Nicola Cornick (14 page)

‘How gossip does travel!’ she marvelled innocently. ‘Why, the only
thing I have to say, ma’am, is that were I to arrange a secret meeting I would do so more efficiently and no one would know of it!’ She turned to greet Westwood, signalling that the topic was at an end. ‘Good day, Christopher, I hope that you had a comfortable journey!’

Lady Stansfield took this set-down in good part. Alicia had learned a long time ago that the only way to deal with her outspoken grandmother was to refuse to submit to her bullying. This had endeared her to the old lady rather than the reverse and Lady Stansfield’s eyes now took on a distinct twinkle as she came forward to kiss her granddaughter.

‘Well, well, that’s as maybe, miss! Christopher is quite out of charity with you! It doesn’t do to make him jealous!’

Lady Stansfield had always had a squirm-inducing habit of talking about people as though they weren’t there, and Westwood was far too deferential to object. He merely stood looking sheepish and shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

Alicia gritted her teeth. There was no point in telling her grandmother that Christopher Westwood had no right to question her behaviour—that would only give the old lady another opportunity to remark on the sense in the two of them marrying. It was no secret that Lady Stansfield wished to promote such a match and Westwood was more than willing. Only Alicia’s stubbornness was opposing it.

‘I am fagged to death after the journey,’ Lady Stansfield continued, her gold-topped cane tapping across the gravel and up the steps. ‘I wish to rest. We shall talk later, my dear. You—’ Her beady gaze turned on Cheffings, who looked somewhat unnerved. ‘You are not Fordyce! Where is he?’

‘Fordyce is in London, opening up the house for the Season,’ Alicia replied patiently. ‘This is Cheffings, Grandmama, and I do beg you not to terrify him!’

‘In London! So early in the year! And two butlers! How extravagant!’ Lady Stansfield looked scandalised, as though Alicia had admitted to some perversion. Her accusing gaze swept over the hapless Cheffings as though it were all his fault. ‘Well, Cheffings, I suppose you will have to do! Show me to my room!’

She swept regally up the staircase, trailed by the startled butler. Alicia was left with Christopher Westwood, who was looking positively miserable.

‘She means no harm, you know,’ he offered pacifically, his fair,
good-humoured face troubled. ‘We heard all the gossip and were only at pains to think how best to help you.’

Alicia reflected that that was exactly the sort of appeasing comment that put her out of humour with him. It might be unfair to blame him for being so eager to please, but she could not deny that it annoyed her. Ushering him into the library, she turned to order refreshments then closed the door thankfully on her grandmother’s retreating back. She felt exhausted already, and the rest of her house party had not even arrived yet.

They talked on trivialities such as the weather and the state of the roads whilst the refreshments were being served, but it was clear that Westwood was somewhat preoccupied for his answers to Alicia’s questions always seemed to be a little late on cue. He was a fair young man who was related to Lady Stansfield through her sister. Cultivated and refined, he affected dandyism in his style of dress, and his shirt points were high, his cravat a miracle of intricacy and his boots as highly polished as the library mirrors. Yet despite, or perhaps because of, his regard for fashion, he did not seem able to achieve the careless elegance of James Mullineaux. Nor did he have any of James’s instinctive authority. Alicia found herself making the comparison and disliked herself for it, but she could find Westwood amiable, nothing more.

On this occasion he had a more than usually anxious look on his face and Alicia wondered what was distracting him. He knocked his glass over, set it to rights and cleared his throat, then sat forward and fixed her with an earnest look.

‘Alicia, this business with Mullineaux—’ He broke off immediately, clearly unsure how to proceed.

‘Yes?’ Alicia asked unencouragingly, determined to make him suffer. She was still out of charity with him and did not see why he had to pry into her personal affairs. And anyway, the last thing she wanted to do was talk about James Mullineaux.

‘Well…I mean…surely it was an accident?’

‘Certainly.’ Alicia deliberately misunderstood him. ‘A carriage accident.’

Westwood had the grace to look slightly ashamed of himself. The hot colour flooded his face. ‘I hope,’ he said constrainedly, ‘that you came to no harm?’

