A Regency Match (16 page)

“H-How very kind,” Sophy said in awkward gratitude, wondering in what context Marcus had revealed that information to his mother, “but I hadn't intended to … go down to dinner this evening.”

“Nonsense, my dear, of course you'll come down,” her ladyship answered, taking her seat with graceful nonchalance. “You cannot pretend, with that lovely touch of color in your cheeks, that you're still feeling hagged.”

“No, not hagged, exactly, but—”

“I'll have no ‘buts,' my love. We simply
must
have your company at dinner. It has been dull as ditchwater without you, I promise you. Last evening, for example, after we learned that you were safely in bed, Lady Bethany (or is it Bettison? I never
can
remember.) prosed on and on about what she would have been doing in London that evening, and Mr. Carrington kept consulting his pocket watch and yawning. And my brother Julian got tiddly on brandy and fell asleep in front of all of us. The most exciting thing that occurred all evening was a recurrence of that apparition in the window. But even that was only a momentary diversion, for the face appeared for just a moment and then was gone. Really, Sophy, you cannot condemn us to a repetition of that sort of evening, can you?”

Sophia giggled. “You're exaggerating, aren't you, Lady Wynwood? Besides, I don't see how
my
presence—”

Lady Wynwood fixed her eyes on the girl earnestly. “Don't you, my dear? Has no one ever told you how your presence livens up a room?”

“Oh, my
lady
!” Sophy gasped, blushing. “You can't be serious!
My
presence?”

“Yes, my dear, yours. I mean it most sincerely.”

Sophia stared at her visitor in wide-eyed amazement. Then she shook her head and made a rueful grimace. “If what you're saying is
so
, it must be because everyone is watching for me to make some dreadful
faux pas
.”

“I don't see why you should think
that
,” her ladyship said in honest puzzlement. “Your manners are perfectly unexceptional.”

“Lady Wynwood,” Sophy chided, “are you trying to flummery me? You can't have forgotten the fire in the music room, and the scene when I arrived, and—”

“Really, Sophy, you are not going to harp on a couple of accidental incidents that don't signify at all,” Lady Wynwood said with a dismissive wave of her gauze-draped arm. “What have those things to say to your manners? Now, hush, dear. I'll brook no arguments on this point. You mustn't deprive us of your company when it is such a delight and a stimulant to us all.”

“Certainly not to
all
,” Sophy said with a troubled frown. “Your
son
would not agree with you.”

“Wouldn't he?” Lady Wynwood asked, cocking an interested eye at the girl. “Why do you think he wouldn't?”

Sophy looked down at her fingers which she'd begun to twist in her lap. “He thinks I'm an empty-headed, clumsy, overwrought, wild-eyed
disaster
,” she admitted in a sudden burst of feeling. But no sooner were the words out than she wished she hadn't said them. She darted a guilty glance at her visitor, but her ladyship was looking at her with unruffled placidity.

“
Does
he, indeed?” she asked mildly. “Poor Marcus.”

“Poor Marcus?” Sophy echoed, nonplussed. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean, I'm afraid, that my beloved son is more of a prig than I thought.”

Sophia gasped. “Oh, Lady Wynwood, no! I had no intention … I never meant to imply …”

“Of course you didn't. I wish you to understand that I adore my son as much as the most besotted of mothers, but I nevertheless know the truth. But you mustn't be too hard on him, my dear. If he has grown too fastidious and critical, the blame must be laid at my door.”

“I'm sure that can't be true,” Sophy declared fervently.

“But it can. You see, I raised him in the seclusion that I so much prefer to the prying eyes of society and that he, too, grew to feel comfortable with. As a result, he is not accustomed to the excitement, the turmoil, the disorder and the crises that are part and parcel of more normal lives. I suspect that his early meetings with that sort of liveliness frightened and appalled him. He conquered the fear by an attitude of disdain.”

