Barbara Metzger (7 page)

It never once occurred to Dree that Lord Blanford was ignoring Carrie. Oh, he’d noticed how stunning she looked in the fashionable high-waisted gown with trailing ribbons—hell, a man would have to be turned to stone not to notice, not to appreciate. But he had a whole collection of beautiful artworks to admire. That wasn’t what he wanted in a wife. Of course, a hobbledehoy schoolgirl like Miss Rowe, in a shapeless sack of indeterminate color after so many washings and turnings, wasn’t what he wanted either. The chit’s red hair was all atumble again, and no, his fingers were not itching to feel the silky fire; he only wanted to brush the curls off her satiny cheeks. Freckled cheeks, he amended. The chit had freckles. And she was devious and manipulative, everything he hated in a female. Wasn’t she trying to hint Franny away with mention of her uncle’s business connections, when asked Mr. Martin’s whereabouts? She managed to interject her uncle’s sharp dealing, in case he missed the point that the man was in trade.

The only thing Franny missed was the opportunity to meet his future father-in-law and lay his heart at the man’s feet. Miss Martin was an angel. Their fingers brushed over the tray of poppy-seed cakes. His day was complete.

Not so Audrina’s. She was not ready to give up, even against admittedly overwhelming odds. “We’re planning a skating party for the next nice afternoon,” she decided that instant. “There’s a lovely pond behind the house that the gardeners have cleared of last week’s snow. They say it is well frozen. We’ll have a bonfire going alongside, and Cook can provide hot cider. We
were hoping you would come, with the rest of Lady Halbersham’s house party, of course.”

What Dree was hoping, of course, was that Lord Podell would refuse. The popinjay wouldn’t want to get his clothes mussed, she thought. Or he’d make a cake of himself on the ice, letting the earl’s undoubtedly athletic prowess shine.

“Carrie’s the most graceful skater in the village,” she added for Blanford’s sake when he accepted on the house party’s behalf, and this time she told the truth. Carrie loved to skate and looked beautiful doing it. Surely the earl could not help but be entranced. And surely Carrie would finally see the overdressed Tulip Podell for a useless ornament.

Of course, Dree hadn’t counted on the recent Frost Fair in London, when Lord Podell skated up and down the Thames for days. And she hadn’t counted on Lord Blanford’s war injury, which was going to keep him off the ice and away from Carinne.

Chapter Seven

A war injury? If that was what kept the Earl of Blanford at the side of the pond when all the others were gaily skating, how was he to explain to a neighbor lad eager for battle stories? That an enemy saber took off the top of his head and he had to keep a small bearskin rug on it to keep his gray matter warm? That a cannon blast split his skull, so he couldn’t bend over for fear of his brains spilling out?

He refused to lie about a shattered knee or such. That would dishonor the wounds his fellow soldiers suffered. He also refused to chance a fall on the ice. There hadn’t been much opportunity for practice on the Peninsula, so Max was certain to go down at least once. He didn’t mind looking like a jackanapes in front of his friends and their friends by losing his balance, or even losing his hat. His topknot was another story.

Hell and damnation, Max swore as he stomped around the edge of the pond in an effort to keep his toes from freezing, and to keep out of the reach of army-mad youths. What a cursed nuisance. He never should have come into the country where a man was expected to exert himself. He never should have let his valet convince him to don such an unreliable subterfuge. Just last
night he’d feared he was going deaf in his dotage, besides, until he realized the blasted thing had slipped sideways, over his ear. Now he was forced to sit on the sidelines, weak-kneed. This was the first time Maxim Blanding had measured his courage and found it wanting. He was also wanting something stronger than the hot mulled cider the Martin servants were pouring out near the bonfire.

And, he had to admit, he was wanting to be out on the ice joining in the fun with an insufferable little female who was spinning madly, playing crack the whip with Warden and some of the local boys. He could pick her out by the red cape she wore—a hand-me-down, he supposed, which clashed horribly with her curls—or by her laughter that rang out even from the pond’s farthest shores.

