elaborate for comfort.
When Lady Skerries took her mother off to speak with an old friend, Pen realized she’d been allocated to the young hopefuls. Where else did a twenty-three-year-old spinster fit, but Julia Skerries, only just seventeen, was staring at her as if she were indeed a pagan.
“That’s a wonderful gown, Miss Brockhurst.”
“Thank you. Yours is very pretty.”
“But very conventional.”
Pen smiled. “Time to be unconventional when you’re older.”
“Oh, I hope to be married well before then,” Julia said, innocent of any intent to wound.
Pen had very carefully not searched the room, but now, as Julia chattered nervously about the Christmas festivities, and mistletoe, and the mummers who would come up from the village the next day, she allowed herself to look.
She almost didn’t see him, for he was sitting down—beside a blond young lady in sprigged white. On the other side of the virtuous maiden sat a proud, beaming mama.
There might as well be a label over them.
Couple engaged to wed.
Bile rose in Pen’s throat, and she quickly looked away before she disgraced herself. But by Hades—she was stuck here for twelve days in the torture of the damned.
“. . . don’t you think, Miss Brockhurst?”
She stared at Julia. “I’m sorry. I missed that. It is a little loud in here, isn’t it?”
Julia Skerries surprised her. “I beg your pardon. I was chattering on about nothing. I’m terribly shy, you see. I know you used to come here in the past, but I paid little attention to older visitors, so you seem a stranger.”
Pen admired honesty, being fond of it herself. “You’ve learned to cover it well.”
“By chattering. I’m dreading going to London. I know it’s nonsensical,” Julia said in a confiding whisper, “but I sometimes can scarce bear to enter a room if it contains mostly strangers.”
This was distraction, and Pen clamped onto it. “There’s no way to avoid it, however, short of being a recluse. I don’t think you’d like that.”
“Not at all! I want to marry. I wish I were confident and vivacious, but wishing creates no miracles, does it? It’s like the time I wanted to jump across the Cutty Brook. I wanted to so much, but I just couldn’t.”
“I almost failed at that, too,” Pen said. “It’s such a short distance, but the water flows so fast and deep, and people will tell stories about those who’ve slipped and drowned.”
“True stories. A lad died there a few months ago. So it’s really more sensible not to jump, isn’t it?”
“Probably, but if we only do what’s sensible, life’s a dead bore.”
Julia raised a hand to cover a giggle. “Mother said you had a reputation for being outrageous.”
Pen felt her cheeks heat, and despite all her efforts, she was aware of Ross across the room as if he were calling her name.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Julia gasped. “My unruly tongue!”
“Nonsense, I am outrageous, as often as I can be. For example, my riding habit’s cut in a manly style, complete with breeches.” When Julia’s mouth formed an O, Pen grinned. “I wear a skirt over them, but I like to ride astride.”
The “Oh” escaped.
It was no good. She had to go over to Ross and the horrible chit by his side and discover the worst.
“If you’re still willing to be seen in my company,” Pen said, “perhaps you would take me around and introduce me to old and new acquaintances. I do remember Squire Purdue, though I’m amazed he’s still alive.”
“Ninety-two and still inclined to pinch the maids’ bottoms. Very well, then.”
Julia rose as if facing ravenous lions, but she did well enough at taking Pen around. Slowly they approached the sofa upon which Ross sat, smiling at his fair bride.
Pen felt able to ask, “Who’s that with your brother?”
“Cassandra Gable-Gore,” Julia said. “Ross may be marrying her.”
May! Despite sanity, it filled Pen’s head like a paean of hope. There was no commitment yet.
“Ross,” Julia said, “you’ll remember Miss Brockhurst, so I’ll introduce her to Mrs. Gable-Gore and Miss Gable-Gore. Miss Brockhurst, ladies, an old family friend.”
Pen did not appreciate the “old.” The Gable-Gore chit looked no older than Julia and had a round-cheeked, short-nosed face that resembled a toddler’s.
