First Season / Bride to Be (3 page)

“How could he? He knows I loathed the assemblies and evening parties he made me go to at home.
He
hates them too. He never goes out. We are just alike, Papa and I.” The tears threatened to overflow, and she blinked them back furiously.

“What do you do at home?” asked Anabel gently.

“We read. We both love books. And we have very good dinners. Our cook is French. And no one tells me that I should look better in my ball gown if I did not eat my dinner. And no one is forced to dance with me when he does not wish to.” Georgina sniffed and ate another meringue.

“Perhaps your father was thinking of the future,” offered Anabel. She was feeling a great deal of sympathy for her cousin and wanted to comfort her.

“I am his only heir,” replied Georgina bluntly. “I will have the house and an adequate income. He has told me.”

“Well…but you should have a family of your own and…”

“Why? I don't want one.” The girl sounded both defiant and unhappy.

Anabel did not know just what to say to her. On the one hand, her mother was right. If Georgina would do something about her appearance, she would no doubt have a pleasanter time in London. But she realized now that what she had taken for sullen stubbornness in Georgina was in reality a mask for bewilderment and hurt. Perhaps some young man had been rude to her this evening, and certainly Lady Goring's criticisms had wounded her. She was striking back by refusing to change, and she had some justification. Anabel did not know what she could do for her, but kindness was surely better than further humiliation. “What sort of books do you like?” she asked.

Georgina's gray eyes brightened a little. “Novels. Do you read them?”

“I have little time for reading, I'm afraid. I seem to be always busy with the children.”

She nodded, accepting this. “Are you glad you came to London?” she asked. “You like it here, don't you?”

“Well, yes. I do enjoy parties.” Anabel felt almost apologetic.

“You are pretty. Everyone likes you.”

She laughed. “Hardly.”

Georgina shrugged again. “That man you were dancing with does, and he didn't even want to look at me.”

So she had noticed Norbury's reaction. Anabel had hoped she had not. She tried to think of some reassuring answer.

“It's all right. I don't care. I am perfectly happy the way I am.” Georgina picked up another meringue.

But Anabel, watching her, knew that it wasn't true, and she wondered again what she could do for her touchy young cousin. The girl couldn't be pushed; that was clear. Was there some more subtle means of aid? No thoughts occurred to Anabel, and the musicians were striking up another waltz in the ballroom, drawing her irresistibly away. Dancing again had been wonderful.

“Go ahead,” said Georgina.

Anabel hesitated, then turned toward the music. She would think about her cousin tomorrow.

Anabel enjoyed herself hugely at the ball, and as a consequence slept luxuriously late the following morning, waking barely in time to dress for her appointment with Sir Charles Norbury. Thus, she was not downstairs to receive a morning caller who asked for her with some impatience. Indeed, no one was about, and the footman left the gentleman in the drawing room to go in search of Lady Goring.

The man paced the elegant room in long, swift strides, obviously preoccupied. Once, thinking he heard a sound, he stopped and turned quickly. But no one was there. He was dressed in well-tailored traveling clothes, though not in the height of fashion, and there was something very appealing in his ruddy blond complexion and alert blue eyes. He was just above medium height and just past thirty years of age, and his handsome face fell naturally into lines that suggested laughter.

Still pacing, this time he did not hear the faint noise from the doorway. But it was followed almost immediately by a shriek that brought him swinging around.

“Uncle Christopher!” A diminutive figure hurled itself across the carpet and onto his chest, nearly knocking the breath out of him. “You're back, you're back!”

“Hello, Susan,” he replied, hugging her like a man accustomed to such assaults. “I am. I arrived this morning.”

“How did you know where we were?” Susan had drawn back a little and was pulling him toward the sofa, where she settled herself on his knee.

“I saw it in the newspaper.”

The child's green eyes went wide. “Are we in the newspaper?”

“Your mother is. It says she attended a ball last night.” His tone in imparting this information was ambiguous.

“Oh. That.” Susan's interest vanished. “I am so glad to see you, Uncle Christopher. You must take us all home at once.”

Christopher Hanford eyed the small girl meditatively. He was not really her uncle. The Wyndhams and the Hanfords had been neighbors in Hertfordshire for generations, and he had grown up with Ralph Wyndham and remained his closest friend even after the latter's marriage. Upon his untimely death, Hanford had naturally become the mainstay of Wyndham's bereft young family, and all of the children called him “uncle.” Anabel, too, relied on him. He had always been happy to oblige. But in the last six months or so he had gradually realized that his happiness was not simply that of a faithful friend. The Wyndhams had less and less need of him as the grief for Ralph faded and Anabel learned about running an estate and managing alone. Yet he called as often and found himself resenting the change. Finally the truth had struck him. He had, in the past three years, fallen deeply in love with his charming neighbor, and he could no longer be content without her.