Sophy stared at Lady Wynwood in fascination. She didn't understand why she'd been singled out to receive such a confidence, but she couldn't help but be enthralled by these details of Marcus's upbringing. That Lord Wynwood could have been, in his youth, a retiring and somewhat timid boy was inconceivable to her. She longed to ask questions about his boyhood, his schooling, his preferences, his amusements, his hidden nature, but she dared not reveal to his perceptive mother the extent of her interest.

“But we mustn't permit him,” Lady Wynwood went on, “to reject or disparage those aspects of life which his self-defenses tempt him to avoid. In other words, my dear, I see no reason to encourage him in his priggishness, do you?”

“No, of course not …” Sophy mumbled awkwardly. “That is, I don't mean that I find him priggish, exactly, but—”

Lady Wynwood laid a gentle hand on Sophy's knee. “Then you will come down to dinner and give us the pleasure of your enlivening company?” she asked with her warm smile.

Sophy nodded, blinking up at the older woman with misty-eyed reverence. “Oh, Lady Wynwood,” she breathed, “no one has
ever
described me that way before. You make me feel almost … almost worthwhile.”

Lady Wynwood rose and embraced the girl, wrapping her in a cloud of filmy silk. “Of
course
you're worthwhile, you sweet child. More than worthwhile. And I wouldn't be at all surprised if even Marcus sees it himself, one of these days.”

Chapter Twelve

T
HE FORMAL ANNOUNCEMENT
of the betrothal of Miss Iris Bethune to Marcus Harvey, the fifth Earl of Wynwood, was to be made at the end of the first week of the houseparty. The announcement would be made at a very special dinner and would be followed by dancing in the seldom-used ballroom in the west wing. The number of guests was to be augmented by the presence of some of the neighboring gentry, by a dozen or more of Lady Bethune's family and special friends who were posting down from London for the evening, and by ten musicians who were to provide the music. The plans for this celebration seemed to have developed without anyone's conscious manipulation, Lady Bethune making a suggestion here and Uncle Julian adding a detail there. Before he knew it, Marcus was faced with a
fait accomplit
, a celebration which promised to be almost as distasteful to him as Lady Bethune's ball would have been. But he held his tongue and accepted the inevitable with his usual good grace.

The ballroom, the smaller of two such rooms at Wynwood Hall, was opened, aired and polished to a gleaming sparkle. The housekeeper and the servants polished the chandeliers, washed the windows, removed the dust covers from the chairs and tables, and hung floral festoons along the walls. On the morning of the day of the celebration, the whole household bustled. Mrs. Cresley scurried back and forth arranging and placing huge floral masterpieces on every available surface, supervising the herculean efforts of the kitchen staff and helping the valets and abigails of the guests to prepare the costumes which would be worn that night. The servants, too, when they could take time from polishing the plate and dusting and cleaning every inch of the house, took out of their bed-chests their most formal liveries for brushing and airing. It had been many years since the Wynwood household had been the scene of such elaborate preparations. Even the guests were busy and preoccupied, having their hair trimmed, their nails manicured, their eyebrows plucked, and their feet massaged.

To escape the hubbub for as long as possible, Marcus invited Iris, shortly after breakfast, to stroll with him in the garden. At first she protested that her abigail was about to dress her hair, but the disappointment on Marcus's face made her alter her plans. Besides, in the week of her stay, she had been given little opportunity to spend time with him in private, Marcus's duties as host keeping him perpetually occupied, and she was unwilling to let this chance go by.

The June day could not have been more perfectly suited to the occasion. The sky was dotted with the merest wisps of clouds, the breeze was just fresh enough to give sparkle to the air, and the sun was modestly warm. The soon-to-be-feted pair strolled through the paths in silence, content to drink in the sights of the lush blooms and the fragrance of the air. Iris broke off a white peony bloom and, urging Marcus to a nearby stone bench, she sat down beside him and set about attaching the flower to his lapel. “There!” she said proudly. “Now you look as festive as you ought.”

He grinned a bit ruefully. “Thank you, my dear, but don't you think there are more than enough signs of festivity about the place already?”

“I quite like them,” she answered, looking at him with a little frown, “don't you?”

“You know I don't like fuss and feathers. These ceremonial occasions only make me uncomfortable.”

