Chapter 11
Eleven
Brentmere Park, the country estate of Henry and Grace Arden, was nearly three hours on horseback from London.
Eleven miles north of Mayfair, it was situated and built with an eye to the picturesque.
Perched on a small rise, with a lake, beautiful pleasure grounds, and garden buildings, it was a charming example of modern design.
Whenever Ambrose visited his sister, he was struck by the peace that could be found so near the capital.
However, on this visit, he had little expectation of peace.
As he urged his horse off the main road and onto the lane, his stomach twisted and he gripped the reins tighter.
His nerves had been mounting since his departure from London early that morning.
The next few weeks would decide his future.
It was too late to cry off. The invitations had been sent.
Miss Flora Witworth and Miss Regina Colley had accepted—William had advised against inviting Miss Sarah Jones.
The ladies were likely somewhere on the road behind him.
What were their thoughts on the party? Did they find it odd Grace had invited them with such short notice and so soon after her confinement? Had they guessed the purpose of the gathering?
In the two weeks since the scheme had been conceived, Ambrose had withdrawn from social functions.
Since his search for a wife started, his work as the earl’s secretary had suffered.
He had still accomplished all that was required, but it was not to his usual high standard.
With Parliament nearly out of session, there was much for him to do.
He was all too happy to bury himself in logistical planning for a proposed municipal building.
Ambrose had wished the break from escorting and evaluating various ladies was permanent.
If only the wager had not required him to find a wife so quickly.
But it could not be helped. Only Rowan and Leonard remained, and Ambrose suspected his bibliophile friend would soon be standing before the altar.
The road began to rise, and Ambrose urged his horse to an increased pace. Only a mile stood between him and the manor. He had hoped riding would ease his nerves. Instead he was fretful and covered in dust and sweat. He would need to wash before he was presentable.
Perhaps he should have accepted William’s offer to ride in his carriage.
His brother had arrived yesterday with his friend Mr. Scott.
Grace had left almost a week ago and taken Miss Fenton with her to help prepare for the guests.
Ambrose had refrained from remarking that Miss Fenton was technically also a guest.
As he reached the crest of the hill, Brentmere Park came into view.
The pale yellow stone of the house stood out against the green of the trees and grasses surrounding it.
The four-story building consisted of a large central square ornamented in the middle with a pediment supported by false columns.
The elegant symmetry and classical elements were Ambrose’s favorite aspects of the Palladian style.
The prospect was so captivating that he considered pulling out his notebook and making a brief sketch.
He was stayed by laughter and the pounding of hoofbeats.
He turned toward the sound. There was nothing to see but the road curving into an old stand of oak and ash trees.
The laughter grew closer and more familiar.
They were traveling at an alarming speed.
It seemed they had not outgrown their wild carriage rides.
Ambrose urged his horse a few feet off the road.
A few seconds later, a grey horse and gig burst into view as it rounded the curve, Miss Fenton at the reins, Grace giggling beside her.
They were out of the woods before either of them noticed him.
Had he been on the road, there might have been a collision.
Miss Fenton had the good sense to look abashed as she slowed the horse.
Grace smiled and waved as they approached.
If Miss Susanna had been alone, he might have scolded her for such reckless driving.
But if he spoke an ill word, Grace was sure to accuse him of quarreling.
He did not need another lecture. Especially when he had not yet made good on his promise to mend things.
Although that was only because they had not been in company since he made the promise.
Despite Miss Fenton’s efforts, their speed was too great to stop near him. He was forced to follow after them for a few feet. Grace turned around in her seat to speak to him.
“You’re early. We did not expect you for several hours,” she said playfully.
“I can see you did not expect to meet with anyone.”
“You sound like Father.” Grace twisted forward as he came even with the gig. “Always worrying.”
“He had a right to worry. How many times did you come home injured or break the carriage?”
Ambrose glanced at Miss Fenton, expecting a defiant retort and flashing eyes. But she was fussing with her gloves and seemingly disinterested in the conversation.
“All our accidents happened in the early days of our rides. Why, it’s been years since Susie has spilled us out or broken a wheel.” Grace bumped her friend’s shoulder. “Isn’t that right?”
Miss Susanna glanced up, her cheeks a healthy pink. “Years indeed.”
“See? There is no need for worry,” Grace said.
“I believe your brother objects to the pastime in general. Driving helter-skelter is not proper for a woman of delicate sensibilities.” She glanced at Ambrose before looking at Grace.
Ambrose raised his eyebrows. She was referencing his list of requirements, but her tone was not teasing, there was no flashing dimple or mocking look. Had Grace said something to Miss Susanna about treating him more formally? He doubted it.
“Delicate sensibilities?” Grace scoffed. “When have we ever claimed such a dull designation?”
“Never,” Miss Fenton said with a small smile.
“And we never shall.” Grace turned to him. “Now, by your leave, we will continue our indelicate pastime. All is ready at Brentmere, but let Brydges know if you need anything. I will see you at dinner.”
“Unless you are delayed by an accident,” Ambrose taunted.
Miss Fenton did not reply but shook the reins.
