Cord had been informed earlier by Mrs. Ferris that some of the guests would be asked to perform in an impromptu concert following dinner. Thus, as signs of preparation became evident, he deftly guided Gillian to one of the chairs being pulled into a comfortable arrangement near the pianoforte. Settling himself into one next to her, he launched into a commentary on the procession of singers and players of various instruments.
“But, are you not going to favor us with a song?” he asked at last, as Miss Hester Selwyn drew her vocal selection to a close—a lively, if somewhat shrill rendition of “Keys of Canterbury.”
“Oh, no,” replied Gillian quickly. “I am quite tone deaf, you see. I do play the piano, but indifferently at best. I am, however,” she concluded with a laugh, “known far and wide for my talent as a listener, and with that, I am content.”
Gazing at the play of candlelight in her glossy, nut-brown curls, Cord marveled at how little he really knew of this woman. She had captured his heart, but she had yet to reveal hers, or the many other fascinating details that made her the exciting, wholly desirable female he was determined to make his own.
Unthinking, he reached to brush back a tendril of hair that had escaped the Clytie knot in which it was contained. Abruptly, the smile dropped from her lips, and she stiffened as though he had struck her. Startled, he dropped his hand and murmured something inconsequential about the duet now under way between Sir Walter Finnaby’s son, Rutherford, and a very nervous Miss Charlotte Anstey.
He sighed inwardly. How was he ever to penetrate the fortress Gillian had built around her emotions? For, he told himself once more, he was willing to swear she was not totally indifferent to him. The memory of her lithe body pressed against his in the kiss they had shared not two weeks ago shot through him again like a Roman candle. He did not think she was the sort of woman who could respond so givingly if her heart was not involved. Why, then, did she treat his slightest gesture of genuine warmth as though he were suggesting some sort of sordid liaison? Was that what she thought? That he wanted her merely for a bit of dalliance while he sojourned in the country? She had categorized him on their first meeting as “that sort of man,” meaning the type of high-born despoiler of women who took his pleasures where he found them with no thought of the consequences.
His heart lightened. Surely, he could convince her—if she would give him the opportunity—that, while the idea of dalliance with Gillian sent him into a spiral of wanting, his intentions were almost painfully honest. He must make her understand that he wanted to marry her at the earliest opportunity in a church full of blazing candles and fond well-wishers. He wanted to make a family with her, to fill a nursery with their offspring, and . . .
He discovered that his collar had tightened, and he turned his attention with some effort to the duet.
At his side, Gillian upbraided herself. She
must
learn to suppress her absurd response to Cord’s very touch. Just now, when his fingers had touched her cheek, it was as though lightning had brushed her skin. Not that he should have been taking such an intimate liberty, of course, but it was evident she must increase her guard against such invasions of her equanimity.
She turned to address a remark to old Mr. Burgess, seated on her right before speaking to Cord again.
“Uncle Henry really took no notice of the Shelton book?” she asked, grasping for a safe topic of conversation.
Cord sighed. “No. He was so absorbed in Lawford’s poetic commentaries that he had no eyes for anything else. Of course, I couldn’t press the Shelton on him, for then he would have realized that I had found something of value.”
“No,” agreed Gillian. “That would not do at all. He must feel he’s made the discovery on his own.”
“Precisely. However, I nipped into the library a few moments ago and placed the Shelton atop the pile of commentaries he will be taking home with him. Even if he doesn’t notice it then, surely when he begins examining the commentaries, he will observe the Shelton. I cannot imagine Sir Henry opening an unfamiliar book without perusing it.”
“You’re right, of course,” breathed Gillian. “At least, we can only hope.”
At that point. Lady Babbacombe, who was seated on his left, claimed Cord’s attention.
“Our little Eleanor is going to sing now,” she whispered stridently, her hand in a death grip on his sleeve. “I know you will enjoy her lovely soprano.”
Eleanor did indeed sing with a pretty sweetness, and Cord clapped appreciatively at the conclusion of her song. Lady Babbacombe simpered fatuously. “Isn’t she just the most darling girl? There are no end to her talents, you know, and she’s a fine little householder, as well. Lucky indeed the man who weds my Eleanor.”
