“Mr. Benton,” she began scathingly. “I am a lady. I could have any man I wished from here to London, and well you know it. My name is Ellen Spencer, daughter of Sir Benjamin Spencer, sir, and what is yours?”
Roderick took this in with widened eyes, but as she finished, his composed smile returned.
“I do not wish you to think I am without means, my dear Nelly,” he said, irritatingly insisting on using his foolish pet name for her. “I do not need your fortune. My father has a good income—200 pounds a year at least. And he owns our land and livestock with no lease. Though it pains me to think of it, he is old, and I alone will inherit Meadowbrook when he is gone. It is yours, if you want it.”
“A fig for your farm!” Ellen said, stomping one silk-slippered foot ineffectually on the gravel walk. “Go and court someone else if you like—Prue would take you in a moment, foolish girl. But you will not win me with a bit of cattle and corn.”
With that, she stormed away, the indelible image of Roderick's crestfallen face behind her.
* * * *
Midwinter settled bleak and grey over the country landscape, and Roderick's embarrassing proposal was swallowed in the mounting excitement of moving back to town. Alderfield was lovely, in truth, but Ellen was glad to quit it for now. The London Season would soon begin, and with it, all her hopes for a new life.
Ellen couldn't sit still, flitting from room to room as servants covered furniture against the dust and packed away her belongings for the move. She touched her new evening gown affectionately, imagining all the balls and parties, operas and plays at which she would be admired in it. She opened her reticule and pulled out her filigree card case, flipping through her neat stack of calling cards that would soon adorn the hall tables of the most fashionable London houses.
As she passed through the front hall on her third circuit around the house, she noticed a neatly folded letter on the salver by the door. It was addressed to her. She frowned.
“When did this arrive?” she inquired of the footman, Tom.
“Oh, early—before dawn, Mum,” he replied with a curt bow before gliding away on some pressing errand.
Ellen's frown deepened as she contemplated the unfamiliar bold handwriting, and she gritted her teeth as she read Roderick Benton's name in the legend.
“Oh, what does he want?” she whispered fiercely to herself, lifting the seal.
“My dear Miss Spencer,” the letter began, and the letters of the word Miss were dark and bold as though the writer had traced over them deliberately several times.
I cannot pretend to the art of eloquent letters, but I will do my level best. Having considered your words to me of late, I have decided to take your advice. I hope I have done no harm in my actions toward you. I have no desire to lose your amiable friendship. Indeed, I hope that your friendship may extend to my future wife, in due time, whoever she may be.
Your Obedient Servant,
Mr. Roderick Benton
Ellen read the letter several times over, in increasing ire over the audacity of this man. Amiable friendship? He clearly employed sarcasm. She had been nothing like amiable to him. In truth, she had been rude. And as for seeking a wife, she wished him all luck—in fact, she wished the luck to his future wife. She should have been happy to know he would no longer be her problem. And yet, she wasn't. The fact that he could think of wooing another a scant month after avowing his love for her made her irrationally angry.
Thank goodness, she would be in London soon, and as far away from Roderick Benton as a carriage could take her.
* * * *
Ellen opened wide the double doors of her London residence, congratulating herself on a profitable afternoon of calling. She had delivered cards to all the best houses, renewing acquaintances both old and new, including her dear friend Kate. She had no doubt Kate would be calling upon her very soon in return. Ellen was unaccustomed to the bustle of town life, however, after the slower pace of the country, and she was anxious to find the velvet chaise longue in her newly reclaimed suite. It was good to be home.
As she closed the doors behind her, a gust of wind blew in and scattered the handful of cards from the salver on the table. Her London maid, Tilly, hurried to tidy them, as Ellen noted with satisfaction the number of cards that had arrived today. She held out her hand to take them, hurriedly flipping through. Ah, yes, Kate had already been here, along with several others of high style, and some gentlemen clearly calling upon her father. That was when she happened upon the one card she never expected to see.
