An Inconvenient Beauty

by Kristi Ann Hunter

  “How fortunate we are to be among ladies who are so accomplished at lawn bowling. I’ve always admired a lady who could apply herself to challenging activities.” Griffith nodded at each of the young ladies as they rushed to tell him how often they’d played and how much time they’d devoted to it.

  “Wonderful.” He stepped away from the clinging horde and positioned himself between Isabella and Frederica. “As Miss Breckenridge and Miss St. Claire were just telling me that they hadn’t been able to play in many years, I shall play this first set with them and remind them of the rules and strategies. Hopefully it will return to them quickly and we can all enjoy a second game on a more level playing field.”

  Isabella lifted her gloved hand to cover her mouth, inhaling deeply of the leather to give her anything to ground herself with so she wouldn’t laugh at the disgruntled faces before her.

  Drunken Griffith was enlightening, but sober Griffith was fascinating. He’d maneuvered an entire house party of people into the exact places he wanted them and had done it in such a way that kept Frederica in his company. Since Uncle Percy had all but set Isabella and Frederica up as each other’s chaperons for the Season, he would have no way of finding fault in the situation. Rather, Frederica was Isabella’s chaperon. He hadn’t foreseen this development.

  As everyone divided into teams to play, Griffith made a great show of describing the lawn and the rules to the cousins.

  “And this”—he held up one of the small, earth-colored balls in his right hand—“is the type of ball we will roll toward the jack, the small white ball that’s been tossed down the green.”

  Frederica sighed. “I don’t think we need to get that basic. It’s only been eleven years since we played.” She scrunched her nose and turned toward Isabella. “That’s correct, isn’t it? Your nanna died when you were thirteen?”

  Isabella’s heart dropped to her toes as she cut her eyes to view Griffith through her lashes. Had he caught the slip? Done the math? Would he have one more question to add to the mystery that was Isabella?

  Griffith was staring straight at her. “Eleven years, hmmm?”

  She swallowed. “Yes.”

  “How fortunate to have a companion so near to one’s age while growing up.” Griffith’s eyes narrowed, but his lips curved with the knowledge that he’d confirmed one of her lies.

  It was time to retreat. She plucked the ball from his outstretched hand. “I think I’m ready to try.”

  Not wanting to make Griffith look like a fool for helping the two inexperienced women, she deliberately made her ball swing wide around the jack and roll a good ways beyond the target.

  “A bit long.” He dropped his right shoulder so he could angle his head closer to hers. “Perhaps you shouldn’t try so hard next time.”

  “My turn,” Frederica chirped. She grabbed a ball from the rack and launched it. Right into her father’s stomach.

  If Isabella had harbored any hopes of the ladies at the house party coming to like her, she abandoned them over the next hour.

  Once Frederica had quite cleverly gotten her father to retreat back to the house while perpetuating the tale that both she and Isabella were terrible at lawn bowls, the game became decidedly more relaxed. Isabella felt considerably freer without her uncle watching her every interaction with the duke.

  Griffith did eventually move on to play in other groups, keeping his injured arm tucked close to his side while he launched the balls with his right, but he always seemed to know when Isabella or Frederica had thrown, paying them equal compliments on their progress.

  As he rolled balls with Lady Alethea, Isabella fought back the bitter bile of jealousy. For the past month people had been debating which of the two girls was the most beautiful in London. Normally Isabella’s paler coloring and delicate features won out, but occasionally someone preferred Lady Alethea’s darker hair and broader face. It had never bothered Isabella. The people she needed to like her liked her, and everyone else didn’t matter.

  Except now it mattered, and Isabella couldn’t help but wonder which one Griffith preferred. He’d called her beautiful and said she intrigued him, but was she just that? A puzzle to be solved before he moved on to finding someone who fit his requirements? In all the things he’d said yesterday, he hadn’t said what he was looking for. Only that Isabella didn’t fit it.

  “He’s being promoted.”

  Isabella dragged her gaze from where Griffith was discussing the best trajectories with Lady Alethea. “Who?”

  “Arthur. He’s a captain now.”

  “That’s wonderful.” She thought about what Griffith had said about Uncle Percy trying to have Arthur moved. This would make a difference. Wouldn’t it? “Surely your father can’t object to that.”

  “He can when there’s a duke as the seeming alternative.” Frederica reached up to jab a loose pin back into her curls.

  Bella picked at a thread on her skirt. It wasn’t loose, but a tiny loop stuck up above the other stitches. She ran her finger over it, back and forth, letting the seam of her glove catch against the raised thread. “I could try to redirect the duke.”

  Frederica turned her brown eyes in Bella’s direction and grinned, hands clasped to her chest. “I knew it.”

  “You know nothing.”

  “You don’t know what I know.”

  Isabella huffed. “Oh, I know what it is you think you know, but I also know that what you think you know isn’t nearly everything.”

  Frederica stared at Bella. “Was that a sentence?”

  “Yes.” Isabella stuck her nose in the air. “It was simply a very convoluted one.”