This knowledge had unsettled him, chiefly because Anabel herself showed no signs of returning his regard. She was always glad to see him and treated him with the relaxed informality of long-standing friendship; she seemed delighted by his love for her children. But on the few occasions when he had tried to express more profound feelings, she had not understood, or perhaps, as he sometimes thought, she had pretended not to, thinking he would see that she could offer him nothing more. This conclusion had so cast him down that he embarked on a sudden voyage abroad, resolving to stay away until he had conquered his unrequited passion. He told the Wyndhams only that he was leaving, and he did not write. But this accomplished no more than to keep him wondering how they were through the entire trip. Last week he had given it up and turned homeward, determined to confront Anabel and find out his chances. But almost the first thing that greeted him in England was the announcement that she had brought her family to town. He was irrationally angry that she should have taken this step without consulting him, and uneasy about its consequences.

“Have you seen her?” asked Susan, tugging at his lapel to get his attention. “Uncle Christopher!”

“What? Seen whom?”

“Daisy. My cat. I'm looking for her. She comes down here all the time, and the servants get angry.”

“I haven't seen her, Susan. I'm sorry.”

Susan shrugged and smiled angelically up at him. Not for the first time, Hanford marveled at the strange combination of seraphic face and hellish temper.

The drawing-room door opened again, and Nicholas peered around it. When he saw Hanford, he looked first astonished, then delighted. “William!” he called over his shoulder. “Here.” Then he in his turn ran forward and embraced the man, to be followed quickly by the elder male Wyndham. “How good that you are back,” said Nicholas when their greetings were over. “You can speak to Mama.”

Hanford smiled at his assurance. “About what?”

“Going home, of course. I daresay she will be more willing to go now that you will be there.”

“What makes you think so?” he replied rather sharply.

“Oh, things were dreadfully flat after you went. We all said so.”

“Your mother too?”

This time Nicholas glanced up at his eagerness, slightly puzzled. “Oh, yes. Will you tell her? We dislike London so.” William and Susan nodded vigorously.

“We shall see.” He felt a rising hope. Was it possible that Anabel had come to London because she missed his company?

The footman opened the door and ushered Lady Goring in. Hanford put Susan aside and rose to greet her. But before either could speak, a large mass of ginger fur streaked past her ladyship's feet, almost oversetting her, and buried itself in one of the blue velvet draperies. It was hotly pursued by another footman, who arrested his headlong rush barely in time to avoid his employer. He came to attention, breathing hard and pulling at his coat to adjust it, just outside the room.

“Whatever is the…” began Lady Goring, then stopped and sighed. “The cat again, I suppose.”

“Yes, ma'am,” answered the footman. “He got into the kitchen, and Cook says—”

“Susan, you promised me you would keep that animal upstairs,” interrupted the other, not wanting to hear what Cook had said. She could easily imagine it.

“I
did
, Grandmama. Only, Miss Tate said I had to do my lessons, and so I—”

“I know you want to keep him, Susan. But he is really not the sort of pet for you to…”

Seeing Susan's ominously reddening face, Hanford ventured, “I believe he is climbing the curtain.”

He was. William and the footman ran to the window, followed more slowly by Nicholas. The cat's progress was evident only from a moving agitation of the cloth, but he was already above the reach of the brawny footman. “A chair,” suggested Hanford, and one was quickly shifted. Daisy was retrieved with an ominous rip and a flurry of claws and teeth. Susan ran to cradle him.

“Go downstairs and have Mrs. Beecham tie up your hand at once, James,” said Lady Goring in a long-suffering voice. The footman, hands behind his back to hide the bleeding, hurried away. “Susan!”

“Daisy was just frightened. She didn't know what they were going to do to her, did you, Daisy?”

The giant cat focused a derisive yellow eye on the group.

“If he cannot be kept upstairs, Susan…”

“I will. I will, Grandmama. I promise!”

Lady Goring sighed. “We will try it once more. But only once, Susan. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Grandmama.” She gripped Daisy more tightly, his tail, legs, and belly hanging over her small arms. The cat surveyed his audience complacently.

Lady Goring stepped forward, holding out her hand. “I beg your pardon for this uproar. I am Anabel's mother, and though we have not met, I have heard a great deal about you. I am delighted to make your acquaintance at last.”

Hanford bowed slightly as he took her hand. “And I yours.” His bright blue eyes were still dancing at the scene he had just witnessed, and Lady Goring found herself smiling.

“Shall we sit down?”

They had hardly done so when the unwounded footman came in again, announcing, “Sir Charles Norbury,” and ushering that gentleman into the room.

There was an immediate alteration in the atmosphere. The tall, very fashionable figure who strode to the middle of the carpet and looked down at them was in marked contrast to the inhabitants of the household. Lady Goring was well dressed, but common sense rather than changing modes always governed her choices. Christopher Hanford was a countryman, and his clothes, although good, had no pretensions to elegance. In his many-caped driving coat and gleaming Hessian boots, Norbury seemed to epitomize the town buck, and his sardonic expression as he scanned each of them merely increased this impression. “Good day, Lady Goring,” he said. “I hope I do not…intrude?”