Mr. Roderick Benton. Ellen stared at the neat black script on the card in disbelief. How? How on earth could the insufferable man be here? And to call on her father? That was beyond bearing. How could she be expected to suffer a moment more of his company? She thought she had left him—and all thoughts of him—behind in the country. She quickly dismissed the thought that his company made her uncomfortable just as much because she enjoyed it.
She contemplated the card in her hand for a long moment. She should deliver it to her father, she knew. But when Tilly's attention was diverted, she thrust the offending card discreetly into her reticule. She would dispose of it later.
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* * *
Chapter Two
As it was, the card stayed in her reticule all the next day, and the next week, forgotten. Occasionally, reaching in for a card or a handkerchief, her fingers would brush it and her ire rose anew. She would vow to remove it as soon as she returned home and cast it into the fire, but somehow, she never carried her plan through.
It was thus that Ellen rediscovered the card on a balmy Tuesday afternoon while riding in the Park with Kate. In the company of her dearest friend, aboard an open carriage in the sun, she did not bother to conceal her frustration, pulling out the now rumpled card and grimacing.
“What is that, Nell?” Kate asked with a pretty frown.
“Ugh,” Ellen said, thrusting the card at her friend for a look. “It is nothing. It is worse than nothing.”
“Roderick Benton.” Kate turned the card over and passed it back. “An intriguing name. An acquaintance of yours? An admirer, perhaps?” Kate teased.
“Something of the sort, unfortunately, and an acquaintance I would rather never have made. He called upon my father.”
“But then, the card ... ah.” Realization dawned. “This Mr. Benton must have made an impression that you would bar him from all association with your family.”
“He is a backwoods farmer,” Ellen said, fighting back the sudden flush of color in her cheeks, “and a brute. Certainly he has no place in good society.”
Kate laughed. “He must have insulted you gravely, Nell, to be so far from your good graces.”
Ellen dropped the card back into her reticule. “He had the gall to propose to me—I suppose that is insult enough.”
Kate's laughter mounted, and Ellen began to wish fervently she had never told her friend about Mr. Benton.
“Shall we change the subject, dearest Kate?” Ellen said through her teeth, flipping the reins to urge the horses on. “Mr. Roderick Benton quite ruined my time in the country. Let him not spoil the Season as well.”
As if in answer to her words, a shadow fell over the ladies. Ellen turned, half in dread that it should be Mr. Benton himself. But her fear turned to heart-pounding joy as she saw who it was astride his chestnut stallion.
“Good morning, Miss Spencer, Miss Wintercroft,” said the rider, raising his hat to them.
“Mr. Findley! Well met,” Ellen said. She was conscious of Kate's smirking gaze upon her, but cared not. Mr. Charles Findley, London's favorite bachelor, was before her, gazing down on her with an attention she'd not won in an entire Season, though she sought it with all her heart. Well, she had new attractions this year—30,000 of them. He was attired fashionably in a high-collared cutaway suit, his blond curls close cropped, and his blue eyes intense and large in a pale, aristocratic face.
“I am glad to see
you in town,” he said, and she felt his sincerity like a bolt through her heart. “I trust you enjoyed your first season in the country.”
“Yes, quite,” she replied, forgetting for the moment the thorn in her side. “Alderfield is a lovely house. You and your family are quite welcome to visit.”
“My thanks,” he said with a gracious bow. “And you will attend our ball, I expect? My sister is giving invitations today. And you also, of course, Miss Wintercroft.”
“It would be our pleasure to attend, Mr. Findley,” Ellen said, meeting his clear blue eyes boldly.
He wished them a good day and rode off, leaving Kate giggling in his wake. Ellen tried to keep a sense of decorum. But the joy of the encounter was too much, and she relaxed into laughter with her friend, feeling all the pent-up rage and frustration melt away. She was sure that within a week, Roderick Benton would be a distant memory with no more power to disturb her than a faded nightmare.
* * * *
“I could do much worse than Charles Findley,” Ellen said petulantly as she spread out her evening gown on the bed for Kate's appraisal.
“Oh, indeed, you could.” Kate laughed, though none of her jesting had abated. “I suppose you think Mr. Benton quite a step lower.”
