Chapter 7
Seven
More carefree laughter, more melodious music, more swirling jewel-tone silks … Alex closed her eyes for an instant. The balls were beginning to blur together—
“Good evening, Miss Chilton. I trust your brother is on the mend?”
Alex gave a start at hearing the earl’s voice, then turned with a smile from watching the country dance in progress.
“The doctor finally allowed him out of bed this afternoon. I’m not sure who was more pleased—Justin or myself.” A wry grimace. “I confess that I’m not sure I could have endured another day of listening to his rantings and complaints of boredom.”
“Youth has little patience,” observed Branford dryly. “And even less sense.”
Alex chuckled. “Were you never young, sir?”
His mouth twitched. “I can’t remember.”
She laughed lightly, enjoying his pithy sense of humor. “And just how old are you?”
“Nearly thirty-three.”
“Good heavens—how positively ancient!”
“Show some respect for your elders,” he quipped before taking her arm and guiding her to a less crowded part of the room. “Would you a care for some ratafia punch? Or perhaps some champagne?”
“Champagne, please,” replied Alex, deciding to be daring.
The earl returned shortly with two glasses of sparkling wine. “Here’s to good health from now on in your household,” he said after passing one to her.
“Yes, to no more … accidents.” She took a sip, only to feel the effervescence of the champagne prickle like daggerpoints against her tongue.
Branford eyed her curiously, but moved on to a different topic. “Would you still like me to take a look at the piece of paper you found in your father’s books?”
Alex was pleased that he had not forgotten. “If it is not too much trouble …”
“Miss Chilton,” he interjected. “You need not simper like a peagoose. I would not offer if it were too much trouble. I assure you, I’m not in the habit of doing things that I don’t wish to do.”
“Then, yes,” she said. “I would very much like to show you the paper.”
“Shall I call at your residence tomorrow at, say, eleven?”
“That would be perfect, milord.”
“Excellent.” Branford offered her his arm. “Now that we have settled business matters, perhaps we might enjoy a dance.”
Branford offered her his arm, and as her gloved hand settled in place, she felt a sudden awareness of his closeness. A tiny shiver skated down her spine.
“Are you feeling chilled?”
“No, not at all.” she replied, hoping he didn’t notice that a flush of heat was rising to her cheeks.
The music began, and they began to move through the first steps of the dance.
Branford made an amusing observation, and she answered in kind …
but then her awareness of the conversation seemed to give way to the oddest sensation.
Words passed in a blur as the tactile feel of his closeness overwhelmed her—the light touch of his hand at the small of her back, the movement of his muscled thighs grazing the rustling folds of her gown, the subtle scent of his bay rum shaving soap …
Alex was vaguely aware of the music ending, and of the earl guiding her across the room to where her friends from the London Botanical Society were arguing over a monograph on ferns. But before she could rouse herself from the strange mood that overtaken her, Branford was gone.
Ye heavens. Overcome with embarrassment, Alex squeezed her eyes shut. He must think me a bloody idiot, she fretted, the earlier blush coming back in full force. How could she possibly have behaved like such a feather-headed peagoose—
“Alex!”
Her eyes flew open.
“I’ve been looking all over for you,” said Charles Duckleigh with an aggrieved huff. However, his chiding gaze quickly lit up with a flash of excitement. “I have some momentous news!”
He paused to smooth the knot of his cravat.
“My cousin has graciously arranged for the Duke of Wrexham to invite the members of our Society to view his collection of rare orchids! And he has even offered me use of his carriage for the occasion. Mr. Simpson and Mr. Heppleford suggest that we go on next Wednesday.”
To her relief, the strange sensations had disappeared, allowing Alex to answer without a hitch. “Oh, how very nice.”
“May I have the honor of escorting you on the trip? We shall bring a picnic to enjoy on the grounds and be back by suppertime.”
“I would be delighted to be part of the group.” Noting the look of rapture on his face. “How very influential you are becoming,” she added with a playful smile.
It was said lightly, but Duckleigh couldn’t help but throw back his shoulders a fraction, causing his chest to puff out.
Maintaining her smile, Alex allowed herself an inward sigh, thinking of how young men could be so egregiously silly at times.
“Lord Branford is here to see you, Miss Alex.”
“Please show him in, Givens.” Alex unconsciously smoothed the skirt of her sprigged muslin dress as she rose from the sofa in the small parlor.
