Chapter Four
Some feign a stumble or fall to attract the attention of their target. However, this may do little more than make you look undignified and clumsy.
—Advice to Young Ladies
B en viewed the snow shrouding the landscape with dismay when he woke up. By the time it melted enough to allow travel, his friends would be expected back in Town; he was doomed to remain the sole focus of female attention for the next few days.
Arriving early in the breakfast parlour, as was his custom, he piled his plate with ham and eggs while a footman poured coffee, gloomily contemplating the prospect of having a gaggle of young misses trailing after him while he expounded on the history of the house.
“That bad, eh?” Arthur said, limping into the room as Ben scowled at his plate. “It’s only for a few days, and Father isn’t insisting you pick one of them. Just don’t let yourself get trapped in a compromising situation.”
“Mother said she’d chosen carefully—she knows the families reasonably well.”
“Hmm. Miss Farrell had a predatory gleam, if I’m not mistaken.” Arthur grinned. “If you hurry and eat your breakfast, we can go to the stables before the monstrous regiment arrives. You won’t need to face them until you give your tour.”
“Good idea.” And it was. Athene was pleased to see him, and the groom confirmed that her injured hock had taken no harm from Ben’s short ride two days ago.
Ben inspected the other horses, taking his time and talking to them and the grooms, until Arthur cleared his throat and pointedly took his watch from his waistcoat pocket. “Mother won’t like you being late.”
“Damn you,” Ben muttered.
Arthur laughed. “You go ahead—don’t use my slow pace as an excuse.”
Ben slouched along the cleared path, until he realised that not only was he acting like a sulky schoolboy, but one of Mother’s candidates was standing by the path and might witness his behaviour. It was difficult to tell who it was, so bundled was she in coat, bonnet, and scarf, but as he got closer, her height indicated that it must be the older of the Ardley sisters.
“Good morning, Miss Ardley,” he said, as cheerfully as he could.
She turned and stepped backwards, her foot sinking into the snow. He reached to grab her arm, but missed, and she landed in a heap, affording him a momentary glimpse of shapely legs encased in thick woollen stockings. He kicked at the snow near his feet—somewhere here was a flat-topped wall that gave onto the garden several feet below. Once he found the stone edging, he leaned over.
“Are you hurt?”
Her denial was accompanied by a delightful view of her rear as she rolled over and pushed herself to her feet. He felt a momentary regret that her form was encased in so many layers of clothing, before reminding himself that he was a gentleman.
His footing was firm now; he reached down and hauled her up onto the path, then retrieved her satchel. She curtly declined his offer to accompany her and stalked off at a brisk pace towards the house.
“What have you done, Ben?” Arthur had come up behind him.
“I merely said ‘good morning’, and she stepped into the snowdrift.” He shouldn’t feel defensive, but Miss Ardley’s demeanour had been an odd mix of embarrassment and annoyance. “Didn’t hear me coming, I suppose.” What had she been concentrating on so intently? He looked at the trampled snow—was that a sketchbook? He jumped down into the hole her fall had made and picked it up; the pages were damp around the edges, but her pencil drawing had not been affected.
“She was sketching your pavilion?” Arthur asked, peering over his shoulder.
Ben felt unreasonably pleased that she’d chosen his design as her subject. “I’ll have Foster give this to her, and send someone to look for anything else she might have dropped.”
Lord Farrell and Sir James had joined Arthur in the billiards room, so Ben had an exclusively female audience when the party gathered in the main hall. He had given this tour several times before, and the words came out with little thought. “Paynton Hall was built after the Restoration when the Paynton viscountcy was created. That portrait shows the first viscount.”
The young ladies and their mothers dutifully examined the portrait of a particularly grumpy-looking old man in a huge wig.
“This portrait is the second viscount…” Ben continued around the hall and up the stairs, pausing at each new portrait and wishing that Mother’s idea of a tour did not include such a detailed history of the family. By the time he’d reached the painting done the year before Arthur was breeched, only Miss Neston and Miss Farrell were still managing to look interested.
“You have already seen the parlour and dining rooms,” he went on. “On this side of the house there are several rooms holding the collections started by the third viscount and added to over the generations.”
The next half-hour confirmed his initial impressions of the young women. Miss Cecilia ventured only murmurs of approval now and then. Miss Farrell’s assessing gaze passed over everything, with little smiles of satisfaction at some of the more valuable pieces, and she gave fulsome praise in every room. Miss Neston lingered by the cabinets of objects brought back from India, but said little, and the others merely listened politely and moved on when he did. He wondered how Miss Ardley might have responded to his not-terribly-interesting remarks; she had not been shy when they spoke before dinner yesterday, and if she had been rather short with him this morning, that was understandable under the circumstances. It was a pity her mishap had prevented her from joining them—a few questions from his audience would have enlivened the proceedings .
“And that is all I have to show you today,” he said, when they arrived back at their starting point. “You can see the orangery and the garden follies when the snow melts. If you wish to know anything more about the collections, my mother will be happy to inform you.”
He couldn’t blame the young ladies for their lack of enthusiasm—if their positions had been reversed, he would have preferred to look around in his own time. But Mother had insisted that this was a good way to show her candidates what they would be getting if they were successful in gaining his hand. Not that she had put it so bluntly, but it was what she had meant.
“Is there anything planned for this afternoon?” Lady Farrell asked.
“Mother had charades or card games in mind, but as several guests have been delayed by the snow, she might have arranged something else. I believe refreshments are being set out in the front parlour.”
Once they were all heading for the parlour, he turned in the opposite direction and slipped into the library, closing the door behind him; he needed a respite from attempting to converse with young ladies with whom he had nothing in common. He paused as he noted the tea things on a table near the fire, and a female head above the back of a chair facing the window. It could only be this morning’s snow maiden. “Miss Ardley.”
Her head jerked, then she stood and faced him. “You startled me, Mr Paynton.”
He couldn’t help smiling at the chagrin in her tone as he walked towards her. And at the memory of her upturned in the snow; those shapely legs would be clad in thinner stockings now, and her gown showed that while her figure was not as full as her sister’s, it was of attractive proportions. Very attractive.
He blinked. Had he been staring at her? “My apologies. I trust you have recovered from your fall this morning?”
She gave a wry smile. “Now I am dry and warm again, the only damage is to my dignity. I’m glad no-one else saw.”
“What was engrossing you so much that you did not hear me enter the room?”
“I was sketching.” Her smile widened. “Again. Foster said there was a good view of the pavilion from here.”
“It was placed to be so.”
“Oh, is it a recent construction?”
“It was finished last summer. Why are you so intent on drawing it?”
She tilted her head a little, as if assessing him—or possibly wondering if he was really interested in her motivation. To his surprise, he found that he was.
“It’s the challenge of depicting a scene with little colour in it,” she explained. “And the building sits well in its surroundings. It must look lovely in summer.” She picked up her sketch pad, looking at it doubtfully. “The real challenge would be painting the subtle shades in the snow, but I must content myself with pencil sketches for today.” She glanced around the room. “I think this is your sanctuary? I will leave you in peace.”
That was why he had come here, but sitting alone by the fire now held less attraction than it had five minutes ago. “There is no need, Miss Ardley. You missed the tour of the house; if there is anything you wish to know, please just ask me. And I have paints and brushes, if you would like to borrow them while you are here.”