by Leenie Brown
“I apologize. I was woolgathering,” Victoria said when she realized Mr. Carlyle had asked her a question.
“I was merely wondering if you were fond of walking.”
“Oh, yes. I rather like it.”
“Do you have a particular path that you walk when you are at home? I know I tend to ride in the same direction each morning unless I make a conscious choice to take a different route,” Mr. Carlyle said.
“Does that mean you prefer riding to walking?”
“I must admit that I do. There is nothing quite like feeling the rush of the wind and the power of the beast on which you are seated when the horse is thundering along some field.”
“I would have to agree. That is a very intoxicating feeling.”
Mr. Carlyle looked at her in surprise. “You allow your horse to gallop?”
Victoria nodded. “Trotting is no way to win a race.”
Her companion looked taken aback by such information. “You race?”
“Occasionally, yes.”
His lips turned downward as a startled, yet curious expression settled on his face. “Neither of my sisters will allow their horses to do more than trot. They claim it is far too dangerous and unladylike.”
Unladylike? While Victoria would like to take exception to being referred to as unladylike, she paused and considered that being thought so by a gentleman like Mr. Carlyle might not be so bad a thing. It might just stop him from pursuing her at all, which would please not only Victoria but also Felicity if the way she kept looking over her shoulder at Victoria was any indication.
“Dangerous or no, I still maintain it is the only way to win a race.”
“I am not certain I have met a lady who races horses,” Mr. Carlyle muttered.
Or perhaps, he had just not met any who would admit to racing.
“But we were speaking of walking, were we not? Before I was distracted by your preference for riding,” Victoria said.
“Yes, yes, we were. I believe I had inquired if there was a particular path you favoured.”
“There is,” Victoria replied with a nod. “But I must say it is not actually at my home. It is at Mr. Shelton’s. We are neighbors, and our parents are good friends,” she explained, not that she thought Mr. Carlyle did not already know that — no matter what sort of feigned look of surprise he wore. “On their estate, there is a path that winds down from the stables to a frog pond and then through a small stand of trees before opening into a sheep’s pasture. It is not a very long walk, but it has such a variety of scenery that makes it most enjoyable. And, if one wishes, a stop at the pond to listen to the frogs is…” she sighed, “peaceful. Absolutely peaceful.”
“It sounds charming. Do you walk there alone?” There was a particular tone to his question that hinted at wishing to know if Roger were a rival.
“Not always,” Victoria replied. “Over the years, I have, at times, walked there with Mrs. Berkley – though less after she married than before, of course – and when Mr. Shelton is home, he will, on occasion accompany me.” And capture at least one frog whom he would address as Mr. Brown and ask him how he had been keeping himself and if he still attended tea parties. Her lips tipped up at the thought. Roger would be an excellent father. His children would never want for entertainment. She caught a sigh before it escaped her as she considered that she might have to watch him entertain children who were not hers.
“And do you visit your neighbors often?”
Victoria nodded. “My parents and the Sheltons are great friends. We are in each other’s company to some degree several times a week. My mother will call on Mrs. Shelton, or Mrs. Shelton will call on my mother. And when Diana and I were young, we spent a great deal of time playing together and being tormented by her brother.”
“Then, Mrs. Berkley is very nearly like a sister to you and Mr. Shelton, a brother.”
Victoria smiled. “Nearly.” But not quite. Mrs. Berkley might be a sister, but Roger was not a brother. He was her friend, her very dear friend, who had captured her heart.
“Oh!” Felicity cried. “There was a rock. Oh, dear! My ankle turned.” She limped on her left foot and leaned heavily on Mr. Ramsey’s arm, pressing herself against him as she did so.
“You should sit down,” Mr. Clayton said. “It is a fortunate thing we have reached the rotunda.”
“Indeed, it is!” Felicity agreed. “Would you help me take a seat on the steps?” She asked Mr. Ramsey.
Mr. Ramsey eagerly assisted her.
Felicity held her foot out in front of her and twirled it this way and that while whimpering softly.
“This is very unfortunate!” Grace declared. “I heard Mrs. Abernathy just today speaking to Mama about the ball she is planning, and you love to dance.”
“Oh!” Felicity brightened. “I am certain my ankle shall be well by then.”
“If it is not, I shall dance with every gentleman for you,” Grace volunteered as she crouched down to rub her sister’s ankle.
Felicity’s lips curled slightly as if displeased before she turned her look of disdain into a grimace. “Do be careful, Grace. And I am certain that with just a bit of rest, I shall be able to dance every dance.”
“If you are not able to dance, there is always the chance of a stroll in the garden,” Mr. Carlyle said.
Felicity ducked her head and blushed but not before Victoria saw her cast an uneasy glance at Mr. Clayton. “I do enjoy gardens.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Clayton muttered. He turned and looked back towards the house. “They will likely start playing games soon. We should head back.”
“But I had hoped to see the far side of the rotunda,” Felicity said with a small pout.
“You do not need me for that,” Mr. Clayton said. “I find I have had my fill of gardens.”
Victoria’s eyebrows rose. It appeared Mr. Clayton had reached his limit for endurance. She could not help but feel somewhat happy for him.
