“No, damn it, he doesn’t,” gritted Alasdair. “I cannot imagine what Esmée was thinking. I am half of a mind to ask her. I
thought
she would find someone worthy. Someone steady and dependable.”
“Ah, I see,” said Merrick. “You had a plan, then. Did you convey that plan to Miss Hamilton?”
“I gave her advice, yes,” Alasdair responded. “What else was I to do?”
“What else indeed?” said Merrick mordantly. “I hope, dear brother, that you do not mean to cause a scandal tonight. You and Quin are old friends.”
“I don’t need you to remind me of that, either,” snapped Alasdair. “There will be no scandal.”
Merrick fell silent for a time, but it did not last. “Tell me, Alasdair, did Miss Hamilton return your—ah, what shall we call it? Your esteem?”
Alasdair lifted one shoulder lamely. “For a time, I believe she felt something of a sentimental attachment to me,” he admitted. “But as I said, she is young. And now she has her aunt to turn to.”
“Alasdair, she is not young,” Merrick countered. “Most females her age are married, and many have children. Quin thinks her clever and sensible. Has he been courting an altogether
different
Miss Hamilton?”
Alasdair merely glowered at him across the carriage.
“Alasdair, if you wanted the chit, why—”
“For God’s sake, Merrick, shut up!” Alasdair interjected. “Whatever I
should
have done, it is too late now.”
Merrick shook his head slowly. “Alasdair, I suppose nothing is certain,” he said again. “Not until the vows are spoken. Just be careful. I know the temper you possess under all that well-polished charm.”
Suddenly, the carriage went rumbling over what sounded like a bridge. Alasdair looked out to see the pretty village of Arlington Green flying past, then the carriage slowed to turn in at a familiar-looking gatehouse.
“We are almost there,” he said quietly. “We must all endeavor to remember that this is to be a joyous occasion for Quin.”
His brother made no answer.
Ten minutes later, their footmen were putting down the steps and unloading the bags. Alasdair looked up to see Quin hastening down the curving staircase, his expression as dark as the dusky sky. Apparently, the joyous occasion had already suffered some sort of setback. Against his will, Alasdair’s hope sprang forth. Could Esmée have come to her senses?
As he alit from the carriage, Quin caught Alasdair’s gaze with eyes which were hard and cold. He seemed incapable of speech.
“Quin?” said Alasdair, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Quin, old chap, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he snapped. “At least—well, I hope it is nothing.”
“You looks as if you’ve just seen a ghost,” said Merrick.
“Not a ghost,” he murmured. “Not yet, anyway.” But Quin had cut a dark, suspicious look in the direction of the wood; the wood which separated his estate from that of his uncle, Lord Chesley.
“Your uncle is at home?” asked Alasdair lightly.
“Indeed, the prodigal returns.” Then, as if to force a brighter mood, Quin slapped Alasdair convivially between the shoulder blades. “Look, old chaps, pay my blue devils no heed. I’m imagining things—bridegroom’s nerves, and all that rot, eh? Come in, and help me wash it all down with a glass of good brandy.”
“Are you ready, my dear?”
Esmée flicked a quick glance up at the mirror. Behind her, Lady Tatton stood in the connecting doorway, resplendent in her dark green silk gown and matching plumes.
Pickens laid aside the leftover hairpins, and Esmée stood. “What do you think?” she asked, smoothing her hands down the front of her dinner gown.
Lady Tatton hastened forward. “Oh, how lovely!” she exclaimed, motioning for Esmée to twirl about. “My dear Pickens! You have quite outdone yourself!”
Indeed, Esmée had hardly recognized the young woman who looked back at her from the mirror. That woman looked—well, like a woman. Tall, and somehow more sophisticated. The dark gray silk she wore was simple, but cut low on her shoulders, with the barest hint of sleeves. About her neck, she again wore Alasdair’s pearls, and in her hair, a second strand, loaned by her aunt, which Pickens had cleverly twisted into Esmée’s upswept arrangement.
“I have a gift for you,” said Lady Tatton, holding out her hand.
Esmée looked at the tiny velvet bag. “Aunt, you mustn’t.”
