“Oh!” He exclaimed and pulled a collection of papers out from inside his coat. “In that case, I brought two or three you might like to hear.”
She smiled sweetly at her brother and St. Evert. “Won’t that be a rare treat?” She was certain one of them groaned.
Lord Byron’s poetry would not meet with any competition from Lord Pointy-Nose-It’s-A-Lucky-Thing-He-Has-Thirty-Thousand’s poetic attempts. If it were not for the fact that she needed Lord Horton to come up to the mark, Elizabeth would have expired from boredom. While he droned on, and on, and on, she had fallen into analyzing the construction of Lady Alameda’s superb gown.
She glanced up as Cairn walked quietly into the room with a small silver tray in his hand. The card was not for her. He presented it to Lord St. Evert, who read it quickly, nodded, and pretended to return his attention to the pitiable poet. Elizabeth wondered what St. Evert might be dwelling on, reasonably certain it wasn’t the noble song of sparrows and bluebirds. Did he recall kissing her the previous night? Or had he drifted off to sleep and forgotten all about it?
Cairn returned to the doorway and cleared his throat. Elizabeth’s overdramatic poet stopped mid-sentence, his arm in the air, pointing to some imaginary fowl, and turned with the rest of the room’s occupants to greet newcomers.
Cairn, in very stiff butler tones announced the arrivals. “Mr. George Dunworthy and his sister, Miss Susannah Dunworthy.”
Miss Dunworthy was everything Elizabeth was not—a sweet, demure little lamb with hair the color of lemon rinds curling out from underneath her clever chip straw bonnet. Definitely the fainting type. St. Evert was bound to approve. Not that Elizabeth cared. Heavens, no. Why should she? She didn’t. But she hated Miss Dunworthy anyway, just for good measure.
Elizabeth stood up to greet the intruders.
The girl curtseyed to her, low enough to appease the Queen Mother. It had, however, the annoying effect of making Lady Elizabeth feel nearly as old and ugly as the great matriarch herself. Miss Dunworthy smiled shyly. “I’m tho very honored thoo make your acquainthenth.”
Gadfrey! She lisps. Elizabeth momentarily forgot her manners and stared at her as if the wicked little kitten had just scratched her cheek. A contrived lisp if ever I heard one. The men drew closer to Miss Devious-Dunworthy, apparently loathe to miss overhearing her next bashful, babyish comment. Perfection. Elizabeth plopped like an artless old prune onto the divan.
The minx turned to Lord Horton and apologized effusively for interrupting his poetry. At least, it sounded like an apology. The childish lisp garbled her words so badly they were scarcely intelligible.
Thank heavens Lady Alameda breezed into the room, trailing a lacy shawl draped over her forearms as if it were royal robes. “There’s so many of you! Superb!”
Miss Devious-Dunworthy honored Lady Alameda with another dramatic curtsey and pouted. “I am thrying tho dethperately hard to convinth Lord Horton to finith rethiting hith marvelouth poem.”
“By all means.” The countess took her place in the large armchair beside the divan and waved him on.
Lord Horton struck a pose before beginning. “Upon the wing, the bluebird climbs.” His voice resonated with emotion. “Her spirit soars up with mine. Up. Up. Up! Above the clouds and leafy places, above the soot and city’s smut—”
“My dear boy!” Lady Alameda interrupted, thumping the arms of her chair. “We won’t have that sort of verse in this house. Not with young ladies present. Shame on you!”
Poor old Pointy-Nose was at a loss. “Oh, but... that’s not what it means... I…”
Elizabeth’s stomach twisted as she watched this man, her future husband, stutter helplessly. If he could not defend himself against Lady Alameda’s patently ludicrous accusation, how would he fare against a genuine problem? Drat this marriage business!
St. Evert tried to remedy the situation. “I think, my lady, you may have misunderstood Horton’s meaning. He refers, I believe, to the filth in the air, do you not?”
Lord Horton nodded dejectedly.
Lady Alameda stood up. “I think not! His first line clearly described a ladybird climbing upon the fellow’s wing.” She smoothed out a long imaginary tuft of feathers at a rather suggestive height.
Miss Devious-Dunworthy gasped.
