Hayley Ann Solomon

by The Quizzing-Glass Bride

  Now, she checked herself one last time in the glass, but of course could see nothing more than a fuzzy blur and a great deal of the loathsome green. She sighed, her statuesque figure tucked behind flounces and the hoops she detested. She was dressed to Lady Reynolds’s precise satisfaction—she being an avid fashion plate reader—but nonetheless felt something rather like an unripened pumpkin. It was all rather appalling.

  The only comfort, she supposed, was that Warwick would turn tail and flee at the sight. She bit her lip, refusing to allow the image of her first meeting with him to shadow her immediate resolve. He had shown to advantage, then, but then she had been a green girl, probably dazzled by his éclat and social graces. These he was now sadly lacking, else he might have had the courtesy to seek her out himself, rather than high-handedly assuming her compliance! Grimly trailing her skirts across the lighted corridor, Miss Reynolds thanked heavens she had no need of any candle taper, for she was trembling so much she would have been burned.

  Warwick was too well bred to show his impatience, but after a quarter of an hour of desultory conversation first with Sir Peter Reynolds and then with his lady wife, his eyes wandered to the hall clock. Surely it had chimed the hour this fifteen minutes and more? It had. He sighed. Doubtless the chit was fussing over her gown or dithering over her jewels, in the manner, he supposed, of all females. His thoughts took an indulgent turn. She was probably nervous, breathless with her conquest and anticipation.

  He must remember to be extra charming, to draw her out with romantic witticisms. Maybe not romantic precisely—how could they be, when he vividly remembered the smudge of grime on her upturned cheeks and the merry way in which she handled his prize Arabians, just as if they were common cart horses rather than powerful beasts worth a king’s ransom or more? No, he did not think he would be romantic. Merely charming.

  His eyes turned from the clock to the great hall stair, with its alabaster banisters and faded velvet carpets. Blue, he thought, but his attention was diverted by footsteps. Not the butler, this time, but Miss Reynolds herself, he supposed, as he gazed up in amusement at the grim tiara upon her head. Poor dear! That was Lady Reynolds’s doing, he supposed. The tangle of hair he remembered was slightly darker now, and piled high upon her head in a modish coiffure quite outrageous for the country and more suitable to . . . No, his thoughts would not stray to ladies of impure virtue. Not tonight, at any rate, when he was face-to-face with his intended.

  Was that a spot on her face? No, merely a patch. Lady Reynolds, it seemed, had gone to town. Pity about the garish gown . . . but such defects could always be rectified. Warwick watched the lady’s progress down the stairs. She neither smiled nor flirted nor so much as acknowledged his presence. Puzzling. Warwick—accustomed to an enormous range of such expressions, some of them quite blatant—was miffed. He was used to being fawned over, gushed over, and lavished with unimaginable eyelash batting—enough to whip up a small breeze. Miss Reynolds performed none of these usual feminine wiles. Instead, she stood as stiff as a board upon the stairs, almost as if she was immobilized. Warwick’s features relaxed. She was a bundle of nerves! She had to be.

  There was no other conceivable explanation for such a reception.

  His good heart—for beneath his flippancy there was an excellent heart—bade him fly to the rescue, like a veritable knight of old. He therefore did not permit her to take the last steps of the lonely procession alone, but ascended two or three himself, bowed courteously, and extended his hand. Lady Reynolds, behind him, could be heard gushing with pleasure, emitting such words as “thrilling” and “masterful.”

  Sadly, however, her daughter did not seem to concur, for she stared at him directly in the face, scrunched up her features in the most horrible manner, and ignored his outstretched hand.

  My God! She had snubbed him! Worse was to come, for from there Miss Reynolds, sensing something was amiss, lost her footing and tumbled helter-skelter down the stairs, her skirts billowing about in hopeless disarray. Warwick, still stunned, had just time to notice two very intriguing ankles beneath the balloon of a ball gown, before servants appeared to help the lady from her predicament.

