Elizabeth Mansfield (6 page)

"You, too, can see love shining forth tonight," Ainsworth continued, "for the signs are unmistakable. Like a cough or an itch, love cannot be hidden. It gleams from the eyes of the lovely Deirdre like encapsulated star-shine. And where will we find the answering gleam? You needn't look very far, for it, too, is unmistakable. In the eyes, of course, of my cousin, Leonard Tyndale, who, though a good-enough fellow, doesn't nearly deserve such a beautiful bride."

Here Lord Ainsworth flicked a gloating glance at Kate, but she was so overset by what she'd just heard that she barely noticed. All she knew was that she'd heard something surprising ... something that was causing the knot in her stomach to dissolve and her fingers to tremble so badly she had to clench them in her lap. It seemed that her body understood something that her brain did not yet grasp. What had just been said? That Deirdre was to be
Leonard's
bride? Had she heard aright?

Ainsworth, meanwhile, was lifting his glass. "Yes, it may well be that our Leonard doesn't deserve the lovely Deirdre. But love has its own eyes. Because Deirdre chose to accept him, we can do nothing but wish him well. Let us raise our glasses and drink to this happiest of betrothals. To Deirdre and Leonard. May they have years of joy."

And amid loud laughter and applause, the listeners got to their feet, raised their glasses, and drank to the seated pair.

Kate got to her feet, too, but she didn't know how she'd managed it. Her brain was in a whirl.
Leonard?
Was
he
the magnificent, handsome, broad-shouldered specimen Deirdre had so glowingly described in Kate's bedroom? Was Deirdre truly betrothed to Leonard Tyndale? Kate could hardly believe her ears!

But she'd heard it clearly enough. There was no mistaking it now. Young Tyndale was the groom-to-be.

And Harry Gerard, Lord Ainsworth, was not.

NINE

While the men enjoyed their after-dinner brandies, the women adjourned to the drawing room and circled the glowing Deirdre like doting grandmamas about a newborn babe, giggling and embracing her and offering their excited congratulations. They plied her with all sorts of questions about the forthcoming wedding, but Deirdre, though blushing prettily, shook her head and let her mother answer for her. "I'm not thinking beyond the ball on Saturday," Madge told them. "After that, there will be plenty of time to make wedding plans."

The gentlemen soon rejoined the ladies, and Charles immediately began to arrange for a game of whist. Lady Ainsworth excused herself. "I think I shall retire for the night," she said, rising. "Benjy, give me your good arm and escort me upstairs. You, too, ought to go to bed. You need adequate rest to insure a good recovery."

The boy threw Kate an expression of helpless disgust at his grandmother's words, but he did as he was told. After the pair had bid the assemblage good night and left the room, a card table was set up, and Charles, Madge, Isabel, and Sir Edward took places for the game. Deirdre and her newly affianced lover, arms entwined, sat down beside each other on the sofa near the fire and gazed lovingly into each other's eyes. This left Kate with no company but Lord Ainsworth himself.

She found the situation unfortunate. How could she face his lordship with equilibrium after having made the humiliating mistake of assuming he was the prospective bridegroom? The only means of escape was for her, too, to retire for the night She went up to her mother's chair. "I think I'll go up to bed also," she whispered in her ear.

"Very well, dear," her mother murmured, patting her arm but not looking up from her cards.

"Good night, all," Kate said to the other players and started for the door.

Lord Ainsworth followed her. "Surely it's too early for bed," he said, taking her arm and smiling down at her.

"It's been a long day," Kate said, trying unsuccessfully to slip her arm from his grasp.

"Then you must let me escort you to your room." Ignoring her resistant tug, he pulled her arm through his and walked with her out the door.

Once outside the drawing room, she flicked a glance up at his face.
Why was he doing this?
she asked herself. Did he want to gloat at her humiliation? He was looking down at her with that ironic gleam in his eyes—the very expression that irritated her from the first day of their acquaintance. "I suppose you're feeling quite proud of yourself," she said, wrenching her arm free.

His eyebrows rose innocently. "Proud, ma'am?"

"For having made a fool of me again." Tossing her head, she walked away from him toward the stairway.

