Never A Bride

Chapter 5-2

Protocol required that James sit on Kate’s right, but she had been able to seat the eldest of the Charnwood sisters alongside him. Marianne was a lively young woman of twenty-three years, with rosy cheeks and brown ringlets, who met every one of James’s requirements, even the new ones pertaining to figure. She also had the ability to talk, quite cheerfully, for hours.

Kate listened with one ear while Marianne began her conversation with James by mentioning the recent, clement weather. This was followed by an account of a rather muddy picnic she had attended the previous week, a balloon ascension she’d witnessed the summer before last, and a visit to York when she was ten. She then described the most recent book she’d read and launched into a discussion of Greek tragedies that became tangled with an exposition on Shakespeare’s works. James followed the erratic track of her conversation, his expression that of a man diverted by a new entertainment.

“Have you come up from London?” Kate heard Marianne ask him.

James opened his mouth to reply.

“Such an interesting place. I’ve never been there, but I have visited York. Several times!”

James closed his mouth and nodded. Kate thought, from his profile, that he was trying not to laugh.

“Did you see the Cossack when he was in Town?” This time Marianne waited for a response.

“Er, who?”

“The Cossack! It was several years ago, to be sure, but . . . you did not see him?”

“No. I believe I missed that pleasure.”

“So did I,” Marianne said cheerfully. “I hear he was such a noble figure. His whiskers! And his clothes. And—would you believe it, my lord?—he had a spear quite ten feet long!”

“Oh.” James glanced away from Marianne, and Kate clearly saw laughter on his face. He touched two fingers briefly to his lips, as if to remove the amusement from them, but it still gleamed in his eyes. Kate sat slightly back in her chair and studied him obliquely and wondered whether perhaps Marianne Charnwood would suit him as a wife. She hadn’t thought of Marianne as a serious contender, but James appeared not to mind her voluble tongue. She was making him laugh . . .

The chicken à la tarragon, which had been so delicious, suddenly tasted like dust in Kate’s mouth. She chewed and swallowed and reached for her wineglass, and realized to her shame that she was jealous of Marianne Charnwood. She scolded herself as she sipped the wine. She would be happy for James and Marianne both, if they were to marry—James, because he’d have a wife who would make him laugh, and Marianne because she was nearly on the shelf, poor girl, through no fault of her own.

“My cousin wrote me all about it,” Marianne said.

James nodded.

“Sophy—my cousin, that is—she was in Town at the time—do you know, she saw the Tower and Madame Tussaud’s and Weeks’ Mechanical Museum—she said there was a mechanical spider there—can you imagine such a thing, my lord? A mechanical spider!” Her eyes widened. She asked breathlessly: “Have you seen it?”

James nodded. Kate thought that his mouth quivered slightly.

“Were you frightened?” Marianne didn’t wait for an answer. “Sophy said she was! She said she screamed when it moved. I shouldn’t scream. At least, I don’t think I would.” Her brow creased as she considered the issue. Then she shook her head. “Anyway, the Cossack! Sophy said she saw him. She said that it was simply marvelous how everyone adored him. She said he wore the oddest trousers, and he had the longest whiskers, and as for his spear . . .”

Marianne didn’t draw breath until the first course was removed. Conversation was interrupted while the servants re-laid the table. Kate rinsed her fingers in her finger bowl and watched as James turned to the youngest Miss Charnwood, a shy girl not long out of the schoolroom. “Your sister has been telling me about the picnic last week,” he said. “Did you attend too?”

Horatia Charnwood colored and stammered and managed to nod her head.

James smiled kindly at her. “And did you enjoy it?”

Horatia flushed an even brighter red. She didn’t attempt to speak, but merely nodded her head again. The girl’s embarrassment reminded Kate of herself eleven years ago, when scarlet blushes and stammerings had been all she’d been able to produce in James’s company. She could recall, quite vividly, how hideous it had been, and she opened her mouth to divert attention from Horatia.

The Reverend Charnwood beat her to it, leaning forward and asking James a question about his stables. Kate blessed the man and Horatia looked unutterably relieved.

Marianne Charnwood played the pianoforte in a fashion as lively as her conversation. Her singing voice was pretty. James enjoyed the music—and the respite from her company. She’d recaptured his ear when he’d entered the drawing room, and perhaps he’d drunk too much brandy, but he’d found her less diverting than he had at dinner. It wasn’t that her conversation was tedious—on the contrary, it was entertaining—but it was also endless.

There was a pause, during which Marianne conferred with Kate about the next choice of song. James wanted to lean back in his chair and close his eyes; instead he turned to the younger Misses Charnwood. They sat alongside him on a handsome couch that was in the Grecian style, upholstered in green-and-gold striped silk and with scroll ends. “Do you also play the pianoforte?” He directed his question to Caroline Charnwood and hoped that she wouldn’t blush as violently as her younger sister.

“Yes,” she said.

“And do you, Miss Horatia?” He smiled politely at the youngest Miss Charnwood.

High color flamed in Horatia Charnwood’s cheeks. She sent an agonized glance at her sister, Caroline, who spoke for her: “Yes. We all play the pianoforte. And the harp. I do love the harp, my lord! Don’t you?”

“Ah, no. I must confess that the harp is an instrument I’m not fond of.”

Caroline Charnwood immediately agreed with him: “Yes, of course. I find that I often dislike it, too.”

James blinked and barely managed not to stare at her. “And . . . do you sing?”

Caroline Charnwood shook her head. She was a paler version of her elder sister, her coloring fairer and her manner lacking in liveliness. “I haven’t the voice for it. But I do enjoy listening to others sing. The sung word is more eloquent than the spoken, don’t you think, my lord? I quite prefer the opera to the theater!”

