The Sensible Courtship

by Megan Daniel

  Soon she would be traveling even farther, into Somersetshire to meet Caspar’s mother. That was bound to be a tedious trip too. She could only hope she had not saddled herself with a silly nit for a mother-in-law.

  Well, no need to worry about all that just yet, not when it was a glorious morning, not when there was hunting to be enjoyed. She stepped out onto the porch and breathed deeply of the frosty air.

  There was more than a hint of winter about this riders hung on the air. Francesca was thankful for the morning. The steam set up by the horses, dogs, and high fur collar on her deep burgundy habit, styled a la Russe, and her warm gauntleted gloves.

  She looked around for her horse and groom but could not find them in the milling throng. She did, however, spot Lord Devlin. He was leading out Arapaho, who was obviously eager for a good run. Isaac followed close behind him, with the reins of Moming-Sun-on-the-Water in his hands.

  “Good morning, Devlin,” she said, feeling happy to see him in spite of herself. “Who is to have the treat of riding this little beauty this morning?” She patted the

  palomino’s golden nose and offered her a lump of sugar from her pocket.

  Devlin grinned at her. “You are,” he said simply. “That is, if you wish to. I took the liberty of sending Desdemona back to her stable.”

  “Ah, your usual high-handed self, I see,” she remarked, but she could not be angry. “But I thank you for it. I have been itching to try her ever since I first set eyes on her.”

  The horse gave her a wet kiss, obviously begging for more sugar. Devlin laughed. “The feeling seems to be mutual. Come on, then.”

  Fie tossed her up onto the mare’s back, then mounted himself, and off they rode.

  The Duke of Flockleigh had not lied when he promised his guests good hunting. With but one exception, every run had been spectacular. The closing day was no exception. They flew over fields and through woods, down steep rocky ravines and heather-covered hillsides. There were more than a score of good jumps over ditches and streams, walls and hedges, and a pair of bullfinches that would have daunted any but the very best of hunters.

  Francesca and Devlin were in the lead and side by side for the whole of it. The two horses moved as one; the two riders did as well. Each was able, at least for the moment, to block out the problems that had kept them awake most of the night, to block out everything but the pure joy of riding beside each other in such perfect harmony.

  Priscilla, now completely in her Mama’s good graces again, her own dear sweet child, had been given the entire morning at liberty, an unaccustomed luxury. She bundled up in her oldest, warmest coat, gathered up her sketchpad and pencils, and headed for the woods and its wildflowers, ferns, and mosses just waiting for her. If such freedom was to be her usual lot now, perhaps marriage would not be so bad after all.

  Caspar, having done the duty for which he had come to Hockleigh—and whatever would his mother think of Lady Francesca?—allowed himself the luxury of spending his last morning collecting specimens for his botanical studies. He had been neglecting his work shamefully of late. But now that the business with Francesca was settled, he could get on with what was important in his life.

  He had a thought that stopped him, frowning, in his progress toward the woods. He hoped Francesca would not expect him to go up to London for the Season. That would never do. The very best specimens would be available for collecting just at that time of the year. And his gardens would just be coming into their own. The science of botany really was something more than a hobby with Caspar. Some few might laugh at him, he knew, but he was convinced that one day he would be one of the most respected botanists and horticulturists in England. Others would study his collections and read his notes and remark his name on the roll of members of the Royal Academy of Science.

  It was, of course, inevitable that Priscilla and Caspar would encounter each other in the woods, and that they would fall into discussion of their mutual interest. While Francesca and Devlin sailed over hedges and took a double oxer with ease, Caspar and Priscilla picked grasses and studied lichens and oohed and aahed over the veiny leaves crackling under their feet. Caspar could not help noticing the pretty pink tinge that the cold had brought to Priscilla’s cheeks. She could not help noticing how intelligent his eyes were and how they sparkled with enthusiasm when he spied some especially fine specimen.

  All four of the young people ended by being very well satisfied with their morning.