Lady Alameda shook out her skirt as if some of the smut had landed in her lap. “I think you can see the implications without me spelling them out any further.” She smiled genially at Lord Horton, whose mouth hung open at an odd angle. “But never you mind,” she said. “I forgive you. After all, young men cannot help but have these kinds of thoughts.”
Lord Horton turned an interesting shade of pink. For being a poet, he was surprisingly short of words.
“Oh, do not be so distressed.” Lady Alameda rapped him on the shoulder with her fan. “You may return when there are not tender ears present and read your poem to me.”
She held open her arms, as if they were all her long-lost children. “Now for some amusement. I’ve prepared a surprise for all of you. We shall have our tea on the lawn, alfresco style.”
Miss Devious-Dunworthy clapped her hands excitedly. “How perthectly delithful!” One would think she’d found the gold coin in a Christmas pudding.
“Yes.” Lady Alameda stared speculatively at the girl. “It ought to prove a great deal more entertaining. And I’ve devised another surprise, as well. Come!” She waved them up. “Come see for yourselves.”
7
Flying Shuttles
If Elizabeth had to hear the devious kitten pronounce anything perthectly delithful again, she felt as if her head might explode. Naturally, that was the very expression Miss Dunworthy used when she discovered Lady Alameda had devised for them a game of battledore and shuttlecocks.
A child’s game. Elizabeth crossed her arms and went to stand under the shade of a large tree beside a beautifully appointed table and a row of chairs arranged to face a broad expanse of lawn.
Lady Alameda grinned at her. “Come along, dear. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t derive a certain satisfaction from whacking this little bluebird up into the air?” She dangled the cork, whose feathers were precisely the shade of Lord St. Evert’s coat.
“You make a very good point.” Elizabeth accepted the shuttlecock and a battledore.
Lady Alameda laughed. “Delithful!” She waved her fan like a symphony conductor. “Listen carefully. I’ve made a few adjustments to the rules...”
Of course she had. Elizabeth expected nothing less from the enigmatic countess. Where normally it was played between a pair, she’d cleverly adapted it for four players. Lady Alameda’s servants had lain down two lines of potash in the grass about five feet from each other. Down this alley one must not step foot, or a point would be lost.
Elizabeth gave the shuttlecock a gratifying thwack! It shot up, blue feathers quivering in the sunlight, and arced down directly at Miss Devious.
“Oh dear! Oh! Oh my.” One would have thought a spider had crawled up the young woman’s dress. She danced around, holding her battledore as if it were a wilting pancake. Elizabeth had been certain the chit was going to miss. It surprised the stockings off her when Miss Helpless gave it a hearty wallop and sent the thing soaring back up into the air.
“Bravo!” Robert applauded from the sidelines.
“Well done, Miss Dunworthy.” St. Evert all but shook his partner’s hand. Miss Dunworthy beamed back at him ever so sweetly, a slight breeze waving her sprigged muslin endearingly around her legs.
Mr. Dunworthy declared his sister, “A brave little sport.”
Lady Alameda chuckled.
The battledore hung limp in Elizabeth’s hand, which was too bad, because the wretched shuttlecock came down and practically cracked her in the forehead.
“Look alive, Izzie!” Robert shouted.
Her partner, Lord Horton, gave her a tardy warning. “Above you, Lady Elizabeth. Above you.”
She glanced up just in time to see cork and feathers
almost at her nose, and stumbled back trying to get out of the way. It landed in her lap.
Lord Horton rushed to her aide. Supporting her shoulders, he asked, “Are you injured, my lady? Your ankle? Any other portion of your... Oh dear. I cannot think this is a proper entertainment for a lady of your refined nature.” While he prattled on about how exceedingly delicate she was, St. Evert stood chuckling at her, and Miss Double-Devious had a smug little grin on her face. The little cat had claws.
Robert announced, “A point for Miss Dunworthy! Don’t just sit there, Izzie. Get on with it.”
Lord Horton protested. “I fear Lady Elizabeth has been incapacitated. Shall I carry you to a chair?”
“No, thank you. I am quite well. If you will simply help me up.” The gown Lady Alameda had given her did not have nearly enough room in the skirt for an activity of this sort. Elizabeth got to her feet with as much dignity as possible. Shuttlecock in one hand and her weapon in the other, she prepared to do battle.
