His eyes traveled down the table to where Miss Breckenridge was seated. Surrounded by matrons and married older gentlemen, she was smiling and talking quietly, looking happy. Wasn’t she missing her doting swains and her besotted admirers?
“Your Grace, I can’t tell you how refreshing a mid-Season house party is. Should I be fortunate enough to marry someone with an estate so close to London, I shall have to consider doing one myself from time to time.” Lady Alethea tilted her head and smiled at Griffith before ducking her head demurely to pay attention to her soup.
Griffith cleared his throat. “I’m sure the populace of London will be grateful for your generosity. I’m afraid this gathering is all my mother’s doing, though. I’ve never seen the point of a country house party in the middle of the Season, when we’re all seeing each other four and five times a week as it is.”
She had the good grace to blush, but in Griffith’s mind she deserved the embarrassment. Her comment had been much too forward, and given that he still had seven more days to spend confined in the same house, he wanted to set her straight from the beginning. Even if he turned away from Miss St. Claire, Lady Alethea would not be his next choice. It was doubtful she’d even be his tenth.
His attention wandered down the table again to where Miss Breckenridge sat quietly, a soft smile on her face as she listened to Lord Oakmere tell a story. The interminably long story of the time he caught a rabbit in his kitchens, if the hand motions were anything to go by.
“How was your journey to the country, Your Grace?” Miss St. Claire leaned back as her soup bowl was removed. “Our journey was ever so much easier than I anticipated. The roads have been much improved since the last time I traveled north.”
Griffith fought the urge to sigh as he resigned himself to another evening of the most inane chatter society could muster up. If he’d had any doubt before, being bored to tears in his own home was enough to finally convince him. Miss St. Claire had been a mistake.
Isabella’s intention of quietly returning to her room after dinner was greatly hindered by the duke’s sister, the Duchess of Marshington. Her Grace was at Isabella’s side the moment they stood to remove from the dining table, hooking their arms together and leading Isabella into the music room with the rest of the ladies.
Leaving now would be incredibly rude, so instead Isabella made her way to a corner. One thing she’d learned during her weeks in London was that things didn’t go well for her when only the ladies were present. Not that she blamed them. Isabella was quite purposefully attracting as many men as she could, particularly the titled ones—an effort that was not going to make her any friends among the ladies.
The ladies milled around, with the duke’s sister and mother roaming from group to group, ensuring that everyone was having a good time and, at least once that Isabella noticed, quashing a bit of disgruntled gossip about the time away from London and the lack of top-tier marriage candidates in attendance. Lady Blackstone had disarmed all the girls in the room by baldly stating she had no intention of making her son uncomfortable by having to compete in his own home. If any of them wished to entertain other ideas, they were welcome to return to London.
Like all the rooms in Riverton, the music room was large. There was plenty of space for the few dozen people who had been invited to the house party to move around, which meant plenty of places where Isabella could get out of everyone’s way.
“We could move this furniture and have dancing.” Lady Alethea performed a small hop step in the space between the two rose-emblazoned sofas. “We could take turns playing the pianoforte.”
“Dance at the duke’s house party? You can’t be serious.” Miss Susan Newberry lowered herself onto one of the sofas. “He’d never join.”
“Whyever not? There’s going to be a ball at the end of the week. Surely he will dance at his own ball.”
Several other girls came and joined the group. Isabella pressed herself deeper into the corner next to an enormous red-and-gold vase.
Lady Hannah, daughter of the Earl of Oakmere, sat beside Miss Newberry. “I’m sure he will dance, though I’d be surprised if he took a turn with anyone other than his sisters. To do anything else would practically be an announcement of engagement.”
Lady Alethea smiled. “Precisely. And why else do you think we’re all here? The duke is selecting a bride. And I think he intends to dance with her at the ball at the end of the week.”
“Then we might as well start kissing Miss Breckenridge’s feet. That’s the only woman whose company he’s been seen in this Season, and even that didn’t look much like a flirtation,” Miss Abigail Ledwell said.
“No, he has also spent time with Miss St. Claire.” Lady Hannah tapped a finger to her lips in thought.
All four girls looked across the room to where Frederica was speaking amiably to Lady Blackstone and Lady Alethea’s mother. They then sought the rest of the room as one, obviously seeking out Isabella. She absolutely did not want to be found listening in on their semi-private conversation, so she hunkered down and slipped around the vase and a scattering of potted plants to be nearer the pianoforte, where she accidentally caught Lady Alethea’s eye.
“I’m sure Miss Breckenridge would be more than happy to play for us tonight if we wanted to dance.” Lady Alethea’s voice rang out across the room just as the men started entering.
“What’s this?” Mr. Crenshaw asked. “There’s going to be dancing? Fabulous. We’ll just move these sofas aside, then, shall we?”
Isabella swallowed as she looked at the glossy black-and-white keys on the gorgeous instrument in front of her. She could play decently but was by no means an accomplished pianist such as these women were accustomed to. She’d made a point of not exhibiting, something Lady Alethea had probably noticed.
