Chapter 15 #3
She was saved from having to reply by the opening chords of the piano, and over the next hour lost herself to the truly beautiful music.
The expression on Hartford’s face was one of rapture, and she could not help noticing that his gaze was drawn quite often to the eldest twin, Miss Florence.
Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes were closed in ecstasy as her fingers deftly strummed the harp strings.
“You are losing him,” Brackley murmured in her ear. “He looks as if he is about to sink to his knees and ask the girl to marry him.”
She gave an exasperated grunt. “What do you suggest I do? Rush up there, shove Miss Florence aside, and demonstrate my own mediocre harp skills instead?”
“Take his mind off her. Say something scandalous.”
“Such as?”
“Compliment Miss Florence so that you do not sound jealous, and then tell him you have never been kissed, but you imagine it would make you feel as beautiful as this music. Get his mind off the girl and on the idea of giving you your first kiss.”
“But he would not be my first kiss.”
Owen’s eyes darkened. “Some other man has had the pleasure?”
“’Twas a long time ago.”
“Then lie,” he snarled, so low that only she could hear. “I have not given up my entire afternoon to watch him fall in love with a harpist.”
“Fine!” She pasted a smile on her face and leaned closer to Hartford. He was so enraptured by Miss Florence that he did not notice.
She nudged him gently with her arm, and when his eyes dropped to hers, she knew his mind was far away.
She lifted her mouth, and he tilted his head to the side.
She whispered Owen’s words softly, her bottom lip brushing his earlobe, and she could feel when his attention slipped from the harpist and sharpened on her.
Blushing, Ivy sat back, aware that it had not been the most appropriate thing to share, but it appeared Owen was right. Hartford was staring at her with a mixture of shock and keen interest, the harpist entirely forgotten.
“You are a virtuous young lady, to have never had your lips touched,” he said quietly, his eyes on said lips. Ivy unconsciously dragged her tongue across her bottom lip, and Hartford leaned closer. “Many a young woman has given a kiss to a hopeful suitor.”
“I have not yet been so enticed,” she replied demurely. “I fear I shall have to wait for my future husband to visit upon me that particular pleasure.”
Owen coughed into his handkerchief.
Ivy ignored him. “Do you think me foolish for being so loyal to my future betrothed, Lord Hartford?”
“Never! I admire a woman who is so discerning and dedicated to her future husband. I can only hope my wife will possess similar virtue.”
“Oh, I am sure she will! You are a man worthy of dedication.”
Hartford was beaming at her when intermission was announced. He was quickly swept away by a gentleman from his club chattering about an incredible investment opportunity in a textile mill.
“He is a man worthy of dedication?” Owen asked as they meandered toward where Barnes and Diane stood with acquaintances.
“What about it?”
“I doubt you would dedicate your life to a man.”
“How would you know? Perhaps I would be the most doting little mouse of a wife you have ever seen.”
Owen scoffed. “You would not be.”
“You are so certain you know what kind of wife I would be?” She faced him, her fists on her hips, her reticule and fan dangling from her left wrist.
“Yes.”
“Please, enlighten me.”
He lowered his head and curved his body toward her, creating an intimate cocoon of conversation.
“You would be a hellion. You would put on a pleasant face for your husband while gaining the loyalty of all the servants and children in the house and then running roughshod over every single limitation. You would promise to do as he wished, all while doing just as you pleased. And you would get away with it, because you are so damned charming with your little half-moon dimple and that sassy mouth.”
Ivy exhaled with both exasperation for the unflattering—and truthful—estimation of her character, and confusion over how he could know her so well.
And what did he mean when he called her dimple charming and her mouth sassy?
Was he saying her husband would find them so?
“That is not a flattering picture you have painted of me.”
“I disagree.”
“Lord Brackley.” An acidic voice interrupted their low conversation, and Ivy sprang back, only just becoming aware of how close they had gravitated during their discussion. A gloved hand snuck between them, and Owen shook it while he sized up their intruder. “I am Lord Mawe, Earl of Wynster.”
