Candice Hern (20 page)

“Tell me more about this Mrs. Tennant of yours,” Nicholas said. “She’s lovely. A man could drown in those big green eyes.”

“Try not to, if you please.”

Nicholas looked up, a flash of amusement in his eyes. “Aha. I knew something was in the wind. Are you writing poetry to those eyes?”

“No.”

“What? No sonnet to her eyes? I am stunned. You must be off your feed, old boy.” He returned his attention to the stack of carefully folded neckcloths he’d removed from his bag.

“To her lip.”

Nicholas looked up again. “What’s that?”

“I’ve been working on an ode to her upper lip, if you must know.” Simon had removed his coat and now hung it up on a peg, deliberately avoiding his friend’s eye.

Nicholas gave a hoot of laughter. “The upper lip, eh? I am guessing it is not one of those stiff ones we English are supposed to have? I shall have to pay more attention to it when I next see her.” He reached over and punched Simon playfully on the arm. “You devil. Would I be wrong in guessing you have done a close survey of that lip? A
very
close survey?”

“Shut up, Nick.”

“A tender subject, apparently. Soft and moist and tender, I daresay.”

“Nick, I swear—”

“All right, all right.” He put both hands up as if to ward off blows. “Truce. No more teasing, I promise. It is difficult, to be sure, but I try very hard not to tease you about these little infatuations of yours. This one was no doubt inevitable. The two of you alone in a carriage for several days. She is distraught and beautiful and leaning on you in her hour of need.”

Simon had to laugh at such a skewed impression of Eleanor. “In the first place, Eleanor—”

“Pretty free with her first name already. Simon, you dog, you’ve not wasted a moment, have you?”

“—is not distraught, nor is she leaning on me for support. Quite the opposite, in fact. She was angry as a baited bear at first, blaming me for her niece’s folly. She slapped me hard across the face on the day we met.”

Nicholas’s eyebrows shot up. “She never did!”

“She did. And for most of the trip she has crossed swords with me on any number of topics, in both heated argument and polite debate. She has also endlessly teased and taunted me about my Romantic idealism.”

“A match made in heaven, to be sure,” Nicholas said as he continued unpacking. “And yet when you entered the inn, the two of you were laughing together like old friends.”

“Yes, well, we have reached a sort of amity after all that time alone together. We are opposites in many ways, but she is a remarkable woman, Nick.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, and that brings me to my second point. Eleanor is not one of my little infatuations. She is…special.”

Nicholas rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “Oh, Lord, you’re in love again.”

“No, no, this is different. Like nothing I’ve ever known. I tell you, I’ve never felt like this before, Nick. This is true and deep and very real.”

“You will forgive me, old chap, but I have heard these romantic pronouncements of yours too many times in the past.”

To his great mortification, Simon felt himself blush. He suddenly felt like the boy who cried “Wolf!” How could he convince his friend that this was not the same as all those other times? That Eleanor was not just another pretty face who inspired his pen?

“I have always had a weakness for pretty women, as you know too well. But I’m telling you, Nick, this really is different. It’s as though all those other times were merely rehearsals, and this one is the real thing. It’s hard to explain, but I’ve never felt like this. I believe Eleanor just may be the one I’ve been looking for all these years.”

Nicholas stood very still and regarded him thoughtfully. “Well, well, well. I don’t know what to say, except to wish you luck.”

“I’m mad about her, Nick. Truly, I am.”

“I thought as much when I saw the way you looked at her. That’s one of the reasons we thought you were running away to Gretna. You had the mooncalf look of an impetuous bridegroom. Oh, I say. She
is
a widow, is she not? There is no Mr. Tennant likely to toss a glove in your face, I hope?”

“No, she is a widow.”

“Thank God for that.” He untied his neckcloth and tossed it on a chair. “I have no desire to be your second in some ramshackle business with a jealous husband. But tell me, Simon, is this going to be an
other one of those unrequited affairs, or does this one return your regard?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Simon had removed his own neckcloth and now used it to try to put a bit more shine in his boots. His valet was going to have a stroke when he saw them. “It’s only been five days, after all,” he went on. “And she’s had some unpleasantness in her life that makes her somewhat difficult to reach. A little skittish, if you know what I mean. I’m not sure if she’s ready for something between us. But I am ever hopeful.”

