Page 12 of The Spinster’s Stolen Heart (Willenshires #5)

Pippa could feel her mother’s anger mounting. During the carriage ride here, Bridget had made it abundantly clear that today was intended for Pippa and Lord Barwick to spend time together. Already, she had convinced Eleanor to place the three of them together – with Lady Henrietta beside her son, naturally – and from there, it was expected that Pippa would stay where she was or at least allow herself to be moved around under her mother’s direction.

A perfect opportunity. That was what Bridget had described it as. An opportunity for Society to watch the courtship progress, and for Lord Barwick to convince himself that Pippa really was the perfect woman for him.

She highly doubted that he cared to find a perfect woman . In fact, Pippa was not entirely sure what had made Lord Barwick pursue her at all. She had nothing to offer, not even a dowry. What had he to gain? Not love, that was for sure.

So the party had dragged by, painfully slowly, and Pippa had grown more and more miserable. Nobody came to save her – why would they? All they could see was a young woman sticking very properly by her mother’s side, as she should, sitting by an eligible bachelor. They would consider themselves doing her a disservice if they had interrupted.

And then along came Lord Whitmore.

Pippa had to admit that her chest tightened at the sight of him. In a good way, of course. Was there a good way for all of the breath to be squeezed out of one’s lungs? Mayhap. She had sensed her mother inflating with outrage when he asked her to walk with him, and spoke up before things could get out of hand.

In short, before her mother could dismiss Lord Whitmore and insult him too badly for him to try to speak to Pippa again.

Pippa very much did not want that to happen.

She tried to ignore Bridget’s glare as she got to her feet, shaking out her skirts.

“It’ll be quite proper, Mama,” Pippa said, as if that were the concern. “We shan’t be out of sight at all.”

Bridget had gone a funny shade of purple and glanced over at Lord Barwick. He smiled lazily.

“I shall accompany you, then.”

“Oh, no, Lord Barwick, there’s no need for that,” Pippa said, the words exiting her mouth before she could realise what she was saying. “Mother and you were having such a lovely conversation. I should hate to interrupt it. You must stay here, I insist.”

Not giving him a chance to respond, she stepped away from the table, taking Lord Whitmore’s outstretched arm, and the two of them hurried off.

***

The smooth paving stones beneath their feet gave way to rough gravel, interspersed with scrubby grass. They didn’t even seem to be heading anywhere in particularly, aside from away from the terrace and towards the roses. Pippa and Lord Whitmore did not speak for a few minutes. She was tempted to twist around to look behind them and discover whether they were being pursued or not.

She didn’t hear running footsteps or her mother’s squeal of anger, so it seemed that they were safe. For now, at least. Pippa breathed out a sigh of relief.

“I… I hope I didn’t interrupt,” Lord Whitmore ventured at last. “But you really did look as though you needed rescuing. You looked rather… if I could be so bold, you looked a little bored .”

Pippa winced. “I’m afraid I was bored. Lord Barwick seems to talk over my head at all times. He seems to have a passing respect for my mother, at least, which I suppose is a good thing, but he is barely interested in me.”

She immediately wondered whether she had said the wrong thing. Was that too blunt?

But then, Cousin Katherine said that my blunt manners were considered rather charming by the ton . For now, at least.

She tried not to think about what might happen if the ton grew tired of her or decided that her manners were not as charming as they had originally decided. Society was notoriously changeable, everybody knew that. You got what you could while it still liked you and prayed to be well clear when their minds changed.

Or so her father had said, at least. Privately, Pippa wondered whether the world her father had left, years ago, was the same one she was in now. Was it different?

She gave herself a little shake, glancing up at Lord Whitmore to see if he’d noticed her sudden silence. It occurred to her that he did not seem to be eager to fill the silence with small talk. That was something she had learned very quickly – silence in Society was to be avoided at all costs. One always had to be saying something or listening to somebody saying something. Words must always be in the air. Silence was dangerous, and not to be tolerated.

So far, she’d seen countless men and women inwardly writhing at an extended, awkward period of silence, and then all of them would speak at once to dispel it. She’d watched debutantes cringe at their own poor conversation skills, when uncomfortable pauses lengthened during a stilted conversation.

What was wrong with a little quiet?

“How are you enjoying Society, Miss Randall?” Lord Whitmore asked, after a moment or two.

