Chapter Six
Of course, in the end, he had ruined it.
For what had seemed an impossible length of time, it had appeared that he, Mr. Malcolm Brown, eldest illegitimate bastard of one of the biggest blackguards in England, had actually made decent conversation with the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes upon.
But naturally, it hadn’t lasted.
He had not meant to insult her.
He had been meaning to thank her.
Her taking an interest in the food had made it possible for him to talk. At the beginning of the meal, given how badly their introduction had gone, it had seemed very possible that they would sit in silence. And he knew Beatrice or Severn would tease him for that.
She had been kind enough to forgive him and to even converse with him.
And he had taken pleasure in that conversation beyond what he should have.
He couldn’t help that he found her so beautiful.
Nor could he help, as their conversation progressed, that he found her manners so pleasing.
Yes, she was as polished and refined as he imagined any London woman could be.
But she hadn’t been at all conceited once she had recovered from the clumsiness of his introduction.
When she had bitten into that strawberry—his strawberry, that he grew, in his garden—and actually moaned, he had gone hard in his trousers. Worse, perhaps, because he had been unable to hide it, was that he hadn’t been able to keep himself from smiling.
She probably understood that he was a lech.
She was probably used to men fawning over her, ogling her.
She was probably disgusted by a man as rough as him casting his eyes over her exquisite complexion, the bounty of her bosom, and then baring his teeth like an animal.
She must be repelled by the evident desire in his gaze.
But she had been studiously polite about it. She had betrayed no disgust or horror despite his evident admiration.
And then he had implied she was gluttonous. Which he didn’t need years of London society training to know was a surefire way of offending a woman.
Her parting words had left no ambiguity.
He had ruined his chance completely.
The one chance he had had to have a pleasant association, something like an ally or a friend outside of his own family, during this next week when he would be forced to take part in the house party festivities.
Now, the ladies were gone, and the gentlemen sat at the table.
This group included his three brothers, of course, as well as Mr. Larchman, the local vicar.
Mr. Larchman was a longtime friend of the family, and his only daughter, Maven, had been a close companion of Philip’s since they were children, given that they were nearly the exact same age.
Maven had not been invited to the festivities tonight, however, because they already had too many ladies.
Malcolm knew that Mrs. Salisbury felt badly about that omission but there was nothing that could be done about it.
She planned to include Maven over the course of the next few weeks where she could.
In addition to these four, there were four local landowners, men whom Malcolm knew from his dealings in the parish.
They were all middle-aged men who—thankfully, according to Mrs. Salisbury—had no daughters of marriageable age.
Mr. Dermott and Mr. Lambet were the two whom Malcolm knew best, and they were perfectly respectable men who cared about tending their land and stewarding it responsibly.
In fact, before he had worked at Parkhorne, when he had just been sixteen, he had managed one of Mr. Lambet’s farms. These four were happy to eat, and admire, and say good things about the family, Beatrice had told Malcolm, and they were presentable enough not to offend any of the ladies from London who might be used to more spectacular tablemates.
The gentlemen were further rounded out by three others who had been invited from London and were what Beatrice called lapdogs.
This moniker meant they had little interest in field sports and didn’t mind attending to the ladies all day.
And crucially, his sister had explained, these three lapdogs would not be competition for George’s prospective brides.
In the case of Mr. Harold Jones, who had come along with his mother and his sister, Miss Perpetua, one of George’s prospects, he posed no threat because—according to Beatrice—he had no interest in ladies at all.
He was enduringly popular in his sister’s world, nearly the height of fashion, to use her expression, and apparently engaged in a long-term love affair with a viscount.
He was frequently, however, despite his large fortune, run over with creditors, and so often appreciated long excursions to the country to curtail his expenses.
The other young gentleman, Mr. Lionel Marburry, was also a brother—of Miss Bertha Marburry.
He was very young, even a few years younger than Philip, and at Cambridge.
Like Bertha, he had only a modest fortune, but was, according to Beatrice and Mrs. Salisbury, very sweet.
With these qualities, Mr. Jones was frankly more in danger of stealing George’s favorite.
The last young man was a friend of George’s from Cambridge, Mr. Barstow, who was timid, shy, eminently respectable, and the younger son of an earl.
His rank gave an extra welcome polish to the affair, and given that he had little charm, little money, and little appetite for flirting, he added the advantage of companionship for George without the risk of being likely to usurp him in the eyes of any of the young ladies.
It was Malcolm’s misfortune, however, that the landowners were nowhere near him.
The local men were grouped at one end of the table, where they sat talking over crop prices, rain, and projected profits for this year.
Malcolm yearned to join them, but it was impossible.
The three visiting young gentlemen from London sat at the middle of the table.
And he sat at the furthest end, surrounded by his brothers, who all looked at him with amused expressions.
“Malcolm,” said Severn. “Don’t be cross—but you seemed quite familiar with Miss Tilly’s older sister. Miss Scarlett, is it?”
Malcolm tried not to flush and suspected that he was failing.
“Come now, Severn,” George said. “Leave Malcolm be. He is doing us a favor, you know.”
“He didn’t look like he was doing anyone else a favor just now,” Philip chimed in.
His mouth, Malcolm noticed, was stained a very faint red. He was still young enough to overdo himself with wine at table, evidently.
“Enough,” Malcolm growled.
“Would you like our commentary any better if I said she seemed quite charmed by you as well?” Severn said. “I am sure she thought you quite fine. Tilly asked me several questions about my mysterious, handsome brother. If I weren’t only filling in for George, I might have felt jealous.”
Malcolm grimaced. He didn’t like the idea of the younger Miss Perkins mocking him either, even if she wasn’t as beautiful as her elder sister.