Nicholas grinned broadly. “Of course you are. I’ve never known you to be otherwise. I hope your dreams come true this time, my friend.” He pulled his shirttails out of his pantaloons and tugged the garment over his head.

“So do I,” Simon said. A thought struck him, and he stopped unbuttoning his waistcoat. “I do have rather a pitiful record with women, do I not?”

“Not so pitiful. As I recall, the poetic record is quite large, filling several notebooks.”

Simon snorted. “That’s not what I meant, dammit. It just occurred to me how many times I have fallen in love with someone unlikely ever to return my affection. I am wondering if I do it just so I can write brokenhearted, maudlin verse. Do you think I am that foolish a Romantic?”

“Seeking the unattainable ideal? The great Romantic agony? No, that’s not you, Simon. Unless you have completely bamboozled me all these years, I’d say you are the perfect idealist. You don’t
wallow in failure. I think you simply pick the wrong women.”

“Am I doing it again, with Eleanor? Setting myself up to fail?”

“I don’t know, Simon. I would have to know more about the lady to assess her attainability.” Nicholas grinned. “I shall make a study of her over supper.”

Simon clucked his tongue and shook his head. Nicholas was an incorrigible flirt. He was a good friend, though, and always removed himself from the field when he knew someone else’s interest was engaged.

Simon removed his waistcoat and shirt and surveyed his limited wardrobe. He had only one more clean shirt, but there was no sense in saving it. He shrugged into it, and had a momentary vision of Eleanor getting undressed upstairs. His body reacted, and he blew out a breath through puffed cheeks. “Lord, but I’m so damned crazy about her,” he mused aloud, “it is almost unbearable. You cannot imagine how hard it is to sit inches from her, hours on end, and still remain a gentleman.”

Nicholas clapped him on the back and laughed. “Poor old Simon. You must be exhausted from the effort. You will fall into a decline if you are not careful. I don’t suppose you could cast your fine scruples to the winds and simply toss her on her back?”

Simon hunched a shoulder. “God knows I’ve wanted to. Perhaps if I did not care for her so much, I would. But she is not the sort of woman to wel
come such an advance, and I want her to trust me. I’ve been trying to break down her defenses for five days now, but she’s been hurt in the past and is being overly cautious, I think.”

“You’ve gotten nowhere in five days? No progress at all?”

“Well, she did let me kiss her this afternoon,” Simon said, and worked his hands through his short hair. “We came upon an Oak Apple Day fete, you see.”

“Ah. A decorous salute in honor of randy old Charles, I presume.”

“Hardly. I should rather say it was a fitting tribute to the Great Man. It was the sort of kiss that turns a man inside out and blisters his soul.”

“Well, then.” Nicholas could not keep the amusement from his voice. “Sounds like pretty good progress to me.”

“Perhaps. But it is a delicate balance. It was effort enough just to get her to not think me a fool. I certainly don’t want her now to think me a cad. It has been my greatest ambition these last days to get her to trust me. It would help if I could just find that troublesome niece of hers. Once that burden is lifted, I’m hoping she will be receptive to a serious courtship.”

“Lord, Simon, she’s a widow,” Nicholas said as he tied his neckcloth. “She won’t look for a courtship. She would no doubt prefer you to cast aside propriety and toss her on her back.”

“I wouldn’t want her to get the wrong idea.”

“Then make her an offer, tell her you love her, and then toss her on her back. But don’t waste a lot of time shilly-shallying with niceties. It ain’t as though she’s a green girl. You’ve been with a widow before. You know what they’re like.”

“This one is different, Nick. I’m not after a harmless bit of dalliance. She’s worth much more than that.”

Nicholas turned to face him and raised his eyebrows. “My God, you really have fallen hard, have you not?”

“Very hard.”