She sighed. “Well enough. Everybody is very kind – well, almost everybody – and I am invited to a great many parties and such. However, I think our invitations are a courtesy to our family, the Willenshires, instead of to us.”

Lord Whitmore winced. “Yes, I know the feeling. My mother is a much-loved and much-respected woman of Society, and often I am invited to places as a favour to her. Or worse, simply because I am the Viscount Whitmore. They aren’t inviting me, they are inviting my title. It wouldn’t matter who held the title.”

“Do you think we were always so shallow?”

He glanced at her sharply. “Shallow?”

Pippa flushed but held her ground. “Indeed, shallow. It seems that all we care about are the things that are superficial – money, beauty, a title. Breeding, although more and more these days people are willing to overlook anything if one only has money .”

Lord Whitmore considered this and nodded slowly.

“I am obliged to agree with you, Miss Randall. We are concerned only with superficial frivolities. However, Society itself is built on superficial nonsense. Think of it – if you were to host a party, you could not simply invite your friends. You may invite your friends, if they are sufficiently well-known, well-bred, or rich enough. However, the vast majority of your guests must be comprised of people you do not know well and do not particularly like. And if you omit an important name from your guest list, well. Heaven help you. You shan’t be forgiven.”

She shuddered. “Yes, I know what you mean. I’m frankly quite glad not to have to host a party of that magnitude. But Cousin Henry and his wife Eleanor have organised this party, and not everybody is here.”

“True,” Lord Whitmore conceded. “But Henry is only a second son, and Eleanor was never a leader of Society. They shall never be patrons of Almack’s, to be sure, but the rules are perhaps less stringent for them.”

Pippa considered this. “I haven’t been to Almack’s yet.”

“Count your blessings. I have, and it’s something of a bore. Still, a fashionable person must have a subscription. Perhaps next year?”

Pippa went very still. “I won’t be here next year, Lord Whitmore. If I am married, mayhap I’ll be here with a husband. If not, my mother will probably take me home in disgrace.”

Again, she had said too much. Biting the inside of her cheek, Pippa glanced up at Lord Whitmore. He was looking down at her with a faint frown between his brows.

“You have a rather dark view of your future, Miss Randall,” he said at last.

She shrugged, a most unladylike gesture which would have earned her a rap about the shoulders from her mother if she had seen.

“A realistic one, I’m afraid. The time has come to put aside my nonsense and childishness and set about being practical.”

The silence lasted longer this time.

“And who told you that, I wonder?” Lord Whitmore said, his voice so soft she could not decide who he was talking to, her or himself. She glanced up at him and opened her mouth to reply.

At that moment, with impeccable timing, a movement over his shoulder caught her attention. Pippa glanced over, and her heart sank.

“Oh, dear,” she murmured.

Lord Whitmore twisted to look behind him and gave out a sigh.

“Lord Barwick approaches, I see. What a surprise.”

They hadn’t even reached the roses yet. Bridget stood beside the table, craning her neck, watching them. Lord Barwick was striding across the grass, abandoning the paths in favour of a more direct route. There was determination on his face.

“Miss Randall!” he called, when he was still a fair distance away. “It has just occurred to me, Miss Randall, that if we are to conduct our game of chess, we had better start now.”

She felt vaguely sick. Lord Whitmore glanced down at her.

“I didn’t know you were fond of chess, Miss Randall.”

She clenched her jaw. “I am not. I can barely move the pieces, let alone play. My father tried to teach me, but neither of us had the patience for it.”

Lord Barwick reached them, offering a cursory and almost accusatory bow to Lord Whitmore. He was faintly out of breath, a testament to how quickly he’d walked to catch up with them.

Pippa breathed in, trying to pretend she was as forthright as Katherine, and as brave as Lavinia.

“We have just begun our walk, Lord Barwick. Perhaps another time.”

Annoyance darkened his brow, hastily swept away and replaced with a false smile.

“I believe your mother requests of your presence, Miss Randall. You are to go inside, and we can play the game there. This sun is most injurious to your complexion.”

All three of them looked up at the dense ceiling of grey clouds.

“Indeed,” Lord Whitmore murmured.

There was nothing for it. Pippa reluctantly untangled her arm from Lord Whitmore’s. Despite her carefulness, her gloved palm brushed the back of his knuckles. He flinched, drawing his arm away a little faster. Or was that her imagination?

