As if on cue, Miss Woodville leaned closer to him to enquire intimately from behind her fan, “Have you read Jane Austen’s latest novel?”
Surprise heightened Warrick’s fascination. “What is it?”
Leaning even closer, Miss Woodville confided, “I do not know. It is a Conversational Opening many people use. Cousin Edwina suggested it.”
Oh for Quintilla, to exchange amused glances on this perfect example of the intellectual poverty in young English ladies’ social conversation. A whisper of a smile crossed Warrick’s face at what he imagined her expression would be.
Edwina, encouraged, watched closely while seeming to ignore the couple. Warrick smiled so seldom. When he did, one had to assume his interest was engaged.
“Do you like books, Miss Woodville?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. I think books lined up on shelves look so ... educated.”
Bravo, Miss Woodville! Educated. A ... fine word to use. “You should go to Hatchett’s and Hookham’s,” commented Warrick.
“I believe we have.”
“Then, I expect to see your vocabulary equal to the latest Austen novel any day now.”
Miss Woodville’s throaty gurgle from the other side of her fan delayed her next foray into conversational brilliance. Before she could target another topic, the room quieted, and all chatter ceased. Lady Amaryllis Shoreham stood before her guests to announce her delight concerning the evening’s programme. Her lord, lurking behind her, seemed to represent another, antithetical opinion.
A group energetically began to play, demonstrating a dexterity few there had the musical knowledge to appreciate. Interminably, the trills and arpeggios filled the salon, drowning the sounds of shifted chairs and fluttered fans, the coughs and whispers with which the restless audience attempted to counterattack. The group’s allegros could be endured, but the andantes and larghettos moved with the speed of a glacier.
Warrick could not help but remember his diversion in the Guthrie drawing room. Wrong notes and voices of limited range notwithstanding, the music there had given great pleasure. He had not sung so lustily since boyhood, when his mother played for the family—no, since all that carousing in American taverns. He much preferred making music to listening to it. He shifted his weight on the hard chair seat.
Eventually, the musicians finished their last song. The audience relieved its belligerence with loud applause, which brought beaming countenances to the performers and their patrons. The threat of an encore ended with the swift deployment of the audience towards the wine punch and the terrace, where most lingered in the false hope that the musical portion of the evening had concluded.
In the cool breeze of the June night, Warrick stood aloof as Edwina and her cousin traded inanities with others. His recent contact with more cogent conversation made it difficult to return to mouthing platitudes. It mattered not at all to him who courted whom, or what innovations would be incorporated in the Regent’s celebration.
Warrick alone could hear again Quintilla’s teasing mimicry during their first conversation in the Cravenhurst library. Enough of memories!
He escaped the terrace by descending its broadly curving steps to stroll the limited grounds of the old town house. He barely noted the few others similarly inclined to test the air, fragrant with lilac and hawthorn.
One never knew where Quintilla’s talk would lead, since she never followed set conversational patterns. That is what had been so appealing, so charming. Such unorthodoxy ... could not be manufactured. Unconventional, she was totally without artifice. He would swear it. Probably no female in the kingdom had less. Though ingenuous, she lacked the adroitness to lie suavely as part of some plot. Not with her face, incapable of concealment. Favouring theft under certain conditions was the admission of a philosopher, not a thief. And he—had not expected philosophy from a beautiful young woman. But why did she bother to remind him of her views on theft at that particular moment unless in defence of the rascally Amos?
“Cousin Warrick.” Eunice Woodville’s sultry whisper broke the progression of his thoughts. Her pale gown gleamed in the night and clung to her curves, sweetly generous. Warrick groaned.
“Cousin Edwina sent me to ask you at what time tomorrow you will take us to Kew Gardens?” She lingered on the word Kew, her lips inviting as she swayed in front of him. Her fan moved to cool both of them with its faint flutter. The blur of white moving back and forth mesmerised.
“What about some midnight in the next century?” Warrick answered her.