E
leanor looked down at her dress and sighed. She feared she was bound to appear dowdy next to the beautiful and dignified Miss Parrish. She had always been rather fond of this dress, with its short tunic of ikat muslin over a plain white muslin underdress. The beautiful ikat, woven in shades of blue and green against a white ground, had also been used to trim the hem of the underdress and to fashion a bandeau for her hair. The fabric had been a gift from her brother two years ago, and the dress had been made shortly afterward. It was, therefore, not remotely modish. And to make matters worse, it was badly creased.

She had brought along only two dinner dresses, though, and Simon had already seen the other one three times. It pained her to imagine what he would think to see her in such an unfashionable
dress next to Miss Parrish, who was bound to look prettier no matter what she wore.

What on earth was wrong with her? Eleanor had never been envious of other women and their modish wardrobes—not much, anyway. She had become resigned to shabby gentility once she’d moved to Bristol with Maurice, and it had only become shabbier since his death. Why was she suddenly so prickly about how she looked?

She knew the answer, of course. She was simply embarrassed to admit it, even to herself.

Perhaps if he had not embraced Miss Parrish so fondly, smiled and laughed with her so easily, casually touched her arm or shoulder so often as he spoke—perhaps if he’d done none of those things Eleanor would not now be harboring a perfectly absurd jealousy.

Dear heaven, what had come over her? She had no claim on Simon. A kiss did not mean anything.

She reached up to touch her lips. If she closed her eyes she would swear she could still feel his imprint upon them. It might have meant nothing, but it had most definitely felt like something. God, it had felt wonderful. And it had been such a long time since she’d experienced anything like it. In truth, it had been so long, she could not even say for certain if she’d ever experienced anything like it.

But, no, that was not true. Henry had also known how to bring about that same sort of erotic thrumming in her body, and she had lost her head over it. At almost thirty years of age, was she about
to lose her head again? Over a few kisses? How utterly nonsensical.

Had he kissed Miss Parrish in that same way? He had called her friend, but so had he called Eleanor. He was a man of strong romantic tendencies who adored women. According to his own brother, he fell in love with pretty women all the time, and Miss Parrish was more than just pretty. There was a slightly exotic look about her, with her nearly black hair and dark, penetrating eyes. She shared Simon’s political passions as well. He had said he preferred a strong, self-possessed woman with a mind of her own. How could he fail to fall in love with a woman like Miss Parrish who managed and edited an entire magazine?

Stop it
, she told herself. She was being horribly, embarrassingly stupid. Simon had kissed her and she had thoroughly enjoyed it.
Take it for what it was and move on. End of story.

There was still Belinda’s story to worry about, however, and Eleanor was increasingly concerned. They were less than forty miles from Scotland. The next report from the Runners, which had not been awaiting them at the inn as she’d expected, would be critical. If Belinda and Geoffrey Barkwith had not been tracked to Gretna Green, and if there was no record anywhere of a marriage, then there could be only one alternative: he was taking her to a house in Scotland. There would no longer be any question that she had been right about him. This was the only thing that mattered now, the only
problem that must remain uppermost in her mind, not some petty jealousy over nothing.

Out of sheer contrariness, however, she took the tiny spray of lilac that was still tucked into her bonnet ribbon and attached it to the ikat bandeau in her hair. Perhaps it would remind Simon that
she
was the one he’d kissed that day. Besides, it looked rather nice, she thought as she admired her reflection in the small mirror above the chest of drawers. It might not be the latest stare of fashion, but it would do. The red ribbon, still tied on her wrist, stood out like a trumpet blast among the woodwinds, but she was resolved to wear it until Belinda was found.

A rapping on the bedchamber door interrupted the last-minute ministrations to her simple coiffure. It was Simon, neat as a pin and with barely a crease in his dark blue coat, figured silk waistcoat, and crisp linen. His eyes went straight to the flowers in her hair, and he smiled.

“The lilac suits you, my dear.” He bent down slightly, and for one anxious moment she thought he meant to kiss her again, but he only put his nose close to her hair and took a whiff of the fragrant blossoms. He had to stand exceedingly close to do so, however, setting off that all-too-familiar warmth low in her belly.

