Chapter Fourteen #3
The duchess colored, and Lady Weston drew an arm about her shoulders. “Be mindful, Hen,” she said, “or I’ll tell your husband you were climbing trees in the orchard again. Didn’t he say he’d discipline you in the sternest manner were he to catch you acting in an unladylike manner this week?”
Lady Thorpe grinned and flicked her tongue out to moisten her lips. “Who’s to say I don’t relish the particular style of discipline that my Giles doles out?”
Lady Hardwick burst into laughter. “Ah yes, my cousin has a firm hand.”
“Delectably so,” Lady Thorpe said.
“What do you mean, discipline?” Miss Whitcombe said, her eyes widening. “Does your husband punish you?”
The duchess blushed, and Lady Weston took her hand.
“Forgive me, Ellie, I’m speaking out of turn.” She turned to Miss Whitcombe. “Olivia, take no notice—I was only jesting. Henrietta and her husband are very much in love, aren’t you, Hen?”
Lady Thorpe gave a smile, mischief and satisfaction gleaming in her eyes. Then she met Stephen’s gaze and giggled. “Oh dear, I fear I may have shocked your guest, Eleanor. Do forgive us, colonel. I’m afraid our conversation is not for the ears of gentlemen.”
“Much as gentlemen’s conversation is not for the ears of ladies,” Lady Portia said.
“I thought ladies discussed the weather,” Stephen said. “Or their accomplishments.”
“Oh, we do,” Lady Thorpe said. “But our idea of…accomplishment may differ from most ladies in Society who confine their conversation to embroidery, music, the cut of their gowns, and their superiority over their rivals.”
“I’m afraid you find yourself among misfits here,” Lady Portia said. “Dear Eleanor is most particular about whom she invites to her house parties.”
“Meaning I’m a misfit?” Stephen said.
“Meaning you possess qualities that set you apart from the rest of Society. Today, colonel, you’re an honorary misfit.”
“Is it some sort of club for which membership is by invitation?”
“Perhaps!” Lady Weston laughed. “And, in your choice of activity today, we might also declare you to be an honorary lady.”
“What’s all this?” a deep male voice said, and Stephen looked up to see Portia’s brother approaching, followed by the rest of the gentlemen. “Is the colonel turning into the weaker sex?”
“Are you asking if he’s turning into a man, brother?” Lady Portia said, an edge to her voice.
“Of course not, sister, but his reluctance to shoot is a trait he shares in common with women.”
“Not all women.”
“Quite so, Lady Portia,” Whitcombe said. He approached his wife, took her hand, and lifted it to his lips. “I’ve missed you, my love,” he whispered. The other gentlemen smiled, save Foxton, who rolled his eyes.
“Lord Hardwick chose to remain with us here,” Duchess Whitcombe said, leaning into her husband’s touch. “A preference for archery is not exclusive to my sex.”
“Ah, but everyone knows Hardwick is in thrall to his wife,” Foxton said.
“I say, there’s no need for that, old chap,” Whitcombe said. “A man who loves his wife is more of a man than one who doesn’t, is that not so, gentlemen?”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the men, who dispersed among the ladies, pairing up with their wives to form happy couples.
“Your sister performed remarkably well, Your Grace,” their hostess said to Foxton.
“I trust she didn’t behave out of turn,” he said.
“Lady Portia is perfect in every way. I would not have her any different.”
She glanced toward Stephen with that curiously unsettling gaze of hers—dark with intensity, as if she were looking into his soul.
“My sister has much to learn,” Foxton said. “But perhaps, given that she was born into nobility, she must uphold higher standards of decorum than those who were not.”
“That’s enough, Foxton,” Whitcombe said, holding his wife close.
“I’m afraid you must forgive our friend here.
He bagged the fewest of the whole party—even McIver here bested him, and McIver’s not fired a gun before.
” He turned to Lady Portia. “Ma’am, we’d have fared better had you accompanied us in Foxton’s stead.
Mr. Greaves continues to tell me how much more proficient you are at marksmanship than your brother, though he takes care to say it when your brother’s out of earshot for fear of being tossed into a lake again.
Men don’t like the notion of being bested by a woman—well, some men, at least. Men who believe they have something to prove. ”
“My love, you mustn’t tease our guest,” the duchess said. “I’m sure Foxton meant no offense.”
To his credit, Foxton colored, and he bowed to her. “Forgive me, Duchess. I fear I’m not at my best today.”
The duchess nodded to him, then to the footman in attendance. “Charles, would you have luncheon brought out?” She turned to the party. “It’s such a pleasant day, I thought we could have our luncheon outside ahead of the afternoon’s competing, unless anyone objects. Beatrice, would you mind?”
“I’d love that,” Lady Hardwick said. “And my doctor is at hand should I be in need of him.”
Dr. McIver nodded. “Aye, yer ladyship, the air will do ye good.” He approached Stephen and offered his hand. “Colonel, a delight to see ye. I take it ye’re well? No concerns about”—he glanced about, then lowered his voice—“about the war?”
“Nothing I cannot deal with, Dr. McIver.”
“There’s no shame in admitting yer fears, lad. Yer injuries from Waterloo are as potent as those suffered by the likes of young Captain Broom, even if they cannot be seen by the untrained eye. There’s those among us who know and appreciate that, and will value ye no less for yer struggles.”
Stephen glanced across the guests to Lady Portia, who watched them both, a smile on her lips. “Those who display such understanding also deserve to be valued, colonel, do you not think so?”
“Yes,” he said, returning her smile. “They deserve to be valued above all others.”
The doctor glanced toward Lady Portia, then let out a soft chuckle.
“H-have you seen Captain Broom lately, doctor?” Stephen asked.
“He’s returned to Yorkshire,” came the reply. “I believe he’s to be married in September.”
“Then his fiancée didn’t abandon him.”
“Why would she? What woman in charge of her wits would forsake such a fine lad? He’s a hero from Waterloo, and the sort of level-headed young man who’d only fall in love with the right sort of lass. As are ye, colonel.”
Stephen shook his head. “I made a fool of myself trotting after Miss Howard—Lady Staines—as is.”
“But I’ll wager ye’ve learned from yer mistakes and would now only lose yer heart to the right lass. Or perhaps ye already have. She’s as fine a lass as I’d hope for ye.”
“Dr. McIver, I’ve no idea who—”
“Yes, yes,” the doctor said, with a chuckle. “It’s not the done thing for a man to reveal his heart too often, lest he risk it coming to harm. But ye’re a courageous enough lad to know that some risks are worth taking if the reward is yer heart’s desire.”
Most gentlemen would ridicule such words, for they often spoke them with a desire to flatter and cajole.
But Dr. McIver had one quality that set him apart from most of Stephen’s acquaintance—he was no gentleman.
He had no time in his occupation for the insincerity of thoughtless praise or pretty stories to elicit false hope.
Stephen glanced again toward Lady Portia, who was chatting with Earl and Countess Thorpe. As soon as his gaze fell on her, she stiffened, as if they were connected by an invisible thread, and glanced over her shoulder.
Yes—some risks were worth taking, especially if his heart’s desire was before him.