She smacked the cork, giving it very little arc towards St. Evert, who still stood there chuckling at her like an overgrown jackanapes. It struck him in the chest. Elizabeth smiled innocently and fought back the urge to giggle at his surprised expression.
“Point for Izzie.” Robert must have decided it was his duty to keep score.
She dusted grass particles from the back of her dress while St. Evert batted the shuttlecock into the air. Play went to Lord Horton, who lined up for the shot, backed up, watched for the descent, but at the last minute shifted too far and ended up slightly off course. Luckily, he managed to lob it up to dear Miss Dunworthy, who handily whacked it to Elizabeth.
This time she was ready. She hit it early, cracking her paddle against the cork, sending it whirling crazily straight for St. Evert’s ear.
He waved the paddle at it the way one swats at a mosquito buzzing by the ear. He managed to hit it, but it slammed with a puff into the potash line at his feet.
Mr. Dunworthy applauded Elizabeth. “Deadly shot!”
Robert hooted. “She caught you napping with that one, St. Evert. Two points for Izzie.”
His Lordship didn’t look too pleased as he bent to pick up the shuttlecock and dust off its powdered feathers.
Elizabeth grinned at him and shrugged. “Beginner’s luck.”
“I doubt it.” He removed his coat and tossed it onto a chair by his aunt. “Interesting game you’ve devised, Aunt Honore.”
“Yes. I’m enjoying it thus far.”
“The day is young.”
“Just hit the thing.”
He bowed. “With pleasure.” He tossed up the shuttlecock, feinted as if hitting toward good old Pointy-Nose, but instead he swerved and drove the bird to her. Elizabeth lunged for it and caught it with the edge of her battledore, flipping it into the air in a long, predictable arch. But at least she’d gotten it and won a “Well done!” from Lord Horton. Unfortunately, Miss Devious used the distraction to land the hapless bluebird at Lord Horton’s feet, which elicited a symphony of praise from her gloating partner and the sidelines. Elizabeth noted that the dear demure gel had quite forgotten to lisp as she accepted their praise. Extraordinary, what the heat of battle will cure.
During the course of the game, Miss Ruthless Dunworthy discovered that a slapping shot aimed at Lord Horton’s knees guaranteed her a point. No matter how he ran about the yard, jumping backward, or sliding sideways, he could not return the shuttlecock. After Miss Dunworthy’s eighth point employing this tactic, Elizabeth could scarcely resist rushing to Horton’s side of the grass and making the hit for him.
She glanced over and noticed his pallor. “Lord Horton? Are you well? Your face, it’s quite red.”
He wavered and pulled at his cravat. “The sun, I fear. A trifle warm.”
“Perhaps you should remove your coat as Lord St. Evert did. You are among friends.” She scooped up the shuttlecock from the grass and held it out to him. He waved two fingers, declining. And, she realized, he was about to faint. His eyes rolled up, and he collapsed into her arms.
Elizabeth stumbled backward trying to hold him up. St. Evert rushed up beside her and tried to shift Horton’s dead weight to him. But it was awkward, and in the end, Lord Horton slid down the front of her dress. Mr. Dunworthy, Robert, and Lord St. Evert carried poor Lord Horton to the shade of a large tree where Lady Alameda had a tea table set out.
The countess presided over the medical ministrations. “He’s scarcely breathing. Take that coat off of him. And for pity’s sake, remove that ridiculous cravat. His collar is so high he probably strangled to death.” She directed them with the authority of a general. “Unbutton his vest. Now the shirt. Tear it open. He’s probably wearing a male corset. Yes, just as I thought. No wonder he overheated. Cut the laces, Valen. And stand back.”
Valen ran a knife through the lacing and the device sprang apart. The countess grabbed a pitcher full of lemon water and doused him. Lord Horton sputtered back to life, a lemon wedge resting atop the sparse hair of his chest.
The sight of poor Lord Horton in his undress quite overset Miss Dunworthy’s delicate sensibilities. She started lisping incoherently. “It’th horrithying. Thimply thoo, thoo much.”
Robert chafed her fair hands and tried to soothe her. Lord St. Evert suggested to Mr. Dunworthy that his sister might have experienced enough excitement for one day.
