Page 12 of The Derbyshire Dance (Kendall House #3)

Chapter nine

Cap

A s Mr. Lymington had suggested, the vicar was indeed the first to hear news of Mrs. Audeley.

At the end of the service on Sunday, Mr. Townsend trumpeted out an announcement: “I publish the banns of marriage between Rose Audeley of Upper Cross, Derbyshire and Bertram Gale, Earl of Kendall, of St. George’s of Hanover Square.

This is the first time of asking. If any of you know cause or just impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony, ye are to declare it. ”

“Upon my word, Mr. Lymington!” said Aunt Lucy, leaning over the edge of the Morrison box and barely able to contain her excitement until the announcement had finished. “Rose Audeley and an earl? Did you know this betrothal was forthcoming?”

“I had my suspicions,” said Mr. Lymington.

Bel noticed that although he had hinted about the announcement at the dinner earlier in the week, he seemed quite sombre hearing the words from the pulpit.

She wondered if he had developed a tendre for Mrs. Audeley.

Their neighbour, though a few years older than him, was still a beautiful woman with a sweet spirit, a sensible nature, and manners that set everyone at ease.

Mr. Lymington, if he had been in the market for a wife rather than a romantic conquest, would have done well to secure a woman like that.

“But an earl! I would not have thought Mrs. Audeley would enter such prestigious circles. How did they meet?”

“I am not privy to that information,” said Mr. Lymington, refusing to assuage Aunt Lucy’s curiosity.

He offered Bel his arm as they both exited their boxes at the same time.

Bel accepted his arm stiffly. She did not know why he should be so attentive unless he was simply used to having a woman—any woman—hanging on him.

He had left early from the dinner at the Brownlees, and today he seemed less cheeky.

Less self-assured. Had something mellowed him in the intervening days?

Or had the vicar’s sermon finally convinced him that he ought to amend his way of life?

Bel turned her chip bonnet so she could study his face and discovered that he was already looking down at her.

“It is not raining,” he observed.

“No, indeed, so we shall have no need to share your carriage. We walked here and shall walk home again.”

“You have a robust constitution.”

“I am not sure if that is a compliment or an accusation.”

“Take it as you will.” He smiled and pulled her closer, allowing Mr. and Mrs. Brownless to pass them in the aisle. The capes of his greatcoat crushed against her shoulder, and he tucked her forearm neatly against his side.

His proximity and his scrutiny caused Bel to consider her own appearance.

She had dressed in a brown wool pelisse over a grey wool dress to combat the cold and pulled on a pair of serviceable half-boots to guard against puddles.

It was practical, but was it…pleasing? That was not a question she often asked herself.

But why should she care if Nigel Lymington was pleased with her attire?

Why should she care if she evoked “beauty” and “joy” for him?

“May I walk you home?”

“And muddy your boots?” She raised an eyebrow.

“Come now, you must think all Londoners lily-hearted poltroons. I am not afraid of a little mud.”

“Perhaps I am afraid we shall be obliged to invite you to dinner if you walk home with us.”

A little of his teasing smile surfaced. “No doubt that was my object in asking.”

“And there’s no reason why we shouldn’t invite you!” interrupted Aunt Lucy. “I declare, having a handsome gentleman at the table and some cosmopolitan conversation would not go amiss.”

“You are too kind,” said Mr. Lymington. He cast a triumphant look at Bel who had been outmanoeuvred by her aunt. “I would be happy to accept the invitation.”

Bel tried to put a frown on her face, but somehow her mouth would not cooperate. Her own countenance was conspiring against her to give Mr. Lymington the false hope that she wanted him to dine with them today!

She chastised her face severely, and as they walked home through the chilly Derbyshire air, she considered how best to make Mr. Lymington aware that she had no interest in his highly superfluous attentions.

“A vast improvement over ham and eggs,” said Nigel appreciatively as the Morrisons’ maid served the roast beef, vegetables, cheese, bread, and strawberry preserves. “And over the fare at the Jester’s Arms too.”

“Have you been dining there often?” asked Aunt Lucy.

“On occasion this week, to give John a rest from his culinary labours.”

“I would have thought Archie Garrick would cook for you,” said Bel.

Nigel saw the plain-faced maid’s ears perk up; she paused as she was about to fill his water glass. Apparently, his spotty valet was of interest to this country domestic.

“No, no,” said Nigel. “Archie’s talents lie in…other directions.” Nigel was not sure what directions those were, but he maintained impressive control of his face while uttering the sentiment.

