Chapter Seven
When she arrived in the drawing room, still stinging from her last interaction with Mr. Brown—Malcolm, as one panting, traitorous corner of her mind wanted to call him—she instantly felt a delicate hand close around her forearm.
“Tell me everything,” Tilly said, practically pushing her onto a sofa in the corner. “Why, Scarlett, I think the man admires you. The look on his face throughout dinner!”
Scarlett shook her head. Tilly was fanciful, but even for her, this hallucination was a new low.
“Please, Tilly. I have a headache.”
That wasn’t actually true. But it might as well be.
The man had mocked her. She had begun to think differently of him as they conversed at dinner.
But all the time, he had been laughing at her.
Thinking her a glutton. Watching her gobble up what he doubtlessly thought were enormous portions and marveling at her appetite and, most probably, the enormity of her figure.
God, death would be a relief in the face of such humiliation.
Tilly’s expression of glee faltered. “But he seemed so besotted by you, Scarlett! And he is so handsome! Why, I’ve been planning a romance for you for half of dinner.”
“You seemed plenty occupied talking to Mr. Westmore,” Scarlett retorted.
The flow of talk between her sister and the brother of her suitor had barely stopped for the entire meal.
“A lady may talk and scheme at once, Scarlett,” Tilly said. “Although Mr. Westmore surely is a charming dinner companion. He will do as a brother-in-law. But at the moment, I’m more curious about my other future brother, Mr. Brown.”
Scarlett took a breath. She would not tell Tilly what had occurred.
Given that her sister wanted to marry Mr. Salisbury, it would only put Tilly in an awkward position to have to take offense with his brother.
And besides, her pride revolted at the idea of exposing herself to Tilly’s pity.
She could already hear all the things her sister would say to soothe her. And she couldn’t bear to hear them.
“Mr. Brown is a perfectly adequate dinner partner,” Scarlett forced herself to say. “Albeit not much of a conversationalist. He runs the farm here—I believe he is his brother’s steward—and he can talk little beyond that subject.”
Tilly’s face fell in disappointment. “Ah, I see. His conversation is not equal to his countenance?”
“Not in the slightest. And his countenance only suffers for it, upon closer examination.”
“What a shame. He looks so fascinating! But I suppose not everyone is as they appear.”
“Indeed, they seldom are,” Scarlett said, steadying her hands by clasping them together.
She tried not to imagine the man’s face and failed. He was handsome. She had never seen a man more suited to her tastes. A pulse of pure, hysterical want ran through her, and it made her wish that she was alone in her chamber.
Then, without warning, a flash of realization followed that one of unwelcome yearning.
Mr. Malcolm Brown was the man from her dream.
Well, she reasoned, he wasn’t exactly the man. Largely because the man in her dream had always been rather vague. But he did bear quite the resemblance to that figure who so haunted her.
Large.
Handsome.
And a bit rough around the edges.
Perhaps even a bit of a rogue.
Not the type of man one was likely to meet in society, now that she thought of it.
She had never imagined the man from her dreams as a brute. It wasn’t that. But he was a bit gruff. He would be unable to keep from showing her how much he wanted her.
He was always gentle with her, or he tried to be. But he could never conceal completely that bit of roughness inherent to him—and that she drew out in him when she let him—
Oh god.
She was flushing anew, as the man from her dream and Mr. Malcolm Brown melded further in her mind.
She shook her head. No, the man from her dreams was not like Mr. Malcolm Brown. Because Mr. Malcolm Brown didn’t want her at all. He had made that much clear.
Still, the realization of the similarity disturbed her.
Now, when she tried to imagine the man from her dream, all she could see was Mr. Brown.
To the point that she had become increasingly uncertain whether the man from her dream looked like Mr. Brown or if she had merely just convinced herself that he did.
“Well, I am sorry you have to bear him,” Tilly said, breaking into these indecent thoughts. “I suspect you may be paired tomorrow night at dinner as well.”
“It’s no matter,” she said with a sigh. “He doesn’t offend me. He is perfectly adequate, if not equal to our usual London gentlemen.”
She said the lie as lightly as she could. Mr. Brown had offended her. And he had been a good deal better, before he had done so, than the gentlemen she usually met in London.
“Ah, the gentlemen are coming in. There’s George,” Tilly said, grasping her hand.
She knew why her sister was excited. This moment was truly the first of the day when she could speak to her suitor. Every other moment of the party thus far had been choreographed by custom. Now, and only now, could George declare his preference for one of the visiting girls.
George stopped to speak to Miss Wallington, and she felt her sister grow tense beside her. Scarlett did as well. She couldn’t bear to see her sister humiliated—or worse, have to actively compete for the man she had traveled all this way to secure.
But both sisters were able to exhale shortly. George gave a bow of adieu to Miss Wallington and came over to their sofa.
“Miss Perkins,” he said to Scarlett, bowing, and then turning to her sister, “Miss Tilly. May I sit with you?”
“Of course,” Tilly said, beaming.
After that, Mr. George Salisbury seated himself by no other lady for the duration of the evening. And Scarlett’s work turned to that of chaperone.
Slowly, as the minutes wore on, the guests began to filter out of the drawing room and to bed. Not wanting to crowd her sister and her lover, Scarlett moved over to speak to Vera and Mrs. Salisbury.
Scarlett had not had many opportunities to converse with Mrs. Salisbury in society, but she warmed to their hostess upon further acquaintance.
She made sure to help her stepmother in thanking her for her hospitality, and Mrs. Salisbury accepted the thanks with such humility that Scarlett had to admit she would have never known her daughter was a marchioness.
And the older woman also said something curious.
