by Gayle Buck
Abby left the ball without a decision being made, other than she must not help Lady Bethany in the future, and with a vague hope that Lord Darlington would never hear how reprehensibly she had acted.
Abby slept late the next morning. When she finally went downstairs, it was to find the rest of her family already assembled in the breakfast room. She bent to kiss her mother’s cheek and smiled apologetically all around. “I am sorry to come down so tardily.”
“Nonsense, my dear. I am certain none of us begrudge you the rest,” said Mrs. Fairchilde.
“Of course not,” agreed Mrs. Crocker, smiling at her sister from over the rim of her teacup. “However, I will remind you that we have a few calls to make this morning, Abby.”
Abby slipped into her chair and began her breakfast. “I shan’t keep you waiting, Melissa,” she promised.
The butler entered, carrying a small beribboned box and laid it beside Abby’s plate. “This was just delivered for you, miss, along with a note.”
Abby was startled. She looked at the box, but did not reach for it. “For me?”
“Well, open it, girl!” exclaimed Mrs. Paddington. “Something as pretty as that won’t bite.”
Abby laughed and agreed. She opened the box, which proved to be an excellent assortment of chocolates. Her heart was pounding with anticipation as she picked up the folded note. Hoping the token had come from Lord Darlington, she said, “I wonder whom it could possibly be from?” She opened the note, her eyes going at once to the signature, and she gasped. “Why, it is from Mr. Farnham!”
“Let me see, Abby,” said Mrs. Crocker, extending her hand.
Abby gave the note into her sister’s keeping, a frown creasing her brows. It came as a distinct shock that Mr. Farnham had recognized her in such a fashion.
“It is a very tasteful note,” said Mrs. Crocker, after making herself mistress of its contents. She handed it to her spouse.
“Why, how nice of Mr. Farnham, Abby,” said Mrs. Fairchilde.
Mrs. Paddington nodded her own approval. “It’s about time you got yourself another admirer or two.”
“But Mr. Farnham isn’t an admirer of mine!” He’s—” Abby abruptly stopped, appalled at how near she had been to betraying Lady Bethany’s confidence.
August had opened the box of chocolates and plucked one out to sample with critical pleasure. “Whatever else this Farnham fellow is or isn’t, Abby, I like his taste in chocolates.” He took out another chocolate and bit into it with relish. “You ought to encourage him a little if he is going to send candies. That’s better than a silly posy any day.”
“Now, August, flowers are very nice, too,” reproved Mrs. Fairchilde. She turned to her daughter. “You must have made quite an impression upon Mr. Farnham, Abby.”
“Quite! Abby, you sly puss! You must tell us all about your newest beau,” said Mrs. Paddington.
“Mr. Farnham is not my b-beau!” stammered Abby, flushing hotly.
Mr. Crocker, having read the note and passed it back to his wife, had said nothing, but he wore a deep frown all the while. After throwing a comprehending glance at Abby’s burning face, Mrs. Crocker said firmly, “Certainly you must thank Mr. Farnham, Abby. And for the rest of us, I believe we may all leave off teasing poor Abby about the gentleman.”
Mrs. Paddington twitched her shawl into place over her shoulders, remarking, “What a pity my sister cannot send you to your room any longer for impertinence, Melissa.”
Mrs. Crocker laughed, regarding her annoyed aunt with fondness. “Indeed, I do feel for you, Aunt. However, Abby no doubt appreciates my efforts on her behalf even if you do not!”
“Indeed I do!” said Abby.
Nothing more was said, for which Abby was thankful. She hoped that would be the end of Mr. Farnham’s attentions. Indeed, she could not imagine why he had sent her anything at all. Unless, of course, it was his way of thanking her for her help in acting as the go-between himself and Lady Bethany. If that was it, and Abby could see no other explanation, then she need not concern herself anymore over Mr. Farnham, she thought with relief.
Abby’s easy dismissal of the gentleman proved to be short-lived. From that date forward, Mr. Farnham appointed himself as one of her stoutest admirers. He consistently stood up with her to dance, sent her small tributes, and generally made himself agreeable to her and her relations, until Abby did not know what to think. Matters were not helped that Lord Fielding began to regard Mr. Farnham in the light of a rival and made pointed comments on several occasions that let Abby know of his displeasure.
