Chapter 8 #2
“Nora,” he said emphatically, “blamed you for spoiling her grand debut at Almack’s. No wonder you don’t understand it.” He could hold out no longer and fondly pinched her chin. “Because you are not spoilt and jealous and spiteful, my dear, sweet girl.”
She gave him a startled look, and he dropped his hand back to his lap, rubbing his thumb against the side of his finger to chase away the impression of warm, soft skin.
“She should’ve blamed me, really, if there was any blame to be had.”
Min seemed no less shocked by that. “You? Why?”
“Oh…” He waved a hand. The touch of her jaw still lingered. “I ought to have been nicer about her dress, I suppose. I ought to have been in London and made sure Nell didn’t take you both to Almack’s before you were ready. I ought”—he smiled at her—“I ought not to have made you dance.”
“Oh, that dance!” She cringed, her shoulders lifting as though she wanted to sink right through them. “Don’t make me remember that dance.”
“It’s charitable even to call it that,” he said, laughing.
“But I am sorry for it, Min.” He lifted one of her hands from her lap, where they’d been clutching her skirts in an agony of remembrance, and toyed with her gloved fingers, looking up meekly from under lowered lashes.
“Will you forgive me?” The apologetic air was somewhat marred by the laugh in his voice, but he couldn’t help it, buoyant with old memories.
How many daft scrapes had he apologised for all those years ago?
Those normally sweet lips would turn sullen and flat, and the eyes would go grey and cool. “Horrible boy.”
He could feel the words scrape up his spine.
Instead, she removed her hand from his. “I always do, don’t I?”
“Yes. Little as I deserve it.”
She made no reply, tucking her hands firmly back on her lap. He watched her for a moment, memories still dancing.
“But we must teach you,” he said.
“Teach me?”
“I’ll find you a dancing instructor. Some old caper merchant to school you ready for your next ball.”
“I’m not sure I wish to go to any more balls.”
“Stuff! We can’t let last night’s disaster be your only experience. You’ve a lifetime of society to catch up on. You’re not to moulder anyway anymore, little Minnow. And I truly would like to dance with you at some point. Don’t you think it would be fun?”
She tilted her head, though what she seemed to be considering was, yet again, her gloves, straightening each fingertip with precision.
She smelt of lavender, which was nice, and something medicinal, which wasn’t.
Belatedly, he realised it was probably some treatment for her hands.
They’d been sore last night, hadn’t they?
Turpentine, he thought she’d said. But still.
He hoped Caroline would take her to buy nicer gloves. If not, he’d do it himself.
“I wasn’t entirely without society at my aunt’s. We often had visitors.”
“Oh?”
“A great many relatives. All wishing to…to further their acquaintance with her.”
“And get in her rather large will, if I’m not mistaken?”
Min smiled, showing a rare dimple, still teasing each fingertip into place.
“Yes. That is what she believed. It was about the only entertainment I had, listening to my aunt rant about each and every one of them and how much she despised them all. And I confess, I found it quite an interesting study of human nature, observing each visitor and the different tactics they employed. It was…educational.”
Jack laughed. “I bet. So you’ve developed a fine eye for encroachers and flatterers, have you?”
“I suppose I have.”
“At least that’ll be of use to you in London. But Min…” He quizzed her with a teasing smile. “Don’t tell me you’ve become cynical?”
“I don’t think I am cynical, Jack. But I… I am wiser than I was. I am older.”
It was said in her usual quiet, serious way, but it made him pause.
He looked at the grey eyes, fixed now on the fireplace across the room, very grave, at the soft slope of the pale shoulders and the rich brown curls now framing a neckline that used to be higher—a girl’s neckline, when he’d last known her, now a woman’s.
With a woman’s fullness, and generously so.
Very generous. He shifted his snagged gaze before it became a stare and, for the first time, found himself wondering what she might see when she looked at him.
For a moment, they both sat and studied the fireplace, though his mind was turned inward. She’d always been observant. A quiet figure in the background whenever they had company, watching the world with her keen artist’s eye. What if she looked at him and…and found him paper thin?
“A cynical Min,” he said with a slight laugh.
“I can hardly believe it.” He laughed again—it sounded strangely nervous—and stood up.
“You are older—of course you are! What a thing to say, you goose. It’d be strange if you were not.
I’m sure time moves in Northumberland just the same as anywhere else. ”
She smiled. That rare dimple again. “No, I’m sure it moves much slower. Or certainly feels it.”
He grinned back and crossed the room to lean on the mantel, idly twiddling the heads of some dried flowers in a small, shell-work vase, the work of some bored woman, fifty years or more ago. What a finicky, tedious job. He grimaced at the thought. What a life.
“We must teach you to dance,” he said. “And you owe poor George one. I can’t have my closest friend dying of despair over you.”
“Mr Simmons?” Min coloured slightly. “He…he seemed a very considerate young man. Very polite.”
“Oh, Min! Those are killing words for a man. Don’t ever let him hear you say so.”
“But I did like him,” she protested. “He was very kind.”
Jack clutched a hand to his heart. “Poor George! First Nell calls him dear little, now this! Am I to be the one to let him down for you and tell him he has no hope?”
She gave him an annoyed look. “I see you still talk as much nonsense as ever.”
“And you as much sense!” He moved from the fireplace and sat back down, taking a chair across from her this time. “And he is very sensible too. You’ll do very well together.”
Still looking annoyed, she dropped her eyes to her lap and went back to fidgeting, this time with the lie of her skirt across her knee. It was a pale pink muslin today, far better than brown, but modest rather than pretty.
“Lord Ashburton said you had known Mr Simmons since Oxford.” Min was studiously offhand, and Jack smiled to himself, wondering where this line of enquiry was leading.
“That’s right.”
“He is…not quite what I had imagined. For a friend of yours, I mean.”
Jack grinned. “Because he does me credit? Don’t worry. I’ve enough dashing blades and outrageous bucks in my circle to make up for the damage noble George does to my poor reputation.”
The silver eyes darted to him, caught somewhere between annoyance and reluctant amusement. She muttered something about more nonsense, and Jack’s grin deepened.
“The truth is, Min, I met George at Oxford when I was nineteen. Which, if you might recall such unimportant details, was the year you left Herefordshire for your aunt’s, never to be seen again.
I was bereft, and it was clear I had to replace you.
Who is Jack Orton without someone small and odd to command? ”
The affronted look she gave him made him laugh out loud.
“Command!” she repeated. “Yes, that is the word. I called you a bully last night, and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry. But that you like to command your friends, order them about, be the master, yes, at least you admit it.”
“You really think me a tyrant?”
“The only reason we were ever friends is because I’d do as you told me, unlike your sisters.”
“No,” he exclaimed, laughing. “Not at all!”
“And now it is poor Mr Simmons’s turn.”
“Poor? I’ll have you know I take prodigious good care of him.”
Jack sat forward, still smiling. Faux earnest, he half whispered, “And he is a young man who needs a good deal of caretaking. He’s heir to one of the largest fortunes in England. So if George has taken a liking to you, my advice would be to encourage it. Can you flirt, Min?”
“Jack!”
“No matter. I’ll teach you. And how to dance. George will stand no chance, and you’ll take the town by storm. Fear not, my little Minnow, I mean to take very good care of you both!”