Elizabeth Mansfield (3 page)

Meanwhile, Lady Phyllis’s underlip was quivering. “I’ll never understand why Tris had to run off to town so suddenly.”

“No need to shed tears,” Lady Branscombe said brusquely. “What’s done is done.”

Lady Phyllis shrugged in defeat, and all three ladies turned their faces toward the dancers and watched in silence.

Tris, again!
Julie said to herself in disgust as she settled back into her chair. It was always Tris. Since childhood, her mother had thrown Lady Phyllis’s son at her head. How her mother and Lady Phyllis could have decided, the moment she was born, that she and Tristram Enders were meant for each other was more than she or Tris would ever understand. That deuced birth-alliance! In all the years since, the two mothers had never troubled themselves to wonder what the
subjects
of the agreement, Julie and Tris themselves, felt about the matter. Nor did the mothers acknowledge what their offspring repeatedly tried to tell them: that the whole idea was positively
medieval
!

Someone who did not know them would surmise that the ladies had made the arrangement for financial reasons. If Tris and Julie should wed, the estates would be unified, and the Branscombe lands would not be lost to the distant cousin who was the next male in the line. But Julie and Tris knew better. Julie’s mother had a quite sufficient competence of her own, so holding on to Larch-wood was not essential to her happiness. And as for Lady Enders, there was no need ever for her to be concerned about finances; the Enders family could only be described as wealthy.

The real reason for the ladies’ stubborn insistence on the betrothal was more sentimental than financial. Lady Phyllis and Lady Branscombe had been best friends since childhood and, in their affection for each other, had decided that their offspring should marry and cement the friendship for all eternity. It was a silly conceit, but they had fancied it for so long they could no longer be made to see the foolishness of it. Neither mother could admit—or even
see
—that Juliet and Tristram were being made to suffer for their mothers’ mawkishness.

Julie, her eyes fixed on the back of her mother’s head, felt with renewed force the astonishment she always experienced when she thought about the close friendship of these two very different women. Lady Phyllis, Tris’s mother, was small of stature, so delicate of feature that she still retained a youthful beauty despite her thick gray hair, and as gentle and soft-spoken in manner as she’d been as a girl; while Juliet’s mother had grown in strength and size over the years until she’d become not only a large, imposing figure physically but strong and purposeful in character as well.
Too strong and too purposeful,
Julie thought with a sigh.

It was her mother’s fault that she sat hiding in the shadow. She was no longer asked to dance, even by the bumpkins attending this dowdy provincial assembly. Knowing they would never get Lady Branscombe’s permission to court her, they’d all given up trying. Juliet Branscombe was always a wallflower these days. Even if a miracle should occur, and a stranger should happen to attend this modest country gathering, and
if
he should happen to notice a shy but passably pretty girl sitting in the shadows, and
if
he
should happen to ask her to dance, and
if
she should have the courage to accept him, and
if
she should show the least enjoyment in the encounter (a great many
ifs
to have to become
whens),
her mother would frown at him so coldly and drag her daughter away so abruptly that he would never have the courage to approach her again.

Of course these suppositions were nothing but foolish imaginings. Tris’s last words to her before he left had inspired these ludicrous fancies. In the first place, what stranger would possibly find his way to this backwater assembly?

At that moment, there was a stir at the doorway, and she looked up to see that the plump, officious Sir William Kenting, who always acted as master of ceremonies at these assemblies, was ushering in a tall gentleman Juliet had never laid eyes on. A stranger had
indeed
found his way to this backwater assembly!

And what a stranger! The mere sight of him caused Juliet’s breath to catch in her throat. He seemed a creature who’d materialized from her dream of masculine perfection. His height and the breadth of his shoulders filled the doorway; his hair was dark except for one streak of gray highlighting a center lock that fell over a high forehead; his eyes were light and piercing, his nose as perfect as a Grecian statue’s, and his lips full and curved into a thrillingly sardonic smile. And his clothes! No Derbyshire tailor could have fashioned that marvelously fitting evening coat, nor had any provincial valet tied that pristine neckcloth into such intricate folds.
Heavens!
She thought, a clench of excitement tightening her chest.
Have my silly imaginings become real?