Lord Horton surveyed his lack of attire with nearly the same alarm as had Miss Dunworthy. His coat was gone, his cravat cast aside in the grass, his vest and shirt unbuttoned, and his girdle split open like a Sunday goose. He shook like a leaf as he accepted the glass of water Lady Alameda offered. Gulping it down, he struggled to his feet and attempted to button the top portion of his shirt, missing it by a row. One side puffed up higher than the other, testifying to an extraordinary amount of starch in it. The torn bottom half flapped out like a sail. Elizabeth concluded this would probably not be the day he kneeled at her feet and begged for her hand in marriage.
She couldn’t honestly drum up much regret. Instead, relief pervaded her being, as well as genuine sympathy for poor, hapless Pointy-Nose. He may be a dreadful poet, but he really was a gentle soul, a kind person.
Lord Horton gave up trying to fasten his shirt and vest, glanced around completely flustered, and bowed to his hostess. “Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Alameda. A very pleasant afternoon. However, in light of... under these circumstances... I must take my leave. Lady Elizabeth, a delight, as always.”
She handed him his coat. Lady Alameda extended his soiled cravat to him with two fingers, as if the thing were contaminated. “Do come back again, Lord Horton. I’m all agag to hear more of your poetry.”
Elizabeth murmured, “Agog. She means agog.”
But Lord Horton didn’t appear to be listening. He lurched unsteadily toward the house. Lady Alameda signaled, and a footman hurried to assist the fleeing lord. Then she whirled around to her remaining guests. “Anyone care for tea and cakes?”
Elizabeth dropped into a chair, ready to devour a full glass of any sort of liquid and at least three cakes. But Lady Alameda pinched up her lips and shook her head disapprovingly. “Oh, my dear, just look at you.” She waved her hand at the front of Elizabeth’s dress.
Egad. Elizabeth dropped her head into her hands and massaged her forehead. The satin had absorbed every droplet of perspiration and formed stains. Rivulets had formed in some very embarrassing areas. She frowned skeptically at her hostess, who had pinched up her nose and was making a great show of her revulsion. The lady had known full well they would be playing battledore when she sent the clingy satin gown up to Elizabeth’s room today.
Lady Alameda turned to her nephew. “Good heavens, Valen, you’re dripping too. The pair of you look like a couple of racehorses. I daresay you must cool down properly. Take Lady Elizabeth for a walk. She is dreadfully overheated. Down by the trees where there is some shade.” She fanned herself and turned to the others. “Oh, but Miss Dunworthy, how ver
y clever you are not to sweat. You may stay at the table with us and have tea.”
Lord St. Evert held out his arm to Elizabeth. “Care for a trot around the park?”
Despite herself, she smiled at him and accepted his escort.
Valen glanced at her sideways. “You must forgive my aunt. She can be rather caustic at times. I’m certain she meant no insult, likening you to a racehorse. Probably meant it as a compliment.”
“She likened you to a horse as well.” Elizabeth smiled crookedly, and he noticed for the first time the delicate dimples that formed when she grinned. “Your aunt may appear to fumble her speech, but I’ll wager she knows precisely what she is saying. Even so, I find it impossible to dislike her for it.”
“You surprised me today, Lady Elizabeth. I thought you far more...” But then he realized he had nowhere to go with the remark that would not insult her. He had thought her far too stuffy to play a game like Battledore, much less play it with such vigor. Neither could he forget the tale of her jumping off the roof.
“I’m well aware of what you think of me, my lord.”
“Thought.” He said, before he realized what he was doing. He found himself smoothing his hand over her elegant fingers as they rested on his sleeve. Gad! He was no better than Horton, petting her hands. He stopped and cleared his throat. “I would never have guessed you could play battledore with such ferocity.”
“Yes. And I would have won too, if—”
“My lady, humility, humility.” He pretended to scold her. “Do you really think I would have allowed you to trounce dear Miss Dunworthy? She would have been devastated. No. That would be completely unacceptable. Ungentlemanly.”
“Allowed?” She yanked her hand away from his sleeve, stopped walking, and thrust both hands onto her hips. “I daresay dear Miss Dunworthy can take care of herself. And what of you? You know perfectly well you came within a hairsbreadth of losing.”
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