As Max watched, Audrina challenged the boys to a race, tearing across the ice in a mad scramble, all of them bareheaded, the harum-scarum lot. They didn’t care if they fell or bumped into anyone, chancing some innocent skater’s collapse. Max unconsciously tugged his beaver hat down tighter. He dragged his thoughts away from the hoyden in red before he did something foolish, and his eyes away from the childish fun, before they turned green with envy.

The cousin and Franny skated by, waving to him. Carinne was as graceful as promised, and stunning with her golden beauty framed by the sable lining of the hood of her maroon cape. Franny had a matching maroon muffler tied around his neck, as though they had planned it. Perhaps they had, for Franny hadn’t left Miss Martin’s side since helping tie on her skates. He even managed to guide their path around obstacles, all the while gazing into the Incomparable’s eyes. They skated together as if they’d been doing it for years, and as if to violin music only they could hear. They glided effortlessly into magical turns, in perfect time.

Viola and Gordie were a perfect contrast. They darted
past in fits and starts, chuckling over mishaps, his hat gone flying, her muff skidding across the ice. But they were together, and laughing, Max was glad to see.

Even Mr. Martin made an appearance on the ice. Max thought he must have come to get a look at his prospective son-in-law, but the shipbuilder did lead both Peckham sisters across the frozen pond. He skated in slow, jerky steps, but at least their host was doing his duty by them…as Max wasn’t.

So he was being discourteous, dishonorable, and deceitful, besides being depressed that he was missing what looked like a fine time. And all for the sake of a few strands of hair. No, a few strands were all he had left on the top. He was putting himself through this torture for his valet’s sake. That and his vanity. He was almost of a mind to return to Briarwoods, give Thistlewaite the sack—and the hairpiece—then ride to London to face his future as a doomed, bare-domed bachelor. He’d leave this minute, damned if he wouldn’t, before the hair on his chest froze off, too.

Then Miss Rowe skated to a stop in front of him. Her nose was red, adding to the offending color scheme. Max thought she looked adorable.

“I’m sorry about your wound, my lord. I should have thought of some other entertainment that you could enjoy with us.”

“No, no. Not at all. I’m quite happy to watch. Very pleasant.” Gads, her guilty apology was all he needed to make him feel even lower than the dirt beneath his feet—if he could still feel his feet. To change the subject, Max gestured toward Franny and Carinne, executing intricate figures in the middle of the pond. “They skate magnificently together, don’t they?”

“They look like an artist’s portrayal of winter bliss,” Dree said with a sigh.

“And you don’t approve?”

“Forgive me for speaking ill of your friend, but he’s a ne’er-do-well! I didn’t want a basket-scrambler for Carrie. She deserves so much better!”

“Have you thought that Franny might see all of her fine qualities, too? Perhaps he likes her, the same as you do.”

“He’s not worthy of her!”

“Why, because his pockets are to let? It’s not his fault, Miss Rowe, that his father gambled away his inheritance and left him with a mound of debts and a mortgaged estate. He’s done his best to hold on to Podell Hall for his descendants. And you shouldn’t fault a man for the cut of his coat.” Or the length of his hair. “Franny can’t participate in all the expensive pastimes of his cronies, so he indulges in his tailoring. He’s entitled to some pleasure, isn’t he?”

“I suppose I’ve judged him too harshly,” Audrina conceded. “But a man’s character doesn’t show at first; his peacock’s costume does.”

“I can swear to his character, Miss Rowe. Frances Podell is a good friend, brave and loyal. He’s not a gambler or a womanizer. He’s just a terrible dresser.”

“Carrie thinks he’s elegant.” Audrina shrugged. “At least he’s better than Prendergast.”

“Good grief, even a loveless marriage to Franny would be better than that. And I guarantee this isn’t merely a match of convenience. Just look at them. You’d have to be blind not to see they are well suited.”

Dree didn’t have to look. She knew what she’d see: February lovebirds smelling of April and May. And she couldn’t look over at the couple ice-dancing on clouds behind her, for she was too busy gathering a handful of the remains of last week’s snowfall. She launched her hurriedly rounded missile with deadly accuracy at his lordship’s high-crowned beaver hat. “It’s too lovely a day to be so stuffy.”