  Devlin was smiling and laughing at some comment of Francesca’s as they walked from the paddock area toward the house. She was beaming with the pleasure of her morning. As they rounded the comer of the house, a laugh, light and feminine and full of real pleasure, reached their ears. They looked across the lawns to see Caspar and Priscilla, in perfect and natural good humor, approaching from the woods. The sight stopped them.

  “Odd,” said Devlin quietly. “I‘ve never heard her laugh before.”

  Francesca saw Caspar retrieve a leaf that Pris had dropped, then smile down at her. He had often smiled at Francesca, but never in quite that way. It was not a bemused lover’s smile. It was a warm, open, and . . . well, very genuine smile.

  The laughing couple espied their no-longer-laughing counterparts. All smiles faded from the scene. Priscilla, her pretty pink cheeks once more suffused with red, lowered her head and looked guilty, though she could not imagine why she should feel so.

  Francesca, though she did not blush, was feeling very much the same way. “Good morning, Caspar,” she said a little too heartily.

  “Good morning, my dear,” he answered softly. “You have enjoyed your little ride?”

  She looked surprised. How could anyone describe the perfectly glorious chase they had just experienced as a “little ride”? But she only said, “Oh, yes, very much. And you? I see you have been gathering some more of your weeds. How nice.” She meant no harm. She wondered why he frowned and looked down in such a proprietary way at the handful of old brown grasses and wispy things he was carrying.

  “And you, Priscilla?” said Devlin. “I imagine you’ve been amusing yourself with your sketchpad. A pleasant diversion, I’m sure.” She looked up very briefly, certain he was making fun of her. “Yes, my lord . . . uh, Devlin.” She really must stop calling the man she was going to marry “my lord.”

  Devlin noticed that his hand was still on Francesca’s elbow. He let go as though it were a hot coal. “Allow me to escort you inside, my dear,” he said to Priscilla, offering her his arm. “You will like to hear about the hunt, I’m sure. It was a splendid ride, over twenty-five miles. The dogs were spot on. I was awarded the mask. . . .” He led her away, chattering madly and saying nothing that was of the least interest to her.

  “Well,” said Francesca, “shall we go change as well? I do hope that pig will be ready soon. I for one am hungry enough to eat the whole of it myself.”

  Soon the bonfire was lit; the roasted pig was carved into succulent pink slices. Hot roasted chestnuts were peeled and popped into willing mouths, and toasts to the fox were drunk with hot hearty cider. But before long it was time to retire upstairs. One did not make a proper impression at a fancy-dress ball without considerable preparation. The great house quietened while these were begun.

  “Oh, George,” said Sarah, seated before her mirror and putting the final touches to her hair. She was appearing at her party as Lady Hamilton to the Duke’s Lord Nelson. “I simply do not know what to do!”

  “There is nothing you can do, my dear,” said her noble husband. “If she has decided to have him, she will have him.” He laid his hands on her shoulders and smiled at her image. “It is really none of our affair.”

  “But of course it is our affair!” she contradicted him, spinning around to look at him more directly. Her face had a determined set to it, and her husband cringed. He could see what was coming. Sarah’s conversation might be liberally sprinkled with what “George says,” but in reality what George said was most often what Sarah had convinced
him he should say. “They are our friends. How can we sit by and watch Devlin throw himself away on a sweet little mouse of a nobody like Priscilla Pennington? And you surely cannot expect me to allow Cesca to marry Caspar. Caspar! I mean, I know he is your cousin, darling, and a very bright fellow and all, but really! Cesca!”

  “But my love—” he began.

  “And especially when it is so clearly obvious that Cesca and Devlin belong together. I never in my life saw two people more perfectly suited.”

  He smiled at her vehemence. “I have,” he said, and kissed her nose.

  “Oh, George, do be serious,” she said, but she gave him her dimply smile. “Of course I did not mean to include us.”

  “Cesca and Dev, eh? So that’s the way the wind blows.”

