Page 9 of The Derbyshire Dance (Kendall House #3)

Chapter six

Compliments

N igel had nothing to do the following day other than dress for dinner at the Brownlees’.

He had allowed Archie to attempt a waterfall cravat, but the daft lad had ruined so many squares of pressed cloth that Nigel finally had to wave him away and tie it himself.

He had not brought evening wear for this trip of the sort that he would wear for the ballrooms and dining rooms of London, but he suspected that a dark morning suit would be more than adequate to dine with the local squire in honour of the new vicar.

His truncated tea with Miss Morrison yesterday continued to amuse him and parade through his thoughts more frequently than it should.

Clearly, the woman disapproved of him. He guessed that she was ten years his junior but still old enough to be set in her character.

And that character, he suspected, was almost impervious to charm.

Almost .

He had seen her blush when he took her hand in farewell. Apparently, the touch of his hand had done something to her. Blast! It had done something to him too.

Nigel snorted. He had been away from London far too long if the unwilling handclasp of a village spinster could set his pulse racing. Still—it was not the worst thing to have an average-looking female to while away the time with.

He had challenged Miss Morrison to make him lose his temper—a feat that only his niece Louisa had ever been able to achieve.

He would challenge himself to bring down her defences.

Could he make her smile? Could he make her laugh?

Could he finally discover what colour her hair was without a bonnet covering it up?

It was true what he had told her, that he had attempted to seduce Mrs. Audeley merely to put the Earl of Kendall’s nose out of joint.

But somehow, Rose Audeley had seen through his philandering facade to the person he’d been before his brother had died.

Before he’d tried to impress the ton by frittering away a fortune.

Before he’d become the wastrel Duke of Warrenton.

She had seen him and taken pity on him. And that was how he had found a place outside of London to go to ground like a fox, hoping that Mr. Digby’s hounds would not sniff him out anytime soon.

But if he had to maintain his anonymity in the countryside indefinitely, he might as well make his own amusement while he was there. Mrs. Audeley might have been a more tempting armful, but getting up a flirtation with the no-nonsense Miss Morrison sounded amusing indeed.

“Archie! Where’s my beaver? ”

The aspiring valet rushed into the room, his spotty face lit up with pride and his hands reverently holding the one hat Nigel had brought with him. “Right here, yer grace.”

Nigel took it in hand, looked it over, and frowned. “Did you brush it?”

“The best I could,” said Archie.

“I’m afraid you’ve over- brushed it,” said Nigel. “The gloss is gone, and you’ve almost worn a hole here in the side. Egad! It’s not like scraping moss off a garden wall.”

Archie gaped and tried to take the beaver back, but Nigel waved him away.

“Never mind, never mind. It can’t be helped now.

” He would have given the lad the sack had they been back in London, but somehow, the botched brushing of a beaver was all part of this rusticating adventure.

He was “Mr. Lymington” here in Derbyshire, not the immaculate Duke of Warrenton.

And that meant making allowances for Archie Garrick, spots and all.

When Nigel came downstairs, he saw that John had readied the horses to deliver him to the Brownlees’.

The coachman had a pleasant smile on his face.

Perhaps he was happy not to have to prepare another meal for an inconvenient houseguest. Or perhaps he simply enjoyed the opportunity to harness up the horses after a few days of indolence.

The Brownlees kept country hours for dinner, but it was already dark outside when it was time to depart—dark and dank with the fog that had come down from the hills into the valley.

Nigel squinted out the carriage window and discovered that the Brownlees were on the other side of the triangle that formed the Morrison property.

Apparently, Miss Morrison’s holdings were pincered between her neighbours like Switzerland between France and Italy .

The windows of Mullhill Manor gleamed brightly.

It was twice the size of the Morrison home and larger too than the Audeley residence.

Clearly, Harold Brownlee was the premier landowner in this part of Derbyshire, which is why Miss Morrison had assumed that Nigel’s “business” must be with him.

John coaxed the horses round the circular drive and dropped Nigel off at the entrance to the house.

A footman—one of a matching pair—opened the door, and Nigel began to feel that he had entered civilisation once again.

The plump lady who had been hanging on Harold Brownlee’s arm at the church smiled and approached.