Behind the fan he heard a soft giggle and the words, “I am usually in bed at midnight.”
Warrick looked at her sharply. Was she aware of the inviting tone she gave her words? “Then, when do you suggest I call for you?”
“I do not really know.” She looked around her. As she lifted her face skyward, Miss Woodville’s throat invited a trail of kisses. “See all the stars.”
“I’ve seen them.” Warrick reversed himself and began to stroll back to the terrace. This one should still be climbing trees with Kitty Fairfield instead of following Edwina’s instructions to make a game of serious business.
“Cousin Edwina also sent me to tell you the music starts again. You may want to return to the salon, but if you do not, we could stay out here, where it is much cooler.” Again her fan fluttered.
Ah, yes. Edwina would love their two chairs to remain unoccupied, duly noted by all for the remainder of the programme. Or, the two could walk in late, witnessed by all the company. Impossible to slip into their seats unobserved, given Miss Woodville’s penchant for giggles, however sultry.
Warrick firmly held Miss Woodville’s forearm as he propelled her over the lawn. Better a late entrance than an early wedding. “I have a great longing to hear the rest of the music, Miss Woodville. Whatever they play will prove to be a favourite song.”
Midway to the terrace, the young beauty balked. “I dropped my fan.”
“It cannot be found in the dark,” said Warrick, and continued to rush the recalcitrant flirt towards the terrace.
He heard no music drifting over the night air. A few other couples moved without haste in their same direction. Warrick slowed their pace to accommodate the sulking maiden, who continued to bewail her loss. She needed the lacy weapon in her campaign of teasing the dispirited male.
They were not the last to re-enter the salon during the final reluctant rustle of preparation for another musical session. Edwina smiled her welcome. Any disappointment she felt in their choice of music over romance in the garden was not apparent.
“Was it difficult to leave the cool air?” Languorously, she waved her own carved ivory froufrou.
“I dropped my fan,” Miss Woodville muttered petulantly.
“Surely you stopped to pick it up.”
“No.” Miss Woodville’s lower lip protruded as she directed a sidelong look towards Warrick. Her eyes’ tawny depths held the gleam of promise more than the glint of pout.
Warrick had exhausted his tolerance for artful wiles. Could the chit do nothing but flirt? “No. I particularly wanted to hear the...”
“... Soprano.” Lady Amaryllis Shoreham supplied the correct term to end Warrick’s fervent declaration. The soprano chose to demonstrate her finite talents with songs from the Continent as unfamiliar as those played by the instrumentalists. Her audience sighed its approval when finally she fastened her efforts on Tom Moore’s familiar ballads. However, they were sung with such pompous artificiality, all their endearing charms faded.
And there was Quintilla, crowding his mind’s eye—again—merrily introducing the “Drunken Sailor” chantey into the Guthrie circle. People of genuine quality ... earnest—indeed, innocents ... all of them. Honest, while understanding those who were not.
The climax of the soprano’s presentation drew near. It was a little early in the season to hear about “The Last Rose of Summer,” blooming alone amidst friendship’s decay.
“When true hearts lie withered,
&n
bsp; And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?”
The singer wrung every ounce of sentiment from the words, her last note quivering as it echoed in the room. A grateful audience applauded its deliverance from the echo. A few of the more tenderhearted, including the hostess, wiped tears from their eyes.
To his surprise, Warrick was moved to almost the same response as he recalled Quintilla’s dignity when refusing his insulting offer of money, a refusal delivered without the slightest pause. Nor had she indicated the intolerable dimensions of his insult. She should, of course, never condescend to receive him again. Oh, he did excel in achieving solitary status ... eternally mistrusting!
Plans for tomorrow’s outing at Kew Gardens were made during the carriage ride back to Eysley House in Grosvenor Square. Arrogant satisfaction emanated from Edwina, who had read into Warrick’s few faint smiles a success for the evening far beyond what the evidence warranted.