Then the duke was there, holding out the chair and bowing her into it. Somehow she found the gesture encouraging, and she settled her skirts about her and ran her fingers along the gold casing trim on the gorgeous instrument before laying her fingers against the keys.
“I believe you are almost as delighted with this turn of events as I am.” His low chuckle reached her ears as he pulled a stack of music from a nearby table and spread it across the green-painted surface of the grand piano.
“They can’t make you dance, you know,” she whispered back.
One of his eyebrows lifted as he leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner, a piece of music in his hand. “Believe me. I know.”
Then he nodded at her and crossed the room to a group of men talking in the corner.
The ladies practically pouted as they paired off with the men interested in dancing with them. Two of the ladies graciously stood up together, obviously recognizing that the duke had no intention of joining the festivities.
Isabella began to play, noting that the duke had chosen a simple but lively piece that nearly every girl in England had learned to play in the past few years. It was easy enough to play through several times as the couples established their dance and moved their way up and down the room. Lady Alethea had, of course, chosen the top position in the dance, claiming the right to tell everyone how the dance was going to go.
To Isabella’s surprise, Frederica had joined the line, though she was all the way at the bottom. It would be several times through the steps before she got to join in the dancing. Lady Alethea chose an intricate, breathtaking combination, and Isabella was thankful that she got to sit this one out behind the pianoforte.
Of course, a wicked little part of her was tempted to slowly speed up the song until even Lady Alethea was tripping over her own feet to accomplish the steps she’d set forward. The woman had never been very nice, and Isabella hadn’t liked the way she’d been talking about the duke. Since he was the only man who’d taken any time to get to know who Isabella really was—enough to be able to see that she hadn’t wanted to play for these people—she hoped he would eventually marry someone who would treat him well.
Which wasn’t any o
f the girls here. Aside from Isabella and Frederica, there was only one other girl in the room whom Isabella had heard say one nice word to anyone. It was as if Lady Blackstone had deliberately chosen the worst girls in the ton to bring to her son’s home. What had his mother been thinking?
What had his mother been thinking? Griffith slid out of the house as the first light of dawn broke the horizon. The grooms probably weren’t up yet, expecting the house party to keep to city hours. Griffith didn’t care. He’d saddle his own horse if that was what was required to get him away before anyone else ventured forth.
Only a handful of guests had attended services with him yesterday, though it had been enough to fill the little parish church to capacity. He’d had a hard time paying attention to the sermon instead of watching Miss Breckenridge. The afternoon had been an endless sea of idle socializing, until he’d known it was either escape or lose his patience with the lot of them.
His mother was scheming, and Griffith didn’t want any part of it. Could she actually want him to marry any of those women? Or was she trying to point out what an excellent choice Miss St. Claire actually was? The expectation that he intended to pick a bride and practically announce his engagement at the end of the week was ludicrous. Almost as ludicrous as the fact that his mother had planned a ball for the end of the week, and come Friday their little house party was going to explode into an absolute frenzy. It didn’t matter that it was a ludicrous distance to travel for a single evening’s entertainment—people were going to do it because no one wanted to be the one to miss out on the duke having a dance.
Maybe he’d travel to London so his mother could have one more bed to stick people in.
He knew he wouldn’t. But he also wouldn’t dance. Not even with Miranda. It would be his way of making a statement to the manipulative women inside his home right now, including his mother.
Fortunately the grooms were already up and tending the horses. Within moments his mount had been saddled and he was pounding across the fields behind his house, breathing the fresh air and, for a while, claiming the freedom everyone thought his title granted him.
After a decent ride he turned his mount toward the tenant cottages. He’d made the rounds before going to London for the Season, but if he was going to stay out of his house all day, it was the best use of his time. And if anything did need seeing to, it would give him an even better excuse to stay out and about.
By the time the sun had baked off the morning dew, he’d overseen the repairing of a fence, met a new baby, and been impressed by the number of young sheep one tenant had brought safely into the flock. Today was going to be a good day.
“He’s here.”
Isabella looked up from her breakfast plate as Frederica slipped into the chair beside her. Had her cousin finally lost her mind? Perhaps Uncle Percy’s obsession was actually rooted in some form of hysteria and Frederica had inherited the malady.
Frederica clutched a paper closer to her chest. “We should go for a walk.”
After swallowing her bite of toast, Isabella asked, “Walk where?”
Freddie glanced at the piece of paper in her hand. “There’s a grove of trees about a mile past the southwest corner of the lake.”
“And you know this how?”
Freddie grinned. “Because Arthur asked me to meet him there.”
Isabella was very glad she hadn’t taken another bite. “Arthur is here?”
Freddie nodded. “Eat quickly so we can depart. No one will miss us. It’s all shooting and archery today.”
“I’m rather good at archery.”
Freddie rolled her eyes. “All the more reason to abstain. Do you really want to give these vipers another reason to dislike you? I do wish Lady Blackstone had invited some different ladies. You wouldn’t know it from looking around this room, but there are actually a few nice ladies in London, once you get to know them.”
