The Wedding Season Page 18

  The viscount, who usually seated himself with a flourish, slumped into the overstuffed blue chair. His eyes filled with sadness. “It’s no use, you know.”

  She stared at him. “No use?”

  He shook his head. “No use at all. I must confess I cannot resist any longer.”

  Somewhat relieved, Elizabeth knew she should ask what he could not resist, but the words would not form.

  A frown darted across his forehead. “I know you’re eager to know what I cannot resist, so I shall tell you.” He gave an artificial sniff and settled into his chair. “I have the overwhelming urge to confide in you, my dear.”

  “Oh.” She managed a slight smile and a tiny nod.

  “All my life, I have carried the weight of my title…all alone. Unlike you, I had no warm family to enfold me. No mama or papa to nurture me.” He steepled his hands and rested his forehead on the apex formed by his forefingers. The pose was impressive in its pathos. “No filial affection to bolster me in difficult times.”

  Elizabeth’s heart constricted with pity. What would she do without her beloved family? No wealth or title could take the place of those she loved. “You have all my sympathy, Lord Chiselton.”

  “Thank you, dear lady.” His smile seemed genuine.

  Now curiosity reared its head. “Is that all you wished to say?”

  “There. I knew you would understand. Would care about me.” He leaned forward and grasped her hands. “I do have more to say, but I should like to wait until this evening during the masquerade. Promise you will meet me in the south corner of the back terrace at midnight?”

  Did he wish to propse to her? The idea should thrill her, but instead she felt almost uneasy. Why, he had not even asked Papa’s permission to court her, for Papa would have told her. She gently twisted her hands from his grasp. “I cannot think it proper, Lord Chiselton.”

  “No, of course not.” He waved his hand in a careless gesture. “Not if we were entirely alone. But everyone will be there trying to guess who’s who.” He wiggled his eyebrows and gave her a playful grin. “You needn’t bother trying to guess my identity, for I shall tell you. Then you’ll have no trouble finding me. Tonight—” he lifted one hand, finger pointed toward the ceiling as if he were making a grand proclamation “—I shall be Mark Antony.”

  Elizabeth blinked. “Ah.”

  “I would have been Julius Caesar, for he was the great conqueror. But one always thinks of him as an old man or—” he shuddered “—assassinated. Antony holds a more youthful image.” He leaned one shoulder toward her in a conspiratorial pose. “What mask will you wear?”

  “Humph.” Unease crept into her chest, but she managed a cheerful tone. “That is a secret.” She told herself that she was merely teasing, responding to his flirtations in kind, but deep down, some instinct had her resolved to stay as far away as possible from Mark Antony and the south corner of the back terrace.

  “What do you say, old man?” Jamie draped himself over a red damask chair in the library and munched on an apple. “I desperately need a diversion, and you could use one, too.” The late-afternoon sunshine filtered in through the library window, casting a glow on his carefully arranged Caesar-cut curls.

  Seated across from him, Philip closed his volume of sonnets. Philip Sidney’s Astrophel and Stella had done more to remind him of Miss Elizabeth than to distract him, so he set the book on the mahogany side table and studied his friend. His good friend. The nineteen-year-old, still a restless youth, had selflessly dedicated these past three days to entertaining him. Yet Philip’s melancholy remained, and he couldn’t shake it off.

  He had no doubt the young lady would return home affianced to that dreadful Chiselton, an advantageous match for her, to be sure. The thought filled his heart with an ache compounded by grief over his kinsman’s death and his own future. If the matter of Whitson’s contract could simply be dealt with, Philip could go home and enjoy the consolation of his family. But Bennington seemed in no hurry to settle the affair. No doubt he was too diverted by his garden party.

  A reckless urge swept through Philip. He’d spent the last six years shouldering massive responsibilities. Why not abandon himself to enjoyment for an evening? Within reason, of course. He grinned at Jamie. “Very well. What do you propose?”

  Jamie glanced around as if checking for listeners. “The masquerade is tonight. It’s just the thing to stir up some excitement.”

  “Um, have you forgotten I wouldn’t exactly be welcomed at Bennington Manor?” Despite his words, Philip could think only of seeing Miss Elizabeth again, even if just from across the room.