  Lady Reynolds—a person he could not like, despite his mother’s long-standing friendship with her—then chose this inauspicious moment to swoon, so instead of following his intended into the dining hall, he was forced to catch the mother in his arms. He balked at administering smelling salts, and was thankful that she appeared to have a whole contingent of servants perfectly accustomed to such histrionics. Sir Peter, twirling his whiskers, then had the brilliant notion of pouring glasses of port from a crystal decanter, unconcerned that his daughter was at dinner and his wife lying prone upon a decorative Egyptian chaise longue at the foot of the stairs.

  Warwick, of a sudden, wanted to laugh. The situation was so farcical as to actually be funny. He regretted not following his impulses, now, and seeking Fern out. But his mama had been adamant. The correct form was to approach the father. Warwick, who almost never visited this part of the country, or this particular country seat of his, had agreed for the sake of convenience.

  The House of Lords had been convening over several crucial land- and tax-reform issues, and it was naturally his place to be in attendance. Besides, there had been Lotta the ballet dancer and Nikita the opera singer . . . too many expensive diversions, he supposed. He gulped down his port and suggested they adjourn to dinner, since neither of his hosts seemed to have the presence of mind to suggest such a logical course.

  Sir Peter, pouring himself an even stiffer drink than the first, agreed, mildly remarking to his wife that Warwick would not be impressed by such antics. Whereupon Lady Reynolds sat bolt upright on her seat and demanded to know how she could ever have come by such an unfeeling husband, and what Lord Warwick could be thinking, she shuddered to think.

  She would have shuddered, had she known, but fortunately, since Lord Warwick was a consummate gentleman and perfectly used to winding females around his elegant gloved thumb—she never did.

  Instead, he lent her his arm most cordially, and they adjourned to the dinner table, where Fern was seated, scowling horribly and rubbing her eyes.

  Warwick, glancing at her sharply, suspected tears, but was too arrested by her headpiece to do anything other than cough, for surely, surely, that was a wig the chit was wearing? It was too dark for the magnificent shade of blond he detected beneath. He chortled, then miraculously transformed the chortle into a genteel cough.

  Lady Reynolds, now restored, rang her little silver bell at once. “Water, Jenkins. His lordship is coughing. Oh, I do hope you are not succumbing to the chill—so inclement this time of year . . .”

  But his lordship, his gaze still arrested upon Fern, was too busy choking back his laughter to make any civil comment. Instead, he accepted the water and gulped at it until his customary sangfroid was restored. But why to goodness was the lady behaving in so peculiar a manner?

  He knew for certain there was no madness in the family, and the one time he had conversed with Fern, she had seemed completely charming, if a trifle young for his tastes. And yes, despite Miss Reynolds’s stated belief that he had not noticed her at country balls, he had, at one. It was just before he had left for the Peninsular, when he was still whiskered and half green himself.

  He had not stood up with her, of course, for that would have exposed her to the worst type of gossip and speculation. Warwick knew that his every move was watched and reported on ad nauseam in anonymous little columns like the Tattler, and the more conservative but nonetheless interested Gazette. For some reason, he did not want Fern to become the latest on dit of London. He had therefore bowed rather formally—she had described it as coldly—and taken her hand in the prescribed manner.

  But he had moved on, leaving Fern with no small qualms and some disappointed little feeling at the pit of her stomach. Perhaps it was because of the intimacy of their first meeting, with nothing but Rascal the Arabian stallion to interfere
with their brief, but somehow memorable, conversation.

  Fern told herself she did not care, and had come rapidly to the conclusion that Warwick was too high in the instep, too proud for his own good, and uncivil to a fault, all allegations that were spectacularly unfounded, but which he had never disproved to Miss Reynolds’s satisfaction.

  Then, of course, Fern had had her one terrible season, and had returned to Evensides without seeing either him or indeed any of his illustrious peers again. Naturally, being a sensible and proud little person, she had told herself that it did not signify in the least. She had her stable of horses, her garden, and her still, wherein she produced honey wine, pots and pots of lavender, and all kinds of interesting potions. She was too young to concern herself with the business of marriage, and indeed, why should she? There was always Squire Winlock if all else failed, but she rather thought she would prefer to be an old maid.

  “Fern, dear, I am certain after the meal Lord Warwick will wish to hear you play.”