In the end, Isabella’s curiosity outweighed her good sense, and she agreed to go with Freddie to meet Arthur.
An hour later she wished she hadn’t.
“Back to France?” Tears were already streaming down Frederica’s cheeks. “For how long?”
“As long as it takes.” Arthur lifted a hand and brushed a thumb against Freddie’s cheek. It was an intimate moment, and Isabella felt rude intruding on it, but she couldn’t leave Freddie out here alone, could she?
Freddie gripped the lapels of Arthur’s uniform. “You will come back when it’s over. Do you understand me? Because I’m waiting. Until your ghost comes back to tell me you are dead, I’m waiting.”
“I’ve asked my colonel to tell you personally should I . . . should anything happen to me.”
Freddie swung her head back and forth, making the hastily created curls bounce against her cheeks. “No. You’re coming back.”
“I’m coming back,” he finally agreed. “And if I have to visit your father every day after I do, I’ll find a way to gain his approval.”
“Do you really have to leave soon? Couldn’t you delay another few days? We could try to get Father to agree to a special license.”
Isabella dropped against a tree. The implications of a special license before the man went off to war could ruin Freddie’s reputation. Could Arthur even do such a thing and retain his post? Uncle Percy would demand that his superiors punish him, regardless of the fact that doing so would also punish his daughter. He’d disown Freddie before she’d even waved good-bye.
“I won’t act like we’ve something to be ashamed of,” Arthur said.
Isabella breathed a sigh of relief. At least one of them was thinking clearly.
He cleared his throat and pulled their joined hands in to his chest. “I brought a picnic. The post coach doesn’t come back through the village for another two hours. I know it’s early, but I was hoping you’d share it with me.”
Arthur smiled at Freddie, and Isabella’s heart broke.
This man—who was so in love with her cousin, made her cousin light up with life and laughter—was leaving with the tide in two days. And he might not come back. This could be Freddie’s last memory of Arthur.
And she didn’t need Isabella intruding on it.
Isabella trusted Arthur, possibly more than she trusted Freddie in this situation, and she was just going to have to believe that what she was about to do was the right thing. Because if Arthur didn’t come home, Freddie was going to need this moment. A private moment. Even if Arthur did come back, it could be months. It could be another two years.
As quietly as she could, Isabella slipped back into the trees. She’d walk the grove for a while and then come back so Freddie wouldn’t have to return alone. She’d get some fresh air, and no one back at the house would be any the wiser.
She walked out of the grove and across a field into another cluster of trees, this one thicker than the one she’d just left. The grounds of Riverton were gorgeous, and she could easily lose herself there for the entirety of the week. In fact, she just might.
On the other side of the trees sat a lone cottage. Brick and timber sides were topped with a thick thatch roof. Movement to one side of the roof indicated someone was attempting to fix something near the chimney, his pounding hammer echoing through the glen. Instead of a proper scaffolding, he’d propped one foot on a tall ladder and the other was braced against the stone chimney. Isabella hoped he wouldn’t fall through the roof and make the hole he was repairing even larger.
A private garden surrounded the small house, and a goat roamed in front of a lean-to. A horse was tied up near a patch of grass on the far side of the house. It was an idyllic setting, similar to many Isabella had seen back home. Her eyes wandered back up to the man working on the roof as the pounding stopped and he stood to inspect his work.
Isabella’s feet stumbled to a halt, and the breath froze in her lungs.
The man on the roof was the duke.
Chapter 15
His mother would be furious if she knew he’d left a house full of
people to see to the maintenance needs of one of his tenants. Whether she’d be more worried about him leaving his guests to amuse themselves or them discovering he was doing menial labor would be a tight race, but he needed the space, the air, and the physical activity to sort through the ramifications of what he was thinking, what he was feeling.
Was he really going to start over on his search for a wife? And if he was, did his mother really think the women who’d frolicked through his music room last night were the best options?
Miss Breckenridge came to mind, the way she’d stood beside him in the gallery, trying to take away his loneliness or at least give him hope that it could be better.
He pounded the thoughts away with his hammer, determined to think about it later. Right now all that mattered was the fact that Mrs. Ingham would have a tough time feeding her three boys next time it rained if there was a gaping hole in the roof of her kitchen. He stripped the thatch away from the edges of the hole that had formed around the chimney and set about laying in and nailing new ribs. It wasn’t the best work he’d ever done, since he wasn’t about to rip the whole roof off and re-rib it, but it would keep the kitchen dry, and that was all Mrs. Ingham and her boys needed.
The sun was high in the sky, beating down upon his neck and back, which were poorly protected from the heat by the white lawn shirt he wore. The steady crack of pounding nails kept him engaged in what he was doing, even as his mind wandered.
As he reached for the first bundle of thatching, he asked himself the question, if not Miss St. Claire, then who? Immediately images of Miss Breckenridge swam into his mind. Again. Her enthusiasm over the bark of a tree. Her homesickness. Her good humor about playing the pianoforte despite the fact that she was without question not the most accomplished player in the room.
An Inconvenient Beauty Page 15