The reluctant cavalier (8 page)

Parsifal whistled cheerfully as he strode toward the lake, The early morning was just creeping above the horizon, and a small breeze touched his face with the cool hand of night. The air, fresh and clean from last night's rain, filled his lungs as he breathed. No gloom threatened this morning. He felt... happy.

He laughed and ran the rest of the way to the lake, a good half mile. There, he quickly took off his clothes and dived into the cold water headfirst.

The shock of the cold water made him gasp when he surfaced. He had done this many times—every day, unless the weather was freezing cold. It cleared his mind of sleep, and he always came out of it feeling cleansed and ready to meet the day.

But this morning exhilaration sang through his limbs, and his arms and legs seemed to pull and kick with increased length and strength. She—Miss Annabella Smith-had spoken to him and laughed and smiled at him. He had not been clumsy around her—not much, anyway—and she seemed to like him. Perhaps there was hope for him, and it was possible to court her. Oh, he had still not as much to offer her as the Duke of Stratton, but even he could see that she felt more comfortable around him, Parsifal, than the duke.

He flipped over in midstroke, and floated upon his back. The horizon just above the trees was turning pink now, against an increasingly brightening sky, but he frowned suddenly, not seeing the beauty of it, for memories of the evening before flickered in his mind. There had been something wrong ... no, perhaps that was not the word. Everyone knew the duke was a man of honor, a man with an impeccable reputation and easy address. And yet he, Parsifal, had never liked him. He had acknowledged it was no doubt because the duke was everything Parsifal was not: urbane, pleasant, always at the height of elegant fashion, and an excellent conversationalist.

Parsifal had, however, caught the Duke of Stratton's angry glance when he and Miss Smith entered the Bower-lands' drawing room. It was quickly hidden, and Parsifal would have thought he had imagined it, had he not been used to watching carefully the expressions of those around him. He felt uneasy. There had been something proprietary in the duke's expression. That was nothing in itself, especially if the duke was interested in Miss Smith—and who would not be interested in her? There was something else, however.

Once more, Parsifal swam across the lake, this time with slow, meditative strokes. He pondered last night's card party, and his and Miss Smith's entrance into the drawing room. The guests' expressions had been at first speculative, then disinterested, but that was all ... except for the duke's.

Well, that was to be expected if the duke had an interest in her. But the duke's expression had been cold, and not directed upon Parsifal, but upon Miss Smith, and her face had shown a brief discomfort as she glanced at the duke in return.

There was no real reason why she should feel uncomfortable about entering the drawing room with Parsifal. He had left the drawing room after she had departed to mend her dress, to be sure, but her departure and the ending of his card game seemed to have signaled a break in the activity amongst the guests. Everyone had risen to walk about or leave the room briefly. Anyone might have come back into the room with her; that he had done so was not remarkable at all.

The guests had not resumed any card playing, but sat about talking, their voices an ebb and flow of sound. Parsifal had watched as Miss Smith nodded pleasantly to the duke and took a step toward him, then allowed herself to be distracted by another guest. Did the duke have some claim on her or not?

He regretted, suddenly, that he had never made much of a push to go out into society. If he had, he would know more about Miss Smith's situation and whether the duke had been courting her. Perhaps .. . perhaps it would be a good thing to go to more assemblies and balls, if only to find out if there was any talk of an impending marriage between Miss Smith and the Duke of Stratton.

Slowly, he swam toward the shore again, climbed out, and picked up a towel he'd brought with him. Parsifal shivered in the chill air and hastily dried himself, then seized his clothes. As he pulled on his breeches, he noted for the first time that they were beginning to fray at the knees, and he grimaced. His clothes were made for comfort, not for gadding about in society. He liked them and felt very much himself in them, not as he did in the stiff formal clothes he was forced to wear when going to parties or balls. He felt gauche in fashionable clothes and very . . . exposed, was the best word for it. As soon as he put on a neckcloth and confining waistcoat, he felt a stiffness come over him, as if he were slowly turning into a waxwork. It was always thus when he felt impelled to go to some society function.