“This is a special occasion,” her aunt insisted. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
Esmée unthreaded it, and dumped the contents into her hand. A pair of pearl drop earbobs tumbled out, swinging from large, white diamonds. “Oh!” she said breathlessly. “Oh, how elegant they are!”
“And now they are yours,” said Lady Tatton, plucking one from her palm. “I wore them when I married Tatton, and they are very precious to me. Here, let me put them on for you. Wynwood will wish his future bride to look elegant and sophisticated.”
Esmée felt her eyes tear up. She wished the occasion felt as special to her as it clearly did to her aunt. “Aunt Rowena, I ought not take anything else from you,” she said when the last was on. “You have been so very generous.”
“And I shall endeavor to always be so,” said Lady Tatton, stepping back to survey her work. “Now, my dear, let us go downstairs and face the future boldly on.”
From the corridor, Esmée could hear the soft sound of violins resonating up from the drawing room. Lady Wynwood had insisted on a string quartet. “For ambiance!” she had said. “And dear Chesley does so love his music.”
“I saw the Lord Chesley’s barouche draw up a few moments ago,” whispered Lady Tatton, as they went down the wide, curving staircase. “Now remember, he is Gwendolyn’s younger brother, and she quite dotes on him.”
Esmée had often heard Wynwood speak of his uncle. “Surely he is not that young?”
“Oh, heavens no!” said Lady Tatton. “Fifty now, perhaps? He is a world traveler, and a great patron of the arts both here and on the Continent.”
“Och, I shall have nothing to say to such a man!”
“Nonsense!” said her aunt. “You’ll charm him.”
In honor of the occasion, Lady Wynwood had thrown open the withdrawing room and the two elegant parlors adjoining it. Black-clad footmen seemed everywhere, floating through the crowd with trays of champagne that glistened gold beneath the light of what seemed to be a thousand candles. Silver had been polished until it gleamed, and the fine oriental carpets had been beaten half to death, Esmée was sure. The wealth and grandeur of the Hewitt family was indisputably on display tonight.
The drawing room was already filled with people, most of whom Esmée had already met. There were, however, a few neighbors whom she did not know. She was being taken round the room on Wynwood’s arm to meet them when she felt him stiffen abruptly.
Esmée’s gaze followed his in the general direction of the string quartet. An opulently dressed middle-aged gentleman stood nearby, accompanied by three other people, none of whom looked like neighbors or relations.
“Is that your uncle, Lord Chesley?” Esmée asked. “I am very eager to meet him.”
“I shan’t interrupt him just now,” said Wynwood coolly. “Let me return you to your aunt, my dear. Mother is looking daggers at me. I must have forgotten to do something.”
Esmée did not see Lady Wynwood anywhere in the room, but she rejoined her aunt, who was holding court on the opposite side of the windows. Esmée sat quietly by her aunt’s side as a gaggle of garden-minded ladies debated the merits of various manures. Sheep seemed to be coming out on top, so to speak.
Bored, Esmée began to let her gaze drift round the room. Lord Chesley had bent down to consult with the cellist. Lady Wynwood had returned, and was now speaking with Chesley’s friends. Her son was nowhere to be seen.
Just then, Esmée felt someone’s gaze burning into her. She turned to glance over her right shoulder, and her heart seemed to stop. Sir Alasdair MacLachlan stood in the wide doorway beyond the crowd. His long, lean figure filled the space. He was dressed in solid black, a glass of sherry held loosely in his hand. Almost mockingly, he lifted it, tilted the rim in her direction, then drained the contents.
For an instant, Esmée could not catch her breath. Until this moment, she had not truly believed he would come to Arlington Park. But not only had he come, his brother stood in the shadows behind him. Why had he done so? Did he mean to torment her past all bearing? She wished she had not worn his pearls. They seemed to be burning into her bare flesh now, just as his eyes had done.
Esmée turned back to the ladies’ conversation, her cheeks faintly hot. Good Lord, she was being ridiculous! The three men were best friends. Why
wouldn’t
Alasdair be here? It was time she grew accustomed to the fact that he was going to be a part of her life if—no,
when
—she married Lord Wynwood. Impatiently, Esmée shook off the doubt, and looked about the room for something to distract her.
