Elizabeth Mansfield (24 page)

“Happy for them, ma’am?
Happy
for them? I do not agree. It is a tragedy. You must take him away from London at once!”

Her eyebrows rose in bafflement. “Good God, why?”

“Because he will make her miserable, that’s why.”

“What utter nonsense! What makes you think so?”

“I think so because he’s already done so.
Twice!”

“I know that. But I don’t see it as a portent of the future. He was muddled before, largely because of me, but he’s seeing much more clearly now.”

“He sees nothing clearly. He is a spoilt, headstrong, self-centered
cad
who—”

“Cad?” She jumped to her feet, furious, her braid slapping against her back in an angry reflection of her mood. “Tris? A cad? How
dare
you, Smallwood! That’s my
son
you’re maligning! He is most certainly
not
a cad. There’s nothing he’s done—nothing!—that warrants such unkind judgments!”

“Nothing, eh?” He came up to her until they were almost nose to nose. “From what I’ve seen of him, he’s nothing if not scheming, manipulating, cocky and... and ...” He seemed to freeze for a moment before going on in almost the same voice, “And you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

“What?” She was sure she hadn’t heard properly, for the words did not suit the tone at all.

“I said you are beautiful.” He looked at her belligerently, as if he would defend the statement with his life.

She took a step backward, agape. “Are you
mad?
”

He shrugged as if madness were of no concern to him. “You must know how beautiful you are.”

She shook her head at his insanity. “Smallwood, you poor, crazed fellow, I’m fifty-eight years old.”

He nodded. “Yes, a lovely age for a woman.”

“Oh, yes, quite.” She had to laugh, for she was suddenly beginning to enjoy herself. “A lovely age indeed. I shall be fifty-nine in three months, and
sixty
shortly after that. Are those lovely ages too?”

“For you, yes. And so will sixty-eight, and seventy-eight and on and on.”

Since he was not smiling, she had to assume he was serious. She sank down upon the sofa in bewilderment. “Surely you didn’t come here to give me foolish compliments. Try to be sensible, man! What is it you really want of me?”

“I thought I
was
being sensible,” he muttered, limping to the nearest chair, sinking down on it and putting a shaking hand to his forehead. “I left my house for the purpose of enlisting your aid in an attempt to separate our offspring. But the sight of your face has completely undermined me. It now occurs to me that perhaps my aim in coming here had more to do with seeing you again than with separating Cleo and Tris. I have ached to see you again, you know.”

“Have you really? How lovely of you to tell me.” She gazed across at him tenderly. “I’ve missed you too.”

He smiled. It was only a small, rather wan smile, but it was the first one since his arrival. “How lovely of
you
to tell
me.
”

“Perhaps so,” she said, “but that does not mean I can ignore your insulting comments about my son. Are you serious about wishing to wreck his affair with your daughter?”

He thought about it for a moment and then sighed. “No, to tell the truth, I’m not. Hang your son and my daughter! Let them take care of their own lives. Let’s you and I get married.”

Her mouth dropped open, but only for a moment. Then she snapped it shut and got to her feet. “I’ve had just about enough of your foolishness, Smallwood. I’m going to bed.”

“Don’t you
want
to marry me?” he asked plaintively.

She tossed her head. “I’ve never given the question a moment’s thought.”

“Then think about it now. We get on well, don’t we? We spent every day for a fortnight in each other’s company, and enjoyed every moment, didn’t we? Without ever disagreeing or arguing?”

“There were several disagreements, as I recall,” she reminded him, but even as she spoke she was remembering their days together quite fondly.

“All right, yes, we had disagreements,” he granted, “but they were more in the nature of spirited fun than real arguments.”

“Yes, I suppose they were.”

Sensing his advantage, he leaned forward eagerly. “And we miss each other when we’re apart; you just admitted that. And we are neither of us in the flush of youth, which means we haven’t so very many years to waste in fiddling about making up our minds. Of course there is
one
problem ...”

“Oh? And what, pray, is that?”