Or, no, not always. Parsifal's hands stilled for a moment in tying his hair back into a queue. He'd felt no real awkwardness at the masquerade ball to which he'd gone the other night. Oh, he had at first. But it had quickly faded, and he had felt— He frowned. He did not know what he had felt, exactly. As if he were himself, yet not himself. That evening he'd come to be as comfortable in his Cavalier costume as he was in his gardening clothes, though he was not conscious of it then. He had moved easily in the costume, danced with greater skill than he normally would—naturally, as if he were moving through his gardens instead of a room full of people.

Parsifal did not run back to the house, as he sometimes liked to do, but walked slowly, pondering. Yes, he had felt very much himself then, until... until he had rescued Miss Smith from Sir Quentin's assault, and later, when he had ridden madly at the highwayman. He shuddered. Certainly he had not felt much like himself then! A hot eagerness had overcome him, impelling him into action.

Perhaps there was something in wearing a costume that made one act differently from the way one would normally act. Parsifal smiled and breathed a sigh of relief, and his steps quickened. There, that must be it. He needed only think of actors, after all. Did they not wear costumes, and act differently than they did when they did not wear them? And did they not change characters with each costume? No doubt something similar had happened to him. Perhaps the simple wearing of a costume, pretending to be someone else changed one somehow.

A slight uneasiness prickled the back of his neck, but he shrugged it away. It had not changed him permanently, of course. The Cavalier was a made-up thing, and Parsifal felt no urge to rescue fair maidens or travelers from villains at this moment. Indeed, he'd been shocked at his own actions afterward. There was no reason to think he would do anything so impulsive the next time he put on the Cavalier costume.

An eagerness rose in him at the thought. Perhaps going to another masquerade would help him feel more easy in company. Perhaps if he practiced going into society under the guise of someone else, he'd feel less awkward someday without it.

Parsifal laughed softly and began to whistle again. Regardless, it would enable him to meet Miss Smith once more, perhaps even speak as easily with her as he did for the short while they were in the Bowerlands' gallery. That would be a good thing, certainly!

He remembered suddenly that his mother had promised Caroline a masquerade within a month's time. He had tried to forget it, as he tried to forget—and avoid—most social functions his family arranged. Perhaps he would go to this one, briefly, and see if he felt as confident there as he had at the Laughtons' masquerade.

A bird sang above him, and Parsifal lifted his hand to shade his eyes from the sun, now much higher above the horizon. He watched the bird's flight until he could see no more of it than a speck in the sky. For once he felt more free than he'd felt before, as free as he'd imagined he'd like to be when he was a child, after hearing the stories of brave knights his nurse told him long ago. Doubt flickered in him for a moment at the thought that it was all because of a costume, and not real, but he dismissed it. He was what he was, and he doubted he'd change at all, truly. But, surely, it could not hurt to play at being a Cavalier, purely for enjoyment?

He dropped his hand, and as he did so, the sunlight caught the flash of metal upon his right hand. The ring flashed again and sparkled brightly, and Parsifal blinked. It was as if the sun had struck rare and precious gems upon the ring, but there were no diamonds or any other stones upon it. Perhaps it was made of a special alloy of metals, or created from some goldsmith's secret technique. Certainly no ring of simple construction would shine with such brilliance, especially one so old and worn as this.

He stared at the ring upon his middle finger, as he had often done since Lady Laughton's masquerade. He had carefully cut the threads from the hem of the Cavalier's jacket, extracted the ring, then had Howell, his valet, sew up the jacket again. Parsifal had put the ring on his finger immediately, for he could not think where to put it, and he had not taken it off since. No one commented upon it, for it was a plain band with only a simple braided design etched into it, and though it was gold, it was certainly nothing compared to the rest of the Wentworth jewels. Not even Caroline had noticed it, even though she was quite sharp-eyed when it came to noticing jewelry, and she seemed to have forgotten about the ring hidden in the hem of his costume.

He closed and opened his hand, and Parsifal noticed again how comfortably the ring fit upon his finger. He did not care for jewelry, in general, but he liked this ring. It was sturdy, and did not pinch at all, and felt as if he had worn it forever, as if it had been made for him. He moved his hand back "and forth, trying to catch the sunlight and make the ring sparkle again, but it did not. The ring only gleamed with a dull lustre, like any other old ring might. He had not imagined it, for the ring had sparkled at least three times, even though he was not able yet to make it do so intentionally. If he wore it long enough, he was certain he'd learn how to do so, however.