With his long stride, he had no difficulty keeping up with her. "Not proud, my dear," he said. "Only amused."

"That's the purpose of fools, isn't it? To amuse people?" The question was belligerent, but soon her eyes fell. "I have only to wear a cap and bells to fit the role," she muttered ruefully.

"Come now, ma'am, don't exaggerate," he said. "Though you must admit that you did jump to a foolish conclusion about your cousin Deirdre and me."

She sighed. "Yes, I did."

"I certainly gave you enough opportunities to reconsider," he pointed out gently.

"Yes, now that I think of it, you did.
In the game of love, I am not a participant,
that's what you said, didn't you? I
am
a fool."

If she expected him to object, she was doomed to disappointment. "Well," he said thoughtfully, "you do seem to rush to conclusions, much as in the old saying."

"That fools rush in where angels fear to tread? Thank you sir, for the compliment." She turned away in anger and started up the stairs. She'd only gone a few steps when she paused. "I suppose," she said, looking back at him, "that's what you meant when you said, earlier this evening, that my character is consistent. You meant that I'm consistently foolish."

"Actually, I didn't mean that at all." He came up beside her. "I was thinking that you are consistently ... er... closed-minded."

Disgusted, she renewed her climb. "You, sir," she threw over her shoulder, "are the foolish one if you think being closed-minded is a less-offensive description of my character than being foolish."

"I'm dreadfully sorry. I had no wish to offend." Smiling, he caught up with her again and took her hand. "I realize that closed-mindedness can't possibly be a fully accurate description of your character. I know there's much more to you than that. I hope, in the next few days, to have the opportunity to discover some of the many other facets of your nature."

"Do you, indeed?" She peered up at his face suspiciously. Was this the rake at work? “Tell me, my lord, why do you wish further exploration of a character you've already decided is foolishly closed-minded?"

"Because, ma'am, I've already seen signs in you of a very appealing charm."

Her brows rose in scorn. "Really, my lord, that was beneath you. There have been no signs of 'charm' in any of our encounters. Do you think this sort of obvious, insincere flattery will win my approbation?"

"When you know me better, ma'am, you'll learn that I never offer Spanish coin. Flattery is not one of my gifts. And even you will admit that you've shown me one quite obvious charm." The ironic gleam in his eyes reappeared. "A man always finds a woman charming when he believes she admires him."

She gaped in offended astonishment. "Are you saying you think I
admire
you?"

"Well, yes, of course. You must."

"How can you possibly believe that? I've barely been civil to you."

"But you believed, with no proof whatsoever, that I was the man your cousin Deirdre fell in love with," he explained calmly. "You couldn't have believed that if you'd found me odious."

That, of course, was quite true; she'd found him anything but odious. But it was the last thing she wanted him to know. She had no choice but to deny it. Vehemently. "Oh, yes, I could!" she declared. "I thought the girl was besotted to have wanted you. Crazed. Utterly blind. So there!"

He dropped her hand and took a backward step. "Heavens," he said. "I'm crushed."

He was mocking her, but she ignored it. "Not so charming now, am I?" she asked triumphantly.

"No," he agreed, "not very."

"And now that you've determined I'm foolish, consistently closed-minded, lacking in charm, and as arrogant as the girl in the Persian shawl, I suspect that you've discovered enough facets in my character to give up searching for more."

He rubbed his chin ruefully. "You've certainly made the prospect appear discouraging."

"Good, then. You'll give it up." She turned on her heel and marched up the remaining stairs. "Good night, my lord."

"Good night, Miss Rendell," he said. This time, he did not follow her.

The feeling that she'd somehow triumphed in the verbal battle lasted until she'd shut the door of her room. Then, abruptly, the feeling died.
What on earth do I have to feel triumphant about?
she asked herself.
What did I actually win in that exchange?
Nothing at all, if one thought about it. In truth, she'd lost. She'd merely succeeded in convincing the most attractive man she'd ever met that she was unworthy of his attention! The more she remembered about the conversation on the stairs, the more miserable she felt. She
was
a fool!