“You smell delicious,” he said in a husky voice, and lingered in the area of her hair for longer than was absolutely necessary, his breath tickling her brow. “Here, take my arm before I am overcome by
the sweet perfume, and I shall take you in to dinner. The private parlor is down on the next floor, I’m afraid.”

She closed the door, put the key in her reticule, and took his arm. He touched the red ribbon on her wrist briefly and smiled down at her. “You still wear the Gypsy’s ribbon.”

“Of course. It was your idea, you may recall. It will remain on my wrist until Belinda is found.”

They came to the narrow stairway and made their careful way down its precarious twists and turns. “I hope you do not mind having dinner with my friends,” Simon said, keeping a firm grip on her elbow.

“No, of course not.” Had he read something otherwise in her face? “I am pleased to make their acquaintance.”

“You realize, of course, they are the ones I mentioned, the ones who are neighbors of mine in the Peak?”

“Yes, I know. Miss Parrish is the editor of
The Ladies’ Fashionable Cabinet
.”

“Indeed. And Nick writes for it as well. They are my closest friends, Eleanor. I hope they can be your friends, too. You will like Edwina, I think. She is not quite the Romantic I am, but we do share political ideals.”

“You were in France together, I believe.” Was she too obviously probing?

“Yes, almost ten years ago. The three of us went together, along with a few others. Ah, here we are.”

The Parrishes were already comfortably ensconced in the parlor. It was a beautiful old room with a large tracery window of sixteen lights. The fire was lit, and a sideboard was set out with glasses and several decanters. Nicholas rose at their entry.

“Come and join us,” he said. “We have discovered the claret to be excellent.”

He poured a glass and handed it to her. He had the same dark good looks as his sister. His smile was somewhat roguish and his eyes flirted, as though it was a habit with him. He handed Simon a glass as well, and raised his own. “To serendipity,” he said, and they all raised their glasses with him.

“It is indeed serendipitous,” Edwina said, “for us all to have met in such a remote part of the country. Please come sit by the fire, Mrs. Tennant. It may be practically June, but it is drafty in this old inn. What a lovely dress you are wearing.”

Pleased at the compliment, Eleanor took a seat in a hard-backed armchair and tried not to stare. Edwina, minus the bulky pelisse and bag bonnet she’d worn earlier, was quite simply stunning. Her glossy black hair was twisted around the back of the head in a complicated arrangement of braids held in place by a single gold comb, with artfully disheveled curls spilling forward in the front. Her eyes were large and dark and highly expressive. Her round gown of simple white muslin was not, as it happened, any more fashionable than Eleanor’s own. But with such
striking looks, who would ever notice what she wore?

More than merely beautiful, Edwina’s was a face full of intelligence and vitality. Her smile was genuine, and Eleanor liked her at once. She felt a stab of anger at herself for having harbored even the tiniest pang of jealousy. Edwina was the sort of woman one would want as a friend, not a rival.

Of course, there was no reason for them to be in positions of rivalry. Eleanor glanced at Simon and reminded herself that it had been only a few kisses. There had been nothing proprietary in it.

“I daresay you are in no mood for talk of serendipity,” Edwina said, “with your niece still at large. You must be beside yourself with worry.”

“Yes,” Eleanor said, “I am afraid I shall not feel at ease until her situation is resolved, one way or another. It is most distressing, to be sure.”

“Perhaps we ought to toast the Royal Oak instead,” Nicholas said, with a twinkle in his dark eyes that told her he knew about the fete, and most likely about the kiss. Could men never keep a secret?

“A smashing idea, Nickie,” Edwina said. “We saw some of the loveliest oak boughs hung all about this morning. And when the Lancaster & Carlisle
Telegraph
bowled by, it was thoroughly bedecked and beribboned. So yes, let us toast merry old Charles and the Restoration.”

They raised their glasses once again and drank to the monarchy. Eleanor found it odd that these
three, who had apparently gone to France in search of Republicanism, would pay homage to any monarchy, but she kept her thoughts to herself.

“Simon tells me you came upon an Oak Apple fete today,” Nicholas said, confirming Eleanor’s fears. She shot a quelling look in Simon’s direction.

“Did you?” Edwina said. “What fun.”