Her pulse seemed to stop beating as she watched the man’s eyes roam over the room. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, she asked herself, if this dazzling creature noticed her? And—absurd thought!—what if he actually asked her to dance?

Meanwhile, everyone else in the room was staring at him too. “Who
is
that?” Lady Branscombe asked, raising her pince-nez.

Lady Phyllis blinked at the gentleman in the doorway for a moment. “It must be the fellow who bought Wycklands. Canfield’s the name, I believe. Lord Canfield.”

“Oh, yes.” Lady Branscombe nodded knowingly. “Canfield. I’ve heard of him. The eldest of the Granard brood. They say he’s a toplofty libertine. Not a welcome addition to our assemblies, I fear. Well, we needn’t take any notice of him.” And she lowered her spectacles, dismissing him from her sight and her mind.

But her daughter continued to watch him with racing pulse. The fellow’s gaze was encompassing the entire room, but he did not seem to take particular note of anyone, much less an inconspicuous young woman in the shadows. After a moment, in response to a request from Sir William, the stranger looked about once more, shrugged his beautifully clad shoulders in obvious dismissal of the entire company and followed his host into the card room.

Julie spent the next hour keeping watch on the card room door for his reappearance, but there was no sign of him. By that time Lady Branscombe had had enough of watching the dancing. She turned from her friend to her daughter. “Let us get our cloaks, my love,” she said. “I think it’s time we took our leave.”

Julie, who for the first time in months was finding the assembly interesting, suppressed a sigh, obediently rose and followed her mother and Phyllis out of the ballroom. As they waited in the hallway while a footman ran to the cloakroom for their apparel, they saw Sir William leading the stranger toward the cloakroom. “Ladies,” he chortled heartily as he came abreast of them, “how fortunate to have met you here. You must let me make you known to our new arrival. Lady Phyllis Enders, Lady Branscombe and Miss Juliet Branscombe, may I present Peter Granard, Lord Canfield, newly of Wycklands?”

They all murmured how-de-dos and made their bows. Then Lord Canfield took his host aside and whispered something in his ear. Just as the footman reappeared with their cloaks, Sir William, his plump cheeks quivering, hurried back to them. “Lady Branscombe, I beg you not to run off so early. Lord Canfield is interested in asking your Juliet to stand up with him.” Lowering his voice and beaming, he added, “Let me assure you that he’s truly interested. He says your daughter is the prettiest creature here.”

Her ladyship frowned at the fellow coldly. “It’s much too late, I’m afraid,” she responded, so loudly that Lord Canfield had no choice but to overhear. “We already have our cloaks. Furthermore, Sir William, please inform his lordship that my daughter does not need to have butter-sauce poured over her.”

Sir William colored to the ears. “Buttersauce, ma’am? Let me assure you he never meant to—”

Lady Branscombe, noting that the footman had draped all three ladies with their cloaks, cut the master of ceremonies short with wave of her hand. She then bid him a brusque good night and pushed her daughter toward the stairs, Lady Phyllis scurrying behind.

Julie, humiliated beyond words, threw a glance over her shoulder to see how his lordship had taken the slight. But Lord Canfield had already turned away; she could not see his face. If she
could
have seen it, she was certain that his expression would have revealed either utter disgust or, at best, nothing more than cool indifference.

She felt her heart sink.
I
suppose,
she said to herself glumly,
that that’s the last I’ll ever see of him.
After her mother’s foolish snub, who could blame the man if he never attended another of these dowdy, dull assemblies?

