Authors: Jo Goodman
"My God," Marchman said, pretending to be much struck by this. "I do believe she has one foot planted. Yes, that is precisely what I noticed about her on first acquaintance. Her toes are practically curling up in anticipation of her own imminent demise."
The viscount gave him a sour look. "Make light of me at your own peril, West. You know perfectly well what I mean. The blush is off the peach, as it were. The Dowager Countess of Northam won't approve of her."
Eastlyn's deep chuckle drew his friends' attention. "All the more reason North's interest might be engaged."
"True," Southerton said, more thoughtful now. "Too true. North's rather predictable in that regard. His mother may regret getting what she's wished for."
Evan Marchman's head tilted to one side as he regarded his companions consideringly. "A wager? I believe there is one in the making. I have a sovereign that says North will present the dowager countess with a daughter-in-law by year's end."
Viscount Southerton laughed. "A sovereign, eh? Very well, if I'm to wager an entire sovereign, you'll have to be more specific. Is it Libby Penrose he'll take to the altar?"
Marchman glanced back to where Northam was standing beside Lady Elizabeth. Northam's features were politely fixed and serenely impenetrable. He could have been wishing himself anywhere else or finding himself thoroughly entertained. If Elizabeth Penrose was in any way an accomplished woman, and something of a bluestocking to boot, then Marchman was of a mind to wager that Northam was entertained. "Agreed," he said. "It's Lady Elizabeth he'll marry. East, will you hold our sovereigns?"
"A pleasure." Eastlyn held out his hands and collected one gold piece from each man.
* * *
"What is it?" Elizabeth asked. She was immediately sensitive to the shift in the earl's attention, brief though it was. When he looked back at her his eyes had darkened fractionally, the only indication in an otherwise implacable expression that something was not quite as it should be. When he did not answer immediately Elizabeth glanced in the direction of his former companions. One of the men was putting something in the pocket of his jacket and the other two were shaking hands. They appeared amiable in the extreme. "Do you wish to rejoin them?" She flushed a little at the thought that she had been unable to hold this man's regard even for so short a time. She was credited with being a good conversationalist and an even better listener. At dinner parties she was often placed beside the hostess's most difficult guest. She had a manner of quieting the bombast, enlivening the dullard, flattering the peacock, and delivering the perfect riposte to the boor.
Perhaps her skill had been too much refined upon, Elizabeth thought, for she was possessed of none of it now. She looked up at the earl. His hair was like a helmet of sunshine. A gentle breeze caused a few strands to flutter against his temple. He pushed them back absently. White-gold light surrounded his head; shadow passed across his face.
"Would you walk with me, Lady Elizabeth?" He surprised himself with the invitation. The words had not formed clearly in his head before he heard himself give them voice. It was not strictly a desire for her company that persuaded him to make the offer, but a desire to move her away from the speculations of his friends. He had planned to make her acquaintance later, in a less public manner, but seized a moment that was less forced. He hoped she had not seen the money changing hands; hoped even more that if she had seen it, she would not divine it had anything to do with her. Southerton and Marchman should have had more sense than to make their wager so openly. He did not have to know the particulars to know it had something to do with him, and therefore with Elizabeth Penrose. He had taken part in similar wagers over the years, beginning most spectacularly with Madame Fortuna and the challenge issued by the Bishops at Hambrick. This was very different. Most definitely different. He had asked his hostess for an introduction so he could apologize to Elizabeth Penrose. He was hardly of a mind to seduce the Earl of Rosemont's daughter, no matter what those three court jesters on the blanket thought.
"A walk?" Elizabeth asked. Really, she sounded as hopelessly naive as a girl fresh out of the schoolroom. She had
never
been that.
He smiled, softening the corners of a mouth that could be obdurate when it was set. "Yes, a walk. One foot in front of the other. Side by side, if you like. Well within the view of every one of the baroness's fifty closest friends, confidants, and cousins, and most assuredly within sight of her husband. South warned me at the outset that you are a particular favorite of the baron and his wife."
"South?"
Northam tipped his chin toward the blanket where Southerton was stretching his length along the edge, looking for all the world as if he intended to nap. "Viscount Southerton. We call him South."
At that moment Southerton yawned widely enough for Elizabeth to fancy she saw his tonsils. She made no attempt to school her smile at the sight. Her generous mouth tilted up at the corners and the ridge of her teeth showed whitely.
Northam saw the same thing she did. He grinned. "There's a sight." He shook his head, wondering if he could pretend at this late juncture that he was not at all well connected with South or the others.
"I knew his sister Lady Emma. We made our debut during the same Season."
"And I know Emma as well," he said. "Though I missed her debut. That aside, this association virtually makes us friends of long acquaintance."
"I would not go so far as to say that."
"You do not have to. I have already said it."
Elizabeth laughed. "So you have." She sobered slightly, her beautifully arched brows relaxing their raised curve.
"You would not be embarrassed to walk with me?" She was not looking at the earl, but at the uneven path that followed the stream's meandering route. "I fear I shall give you cause to regret your invitation."
"Embarrass me? I should think not." Whatever was she talking about?
Of course he didn't know, Elizabeth realized. He had arrived late to the picnic, with the viscount following soon afterward. He had missed the dinner party entirely the evening before, and clearly her escort to the table, the Marquess of Eastlyn, had not mentioned her infirmity. Unlike most of the guests who had walked to the picnic area, she had ridden. Her mount was contentedly grazing some fifty yards away at the edge of the wood.
Elizabeth rose to her feet with fluid grace. She set the box of watercolors she had been holding on the stool and slipped out of her smock. She brushed ineffectually at the stain on her gown, sighing when she realized there was nothing to be done about it now. "I should like very much to walk with you," she said, looking up at him, her decision made. "May I take your arm?"
