Once Upon a Kiss (Book Club Belles Society) Page 19

  “If I might make an observation then, it is a very good thing that some people stay within them.”

  She scowled. “I despise the lines. I never follow any.” She tugged her hand free of his and clapped so vigorously her fingers throbbed and her palms stung. But no worse than her heart after she’d overheard him deny that he even knew her name.

  “And yet if there were no lines at all,” he replied, “you would have nothing to rebel against, would you?”

  He recaptured her hand and thus her best efforts to turn the wrong way again were stymied. At the edge of the dancers, she saw her sister seated on a hay bale with Captain Sherringham, talking amiably. Rebecca was now enjoying a dance with Wainwright’s friend and laughing heartily at something the man just told her. They both looked over at Justina and her partner, making the subject of their hilarity quite obvious. Justina’s insides turned over in a sideways flip. She knew the story of her debut in the Upper Rooms at Bath last year would soon be the talk of the village. Wainwright’s friend was evidently a jolly sort and saw the joke in it. Unfortunately for Justina, while not so long ago she too would have laughed and made sport of herself, she was less inclined to see the humor in it now.

  “Do you play, Miss Justina?” her partner demanded, making no apparent attempt to soften his pitch from its usual air of self-righteous interrogation. “Do you sing? I know you like to use your voice loudly.”

  “This attempt at polite chit chat is not required, Mr. Wainwright. I wish you would not speak at all.”

  “But you like to talk.”

  She glared at him. Was he mocking her? “From now on I shall be silent, sir.”

  “We must have conversation. It is expected when two people stand up together for a set.”

  At once she forgot her promise not to speak. “You always do what is expected?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you think you were expected to dance with me?”

  “I did.”

  “Then, if I might make an observation, you must see that always doing what is expected of you can have severe drawbacks.” Again she stomped hard on his foot.

  Twenty-one

  Darius observed how all the leaping, jumping, and clapping increased the glow in her cheeks and the vivacious sparkle in her eyes. The husky, breathless tenor of her voice forced him to listen closer, watch her lips, made him forget his bruised toes.

  Tonight Justina Penny had emerged from her cocoon of dowdy, deliberately unkempt eccentricity and shaken off the rumpled girl in muddy petticoats. Now he had her closer, he recognized that the tiny yellow sprigs on her white gown were, in fact, daisies. It was a reminder of summer and of her youthfulness. Not that he needed reminding of the latter.

  He was, he realized glumly, entranced by her and no longer capable of denying it to himself. His Wainwright countenance had begun to crack under the pressure. He felt it. He was also suffering a wretched sensation he could not identify, but it had come upon him when he saw her standing near and realized she might have overheard his comments to Miles. Surely he had nothing to feel remorse about, nothing for which he need apologize. Everything he’d said was quite true. This young woman was left unguarded too often, and it could only end badly. She was recklessly curious, temptation personified, and rather wicked.

  After all, he ought to know, since he’d taken advantage of her several times.

  And there it was. Guilt.

  He knew she’d heard him pretending not to know her name, but since she insulted him readily enough at every opportunity, he did not think that could be so great a sin. But apparently she thought differently, if the stomping of her feet upon his was anything to go by.

  Fortunately for the sake of his toes, the second dance of the set was a more sedate minuet.

  Just when he enjoyed a sense of calm comfort, thinking he had done his duty as far as the requisite conversation and could now simply enjoying looking at her, she said suddenly, “Your friend seems very amiable. From watching him dance, I would say he does so for pleasure.”

  Darius did not reply.

  “Is there anything that you do for pleasure, Mr. Wainwright?”

  “Not very often.”

  “And when you do, it would be….?”

  He sought for something. What did he like to do? Obligations were many in his life, pleasures rare. Images passed through his mind: of himself at his desk, writing correspondence, checking ledgers of figures, addressing his employees, or striding briskly across a loading dock. He pictured the slender slices of private life spent at home in London: visiting Sarah in her quiet wing to check on her progress with the governess, trying to avoid his stepmother by taking servants’ doors and passages around the house. Then came the half hour a month he spent checking the accuracy of all the timepieces he owned, large and small.