His lordship was not amused. He turned and dived after the hat—and his escaping hairpiece—while Dree was still giggling. Max slammed the hat back on before
anyone could see what was inside it, instead of being on his head. He was sputtering with anger. Thistlewaite wasn’t there for him to strangle, so he took his rage out on Audrina. “You…you brat! How dare you? Go play with the other children.”

That hurt. Dree had been running her father’s household for years, and taking on responsibilities for the parish long before most girls put their skirts down. She knew the earl could never see her as an equal, no matter how pleasantly he acted toward her, since their worlds were so far apart. Yet she thought they might be friends. She’d only meant to bring him some fun, not remind him she was naught but a vicar’s ragtag brat.

The others were taking up the game, the men tossing snowballs while the ladies squealed. Lady Halbersham snuck up behind her husband, who was aiming at Franny, and dumped a handful of snow down his collar. Lord Halbersham turned with a roar and scooped his wife up, to deposit her facedown in the bank of cleared snow at the edge of the pond.

Lord Blanford stalked off.

“Starched-up old sobersides,” Dree muttered, brushing snowy mittens across suddenly damp eyes. “Lord Frances is a better choice for Carrie after all,” she sniffed. “I’m glad she didn’t pick any toplofty earl who is too full of himself and his dignity to have a good time. Go play with the children indeed.” She couldn’t resist one last toss, which landed squarely in the middle of Blanford’s broad back. “And don’t forget to limp this time,” she shouted after him.

*

The next morning the earl sent a box of bonbons for Audrina, and she made her prettiest apology when he came to call with Franny that afternoon.

“Let’s forget the unfortunate episode, shall we?” Max offered. “We mustn’t be at odds, for it looks as if we’ll be seeing a great deal of each other.”

Carinne and Lord Podell were going through music at the pianoforte, with more glances into each other’s eyes than glances at the titles on the sheets. To give them some privacy while still protecting Carinne’s reputation, Dree had to lead the earl aside and keep him entertained. She tried to be her most mature and demure, pouring out the tea with the airs of a duchess. Her good intentions lasted until the next morning when the gentlemen arrived with two mares in tow, begging the honor of a ride.

Carinne could do just fine at a walk, Lord Podell assured her. He wouldn’t leave her side, the mare was perfectly behaved, and Miss Martin was exquisite in her sapphire blue riding habit.

Audrina was dowdier than ever in her cut-down, threadbare, washed-out brown relic of a riding outfit. It didn’t matter. She threw her arms around the dainty mare, then almost embraced the earl in her delight. Instead of that outré behavior, she mounted and set off at a gallop, her bright curls streaming behind her. Max let her lead him and his stallion on a bruising ride through woods and over streams, content to listen to her merry laughter. The others could have been in the next county for all they knew or cared.

After that they rode out or drove—for Carinne’s sake—every nice day, sometimes taking the rest of the Halbershams’ guests along sightseeing, where Audrina’s knowledge of the old abbeys and Roman fortresses impressed even young Warden. In the evenings they all often met at one neighbor’s or another’s for cards, music, charades, or dancing.

Carinne was in alt, floating on Lord Podell’s arm. Audrina was resigned to the match, convinced it was more than cream-pot affection. And Uncle Augustus was so puffed up with success, he even gave Audrina a twenty-pound bonus, for matchmaking. The solicitors were already meeting, and the engagement would be announced at Lady Halbersham’s Valentine’s Day ball, two days hence.

“So buy yourself some gewgaw or other, missy. Maybe you can hook one of the blacksmith’s boys.”

With twenty pounds her papa could feed a lot of poor mouths. And she didn’t
want
any of Jed Smith’s hairy, dirty, illiterate sons. But Dree folded the note and smiled at her uncle.

“You’d do well to think on it, gal, for that’s the last you’ll have of me. My girl gets married and moves off, I’ll not support you and that nodcock father of yours. Foxed yourself, you did, cutting out old Prendergast. If the chit had wed him, you could have moved in there and still been near your da. Old Prendergast would never have noticed. Now? My Lord and Lady Podell are going on a long bride trip to introduce Carinne to his fancy relatives. He’ll see she makes her bows to royalty in the spring, too, see if he don’t. I promised him another pile of blunt if it’s done right. That leaves you out in the cold, missy.”