Chapter 15 #2
“It is he who dislikes me. He has ever since we were children.” Diane lifted a bare shoulder.
She was wearing a canary-yellow dress that should have clashed with her red hair, but instead made her stand out like a brilliant cetirizine stone.
She was a vision in the candle flames. “I decided long ago that if he did not like me, I would not like him, and that I would do it better.”
Ivy sighed. She did not know what had put the bee in Barnes’s bonnet when it came to Diane, but he appeared to have unexplained grievances with half the people in his life.
“Who is that other gentleman with Barnes and Lord Pithins?”
Diane peered past her shoulder. “I am not sure, but he looks as if he is trying to talk Barnes into a particularly profitable scheme, because his eyes are glinting like little greedy beetles.”
Ivy snorted at the oddly apt description, and made a mental note to ask the Dove for the names of the men whose homes Lord Brackley had visited before their wives and daughters became ill. If she was going to be out in society anyway, it would not hurt to use her God-given ears to listen.
She peered into the crush of guests mingling along the outskirts of the room.
None seemed very eager to take their seats and lose the opportunity to socialize.
The Fleetwoods would be returning to London imminently, and this was their last social hurrah in the country before the official start of the Season.
They had twin daughters expected to debut, and Ivy had heard the girls were quite musically talented.
She did not think it was a coincidence that their mother was putting on a musicale and inviting all of the eligible bachelors in the area to attend—including Lord Hartford.
Ivy spotted Hartford chatting with a gray-haired mama and her lovely daughter.
The girl did not appear to be much older than sixteen, her cheeks flushed with youth and her eyes sparkling with rapture.
Ivy’s heart sank. She had serious competition from ladies with generous dowries and surnames that could be traced back a thousand years.
Ladies with classically high foreheads and bodies that were more soft than athletic.
Ladies who did not already have three failed Seasons behind them.
How had she ever thought she had a chance with Lord Hartford? She was a fool.
“If you will excuse me, Miss Wixby, I require a moment with Miss Bennett.”
“I have need of refreshment.” Diane winked at Ivy and flounced off, Barnes’s eyes flickering toward her as she exited the room.
“Are you ready for your next lesson?” Owen asked gruffly. A frown line was etched into his forehead, as if the offer were painful.
“Oh, what is the point?” Ivy moaned. “Look at Lord Hartford. He has beautiful, wealthy women falling at his feet. What chance do I have?”
“None of them compare to you,” he said dismissively. “He needs to be reminded why you are more desirable than the others. That is where tonight’s lesson comes in. We are going to make him jealous.”
“How?”
The hint of a smile touched his lips, which only served to make him appear roguish.
Hartford was not the only highly sought-after bachelor in the room.
Owen was outfitted in a black, tailored evening coat that emphasized his broad shoulders, and dark trousers that hugged his heavily muscled legs.
His dress was impeccable, from the snow-white cravat knotted around the tanned column of his throat to the tips of his leather Hessians—she supposed he would have to be pried out of his boots and held under threat of death to wear the more fashionable heeled shoes.
Yet despite his clothing, it seemed difficult to remember he was a gentleman.
He was larger than life. Raw. Untamed. It was as if he did not belong in the confines of the drawing room, but out on the moors riding until his hair was even more unruly than it already was.
His jade-green eyes were piercing, and when his lips threatened to smile as they did now, he was so devastatingly attractive that Ivy’s own heart fluttered. She could not imagine how ladies who actually wanted to marry him felt. They probably melted into puddles.
“You will see.” He kissed the back of her glove and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “That mama has hogged Hartford’s attention for long enough, do you not think?”
“I think it is too late to interrupt; the musicale will soon begin.”
A gleam entered his eye. “I know.”
She allowed him to guide her across the room anyway, keenly aware of the way he possessively angled his body toward her, and the heated looks he kept dropping on her mouth.
He was putting on an extraordinary show, and she worried for a moment that perhaps it was too good.
What if Hartford did not think he had a chance against Brackley?
If Owen were truly courting her, Hartford would be a fool to think he could compete.
Before they reached him, Hartford caught sight of her, his eyes tracing over her cheeks and dipping to where her arm was tucked in the crook of Owen’s.
