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Yet the marquess waited now, standing idly by the terrace doors, his habitual expression of lazy boredom masking the discontent within.
He’d grown wary of this restiveness. More than once it had led him to rush his fences, which had meant time wasted repairing the damage. He knew himself better now. He must not seek her out when he was chafing. If she wouldn’t come to him, he’d let it go this evening and entertain himself elsewhere. All the same, knowing he wanted no elsewhere, no other, he willed her to come to him.
An hour passed while he watched his friends gravitate to her. In that time he saw a dozen expressions cross her face. They were unreadable to others, perhaps—the faintest trails of expression crossing her cool countenance.
All the same, Lord Brandon comprehended her confusion and surprise, and every phase leading her gradually to understand that the gentlemen suddenly found her very attractive. He read the widow’s feelings as easily as if they’d been writ out in bold letters above her head. Then, as he perceived the faint flush of pleasure and slow, beguiling curve of her mouth, he found himself smiling as well. Whatever else he’d wanted of her, it was not her unhappiness. Her own kin first, then Davenant, had given her enough of that. Yet it never ceased to amaze the marquess that so desirable a woman should have so low an opinion of herself.
Before the hour elapsed, Brandon watched her stand up with her betrothed and be taken from him in the next set by Lord Worcester, who relinquished her in the next to Brummell.
It was Brummell brought her to the marquess when the dance had ended. This was to settle a dispute.
“Mrs. Davenant insists it is not milk baths,” the Beau announced, “but the consumption of vegetables and exercise in the open air accounts for her flawless complexion. Bexley will not tell me whether this is cruel teasing, for he is blasting Hamilton about some tiresome political triviality. You are better acquainted with this lady than I, Brandon. Is this irony or fact?”
“I certainly have no notion of her bathing habits,” his lordship said wickedly. A rosy tint glowed upon the widow’s high cheekbones.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Davenant,” said the Beau. “This was my fault. An injudicious choice of phrasing.” He returned to Brandon. “I only wished to ascertain whether you had ever seen Mrs. Davenant eat vegetables.”
“Indeed I have. Moreover, I am informed by reliable witnesses that she rides, several times a week, in the early morning air.”
Brummell’s face fell. “I have an open mind,” he said bravely. “I shall take a turn about the terrace. But vegetables. Good heavens!” He sauntered through the French doors.
“Does he never eat vegetables?” Lilith asked.
“He claims he once ate a pea. You’re very beautiful tonight, Mrs. Davenant.”
Slowly, her mouth curled into a delicious smile.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ve been terrified into it, you know.”
“Have you indeed?” he asked, intrigued, charmed. “I’ve never heard of anybody’s being terrified into beauty.”
“Then obviously you’re not acquainted with Madame Germaine. I’ve never been so scolded and threatened—not since I was in the nursery, I’m sure.”
“Good grief! What had this dread female to say?”
“You are not to repeat it,” said Lilith, lowering her voice.
He bent his head to listen and caught a whiff of jasmine.
“She said Cecily’s beaux will wonder whether she’ll take after me.”
“But you’re not her mama. You’re not even a blood relation.”
“Her mama wears nothing but ancient riding habits, which is worse, I daresay, and I’m on the spot to be taken as model.”
“You did not tell this upstart shopkeeper you’ve already riveted several nieces successfully?”
“I did,” said Lilith, her blue eyes dancing with an amusement as enchanting as it was rare. “In my best set-down manner. She only shook her head pityingly and sighed and answered, ‘But only think how much better the dear creatures might have done.’”
“If you will excuse me,” said Lord Brandon. “I believe I must depart now—to set fire to her shop.”
“You don’t approve my transformation, then, despite the compliment.”
“No, I do not. All these weeks I’ve feasted upon your beauty in solitary dignity. Now I must dine with a mob,” he complained. “I shall be forced to listen to Brummell rhapsodise about your complexion. I must endure Byron’s odes to your eyes and Davies’ puns upon your lips. No doubt there will be violent quarrels whether your hair is Bordeaux or sienna, copper-tinted or russet, and one numskull will call another out on the issue.” He paused. “Now, there’s a thought,” he said. “Perhaps they’ll all kill one another.”