“Ah, I need not worry about Tilly’s faithfulness,” George said. “No matter how mysterious and handsome Malcolm may be.”
“And what of me, brother?” Severn said lightly. “Do I pose no threat on that account?”
George laughed. “No, Severn, not as much as Malcolm. Tilly knows you too well to take any of your flirting seriously.”
Malcolm was surprised to see a shadow flit across Severn’s face. Before he could study it, though, the thing disappeared.
“Ah, of course. I’ll have to set my sights on some other quarry for this house party. Someone who knows my flirtation can be very serious indeed.”
“Lady Ransom is quite good-looking, Severn,” Philip said, his speech slurring ever so slightly. “You may try her.”
Severn gave a bright, short laugh. “Perhaps I might. I constantly surprise myself.”
“I believe Lady Ransom loves her husband,” George said with a frown. “Miss Wallington has suggested as much to me.”
“Then my plan is foiled,” Severn said, looking down and swirling what remained of his brandy.
“George,” Philip said, his voice far heavier than Severn’s. “Will you be offended if I make love to one of your prospective brides? Not Tilly, of course.”
George arched his brows. “Is that your plan, little brother?”
Philip lowered his voice. “Miss Jones has an awfully large dowry.”
Severn gave a low, long whistle. “Philip, that’s mercenary.”
“Well, I haven’t a farthing of my own. Beyond what Beatrice might do for me. But one cannot always be living off one’s sister. I must marry rich. You know it is the same for you, Severn. Or nearly, anyway.”
Severn downed the last of his drink. “That’s the difference between you and me, Philip,” he said, gesturing to Marks, one of the footmen, a good lad who had worked his way up from the kitchens, to refill his glass. “I never think of marrying at all.”
“You should,” Philip said. “You’ll need a real establishment one day. Especially when George is married.”
“I will meet that challenge when it appears.”
“But George will marry soon. And then you’ll need to make yourself scarce for his domestic felicity,” Philip insisted. “You’ll need to marry soon yourself.”
“Really, Philip. I beg you to let me manage my own affairs.”
“No one need make themselves scarce, or marry, for my domestic felicity,” George said, frowning. “Nothing at Parkhorne will change after my marriage. Everyone is as welcome as ever.”
“You may want more privacy,” Malcolm said, not wanting his good-natured brother to commit himself too far in this vein, “once you have a wife.”
“If I want privacy with my bride,” George said, “I will take her on a honeymoon. But I suspect it won’t be necessary. Tilly isn’t the fussy type.”
“Dear God, George,” Severn broke out. “Even a practical girl deserves a honeymoon.”
“Of course I will consult her wishes,” George said.
“Sometimes, brother,” Severn said, “you speak as if Miss Perkins has already agreed to marry you.”
“She has given every sign that she will agree,” George said. “But you are right. I don’t mean to presume. I should be more circumspect.”
Malcolm saw that shadow pass over Severn’s face again.
“I don’t want you to quarrel with your favorite,” Severn said, his tone light once more. “Ladies generally do not like their yes to be seen as a foregone conclusion.”
“You are right, brother,” George said, giving a cheerful laugh. “I have not properly asked her. And so I shouldn’t speak so freely. But there is something like an understanding between us, you know.”
“Yes,” Severn said quietly. “Of course.”
“But you must understand, George,” Philip said, breaking in once more. “That after you marry, Severn and I will be like the fifth wheel of the coach around this place.”
“Two additional wheels make six,” George retorted. “Hardly a hindrance.”
Philip rolled his eyes. “You intentionally avoid my meaning.”
“I think you worry for nothing,” George said, only now seeming a bit vexed with Philip’s insistence. “I want to marry to help Parkhorne, not see my family out of it. I do not comprehend why anyone should feel de trop just because I take a wife.”
Despite George’s reassurances, Malcolm could understand why Philip might be anxious.
Whereas Severn’s mother owned a small estate that bordered Parkhorne lands, and he could always retreat there—not to mention that, presumably, it would one day be his own, after his mother’s death—and where indeed he had always half lived, Philip had no other home but Parkhorne.
“You will no longer be a bachelor,” Philip said. “And having two bachelor brothers around—”
“What about Malcolm?” Severn asked.
“Yes, what about me?” Malcolm glowered.
Philip had always been a sweet boy, but the wine was making him irritating tonight.
“You are different,” Philip said.
“And why is that?” Malcolm pressed. “Because I did not go to Cambridge and don’t carry a silk handkerchief?”
A leaden silence fell between the brothers.
Philip frowned. “Of course not,” Philip said. “I meant because you have an occupation at Parkhorne. You have a purpose. As steward. And the farm, of course.”
Malcolm hated himself in that moment. He had suspected the worst of Philip because he was feeling unsettled after that interaction with Miss Perkins.
Scarlett.
God, the way she had moaned when she bit into that strawberry…
He fought off the urge to relive that moment once more. He couldn’t get another cockstand at the table. One was far too many already.
“Of course, I’m sorry, Philip,” Malcolm said, standing.
He didn’t need to be here anymore, he realized. Miss Scarlett Perkins was gone, disgusted with him, and he didn’t need to dance attendance on her after dinner. It was no longer imperative that the numbers be equal.
“I will see you all tomorrow.”
“Wait, Malcolm—” George called.
But he had already turned on heel.
“Nicely done, Philip,” he heard Severn say.
“I didn’t mean—” Philip spluttered.
Blessedly, Malcolm exited the dining room and heard no more.
He might need to put up with six more nights of this humiliation.
But he needn’t put up with any more of it right now.
No, for the time being, he could choose freedom.