“Good morning, Miss Chilton.”
The earl looked as if he had come from riding. He was dressed in snug fitting breeches, polished Hessians and a finely tailored riding coat of claret Melton tailored to fit his broad shoulders with nary a wrinkle. His dark hair was ruffled by the wind, softening the chiseled planes of his face.
The gossips were certainly right on one thing—he was devilishly good-looking.
Alex quickly pushed the thought aside. “Good morning, milord. If you’ll follow me to the library, please.” She hoped that she sounded business-like. For some reason, her voice felt as if it were catching in her throat.
Branford gestured for her to lead the way.
She pushed open the heavy oak door. “Forgive the disarray,” she said, giving a rueful look at the massive table with papers and piles of books spread around in cheerful disarray.
“I fear both my aunt and I are engaged in projects at the moment that occupy all our attention,” she finished lamely. She hadn’t realized things looked quite so chaotic.
Branford shrugged in understanding. “Neatness is said to be the work of idle hands,” he remarked as he walked toward a small easel set in a corner of the room by tall leaded glass windows that faced north.
“Really, milord, I would rather you didn’t—”
It was too late. The earl had already moved around to observe the work in progress.
Crossing his arms, he stared at it for what felt like an eternity, not saying a word.
“It’s not nearly finished,” she finally stammered. “Truly, it’s not meant to be seen by anyone yet.”
Branford looked up at her words. “It’s the hibiscus from Jamaica—the one you admired at the Royal Botanic Gardens.”
She nodded.
“You are doing it from memory?”
She nodded again. “I seem to have a good eye for color and detail—though I wish I had the opportunity to paint it from life.” A guilty flush suffused her cheeks face. “I did, however, steal a tiny petal that had fallen to the ground and put it my reticule.”
“It’s exquisite,” he said softly, and the look that appeared flickered in his eyes sent a burst of unexpected warmth shooting through her. “Do you have some of your other paintings here? I should very much like to see them.”
Alex hesitated, but then moved to the table. She cleared a book off a leather portfolio and after untying the silk ribbons slid it across the age-dark oak. “Some of these are not yet finished either,” she warned.
Branford drew the portfolio closer and carefully opened it. One by one, he studied the delicate watercolors, spending what felt to her like an excruciating amount of time on each one.
At last, her ordeal was over. Closing the covers, Branford looked up.
She steeled herself for a polite platitude. Unlike grandiose oil paintings, watercolors were not considered serious art by most of the beau monde. And judging by the twitch of lips, the earl was among the unimpressed …
“You are prodigiously talented, Miss Chilton.” A spark—was it admiration?—lit for an instant in his eyes, melting their usual sharp-edged sapphire blue to a softer hue.
Alex felt herself blushing like a schoolgirl. “You are being overly kind, sir.”
“I am not,” countered Branford. “I wouldn’t insult your efforts by being anything less than forthright.”
He re-tied the ribbons and handed the portfolio back to her. “Now, about the coded message you wish to show me?”
Alex quickly moved around to the other side of the table and began fumbling through a pile of books. “I made a copy of it,” she said, “in case you would like to take it with you.”
“I should like to see the original too, of course.”
“Of course.”
She handed him a single sheet of foolscap, dog-eared and heavily creased. He unfolded it and stood, head bent, studying its contents.
“Hmmph.”
Her hands fisting together, Alex waited expectantly.
Branford was silent for a few more minutes. Another “hmmph” … and then he looked up.
“Well?”
“It follows none of the more basic patterns that come readily to mind. I shall need to spend more time with it.”
She tried to hide her disappointment. “It’s probably nothing important.
” A sigh slipped from her lips. “As Justin keeps saying, it’s most likely just a list of new plants and where he found them—he could be extremely secretive at times, and the use of code was perhaps just another manifestation of that. There is really no urgency to it, sir.”
Branford didn’t answer but compared her copy to the original. Satisfied, he tucked her version into his pocket. “Speaking of your brother, I take it he has fully recovered from his accident?”
A troubled look came to her face at the mention of ‘accident.’ “Yes, he is quite fine, thank you.”
Still, the look of worry remained.
“Is something troubling you, Miss Chilton?”
She regarded him with a slightly defiant air. “You will no doubt think me a foolish female—Justin certainly does.”
“I will think you foolish only if your pride prevents you from speaking out on something that is obviously causing you concern,” he responded. “It is not a weakness to seek advice.”