‘Fortunately not, thank you,’ Alicia said, with composure. ‘I injured my wrist in the accident, but it is only a slight sprain and already on
the mend. However, Miss Frensham caught a chill from standing about in the rain and she is still at Ottery Manor with the Henleys.’

‘I am sorry to hear it,’ Westwood murmured, still abashed. He seemed to steel himself. ‘No doubt it is unpleasant for her to have taken a chill, but surely it is worse for you, Alicia! To have spent a night alone in an inn with Mullineaux…Well, you can see how people will be talking!’

Alicia wondered briefly whether a scream of aggravation would put an end to this topic of conversation. It seemed likely, but rather an extreme measure to take. She smiled politely.

‘I can understand perfectly. However, I rely on you to squash the rumours, of course.’

Westwood looked taken aback. Clearly whatever outpouring of regret or apology he had expected would simply not be forthcoming.

‘Of course,’ he agreed doubtfully. ‘But, Alicia—’

Alicia cut across him decisively. ‘Indeed, it’s very unfortunate that Miss Frensham is still indisposed! We should not be so careless of the conventions as to meet like this without chaperonage, Christopher! Not everyone views our family connection in the same light as we do!’

Westwood swallowed hard. It seemed a little ironic to him that Alicia should choose to play propriety now, having spent a night alone in an inn, however innocently, with another man. He stole a glance at her charming profile, but learned nothing. Her expression was as calm and serene as usual, although he fancied he could detect a hint of determination in the set of her jaw. Westwood sighed unconsciously. He knew Alicia could tie him in knots should she choose, but it made little difference to his main aim, which was to marry both her and her fabulous fortune.

He had been finding it more and more difficult to get Alicia on her own in recent weeks, and suspected that this was because she deliberately avoided this. Now he had his opportunity and he intended to make the most of it. Although he had not planned to speak so soon after his arrival, he was in such a state of pent-up nervousness and anticipation that he could not help himself.

‘I am glad Miss Frensham is not with us,’ Westwood said desperately, ‘for there is something I particularly wished to say to you, Alicia.’

Alicia was aware of a sinking feeling in the region of her heart. She could hardly be unaware of what was coming. Westwood’s attentions had been becoming so marked over the past few months that she had known it could only be a matter of time before he made her a decla
ration. With vague amazement she realised that a week ago she might have even considered his suit. Now, as her thoughts slid imperceptibly but inevitably towards James, she knew that she could never marry Christopher Westwood.

It was evident that Westwood, having announced his intentions, was unsure of exactly how to begin. He cleared his throat a couple of times, leapt restlessly to his feet and finally burst into speech.

‘Confound it, Alicia, I have been trying to show you for months—no, years!—how I feel about you!’ he went down on one knee before her, and seized her hand. ‘Marry me! Give me the right to protect you! I know it is presumptuous of me even to think of proposing to you, but we would deal well together, I know it! We enjoy each other’s company, and—’ he seized on another advantage to strengthen his suit ‘—your grandmother would be delighted!’

His intense grey eyes were fixed unwaveringly on her face and he raised her hand to press a feverish kiss on the back of it.

At this passionate and highly inconvenient moment, the door opened to admit a footman with a message from Lady Stansfield. Alicia had never been so glad to see anyone. Westwood dropped her hand as though he had been burned and scrambled to his feet, his countenance flushed with mortification. The footman, equally scarlet, hovered hopelessly in the doorway, his tray tilted at such an alarming angle that the missive slid off it onto the floor.

‘Please come in, Liddell,’ Alicia instructed coolly, quite as though nothing untoward had occurred. She retrieved the note, read it and waved him away without a reply. The door shut behind him with indecent haste as he shot downstairs to regale the servants’ hall with the news that Mr Westwood was proposing.

Westwood himself was clearly furious at the interruption but could not see any way of resuming his declaration without appearing even more foolish.

Alicia seized her chance. ‘Dear Christopher,’ she said gently, ‘I am very flattered that you wish me to become your wife, but I really must decline. You know that I esteem you as a friend, but I do not believe that we should suit.’