“Do you wish to return to the house, or will you stay with your sister?” Mr. Clayton asked Grace.
“Umm,” Grace looked uneasily at her sister. “It would be rather unkind to make Mr. Clayton return to the house by himself.”
“Then you must accompany him,” Felicity said. “I am certain Mr. Carlyle and Mr. Ramsey will see me safely returned. My ankle is feeling much better already. I think it was only a small turn and likely will only bruise with no other ill effects.” She straightened, lowered her foot to the ground and held a hand out to Mr. Ramsey to help her rise. “Do not tell mother I have hurt myself. I would not wish for her to worry.”
“Oh, goodness no! Of course, I would not wish for her to worry either.”
And with that, Grace took Mr. Clayton’s arm, and they left Victoria precisely where she did not wish to be — at the rotunda with Felicity, Mr. Ramsey, and Mr. Carlyle.
Chapter 11
Roger slipped into the Abernathy’s library and made his way to the liquor cabinet. A bottle of port stood at the ready surrounded by several glasses.
For the past two nights, several of the gentlemen in attendance had claimed the library as a haven of sorts where they could escape the festivities in other portions of the house.
“There is a bet going on about you.”
Roger turned from the sideboard, carafe of port still in hand, and eyed Mr. Yardley, the only other gentleman in the room. “About my absence?’
Mr. Yardley nodded as he rose to join Roger. “Apparently, some did not expect you to return.” He handed his empty glass to Roger to be refilled. “I would not have returned,” Yardley muttered. “Blasted house parties were designed to torture us, gentlemen. I am certain of it. I have five sisters at home. I do not need to be sent to a house brimming with young debutantes to let me know I need to marry. Between my sisters and my mother, I have constant reminders.”
He picked up his glass. “However, I would like to have all five of my sisters here so I could see them married off. Then, I could find a quiet place to rum
inate at least once during the day.”
“So you would not be interested in a wife who has a talent for talking?” Roger asked.
Yardley snorted. “Heavens, no!”
“I imagine that once they are all married, you will be able to take the place of your sisters for your mother then?”
The man peered over his glass at Roger, his brow furrowed. “How do you mean?”
“I assume your mother is used to having five females with whom to converse, is she not?” Roger unbuttoned his jacket and relaxed into a chair across from Yardley. The man was one of the gents Grace had listed, and since the man was used to talkative women, perhaps he might be amenable to considering Grace – with a little persuasion.
Yardley nodded. “Go on.”
“When all your sisters are finally married off – are they younger or older?”
“The youngest is just turned fifteen.”
“Well, then, it will not be long until all of them are married, I would imagine.”
“I would hope,” Yardley muttered into his glass before taking a gulp of its contents.
“And when they are all settled at estates which are likely too far away for daily visits, your mother will need someone with whom to discuss fashion and recipes and the like. Of course, she might have enough neighbours to suffice, and you will be left to yourself.” Roger bit back a smile at the look of horror on Yardley’s face. “Not many neighbours?”
“Only three, and they are worse than my sisters for gossip!”
“I suppose a quiet wife would be willing to listen to your mother and likely agree to everything she says.”
The look of horror on the face of the gentleman across from Roger deepened.
“Or,” Roger swirled his drink, “you could choose a wife who is not so very quiet but is sweet and likely to question things. I would imagine such a lady would spend a great deal of time keeping your mother occupied, but, well, there is no way around it, you would still be subjected to a degree of chatter. However, the volume of two ladies cannot be as great as six.”
Yardley drained his glass and placed it, with a loud thud, on a table he could reach from his chair. “And do you have a particular lady in mind who fits these qualifications?”
Roger took a slow sip of his port. “Perhaps. Is your mother kind?”
“Exceptionally.”
“Are you opposed to a young wife?”
“First season?”
Roger inclined his head in an affirmative response. “Soon to enter her second.”
Yardley’s brow furrowed while he scratched his jaw.
“You are not so very old,” Roger prompted. “You are what? A year older than me?”
Yardley shrugged. “Twenty-seven.”
“The same age then.”
“Does she have feathers for brains like so many do?”
Roger shook his head. “She does not seem to be excessively bright, but she has potential for growth.”
“So she wants guidance?”
Roger nodded. For all that Grace thought she was well-accomplished, she had spent too long in her sister’s shadow to have learned anything of real value. Oh, she had no doubt learned to flirt and speak about inanely trivial things, but he sincerely doubted that she had learned how to think for herself. Simply being removed from her sister’s influence would be a boon to her.
“Who?” Yardley demanded.
“Miss Grace Love.”
For a moment, Roger thought Yardley’s eyes might pop out of his head.
“That coquette? Does Clayton not want her?”
Roger placed his glass alongside Yardley’s. “No, no, that is Miss Felicity Love. I would take a wide berth around that one, and Clayton would do well to be rid of her. Grace is her sister.”
Yardley’s brows were still lifted as he shook his head.
“They are as alike as a rainy day and a sunny morning,” Roger assured Yardley. “I dare say that Miss Grace received all the sweetness in that family while her sister got none.”