But later, as she climbed into the carriage after her mother and Lady Phyllis, it occurred to her that she might very well see the gentleman again. He had purchased Wycklands, which made him a permanent resident. In so narrow a society, they were bound to be invited to the same dinner party someday. Or she might, when making an afternoon call, find herself in the same drawing room as he. Or they might even attend one of Mr. Weekes’s Sunday services at the same time. Unless the man was a recluse (and obviously he was not, for hadn’t her mother called him a libertine?), they were bound to meet one day. Tris had said that life was full of promising possibilities. She’d doubted him at first, but at this moment she was quite eager to believe him.

3

Lord Canfield, who’d been on the verge of leaving the assembly before he’d succumbed to the temptation to ask the shy little chit in the hallway to dance with him, turned at once toward the cloakroom again.

Sir William followed at his heels. “I hope you’ve taken no personal offense, my lord,” the master of ceremonies muttered worriedly. “Lady Branscombe is brusque to everyone, let me assure you. She is quite the dragon.”

“Is she indeed?” Lord Canfield smiled down comfortingly at the red-faced fellow. “But I’m not in the least offended. In fact I rather admired her brusqueness. The lady didn’t like me and indicated her dislike quite honestly. I much prefer brusque honesty to hypocritical politeness.”

“But no, my lord, it wasn’t dislike, let me assure you. She puts off anyone who tries to pursue her daughter.”

“Oh?” Canfield threw the plump little fellow an inquiring look as he threw his evening cloak over his shoulders. “Is there something wrong with her pretty, dreamy-eyed daughter?”

“Oh, no, nothing at all. Juliet’s a fine young woman, let me assure you, very fine. But her ladyship has planned for the girl to wed her friend’s son—Lady Phyllis’s boy, you know—and she becomes... er... uneasy if any other fellow shows the girl attention.”

“Ah, I see.” Lord Canfield, who was already moving purposefully toward the stairs, paused in his rapid progress along the hall and peered down at the master of ceremonies with brows raised in mild disapproval. “But, Sir William, if the girl is betrothed, do you think it was proper of you to encourage me to request her hand for the dance? In London, a young lady who is betrothed dances only with her intended or with friends who know her situation. She is not encouraged to dance with strangers.”

“Let me assure you that is our way also. We are not such a backwater that we don’t know how things are done in town. But in this case the matter is rather muddled. You see, the girl in question is
not
betrothed. At least not as yet.” The master of ceremonies shook his head and signed unhappily. “Her mother escorts her to these assemblies just as any mother of a marriagable daughter would do, seemingly expecting the girl to dance. Yet as soon as a young man shows the slightest interest, the mother snatches the girl away.”

“How very curious,” his lordship murmured.

“Curious it is,” Sir William agreed glumly. “It certainly puts
me
in a strange position, let me assure you. I am enjoined to present partners to all the unmarried young ladies who attend our assemblies, but when I try to do so in this case, you see how I am abused.”

“You certainly have my sympathy,” Canfield said with a kindly smile, “but I feel even more for the girl.”

“For the girl?” Sir William echoed in surprise.

“Yes, of course. She’s in a more difficult situation than you are if she’s forced to attend and then must sit out all the dances. How very awkward for her, pretty as she is, to be always a wallflower.”

“Yes, it must be. Julie Branscombe, a wallflower! That, let me assure you, is a most ridiculous epithet for that sweet young girl.”

“So it seems to me too,” his lordship agreed. “She has the most amazing eyes. As if she were gazing at us from some other world.” Then, realizing he was thinking aloud, he blinked and shook his head. A bit embarrassed, he quickly waved his good-bye to his host and started down the stairs. “If I ever come face-to-face with that pair again in similar circumstances,” he said over his shoulder with a laugh, “I shan’t let the dragon put me off so easily. I’ll get that young lady on the dance floor yet. Let me assure you.”

4

As the Branscombe carriage rocked over the unpaved road from Amberford to Enders Hall, Lady Phyllis gazed at the dozing Juliet with a look of such fond affection it could only be called doting. “Madge, my dear, you’re much too hard on the girl,” she whispered to her friend.