Mrs. Crocker shortly voiced her own misgivings in a private moment. “From the little I can discover about Mr. Farnham, he has few if any prospects. There is something unsavory in his character besides, but Peter will not divulge it all to me. In short, I would not wish you to encourage Mr. Farnham, Abby.”
“No, oh, no! I shan’t,” responded Abby with haste. “You need not be anxious on that count, Melissa.”
However, apparently Mr. Farnham needed no encouragement to continue to make Abby an object of his gallantry. His pursuit discomfited Abby, especially when Lord Fielding, who had previously directed all of his dislike toward Lord Darlington, showed a rather remarkable animosity toward Mr. Farnham and could not resist addressing barbed comments to the gentleman.
As for Lord Darlington, he merely surveyed Mr. Farnham with a sort of cold indifference, though with a peculiar gleam in his eyes as he played with one of the fobs dangling at his waist.
Abby knew that the marquess did not like Mr. Farnham, and she trembled from trepidation whenever the two gentlemen met. However, unlike Lord Fielding, Lord Darlington did not reveal his feeling so openly. He did not indulge in sniping exchanges, but always maintained his polished civility. If there was more of a drawl in his voice than had been there before, it was probably only Abby’s quick ear that heard it and realized its import.
The situation made Abby feel strangely pressured, yet not unpleasantly exhilarated. It was heady stuff to be the center of male attention. She, who was surely one of those least expected to attract anyone of great worth or standing, was being snarled over like a contested bone. Abby finally had an inkling of what Lady Bethany’s life was like. She found she did not dislike it as much as she had thought she would.
Chapter Twelve
The soiree at Darlington House was a perfect squeeze. Lady Darlington proudly looked over the crowded ballroom, her expression one of gratification. Lord Darlington had been observing his mother and said with a smile, “Are you pleased, ma’am?”
“Imminently so, my dear! The evening is already a crowning success. Why, I don’t believe there is anyone worth mentioning who has not come,” said Lady Darlington, her eyes bright. “And I could not be better pleased with Bethany, who is in great looks tonight, don’t you agree?” She nodded toward her daughter, who was being twirled about the dance floor by a dapper young gentleman and was plainly enjoying herself.
“Just so, ma’am.” Lord Darlington glanced in his sister’s direction. He frowned slightly. “Isn’t that the fellow who wrote that atrocious poem in honor of her eyes? ‘Iridescent gems of fire,’ indeed! I never heard anything so ridiculous in my life!”
Lady Darlington laughed. “Yes, indeed, Cedric Barthlew. It was very bad, wasn’t it? However, Bethany adored it, just as would have any other young miss.”
“I know one who is too levelheaded to put much stock in such tripe,” said Lord Darlington, his eyes moving to another couple on the floor.
Lady Darlington followed her son’s gaze. “You are speaking of Miss Fairchilde? My dear, how little you know of a woman’s heart! Poetry and moonlit gardens work magic, Sylvan.” With a knowing smile, Lady Darlington moved away to perform her duties as hostess.
Lord Darlington looked after his mother, his frown deepening as he reflected upon Lady Darlington’s parting observation. He turned his gaze back to Miss Fairchilde’s graceful figure. While it was true that Miss Fairchilde did not appea
r to expect accolades as her due, it could not be denied that she seemed to like being paid compliments. She colored up deliciously whenever he sought to flatter her. Perhaps there was some truth in his mother’s observation.
“Poetry and moonlit gardens,” murmured Lord Darlington. He began a leisurely progress in the direction where he knew Miss Fairchilde would come off the dance floor. He spoke to this guest and that, unhurriedly making his way toward his goal.
The music ended, and the couples began leaving the dance floor. Just as Miss Fairchilde and her partner came off of the floor, Lord Darlington met them.
“Miss Fairchilde! Sir, your servant.” Lord Darlington smiled and exchanged a few civilities, before saying, “Miss Fairchilde, I beg the honor of your company in making a turn about the room.”