She smiled warmly at him, and a responding smile curled across his lips.
He excused himself from the mama and her beautiful daughter and strode across the rug to meet them.
“Miss Bennett,” he said, taking her free hand and bending over it, a lock of chocolate hair falling into his eye as he planted his lips on the fabric. “I had hoped you would be here this evening. You are a vision.”
She was wearing a powder-blue gown with a daring neckline and a skirt so silken it swished against her petticoat with even the slightest movement. It was stunning. All of the frocks Owen had ordered for her were. The man had excellent taste.
“She is.” Owen’s eyes swept over her so thoroughly that her pulse jumped at the base of her throat. “Is your uncle going to be in attendance tonight, Miss Bennett?”
“I… believe so?” she answered, unsure where he was going with the question.
Owen smiled like a cat with a canary. “I would like to meet him.”
Oh, heavens.
Owen waited patiently for her response while her thoughts scrambled to get in order. “My lord, you do flatter me, only the Season has not yet begun, and we still have much to learn about one another before we take that step.”
Hartford’s eyes twinkled at her coy delay. “Miss Bennett speaks wisely. Marriage is no simple matter, and the bride and groom should be compatible. For example, should not a husband and wife share similar tastes in art, poetry, and music?”
“Yes, indeed.” Ivy fluttered her eyelashes. “Is it not lovely that you and I both enjoy the words of Mr. Browning?”
Lord Hartford nodded in agreement, even as his gaze dropped to where her other arm was still caught in the crook of Owen’s. She freed herself, and Owen scowled in displeasure.
At that moment the lady of the house called the guests to their seats, and Hartford took advantage. “May I escort you, madam? I am eager to learn your thoughts on the musical arrangements.”
“I would enjoy that.” She almost looked at Owen to make sure he was coming with them before remembering she was supposed to be enchanting Hartford, not sticking to Owen like a barnacle.
“I am eager to hear your thoughts as well,” Owen said, although he sounded more sarcastic than adoring.
Hartford’s fingers flexed on her arm, but he gave Owen a genial smile. “Why of course, Lord Brackley.”
Ivy ignored the curious gazes as she was escorted by the viscount on one side and the marquess on the other.
When they sat on either side of her, she turned slightly in Hartford’s direction so they could chat.
To her left, Owen’s broad shoulders and size took up so much space that he invaded some of hers.
“I hear the youngest twin, Miss Alma, plays the piano beautifully. Do you play any instruments, Miss Bennett?”
Ivy plastered on a smile. “I play the piano as well, but I am sure I am not as lovely at it as Miss Alma. My talents lie elsewhere.”
Owen stilled at her side. He was so close that the sleeve of his coat kept brushing her bare arm, and his leg was pressed into her skirts.
The poor man could not be comfortable. She knew he detested being cooped up, and now he was stuck in a tiny chair in a sea of society faces while being forced to listen to music for the next several hours, all so that she might enchant another man into becoming her husband.
She noted a number of feminine glances being cast in Brackley’s direction, and she frowned.
Yes, Owen was sacrificing for her, but he was using his pursuit of her as a shield, too.
She must remember that he was also benefiting from their arrangement, and that he was not helping her catch Hartford’s attention out of the goodness of his heart.
Hartford gave her an encouraging smile. “And what are your talents? I am sure you possess many.”
“I speak French, I am adept with a needle, and I can dance well.” I can knock a man twice my size senseless, and I am a skilled swordswoman.
“Do not forget your talent with children.” Owen’s deep voice rumbled above her ear. “You are extraordinary with my young sisters.”
Hartford glowed. “My own mother was a near angel, and I have always thought very highly of women who possess natural maternal instincts. I would not wish for my wife to always pawn my heirs off to the nanny.”
Ivy swallowed and was thankful she was wearing gloves to conceal her suddenly perspiring palms. His heirs.
She had been so intent on marrying him that she had forgotten what that entailed.
Thanks to her brothers, she had a general idea of what procreation required.
She darted a quick look at Hartford’s soft, pillowy lips.
Would she enjoy kissing him? She thought it might be pleasant, if a little uninspiring.