Chapter 3 #3
“I ... I cannot imagine that ever happening, sir,” she replied haltingly, keeping her eyes averted from his. “Nonetheless, I ... thank you. It is a most generous offer.”
“Augusta?” Marianne’s slender form was silhouetted against the brightly lit room, along with that of one of her many admirers. “Do you wish to join Mr. Collingworth and me for supper? Jamie has arrived as well.”
“Yes, I shall be happy to come,” she answered. Her fingers fumbled awkwardly with the white silk square before thrusting it back in the earl’s hand. “I had best go in.”
She drew in a ragged breath. “I am sorry. We simply don’t seem to rub together well.” The corners of her mouth came up in an attempt at a smile. “Nothing but sparks between us, I’m afraid. So perhaps it is for the better that we avoid each other’s presence.”
Marcus’s expression was inscrutable as he inclined his head a fraction. “As you wish, Lady Augusta.”
She looked as if to speak again, then merely swallowed hard before turning and walking quickly back inside.
It was some time later before the earl left off standing on the stone terrace and made an early departure from the festivities.
Augusta’s spirits ebbed even lower as she watched Marcus re-enter from the terrace and take his leave from the ballroom.
On reflection, she couldn’t help but feel her behavior had been very shabby.
His overture of sympathy had been thrown back in face.
No matter what his faults or peccadilloes, he had not deserved such rudeness from her.
She bit her lip, wondering what had come over her of late.
It was not like her to be so unfair. Though she tried to tell herself that the earl had shown himself to be arrogant, rude, and puffed up with a sense of his own importance, she had to admit that he was also humorous, clever, and thoughtful.
How many men would have a vile insult hurled at them without falling into a paroxysm of outrage?
Yet he had simply handed her his handkerchief, followed by more comforting words .
.. as if he had somehow understood that her actions had more to do with her own wrenching grief than anything he had said or done.
And what had she done but respond with yet more unwarranted aspersions on his character?
She swallowed hard, wishing she could rid herself of the sour taste in her mouth.
He had been right—she was as guilty as the worst gossips and tattlemongers of the ton, basing her judgment of him on sketchy rumors and hearsay, then refusing to see any of the subtle hues beneath the bold strokes of black on white.
All the things she had heard might be true, but did they really paint a true picture of the man?
Her lips pursed. It wasn’t likely she would ever know, since she doubted that she would ever exchange a private word with him again.
But what she did know was that she had never felt so very disappointed in herself …
“Gus!” whispered Marianne rather loudly. Her tone indicated it was not merely the second repetition.
Augusta’s eyes jerked up from her plate of untouched lobster patties.
“Mr. Collingworth was asking whether you had read the latest offering from the Minerva Press.”
“I’m sorry. I’m afraid I was woolgathering.” She forced her attention back to the lively conversation taking place, ignoring the pinch of concern on her sister’s face.
It was with great relief that Augusta heard her mother’s announcement a short while later that she was tired and wished to return home instead of taking up a seat at the whist tables.
The carriage was ordered and the wheels had barely started rolling over the cobblestones before a rhythm of bubbly snores, well lubricated by several glasses of champagne, indicated that Lady Farnum had fallen asleep.
Marianne regarded the rigid set of Augusta’s jaw in the flickering light. “What’s wrong, Gus?”
Augusta shifted against the squabs so that her face was nearly hidden in the shadows.
“You were out on the terrace with Lord Dunham for rather a long time,” ventured her sister. “People were beginning to remark on it. He did not ... do anything to upset you, did he? I cannot imagine that even he would be so reckless as to—”
“There was nothing untoward about Lord Dunham’s behavior,” she said tightly. After a moment she added, “It is my own that is deserving of censure.”
Marianne looked puzzled. “Whatever can you mean?”
Augusta hesitated. How could she begin to explain her feelings?
Her sister sailed through life, content to deal with the swirls and eddies on the surface waters without ever delving into the murky depths below.
It was not to say Marianne was shallow—far from it.
She preferred to turn her cheeks to the sun, steering away from all hint of storm.
Augusta found it much more difficult to navigate such a smooth course.
Somehow, she was always falling overboard into the waves and chop.
A sigh escaped her lips. There was much she could share with her sister, but there was also much that was best left unsaid.
“It’s not important,” she finally answered. “The two of us simply don’t get along, and I’m afraid I was frightfully rude again—though this time the lemonade ended up on me rather than him.”
Marianne still appeared perturbed. “I don’t understand. The two of you don’t even know each other. What could you possibly be quarreling about?”
Augusta winced inwardly at the unintentional jab.
“As I said, nothing of import. And it won’t happen again.
We have agreed it is best to stay out of each other’s path, so that’s an end to it.
” She turned to stare out the small-paned window, making it clear that she also wished the conversation to be at an end.
Her sister took the hint and lapsed into her own private thoughts.
Augusta kept her eyes on the vague shapes and shadows that were ghosting past the carriage.
Sometimes her emotions were as hard to decipher, she mused, and as quixotic as the mist swirling up from the river.
It was strange how one moment everything could seem sharp and clear, only to dissolve from view in the next instant.
She longed to voice such thoughts to someone who might understand what she meant.
Edwin would have understood. But now? Her mouth quirked in an odd little smile.
Why, the only person she knew who might catch the drift of her reflections was the anonymous ‘Tinder.’ His last few letters had revealed a man—she was sure he was a man—of surprising sensitivity as well as sharp intellect.
He had even set down on paper a few personal musings of his own.
Her expression softened. The hints at weariness and opportunities wasted that he had let drop led her to believe he must be quite advanced in years. It was a shame, for she had certainly encountered no other gentlemen who sparked even the slightest interest for her, while he ... he intrigued her.
Then she forced a harsh laugh at herself. What a notion! That was just like her, to fashion a pen-and-paper romance in her head because she was incapable of having one with a flesh-and-blood gentleman. The fellow was probably eighty and squinted.
She gave another inward laugh. It wasn’t as if she were contemplating getting legshackled to the gentleman, merely sharing some of her private thoughts.
He had been willing to bare a part of himself.
Perhaps she should consider doing the same.
It would be such a help to be able to voice her doubts and fears to someone else.
What possible harm was there in that?
After all, she never meant to reveal her true identity.