Both the Gable-Gore ladies were polite, but treated Pen as a strange creature—a Mohawk from Canada, perhaps, or a princess of India.
Ross had risen, and his smile was open and friendly—but not the tiniest bit loverlike. “It’s good to see you here again, Pen.”
First names. Was that promising, or a sign he saw her as a sister?
“I delight to be here, Ross. Cherryholt has always been one of my favorite houses.”
“It is a very handsome house,” Mrs. Gable-Gore said, managing to make it proprietal.
Pen turned to the infant. “Where do you usually make your home, Miss Gable-Gore?”
For some reason she’d expected the same shy style as Julia’s, but Miss Gable-Gore was perfectly composed. “In Northamptonshire, ma’am, near Chipping Warden. My father’s estate is called Shearing Manor. And you, ma’am?”
The “ma’am” was becoming an irritant. Pen wasn’t a matron yet. “Our family home is Lowell Manor in Kent. We would have been Christmasing there if my brother had not been abroad with his wife and children.”
Miss Gable-Gore’s finely arched brows—plucked, Pen was sure—twitched. “Do you have a large family, ma’am? I am an only child.”
“Three brothers,” Pen said. “Alas, no sisters.”
She hoped she was sounding cheerfully unaffected, but Miss Gable-Gore, only child, was a formidable challenge. Whatever the family had set aside for children would all come to her, and Pen suspected it was a handsome amount. The pearls the girl was wearing were very fine.
What sensible man would reject a pretty heiress in favor of an eccentric, aging spinster with a portion of only two thousand pounds?
What was more, Gable-Gore was the family name of the Earls of Maybury. No matter how far this branch lay from the main trunk, Miss Gable-Gore had aristocratic blood to match Ross’s own.
“Do please excuse me,” Pen said. “We must go on if I’m to meet the company before we dine.” She dipped a curtsey and escaped. “What a cold fish,” she murmured to Julia.
“She’s a pattern card of respectability.”
“A pattern card being a rectangle of cardboard. Flat and dry.”
> Julia giggled, but Pen reminded herself not to sink to spite, which would only reveal her feelings.
People were paired for dinner by precedence, so neither Pen nor Miss Gable-Gore secured the heir to Cherryholt. When seated at the table, Pen could have grinned with triumph. She was opposite him, whereas her rival was on the same side. Only two people separated Ross from Miss Gable-Gore, but it might as well have been a mile.
Of course the width of the grand table made conversation across it unlikely, but they could share smiles and other reactions throughout the meal. Crumbs for the starving, on her side at least. She fought the need to watch him constantly, trying to interpret every flicker of expression, but she succumbed enough to see how he had changed yet again.
When they’d met in Oxford Street, his hair had been as carelessly trimmed, but now a neat Brutus cut revealed a noble forehead and gave his whole face more dignity. His dark evening clothes were impeccable; his cravat beautifully tied and secured with a glittering bronzish stone, which she knew would match his eyes if she could see them from here.
It also matched her gown. Had his eye color informed her choice of material? She feared she was heading for defeat here, but she wanted no one to know it other than herself.
She made herself pay lively attention to the gentlemen on either side, and could only feel relief when Lady Skerries signaled for the ladies to leave. She’d quite like to seek the sanctuary of her room, but the only way to survive this disaster was boldly, all pennants flying.
Chapter 4
Pen found herself again shepherded to the unmarried young, which now included the inconvenient heiress. She must not show how much she loathed the poor girl, for Miss Gable-Gore was not to blame for stealing Pen’s man.
The youthful spinster group also included a rather monkeyish Lady Azure Finchley and a quiet Miss Cavendish. Lady Azure immediately insisted that everyone use first names, “For as I must use mine, absurd as it is, you must all suffer yours.”
Miss Cavendish admitted to Caroline, Pen to hers—“and not Penelope, please!”—and Miss Gable-Gore, perhaps reluctantly, to Cassandra.
Mischief and Mistletoe Page 6