Yardley still did not look convinced that he should consider Grace.
“She will likely not thank me for this, but Miss Grace has mentioned that she finds you attractive. Therefore, persuading her to accept an offer should not be too challenging should you think, after getting to know her, that you would rub along well together. She is no pauper.”
“I had heard that,” Yardley muttered. “Carlyle and Ramsey mentioned it in relation to the elder Love chit. Both are looking to make improvements to their estates.”
“And you? Are you looking to improve your estate?”
Yardley shook his head. “I am looking for someone to be the mother of the heir to my estate.”
The right corner of Roger’s lips tipped into a sly smirk. “It would be no hardship to attempt such a thing with Miss Grace. She is not so thin as some and perhaps a trifle shorter than I might prefer, but she is not without some very pleasing curves.”
Yardley chuckled. “And, from what I hear, you are well-versed in such things.”
“Was,” Roger said. He had noticed the fine figures of several ladies in attendance, but not one of them had appealed to him as they once would have. To be honest, for some time now, he had not found as much enjoyment in studying the female form as he used to. He had pondered that thought for a while as he sat in his room discussing marriage and family with Berkley, and, on his ride back to the Abernathys’, he had come to understand that it was because he craved something more. Someone more. He did not just want a pretty lady to charm and seduce. He wanted a friend – a most beloved friend. Someone who would not only warm his bed but who would also tease him out of a bad humour and encourage – and even scold – him to making wise choices.
“Why do you not pursue her if you think she is so tempting and sweet-tempered?”
Roger shook his head. “My desires lie elsewhere.”
“Miss Hamilton?”
“Yes.” There was no point in denying it, for he intended to make his preference known as soon as he could find a few moments alone with his friend. He pulled at his left sleeve. He knew that Berkley had told him Victoria was favourably inclined towards him, but still the thought of presenting himself to her in such a way made him uneasy. She deserved so much better than he had ever been. However, in his mind, there was no man in the world who was truly good enough for her, and so, it was just as well that he present himself to her rather than some other undeserving fool.
“I had thought so,” Yardley cried. “That is why I put my money on you returning – especially with Carlyle sniffing around her purse strings.”
Roger tipped his head and studied Yardley. “I beg your pardon?”
“I told you. Carlyle wishes to improve his estate, and everyone knows Miss Hamilton has the heaviest purse.”
Was that the reason the fellow was pursuing Victoria?
“Miss Abernathy is just as well-dowered,” Roger said.
“But Miss Abernathy is a trifle more difficult to pry away from her mother’s side long enough to convince her that she should marry him.”
Roger’s heart hammered in his ears. “What do you mean?”
Yardley chuckled. “Surely, someone with your reputation must know how one goes about persuading a lady.”
But this was Victoria. She was not some lady. She was… Victoria. He rose. It was perhaps best if he showed his face tonight rather than waiting until morning as he had thought to do.
“They are playing cards in the drawing room,” Yardley offered as Roger reached the door.
“Do you wish to play and perhaps observe Miss Grace?” Roger asked.
“No, I would like to stay right where I am in undisturbed bliss and most likely getting properly foxed.”
Roger pulled the door open to find the very young lady about whom he had been talking standing in the hall with Everett, attempting to persuade him to play cards.
“You have returned!” she cried in delight when she saw him.
“I
ndeed, I have, Miss Grace,” he said as he cast a significant look at Yardley, but Yardley only shook his head and remained seated where he was.
“Is there alcohol in there?” Clayton asked.
Roger moved out of his way and allowed him to enter the library.
“My sister has been abominably rude,” Grace whispered. “And I think he is giving her up,” she added after taking a peek inside the library.
“Is he?” That seemed a development of no little significance, and Roger could understand why Everett was in search of some libation. Were Roger not in desperate need of finding Victoria, he would take himself back into the library and attempt to help the fellow through it with a few encouraging words and by refilling his glass as needed.
Grace nodded as she poked her head around Roger so that she could see inside the library again. “Mr. Clayton,” she said, “please do not drink too much. You will only feel dreadful in the morning.”
“I will only drink as much as is needed,” he assured, lifting his glass in salute to her words.
She marched into the room and added in a low voice. “She is not worth casting up your accounts and feeling as if a battalion of soldiers is using your head for their parade. Oh, good evening, Mr. Yardley. Are you not going to play cards?”
He shook his head.
“And do you have as good an excuse as Mr. Clayton?”
Yardley opened his mouth and then closed it.
“He does not,” Roger said, earning a glare from Yardley.
Grace’s brow furrowed and her lips puckered. “Are you a bore, Mr. Yardley?”
“A bore?” he cried. “I should think not. I am a rather interesting fellow.”
Grace shook her head and sighed. “I am afraid that is not true, for all the interesting gentlemen are playing cards – save, of course, for those who have been treated very poorly by my sister.”
“There is no chaperone in here,” Roger warned.
“Oh, goodness!” Grace cried and scampered to the door. “I forgot in my concern for Mr. Clayton. You do not suppose I am ruined now, do you? That would be quite horrid.”