Chesley’s three houseguests were interesting. Esmée forced herself to focus on them. The party consisted of a frail, older gentleman whose black evening coat seemed too large for his body. He had a beaklike nose, the weight of which seemed to tip him slightly forward, stooping his shoulders. Beside him stood a nondescript gentleman of perhaps thirty years, who behaved with great deference to the elderly man.
The third guest was the most interesting of all. She was a beauty—and definitely not English. She was tall; taller than either of the men. Her inky hair was drawn tightly back from a face which was both fine-boned and vibrant. Her eyes were even blacker than her hair.
She stood beside the elderly man, holding a stemmed glass of what appeared to be champagne, and regarding the roomful of guests from beneath a pair of slashing black eyebrows. She wore a dress of dark red silk cut low across her slender shoulders, and a pair of ruby drops the size of Esmée’s thumbnails dangled from her ears. A black cashmere shawl draped from her elbows, as if placed just so by an artist. The only thing about the woman which was not utterly perfect was her nose, which had a tiny knot halfway down the bridge.
Wynwood’s great-aunt leaned near. “Have you met Contessa Bergonzi yet, Miss Hamilton?” asked Lady Charlotte.
Esmée turned to look at her. “Contessa Bergonzi?”
“An opera singer,” the old lady added slyly. “But she married well. She arrived just last week from Venice with her father, Umberto Alessandri.”
“Umberto Alessandri?” Even Esmée had heard of the famous Italian composer. “What on earth are they doing here?”
The old lady’s eyes twinkled. “Wasting Chesley’s money,” she answered. “He wishes to commission an opera.”
“An opera?”
Esmée echoed.
The old lady sniffed. “Chesley’s a dilettante,” she responded. “Always dabbling in this and that, and throwing money at these temperamental artist types.
Continental
types. I daresay you know the sort I mean.”
“I—yes, I daresay,” murmured Esmée.
The old lady rose, looking very frail as she did so. “Come along, girl,” she ordered in a tone that was decidedly
not
frail. “I shall introduce you.”
Esmée had little choice.
“Chesley!” said the old lady, as they drew up near the orchestra. “Chesley, forget that silly music and come here at once.”
He stepped from the midst of the musicians and came toward them with an indulgent smile. “Aunt Charlotte!” he said, lifting her hands in turn to his lips. “My dear, you don’t look a day over seventy! And who is this young beauty? Pray do not tell me she is my nephew’s intended.”
“Of course she is, you fool,” said his aunt. “Make your curtsey, girl, to your silliest in-law-to-be.”
Esmée did so. “Good evening, my lord.”
“Oh, cruel, cruel world!” said Chesley. “The beautiful ones are always taken.”
Aunt Charlotte cackled, her humped shoulders shaking with mirth. “You’ve never been in the market for a female in your life, Chesley,” she answered. “Now introduce the chit to your musical friends.”
Lord Chesley slid a hand beneath Esmée’s elbow, and steered her in the direction of the striking, dark-haired woman. “My dear, may I introduce my nephew’s intended bride, Miss Hamilton?” he said. “Miss Hamilton, the Contessa Viviana Bergonzi di Vicenza.”
Esmée made a quick curtsey. “It is an honor, ma’am.”
The contessa observed her with bold, dark eyes. “My felicitations on your betrothal, Miss Hamilton,” she said in careful but perfect English. “I wish you many years of happiness in your marriage.”
Esmée felt awed by the woman. “Thank you, my lady.”
The contessa’s dark gaze swept down her again. “You must forgive us for intruding on what was obviously meant to be a family celebration,” she murmured. “Chesley did not perfectly explain the occasion.”
“Oh, don’t rake me over the coals, Vivie,” said the earl. “I can’t keep up. What difference does it make?”
The contessa turned her penetrating gaze on Lord Chesley. “Why, none at all, I’m sure,” she said coolly. “Miss Hamilton seems all that is amiable.”
Just then, they were called to dinner.