Ellen frowned. “Mr. Benton is not even in the same category, and I thought I told you not to speak of him.”
“Forgive me, Nell,” said Kate with an impish smile. “But I have heard aught of him, and I cannot think why you hold him in such low regard. Surely he is no Mr. Findley, but he does stand to inherit a good estate and income.”
“Yes, yes—200 a year. I have heard,” Ellen said between her teeth. “Although Meadowbrook could hardly be termed an estate.”
“And he lives in Mayfair,” Kate went on, as if Ellen had not spoken.
Indeed? Mayfair was a very fashionable district. She disguised her surprise with a disdainful sniff. “Probably staying with some philanthropic relative.”
“By no means,” Kate said, then laughed. “He owns the house himself. It is rumored he made a good investment for his father and was rewarded for it.”
Ellen's store of sarcasm was used up, and she chose rather to ignore this disturbing tower of praise for Mr. Benton. Her silence, however, did nothing to deter her friend.
“By all accounts, he is a wise young man, of impeccable character, and I have been told he is rather handsome, too. You neglected to mention that, Nell.”
Ellen rounded angrily on her friend. “If you like him so much, you marry him! You already have your voucher, after all.”
Kate stared at her in wide-eyed astonishment for a moment, then broke into a sly smile.
“Perhaps I shall, Nell,” she said. “I will see you at the ball.”
* * * *
The moment Ellen's carriage pulled into the drive at Mr. Charles Findley's house, she began to imagine it as her own. The stately narrow and high façade of white stone with its Grecian portico carved with mythological figures, the neat, symmetrical gardens, the large windows as opulent as it was compact. She swept up the walk behind her father, imagining doing so every day as Mrs. Findley, little bothering to realize that every other eligible lady was doing the same.
Inside the house, Charles and his younger sister Mary greeted the guests as they arrived. As Ellen took the young master's hand, she quickened at the look in his blue eyes—a look of warmth and delight that took in only her, excluding the crowd of guests from their brief communion.
“May I request a dance?” he asked in a way that others would see as formal, but which only she interpreted as intimate.
“Of course,” she replied with a shy bat of her eyes.
She greeted Mary, receiving an equally warm greeting from her. Perhaps Charles had spoken of Ellen to his sister. Perhaps he had told her of some plan as yet unfolded. Ellen glided into the ballroom in euphoric bliss and saw her father safely installed by the fireplace with his cronies. This would be a perfect night!
Kate came out of the crowd and took Ellen's hand. “You have arrived,” she said. “You look lovely. What a splendid way to wear a bandeau! However did you do it?”
Ellen dismissed the compliment modestly and paid some of her own, willing in her state of delight to overlook their earlier disagreement about the insufferable Mr. Benton.
“There is someone here I am simply dying to meet,” Kate was saying. “Will you introduce me?”
“To whom?” Ellen asked, not quite understanding her friend's question in the midst of her pleasant fog.
She needed not ask, for as soon as he came through the crowd, Ellen knew the very man Kate wanted to meet. Mr. Roderick Benton came toward them with a smile of recognition, neatly dressed enough, but still absurdly provincial. Ellen curtseyed in response to his bow, never chafing more at the confines of society than now.
“Miss Spencer,” he said formally. “A pleasure, as always.”
“Mr. Roderick Benton,” she said stiffly. “May I present Miss Katherine Wintercroft, my dearest friend?”
“I am pleased to meet you,” Kate said, smiling idiotically. “I have heard much of you.”
“All good, I hope,” Roderick said, raising an eyebrow imperceptibly as he glanced at Ellen.
They deserve each other. Yet as she heard him ask Kate to save him a dance, she felt an overwhelming surge of jealousy. She glanced over at Charles Findley, entering the ballroom with his sister, and recovered from her irrational envy. Did she think she owned Mr. Benton? She certainly hoped not. Any tie to him was one too many.
“You must not leave Nell without a partner,” Kate was saying, and Ellen glanced at her in dismay.
