Page 19

AN UNEXPECTED STICKING POINT

H appily, Sarah was the first to reach the breakfast parlour the morning after the madcap dinner party. She loved the early mornings, and the time alone with her thoughts was much needed.

Her inclination was to try for Mr Withers.

It would be a practical decision. A younger son, he had need of her money, whilst she had need of his name and his ability to give her children.

If only his laughter did not so closely resemble the snorting of those horses he dotes upon!

But surely, once she knew his true character, his various inelegant noises would pale in importance to her wish for his happiness, however it sounded.

After all, her own laughter was hardly refined.

Lost in these contemplations, she was startled when a bewhiskered gentleman seated himself directly across from her.

“Oh, I apologise, I was—” She broke off, suddenly realising the identity of said gentleman. It was Colonel Fitzwilliam. She coloured and was silent.

He nodded shortly to the footmen supervising the covered dishes on the buffet, and they beat a hasty retreat.

“Ahem. Miss Bentley, I owe you an apology, I believe,” he said stiffly.

Well, this was unexpected! But little as she liked to admit it, he had managed to dent her usually iron-clad self-confidence.

He was a handsome and arrogant nobleman who had, no doubt, broken his own code of honour in his belittling treatment of her.

What she ought to do was accept his apology and follow the footmen out of the door. Instead, she smiled sunnily at him.

“Do you? Believe it, I mean. Truly, do not feel you must apologise for the sake of your gentleman’s conscience.

I daresay the evening was tiresome for you—what with being toppled upon, although since you were rather late joining me for dinner, it is no wonder I found my own entertainments, and I have fallen from many a taller tree and doubtlessly would have survived this time, had you not volunteered as a cushion, so to speak.

And I am certain all my friends would share your aversion to dining with beetles.

Still, one could presume that the creature was more entitled to a seat at the table than ourselves.

We were in his orangery, after all. Although, ’tis also true that he was the intruder, as his presence could result in harm to the trees, whose chief rights to the orangery are undisputed, as is your claim to being the injured party, and thus no apologies are owed.

So, save your breath to cool your porridge, as Mrs Figg would say. ”

The colonel blinked, furrowed his brow, and slowly smiled back. “Correct me if I am wrong, but did you just tell me to stubble it?”

It was Sarah’s turn to be surprised, and she met his gaze with a mischievous look. “Surely not,” she demurred.

He nodded ruefully, and she reflected how unfortunate it was that he should be so broad of shoulder, firm of chin, and, apparently, keen of wit.

“Do you know, I feel rather proud of myself,” he said. “I followed those convolutions all the way through, except for not knowing who Mrs Figg might be. And for some reason, I do not think you believed I could.”

“It was more a matter of not caring whether you could or not, actually,” she said, smiling again. “I have come here to find a husband, you see, and as you are already far too cognisant of my many—hmm, shall we say, imperfections?—to be in the running, I need not stifle myself around you.”

“A husband? Well, that was blunt,” he said, plainly taken aback.

She arched her brow. “Oh, are you here for different reasons? Your brother the viscount forced you, perhaps, to attend? You do look like the sort who enjoys the heat of battle far more than a wintry afternoon in the gardens with marriageable misses.”

“I am not searching for a wife!” he protested hotly. “Why should I not be at the family seat helping round out the numbers for my brother?”

“Not even taking a peek to see who is available on the marriage mart, assuming you might someday take an interest? And why should you be embarrassed if you are? And why should I?” She sighed.

“My friends have oft explained the need for less, er, frankness in company. I am not stupid. I simply have little patience for prevarication. I am unashamed of my wish to marry. It seems neither wrong, nor a particularly great secret. Does it seem inappropriate to you, that you might like to foster a connexion with one of the ladies here?”

“No…that is…one would not wish to be thought looking at my brother’s guests as if one were shopping for an adequate winter overcoat. Nor would any gentleman enjoy feeling they were playing the role of fox in this hunt.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “And yet, my aunt, Lady Hampton, warned me not to set my heart on external appearances, good conversation, or any of the more personal reasons why close friendships often form. She advised that all those things must come after the marriage. Specifically, she gave me a list of characteristics—all having to do with respectability, family, appeal, and the absence of certain vices—and swore that a good marriage could be built after the ceremony. There seems not much room for subtlety. You do not agree?”