“Thank you, Miss Perkins,” she said. “For keeping our Malcolm company this evening. He is unused to society, but I saw how you set him at ease.”
Startled by the baldness of this pronouncement, Scarlett could only accept the thanks and say, with some confusion, that she was very glad to have had the chance to meet Mr. Brown.
This characterization was much more of a piece with the shy, ill-at-ease man she had thought him for most of dinner—but there was no mistaking, either, the tenor of his insult.
In short, she did not know what to think and could only conclude that Mrs. Salisbury was mistaken about the character of her quasi-stepchild.
Eventually, most of the guests had exited the drawing room. Tired after their travels, many wanted to rest.
Scarlett herself was growing drowsy. But she knew her role. She had long ago bid Vera goodnight.
The fire in the grate dwindled, and the only people left in the drawing room were herself, Tilly, and George.
Scarlett was feigning interest in a volume and had moved over by the fire to better read it.
Tilly and George spoke in soft voices on the other side of the room.
Scarlett knew that, as chaperone, she had to both protect her sister and give her as much privacy as possible, a balance that was difficult to strike.
Either way, across the empty space, their voices still carried.
“I know I am a beast to make you wait,” George said, in a low, ardent voice. “But Mother has gone to the trouble of having this party. And so I must see it through.”
“Of course,” her sister said. “I understand completely.”
“But I don’t want you to think,” George said, “that it means I haven’t made up my mind.”
“Oh, I don’t presume—”
“Please, Tilly,” he said, and Scarlett was sure the young man had her hand grasped in his own.
“I have made up my mind. I know we have something like an understanding. And so I want to be clear that, even though I haven’t yet, I will—I will ask for your hand.
Upon my honor. Before the month is out. I only need to be … diplomatic.”
Scarlett heard her sister gasp.
“You needn’t promise such a thing, George. I am perfectly content to wait. But I’m happy to hear of your intentions, of course, all the same.”
Scarlett suppressed a smile. She knew her sister was totally sincere. But she also couldn’t imagine a response a young man would like more.
“I only don’t want you to think—that I presume too much. That I take your affirmative for granted. I know I haven’t asked—and so I want you to know that I intend to.”
“But you already know the answer. You don’t presume.”
Scarlett frowned. She didn’t think her sister too forward, but she wasn’t sure young George had earned such honesty. The young man was right. He hadn’t asked.
“That’s what I told Severn,” George said with a laugh. “But he scolded me all the same.”
“Your brother?” Tilly said in a strange voice, quite unlike the glowing golden one she had just been using.
“Yes, my brother,” George said, a smile in his voice. “He scolded me for being too sure where you were concerned. It was because of something foolish I had said. About a honeymoon.”
“What about it?”
“I said I wasn’t sure if you would want one. That you aren’t the type to make a fuss. And Severn said that sometimes I speak as if I’d already gotten your answer.”
Scarlett’s eyebrows rose to her hairline. She knew her sister—and she very much would want a honeymoon. What young girl wouldn’t?
But, to her surprise, Tilly said nothing of the sort. She spoke in a different direction entirely.
“Your brother has no right to speak of my preferences. Or to act as if it is his place to defend my honor.”
“Ah, Severn meant no harm,” George said. “I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it. He’s very chivalric where ladies are concerned, that is all.”
“That’s not what they say in London, is it? For half of last season, all anyone could speak of were his affairs.”
“Tilly!” George said, and Scarlett registered his real alarm.
She was alarmed as well. The conversation she was overhearing was not a quarrel yet. But it had the promise of becoming one.
“I—you—well—you—my brother—I didn’t realize you knew—”
“Oh, George, you goose,” Tilly said. “Everyone knows your brother is a rake. You can’t expect me to be ignorant of that.”
“No, I suppose it wouldn’t be fair of me. But I can’t have you thinking harshly of him. He is my brother. And my best friend most of the time, besides.”
“I don’t think harshly of him,” Tilly said.
Scarlett was relieved to hear that the heat in her voice had subsided.
“You know I think him very charming. He’ll make the most delightful brother. But he shouldn’t speak for me. Especially against you. It isn’t proper. Not when—”
And here Tilly stopped.
At the abrupt stop, Scarlett looked up and quickly understood why it had happened.
George Salisbury was kissing her sister.
And she was kissing him back!
As a chaperone, Scarlett knew she had no choice but to put an end to such nonsense. While engaged couples might kiss, Tilly and George were not yet engaged, despite the seeming understanding between them.
She opened her mouth to remind her sister of the hour.
But she found she could not.
Because two truths hit her … with a stunning, painful clarity.
The first was that her sister would soon be married.
And then she, Scarlett, would be alone. She would continue living with Vera—what other choice did she have?
And she was fond of her stepmother, of course—but her one constant companion since childhood, Tilly, would be gone for good.
She would be all alone with nothing to color her days but spinsterhood.
And, second, she realized, with a horrible, resounding clang, that she would never be kissed in such a manner.
Once, she had been kissed. Long ago now. But it had hardly been passionate. Really, it hardly counted.
No, it did not count, in fact, now that she thought of it. Which meant that she would never be kissed by a man in the way that George Salisbury was now kissing her sister. With longing. With ardor.
She would remain untouched, undesired, for the rest of her days.
She bit back a sob at the unfairness of it.
And then she saw George bring a hand to Tilly’s face, and she realized—with a horrible lurch—that she was being unforgivably derelict.
“Tilly!” she finally managed. “The hour is late. We must be abed.”
George Salisbury instantly broke the kiss.
When he pulled away from her sister, her face was flaming. He looked little less affected.
“I am—I—bid you goodnight,” he said, hurriedly bowing to them both and exiting the room.
And Scarlett was left staring at her sister’s burning face.