Cord pasted a sickly smile on his face, and with some effort disentangled himself from Lady Babbacombe’s hold. He turned again, almost gasping in relief, only to discover that Gillian was once again in conversation with Mr. Burgess.
The procession of amateur musicians—the operative word, thought Cord dismally, being “amateur”—trouped on. Conversation with Gillian proved elusive, for she apparently preferred to chat with Mr. Burgess. Thus, Cord was left to Lady Babbacombe’s blatant machinations.
At long—very long—last, the final singer tweetled a rendition of “The Lass with the Delicate Air,” and Mrs. Ferris rose to indicate that the assemblage was now on its own for entertainment for the rest of the evening. Cord turned immediately to Gillian, but she had swept away to join a group of ladies near the window.
Feeling forlorn and abandoned. Cord attempted to move to Sir Henry, but was intercepted by yet another phalanx of mamas and their daughters. He perceived there was no escape, and, with one longing glance toward Gillian’s straight back, he gave himself up to the wearisome chore of being pleasant.
At last, by mutual consent. Cord’s guests began to take their leave. Drifting to the door at a glacial pace, with declarations that this had been one of the most pleasant evenings they’d ever spent, all the ladies and gentlemen and assorted marriageable daughters eventually departed.
The Folsomes were the last to leave.
“I thank you, Mrs. Ferris, from the bottom of my helpless soul,” said Cord, “for putting the party together. That it was a huge success is wholly your doing.”
Mrs. Ferris blushed. “Why, it was my pleasure. Cord. It has been many years since I was called on to perform hostess duties, and I enjoyed it vastly. You will be receiving return invitations, of course, so I trust you are not planning to leave us very soon.” She laughed slyly. “Lady Babbacombe, for example, will take it very much amiss if she does not snare you for a dinner party of her own—or at the very least, a picnic.”
Cord bent a twinkling glance on her. “I would, of course, be loathe to miss such a festive occasion.”
At this point, Sir Henry apparently bethought himself of the promised largesse of Cord’s commentaries. Cord himself went to retrieve the volumes stacked on the table in the library. When he returned, he handed the volumes ceremoniously to Sir Henry, with a significant glance at Gillian. On top of the pile, conspicuous by its very inconspicuousness against the fine leather of the commentaries, lay the pasteboard-covered Shelton book.
Gillian returned Cord’s glance with a barely concealed anticipation. Surely, Uncle Henry could not overlook the slim volume that differed so strongly from the rest in the little armful. Her pulse quickened at Uncle Henry’s next words.
“Thank you, my boy. I shall derive great pleasure from a reacquaintance with these old friends. Here, what’s this?” Juggling the commentaries in one arm, he removed the Shelton. “Where did this come from?”
“Ah,” declared Cord smoothly, “I must have placed it with the others by mistake. But do take it along as well. Perhaps it’s something you haven’t read.”
“No thank you, but I shall have enough to occupy myself with these. I don’t want to keep them from you longer than necessary.” Without looking at the Shelton, he set it on a nearby table, only to have it slip to the floor.
Gillian scooped it up and opened it before handing it back to her uncle.
He merely glanced at the pages disinterestedly before passing it along to Cord. He turned to his sister. “Well, come along then, Louisa, Gillian. Mustn’t keep Cord from his bed any longer.”
It was obvious that his haste to leave was prompted more by an eagerness to peruse his borrowed treasure than from a desire to relieve his host of the last guest.
More significant stares were exchanged between Cord and Gillian. With raised eyebrows, glances sent to the ceiling and shrugged shoulders on Cord’s part, Gillian was given to understand that he considered further prodding on the part of either of them unwise. Nodding to indicate her understanding, she accepted the wraps handed to her by a servant and assisted her aunt and uncle in donning their outerwear.
Outside, as Sir Henry and his sister mounted their gig, Cord drew Gillian aside.
“Well, so much for our grand plan,” he muttered in exasperation.
“Indeed,” she replied in a similar tone. “What are we to do now?”
“I shall make another effort tomorrow to press the book into his possession in an unobtrusive manner.” Cord sighed. “If that doesn’t work, I suppose we shall be obliged to simply thrust the book at him—to tell him that it is the means to the translation of Pepys’s diary.”
