Elizabeth Mansfield (14 page)

Her eyes clouded. These words were not what she wanted to hear. “I don’t wish to blame—”

“I know,” he muttered with a troubled frown. “You are concerned about what Tris must think. But you mustn’t be. It will be all to the good. I can almost guarantee that at this moment he is writhing with jealousy.”

Julie felt her heart sink in her breast. Peter had completely misunderstood her feelings. She could not care about what Tris was feeling, not after what she’d just experienced. The sad part was that Peter had not had a similar experience. For Peter, the embrace had apparently been nothing more than a careless impulse. For her, however, it had been all-encompassing, a whirlwind that had lifted her heart right out of her. After their lovely compatibility during the poetry reading, when their feelings seemed so similar, how could they each react so differently to the kiss? They were indeed a pair of parallel lines that would never meet!

And as for Tris, she thought in despair, he was far from writhing with jealousy. If she knew anything of the matter, he was standing out in the hallway dancing with joy.

But out in the hallway, Tris was leaning against the wall, breathing hard. His mind was in turmoil. He should have felt happy as a lark, for his mission to get Julie wed seemed to be succeeding beyond his most optimistic expectations. Why, then, did he have this peculiar but unmistakable urge to take Peter by the throat and choke the life out of him?

19

Although Lord Smallwood’s eyes were fixed on the
Times
in his lap, he was not really reading. He was trying to find the courage to ask his hostess, who’d joined him in the downstairs sitting room and was placidly knitting, a very personal question. He needed to know the answer, but he was reluctant to broach so private a matter with a woman who was, to all intents and purposes, a stranger.

He knew that Lady Phyllis would have been offended to hear herself described as a stranger, for she’d been very companionable toward him since his arrival. She’d accompanied him on daily strolls, joined him for breakfast, engaged him in comfortable conversation in the late afternoons after they’d both napped, and done many other kindly acts to keep him from feeling deserted. But he thought of her as a stranger nevertheless, especially when it came to dealing with intimate matters like this.

Lord Smallwood had come to Amberford with the utmost reluctance, but after a fortnight at Enders Hall, he had to admit that the time was passing very pleasantly. It was not only the companionship of his hostess. It was also that the country air made him feel fit; that the meals Lady Phyllis laid before him were more delectable than any London cook could ever devise; that her ladyship never objected to his napping in an easy chair during the long, quiet afternoons; that the London newspapers were placed at his elbow daily; that his daughter was happily engaged in the rituals of courtship; and that the days were languidly peaceful. He would have been content to remain indefinitely, if he did not feel like a blasted interloper. After all, he and his daughter had imposed themselves on Lady Phyllis without so much as a by-your-leave, and he could not feel completely comfortable in taking continued advantage of her kind hospitality. Every morning, when he managed to see his daughter alone, he asked her to set a date for departure, and every morning she responded, “As soon as Tris makes an offer.”

“But when is that to be?” he’d ask querulously.

“Any moment now. I’m sure of it.”

But Lord Smallwood could no longer take the answer seriously. A fortnight of moments had come and gone, and Tris had not come up to scratch.

He looked across the room to where Lady Phyllis sat and cleared his throat. She looked up from her work, her eyebrows raised. “Did you say something, Smallwood?”

“I wish to ask you a question, ma’am,” he said, hiding his unease by speaking too loudly.

“Yes?” she urged, thrusting the knitting needles into a ball of yarn to give him her full attention. “Go on, I can hear you.”

“It is a ... a rather personal question,” he mumbled in a lower voice, “so if you decline to answer, I shall understand.”

“Very well,” she agreed.

He took a deep breath. “Does your son have any intention of wedding my Cleo?”
There!
he said to himself in triumph.
I’ve asked it, and I’m glad I did, no matter how she responds.

Lady Phyllis blinked at him in surprise. “Wedding
Cleo?
Whatever gave you such an outlandish idea?”