“Oh! Of course, my lord,” said Abby.
Lord Darlington bore her off in a civilized manner. He observed that the ballroom was rather warm, and suggested perhaps a breath of fresh air would not come amiss.
“Indeed, it would be very welcome, my lord!” said Abby with a trusting expression in her eyes as she glanced fleetingly into his face.
Lord Darlington politely ushered her through one of the doors onto the moonlit veranda. A light breeze rustled through the scented rosebushes below. As he shut the door behind them, he said, “I trust it will not be too chilly for you, Miss Fairchilde.”
“Oh, no! It is a particularly fine evening, I think,” said Abby. She walked over to the stone balustrade and lightly placed her hands on it as she looked out over the whitewashed formal gardens. “Aren’t the roses lovely in the moonlight? They seem gilded by silver,” she exclaimed softly.
Lord Darlington never glanced at the gardens. His gaze was riveted on her delicate profile and the fairy moonlight tangled in her hair and the lines of her gown. “Yes, it is quite, quite lovely,” he said, clearing his throat.
She turned her head, about to speak, then caught his stare. The words seemed to die away, while her eyes widened to dark pools.
Lord Darlington closed the distance between them. He reached out to frame her face gently with his hand. His thumb caressed her cheek. “I must have a poet’s soul, if not the verse, for you have slain me with but one glance,” he said quietly.
Her hand stole up to cover his, and she did not look away. Her voice was a mere breath. “Have I? How is it possible?”
“Do you not believe me?” Holding her eyes with his own, Lord Darlington lowered his head and kissed her. His mouth clung to her soft, half-parted lips for a sweet, suspended moment. Then he forced himself to step back from her, to give her room to run away if she wished. But she did not. She held out her hand toward him, as though in appeal. He carefully clasped it and drew it to his chest, flattening her palm against his shirtfront. “My heart beats solely for you,” he whispered.
“I can scarce believe it,” she responded with wonder.
“I do not think you are indifferent to me,” he said hopefully.
She shook her head with a wavering smile. “No-no, I am not!” She touched her lips with the fingertips of her other hand. “I must be very wicked, indeed, for encouraging you so.”
Lord Darlington drew in a breath. His instinct was to catch her up into his arms. His pulses were pounding, but he carefully contained his emotions. It was no object of his to frighten her with a premature declaration or strong show of passion. His voice was unnaturally husky. “I had hoped for encouragement, Miss Fairchilde. I did not know where I stood. Now I have a new hope—that you will look upon me favorably.”
“I have always liked you, my lord,” said Abby shyly.
He raised her hand to his lips to press a lingering kiss onto her fingers. Smiling, he said, “Thank you, Miss Fairchilde. You have no notion how much I appreciate your . . . kindness.”
One of the doors leading onto the veranda was pushed wide, and another couple came outside. They were laughing together and were so caught up in their own lighthearted conversation that they did not perceive Lord Darlington and Miss Fairchilde on the opposite end.
Reluctantly, Lord Darlington decided it best not to remain too long outside with Miss Fairchilde, and he offered his elbow to his fair companion. “Shall we go back inside, Miss Fairchilde?” She nodded and accepted his escort, returning with him into the bail-room. He handed her into the care of her chaperone, Mrs. Crocker, before making the excuse of leaving them to attend his duties as host.
Lord Darlington walked away, smiling to himself. His reflections were pleasant as he dwelled on the little interlude on the veranda. His mother had been so very right. A night splashed with moonlight helped a man’s course no end.
Even the sight of his arch-rival, Lord Fielding, leading out Miss Fairchilde in the next set did not have the power to create anxiety in his breast. Now that Lord Darlington knew Miss Fairchilde had feelings for him, he felt he had more than an even chance to fix his interest with her. As long as no engagement was announced between Lord Fielding and Miss Fairchilde, Lord Darlington was confident he could beat out his worthy lordship. However, since Lord Fielding was still the undisputed favorite with the Crockers, it was not going to be all smooth sailing.
Lord Darlington had a suspicion that Miss Fairchilde’s relations might well encourage her to accept Lord Fielding over himself. If he was to make a strong showing, he must make the most of his time, which from this moment he fully intended to do. He was going to take his mother’s advice completely to heart and launch a full-scale courtship of Miss Fairchilde.