“Goodbye,” Grace said in a singsong as the gig jolted into motion.
“Goodbye,” he repeated, trying not to frown.
As they pulled away, Ambrose knitted his brows.
How odd. Miss Fenton had not teased him, she had barely looked at him.
She had not even said goodbye. It was all wrong.
He might have thought her ill, but when he first saw her, she had been smiling and laughing.
Had his presence brought on the change? Was Grace correct, had he offended Miss Susanna in some way?
He led his horse to the lane as he contemplated the possibility. Though he did not always enjoy Susanna Fenton’s presence, he did not wish to cause her pain. He reviewed what he remembered of their conversations. There was no denying that her teasing brought out a childish side of him.
He berated her for being overly familiar, yet he did not treat her as an acquaintance. He would never speak to another lady as he did to Miss Fenton. It was clear he owed her an apology and better treatment.
He hated when Grace was right.
What happened after he apologized? Would Miss Susanna return to her former ways? Did he want that? He thought he hated her mocking and familiarity. But could that be true when her lack of smirks and retorts had disappointed him? Was it possible he enjoyed her teasing?
What a strange thought. It sent a wave of unease through him.
To avoid examining the thought too closely, Ambrose urged his horse to a faster pace. His sister was not the only one that could ride fast.
Once Ambrose reached the house, he handed off his horse and approached the solid oak doors. At the entrance, he was greeted by Brydges, the Ardens’ faithful and competent butler.
As Ambrose took off his hat, gloves, and coat, Brydges assured him that William’s carriage had delivered his trunks safely and all his belongings were in his usual room. Ambrose thanked him and declined an escort. He knew the way and the servants were likely busy preparing.
Ambrose’s boots clicked on the grey marble floor as he crossed to the large staircase. Lost in thought, he did not notice his brother at the top of the stairs until he was halfway up.
William was leaning against the banister, his arms crossed as if he had nothing better to do than stand there. Such studied nonchalance was to be feared, for in Ambrose’s experience it usually meant William had something specific on his mind.
“What do you want?” Ambrose asked as he reached the top of the stairs.
“Is that how you greet your brother?” William chided with a smile.
“It is when I am tired and my brother is up to something.” Ambrose did not pause on the landing but continued down the hall toward the rooms he usually occupied when staying at Brentmere.
William pushed away from the banister and followed.
“On my honor, I am not hatching some scheme. I only wished to speak with you.”
Ambrose paused before the door. He considered refusing his brother but knew that would not stop William. He sighed.
“Very well, but I won’t stand in the hallway.”
William gestured for Ambrose to go first and then followed him inside and shut the door.
The room was small but well-apportioned. A modest bed was near the door, a wardrobe sat in the far corner, and a table and chair in the other corner. The large window looked out on to the grounds with an excellent view of the Temple of Venus and the lake.
Ambrose did not pause but made his way to the small bench in front of the bed and began to untie his cravat. William leaned against the door as Ambrose sat on the bench.
“You should tie it in a waterfall knot tonight,” William said motioning to the cravat. “It will complement your neck.”
“Is that what you wished to speak on? The style of my neckcloth?” Ambrose began unwinding the long strip of linen from his neck.
“Among other things.”
Ambrose sighed. “What things?”
“It is a tragedy that I am forced to come to you. I thought after Miss Bullocke you would be eager for my advice.”
“I asked for your advice.” Ambrose shrugged off his coat. “It was on your counsel that I eliminated Miss Jones from the party.”
“That was common sense.” William pushed off the door and strode toward him. “I thought you would want help in securing a lady’s favor. Recall that it is not enough to ask. She must also choose you.”
“I am well aware.”
“Are you? How do you intend to attach one or both ladies?”
Ambrose waved his hand like he was batting away a troublesome fly. “In the usual way.”
“Which is?”
He dared not admit that he had no set method for attaching a woman.
He had not realized he needed one. But of course it made sense that there were procedures for securing affection, just as there were for constructing a building.
William likely had a myriad of techniques.
Ambrose had witnessed the success of his efforts.
In contrast Ambrose had no conquests to speak of—he did not count Miss Popjoy. He suspected she never truly cared for him.
“Perhaps we can talk of this later,” Ambrose said, not quite ready to admit he needed help.
“Excellent idea.” William grinned. “I will evaluate your performance tonight and make recommendations.”
Ambrose sighed. His brother’s scrutiny was the last thing he needed.
William made his way to the door and opened it before turning back.
“Don’t forget, waterfall knot.”
As the door clicked, Ambrose reclined until his back hit the bed. He stared up at the white canopy.
His anxiety for the evening had increased, his hands were growing clammy.
What advice would William offer after watching him with the ladies?
And was it wise for him to attach a woman when he was not yet sure he wished to court her?
To pretend affection would make him no better than Miss Popjoy or a rake.
He did not want Miss Witworth or Miss Colley to agree to anything under false pretenses.
Their enjoyment of his smiles or compliments should not be the basis for a marriage.
But what if the ladies felt as Miss Susanna did? What if they only wished to marry for love?
He put his hands over his eyes and groaned. He needed to get married. Why must love play any part in it?