Lord Barwick, barely holding back a triumphant smile, held out his arm, and she was obliged to rest her hand in the crook of his elbow. He tucked his arm tight against his side, trapping her fingers in a rather pinching grip. Lord Whitmore folded his arms behind his back, and Pippa felt a pang.

I want to stay here. I want to talk to him. He’s… he’s interesting. He cares about what I have to say.

She had no choice of course. Parting salutations were tendered, and Pippa was drawn back towards the house, towards where her mother stood waiting on the terrace.

I don’t have a choice. Do I? No, of course not. That’s foolish talk.

“I hope you know, Miss Randall,” Lord Barwick said, all smiles now that he had his prize on his arm again, “I shan’t coddle you during the game. Chess is very serious, and very tactical. I shall not go easy on you, and I will certainly not allow you to win.”

She bit back a sigh.

“I never imagined for a moment that you would, Lord Barwick.”

***

The carriage ride home was tensely silent. Pippa tried not to mind.

It was not, of course, their carriage. Katherine had lent out hers, since Timothy was working and she was growing too big to bother with the chill air of garden parties and the like, along with having her firstborn to look after. Pippa privately wished that her cousin had been there. There was something about Katherine’s sharp intellect and quiet confidence that made Pippa feel that she, too, might be a confident and outspoken woman, one who deliberately cultivated unusual manners, and did not care what Society thought of her.

The sort of woman who married the man of her choice, not a downtrodden viscount’s daughter who had fallen a long, long way in the world. The sort of woman who, when a man she did not like offered to take her to the opera the next evening, would say no.

Pippa, of course, had said nothing when Lord Barwick benevolently offered to pick her up at seven o’ clock, and simply let Bridget agree and make the arrangements.

“I thought I’d made it clear to you,” Bridget said abruptly, voice tight and angry, “that you were to entertain Lord Barwick today. I also thought I’d made it clear that Lord Whitmore is not a suitable suitor for you.”

Pippa swallowed thickly. Her mother was not even looking at her – she was staring out of the window, her expression unreadable.

“He was only being friendly, Mama.”

“Make no mistake, Pippa. He was entertaining himself, sharpening his skills of charm and fascination. He’ll use these skills in earnest when he comes across some debutante with a large fortune. I thought you were clever enough to understand this. Pray, tell me you are not entertaining hopes of him offering for you.”

Bridget’s voice did not waver from its smooth monotone, her expression never flickering. There was no emotion at all in her eyes. Not a single flare of anger or disappointment.

Pippa took a moment to compose herself.

“I have no expectations at all, Mama. Not from Lord Whitmore, or from anybody.” She stated, her voice almost as cool and calm as her mother’s.

Bridget glanced at her then, her gaze quick and sharp.

“Hmph. Well, I hope so. Because I meant what I said. Nothing lower than a marquess for you, and that rules out Lord Whitmore. And I expect you to be on your best behaviour at the opera, do you hear? Your nicest manners, and your prettiest dress. Of course, an opera isn’t ideal . There’s hardly any opportunity to talk, but that doesn’t matter if you look nice. You’re to sit upright and be very absorbed in the show, but if Lord Barwick wants to talk, you may whisper. Don’t be too absorbed in the music, of course, in case he is bored and wishes to talk about something else.”

Pippa flinched. “Heavens. How complicated.”

“Indeed, the theatres can be difficult to manage,” Bridget agreed vaguely. “But I’m sure we can do it. Just remember to be alert to what Lord Barwick might require from you. Attention, conversation, or simply to sit there and look pretty and rapt. It will do you no harm to be endearingly fascinated by the opera, as long as he doesn’t think that he is less interesting than the music .”

Pippa turned away, watching the scenery skim back. She suddenly felt very, very tired. And cold, too, as if wandering around in the gardens had given her a chill.

“Can’t I simply sit there and enjoy the opera, Mama?” she asked, after rather too long of a silence had gone by. Her mother turned to face her fully, her expression angry and a little incredulous.

“Sometimes, Pippa, I think you only like to irritate me,” she replied.

Pippa flushed, turning away. “I only asked a question, Mama. Can I not just listen to the music?”

Bridget gave a short, derisive bark of laughter.

“No, of course you can’t. Don’t be foolish, Pippa. What do you think you’re there for?”