His reflections were brought to a rude halt at the shocking sight of his sister slapping August Fairchilde’s face and rushing off the dance floor in floods of tears. Lord Darlington stepped forward quickly, his protective instincts at once aroused, along with anger at his sister for making such a scene.
Lady Darlington caught his arm. “For heaven’s sake, do something, Sylvan!” she exclaimed in a tense whisper. “Everyone is staring! Oh, I could wring Bethany’s neck for this!”
“As could I, ma’am,” said Lord Darlington grimly. He did not allow the smile to drop from his face. “Do put it about that Bethany has had the headache all evening, but we did not wish to cancel on our guests at such short notice. I will deal with our outraged friend and my sister!”
Lady Darlington nodded and turned away, at once exclaiming with a slightly raised voice, “Poor child! You must overlook Lady Bethany’s crotchets, for it arises out of a sick headache. She had complained earlier today, but we felt we could not disappoint our guests at such short notice.”
Lady Darlington was already circled by several ladies and a few gentlemen who uttered sympathetically and began to assure her ladyship that they understood perfectly.
Lord Darlington turned away, his expression slightly cynical. He doubted very much that any of those who had observed his sister’s action would actually believe the tale, but it argued well for Lady Bethany’s reputation that they seemed willing to pretend to do so. Now his concern was to accost the young gentleman who had suffered such a public humiliation at his sister’s hands. Already August Fairchilde was making his way toward the front entrance. Lord Darlington felt it imperative that they try to repair the damage before August Fairchilde left, and with his exit give rise to just such a scandal as the marquess wished to avoid.
Lord Darlington intercepted the younger gentleman just as he was gathering his hat and cane. August’s face was white and his mouth tight-lipped. He afforded the marquess a bare bow in acknowledgment of Lord Darlington’s hail.
Lord Darlington clasped the young gentleman’s shoulder with a friendly, strong hold. “I had hoped to speak with you privately before you left, August.”
August’s expression was stiff. “There is no need, my lord. Indeed, I was just this moment leaving.”
“Give me five minutes, sir, on your honor,” said Lord Darlington, adding quietly, “Or I shall wait upon you in the morning. My sister and insults to her honor are of grave importance to me.”
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nbsp; “My lord! It was no such thing, I assure you,” said August, at once defensive.
“Then, you can have no objection to a few words, sir,” said Lord Darlington, his strong fingers still on the taller gentleman’s shoulder as he gestured with the other hand to a closed door in the solarium. “Pray come into my library. The footman will bring us each a glass of brandy.” He flicked a glance at the manservant who had handed over the gentleman’s cane and gloves, and the footman bowed, exiting on the errand.
August hesitated but nodded agreement. “Very well, my lord.”
Lord Darlington ushered his guest into the library. He left the door open, keeping up an indifferent run of pleasantries until the footman returned with a decanter and two glasses. “Thank you, James. That will be all.”
The footman shut the door quietly as he exited. Lord Darlington unconcernedly poured out brandy while August warily regarded him. As Lord Darlington offered one of the brandies, he said with his disarming smile, “I am not an ogre, you know.”
August flushed as he took the glass. “Indeed, I never thought so, my lord.”
Lord Darlington sat down on the edge of his desk, gently swinging his toe. “Pray tell me, what happened with my sister a few moments ago? You may be perfectly candid with me, for I am very familiar with her high spirits.”
August unbent a trifle. He gave a half smile, shaking his head. There was a puzzled look on his face. “I do not quite know, my lord. I had been entrusted with a billet from an admirer, as I thought, and gave it to Lady Bethany. That is all, I swear!”
“A billet?” asked Lord Darlington, feeling all of his muscles tensing. He betrayed by neither look or tone anything of his heightened attention.
“Yes, my lord. I—I thought little of it, for if it had been me in the same case I would have hoped for the same favor,” said August, his face reddening under his host’s scrutiny. He cleared his throat. “You see, I—I have greatly admired Lady Bethany ever since I first made her acquaintance.”