“I cannot spend the rest of my life hearing you call me Smallwood. My intimates call me Harry.”

“Do they, indeed?” She gazed down at him speculatively, head cocked. “It doesn’t suit you. You should have a dignified name, like Gerard, or Cuthbert or Sebastian. But I suppose I could call you Henry, if you like.”

“I like Harry.”

She put up her chin. “It’s Henry or Smallwood, take your pick.”

He rose from the chair and came toward her, his spirit so much revived that he barely used his cane. “Except for Cuthbert, you may call me anything you like. Now that that’s settled, will you marry me?”

“My dear Henry,” she said, both amused and bemused, “the leap from the first use of your given name right into the bonds of wedlock is a very large leap to make all at once.”

“I know. Loving you has made me agile. No, more than agile. It’s made me daring. I’ve always been a timid, pedantic sort of fellow, but suddenly I’m ready and eager to make this very large leap. I know it’s true for you too. I can see it in your eyes.”

She lowered them at once. “Can you, indeed?”

“There’s a man at my club whose brother is a bishop. He can get me a special license. We can be wed tomorrow morning.”

She lifted her hand to his head and brushed back a lock of white hair from his forehead. “You
are
mad, you know. As Tris would say, upper works completely askew.”

Ignoring her remark, he reached for her hand, lifted it to his lips and kissed the palm. “Are you heeding me, ma’am? Tomorrow morning. It’s an order. I’d like you to wear your hair just as it is now, but if you must wear it up, I’ll forgive you. There’s a bonnet I’ve seen you wear— yellow straw with roses along the brim—that will look bridal, I think. I’ll bring yellow roses for you to carry. I shall call for you at ten-thirty. Be ready.”

She stared at the palm he’d kissed. “Henry, you fool,” she murmured in a choked voice, “I can’t be ready for a wedding overnight.” Then she lifted her eyes to his face. “Give me one day more.”

34

Lady Branscombe couldn’t help but wonder why her friend Phyllis was behaving so strangely. For one thing, she had forgotten their plans to shop at the Pantheon Bazaar and had disappeared for an entire day. Then, when they met at dinner, Phyllis didn’t make any explanation. Madge had too much pride to press her, but she fully expected that Phyllis would offer one freely. To her disappointment, however, none was forthcoming. Furthermore, Phyllis excused herself after dinner and left the hotel under the escort of Lord Smallwood. Madge surmised that they wanted to discuss plans for a betrothal fete for Cleo and Tris, but she didn’t quite understand why she herself was not included. Helping Phyllis plan the fete was one of the reasons Madge had come to London in the first place.

She intended to say as much to Phyllis when they met in Madge’s room for breakfast the next morning. But when Phyllis arrived looking particularly pink-cheeked and bright-eyed in spite of it being a rather rainy morning, Madge decided that a scold would not be in order. “You look very pleased with yourself,” she said instead. “You and Smallwood must have come to a happy agreement about the betrothal party.”

“As a matter of fact, we did,” Phyllis chirped. “We’re going to hold a small champagne breakfast right here in the hotel on Saturday, for us and the Smallwoods and a few of our London acquaintances. Probably no more than twenty.”

This was too much for Madge. She would have to speak out even if it drove the pink bloom from her friend’s cheek. “Good heavens, Phyllis, have you forgotten all our plans?” she cried. “We were to hold a ball, and invite a crowd! How else can we manage to inveigle Canfield? In your excitement over
Tris’s
good fortune, have you forgotten all about
Julie?
”

Phyllis reached across the table and grasped her friend’s hand. “Of course I haven’t. Julie’s situation hasn’t been out of my mind for a moment. We’ll simply invite Canfield to the breakfast. The chances of their being thrown together are much greater at a small party than at a ball.”

Madge’s brows knit. “Perhaps you’re right. But must the breakfast be held so soon? I was hoping Julie and Canfield might meet at the theater or at some evening gala
before
the betrothal celebration, to give that meeting a little momentum.”