“What’s outlandish about it?” Smallwood demanded, thrusting aside his newspaper. “The two are courting, are they not?”

“Of course they’re not. How can they be? Tris is betrothed to Julie.”

“To Julie? You mean the Branscombe chit? How can that be?”

“What do you mean, how can it be? That’s a silly question. They’ve been betrothed since childhood. Everyone knows it.”

“Well, ma’am,
I
don’t know it. And neither does Cleo.”

“Perhaps I exaggerated about ‘everyone.’ But everyone here in Amberford knows it, even though it won’t be officially announced until Julie and Tris are ready to set a date for the nuptials. Lady Branscombe and I are hoping to make the formal announcement very soon.”

Lord Smallwood gaped at her, wondering what to make of this news. If Cleo learned of it, he dreaded to think what her reaction might be. There was sure to be a frightful scene, full of tears and noise and emotional excess. But above and beyond all that, Cleo would be heartbroken. She was sincerely attached to the Enders chap, more so than to any man she’d ever met. In truth, Lord Smallwood had grown rather fond of him too. This news was very upsetting. Very upsetting indeed. “Ridiculous,” he muttered aloud.

Lady Phyllis stiffened in offense. “What’s ridiculous about it?”

“Everything. Your son doesn’t seem nearly as interested in Miss Branscombe as Lord Canfield is, for one thing. For another, he appears to be utterly enchanted with Cleo. Hasn’t left her side for a moment since we arrived.”

“Yes, but all that can be explained.”

“How?”

“Well,” Phyllis said thoughtfully, “as far as Lord Canfield is concerned, Madge Branscombe and I are convinced that Julie is using him to make Tris jealous and prod him into action.”

Lord Smallwood sneered. “So he needs prodding, does he?”

Lady Phyllis looked troubled. “I know that sounds as if the boy’s reluctant, but Madge says every man needs a bit of prodding in such situations.”

“Hummmmph!” the old fellow snorted. “Tris doesn’t seem to need any prodding when it comes to pursuing my Cleo.”

Phyllis glared at him. “He’s
not
pursuing her, I tell you!”

“Then what would you call his behavior?”

“I’d call it friendship. As a friend, and her host, he’s obliged to squire her about, is he not?”

“Friendship, ha! There is no such thing as friendship between a man and a woman.”

Phyllis drew herself up in defiance. “What folderol! Of
course
there is such a thing as friendship between the sexes. Why, just look at you and me. We’re a perfect example.”

“I would not be too sure of that either, ma’am, if I were you,” the white-haired fellow muttered, reaching for his discarded newspaper. “You’re too good-looking and good-natured to go about assuming that we men—I or any other fellow you know—have nothing on our minds but friendship.”

Phyllis gaped at him. “Whatever do you mean by that?” she demanded.

He lifted the paper and hid his face behind it. “I mean nothing, ma’am,” he said. “Nothing at all.”

She stared in his direction openmouthed, but all she could see was newsprint. After a moment, she shrugged and reached for her knitting, for she knew by instinct that it was useless to pursue this interesting conversation. As far as Lord Smallwood was concerned, there was nothing further to be said.

20

The bimonthly Amberford Assembly was about to be held again. Like most rural assemblies, this one was usually anticipated with more eagerness by the ladies than by the gentlemen. Ladies were always excited by the prospect of dancing, flirtation and gossip, but gentlemen often chafed at the formality of the affair. This time, however, at least two gentlemen were looking forward to it. For very different reasons, both Tris and Peter were expecting this particular session to be a significant event, Peter because he was determined to dance with Julie in defiance of her mother’s displeasure, and Tris because he suspected that Peter would use the occasion to offer for Julie.

Tris had completely regained his determination to see Julie married to the viscount of Canfield. The shock and abhorrence he’d experienced when he’d come upon them kissing was, he told himself, a momentary aberration. He couldn’t really explain why he’d felt what he’d felt, but it was not a matter of importance. If an explanation had been required, he would probably have excused himself by saying that it had been merely a brotherly reaction, natural and protective.