“So long as a duke or two remains standing to marry Cecily, I can’t object,” she said. “Madame Germaine won’t be satisfied with any lesser rank, I’m afraid.”
“I wonder, if you dance with a marquess, whether that will send one peltering after Miss Glenwood. Then, seeing the marquess give chase, perhaps a duke will join the pursuit. All of which is to say I wish you’d dance this waltz with me.”
There was a heartbeat’s pause, enough to send a shiver of anger through him, but she consented, and the only vestige of rage remaining was with himself, for being so shaken at the prospect of refusal.
His hand clasped her waist—and encountered something altogether unexpected. “I shall burn down her shop,” he muttered, “and throttle her with my own neckcloth.”
“What on earth—” Her eyes must have caught the mischief in his, because she became flustered. “You will not—”
“Stays,” he said grimly. “That wretched female has persuaded you to crush your rib cage in one of those fiendish instruments of torture.”
“My lord, you have an annoying habit of referring to exceedingly intimate matters,” she said with a touch of asperity.
“I am appalled to find you have acquired an even more distressing habit.”
“I had to wear it,” she said, vexed. “The gown was indecent otherwise. Oh, stop looking at me in that aggravating manner. Why did I ever agree to dance with you?”
“An attack of conscience. You haven’t danced with me in an age. I daresay you finally decided I’d been punished long enough.”
“I was not punishing you.”
“It felt exactly like punishment.”
Her face became shuttered, and he cursed himself silently. “You needn’t poker up,” he said. “It’s simply that you’ve found me in bad temper.”
After a moment, she asked what had put him out of temper.
“Who knows?” he said. “Talk to me and make me forget. Quiet my mind with some tranquil image. Tell me of your place in Derbyshire.”
“It isn’t very interesting,” she said. “In Derbyshire, I’m a farmer.”
“Very well. I shall give up Athena for the moment and transform you in my mind to Demeter. Tell me of sheep and cows and corn and—oh, above all, tell me of drainage.”
He watched her face soften and her eyes light up with enthusiasm as she described the vast, ill-maintained estate her grandparents had given her as a wedding gift and of the
years spent making it productive again. She could not suppress her pride in her accomplishment. Not that she should, he thought. She deserved a great deal of credit. She’d educated herself about modern agricultural methods, single-handedly set about persuading her tenants from their old-fashioned ways, and managed the whole herself.
She’d had time enough on her hands, hadn’t she? No social life until after her husband died. No children, except those she adopted temporarily for some three or four months of the year.
The estate, his lordship knew from conversations with Higginbottom, was at present let to a retired military officer, who would very likely make a purchase offer at the summer’s end. That, Brandon realised as he studied her animated countenance, would probably break her heart.
The waltz ended and Mrs. Davenant went on talking, like an eager girl. He continued to ask questions, and she answered happily, even after he led her back to Bexley.
This would do no harm in Bexley’s view—if he were paying attention, which was not altogether certain. Still, the spirited discussion of agriculture must silence the gossips, at least temporarily. Moreover, it was not a topic to excite her new admirers. Those who owned property preferred to leave the business of maintaining it to others. They knew less of modern agriculture than their sheep did.
Fortunately, the marquess knew something – more than something, actually. Thus he enjoyed the added pleasure of watching surprise, then growing respect, brighten her beautiful eyes.
The following day, Mrs. Davenant met in her study with her butler.
“Certainly, madam,” said Cawble when she’d done explaining. “It can be managed discreetly. I shall send Jacob with the centre-piece, the two larger candelabra, the great coffee urn, and the other items you suggested. They will not be required, unless you plan a large entertainment in the near future.”
“I am sure we shall redeem them long before I plan such an affair,” said his mistress.
“Yes, madam. This is a regrettable necessity, yet one cannot plan for every emergency, I am sure.”
All the same, the loyal butler could not help reflecting disapprovingly upon his employer’s man of business. Mrs. Davenant should not be placed in the mortifying position of pawning her silver, simply because men who were supposed to sign pieces of paper chose to dawdle over the matter. They had no business dawdling, Cawble reflected indignantly. They had little enough to do. That a lady of her means should not be able to put her hands upon ready money the instant she required it was an affront to the British Constitution.
