Page 25 of The Work of Art

Whatever initial attraction he’d felt for her was surely at an end.

Arthur arrived at Edgar Townsend’s house at half past seven. He was wearing evening black, with a white waistcoat and a simply tied cravat. His suit of clothes didn’t become him as well as it once had. Alone in the country, more often than not submerged in a deep melancholy, there were times he failed to eat properly. He was nowhere near as sickly as he’d been upon returning to England two and a half years ago, but he was far from the athletic figure he’d been before leaving to fight on the Peninsula.

“Our dashing Captain Heywood!” a lady had called out to him at one of the last balls he’d attended in London before departing with his regiment.

It seemed a lifetime ago.

As he climbed the stone steps to the front door of the townhouse, Lord Darly arrived, alighting from his carriage and bounding up the steps to join him.

“What say you, Heywood? A rather grim evening ahead of us with the two Townsend chits. The younger is jolly enough, I grant you, but if Townsend is angling for one of us to take the older one off of his hands—”

Darly broke off as Townsend’s elderly butler opened the front door to receive them. He greeted them both in somber tones, informed them that the rest of the party was already in the drawing room, and proceeded to escort them up to the first floor.

The steep interior stairs were challenging for Arthur, but not impossible. After a day and a half of rest, the excruciating pain in his leg had calmed to its normal level of discomfort, and though slow and unsteady, he managed to ascend to the drawing room without too much difficulty.

Darly took full advantage of Arthur’s slow pace, talking to him as if the butler weren’t a mere few steps away. “Townsend’s latest scheme is dashed risky, but I like a gamble. The earl does too, if I recall, so I can’t understand your hesitance. Do you intend to join with the rest of us on his behalf? Or have you decided to bow out?”

Arthur’s reluctance had more to do with his dislike of Edgar Townsend than anything else—a fact he had no intention of sharing with Darly. “I believe that Goodrich is uncertain, as well.”

“Goodrich is uncertain about everything. He’ll go along with what everyone else does in the end, mark my words.” Darly dropped his voice. “I expect Townsend to press us all for our final word during port. Why else go to the trouble and expense of a dinner? If you have no intention of joining, he’ll expect a devil of a lot more from the rest of us in lieu of the earl’s share. Dashed inconvenient, Heywood. Some of us were hard pressed to scrape up the funds to begin with. The whole blasted scheme is likely to fall apart if you withdraw. I hope you’ll keep that in mind.”

When they reached the first-floor landing, the butler directed them down the hall to the drawing room. They’d gone no more than a few steps when a soft noise on the second-floor staircase caught Darly’s attention. He looked up, a smile spreading over his face.

Arthur followed his gaze to see Miss Satterthwaite coming down the stairs, one hand resting lightly on the banister as she descended. He froze where he stood, feeling the now-familiar tightening in his chest.

She was wearing a gown of deep amber silk, delicately embroidered with glass beads that twinkled and flashed in the candlelight. Elbow-length sleeves hugged her daintily rounded arms, and the neckline was low enough to display the gentle curve of her bosom. She wasn’t looking in their direction, her thoughts clearly somewhere else as she brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, tucking it back into the elegant arrangement in which she wore it. It was an innocent feminine gesture and nothing more, but the sight of it provoked a deep, stirring ache within Arthur’s heart.

She stepped down onto the landing and turned toward the drawing room. When she saw them, she stopped, hesitating a fraction of a second before coming forward to greet them.

“Miss Satterthwaite,” Darly said, making his bow. “Forgive our impertinent stares. You look as fine as fivepence this evening. Why, I believe you look even more beautiful than you did at the Worthings’ ball. You were wearing blue that night, were you not? I distinctly remember admiring how well it became you whilst we danced together.”

Arthur shot an annoyed glance at Darly. He briefly envisioned how satisfying it would feel to slam his fist into the golden-haired dandy’s face. Not much imagination was required. They’d boxed together at Jackson’s before the war, and more than once, a punishing left had sent Lord Darly to the ground. Arthur savored the memory even as he intervened to save Miss Satterthwaite the trouble of supplying an answer to such inanities. “I trust you’re well?”

“Very well, sir.” Meeting his eyes softly with hers, she gave him the barest trace of a smile.

Arthur was rendered temporarily speechless.

Darly laughed. “Heywood has no idea how to talk to a handsome woman. Allow me to escort you into the drawing room, Miss Satterthwaite. I promise I won’t bore you.”

“Thank you, my lord, but I should not. My cousins have been looking forward to your company all day. If I were to enter the room on your arm, it would only bring them displeasure.”

Darly’s smile dimmed. “Ah, yes. Your charming cousins. How could I forget?”

Arthur didn’t know what compelled him to action. He’d counseled himself to let Phyllida Satterthwaite go. She wasn’t for him. And no good could come of forming an attachment to her. Nevertheless, upon her refusal of Darly’s escort, he quite naturally stepped forward. “If you please, ma’am. Your cousins can have no objection to my escorting you.”

“No, I don’t suppose they can,” she replied, and to Arthur’s profound satisfaction, she tucked her hand gently in his arm.

The rest of the party was already assembled in the drawing room. Goodrich was by the pianoforte, engaged in meaningless banter with Townsend’s two giggling daughters. Darly went to join them. Townsend himself occupied a chair near the fireplace, where he was absorbed in low conversation with Edgeworth. Townsend’s sister, Mrs. Vale, and Edgeworth’s redoubtable wife, a portly woman with a great deal of her bosom exposed, sat close beside each other on the sofa. Lady Edgeworth, whose booming voice echoed throughout drawing room, was complaining to Mrs. Vale about how inconvenient the war had been.

“Terribly inconvenient,” Mrs. Vale agreed.

The room might as well have been empty. Arthur’s attention was fully engaged by the young lady on his arm. Up close to her now, he could see the jeweled pins that decorated her hair. Garnets, or possibly even rubies. They glittered like fire, as warm and vibrant as every other part of her.

“I believe you’re escorting me into dinner, as well, Captain Heywood.” She took a seat on a small, silk-upholstered settee.

“Am I?” Arthur sat down beside her, much as he did when they were conversing together on one of the benches in the park.

“Yes, you see, my uncle will escort Lady Edgeworth, Lord Edgeworth will escort Mrs. Vale, Lord Darly will take Miss Townsend, and Mr. Goodrich will take Abigail. I’m not sure that precedence is being entirely respected, but…” She trailed off with a rueful grimace. “I beg your pardon. I’ve no talent for small talk.”