  “Upon the harp?” The incredulity in her tone could not go unobserved. Warwick refrained from raising his eyebrows, as he might have to anyone other than his betrothed, and Lady Reynolds glared meaningfully at her incomprehensible daughter. She had quite forgotten, of course, the crucial matter of the spectacles.

  “Well, naturally, for you excel in the instrument, and I am certain his lordship would be pleased to hear.”

  “Mama . . .” Fern cast beseeching eyes at Lady Reynolds, but it was perfectly useless. She wondered frantically whether to mention the spectacles, but thought she might be sunk in deeper disgrace if she did—deeper than she was in already. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she was certain even Edgemont the butler was frowning his disapproval.

  Trapped, she agreed, thinking, rather sadly, that perhaps it was all for the best. Warwick would be so revolted by her performance that he would feel perfectly in his rights to withdraw his offer. After all, nothing was formalized, there had been no announcement, and she frantically hoped no banns. It would be a small thing for him to elegantly withdraw.

  Indeed, she hoped he did. But something inside her was miserable, hopelessly miserable, and she was forced to scrub at her eyes again, so that Warwick eyed her keenly and her mama actually kicked her under the table. And how her slippered feet hurt!

  “Ouch!” Fern glared at her mother, then remembered herself. Warwick, more acute than some might think, almost precisely inferred what had occurred. His sympathies, strangely, were aroused. Whatever the chit was up to, he was certain she would be in disgrace for a sennight at least if he did not intervene.

  “Actually, it is such a fine night I think I might prefer to promenade a little, if you don’t mind. The air shall clear my head, and the stars at Evensides seem particularly bright.”

  Lady Reynolds seemed clearly put out by this announcement.

  “Oh, but Lord Warwick, I did so particularly wish you to hear Fern play! She might be tiresomely modest, but even I, who have no ear at all—though Lord Derby once said I could sing like an angel—knows that my daughter has a talent!”

  Talent for trouble, more like, Warwick thought grimly, raising an inquiring brow in Fern’s direction.

  “It is naturally up to you, then, Miss Reynolds. I shall be delighted to listen to a recital, but equally delighted, if you prefer, to take a stroll with you upon the balcony.”

  He was being reasonable, and moderate, but Fern felt unconscionably cross. Caught between the frying pan and the fire! If she played, she would make a fool of herself; if she strolled, she would very likely trip over her skirts and fall headlong to her death. She did not, even to herself, think of the more likely danger—that she would fall headlong, not to her death, but in love.

  For Lord Warwick, despite his arrogant assumptions, was everything she remembered. Not that she could actually see him, of course, but she could almost feel him across the table from her, and every nerve, somehow, was strained. She was certain that if she took the offered turn on the balcony, she would do something perfectly reprehensible, like offering up her lips to be kissed. Then, of course, there would be no crying off. For a second the prospect was tempting, but Fern did not want Warwick to triumph thus. She was positive it would be bad for his psyche. Besides, he was rude and arrogant and grossly overbearing.

  She must never allow herself to forget that he had not so much as dignified her with a proposal. Not even a decent conversation, let alone a proposal! Her bodice swelled a little with indignation. She churned her anger up, for else, she knew, she would disgrace herself by responding to his charm. Oh, he was charming, undoubtedly—the whole of London seemed to speak of little else. And a rake, too, she suspected, though naturally a well-brought-up lady like herself could have little knowledge of such matters.

  Warwick, eyeing her across the table, wondered what she was thinking. Her thoughts were obviously tumultuous, for her breathing was slightly shallower, and her cheeks, flushed before, were now almost crimson. His dark eyes lighted with sudden amusement. He would wager a pony her thoughts were less discreet than her modish gown, which revealed nothing at all of her form.

  “Well?” Sir Peter’s tone was sharp as he took a sip of flame-colored liquid. “No good dithering, miss! Which is it to be? Lord Warwick, I trust you do not need a chaperon for this stroll of yours?”

  “Oh, no, for I see the balcony is alight with candles, and I assure you I shall take Miss Reynolds no farther than that window seat over there.” Warwick lifted his gloved fingers toward the balcony door. It was made of glass, so Miss Reynolds, peering out sharply, could see what he saw.