  “No, unfortunately it does not! And it never will start blowing that way if we let them go through with this silly nonsense they have gotten themselves into.” She reached up and adjusted his eyepatch. “Do you know, you look decidedly rakish in that?”

  “Can’t see a blasted thing,” he grumbled, but smiled in spite of himself in what he was sure was a devil-may- care manner. “And how the devil am I supposed to dance with you with only one arm?”

  “I am sure Lord Nelson managed it. They say he was terribly clever. So clever that I cannot imagine Nelson seeing his friends falling into such a scrape and doing nothing to pull them out again.”

  “Sarah . . .” he started in a worried tone. He knew her expert wheedling only too well.

  “Now, darling,” she cooed. “You know the doctor said I ought to be humored in my condition. There is no telling what may happen if I become too upset.”

  “You are a baggage!” he declared. “Just like Emma Hamilton.” He kissed her again, this time not on the nose. “Very well. I’ll do what I can. But I don’t know what that will be.”

  “You must not let them announce these silly betrothals, for a start.”

  “I can try. They do seem determined, though.”

  “I know you can do anything you set your mind to, my darling.” She handed him his huge cocked hat. “Just like Lord Nelson.”

  An air of expectation rippled through the house. Tonight was sure to be a memorable evening. Even Francesca, despite the pall that seemed to have descended over her spirits, was not untouched by the excitement. True, her heart did not leap up at the notion of waltzing in the arms of her betrothed. But she needn’t spend the entire evening with him, after all. There would be plenty of gentlemen to swirl her around the floor and make her laugh. There always were. And although she got little pleasure from picturing Caspar in the guise of Charles the Second and felt fairly certain his pulse would not quicken at sight of her, she at least had the pleasure of knowing that she was looking her best

  She had chosen to appear as Diana, the Huntress. Her height and regal bearing made the role an ideal choice. She felt, with a wry smile at her reflection in the pier glass, that a huntress was exactly what she had been of late, and not just on the field. She had taken careful aim at Mr. Maltbv, and with Dev beside her to sharpen her arrows and steady her aim, the poor fellow hadn’t a chance.

  And now Dev had bagged his quarry as welL Priscilla Pennington would soon be Lady Devlin. Oh, yes. Between them Francesca and Devlin made an unbeatable team. And they had won.

  Why, then, was die image of the Huntress, peering back from the glass, not smiling in truimph?

  She willed the frown to remove itself from her face at once: She forced a bright smile to take its place. She would enjoy herself tonight. After all, why should she not? She had achieved a major desire. The smile glittered all over her face, missing only her eyes. She picked up the bow of the Huntress and strode from the room.

  The bubbling high spirits of the costumed dancers rivaled the champagne that was flowing so copiously. Everywhere one looked were Cavaliers and Cleopatras, Roundheads and Robin Hoods, and nearly every other character worth thinking of. And all of them smiling, laughing, flirting.

  Lord Devlin, in a simple black cloak and a wide- brimmed Spanish hat, was struggling to put at ease the shy young shepherdess who was his betrothed. It had actually been Priscilla’s own idea to dress as a shepherdess. The simplicity of such a costume appealed to her quiet nature, and she was pleasantly surprised when her Mama agreed to the scheme.

  She should have known better than to hope. Mama’s idea of a shepherdess was not Priscilla’s. The poor girl now stood under the blazing chandeliers looking like something from Marie Antoinette’s Petit Trianon. Layer upon layer of skirt and petticoat was beruched and beribboned and swagged up one over the other to create a little round pouf of bright color that left showing rather more foot and ankle than Priscilla could feel comfortable with.

  The mouse-brown hair had grown to an immense height, was heavily dusted with powder, and supported a hugely flowered and fruited straw bonnet. And she hadn’t the least idea what to do with her crook.

  Had she but known it, things could have been a good deal worse. Mrs. Pennington had seriously considered asking the Duchess for the loan of a lamb for the evening. She had thought better of it only when she realized that she might well have it dumped onto her when Priscilla went off to dance with Lord Devlin.