Warrick, before retiring, prowled his rooms. Softly, he whistled through his teeth the strains of “The Last Rose of Summer.” “Oh! who would inhabit this bleak world alone?” He did. Not recognising the unusual creature that Quintilla was, he had taken a conventional line of thinking to boot her out of his life.
Bah! The Shorehams’ wine punch had been stronger than he’d thought. He was turning mawkish.
Sleep would not come, in spite of the day’s heavy demands. Quintilla persisted, her face hurt and confused in the midst of the mindless anger of the smallpox rioters.
He punched his pillows and turned over, but he could not get comfortable. An enchanting, intelligent beauty ... scarred in some way—no, scarred by her ... imperfection. While not letting it restrict her, she could be brought to the point of shame and embarrassment more easily than he would have suspected.
First thing in the morning—early, Quintilla arose early—he would go to her and insist she hear his apology. Important to maintain a cool detachment until his plan produced a likely candidate for her husband. The whole to be swiftly executed, or she could dominate his life, and he was not prepared to hold such a vulnerable position, allowing anyone to have influence over him to any degree.
Get her married, and out of his life. Yes. Then he could return in peace to its previously orderly pace, and one of Champ’s offspring could take responsibility for preservation of the family line. Warrick had had enough of emotional entanglement these past few weeks to last a lifetime. It simply did not lend itself to the logical management of financial investments, which he understood. From here on, he would stick to what he knew, and forget the treacherous, the uncharted seas of romantic longings.
Even with the formulation of a solution to his problem, Warrick tossed uncomfortably on his bed. Dawn began to lighten the horizon before he finally fell asleep.
11
Nine acres of buds and blooms, winding paths, flower-strewn meadows, and tree-shaded dales stretched before them, inviting exploration. Warrick, accompanying Edwina and her flirtatious cousin, aimed to find Quintilla and her relatives somewhere in the nine acres of gardens at Kew.
He had overslept, but arose refreshed that morning, sure in the knowledge that all would be made right before the day was over. At Number Seven, Sloane Crescent, the Guthrie butler had sedately informed Warrick of the ladies’ absence, but volunteered details of their early departure to see the roses in the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew while the faultless June weather held.
Perfect! thought Warrick. A perfect setting to regain Quintilla’s goodwill. How could she deny him when surrounded by fragrant beauty?
Nothing marred his anticipation, his sense of extreme well-being. Not Edwina’s formidable frown at his tardiness in calling for them, nor her young Woodville cousin’s need to constantly demonstrate prowess in the art of dalliance. One more sidelong glance from those cat eyes peeping coyly from under her yellow ruffled parasol, and he would not answer for his behaviour as a civilised man. Perhaps a roll in the meadow just ahead on the path might put a stop to her wiles, there among the bluebells. No, it would not serve, because Edwina would want a turn, and he did not have the day to give to her appetites.
With a sardonic smile, he regarded his stepsister strolling next to him. Her hand lay lightly in the crook of Warrick’s arm.
“What pretty blue flowers.” Miss Eunice Woodville, sauntering a few yards ahead, periodically turned to peer from around her parasol at her companions. She sought assurance she was under their observation. Why bother with winsome poses and a gracefully swaying walk unless these gifts were properly admired?
“Truly a beautiful blue meadow,” Edwina concurred.
“Yes. I was just thinking ... what an attractive vista it was.”
“So late for bluebells, Warrick.”
“Yes. Indeed.”
“Never have the gardens been lovelier.”
“No.”
Insisting they first view the rose gardens, Warrick then began to lead the ladies on a systematic stroll of the grounds. As each broad walk and narrow path was crossed, he carefully scanned the flowering landscape in all directions in the hope of seeing familiar figures from the Guthrie household.
It was too late in the season for the flowering cherry trees, but the horse chestnuts bloomed, the rhododendron, the iris. Hydrangea bushes had begun their testament to the warm weather. Bright green leaves on the plane trees and on beeches of immense size rustled in the breeze from the Thames. The feathery leaves of the tall ginkgo tree whispered of the charms of Asian climes.