  Jamie smirked. “Have you forgotten the definition of masquerade?” He tossed his apple core on the table, and juice splashed across the wood. “Masks, my good man. Masks and capes and costumes. No one will know who you are.” He stood. “Let’s go to the attic and raid the costume chest.”

  Philip pictured the rags the children wore for presenting their Bible stories, but if there were finer garments to be had, this escapade could prove interesting.

  He glanced at the apple juice leeching from the core onto the smooth mahogany. In very little time, it could eat into the wood and discolor it. Drawing out his handkerchief, he scooped up the fruit and dried the table.

  Jamie tilted his head and frowned. “Oh. Right. Good show.” He took the core from Philip and tossed it into the dustbin by the fireplace. “Must you always be so perfect?”

  His mocking tone dug into Philip. Was that how he seemed to his friend? No, he certainly wasn’t perfect. And the proof was the risk he planned to take tonight just to see the woman he couldn’t allow himself to love.

  With the help of their lady’s maid, Elizabeth and Pru prepared for the evening’s excitement in their shared bedchamber. Elizabeth had brought one of Mama’s old dresses for the masquerade. Made long before slender, high-waisted dresses came into fashion, the gown had wide lavender panniers over a white underskirt and a scooped but modest neckline edged with delicate lace. A powdered wig left by some Moberly ancestor provided the perfect addition to her disguise, although it did carry a slightly musty odor, despite Ginny’s attempts to shake out some of its ancient powder and dust.

  Pru chose a blue shepherdess costume with many underskirts. The crook she carried could prove useful, but no such weapon seemed appropriate for Elizabeth’s disguise. Though she could not imagine why such a thought had occurred to her.

  “I enjoyed the story Aunt Moberly told us as we were choosing our costumes.” Pru tugged her gown’s low neckline as high as it would go before tucking a gauzy fichu into its edges. “Who would think our parents ever faced such difficulties when they were courting?”

  Elizabeth sat before the dressing table mirror while Ginny adjusted her wig and mask. “Yes, one would never know from their happy circumstances now. When I am courted, I should like less drama and more security.” She adjusted the mask so she could breathe through two tiny nostril holes, then stood so Pru could sit.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Pru studied her reflection and continued to fuss with her fichu until Ginny took charge and secured it with pins. “A little drama might be entertaining.” She tucked her hair under a mobcap that covered every blond strand. “As long as no one’s life is threatened.”

  “Or as long as no one interrupts the wedding.” Elizabeth pictured dear Mr. Lindsey’s face, so filled with fear and courage at the failed wedding. Would his business with Uncle Bennington be completed before she returned home? That thought stirred a pang of regret. So far, this entire party had failed to draw her interest away from the gentleman, and now she faced the evening with no small amount of trepidation.

  “Do stay close to me, Pru.” She eyed the shepherd’s crook, formed from a solid hickory branch.

  “I shall not desert you. Humph.” Pru’s usually smiling lips pursed with disapproval. “The very idea of Lord…” She eyed their maid. “You may go, Ginny.”

  “Aye, Miss Prudence.” Well-schooled by Mam
a’s Nancy, Ginny dipped a curtsy and left without a change in her placid face.

  The instant the door clicked closed, Pru grasped Elizabeth’s hands and squeezed. “Imagine Lord Chiselton accosting you that day at the ruins and reminding you of your childhood infatuation with him, as if those girlish feelings obligated you to him now. And worse, telling you he had dreamed of you since those long-ago days. I do not believe him, nor do I trust him. If he was so enamored of you, why did he not come calling? He was just trying to win your good graces.”

  Elizabeth winced. “But for what purpose? He seemed so sincere, and you cannot discount the weight of responsibility he carries. And always has.”

  “To be fair, no.” Pru raised an eyebrow. “Well, then, if you are so sympathetic to him, you should be prepared to accept his proposal.” She wrinkled her nose. “After all, you did pray for a husband with a title.” Pru’s words cut Elizabeth.

  “I did. But…” At a scratching on the door, Elizabeth stopped. “Yes?”