"Of course." He raised his elbow, surprised when she grasped it firmly. Elizabeth Penrose was taller than he had imagined she would be. Sitting on the stool she had appeared to be of no more than average height, perhaps even porcelain petite. That was before he realized she was all leg, and most of it had been tucked under her stool and hidden by the paint-streaked smock. When she unfolded, her chin came to his shoulder and her eyes, wide and almond-shaped, were not far below his own. She was slender but not fragile; graceful but not dainty. The grip on his arm was firm, and there was strength revealed in the raised veins and bloodless knuckles of her hand.
When he took his first step, he understood why. Elizabeth Penrose limped heavily beside him. He sensed her hesitation, as if she were anticipating that he would put a halt to their walk before it had strictly begun. Northam had no intention of doing that. "This way," he said. He escorted her past the long table laden with the picked-over picnic feast. It looked incongruous here in the middle of a field, draped with white linen tablecloths and covered with silver and crystal service. There were platters heaped high with chicken and beef and trout, bowls filled with melons, oranges, and peaches. The towers of breads, cakes, and pies arranged at one end were yet largely untouched.
Elizabeth followed the path of his gaze to the table."You disapprove," she said.
"It is the indulgence in excess." He grimaced. "Forgive me. That sounded priggish to my own ears." Out of the corner of his eye he saw her slight smile. "Our hosts have presented us with a feast that would have fed Wellington's army for a month."
Her smile widened at this exaggeration. "Then it is a good thing the war is already won. It does not serve the national interest to deny Wellington. As it happens, the baroness will direct the servants to give the remains to the foundling home in Merrimac. It will not go for slops." Elizabeth was aware of the heads turning in their direction. Their halting progress to the footpath was causing comment among the guests. There was no point in ignoring it."We are the subject of speculation, my lord, and we have yet to reach the stream."
"If they find us a rich topic of conversation, then I am heartily glad to be away from it."
"You seemed to be enjoying yourself a short while ago with your friends."
"Reminiscing. Our school days. We were all at Hambrick Hall together. You can be sure there was nothing the least edifying about our conversation." Depending on one's knowledge and perspective, that was not entirely true. Perhaps Elizabeth Penrose would have found it most educational. He had—when he was ten. "Here we are," he said as they reached the trampled footpath. "Shall we take a moment to appreciate the view?"
"I don't require a rest," she said with some asperity.
Northam glanced at her. His brows were considerably darker than his hair, and one of them had risen to give him a perfectly arch look. "Might I appreciate the view, then? You are at liberty to wander away on your own."
Elizabeth turned her head and faced the stream. It was a pleasant enough vantage point to enjoy the steady rush of the water and the eddying breeze, though she had no doubt he was taking the pause for her. The bank was dotted with patches of daisies and wild geraniums. On the other side grass grew knee high and the blades swayed and twisted, turning the hillside silver green when their undersides were exposed. Grass gave way to a wooded area that was highly regarded by the locals for its abundance of wildlife. The fact that the baron was not zealous in his pursuit of poachers meant that the villagers in Battenburn, and as far away as Merrimac and Stoneshire, were well fed even in lean times.
Behind her, Elizabeth heard the hum of conversation. It was not so different than the drone of the bees that were diving into a hole in the bank. They came and went in pairs or threes, sought out a spray of coneflowers, then danced lightly on the large purple petals before returning to their home.
"Shall we continue?" Northam asked.
"If you've taken your fill of the view."
He smiled. "I believe I have." Northam felt her grip tighten on his arm as they turned. The footpath was sufficiently wide for him to remain at her side. He was conscious of the path's gentle dips and rocky inclines in a way he would not have been if his partner had been hale. "Are you staying with our hosts?" he asked.
"Yes. I came ahead two weeks before they did. Louise and Harrison are not fond of rusticating in the country, even in the halcyon days of summer. It was my pleasure to see that all was in order before they arrived."
"I understand you are Rosemont's daughter."
Elizabeth did not mistake this comment as a non sequitur. She followed the line of his reasoning. "You think it is odd that the baron and baroness would engage me in such a manner?"
"I did not assume they hired you for such tasks as readying their home for their arrival, but yes, you are in the right of it that I find it peculiar you would be traveling with them and not occupied similarly with your own father's estates."
"My father has my stepmother to offer companionship and counsel. My younger brother is there to get underfoot. Father has never raised any objection to the time I spend away from home."
North did not miss the coolness in her voice. It was the singular lack of affect that gave her words chilling preciseness. He did not know what it meant and he didn't press. He filed it away for examination in a private moment. "My invitation is for a fortnight," he said.
"I know." She looked at him askance, the merest smile lifting the corners of her mouth. "I wrote it."
He laughed. "So you do their correspondence also."
"The baroness will tell you that she is hopelessly muddle-headed when it comes to organizing her affairs. Battenburn had a Mr. Alexander who managed small concerns for him, but he has since gone on and I have gladly taken on those duties."
"You are an unpaid companion."
"More like a daughter," Elizabeth corrected him. "I am regarded as family. They have no children."
Since neither the baron nor baroness had reached their fortieth year, children were not strictly out of the question. Northam supposed that Elizabeth was privy to circumstances of a personal nature explaining why the couple, at least fifteen years into their marriage, remained childless. "I do not know either of them well. The invitation was unexpected."
"But welcome," Elizabeth said.
"How do you arrive at that conclusion?"
"Why, the fact that you responded favorably. Your absence last evening, along with that of your friend Viscount Southerton, caused some consternation and the last-minute rearrangement of the seating, but you are here now, so one might reasonably conclude that you welcomed the invitation."