Chapter Delaford, Dorsetshire #6
“He talked about you all the time,” Lord Boucheron said, his mouth quirked in a smile that was not unlike Squibby’s at his most infuriating.
My heart thumped because—he did? I didn’t think Squibby cared at all. I had imagined him blithely sauntering through Oxford, rarely sparing a thought for the childhood friend he termed his little sister. I had to swallow back the impulse to demand an accounting of every word.
“We had nothing else to talk about back then,” Squibby said, smiling. “Thank God for the Grand Tour. The Tour finishes a man’s education, you know.”
That gave me a sour feeling that could be described as a “throb of rage.” The Tour allows gentlemen to jaunt around the world, whereas young ladies have to stay at home and attend the Queen’s drawing rooms and musicales.
Back when my family moved away from Norland Park, I had to leave behind my favorite book—an atlas.
When we were little, Squibby and I would sit in my treehouse and plan long voyages around the world.
It broke my heart to leave it behind. Later I heard that all the walnut trees had been cut, which surely included my treehouse.
The memory reminded me how affected I had been by Squibby’s letters, the ones I’m excerpting for my book. Every time I got a letter, I would read it over and over, and then traipse listlessly around the countryside trying to find anything interesting to write to him about.
“Darling boy,” Lord Boucheron said (quite as if they weren’t the same age), “you are such a liar.” He turned to me. “I ran into him in Prague just after he’d had one of your letters. He could talk of nothing else.”
“Prague? I never mailed a letter to Prague.”
“I left a groom behind to collect letters whenever I traveled on,” Squibby said. I was puzzled until he added, “My father’s none too young. Luckily for me, he stayed hale and hearty, and I didn’t have to dash back home.”
He certainly wouldn’t have wanted to miss a notice of his father’s illness.
“Hearty?” Boucheron snorted. “Your father was riding to the hounds for ten hours last Friday. I was exhausted, but the man wouldn’t give up without catching a fox.”
“I’m guessing he didn’t catch anything.” Squibby raised an eyebrow.
Boucheron shook his head.
“He never does, because the marquess is too loud for his own good,” I explained. “Every fox living within forty miles of Vaughan Hall knows that bellow and stays snug until he returns home. It’s the same at Delaford, so I hope you aren’t longing to be in at the kill tomorrow, Lord Boucheron.”
“Luckily, my father finds the delights of fresh air as pleasing as a dead fox, so he isn’t bothered by failure,” Squibby said.
True, the marquess is always cheerful. Rumor has it that his lordship maintains dozens of mistresses, all at the same time, but I have never dared ask about that.
“I have a literary question,” Squibby said. He was sprawled across the carriage in such a way that his thigh was touching my leg. I would have edged away, but then it would be obvious that I felt the press of his leg.
Which I didn’t. Or shouldn’t have.
Except I did. His breeches were very tight, and his leg seemed disgracefully muscled, perhaps because of a familial propensity for outdoor exercise.
“Ask me anything,” Boucheron said, waving his hand languidly in the air.
“Why are larks always merry? Nightingales gentle and, for that matter, why is their song silvery? I’ve never seen a bosom heave, but they do it all the time in print.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “A robin is always perky, and a serpent’s tooth is always sharp.”
Squibby’s eyes lit up, but before he could throw in more adjectives, Boucheron tossed his forelock like an agitated horse and demanded, “Are you implying that my novel was clichéd?”
“I didn’t read it,” Squibby said. “Not for want of trying. My father bought four copies and gave them all away, and my understanding is that it sold out.”
“True,” Boucheron said, unable to suppress a triumphant smile. “Four hundred and fifty copies, gone within the month.”
“I’m sorry not to have read it,” I said. “What was the title? Perhaps Colonel Brandon has a copy in his library.”
“He hasn’t,” Boucheron said, the smile falling from his face. “I asked him, but he said that novels are secular and unedifying.”
“I know,” I said with a sigh. “He read one novel and will never read another, but I thought he might have bought one out of politeness.”
“He is not a man of culture,” Boucheron said in a brooding sort of way.
“He is extremely fond of music and has a well-informed mind,” I said, feeling a spasm of loyalty. “He can tell you all about the East Indies.”
“Never mind about his being a man of culture,” Squibby said to Boucheron. “Neither are you.”
“I certainly am!”
I decided it was time to intervene. “We have arrived,” I said. “Squibby, stop being so rude.”
Boucheron scrambled out and then paused, waiting to assist me from the carriage.
“Do you suppose you might call me Hugh?” Squibby asked, blocking me from leaving.