  “I mend clocks,” he said finally. “It is a fascinating task and satisfying.”

  “Of course,” she murmured, looking away from him. “Clocks.”

  “I hear a tone of scorn, Miss Justina.” Because he did not leap about like a fool, capable of making her laugh?

  “Not at all. You are entitled to find pleasure wherever and whenever you choose.”

  “Thank you, madam. I shall. And I hope, in the future, we shall find activities of a mutual enjoyment. In fact,” he curled his fingers tighter around hers, “I have no doubt of it.”

  She frowned at him briefly, but then looked a second time for longer and with surprise upon her face, as if she’d never seen him smile before. It was, in actual fact, just as startling to him when he felt it there, moving his lips. He should have been concentrating on the steps.

  “Are you quite all right?” she demanded.

  He gave a solemn nod, straightening his lips again, quickly terminating their foray into geniality. “Perfectly.”

  “I would advise you not to drink too much punch, Mr. Wainwright. I’m afraid Mrs. Dockley makes it from an ancient family recipe and rumor has it that she strains it through her old, unwashed stockings. Many a strong gentleman has been felled by the strangely intoxicating brew, including her dearly departed husband who drank far too much of it.”

  “I am duly warned, madam. I shall proceed with caution.”

  The dance ended, and she walked away from him at once, barely sparing the time to rise from her begrudging curtsy. Within moments she was dancing again with her favored partner, the jolly soldier with grinning teeth, floppy, uncombed hair, and gleaming brass buttons. Darius was not the friendliest of men, but even he had never disliked a person so intensely on sight.

  ***

  Even if it might be considered improper to dance too many times with the same partner, Captain Sherringham wouldn’t care and neither did she. Between them there was none of that dreadful, heavy tension she felt when in Wainwright’s presence. In dear Sherry’s company, all was easy and uncomplicated. With Wainwright everything was difficult and vexing, pulling her in too many directions.

  But the captain’s mind was on Diana Makepiece. He began talking immediately about the mistake she was making with William Shaw. Justina found the twinkle in her old friend’s eye—usually to be depended on in any circumstance—muted for once.

  “Diana has certainly become very tedious,” she agreed. “I expect she will bore you too with the subject of her engagement. It is her only conversation these days.”

  “Fool woman! Why on earth would she fix herself on him? I thought she had more…more…” He shrugged, unable to finish apparently, exasperation clear in the set of his jaw as they moved down the dance together.

  Justina remembered what Diana had said to her earlier, and she repeated it now for the captain. “It is surprising how much a person can keep inside. Especially when they are bound by duty.”

  “A marriage should not be for duty’s sake. That is the sure way to misery.”

 
“I could not agree more.” As always, she was glad to have her own opinions vindicated by a man who was older and ergo, supposedly wiser.

  “Who is that dreadfully grim fellow I saw you dancing with? I thought he must have some constipated disorder of the bowel with that look on his face. Is he one of your father’s patients?”

  Both she and the captain glanced through the crowd to where Darius Wainwright stood talking to his friend again. Just at that moment he looked back at them and his face bore more than passing resemblance to that of a bull newly cognizant of trespassers in his field. Or his orchard, she mused.

  “That is a very fine and fancy gentleman from London, by the name of Wainwright,” she explained. “He has been here little more than a fortnight and is not liked by anybody.”

  They were parted for a few beats of the music and then joined hands again. “He seems to keep a very keen eye on you, Jussy.”

  “He looks at me only because to him I am a clock that is out of order. He would like to fix me, make me chime at his bidding and in unison with everyone else.” She wrinkled her nose. “But he’s nothing more than a cockatrice trying to kill me with his stare and I”—she put her nose in the air—“shall ignore him completely.”