“I don't see why,” she said thoughtfully. “They are an agreeable change from the monotony of ordinary days. They provide us with a bit more excitement, a touch of drama and a storehouse of memories.”

“I don't find ordinary days monotonous, and as for excitement and drama, I could easily live without either of them in my life.” His own words suddenly struck him as self-satisfied and pompous. Annoyed with himself, he endeavored to change the subject. “But on the matter of unnecessary excitement, what do you think of the change that's come over our little ‘dramatist' of late. It's been three whole days since Miss Edgerton has caused a furor. I wonder if she's plotting some volcanic cataclysm to overwhelm us when we've been sufficiently lulled into tranquility.”

Iris smiled dutifully, but it was plain that something else was on her mind. “Do you mind if we don't talk about the exploits of Miss Edgerton right now, Marcus? There's something I've been wishing to say to you.”

“Of course, my dear,” Marcus said, noticing her worried expression. “What is it?”

“It's … about our betrothal. I know that our immediate circle will not be surprised by tonight's announcement, but the fact remains that until the announcement is actually made and published to the world, there is nothing really binding between us …”

“Iris! What are you saying?”

She put a cool hand on his mouth. “Let me finish, dear. I'm simply reminding you that it is not yet too late to draw back. If the prospect of marriage to me is in the least disturbing—”

He pulled her fingers from his lips. “Good heavens, Iris, what has brought this on? Have I given you any reason to suspect that I've changed my mind?”

“I'm not quite sure,” she admitted reluctantly. “There have been a few things …”

“What things?”

“Well, your attitude about tonight's festivities, for one.”

“But, my dear, that has nothing to do with my feelings for you. You know that! I'm not comfortable among large groups of people, especially if I'm the center of attention. Have I been selfish?” He looked at her in sincere dismay. “Have my foolish complaints been spoiling your pleasure in the affair? Forgive me, I beg you. I promise to say not another word about my dislike. In fact, I'll do my best to have a rollicking good time. Does that ease your qualms?”

She smiled a little wanly. “Yes, but … that's not all. Are you absolutely sure, Marcus, that you
want
to go through with this?”

He looked at her keenly. “Of course I am.” He took one of her hands in his. “I hope you will believe me. What else have I done to make you uneasy?”

She dropped her eyes. “They are such
little
things,” she admitted with a slight blush. “You don't always approach me first when you enter a room.” Her voice was low and tinged with embarrassment. “Oh, I know what you'll say to that—that you're the host and must see to your guests. I know I'm being missish. But … there's something else. I'm almost afraid to say it …”

“Afraid? I hope, Iris, that you don't think me a brute. Am I the sort who will fly into a rage at a bit of criticism? Please, my dear, say what's on your mind.”

“It's just
that
—the ‘my dear.' Oh, this is such a forward and unladylike thing to say, Marcus … I'm quite put to the blush … but you always call me ‘my dear.' You never say ‘my love'.”

For a moment Marcus stared at her in surprise. Under his gaze, her eyes met his for a brief, questioning moment and then fell. She turned her head away. Her dark-gold hair, which had been hastily pinned in a careless knot at the back of her head, looked appealingly dishevelled. One thick strand had become undone and lay in pathetic loneliness at the back of her graceful neck. Lifting his free hand, he took the strand between his fingers and curled it absently. “I … I don't know what to say, Iris. I'm sure you've always been aware that I'm not given to … er … romantic demonstration. Surely you know my feelings without repeated protestations.”

“I
think
I do,” she said, not looking at him, “but we females have a need for reassurance …”

“Then permit me to reassure you. As my wife, you need never have a moment's concern that my devotion will flag or my eye will roam. I promise, even if I remain somewhat reticent in expressing my feelings aloud. And now, if you'll turn that lovely face to me, I'll try to reassure you still further.” He slid his arm around her, and as she obediently turned to face him, he kissed her with what she breathlessly said was quite sufficient enthusiasm to reassure anyone. And when at length their stroll was resumed, Iris had her arm around his waist and a very becoming sparkle in her eyes.