  An empty bench and a tall, wrought-iron candelabra flaming with tapers of various lengths. In all, there must have been fifty lit. Fern was astonished at the amount, for her parents, though fashionable, were generally frugal. Then she realized that they must have been expecting such a request, and she felt the strangest combination of confusion, yearning, and outright fury at being manipulated so.

  “I believe I shall play, after all.” She blurted out the words before she had time to reconsider. Sir Peter and Warwick looked astonished—Sir Peter because he was longing for his port and had thought he could retire to the library, Lord Warwick because he had formed the distinct impression that the lady did not wish to play. Only Lady Reynolds looked satisfied, clapping her hands genteelly and murmuring that although she was not a doting mama, Lord Warwick would see that she had done her duty by her daughter.

  The daughter, stricken and appalled by what she had just suggested, rose stiffly from the table, hoping that the white blur in front of her was, in fact, the hallway, and not the antechamber that led off from the dining room. Luck, for once, was with her, so that no one noticed anything amiss, save perhaps the footman, who thought she was behaving uncommonly odd for someone who had been sliding down the banisters for years.

  For Fern, sad to say, was walking as stiff as a ramrod, concentrating on keeping her tiara aloft, her headpiece in place—she could feel the pins loosen as she walked—and her eyes strictly ahead of her, from where she could marginally see the large, blurry objects that threatened to obstruct her path.

  Finally, though, she was seated by the instrument and it was no more than a second before Lord Warwick was at her elbow, muttering in low, velvety words that only she could hear.

  Three

  “Miss Reynolds, are you perfectly well?”

  “Perfectly, I thank you.” The answer came out cooler than she intended, for in truth Lord Warwick’s presence flustered her quite unaccountably and she would not for the world have him know it. She fixed a quizzing glass to her eye, which increased the effect of cold hauteur. A quizzing glass!

  The Marquis of Warwick, heir to the dukedom of Hargreaves, had never had a quizzing glass fixed on his person in all of his life. If anyone quizzed, it was he. He did so with a practiced air guaranteed to depress the pretensions of any young jackanapes fool enough to be impertinent. But to be quizzed by his betrothed! From the ti
ps of his soft slippers to the . . . Well, she had not yet reached his fine countenance yet; she seemed arrested at his breeches.

  Lord Warwick, eyeing the brilliant gold peeking out from the darker coils of the headpiece, wondered if it was he, not she, who was going mad. The girl was as cold as ice toward him, yet he felt fire in his veins and the most overwhelming urge to throw her up on his horse and carry her off into the night.

  Instead, he gently removed the glass from her hands, commenting firmly that it was not his pleasure to be quizzed. At which the lady, who had been frantically trying to catch at least a glimpse of him, colored up wildly, for she had focused altogether on the wrong part, due entirely to her own folly. She wondered if he knew, and suspected he did, which made her scowl fearsomely.

  Warwick compounded his sin by ignoring her displeasure and offering to turn her pages, to which she responded with an impertinent shrug. It was so pointedly rude that it would have earned her a horrified gasp from her mama if only she had seen it.

  Lady Reynolds, fortunately, had not, for she was firmly occupied with securing her wrap. Sir Peter was ordering the first footman to stoke the embers, so he, too, did not notice Fern’s rancor.

  Warwick did, though, and he wondered at it. It was almost as if the girl had set her back up against him, but for the life of him he could not fathom why. He decided, grimly, that he would certainly find out, if he had to carry her kicking to the altar.

  “I do not require the pages turned, thank you. I shall play a little air I know by heart.”

  Warwick shrugged and took a seat, feeling foolish hovering over her when she evidently did not require it. The sensation was novel to him, for most young ladies positively threw their music sheets at him, batting their eyelashes wildly and thinking of every excuse under the sun—from lemonade to the burning desire to be fanned—to keep him at their sides. But Fern, evidently, was not like those ladies. He wondered in surprise why he sighed faintly at this discovery. He must be becoming a coxcomb, to be miffed at so minor a rejection!