Phyllis smiled complacently. “I’ve arranged for that too. You see, Smallwood’s friend, Lord Chalmondeley, is hosting a ball for the prince, and Smallwood’s arranged for the three of us to attend under his escort. He says it will be a dreadful squeeze, but for one thing, it will give Julie a chance to meet Prinny!”

“Yes, she will certainly enjoy that,” Madge muttered, “but what has that to do with—?”

“Wait! I haven’t told you the best part.” Phyllis looked across the table with a triumphant grin. “
Canfield will be there!
”

Madge gasped in pure ecstacy. “He
will?
Are you sure?”

“Positive. Chalmondeley said so.”

“Oh, my goodness! Tomorrow?” She clasped her hands to her bosom in dismay. “How can we possibly—? I haven’t yet had time to order a new gown for her! And she hasn’t a decent pair of gloves! We can’t possibly be ready!”

“Yes, we can,” Phyllis said serenely, rising and gliding to the door. “She can wear the lilac gown she wore to the last assembly. Canfield himself admired it, remember? And as for gloves, she can have mine.”

Thus, on the following evening, Julie, dressed in her lilac silk and wearing Phyllis’s gloves, found herself making her way up the crowded stairway to the Chalmondeley ballroom, her mother ahead of her and Phyllis and Smallwood following. She’d been told that the prince was expected to attend, but no other name had been mentioned. Although the prospect of meeting the prince face-to-face was certainly exciting, she was otherwise not looking forward to this evening. She knew no one in the huge crowd, and she wondered if any young man at all would ask to stand up with her. It would probably turn out to be an affair not unlike the Amberford Assembly, only larger. She would be a wallflower in London just as she was at home.

She took a seat in her mother’s shadow, as usual, and sat miserably through three dances. She glanced into the corner where a large clock bonged quietly to mark every passing quarter hour. Forty-five minutes had still to pass before Prinny was to make his appearance at midnight. To Julie, convinced she’d never been so miserable, it was an eternity. Suddenly, however, Lord Smallwood appeared with a young man in tow. “Miss Branscombe, may I present the Honorable Horace Chalmondeley, who earnestly desires to stand up with you?”

The fellow was probably not more than twenty years old, but he was quite good-looking and marvelously dressed. Julie jumped up and took his arm without even glancing at her mother for permission, so grateful was she to escape her role as wallflower for a little while.

The Honorable Horace did not say anything as they walked to the dance floor, but once they took their places in the set, he began to speak. “I’ve been watching you all evening,” he said with an assurance beyond his years, “and I can’t determine why you’ve been hiding away back there. Girls as pretty as you usually station themselves where they can be seen.”

“Yet you managed to see me, didn’t you?” she answered flippantly, thinking that Tris would find that retort saucy. He’d be proud of her.

“Only because I’m more observant than most,” the cocky young fellow said. “You weren’t hiding away because you’re spoken for, are you?”

She was about to give him another saucy retort, but the music started. It was a lively selection called “Mutual Promises.” She very much enjoyed the opportunity to expend some of her pent-up energy. She laughed at the Honorable Horace’s every quip, swung on his arm with spirit and was almost sorry when the music stopped. Just as they left the floor, however, she was accosted by two other young men, each requesting her company for the next dance. As she hesitated, not knowing how to choose between them, a third man came up. “Sorry, gentlemen,” he said, “but this dance is mine.”

“Pete— Lord Canfield!” she gasped, the blood freezing in her veins.

He smiled down at her. “You can’t refuse me, my dear. The next dance is a waltz.”

“N-No, I couldn’t refuse that,” she said breathlessly, managing to smile up at him.

He took her arm, and they started back to the dance floor. “It’s good to see you, Julie,” he said warmly. “What are you doing so far from home?”

“Tris sent for m—” she began and then realized that the words might give him the wrong impression. All she wanted him to know was that Tris was betrothed, and
not
to her. However, she couldn’t just blurt it out. “I mean... ,” she began again, blushing, “that Mama and Phyllis decided to... to...”