“More pretty flowers.” Miss Woodville trilled her admiration.
“Admit it, Warrick. You are pleased to be in the company of Eunice.” Edwina’s eyes sparkled under the pale green hat embossed with silk and drooping ostrich feathers that complemented her green walking dress. Both her hands now clung to the crook of his arm.
Warrick studied the dream in lemon yellow swaying provocatively ahead of him on the path. Then he turned to look directly into his stepsister’s green eyes, brimming with confidence. He gazed silently at her before answering. “She is an accomplished flirt. Does she do anything else?”
Startled at his sarcasm, Edwina ventured down another avenue. “What handsome children the two of you could produce. Every heir an absolute winner.”
She contemplated this season’s family pride and nominee for Warrick’s marriage bed before carefully adding, “Certainly you would never think to breed a mare with weak hocks, or over at the knees.”
Now it was Warrick’s turn to be startled. What did she mean by that remark? He continued to stare at his stepsister, who only raised her eyebrows. “That goes without saying.”
“It is well to remember it,” Edwina admonished. “It grows late, dear brother, and this one could be a last, best opportunity to continue the Eysley barons’ custom of marital unions with the most beautiful women in the kingdom.”
For years Lady Storr had not really looked at what she saw reflected in the mirror. Remembering only the slim girl she once had been, she considered herself happily qualified for the connexion with a family whose women had a reputation for beauty. It fell to her alone to bear the responsibility for seeing her very eligible stepbrother uphold a tradition that could only add to her glory, and she was determined. She knew of Warrick’s contact with the Guthrie niece, and was grateful for the young woman’s limp. A beauty, her handicap meant she created no problem for Edwina’s schemes. Nevertheless, it did no harm to remind Warrick of his obligations as the two strolled behind the symmetrical curves of the steady-gaited Miss Eunice Woodville. Once again the demoiselle pointed to pretty flowers, and Edwina waved to signal agreement.
Warrick wondered how much Edwina knew of his association with Quintilla and the Guthrie household. Since the Guthries were not of the ton’s inner circle, he thought his recent social activities might have gone unremarked. He had forgotten his stepsister’s dominance among the gossips, and underestimated their news-gathering capabilities.
Edwina was right, though. He continued to muse. It was late, too late for him to be squiring infants about during the mating season. He removed Edwina’s hands from their clutch on his arm.
“Oh, what pretty colours—oh, the poor lame thing. Sad.” Miss Woodville had reached a rise in the path before it plunged down into the Rhododendron Dell, and stood there demonstrating her sensibility by pointing at the object of her concern.
“Pointing is unacceptable, darling,” said Edwina, joining her cousin to follow the line of the extended finger, pointing to Quintilla Davenant. “We can only hope she is spared suffering.” Edwina smiled sympathetically and waited for her stepbrother to agree with the pious pronouncement.
“I observe no suffering,” he stated. There she was. By God, he was glad to see her! That beguiling figure, determinedly limping along. The gardens suddenly became more vibrant, pulsatingly alive. Now, to find the opportunity in this public place to tell her he ... he had erred, sadly. He damned his overactive misanthropy.
Warrick wanted to race down the incline to where Quintilla stood in the explosion of pink and white and pale purple blossoms, but checked the impulse. Edwina and Eunice found themselves under the guidance of his firm hands, swiftly moving forward on the path to where Lady Guthrie and her nieces stood, like a colourful nosegay, in fashionable garb which repeated the palette of the Rhododendron Dell.
It always amazed Quintilla how clearly the air carried words she would rather not hear. The gauche comments of the Exquisite now sweeping down the incline with War—with Lord Eysley and Lady Storr did nothing to encourage Quintilla’s estimation of her chances for success in her revised life plan. Fortunately, the sheer loveliness of the morning and these gardens, flourishing on chalky soil cradled in a curve of the River Thames, had inspired her to believe anything was possible.
Waltz with a Stranger Page 12