She was much of an age with Miss Lucy Morrison, but her soft blond hair had not yet begun to grey and the skin about her eyes was still luminescent.

“A very charming home, Mrs. Brownlee,” complimented Nigel, handing his beaver, greatcoat, and gloves to one of the footmen.

The lady of the house glowed at this praise. “We are honoured to host you tonight, Mr. Lymington. You must let me know if there’s anything I can provide to see to your comfort.”

“Good company is all that I require,” said Nigel, “and I seem to have found it already.”

Mrs. Brownlee put a hand to her heart, showing that Nigel’s dart of flattery had struck just the place intended. “I’ve seated you next to Miss Morrison,” she said with a quiet voice. “She cannot fail to keep you entertained during dinner.”

Nigel decided to be purposefully obtuse. “Ah yes, I had tea with Miss Lucy this week, and she regaled me with her memories of London.”

“Dear me, did I say Miss Lucy? I meant Miss Belinda, for I supposed that the young people ought to sit together. Miss Belinda, the vicar, and you—and if the vicar starts to prose on, why, Bel will keep him in check.”

Nigel gave her an encouraging smile. At the advanced age of eight-and-thirty, he did not consider himself young anymore, but the prospect of teasing Belinda Morrison was a delight that he had been looking forward to all day, even if he did have to endure a prosy vicar.

“My ears are tingling,” said the woman of whom they spoke. Miss Morrison approached with fearless step. “What are you telling him about me, Mrs. Brownlee?”

“Nothing, my dear, merely that he is to take you in to dinner.”

“Is that so?” said Miss Morrison, without the hint of a simper or the bat of an eyelash.

Nigel stared at her. Her hair, no longer covered by a prim bonnet or a farmhand’s cap, was finally revealed to him as a rippling shade of loamy brown, containing as many colours as a patch of freshly turned earth in the summer sun.

And her dress, for once, was the expected attire of a gentlewoman—a high-waisted silken confection in navy blue that confirmed she had a lovely collarbone, lovely shoulders, and other lovely parts as well.

It was the first time Nigel had seen Miss Morrison in any colour other than a drab brown or grey.

It was also the first time that her dress had any shape to it—hinting that her body might be less angular than he had heretofore observed.

Nigel began to consider Mrs. Brownlee a very commendable hostess to arrange matters as she had.

He would take Miss Morrison in to dinner, even if it meant enduring the proximity of the clerical guest of honour, and he would tease her mercilessly.

After all, one needed something to do when one was rusticating.

Bel sensed Mr. Lymington looking her over with an appraising eye.

She had allowed Aunt Lucy to select her a gown for the dinner, and predictably, Aunt Lucy had chosen the most expensive gown in Bel’s wardrobe with the most beadwork, the most embroidery, and the least coverage.

It was not immodest by any means, but it showed far more skin than her usual wool gowns that buttoned up to the neck.

More than once, Bel wished she had longer sleeves or a sensible fichu to tuck into her neckline.

Mr. Lymington’s flippant mention of seducing Mrs. Audeley had put her on her guard—although, she had her doubts whether a real rake would mention a failed attempt at seduction so blithely.

As Mrs. Brownlee moved away to greet the elderly Ferris brothers, Mr. Lymington took a step nearer.

From the glitter in his eye, she thought he might be about to give her a compliment, but instead, he leaned closer and whispered in her ear.

“Miss Morrison, upon my word, I scarcely recognised you without your governess’ dress… or without your trousers.”

Bel’s ears flamed red, with no bonnet this time to shield them from sight.

So, she had not escaped notice in the muddy sheep field two days ago.

Mr. Lymington had taken note of her in trousers and was apparently scandalised—or intrigued—by the picture.

“How curious,” she shot back, “for I scarcely recognised you without a stolen cat on your lap.”

“Stolen? Tsk, tsk. Your cat simply knows how to follow her heart.”

“Say, rather, her stomach . ”

“A less noble organ, but not to be despised. I must confess that my own stomach is a-quiver with excitement to enjoy something besides Coachman John’s cooking tonight.”