Hanford disliked him at once, for no discernible reason. And Lady Goring's reply was not warm. She implied, without actually asking, a question about his visit.

“I am here to fetch Lady Wyndham for a drive in the park,” he said. “Did she not mention it to you?” His slight smile and one raised brow were very handsome, and extremely annoying to his adult listeners. Hanford's dislike was confirmed, and joined by suspicion. Lady Goring frowned. Their visitor appeared amused.

“I want to go, too,” stated Susan, putting Daisy down on the floor. “Mama said we might go to the park, but Nurse never wants to take us.”

Norbury eyed her with distaste, and Lady Goring recalled her duties as hostess with a certain relish. “You haven't met my grandchildren, Sir Charles,” she said cordially. She gave their names. William and Nicholas made very creditable bows, but Susan merely moved closer to the man and stared up at him with a fixity that earned her a haughty look. “And forgive me, Mr. Hanford, I ought to have mentioned you first. Mr. Hanford is a neighbor of my daughter's in Hertfordshire.”

“I see.” Sir Charles was obviously impatient. “I fear I cannot keep my horses standing too long, Lady Goring. If Lady Wyndham might be informed of my arrival…”

“Oh, John has gone to tell her. I daresay she will be right down.” She seated herself and indicated with a gesture that the gentlemen should follow suit.

Daisy had been scouting the perimeters of the room since being set free, and now he looked out from under the sofa, drawn by the high shine of Norbury's boots. Nicholas, under whose legs the cat emerged, drew them quickly up. Daisy stepped out, head extended, and sniffed delicately. The sound attracted Sir Charles's attention, and the sight of Daisy brought a twist to his lips. Some instinct made the cat raise its head and meet the man's pale green gaze. In an instant the streetwise creature had retreated out of sight.

“You have been traveling abroad, Mr. Hanford?” said Lady Goring.

“Yes. I've only just returned.”

“How did you find the Continent now that the war is over? Much changed?”

“Well, I had never visited it before, so I am not the person to say. But it is certainly interesting.”

Norbury's face showed contempt at this commonplace, and Hanford, who had replied at random as he tried to work out what he would say to Anabel when she appeared, felt a strong desire to hit him.

“My husband and I visited Paris on our wedding journey,” said Lady Goring. “We always meant to return, but the war came, and then Gerald's death, and we never managed it. Paris is a wonderful city.”

Hanford agreed. Sir Charles hardly tried to conceal his impatience.

William and Nicholas had effaced themselves since the second caller arrived, feeling that their presence was now unwelcome, at least to him. But Susan was unhampered by such scruples. She had wandered to the window and now she approached Norbury's chair. “Is that your carriage outside?”

“Yes.”

“I've never seen one like that. What is it called?”

He looked annoyed. “A high-perch phaeton.” His voice was clipped.

“Why is it so tall?”

Alarmed by Sir Charles's languid annoyance, Lady Goring and Christopher Hanford spoke at the same moment.

“That is the fashion,” she said.

“You can see a great distance from the seat,” he said.

They glanced at each other, smiled slightly, and apologized. Norbury looked pained.

“But…” Susan was never easily diverted.

“I am so sorry I am late,” exclaimed a breathless voice from the doorway, and Anabel hurried in, looking charming in a white sprig muslin gown, with tiny blue flowers and long tucked sleeves, and a chip straw hat. She carried a dark blue pelisse over her arm.

The gentlemen stood, Norbury stepping forward.

“Christopher!”

“Hullo, Anabel.”

“When did you get back?”

“Just this morning.” She had come forward and offered her hand, and he took it and squeezed it warmly. The way her face had lit when she saw him had speeded his pulse.

“However did you find us so soon?”

“You were in all the society papers.”

“I?” She seemed both astonished and a little pleased.

“Yes, indeed. ‘The charming Lady Wyndham.'” His eyes teased her.

“Oh my.”

“I beg your pardon,” put in Sir Charles, “but I really cannot leave my horses standing much longer.”

Anabel turned quickly. “Indeed, it is my fault. I am sorry.” She looked back at Hanford, biting her lip. “We must go.”

He said nothing. He refused to tell her it was all right.

“Are you staying in town long, Christopher?”

“A few days.” He had planned to go straight home, but her presence changed that.

“Good. I will see you later, then. Good-bye Mama, children.”

“I want to go with you,” said Susan. “You promised I could see the park.”

“Nurse will take you this afternoon, dear.”

“I want to go now!”

Seeing Norbury's face and knowing her daughter, Anabel cravenly fled with a hurried “Another time, love.” Lady Goring, watching the youngest Wyndham's imperiousness turn to outrage, braced herself. William and Nicholas waited with identical grimaces.