“My preference is for the theater,” James confessed.

“Oh, but of course,” she said instantly. “The theater is superior to the opera. I can’t think why I said it wasn’t.”

There was a short pause. James endeavored not to display his bemusement.

“Have you seen Kean perform?” Caroline Charnwood asked.

“Yes. He has a remarkable talent.”

“Yes!” She rushed eagerly to agree with him. “I hear his Shylock is quite extraordinary.”

Her elder sister began to play another piece. James returned his attention to the pianoforte. He drummed the fingers of one hand on his knee. If he was not mistaken, Caroline Charnwood had twice changed her opinions to coincide with his. He took in the drawing room with a frowning glance, the walls a soft yellow and the carpet a particularly fine Savonnerie with curling green fern fronds against a pale yellow background. Did Caroline agree with everyone, or was it merely him?

During the next pause in the music, he politely turned to the Misses Charnwood again. Horatia avoided meeting his eyes, but Caroline smiled prettily at him. James found himself unable to think of anything original to say. He resorted to the weather: “A mild spring, we’re having, isn’t it? Very pleasant.”

“Oh, yes,” replied Caroline, since speech was clearly beyond Horatia’s abilities. “Most pleasant. I do love the sunshine. It’s so welcome after winter! It quite lifts my spirits.”

A devil prompted him, spurred on perhaps by the quantity of brandy he’d consumed after dinner. “But the sunshine grows monotonous, don’t you think?” he said. “Some rain would be agreeable.”

Caroline Charnwood blinked and then nodded her head. “You’re quite correct, my lord. The sunshine does become tedious. Some rain would be pleasant.”

“Or even sleet,” he said blandly.

“Yes, of course.” She agreed with him without faltering. “Sleet would make a refreshing change.” Beside her, her sister’s eyes widened in astonishment.

James choked back laughter, and coughed into his hand. “Excuse me.”

Horatia Charnwood glanced at him. There was no suspicion in those hazel eyes, merely confusion, but James lost the urge to laugh. His conduct was ungentlemanly. Caroline Charnwood might have more hair than wit, but it wasn’t for him to make fun of her.

Horatia Charnwood averted her gaze, seemingly overwhelmed by the act of meeting his eyes. Color stained her cheeks. James suppressed a sigh and wished that he was back in the dining room, discussing horseflesh with the Reverend Charnwood and drinking Harry’s brandy. Horatia Charnwood reminded him strongly of Kate at the same age. Kate, too, had been embarrassed beyond speech whenever he’d tried to talk to her, and yet she’d watched him as Horatia did, sending shy, sideways glances in his direction and blushing hotly if he intercepted them. It had been painful for everyone, and he’d been exceedingly thankful when Kate had outgrown her calf love. Not that he thought Miss Horatia was smitten with him. Her glances were scared rather than lovelorn, as if he was a terrifying ogre and she watched to make sure he didn’t pounce. He guessed that she was very newly liberated from the schoolroom.

James looked across at Kate, laughing over the selection of music with Harry and Marianne and the eldest Charnwood boy, a youth of nineteen years whose name he’d forgotten. There was some argument, it appeared, about which piece should be played next. The group at the pianoforte beckoned to Caroline Charnwood. “Excuse me,” she said, rising.

Abandoned by her sister, Horatia shrank back on the couch. She was clearly terrified that she would be called upon to converse with him.

James suppressed another sigh.

Kate crossed the room, elegant in a gown of smoke-blue silk with small puffed sleeves and appliqué above the scalloped hem. She took the vacated seat and bent her head and spoke to Horatia Charnwood. James failed to hear the words, for her tone was low, but he saw the grateful smile that lit the girl’s face. Horatia rose and went to sit beside her mother, near the fireplace.

“Thank you,” said James, as Kate turned to him.

“For what?”

“Rescuing me from Horatia Charnwood.”

Kate laughed. “Why would you need rescuing?”

“She makes me feel like an ogre,” he said, his tone slightly sour. He disliked being an object of terror. It wasn’t as if he’d frowned at the chit. All he’d done was smile.

“Not an ogre,” said Kate, clearly amused. “Merely the finest gentleman she’s ever seen.” She appraised him with a quick and indifferent glance. “You’re extremely handsome tonight, James, and you’re an earl. Naturally she’s nervous.” Having uttered these astonishing words, Kate turned her attention towards the pianoforte.

James glanced involuntarily down at his dark blue coat and cream satin waistcoat and tight-fitting knee breeches. Handsome? His eyebrows drew together in annoyance. It wasn’t the compliment that displeased him; rather it was the complete disinterest in Kate’s voice as she had uttered it. She might as well have been discussing the weather as his appearance.

And when had he become so conceited that he wished for compliments that were delivered with a degree of enthusiasm?

James frowned at Kate. Her hair was dressed in an elaborate topknot of braids, with long curls framing her face. Unwillingly, he noticed again how lovely her profile was. Her features were neatly balanced, almost classical in their purity. It unsettled him that it had taken him eleven years to notice this fact about her. And it wasn’t just her profile that he’d failed to see. It was the curve of her eyebrows, the high cheekbones, the angle of her jaw and the line of her throat. And it was her mouth, the one that was so unexpectedly kissable.

James realized, to his astonishment, that beneath the freckles Kate was beautiful. Either that, or he was drunk.

Kate turned her head. Her expression became amused. “Stop scowling at me,” she whispered.

James discovered that he couldn’t.