But whatever the explanation, the feeling had passed. It was Cleo he adored, not Julie. There was no question in his mind that it was Cleo he wanted to wed. Cleo was more than beautiful; she was lively, witty and constantly, delightfully surprising. Julie, on the other hand, was drab, shy and held no surprises for him. So even though the scene in the library—the two embracing figures drenched in golden, mote-spangled light—sometimes recreated itself in his memory, it no longer disturbed him. He merely brushed it aside.

Thus, on the evening of the assembly, the gentlemen of two Amberford households—Enders Hall and Wycklands—prepared for the occasion with unwonted eagerness. And at Enders Hall, another gentleman was becoming interested in the event. Lord Smallwood, who had told his hostess earlier that he had no intention of participating in such “rustic folderol,” was dressing himself in his evening clothes. When he later joined Lady Phyllis at the bottom of the stairs, she looked at him in surprise. “I thought, Smallwood, that you didn’t want to attend this affair tonight. Didn’t you say that this sort of evening would be a great bore for you?”

“Yes, but I changed my mind. I want to observe your son and this Branscombe chit with my own eyes before I take it on myself to inform my daughter that her expectations are hopeless.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Phyllis said flatly. “You won’t learn anything of that nature tonight. Tris and Julie are not the sort to make public display of their feelings.”

“Don’t underestimate my powers of observation, ma’am.”

She shrugged. “In any case, whatever your reason, I’m glad you’re going. Here, let me adjust your neckcloth. You’ve got it twisted around somehow.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, offering himself to her ministrations. “It’s a deuced nuisance dressing for a formal evening without a valet. If I’d known how long we would be here, I’d certainly have taken my fellow with me.”

Tris came down at that moment. It gave him a gleeful sense of satisfaction to see his mother and the man he hoped would be his father-in-law apparently getting on so well. “Where is your daughter, sir?” he inquired. “It’s getting late.”

“Here I am,” came a voice from the top of the stairs, and Cleo came wafting down in a flutter of copper-red silk chiffon. She was utterly breathtaking. Her short, dark curls framed the perfect oval of her face with a rakish charm, her bare shoulders gleamed in the light of the sconces on the wall behind her, and the diamond studs that glittered in her ears were not any brighter than the glow in her magnificent green eyes. “Oh, I say!” gasped Tris. “You
are
lovely! I’d wager our Amberford Assembly, in all the years of its existence, has never seen your like!”

Cleo paused in the middle of the stairway and gazed down at him. “Praise is even better when coming from someone who himself deserves praise,” she said with charming formality. Then she threw him a beaming smile. “You look top-of-the-trees yourself.”

His chest swelled with pleasure. He reached up a hand for her and drew her down the remaining steps. “The other fellows will be wild with jealously when they see you on my arm,” he murmured in her ear.

She laughed in pleasure, a deep, velvety sound that seemed to go right through him. “Does that mean, you greedy boy,” she asked, placing her other hand in his, “that you don’t intend to let anyone else dance with me?”

“He’ll have no choice about that,” Lady Phyllis put in quickly, suddenly alarmed at the effect this coquettish London baggage was having on her son. “Our assemblies require that a gentleman may dance no more than three dances with the same partner.”

“There’s no rule that will keep us from sitting together through the rest of them,” Tris retorted. He drew Cleo’s arm through his and led her out to the waiting carriage. Behind the backs of their departing offspring, Lord Smallwood threw Phyllis a look that asked quite plainly,
And what do you make of that little scene, eh?

Lady Phyllis said nothing, but when they approached the carriage she insisted that Cleo and her father climb into it ahead of her. Then, pulling her son aside, she grasped the lapels of his coat with a desperate urgency. “Be sure you dance with Julie, do you hear me, Tris? The first dance in particular.”