  “Regardless, you won’t convince me that you don’t like him. I told you with all the flirting you were going to have to do you’d eventually find a man you actually fell for.”

  Isabella gestured toward the bowling green. “I believe it’s our turn. And I have not fallen in love with the man.” She picked up a bowling ball. “I hardly know him.”

  “But you’d like to.”

  “I’d also like to go home and never have a thing to do with your father again. I’d like for my own father to have never gotten hurt. I’d like a lot of things, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to get them.” She jabbed the ball forward, all delight in Frederica’s potential good fortune lost to her own maudlin melancholy.

  Frederica took the ball and positioned herself at the edge of the green. Lady Alethea’s giggle rolled through the air, making Frederica frown. “Are you certain you wouldn’t rather go again? You’ve got better aim than I do.”

  Had God ever created anyone as sweet as Freddie? Even though that sweetness was looking a bit violent at the moment, Isabella couldn’t help but appreciate her cousin’s attempts at raising Isabella’s spirits. “Are you sure?”

  Freddie handed the ball over, and Isabella contemplated her ball and the giggling girl in the pale pink gown before letting it roll, sending girls and mamas alike scattering across the lawn.

  Chapter 18

  Two days of careful activity brought the pain in Griffith’s arm down to a dull ache. As long as he didn’t jerk it, he could manage most things without appearing the slightest bit injured. He tightened his fist experimentally and was pleased when there was no sharpness to the pain that radiated down to his wrist. That meant he was better than yesterday, and the pot after pot of willow bark tea was doing its job. He was soon going to have to send the groundskeeper out for more at the rate he was drinking the vile liquid. Still, it was better than the numbness brought about by taking laudanum.

  Although a bit of numbness in his ears might be appreciated with all the feminine chatter he’d been forced to put up with. Unlike most house parties where a man could escape the skirt-wearing portion of the guests for part of the day, his mother had scheduled events from breakfast to dinner and on until bedtime. He’d managed to make his excuses twice more, but with his injury there was very little he could do, physically speaking. He couldn’t ride, couldn’t help w
ith the farm work or the animals. He was already lying to his mother about the arm. He wasn’t about to add to it by lying to her about what he was doing with his time as well.

  And that was the only reason why he was now standing in the doorway to the drawing room, where a game of charades had been scheduled at the ridiculous hour of ten in the morning. He cast a glance over the assembled group, but a specific head of red-gold hair was noticeably absent. It had been absent quite a bit since the lawn bowling. Whereas his excuses had been shot down by his mother’s marksman-like guilt trips, Isabella’s had obviously been readily accepted.

  Of course, she was a guest and he was the host, but if the point of this week was for him to fall in love, he needed the woman he was most interested in to be around for him to do so.

  He approached Miss St. Claire, the next best alternative to spending time with Isabella. He was fairly certain the cousin was on his side, because she would happily answer any question he asked about Isabella without skewering him with an accusatory look or asking him why he wanted to know.

  “Miss St. Claire.” He bowed in greeting and sat in the armchair next to her. “Are you finding your rooms to your liking?”

  “Yes.” One side of her mouth kicked up. “They are most comfortable. But the lighting is terrible if one wants to read in the mornings.”

  As Miss St. Claire had spent all of the past mornings engaging in whatever activity his mother had arranged, her statement must have been a reference to Isabella. This was the first she’d offered as to where her cousin was when she wasn’t with the group.

  Griffith cleared his throat and tried to look relaxed. “And have you discovered the best location to read that may have proper lighting?”

  “The small drawing room on the second floor. Near the nursery. It’s eastward facing and has an excellent window seat.”

  Griffith dropped back in his seat, stunned. When was the last time he’d even been up to the second floor? Not since he and his siblings had grown old enough to have rooms on the first, probably. No wonder she felt safe retreating up there. She’d be able to disappear for hours with no chance of running into anyone else.

  He had to find a way out of this room.

  Mother clapped her hands in the center of the drawing room. “Her Grace, the Duchess of Marshington, had the most wonderful idea last night.”

  A glance in Miranda’s direction found her looking quite pleased with herself. As Miranda had made no qualms about telling Griffith whom he should bestow his attentions on, her smug grin gave him a bit of hope.

  “We’ve decided to delay charades until after dinner this evening. This morning we’re going to do a treasure hunt!”

  A low murmur drifted across the room, and heads began to swivel until all the eyes of the unmarried ladies were settled on him. He immediately hooked his arm through Miss St. Claire’s, prompting her to giggle behind her hand. It wasn’t the annoying sort of giggle designed to garner attention but the sort born of genuine humor.

  It had been gratifying to learn over the past few days that his instincts about Miss St. Claire had been correct. Once he’d gotten to know her, without the distraction of an attempted romance between them, he’d found her to be a charming and engaging young lady. That her heart was already given and his was inclined toward another made it easy for them to be friends, something he sorely needed in this dreadful house party.

  “We will pair off, two couples per group. I’ve a list for each of you. We’ll meet back here in an hour to see who has been the most successful.”

  Griffith sprang to his feet, hauling Miss St. Claire out of her chair and across the room to Miranda’s side. “You are joining us.”