“What of love?” he asked. “Does the heart have no say in this most important of all decisions?”

“I have questions about the nature of love,” she admitted.

His eyes gleamed, as if this were a topic upon which he had expended much thought.

“It is that certain something in the air when she walks into the room. Every word she utters is more clever, every look has added meaning—the body grows alert and life itself becomes more interesting, more vital, more necessary.”

“Ah. You are speaking of sexual attraction,” she nodded.

He opened his mouth, gaping at her.

“I have studied it in scientific journals of my father’s, and of course, appeal is on my aunt’s list. She would not recommend a man who repulses me. It seems to me a rather flimsy quality, however.”

He only blinked, speechless.

“Consider my young brother, Percy. When he was born, he was the ugliest creature I had ever seen. His head was too large, besides being rather flattish, squinty-eyed, and with a slick of hair down the middle of it like a zebra stripe, while the rest of him was quite red and stick-like. What with the very unattractive squalling, he was really rather hideous. But our mama had died in giving birth to him, you see, and he had no one but the nurserymaid we hired, who was no good at all and let him cry, mostly. I finally picked him up, with experimentation discovering just the ways to rock him and hold him that brought comfort. Some months passed in this fashion, until as I entered the nursery one day and he simply lit with joy to see me, I realised I would do anything for him, really. Jump in front of a speeding carriage to push him out of its way, or sit up all night with him when his teeth began to appear. I loved him, completely, when I had not even wished to like him—I was feeling so down-spirited about Mama, you understand.” She nodded to herself.

“Attraction, of any sort, had naught to do with it. You will probably say it is because he was an infant or a brother, not a spouse, but love is love at the end of it all, is it not?”

The colonel cleared his throat. “I shall not argue your point,” he replied gruffly, after a moment of silence. “Except to say that your brother is rather a fortunate young man.”

She grinned and stood. “I tell him so often. Which reminds me that I must finish my letter to him. He is nine years old now, and I have the great secret of Lord Saye’s cravat to hint about, which will drive him mad in that special way all the best elder sisters have.”

Before he could respond, she hurried away, but at the door she paused and looked at him from over her shoulder.

“For all her reasonable suggestions, I did not wish my aunt to pick out a spouse for me. I do think there is something in what you are saying—it would help tremendously if there were a predisposition towards affection in every newly married couple, I think. What I do not understand, I suppose, is the difference between animal spirits and real feeling, and how the one might encourage the other. Perhaps Mr Withers will agree to an experiment or two, so I might discover it.”

With that remark, Miss Bentley sailed out of the door, and Fitzwilliam found himself alone in the breakfast room. He shook his head as if to clear it. Why, she is as mad as a hatter! Except, he knew, she was not.

After an uneasy sleep last night, he had arisen early and gone for a brisk morning walk and, unsurprisingly, found himself within the orangery, the scene of his worst behaviour the evening before.

He had never said such unkind words to a lady in all his life; Miss Bentley had the peculiar power of goading him!

But no; he must not blame her. He knew the importance in life of governing his tongue and temper.

He was fortunate to have a life, as his scars attested.

Allowing his jealousy of Darcy to embitter him was unacceptable.

Darcy, Saye, and the like were able to have what they wanted in a way that second sons could not; so it was and so it had always been.

And then, just as if fate was determined to remind him of his foolishness, he nearly tripped over Phipps, Matlock’s head gardener, who knelt near a certain set of trees—the ones Miss Bentley had been too-closely examining the night before.

“Excuse me, Phipps,” he apologised immediately. “I was wool-gathering, and did not see you.”

“Nawt to worry, sir,” Phipps said, still intent upon the soil. “’Tis lucky we are. One of the guests discovered an infestation of cockchafers. Never would’ve believed it meself, nawt this time o’ year. But proof is proof, an’ she brought me one, bigger ’n life. We’ll get it cleared.”