The hot colour rushed back into Westwood’s face. Already humiliated by the tactless entrance of the footman, he was in danger of losing his self-control.

‘Why not?’ he demanded, with more indignation than manners.

Alicia bit her lip. This was difficult, as she was well aware that she
had given him every indication that she enjoyed his company, whilst not having the least desire to marry him. Worse, she realised with a guilty pang that she had used him to keep other admirers at a distance, even whilst she had been aware of his growing regard for her.

‘I am too used to having my own independence now to comfortably adapt to another arrangement,’ she temporised. ‘I am used to running my own estates and ordering my life, and all that would have to change were I to marry.’

‘If you wanted to remarry, none of that would be of the least consequence,’ Westwood retorted, unanswerably.

Alicia sighed. She could hardly tell him that she found him dull, and that life with him would be lacklustre. When he had touched her she had felt none of the explosive chemistry which was between herself and James Mullineaux. What a trying week it had been! Three marriage proposals, albeit one was by proxy, and none of them acceptable!

Westwood was still gazing down at her with a dogged determination. How could she finish this? Briefly she toyed with the idea of bursting into tears, thus putting him firmly in the wrong. After all, no gentleman should persist in an unwanted suit. A moment later, however, she rejected such a shabby idea. She had treated him badly enough as it was.

‘Please come and sit down, Christopher,’ she urged, patting the seat beside her. ‘We have been good friends—must it all be at an end?’

Some of the sulky, mulish expression left Westwood’s face, and he sat down beside her with an ill grace. He gave a despondent sigh.

‘Suppose I never really thought you’d accept,’ he admitted ruefully. ‘After all, you turn fellows away by the barrowload, and why should I be different?’ He was already looking more cheerful, as he had a disposition which could not sulk for long. ‘Still, can’t blame me for trying!’

He looked at Alicia thoughtfully, then added, ‘I don’t suppose it’s anything to do with Mullineaux, is it?’

Alicia jumped involuntarily. ‘What do you mean?’

Westwood looked a little confused. ‘Well, you’re forever turning away proposals from eligible men. I wondered if you were comparing them with some ideal? And as you have just met him again…’

This was surprisingly perceptive of Westwood, who was not known for his sensitivity to others’ feelings. Alicia, who had no inclination to examine her own feelings on this point, ignored the difficult part of his question to concentrate on the bit she could deny.

‘Well, disabuse yourself of the notion that Mullineaux was—or is—
some kind of ideal!’ It came out more fiercely than she had intended. Remembering their disastrous encounters and the even more dangerous feelings which James could arouse in her, Alicia felt tormented beyond bearing.

‘When he was younger,’ she said coldly, ‘James Mullineaux was arrogant and conceited, and time has improved him into a man overbearing beyond toleration and downright rude! We met by complete chance and it was undoubtedly the worst piece of luck I could have had!’

‘You don’t like him, then,’ Westwood said, without irony and with complete satisfaction.

Annabella Broseley’s wedding took place on a bright afternoon in early March with the first blossom bursting out on the trees and the breeze setting the daffodils dancing on the green before Taunton Castle. That the wedding was being held in Taunton had been the first bone of contention between the St Auby family and Bertram Broseley—he had wanted to hold the ceremony in St Mary Redcliffe in Bristol, at the heart of his mercantile empire. The St Aubys had thrown up their hands in horror. No smell of the shop was going to infect the wedding of their only son, no matter how much he was going to benefit from the profits of trade after the event. So the wedding was held in Taunton and the St Aubys invited half the county in the hope that some of them would actually attend.

Alicia had agonised over her invitation for what felt like an age. It had arrived shortly after her return from Greyrigg and she had hidden it behind the clock on her mantelpiece, unwilling to see her father ever again. She felt very little kinship with Annabella either, and acknowledged to herself that this was a great shame. It seemed that she had made her choice and that her grandmother could be her only family now. Nevertheless, a niggling sense of guilt had caught her every so often and in the end she had found herself at her escritoire, penning a stilted little note to her father to the effect that Lady Carberry would be very happy to attend the marriage.