Chapter 11
The official invitation arrived the next morning. Christopher watched from an armchair in the sitting room as Har-ding bore it to him on a silver salver. He picked it up between thumb and forefinger like it was a particularly noxious insect.
“Smells of anise,” he muttered. He so hated anise.
The Leftmore invitation came engraved on the creamiest of card stock with the names unfurling in dainty calligraphy. Every detail spoke of opulence and taste. Your Attendance is Most Anticipated, it read.
The threat was implicit: show up or be shunned.
Christopher had no intention of being shunned until after his wretched marriage, and so he would go. More importantly, everyone who was even a middling member of the ton would be in attendance. Christopher’s future wife, he was certain, would be there. If not Verbena Montrose, then someone else. All he had to do was find her.
But first he would need to be seen about town. He headed to his dressing room to change. A ride in St. James’s Park, he thought, would not only soothe his frazzled nerves, but announce to all and sundry that the eligible young Lord Eden had arrived in London, if they hadn’t already been informed. He could only hope that the whispers that reached the ears of ladies such as Verbena Montrose were flattering ones.
He chose as his riding ensemble a waistcoat of fine silk the color of Eden Abbey’s sun--bleached stones and a velvet coat in the most delicate shade of peach. He wore shining buff leather boots with tassels dangling from their tops. For his cravat, he attempted a new knot that reminded one of a flag in the wind, perfect for an active gentleman. Christopher gauged his appearance in the looking glass and wondered if he might ever catch the eye of someone like Har-ding, or if such daydreams were not worth entertaining.
A knock sounded at the dressing room door, startling a gasp from him. He clutched at his chest in embarrassment, as if he could take hold of his galloping heart and make it stop. As he was fully clothed, he opened the door to find Har-ding himself standing there.
“Please, don’t knock so loudly, Har-ding. Have mercy on the young master. A tap would suffice, or a light rap. You could even whistle, if you know how.”
“Apologies, my lord,” Har-ding said as he strode into the dressing room. “I’m afraid I do not know how to whistle.”
“You can learn, surely.” Christopher shot his cuffs.
“Perhaps His Lordship can teach me,” Har-ding offered with an amused curl of his lip.
“No, he certainly cannot. I’ve absolutely no idea how to whistle.” Christopher puckered his lips and made an ineffectual blubbering sound. “But it seems like one of the things a valet should know, does it not?” He turned back to the mirror and adjusted the wings of his cravat once more. “Har-ding, I want you to tell me honestly: What is your opinion on these clothes?”
In the mirror’s reflection, he could see Har-ding’s brow raising at being asked for his thoughts. “You wear them well, my lord,” he said. “If I may?” His hands hovered at Christopher’s shoulders, and Christopher assumed there must be a bit of fluff or something stuck there. It was almost sweet of Har-ding, he thought, to be asking permission for such an innocent thing.
“Please,” he said. But Har-ding did not reach for any fluff. He reached instead around Christopher and rearranged the fall of his cravat. With his extra height, it wasn’t an impossible endeavor, but still Christopher felt the intimacy of the thing like a gunshot to his chest—-arms around him, Har-ding’s breath on his cheek as he leaned forward to see better, his scent surrounding him. Leather and bootblack and something like fresh linen. Christopher stared down at the hands working at his throat, then looked up and saw their joined reflection in the mirror, Har-ding’s face pinched in concentration beside his own slack--jawed visage.
Christopher shut his mouth with a snap.
“There.” Har-ding retreated, leaving the cravat in a more perfect windswept formation. “That should hold through a dozen rides, should His Lordship so desire.”
Christopher touched the delicate shape of the knots at his throat, watching it bob beneath his chin. It was endlessly fascinating to him, the ways in which beauty and softness still suffused his life even now after living ten years of it outside petticoats.
“Thank you, dear fellow,” he said. “It’s lovely. I suppose I must look my best for Verbena Montrose, after all.”
Har-ding’s left eyebrow made contact with his hairline. Christopher could follow its rise in the mirror. “Who, my lord?”
“Ah, she’s this— She’s a lady,” Christopher explained.
“Yes, I gathered that much,” Har-ding murmured, then set to work making tiny adjustments to the fall of Christopher’s tail coat. “I thought you said your heart wasn’t set on any lady in particular, sir. I was under the impression that your visit to London had more of an . . . exploratory nature.” His tone, strangely enough, was the same cool one he’d used with étienne.
“Oh, no, you misunderstand,” Christopher said with haste. “I’ve never met Miss Montrose before. I don’t have my heart set at all, -really.” He winced at his own reflection. “That sounds rather callous. Erm, perhaps I should explain.”