  Cousin Di flung the portal open and entered, followed by her sister Sophia. Dressed in the flowing Greek robes of Aphrodite, Di carried a white feathered mask. Her thick blond hair was piled high and entwined with gold and floral strands. “Come along, my little sprites. There will be much merriment tonight.”

  “Do you like our costumes?” Sophia had dressed as Boudica, queen of the Iceni, who had fought so fiercely against the Roman invasion of Britain. Covered in furs and woolen leggings, she spun into the room, brandishing a wooden sword. With her full, sturdy face and broad shoulders, she did indeed look like a female warrior. “My Mr. Whitson is dressed as the Roman governor, Paullinus. Do you not think that is just the thing?”

  At her last remark, Elizabeth tried very hard not to glance at Pru, but she failed and saw mirrored in her cousin’s face an identical shock. How could Aunt Bennington countenance such a travesty against propriety? The Roman governor had quite cruelly defeated Boudica and her people. Is that what they hoped for Sophia and Mr. Whitson? These past three days, Elizabeth had watched the still-engaged couple cavorting about the manor as if nothing had happened to halt their wedding. As if Whitson were not a scoundrel and nothing less than a thief who had stolen Miss Lindsey’s dowry.

  Even Di had made a better choice of a favored male companion. Her entire countenance became animated any time the most proper Mr. Redding entered the room. If Lady Aphrodite was not careful, she would end up married to an untitled gentleman, against all her lifelong dreams. But then, what did childhood dreams or infatuations account for when a lady met an extraordinary man?

  Filled with a sudden longing to be home, where Mr. Lindsey no doubt sat in Papa’s library reading Johnson, Elizabeth marched forth from the bedchamber and into the fray. But as much as she would like to emulate Sophia’s warrior identity for her inevitable encounter with Lord Chiselton, somehow she felt far more like poor Marie Antoinette on the way to the guillotine.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “This isn’t going to work.” Philip dismounted his borrowed steed in the darkened woods some fifty yards from the imposing, three-story Bennington Manor. He adjusted the heavy brown wig and broad-brimmed hat that resembled something Charles II might have worn a century and a half ago. Then he struggled to secure the ties of the ankle-length cape he’d nearly lost during the six-mile gallop, and before that, almost tripped over as he descended the stairs at Devon Hall.

  Wilkes had fussed as he had dressed Philip, saying these old leather breeches were too stiff and snug and would limit his movement, as did the sword and wooden pistol at his sides. But nothing could be done, for they must make haste to the masquerade, with no time to find something more suitable.

  Some highwayman he made. Philip grunted at his own foolishness in agreeing to Jamie’s scheme. He’d be fortunate if he didn’t get shot for wearing this ridiculous disguise.

  “Of course it’ll work.” Jamie tied his horse’s reins to a low-hanging willow branch. “Come along.” His beckoning wave was barely visible in the fading twilight. The brass buttons on his father’s old uniform did catch a spark of light from time to time, but his short hair did no justice to the costume unless covered by the black bicorn hat. A naval officer who served during the American rebellion should have a long queue, Jamie had complained, but no proper hairpiece could be found in the attic.

  Looking ahead to their destination, Philip took in the illuminated scene. At the back of the manor house, Chinese lanterns were strung across the terrace and around the vast back lawn, all the way to a stone boathouse beside a black lake. Countless costumed attendees mingled or wandered about the property. It all made for a grand event unlike anything Philip’s family had engaged in. Was this something every peer was expected to do?

  He followed Jamie, who walked across the field toward the house as confidently as if it were daylight. From time to time, he stepped around a boulder or stump and tossed a cautionary word to Philip.

  Twenty yards from the lighted area, they came upon a masked wood nymph and a hooded faun. At Jamie’s “tsk-tsk,” the couple beat a hasty retreat back toward the house. Philip felt his heart sink to his stomach. Did Lord Bennington know what went on at his party? Did he care? What did that say about the claims this wasn’t to be like Midsummer Eve, where all manner of wickedness took place? More important, what did it say about Miss Elizabeth’s safety?

  “Quit hunching over.” Jamie thumped Philip’s back, almost knocking the wind from his lungs. “Relax. We’re not sneaking in. We’re walking in as if we own the place. After all, I am an invited guest. Who’s to say I cannot bring a friend?”