“What a sore trial it must be to you to stay at an establishment with limited staff. I take it you have a full complement of servants at your usual London estate?” It was not exactly polite to demand if a gentleman was well-heeled and well-housed, but Bel had no qualms about plain speaking with Mr. Lymington.

“Er, yes,” said the dark-haired man, but tentatively, as if he did not wish to brag about his status. It was the first mark of humility that Bel had witnessed in him.

“You must be eager to finish your business so you can return to them. What was your business in Derbyshire, Mr. Lymington? Mining rights? Or was it landscape appreciation?” Bel cast him an innocent look.

“Something of the sort.”

She lifted one eyebrow. She would wager that it was nothing of the sort.

Why was Mr. Lymington here in Derbyshire?

And how long did he mean to stay? If he meant to needle her about wearing trousers, she would needle him back about his unjustified presence in these parts.

One did not simply come to Upper Cross in rural Derbyshire for relaxation. One went to Brighton. Or Bognor.

“Miss Morrison,” said a cheerful voice in tones loud enough to fill a pulpit rather than a mere drawing room.

It was the vicar, beaming brightly, nodding at his surroundings, and looking for all the world as if he were the host here at Mullhill Manor.

“How delightful to see you again. Mrs. Brownlee tells me that I shall enjoy your company at dinner.”

Bel would not have thought that her company would provoke such delight, but she gave a warm smile that was more for Mr. Lymington’s benefit than the vicar’s.

“I hope that Mrs. Brownlee proves correct, Mr. Townsend. I shall endeavour to mind my manners so that I do not send you into distress once again.”

“Distress?” echoed the vicar. “I can see that I have given you a false impression of me. I must have appeared very pigeon hearted when I left tea early the other day.”

“Left tea early?” echoed Mr. Lymington, still at Bel’s elbow. “Good heavens! What could have frightened you away? Surely it was not our dear Miss Morrison?”

Bel’s lips set into a firm line, and she refused to let them smile. Would the insufferable Mr. Lymington ever stop tormenting her? The worst part of it was that she could not help but find him amusing, wretch that he was.

“Certainly not,” replied the vicar. “The fact of the matter is, no sooner had I arrived than I felt a sneeze coming on. And when I tried to stifle it, it came on in greater force. Since I had been soaked to the skin on the walk over, I decided I should curtail my visit and seek dry clothes lest my sneezing fit develop into a wheeze or a croup. A clergyman cannot be too careful with his voice. It is the clarion call to faith, the trumpet from which the Gospel soundeth forth. ‘How shall they hear without a preacher?’ if you take my meaning?”

“How indeed?” murmured Mr. Lymington, his own urbane voice a pointed contrast with the stentorian tones of the vicar.

“I am relieved to hear that you did not take ill from your outing,” said Bel, “and that you did not take offence from my conversation.” Aunt Lucy had certainly attributed the vicar’s sudden defection to Bel’s frank manner, but perhaps his sneezing was really to blame and his breast harboured no such sensitivity .

“Harold explained to me,” said the vicar confidently, nodding in the direction of Mr. Brownlee who was about to throw open the doors to the dining room, “that you have a penchant for levity.”

“A penchant for levity?” said Mr. Lymington in low tones, his lips quite close to the edge of her ear. “My dear Miss Morrison, have you been making a cake of the new vicar?”

“Certainly not,” said Bel. She would have ended the conversation there, but somehow, under the odious influence of the witty Mr. Lymington, she had the wish to be a wit too.

She turned and spoke to him in a half-whisper.

“I was under the mistaken impression that Mr. Townsend was proposing marriage to me, and I merely asked him to clarify his intentions.”

Mr. Lymington gave a wicked laugh. “Why, Miss Morrison, I never would have suspected that you had it in you.”

Mr. Townsend, observing the intimacy of their muted conversation, looked ready to administer a reprimand, but the gong sounded before anything further could be said.

Mr. Lymington offered Bel his arm, while Mr. Townsend was obliged to take in their hostess, Mrs. Brownlee.

Aunt Lucy entered on the arm of wizened old Jack Ferris while his even older brother James Ferris shuffled in behind them without a partner.

And then Mr. Brownlee, beaming and benevolent, led in Mrs. White, a wealthy widow who kept a house in the village.