He shrugged, then smiled to himself, quickening his steps as he neared the house. He was becoming fanciful. He had merely come upon an ornament that pleased him, and by coincidence it fit him well. It would be a fine accessory to his Cavalier costume, much better than one of his prize roses. For once, he looked forward to a ball and intended to enjoy himself to the fullest.

"Mama, do look! I have received an invitation to another masquerade—and see, I am not hiding it from you, but showing it to you at once." Annabella waved the gilt-edged card at her mother and smiled mischievously. "Now do tell me I am a very good girl for telling you so quickly, and say I may go."

Lady Smith laughed. "I should refuse, Miss Impertinence! And before I agree to anything, I must know from whom it comes." She tucked her embroidery and needle into her spool table and nodded to the butler who had brought in the daily post. "Do take this away, Bradley. I am afraid my hands have become quite cramped from sewing too long." The butler bowed and rolled the table from the drawing room.

Annabella held out the invitation to her. "It is from Caroline Wentworth—oh, please say I may go!" she said upon seeing the doubtful look on her mother's face. "Surely, it is unexceptionable, for we are neighbors after all, and I have known Caroline since we were first schoolmates."

"I cannot feel comfortable about having you go there, my love, especially since your father has gone to London and cannot be consulted."

"Oh, but you know he would agree to it if you asked it of him, Mama!" Annabella exclaimed.

"That is neither here nor there. He should, properly, be consulted."

Annabella bit her lip and calmed her impatience. If her parents hesitated to allow her another masquerade, whose fault was it, after all? None but her own. "But surely, even if Papa were here, he would not want to be disturbed by such a trivial thing as a ball. He has more important things to think of—Bonaparte, diplomatic matters. And there can be no objection to calling upon a neighbor, and they an ancient family."

"The Wentworth family is old, but their reputation has never been what it should be. I would not like to see you often in their company, Bella."

"But I am not in their company often at all," Annabella replied earnestly. "Are you concerned that Geoffrey, Lord Grafton, will try to compromise my reputation? I assure you he will not!" Her mother's expression showed her that she had guessed correctly. Annabella smiled. "I have never liked him above half, and he has never shown an interest in me—never! Indeed, I believe he finds me quite tedious."

"Tedious?" Lady Smith raised her brows, as if offended that anyone could find
her
daughter less than perfect.

Annabella chuckled and took her mother's hand in hers, pressing it gently. "I assure you he finds me a complete bore, no doubt because I make sure I appear so when I am in his presence."

"What a terrible girl you are, to be sure!" exclaimed Lady Smith, but there was a tremor of laughter in her voice. "I half think I shall not agree to your attending this masquerade at all! Besides, if I am not mistaken, there is more than one male Wentworth to beware of."

Annabella shook her head. "Oh, no, you need not worry about Mr. Wentworth. He is not at all like Lord Grafton. I had some conversation with him at Lady Bowerland's card party, and he was quite pleasant. But he is not at all a man who will put himself forward, for he is quite shy and very gentlemanly, and he actually blushed when I first addressed him!" She paused thoughtfully. "How odd it is that he is so different from his brother! There is an air of unreliability about Lord Grafton, but there is nothing like that in Mr. Wentworth. Indeed, I felt quite ... safe with him."

"Safe? Was there anything you feared at Lady Bowerland's card party?" Lady Smith's brows creased in a concerned frown.

Annabella almost blurted that she did fear something, but bit back the words. An image of the duke's expression from two weeks ago came to her. . . but there was nothing in that to fear, surely. He had some claim on her, for though she had not yet agreed to marry him, she had agreed to consider him. The duke was no doubt a possessive man, and that was not a very bad thing in a man who wanted to be her husband. She had felt an unexpected comfort in the solidity of Mr. Wentworth's arm under her hand as they came into the Bowerlands' drawing room. No doubt any woman would feel so, for despite his reticence, Mr. Wentworth gave forth an air of steady dependability.