Page 15 of Bewitching Benedict (The Lovelorn Lads #1)
A second carriage nearby drew up as well, and two young people disembarked.
Claire glanced up to smile without truly seeing them, then returned to arranging the picnic to her liking.
They had been fortunate in the weather, she thought; the oilskin beneath the blankets kept away any dew, and it hadn't rained to soak the ground thoroughly.
Satisfied with all things, including the arrangement she had made for the picnic lunch, Claire sat on her heels to look for Graham, and discovered the woman of the other couple preparing their picnic blanket as well.
She was extraordinary, Claire decided at once: her strawberry blonde hair was neatly pinned beneath a splendid hat of blue and white pinstripes that matched her overcoat perfectly.
Her gown's skirt beneath the coat's gores was yellow, but such a pale yellow as to make Claire think of the most delicate spring roses.
The impression was increased by the woman's slender build.
Claire had not yet stopped gazing in admiration when the woman's picnic partner approached, and for a critical moment Claire examined them together as a couple, seeing if they suited one another.
He was dark of hair and warmer of skin tone, well dressed, and as proportionately slim and tall as she, making them a handsome pair.
Claire reached for wine to pour, still watching them curiously, and accidentally poured wine onto the blanket as the man doffed his hat to reveal himself as Benedict Fairburn.
"Oh, dash it!" burst from her lips before she could stop herself, and inevitably, Fairburn and his companion turned her way curiously.
Miss Priscilla Hurst was the most suitable driving companion a gentleman could hope for.
She spoke willingly about fashion and the weather, and knowledgeably about topics not generally considered suitable for a lady, such as politics and the war.
Benedict found himself murmuring, "I believe your grandfather should be commended, Miss Hurst, for engendering a woman able to engage in such conversation. "
"Have you any brothers at war, Mr Fairburn?"
"One," Benedict replied in surprise. "Why?"
"And have you any sisters?"
"Two."
"Ask them sometime what they think of the politics of war, sir. You might be surprised what we women think and talk about when men are not on hand to worry that we could harm ourselves with too much intellect."
Maybe she was too unconcerned with convention to be suitable after all, Benedict thought, but demmed if she wasn't interesting.
And interest ed , or surely she would never have dared such frank statements on so little acquaintance.
Unless that was why such a beauty was still unmarried: perhaps her opinions were too readily voiced.
Well, no matter. Benedict was sure that by the time he had returned from his picnic, his mother would know all there was to know about Miss Hurst. Her suitability would be determined then.
Rather than dwell on it, Benedict drew the horses off the track and helped Miss Hurst from the carriage. "Let me post them and then I'll take the basket out."
"Nonsense," said Miss Hurst, and with a long snaking arm, seized the basket and took it to lay their lunch out. Trying not to whistle with pleasure, Benedict put the horses to post and sauntered back to Miss Hurst's side.
There were other picnickers: a young woman in a magnificent mustard coat and a hat that swept becomingly over her face as she set her own food out, and another young man a small distance away hitching a handsome grey with the careful actions of one not well-practiced at the art.
Pleased at the idea that others were out to enjoy the unusually fine November afternoon, Benedict was smiling as he approached Miss Hurst and removed his hat.
A most unladylike outburst emanated from the picnicker nearby. Miss Hurst and Benedict both turned in surprise, only for Benedict to meet Claire Dalton's startled green gaze.
The cause of her distress was obvious: she had poured wine not into the glasses set out, but onto the blanket.
But she looked not at the wine or glasses, but rather at Benedict, as if he was the cause of her surprise.
He cleared his throat and looked around to meet Miss Hurst's curious eyes.
"Are you acquainted with that young lady, Mr Fairburn? "
"The cousin of my closest friend," Benedict said in some despair, because it was abruptly clear to him that?—
"Mr Fairburn," Miss Dalton said in a tone as grim as the tenor of his own thoughts. "What a surprise to encounter you here this afternoon. I do suppose we really must all join for company, rather than sit so close and pretend we don't know each other."
Were he slightly less well-bred, Benedict would have allowed his shoulders to slump.