  “Oh. Right.” Against his better nature and his former concerns, Philip gave himself permission to enjoy this adventure. After all, he meant only to walk about and observe the frivolities, not participate. Unless offered, he wouldn’t so much as taste a dessert or accept a light drink. And he certainly wouldn’t dance. Faster than anything else, that would mark him as one who didn’t belong here. The dance master Mama had engaged years ago had given up in despair when Philip’s feet refused to cooperate.

  “I see two Caesars and an Apollo.” Pru stood on tiptoes and peered across the crowded ballroom. “But I don’t see a Mark Antony.”

  Elizabeth laughed into her stiff mask and felt the warm breath gust back against her face. “How can you tell the difference?”

  Pru tilted her head. “Caesar always wears a laurel wreath and a toga. Antony wears the uniform of a Roman soldier.”

  “Of course.” Elizabeth sighed and once again felt her own breath return on her. “Oh, Pru, we’ve spent far too much time avoiding Lord…that person. We’re not enjoying ourselves at all.” She spied a newcomer dressed rather soberly in a long black coat and dark breeches. Beneath the mask that covered only his eyes and nose, she recognized his familiar smile, and his neatly trimmed brown hair was unmistakable. “Come with me.” She looped an arm around her cousin’s waist and shoved her toward the gentleman.

  “Where? What? Oh!” Pru tried to stop, but Elizabeth propelled her forward.

  “Good evening, Mr. Smythe-Wyndham.” Elizabeth noted with satisfaction the young vicar’s surprise and, perhaps, caution, as evidenced by his hesitation to return the greeting. “We did not expect to see you this evening.”

  “Ah, Miss Elizabeth.” He gave her a slight bow. “I would recognize your voice anywhere. And may I assume this lovely shepherdess is Miss Prudence?” He bowed to Pru, who seemed suddenly dumbstruck.

  “You have found us out, sir.” Elizabeth nudged Pru. “I was just telling my cousin we’re not enjoying this evening much at all. But now that you are here, perhaps we can find a quiet spot and chat.” Where she would leave the two of them as soon as possible. Then, if the vicar did not see what a jewel Pru was, he did not deserve her.

  “But, Beth.” Pru broke free from her grasp. “Perhaps Mr. Smythe-Wyndham wishes to…to—”

  “Not at all.” He smiled at her, his attention at last where it should be. “Do you kn
ow of a proper place?”

  “This way.” With one hand, Elizabeth grasped his forearm, perhaps a bit too familiarly for a vicar, and with her other hand clutched Pru’s. Urging them through the crowded room, out the door and down the stairs, she guided them to the drawing room. There older adults played whist or talked or read. She settled them into two empty and adjacent chairs and crossed her arms in satisfaction. “There.”

  Mr. Smythe-Wyndham, so poised and relaxed in church, removed his plain black mask and stared at her, his high cheekbones flushed with color. Pru removed her mask, as well, and revealed a complexion infused with radiant pink.

  “Beth!”

  “You will excuse me? I must, um, must—” Rather than invent a lie, she spun on her heel and hurried from the room. At the door, she turned back, noting with more than a little satisfaction that her cousin and the vicar were laughing.

  At last, something good to come of this evening. Mr. Smythe-Wyndham could not be a finer shepherd for his flock, but he required a shepherdess to assist him. Prudence Moberly was a paragon of Christian womanhood, the perfect choice.

  Following the sounds of a string quartet, Elizabeth strolled toward the back terrace, hoping to find a quiet but visible corner to while away the rest of the evening. She found a pleasing spot on a small stone bench near the musicians, where Chinese lanterns provided the proper amount of illumination.

  Some guests had gone to great expense for their costumes. Satins and silks, wigs and hats, furs and even armor. She laughed to herself at the thought of a medieval knight trying to manage a reel or the Roger de Coverly. And there was a golden-masked Louis XIV, the Sun King resplendent in his bright yellow satins, golden shoes with four-inch heels and a high silvery wig that made him appear over six feet tall. Few men reached such height or possessed such a kingly bearing. Who could it be? Other than Papa and her Uncle Moberly, whom did she know with such an imposing stature?