I stared at him, perplexed. No more Snaps and Squibby?
“Perhaps just in public?” he qualified. “You addressed me as Hugh in your letters, and I quite liked it.”
A horrible thought occurred to me. “Did I just embarrass you?” I tried to remember whether I’d addressed him as Squibby in front of Lord Boucheron. “Would you prefer Lord Vaughan?”
“For Christ’s sake,” he growled, turning and jumping out of the carriage.
Which was not helpful.
Boucheron poked his head in. “Miss Dashwood, may I assist you to alight?”
It was absurd to feel so hurt by Squibby’s—no, by Hugh’s—response. I should stop thinking of him as Squibby, obviously. He is Hugh, a future marquess.
Only best friends call each other by nicknames. That time is over. Squibby and Snaps are as dated as childhood toys. We are history.
Of course, he doesn’t want anyone to think that we had been so intimate. The fact that my heart felt pierced was absurd. (“Pierced?” It is hard to describe the peculiar nature of the pain.)
Sir John lives in a large, gracious manor that he invariably refers to as his “ancestral home” and sometimes, more grandly, a “stately home.” He is a cheerfully gossipy sort of man whom I’ve always liked, and the feeling is mutual.
“There’s the prettiest girl in the county!” he boomed when I entered the drawing room.
Details: a huge room, also used for dancing, with oak paneling topped with blue brocade wallpaper. One end has an enormous fireplace, and the other has double doors that lead onto a terrace.
The Middletons used to have a peacock that would march up and down screaming until someone threw him bread, but he died after eating rat poison, and Lady Middleton couldn’t bear to replace him.
“I expect you’ve been collecting marriage proposals the way other people collect butterflies,” Sir John said after we’d curtsied and bowed at each other.
“Yes, killing each one, exactly as one does with a butterfly,” Squibby—Hugh—said, suddenly looming behind me.
I startled. Surely he wasn’t talking about my rejection of his proposal?
It had been so casual that it hardly deserved the title.
He laughed after I refused him, which hurt.
In fact, I cried myself to sleep that night.
How dare he imply that I was frivolously rejecting proposals, given his slapdash approach?
I turned slightly and curtsied. “Lord Vaughan.”
He bowed in a very minatory manner. I suppose he didn’t care for the formality, but we’re both grown up now.
No more Squibby and Snaps.
Lord Boucheron promptly joined us, Feodora on his arm.
“Another lovely young lady,” Sir John boomed. “Lucky fellows these, to have such blooming flowers to choose from. I love a bit of matchmaking. I’ll have to decide which two of you should be mated, the way bees do with blossoms.”
Blank silence greeted this sally. I’m not sure that Feodora understood, but I didn’t care for the idea.
“I shall anticipate your meddling,” Hugh said, only the faintest tone in his voice revealing that he was on the verge of bursting into laughter.
“I fully expect that you will leave Colonel Brandon’s house party betrothed,” Sir John told him with satisfaction. “I’ve done it any number of times. Why, matrimonial plans are like confetti to me!”
Whatever that meant.
“Tomorrow, my dear lady and I shall join you for the dinner and dance after the hunt, and I vow that the week will see any number of new pairings. I’ve often thought that a matchmaker holds the power—the future—of the nation in his hands, since the well-being of the country depends on those of high degree making appropriate unions. ”
“Indeed,” Hugh said, greatly amused. Perhaps not everyone recognized that look in his eyes, but I could see the enjoyment he was taking in the conversation.
Apparently, Lord Boucheron wasn’t inclined to be forcibly paired off, as he marched over to the butler and demanded sherry. Feodora, on the other hand, was gazing at Sir John with the awe usually reserved for a conjuror at the county fair.
“Lord Boucheron has good bloodlines, but a novelist will never do for a lady as pretty as you,” Sir John said to her. “I shall keep a special eye out, my dear. You need to be cherished. I can see it with a mere glance.”
She peeked at Hugh under her lashes and turned pink.
“Surely Miss Dashwood also deserves to be cherished,” Hugh said in a silky voice that suggested he felt like being troublesome.
The lout!
(Though my heart jumped at the sound of his voice.)
“My darling Miss Dashwood may be suited to a novelist,” Sir John said thoughtfully. “She may look docile, but she is made of sterner stuff.”
“Not gentle,” Hugh agreed.
I didn’t know what to make of that.
“But a gentlewoman,” Sir John said, frowning at him from under bushy brows. “I shall look over all the young bucks at the hunt before I reach any conclusions. Matchmaking is a serious business. Just look at all the fuss that followed Colonel Brandon’s older brother’s divorce.”