  “That is a most fetching bonnet, Priscilla,” said Devlin in an attempt to unfreeze the girl’s tongue.

  “Th-thank you, my lord,” came the barely audible reply.

  “My lord? Come, my dear. We are betrothed, and no one will fault you for calling me by name. It is Richard, by the by.”

  “Y-yes . . . Richard.” She could not bring herself to look at him. She felt horribly conspicuous in this ridiculous costume. How ashamed he must be.

  “I had thought perhaps, if you should care for it, we might . . But Priscilla was not destined to hear what they might do if she should care for it, which she was fairly certain she should not. For at that moment Diana, the Huntress, with the face of Lady Francesca Waringham, entered the room. Lord Devlin seemed to lose all power of speech.

  She was lovely, perhaps the loveliest thing Devlin had ever seen. She entered the room like a queen, her golden head, wrapped into Grecian braids and knots, held high. Her gown of ivory silk fell in graceful folds, revealing as much as it concealed of her magnificent figure. He was reminded of that night in her bedchamber with the candlelight shining through her nightdress, and he smiled at the memory. A fine gold cord crossed her bosom and was tied at her waist. A small golden quiver hung from one shoulder. Thonged sandals adorned her otherwise bare feet, and she carried a small, delicately curved golden bow.

  There was no need to aim her weapon. Devlin was quite sure every masculine heart in the room must be pierced by the mere sight of her.

  Francesca had to be gratified by the reaction she had created. She was surrounded at once by her usual throng of admiring suitors, all of them clamoring for the right to add their names to her dance card. Even Lord Devlin, fearful that the card would be filled before he could get to her, managed as diplomatically as possible, to pry himself away from Priscilla and approach the goddess.

  It seemed the only gentleman in the room who was not smiling at the lady was Mr. Maltby. Oh, there was no denying that his betrothed looked quite beautiful, Ravishing, in fact. But he could not think such a gown was entirely suitable for an unmarried lady. He was sure he had seen the glitter of gilt nail varnish on her toes as she entered, and the silk of her gown seemed to him to be of an unnecessarily clinging variety. Of course, he was most likely behind the times as far as the world of Fashion was concerned. Perhaps such dash was all the go in London. Still, he was not quite sure he could approve. Mama was likely to be just the tinest bit scandalized by his lovely Francesca. The notion made him frown.

  In turning away from the brilliant sight she presented, his eye fell on Priscilla, standing in a comer while her mother lectured her and fluffed her skirt and tweaked a powdered curl into place. She submitted to her mother’s ministrations with utter patience. It came from lon
g practice, and what choice did she have, after all?

  Now, here was Mr. Maltby’s idea of a properly costumed young lady. No dash at all about Miss Pennington. He knew his Mama would approve. Perhaps if he asked her in just the proper way, she might be willing to speak to Francesca, give her a bit of friendly advice.

  “Gentlemen, please!” fluttered Francesca, smiling a little too brightly, laughing a little too loudly. “I cannot dance with all of you at once. Yes, Graham, you may have the quadrille. I am sorry, Algy, but the boulanger is taken. Would you settle for a country dance? No, no, the first waltz is for—”

  “The first waltz is mine,” said Lord Devlin firmly, speaking out over the protests of the masculine throng. Francesca started to protest. Under the circumstances, she really ought to bestow the first waltz on Caspar. And Devlin should stand up with Priscilla. But then she caught his eye. It was as though the crowd around them disappeared, along with her free will. She felt as though she were floating, with nothing but his strong blue eyes tethering her to the ground.

  “I am sorry, gentlemen,” she said softly, her eyes still on his, “but his lordship is correct. The first waltz is promised to him.”

  The music was struck up at that very moment, and she moved so easily, so naturally, into his arms. She knew she should scold him, but she could not bring herself to do it. She didn’t want to spoil this moment. Tomorrow she would be gone from here. Heaven only knew when she would see him again, or dance with him, or feel him holding her in his arms. She knew she would never again know the feeling of his lips on hers, except over and over, forever, in her memory.