It was more control than he’d been able to maintain when Miss Morrison had first come downstairs after refreshing her wardrobe in the upper storey of the house.

She had removed her half boots and her bonnet, but on her head was a prominent and particularly dowdy cap.

Her burnished brown hair that he had been hoping to examine more closely was covered as thoroughly as if she had worn a nun’s wimple.

All through dinner she had kept the beastly thing on—as if she were some sort of aged spinster who had crept down from the attic to eat soft-boiled potatoes and cabbage soup.

“It’s quite warm in here,” said Nigel when they adjourned to the parlour, “with not a draught to be found.” He stood before the fireplace, hands behind his back. “I’m surprised you find the need for a cap to keep away the cold, Miss Morrison. ”

“Oh, I care nothing about the cold. I merely wear one out of deference to my advanced years.”

“Your advanced years,” repeated Nigel.

“Indeed.” She looked at him defiantly.

“And does your rheumatism also keep you up at night when it rains?” He looked at her dryly. “Old age does bring so many aches and pains.”

“Pish-posh!” said Aunt Lucy, bustling over to an armchair and taking her seat with a cup of tea in her hands.

“You’re both of you far too young to be complaining of anything of the sort.

Sit down, Mr. Lymington. There—on the sofa by my niece.

You cannot possibly mean to leave so soon after dinner, so you might as well make yourself comfortable. ”

Nigel obliged one of his hostesses and ignored the narrowed eyes of the other.

He had no sooner sat down than his lap was invaded.

“Ah, Magpie,” said Nigel, delighted to see Miss Morrison’s cat curl up on his legs.

He enjoyed the creature’s soft fur—and the triumph of having the cat like him better than it did its mistress.

“How do you keep Christmas, Mr. Lymington?” asked Aunt Lucy.

“How do I keep it?” Nigel began to cudgel his brain.

“Poorly, I suppose. My parents did not enjoy the Yuletide festivities. My brother and his wife enjoyed them too much.” Nigel remembered the frivolous house parties that the last Duke of Warrenton would hold.

He remembered buying his niece some sugar plums and a little doll and taking them up to the nursery while her parents were revelling with their riotous guests.

By last year, of course, he had been duke himself, and he had not even remembered to mark the day with any baubles for Louisa .

“Enjoyed?” asked Bel Morrison, the edges of that odious cap bobbing about her face. “You speak as if—”

“Yes, they are deceased,” said Nigel with a self-deprecating shrug. “I have little family left.”

“Oh, you poor dear,” said Aunt Lucy. “All the more reason for you to keep Christmas with us. That is, if you are still in Derbyshire?”

Nigel scratched Magpie behind the ears. “My plans remain…uncertain.” The cat began to purr.

“It seems as if you and Belinda have much in common—”

“Aunt Lucy,” said the younger Miss Morrison, an edge of warning in her voice.

“I mean your affection for that cat, of course,” said Aunt Lucy.

“And she clearly adores you both.” The old lady shifted in her armchair and gave a little squeak.

“Good heavens! I’ve gone and spilt my tea.

” She rose to her feet and placed the cup and saucer on the table nearby.

“No, no, do not stand on my account, Mr. Lymington. I would not have you disturb Magpie for all the world. I must go find a handkerchief, but never fear. I shall return momentarily.” And with that, Aunt Lucy vacated the room.

Miss Morrison’s lips set into a firm line, and she turned her head to meet Nigel’s eyes as the door to the drawing room swung closed. “I must apologise for my aunt, Mr. Lymington. She is incorrigible where matchmaking is concerned.”

“Certainly, there can be no harm in leaving two such elderly folk as you and me alone in a room.”

“One would like to think so—but then, there are your unsavoury claims about trying to seduce Mrs. Audeley.”

“Er, yes,” said Nigel. “I am afraid that I must admit to being the villain in that piece.” Indeed, he was the villain, but it would never have occurred to him to pursue the Derbyshire widow had not Lady Maltrousse suggested a way to put the Earl of Kendall’s nose out of joint.

Miss Morrison stared at him. “You don’t seem very accomplished at your role.”

“Accomplished? What on earth can you mean, Miss Morrison?”

“You admit to having been foiled in your object, and now Mrs. Audeley is betrothed to an earl and completely out of your reach. And what is more, if you truly were proficient in your rakishness, one suspects you would have capitalised on Aunt Lucy’s absence already to—”