“Of course,” Roderick said with a smile, turning to Ellen. “I would be pleased to dance with you, Miss Spencer, if you are willing.”
Ellen had a moment's panic. She most assuredly did not want to dance with Mr. Benton. But Kate would crow over her for weeks if she refused, saying that her very refusal showed her secret regard for him. Well, she wasn't afraid of one little dance. Before she could stop herself, she had accepted.
Kate and Roderick walked away in animated conversation, in search of refreshment, leaving Ellen standing alone in abject misery. She chided herself. Why should she feel miserable? She was a highly marriageable young lady, in the house of the most marriageable young man in London. She had won his attention and had no doubt of his intentions to woo her. So why was she upset?
She told herself her jealousy was for Kate. After all, would she not be angry if this man who kept ruining her life came and took away her best friend? Still, as she pondered she realized Kate had very little to do with it. It was Roderick—all Roderick. He was the sole source of all her unhappiness, the key to her wretchedness. It was he who stole every joy before it could reach full bloom. And why? Why did he have such power over her? It was an unanswerable question.
Why had she agreed to dance with him? The more she thought about the prospect, the more she dreaded it. Perhaps she could avoid him, or fill her card with other young men, pleading forgetfulness. Surely he would be relieved—he had seemed as reluctant as she when Kate had pressed them.
The music of the first dance swelled and pierced through the chaos of Ellen's thoughts. Instinctively, she turned, looking for Charles Findley. She had not far to seek, for he was coming through the crowd, his eyes focused on her. Without a word, he offered his hand and she took it, feeling a sweet thrill.
As they wove in and out between the dancers, Ellen was conscious of Charles's gaze upon her—he seemed to have eyes only for her. She exulted in his favoritism. Surely he meant to ask her for marriage, and soon. All her best hopes would soon be fulfilled—she, a married lady, at the arm of this wealthy, fashionable, dashing man. Where would Kate's mockery be, then?
As the evening went on, Ellen's ire melted away in the heat of Charles's attention. Although decorum required he dance with other guests, he partnered with her more than any other. The hours passed in happy abandon, and Ellen saw nothing
of either Kate or Roderick. She began to hope he had forgotten his request and her promise. At the same time, she felt a slight discontent that he should be able to thus forget her.
And so, as the last dance commenced, she was surprised by a certain relief when a large hand clamped gently over hers and urged her toward the dancers. She looked up into Roderick's face to see a sideways smirk.
“You did not think I would forget you, did you, Miss Spencer?” he asked, propelling her into the dance.
“I have no idea what to think, Mr. Benton,” she said coolly, though she felt anything but. Surely the Findleys kept their fire much too hot for dancing. “After all, you have made a point never to dance with me. It seems a shame to break your resolve now.”
“On the contrary,” he said with a laugh, though his voice carried a gravity that made her shiver. “I made no such resolve. I merely honored yours.”
Ellen fell silent and concentrated on the dance. She found it difficult to keep her wits in the heady air of the room. Then she realized that it was not just any air. She caught the scent that was deeply lodged in the memory of the ball at Alderfield so many months before, when she had passed close to Roderick in the dance. It was a clean smell, a masculine smell. Not like the strong rosewater that emanated from Charles Findley. Her nostrils flared to take it in—she could little help herself.
All at once, she felt a powerful urge to be closer to Roderick, to bury her face in his collar and breathe in his scent. Unbidden, the image of their first meeting came to mind—he in his farmer's clothes, his sunburned neck exposed, his hair coming loose from its queue and trailing in wisps over his strong brow, his lips murmuring softly, coaxing his trapped sheep...?
The dance brought them close again, and in unconscious precision, their hands met. Ellen was little prepared for the reaction within her. As his gloved hand touched hers, it was as if lightning coursed down her arm and into her belly. She fought the urge to pull away, looking sharply at him in surprise and away. The heat rose unbearably in her cheeks. How had he caused such a carnal response in her? With Charles, there had been a flutter, a glow, but with Roderick, a fire. Why him? She couldn't marry him, didn't even love him.
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