She threw herself on the bed and buried her head in the pillows. When had she become so
stupid?
Tears of humiliation flowed from her eyes and began to drip onto the bed linen. She'd never considered herself to be the weepy sort, but she realized she was about to indulge in something more than mere tears: A bout of hearty sobs was coming on. Before the sobs actually developed, however, a knock sounded at the door. "G-Go away, Megan," she ordered, choked.

"It's not Megan," came Lord Ainsworth's voice.

The intended sobs froze in her chest. With a pounding pulse and shaking knees, she got to her feet, took a quick swipe at her cheeks with the back of her hand, drew in a deep breath, and stumbled to the door.

She opened it just a crack. "Lord Ainsworth, what on earth—?"

He cut her off with a wave of his hand. "Don't you think it's time you began to call me Harry? This excessive formality makes it very difficult for me to speak freely."

"I hadn't noticed that you'd had the least difficulty in speaking freely. However, if you wish it, I shall call you Harry from now on."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"And you may call me Kate. Your insistent 'ma'am' makes me feel ninety years old."

"It will be my pleasure, Kate," he said, grinning as if he'd won a match.

"But that's not why you knocked at my door, is it?" she asked, frowning at him to quell his saucy grin. "What do you wish to speak so freely about?"

"I just want to clarify one point," he said, "to keep you from making another wrong assumption about me."

"Oh?" She opened the door a bit wider. "What assumption is that?"

"The assumption that I'm going to give up exploring other facets of your character. I have no intention of giving up on you, Kate."

She could feel a little bubble of relief ease the tension in her chest, but she had no intention of letting him see it. She raised her eyebrows haughtily. "Really, my lord? I don't see why—"

" 'Harry,' please, not 'my lord.' " he reminded her.

"Harry, then. By whatever name I call you, the facts don't change. I don't see why you claim to be interested in exploring my character when you obviously find so much fault with it."

His eyes took on their disconcerting twinkle. "You see, Kate, my dear," he explained, "there's one thing about you that makes the exploration too tempting for me to resist."

"And what is that, may I ask?"

"Your mouth."

"My mouth?" Her heart gave a little leap, though she had no idea why. "The mouth with the arrogant twist? As in the painting?"

His grin widened. "Yes, that very mouth. It may have an arrogant twist, but it's also the most kissable mouth I've ever seen. Good night, ma'am." And with that, he sauntered off down the hall.

"Good night,
Kate"
she corrected, hoping he would not hear the catch in her voice. But he was already out of earshot.

TEN

Harry turned the knob of his bedroom door carefully. He was sharing the room with his brother and did not want to wake the boy. But when his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw a dark figure standing at the window, faintly outlined by the light of the moon. "Benjy?" His voice clearly showed his disapproval. "What are you doing still up at this late hour?"

"I might ask the same of you," the boy retorted.

"No, you might not," Harry said, mockingly stem. "You're half my age and, therefore, only entitled to half my privileges." He crossed the room to his brother. "Is something troubling you, boy?"

"No, not at all. I was just standing here admiring the way the garden looks in the moonlight. Look at that bush over there, Harry. Doesn't it look like the Longwitton Dragon?"

"The Longwitton Dragon?"

"In that story you used to tell me when I was a child;'

"Oh, yes," Harry said, smiling, "I remember."

Benjy pointed eagerly toward their left. "Look there, alongside the little well."

Harry looked. "Yes, yes, I
see!
That bush
does
resemble the dragon."

"Just like in the story, with his tail wrapped round that tree and—"

"—and its tongue in the well. Remarkable!" Harry put an arm about the boy's good shoulder, and the two stood looking out at the moon-shadowed shapes, grinning at their shared old memories.

After a while, Harry's smile faded. "You're not having a very pleasant time here, are you?" he asked sympathetically.

"I wasn't, but all that's changed," the boy said with a twinkle. "I have an assignation."

"Have you, indeed?" Harry eyed him suspiciously. "You're not going to tell me you're indulging in a flirtation with a housemaid?"

"Oh, much better than that!" Benjy said, chortling with satisfaction.

This caused Harry to drop his arm, march over to the night-table, and light the candle that stood ready. He studied his brother in its light. "Well, at least you're already in your nightshirt." He brought the candle close to his brother's face. Benjy was grinning widely. "Come now, boy," Harry demanded, "what mischief are you up to?"