Barnes immediately appeared at Ivy’s side, inserting himself between her and Lord Mawe, their uncle and the heir to their grandfather’s title.
Their uncle possessed similar features to their father, with narrow shoulders, thinning hair that was more white than blond, and a pointed nose.
Ivy’s limited recollections of her uncle were that he was as mean and shrewd as her father, too.
She had only met her grandfather, the marquess, once, but she remembered him to be wizened and eternally unhappy.
She supposed her uncle and father had come by their nasty demeanors fairly.
Owen dropped his hand after the briefest handshake, as if her uncle’s touch disgusted him. “Lord Mawe.”
“I hear my niece and nephew are staying as guests at Brackley Estate,” her uncle said, his voice oily and calculating. “I did not know you were so well acquainted.”
“Barnes and I attended Harrow together.”
“I was an Eton boy myself, although I suppose my nephew was too stupid to attend, even with his grandfather’s connections.”
Ivy’s eyes widened at the blatant insult to her brother and the passive insult to Owen. Both men took it in stride, her brother smiling as if he found it amusing, while Owen’s face remained flat and bored.
“Eton men certainly have a reputation,” Owen commented.
Her uncle frowned, unsure if he was being insulted or not. “Is it true you are courting my niece?”
Owen’s eyes flicked to her and then Barnes, the tiniest line between his brows easing when he noted how close her brother stood to her—his body an immovable mountain between Ivy and the horrid little man related to them by blood. “Yes.”
“Have you spoken with my brother?”
“It has not progressed to that point,” Owen said firmly. “Miss Bennett will have her choice of suitors this Season, but I have expressed my interest in joining the queue of men vying for her hand.”
Her uncle snorted and craned his neck around her brother. “Move, boy,” he snapped. “I want to take a better look at her. Her father always said she was short and ugly and would need a firm hand to guide her.”
Barnes did not move, but he did spare their uncle a disdainful glance.
Their uncle snarled and maneuvered himself instead, Barnes shifting so that although her uncle could see her, he would have a difficult time reaching her. Ivy stifled a smile. She could take care of herself, but she loved her brother for wanting to protect her all the same.
“I have not seen the chit since she was a child, but she is not as ugly as my brother made her out to be,” Mawe said, continuing to talk about her as if she were not present, “although I suspect she is as headstrong as reported. If you do marry her, Brackley, I suggest you do not spare the rod. A woman appreciates a man who lets her know her place. Boundaries, I always say. Beat her once or twice, and she will never dare test them. You will have a pleasant marriage without all of the yapping and demands.”
A muscle jumped in Owen’s jaw, and he glared at her uncle as if he could skewer him with his eyes, yet her uncle appeared unaware of his quietly building fury.
Owen loved his sisters, and Ivy had witnessed how kind and gentle he was with him.
He would never tolerate abusing a woman or a child.
Heavens, she did not think he would even tolerate harm to a creature if the whispers she had heard about his horse-breeding ethics were true.
Her uncle’s cold gaze ran over her flushed cheeks. Ivy was sorely tempted to knock his front tooth out and teach him a thing or two about physical pain.
Lord Mawe sniffed and continued, despite the fact that, like Owen, Barnes was coiled stiff with rage. “My brother did not keep his own wife in line, and look at—”
“That is enough now,” Barnes snapped.
“Pardon me, boy?”
Barnes took her uncle roughly by the arm and said, “Have you met Miss Diane Wixby?” before steering him away with a conniving smile. Diane would rip him to shreds. Ivy almost wanted to follow so she could watch.
Owen stared after her uncle for a long time, his knuckles white as he fought off some silent impulse. When he turned back to her, his eyes were as frosted as a glacier. “Are you attached to your uncle? Or may I kill him?”
Ivy let out a shaky laugh. “He is a terrible human being, but no worse than my father.”
Owen flinched at that.
“My uncle is a reminder of why we are here: for the alternative.”
“Hartford is not the only alternative. Not all men are like your father and uncle. Most men are not.”
“Then let us hope I find one of them for a husband.”