  “Quite right, too!” The captain feigned a schoolmasterly expression and shook his finger in her face. “You make certain to keep him wanting—lure him in, sigh by sigh, wink by wink, petticoat by petticoat, before you capitulate, and he might offer you plenty to be his mistress. If, as Lucy tells me, that is your plan.”

  She snorted with laughter, quickly forgetting to maintain her imperious expression. “You must tutor me in the ways of a Cyprian, Sherry.”

  Now a little of that old gleam returned to his eyes, and her pulse skipped to see it there again. She much preferred him in a happy, carefree mood than a contemplative one. “Capital idea, Jussy. I was afraid all my friends here in Hawcombe Prior had grown too old and serious, but I see at least one of you may be relied upon to amuse me.” He looked over his shoulder, pretending to be sure they were not overheard, although with all the shouting and laughing from the dancers around them they had to stand closer just to hear one another. “I shall take you under my wing and teach you the arts of the fan, how to pour and warm brandy, how to light his cigar—”

  “Cigar?”

  “I have some from France. I’ll show you one day. A mistress must also know how to serve her lover with grapes and sweetmeats. How to tantalize”—he lowered his voice and shot a sly glance sideways at the distant, hovering figure of Mr. Wainwright—“her haughty lover.”

  They both laughed. It was just like old times, she thought happily. Captain Sherringham was not afraid of mischief and for as long as he encouraged her, as long as he was amused by her, what harm could there be in the friendship? She felt her mother’s eyes scorching into her back from across the barn, but this only urged her on. It was easier to win her mother’s disapproval than to struggle for her approval. Besides, to have the dashing captain sharing a jape with her was almost as good as a kiss.

  Yes, indeed, she was glad of dear Sherry’s company tonight. It chased away the menacing dark cloud of Darius Wainwright and helped her forget that she was at least partly at fault for catching the Wrong Man’s attention in the first place.

  Under the influence of Pride and Prejudice she’d been ready to forgive his stiff manners and look beyond them. But she was misled into thinking she might find any tenderness of feeling beneath his grim surface. Thank goodness she was reminded now that life was no romantic novel. It might not have been the first time her imagination and optimism ran away with her, but she swore it would be the last.

  ***

  The two gentlemen stayed up late that evening, discussing the dance. Or, at least, Miles spoke of how much enjoyment he’d had. Sprawled in a chair by the hearth, a glass of brandy resting on his chest, he rambled at length about Miss Catherine Penny’s sweetness and grace, which survived despite her mother’s unconscious ability to undo both with one thoughtless comment. Then, obviously keen not to be heard picking a favorite already, he talked also about the aloof beauty of Miss Makepiece, the delightfully freckled Miss Sherringham’s witty and rather daring banter, and Miss Bridges’ amusing naïveté.

  Darius said very little but stared into the drawing room fire and pondered his predicament. Of course, by dancing with only one woman that evening, he had singled Justina out publicly. It was a declaration of sorts. He had not really thought about what it meant when he felt the overpowering urge to make her dance with him. It was simply instinct, the need to have her in his company, make her look at him and talk to him. An excuse to hold her hand. Truth was, he couldn’t bear it when he watched her dance with others. Any of them, but particularly that laughing fool in the red coat. The captain reminded Darius of his elder brother, and he knew the sort of trouble Lucius used to get himself into. And women into.

  He rubbed his brow with two fingers and then ran the hand down over his face. All this time he had assumed that when she claimed to find herself in the wrong bed it was merely a fib, an attempt to save face because he spurned her. But now he remembered the name “Captain Sherringham.” So she had not been a fortune hunter setting her nets for him; she truly did find herself in his bed by mistake.

  Glancing up at the mantel clock he noted the hands were stuck again on the figure one. He sighed fretfully and scraped his fingertips over the curved chair arm, feeling the rough, worn threads of velvet upholstery where Phineas must once have sat, just as he did, and contemplated that clock in frustration.

  Miles laughed. “It’s no good, old chap. You can’t wipe that scowl off your face. You’ll just have to do something about her.”