“That is where Eleanor got her lilac,” Simon said. “Directly from the queen’s scepter.”

“And it looks very fetching indeed, Mrs. Tennant,” Nicholas said, “but I am not quite sure it serves the purpose. It is oak leaves, as I recall, that protect one against pinching.”

“Pay no attention to my brother, Mrs. Tennant. He is an inveterate flirt and not to be trusted. If he so much as tries to pinch you, just fling that claret right in his face. Besides, I am inclined to believe a queen’s lilac is protection enough.”

The soup was brought in and the gentlemen helped the ladies to be seated at the table. Conversation was kept light at first, held to the trivialities of the weather and the roads. Simon remarked that the rains had made a mess of the roads in the Midlands. “Our carriage took a tumble in the Northamptonshire mud.”

“That must be where you got the cut above your eye,” Edwina said. She looked to be on the brink of a smile but kept her voice even. “And the bruise fading on your jaw.”

Simon colored up and darted a glance at Eleanor
before returning his attention to the soup. “No, it’s not from the carriage accident. There was a…um…a bit of a fight in Buxton.”

Edwina covered her mouth to suppress a gurgle of laughter. Nicholas was busy choking on the soup.

“A fight?” he said when he could speak, his voice still a little raspy and trembling with restrained laughter.

“It was more in the nature of a brawl,” Eleanor said. “And it was all my fault.”

“Do tell, Mrs. Tennant,” Edwina said, casting up her perfectly arched brows. “I am all agog.”

Eleanor made brief work of the story, but did her best to stress the bravery, and skill, exhibited by Simon. She had no wish to sit through yet another meal during which he was berated for his lack of manly virtues.

“Well done, Simon,” Edwina said.

“Lord, I wish I had been there,” Nicholas said. “Lucky for you old Malcolm showed up, eh?”

“He did not need his brother’s help, I assure you,” Eleanor wondered why she felt so determined to stand up for him. These were his closest friends, after all, and surely would not need Eleanor to point out to them Simon’s true nature. She felt a twinge of embarrassment for being so obvious. Hoping to recover some measure of dignity, she said, “Malcolm and his friends simply added to the melee.”

“Quite so,” Edwina said, her eyes darting between Eleanor and Simon with interest. “Simon can handle his own in just about any situation. Nickie, do you remember that night in Bruges…”

The conversation turned to reminiscences of their travels together. Both Edwina and her brother seemed determined to embarrass Simon with stories of his strength, courage, and cleverness, with the occasional tale of some youthful foolishness or other. Thoroughly rapt, Eleanor found that yesterday’s revelations and the deep and varied conversation of last night had not been enough. She wanted to know everything about him.

Simon, however, looked miserably uncomfortable, and his color was still high. He changed the subject to the Parrishes’ trip to Edinburgh. There was some business about political pamphlets that quite obviously was being couched in vague terms because of Eleanor’s presence.

“Please feel free to speak openly,” she said. “You need not fear that I will report you as engaging in seditious activities.”

“You understand our motives, Mrs. Tennant?” Edwina asked, her gaze as forthright as her words.

“As far as
The Ladies’ Fashionable Cabinet
is concerned, yes, I believe I understand.”

“And do you support our efforts?”

“I understand your motives,” Eleanor replied, “but I am not prepared to say that I support all you do without knowing more about it.”

“Simon has told you about the
Lady’s Monthly Museum
?”

“Yes, he has, though I remain somewhat skeptical.”

Conversation ceased while the soup was removed and the next course set out. Clearly, there would be no discussion of the magazine or anything remotely political while strangers were in the room. With a few words from Simon, the waiters left all the dishes on a sideboard and departed. The two gentlemen wasted no time in leading the ladies to the food and heaping up plates of their own. It was the usual array of fish, meat, game, vegetables, and condiments, enough for a group of ten rather than four. Of course, one of those four was Simon.

Eleanor could not help but notice that his plate was piled twice as high as Nicholas’s. Edwina caught her eye and grinned. She was no doubt accustomed to Simon’s appetite. When they were seated once more, she continued the conversation as though there had been no interruption.