  She grinned. “But I thought I might relax somewhere. Perhaps put my feet up like one of those decadent Egyptian women in paintings.”

  Griffith lifted an eyebrow and stared her down.

  “Oh, very well. Ryland and I will join you.”

  Griffith turned to find more than one disappointed face turned in his direction at Miranda’s announcement. If his mother was trying to alienate him from some of the most sought-after ladies of the Season she was doing a very good job. By the end of this week they’d be ready to hoist him into the stocks outside Newgate.

  Ryland held up a piece of paper. “I’ve got our list. I do think it’s a bit unfair having two people who grew up in this house on one team.”

  “Since when has it ever bothered you to have an advantage?” Griffith took the paper and looked it over.

  The other man shrugged. “Never. It just seemed like the sort of thing that should be noted.”

  “Acknowledged.” He handed the list to Miss St. Claire. “I believe we should start on the second floor.”

  “But there’s nothing on the second floor.” Miranda scrunched her face up as she looked at the list over Miss St. Claire’s shoulder. “I believe Mother would like to keep most everyone here on the ground floor.”

  Ryland looked from Griffith to Miss St. Claire and back again. “I have a feeling something very important might be on the second floor.”

  “We won’t know until we check, will we?” Griffith turned to find his mother frowning at him. He simply smiled and patted a hand on Miss St. Claire’s arm trapped snugly against his side.

  One side of Mother’s mouth picked up. “As an added incentive,” she called over the bustling crowd, “one lady from the winning group will be granted her choice of partners for the first dance of tomorrow night’s ball.” She speared her son with a glare. “Any partner.”

  Griffith pressed his mouth into a grim line.

  His mother was going to make him dance.

  Miranda was already breathing hard by the time they reached the first floor. She dropped a shoulder against the wall and pressed one hand to her middle. “Give me the list. You go up and see what you can find on the second floor. Ryland and I will gather what we can from this one.”

  As the first floor was mainly bedrooms, most of the guests were avoiding it. Few items on the list were things that someone would have packed, and no one was going to be rude enough to search another guest’s bedroom. Miranda had access to the family rooms, though, where at least three or four of the ten items listed might be found.

  It was a sound strategy and one that had kept anyone from questioning why the group had headed for the stairs instead of the ground-floor rooms like everyone else.

  Griffith wasn’t about to wait for her to offer twice.

  He headed for the stairs at the end of the passage, the quick patter of slippers telling him he’d forgotten to adjust his pace for Miss St. Claire’s shorter stride. At the stairs he had to grip the railing until his knuckles turned white.

  “Go ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Griffith heard the laughter in her words but didn’t blame her. When he’d thought through whom he should marry, ticking off qualities like he would an estate improvement, he’d been able to move sedately, with patience. Now the urge to hurry rushed under his skin. He paused at the top of the stairs, breath rushing and heart pounding. Was this what his brother and friends had felt? The roiling emotion that caused them to make such blundering, foolish decisions?

  Griffith leaned a hand on the wall and forced his brain to catch up with his instincts. He was chasing after a woman who had deliberately hid. She was avoiding him while they were in a place where more private conversations could be held than anywhere else in the Season. And she was reading in a forgotten drawing room intended for use by the upstairs servants while the children were taking a nap or doing lessons.

  Obviously her emotions were not inclined in the same direction as his were.

  Why hadn’t he seen that before? He didn’t remember everything of their countryside walk after his injury, but he clearly remembered telling her things he shouldn’t have about how he felt about her. And he didn’t remember her reciprocating. If her actions were anything to go by, she didn’t.

  “What are you doing?”

&
nbsp; Griffith had forgotten about Miss St. Claire coming up the stairs behind him. “Reconsidering.”

  Her brows pulled together, bringing even more attention to her nose. “Whyever would you do that? She’s just around the corner.”

  “Obviously she doesn’t want to be found or she wouldn’t be up here.” He kept his voice lowered, knowing that if Isabella heard them she’d either run or come investigate, and he would once again be at a disadvantage in her presence.

  “You know nothing about what she wants.” Miss St. Claire rolled her eyes.

  “Miss St. Claire, I—”

  “Frederica. If we’re going to sneak around your house together, I think it’s safe for you to call me by my given name.”

  “Er, thank you, I suppose. . . .”

  “And I shall call you Riverton.”

  He sighed, thankful that she wasn’t hoping for the same intimacy he’d recklessly given to Isabella. “Frederica, I have no wish to chase your cousin if she desires to be alone.”

  “Hmmph. She doesn’t know what she desires. Come along.”

  Frederica grabbed his hand and hauled him around the corner into a small drawing room he had vague memories of sitting in with his nanny while she read stories to them. Isabella was curled in the window seat, a book open on her lap as she traced designs on the windowpane with her finger.

  Her head snapped around as Frederica cleared her throat. Red flooded her cheeks as she met Griffith’s eyes.

  “You haven’t joined us,” Griffith said. “There was quite a rousing game of piquet after lunch yesterday. Emotions ran so high, cards were almost bent.”