As it was, he could permit himself no more than a smile, as if the proposition was the most natural and pleasant in the world rather than the wretched thing he, too, had concluded must be done out of politeness.
"Yes, of course. Please, allow me to move our blankets together.
The work of a moment." He could not manage any note of enthusiasm in the recitation, but then, neither had Miss Dalton.
Miss Hurst had not yet opened the wine, so it was their blanket he moved, judging the risk of spillage to be lesser. After tucking the two blankets together he offered a strained version of his best smile. "Miss Hurst, may I present Miss Claire Dalton. Miss Dalton, Miss Priscilla Hurst."
Discernible conversation was momentarily lost in a blur of greetings and mutual admiration, every nuance of which sounded sincere to Benedict's ear.
Then the other gentleman approached and Claire, sounding more lighthearted than she had issuing the invitation to join them, called, "Ah, Mr Graham, I have found friends! Please, come meet them!"
Claire's companion was the sandy-haired fellow from the night before.
His gaze skittered over the newly arrived pair and he slowed considerably between one step and the next, casting a quick, almost desperate glance at Miss Dalton.
She, in turn, smiled with fixed determination and said, still lightly, "Of course I insisted they join us.
Mr Jack Graham, may I present Miss Priscilla Hurst and Mr Benedict Fairburn. "
Miss Hurst's attention, Benedict realized, was entirely on Graham: on the handsome, strong-jawed face and the loose, easy sand-gold curls and the dark doe eyes.
It was the very same way Miss Dalton had looked at Graham the night before.
Without further thought, Benedict concluded he loathed the man, although he took pains to hide it with an overly pleased greeting.
Graham exuded the same enthusiasm for him, effused over Miss Hurst to a degree that made Miss Dalton grow chilly and Miss Hurst, cool by nature, veritably icy.
Finally, he seemed to realize he had overplayed his hand and trailed into an uncomfortable silence that lasted an untoward amount of time.
Well, they could not stand there silently all afternoon. Benedict, through a smile meant to hide clenched teeth, said, "Perhaps we should sit. Do be careful, Miss Dalton, you spilled wine there."
He thought she would cut him for the reminder, but even as he thought it, she relented. "So I did. Thank you, Mr Fairburn; it would have been difficult to get out of this dress."
"We have lemonade," Miss Hurst offered. "Less dangerous to the fabrics."
"But so bitter," Graham said almost beneath his breath.
A momentary pause broke the conversation while all three of the others tried to decide if they should behave as if they had heard that, or not.
Better not, Benedict thought, and in the same instant it seemed the women had drawn the same conclusion, as Miss Dalton said, "Lemonade would be splendid, thank you.
Perhaps the wine can be saved for later, and poured by someone with steadier hands. "
"That would no doubt be myself," said Miss Hurst. "I'm told I have ice in my veins, which surely means I cannot tremble with emotion."
"One of our wines is white," Graham said smoothly. "Perhaps you might hold it in those icy hands to chill it."
"Oh, but everyone's hands must be icy!" Miss Dalton blurted.
“Is it not very cold suddenly?" It was not; the sun shone as warmly as it could in November, and what little wind there was hardly stirred the hair, but Benedict, having been about to say something similar, felt a sharp pang of sympathy lance him.
Miss Dalton's pulse was quick in her throat, and her eyes were round with dismay as Graham and Miss Hurst broke their tête- à-tête to look at her.
She went on a little wildly, as if having not thought through what she planned to say.
"The wind is very chill, is it not? I hope you've packed something to warm the humors with, Mr Graham! "
Graham seemed to remember himself and procured a broken smile for her. "Yes, of course. The wind is quite bad, Miss Dalton."
Soon, Benedict thought, they would have convinced themselves of a veritable storm with thunderous clouds and lashing rain rather than the mild afternoon they were actually experiencing.
Claire's attempt at a polite fiction had already gone too far, and the situation only grew worse as Graham blundered on.
“Perhaps we ought to have chosen a gazebo for our picnic.
But I have brought fish pasties, bundled well enough to still be warm, and that should help to ward off the chill! "
"I don't care for fish pasties," said Miss Hurst.
Graham's smile went rigid. "It is as well I did not pack it for you, then, Miss Hurst."