“Thank God!” said Aunt Charlotte. “I’m famished. Come along, girl. You can acquaint yourself with the others after dinner. Oh, I do hope Mrs. Prater has made her famous curried crab tonight.”
But Esmée did not have to wait until after dinner. Instead, she found herself seated beside the pale young man who had come with Lord Chesley. The contessa was seated some distance away. Lord Wynwood sat to Esmée’s left, at the head of the table, but he seemed disinterested in polite dinner conversation. Esmée’s aunt sat with Sir Alasdair MacLachlan to one side, and the Contessa Bergonzi directly opposite, and she looked none too pleased about either.
The young man beside Esmée breathlessly introduced himself as Lord Digleby Beresford, younger son of the Marquis of Something-or-Other. Esmée was beginning to lose track of who was who, and her brain was now jettisoning the names of anyone not actually present. Lord Digleby, thank heaven, did not require much of her. He seemed content to rattle on about himself and about his work with the great Signor Alessandri.
“You are a composer, then?” asked Esmée, surprised.
The young man blushed—for about the third time since the soup course was served. “I am indeed, Miss Hamilton,” he said with an air of confession. “Well, primarily a librettist.
Nel Pomeriggio
is to be my first full opera, and Chesley was bound and determined I should have help with the score.”
“Chesley was determined?”
Again, the blush. “He is my patron, Miss Hamilton,” said Lord Digleby. “All the famous composers have them, you know.”
Esmée rather thought that patrons were for starving artists. If Lord Digleby was the son of a marquis, it seemed unlikely he fell into that category. “Well, I hope you are finding inspiration for your work here in Buckinghamshire,” she murmured. “It certainly is lovely.”
Lord Digleby, it seemed, was indeed inspired. He was happily ensconced, he explained, at Chesley’s country house for the duration of his creative efforts. Signor Alessandri had been coaxed from Venice to advise him, based on Chesley’s kind assurances that Digleby’s was a rare talent.
Secretly, Esmée wondered if having now met the young man, Signor Alessandri and his beautiful daughter weren’t ready to flee rural England on the first boat back to Venice. But perhaps Digleby was really quite good? In the midst of pondering it, Esmée again felt the heat of someone’s stare. She cut a swift glance down the table to see Alasdair staring boldly—and quite perceptibly—in her direction. Quickly, she looked away, and felt warmth spring to her cheeks.
What an awful coil! The arrogant devil she both loathed and desired would not take his eyes off her, whilst the man she was to wed seemed all but unaware of her existence.
Soon came the worst part of all. Lady Wynwood asked the guests to drink a toast to the happy couple. Esmée sat quietly by as the entire table lifted their glasses, and shouted “To Esmée and Quin!” That happy moment was followed by a round of good-natured jests from the gentlemen, and a series of warm wishes from all the ladies. Esmée sat through it all feeling like the world’s worst fraud, and watching Wynwood smile mechanically down the table at his guests.
But dinner did not last forever, nor did the coffee and impromptu dancing which followed it. This time, however, Wynwood remained at her side until the guests began to straggle from the room, led off by Great-aunt Charlotte. Wynwood surprised Esmée then by taking her hand and leading her from the drawing room and into a quiet alcove near the library.
“You must be tired, my dear,” he said, entwining her hand in his. “You look as though you long to go up to bed.”
“Aye, desperately,” she admitted. “But I shall wait awhile yet. I would not have your mother think me ungrateful.”
Wynwood was silent for a long moment. “Esmée, I—” He stopped abruptly, and shook his head. “I have not been very attentive tonight. It is unforgivable. Yet I ask your forgiveness. I shall try to be a better husband than fiancé.”
Esmée held his gaze, and carefully considered her next words. “My lord, rest assured that if you are having second thoughts—”
He cut her off sharply. “Absolutely not,” he said. He tried to smile with some success, but his eyes were wan.
“You look tired, too, my lord,” she said. “Did you not sleep well last night?”
The smile deepened into something more sardonic. “Not especially, no,” he said. “Look, there are Mamma and Lady Tatton at the foot of the stairs. Everyone is going up, it seems. You should go, too. Sleep well, my dear.”