  He glowered across the hearth to where his friend’s face was lit by trembling amber slivers of firelight. “Her?”

  “The Penny girl. The one with all the pretty brown curls and the spirited eyes. I found her a delightful partner, but I think she preferred you. And you, so I saw, could not take your eyes off her.”

  Darius pushed himself to sit up and stop lounging. “Me? Don’t talk nonsense.”

  “The entire two dances I shared with her, she questioned me about you! Most disheartening for a fellow who prefers to be the center of attention.” He laughed good-naturedly. “But when I realized she is the very same little miss who caused all the alarums and excursions last year at Bath, I knew why she looked familiar. I suppose she’s the reason for your extended stay in Buckinghamshire. Yes, I am certain of it now. Not know her name, indeed! She is quite intriguingly naughty, I suspect. A young woman does not have bright eyes like those without having a wickedly wayward mind illuminating them from behind.”

  “Forester, I told you why I stayed. It was certainly not to get another waistcoat ruined.”

  “Aha, but the delightful little Miss Bridges told me all about dear Sir Morty and how she and her friend have been invited here to help you with your great-uncle’s possessions.” He paused, grinning. “Do stop drumming a tattoo on the arm of that chair. You’ll wear the fabric away and get shouted at by your formidable housekeeper.”

  Darius stilled his fingers, resting them in a claw over the end of the chair arm.

  “If I were you,” Miles added, stifling a yawn, “I’d take that lively creature off the market before someone beats you to it. Take my advice, Wainwright. If you want her, act now.”

  “She is not a shipload of Persian carpets.”

  “Aha, but see!” Miles lurched forward, almost tipping out of the chair, brandy sloshing up the sides of the glass. “This is where you go wrong. You should think of her precisely as that, because trade is where you are expert. That is where you are at ease. The conventional courtship is not for you, Wainwright, you’re far too…well, just you. You are to romance what a bull would be to a roomful of Wedgwood plates and china cabinets. But think of her as a commodity to be bartered over and won.”
He fell back in his chair, shaking his golden head. “For a man who is so firm, decisive, and ruthless in business, you’re a complete ass when it comes to women.”

  Darius hardly ever paid heed to his friend’s warblings. They were well-meaning, certainly, but not often well-thought out. Miles gamboled through life chasing pretty birds under rainbows and a pleasant summer sky. As the third son of an earl he’d known a life of privilege without the responsibility of property or a title. He had never worked a day in his life, but at least had the grace to appreciate that other folk weren’t so fortunate. He had a generous spirit and a good heart. He was also much valued by Darius because he knew exactly how to handle women, including the dreaded stepmother and stepsister. Miles didn’t mind keeping them distracted, entertained, and out of the way when Darius was at the edge of his patience.

  So if his friend could be trusted on any subject, it was that of women.

  “You know what they say about the early bird,” Miles added drowsily.

  “Yes. He’s damned annoying.”

  “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you, old chap. At the sluggish pace you move with females, someone else will snap her up before you get a foot in the door.”

  It was many hours before Darius could get to sleep that night. Even the little lavender pillow did not help. If anything, it made him more awake to those strange emotions careening about inside him with as much clumsiness as she—the cause of those feelings—had stepped upon his toes earlier.

  Twenty-two

  Mr. F is a charming fellow and really very sweet. It is quite inexplicable to me that he should have befriended W, for two more different men could scarce be found. Mr. F is already a favorite in the village, full of smiles for all he meets. He has promised to dine with us soon, much to Mama’s delight, but I hear he has made the same promise to almost every family in the village. For the same night. Clearly he needs someone to keep his calendar in order.

  He attempts to paint his dour friend W as a generous gentleman with many burdens and no faults. But I suspect the amiable Mr. F has a very rosy view of the world and would not recognize the bad in others since he has none within himself. In that respect he is very like Cathy. I hope the two of them do not fall in love as they would be quite insufferable together. I may yet be required to shave dear Cathy’s head if I hear one more word from her about “poor Mr. W” and how he is misunderstood.