Gillian sighed as well. “I suppose. It seems such a shame, though, to take his triumph from him. He has worked so hard.”
Cord touched her hand briefly. He knew that his response to the sadness in her eyes was almost wholly on her behalf rather than Sir Henry’s, but he was swept by a desire to lighten her concern, to solve this and any other problems that might cross her path for the rest of her life.
“I will find a way, Gillian,” he whispered. “I don’t know how yet, but I’ll manage something.”
To his surprise, Gillian covered his hand with hers. In the dim light of the flambeaux, her eyes were misty pools, but he thought he caught the glitter of tears and a trace of unguarded warmth. “I know you will. Cord,” she murmured huskily. “You are very good.”
At Sir Henry’s peremptory command for Gillian to “for Lord’s sake, stir your stumps, girl,” Cord handed Gillian into the gig and waved the little party off down the drive. Bemused, he entered the house.
What had caused Gillian’s about-face? he wondered. She had stiffened like a church steeple when he had merely brushed her cheek earlier. Just now, however, she had actually returned his gesture of affection. Several explanations whirled through his mind as he made his way upstairs, his favorite being that on this occasion, Gillian had acted with her heart instead of with whatever skewed logic she had crafted in her mind.
As he readied himself for bed. Cord’s thoughts drifted to Sir Henry and to the abortive attempt to thrust the Shelton book on him. He scratched his head. How the devil was he to get the old fellow to notice the little volume with all those Restoration poets thundering in his brain?
It occurred to him that prior to his recent contretemps with his Aunt Binsted, he had scarcely given Wildehaven a thought since it had come into his possession. Now, a scant three weeks after his precipitous flight from London, he was thoroughly embroiled in the doings of his neighbors. He had fallen in love with the nearest of these, and had made himself responsible for the well-being of her aunt and uncle. He had immersed himself in his duties as a landlord, and had become the target of what appeared to be a concerted effort on the part of a number of others to get him married at the first possible opportunity.
Oddly enough, he mused as his valet slid a nightshirt over his shoulders, he was enjoying himself. He relished having his tenants rely on him and having his neighbors welcome his new efforts to improve his estate. In fact, all he needed now to make his life perfect was to convince Miss Gillian Tate that what she needed in her life was his own humble self.
He crawled sleepily into bed and soon fell into a deep slumber, troubled only slightly by dreams of maypoles and dancing maidens and a pair of clear gray eyes that surveyed him critically from afar.
He did not know how long he had been asleep when the dancing maidens began to race toward him. Grown larger and somehow menacing, they tucked up their skirts and ran with pounding feet over an earthen path. As in so many nightmares of this sort, he found himself unable to move, and it was not until the pack was almost on him that he woke, wide-eyed and sweating. His confusion was not lessened, however, for the pounding continued. It was several moments before he realized the sound came from someone pummeling the front door of the manor house. Hastily donning a dressing gown, he hurried downstairs to find Moresby hobbling across the floor from the servants’ wing, wearing a nightcap and a voluminous shawl over his nightshirt. The old man carried a candle before him like a sword, and with some indignation threw open the door.
To Cord’s astonishment, the visitor was none other than Sir Henry Folsome. He was garbed in night attire and still wore his nightcap, but had stuffed his nightshirt into a pair of breeches. He was in a high state of excitement.
“Cord!” he gasped, lurching into the house. He ignored Moresby’s presence and almost hurled himself into Cord’s arms.
“Good God, Sir Henry! What’s toward? Is something amiss at the cottage?” Cord led the old gentleman toward the drawing room.
“No, no!” cried Sir Henry impatiently. “It’s that book! The one I almost took home by mistake. Where is it? I must see it at once!”
Chapter Eighteen
“The book?” asked Cord stupidly.
“Yes!” cried Sir Henry, almost dancing with impatience. “Surely you must remember. It was atop the commentaries. I almost took it home with me.”
“Of course.” Cord nearly stumbled in his eagerness to steer the old man into the library. “I returned it to its shelf. But, my dear sir, you needn’t have come out in the middle of the night. I would have sent someone over with it in the morning, had you asked.”