“You need never explain yourself to me, my lord,” Har-ding intoned. He sounded so serious, Christopher worried that he was about to whip out a penknife and make it a blood oath.
He sighed. Har-ding was already partway into his confidence, and he’d proven himself a stalwart manservant. And he was clever—-Christopher had to admit that his cravats had never looked neater. There was also the matter of their late--night conversation, which was still ringing in Christopher’s ears. With the exception of étienne, he had never met a man with whom he felt so at ease. And since he had unburdened himself so recently in étienne’s company and still felt the wonderful effects in his lightened soul, the temptation to do so again was impossible to ignore. He decided that Har-ding should be privy to as many details as he could sensibly provide, such as the actual reason behind his sudden desire to marry.
“It’s like this, Har-ding,” he said. “I’m in a bit of a rush to secure a lady’s hand. If it were up to me, I would be back at Eden Abbey in front of a warm fire with a good book. However, the previous Lord Eden had other plans.” He gave a helpless shrug. “I’m to marry before my next birthday if I am to retain my title and inheritance. My father’s will demands it.”
Har-ding looked as startled as Christopher had ever seen him, which is to say, his eyes widened just a fraction. “I thought—-so you have no interest in being married beyond this necessity, my lord?”
“Exactly, Har-ding. Trust me when I say that a wife is the last thing I want.” He dusted a hand down his sleeve, but it was completely clean already, so there was no need. “I have it on good authority that Miss Montrose is the type of lady who might be interested in my proposal. I was hoping to make an impression this afternoon; even if she is not present on the promenade, word may reach her yet.”
“I imagine a good many women would be interested, my lord,” Har-ding said. He sounded a little miffed at the prospect.
Christopher shook his head. “I don’t think so, not when I plan to be completely honest with the lady in question.”
“My lord?” Har-ding inclined his head.
“About the marriage,” Christopher clarified. He hesitated, but then forged ahead. In for a penny, after all. “I don’t want the poor girl to sign the marriage contract if she thinks there is any possibility of . . . affection.” It was a good enough euphem ism, besides being literally true. Christopher didn’t think it prudent to get into the details of why he wouldn’t be sharing his future wife’s bed or giving her children. “I expect this marriage to be in name only. My wife, whomever she may be, should expect the same.”
This statement caused both eyebrows to climb Har-ding’s face. “You sound very certain, my lord.”
“Is that a hint of reproach I hear?” Christopher gave him an admonishing look in the glass. “I am certain. Love is for other people, Har-ding. It’s not in the cards for me. It’s only that I find myself in an inconvenient spot, and I wish above all else to project complete normalcy so that when I do propose, there will be no doubts about my respectability and fitness as a husband. The lady in question deserves that much, I think.”
He turned away from the mirror, having fiddled with every part of his ensemble that could possibly be fiddled with. He found Har-ding standing much too close, and regarding him very seriously.
“Most men,” he said carefully, “would not be concerned with the lady’s feelings on the matter and would secure their marriage as quickly as possible using whatever means might be available.”
Christopher frowned. “I suppose they might. One hears stories. Personally, I believe it is the height of cruelty to deceive a woman so.” He thought of a very sad and alone Lady Eden shut up in the Abbey like a prisoner, her dreams of a loving -marriage—-or even a functional one—-forever dashed. No, he couldn’t stomach the thought. He shook his head. “That is not the sort of man I want to be,” he said.
“And what sort of man do you want to be, my lord?” Har-ding asked.
The question took Christopher aback. He was not used to philosophical discussions before dinner. “I’m not entirely sure,” he said at last. Their closeness reminded him, for some reason, of his last conversation with étienne. Of what kind of man he was. But of course Har-ding was not referring to his taste in theoretical bedmates, only his morals. Christopher considered the matter. “A good man, if possible. But sometimes I fear I’m too late for that.”
It was more than he’d meant to share, and the words hung in the air above their heads long after Christopher had uttered them. Har-ding’s lips parted like he was about to say something else, but then the clatter of hooves came to a stop right outside the townhouse window, and he cleared his throat instead. “That will be your horse at the door, my lord.”
“Good.” Christopher gave himself a little shake to try to dispense with some of the heaviness that had overtaken him. He sighed deeply. “I’m off, then. Pray that this city nag is capable of a few turns around the park.”
“I selected the creature myself, my lord. She is not as spirited as your Orion,” he said with a slight smile, “but she will suffice.”
“Excellent. Will you fetch the mounting block for me?” Christopher asked as he slipped on his tan riding gloves.
“Of course, my lord.”
“It’s a shame you can’t—-” Christopher sealed his lips shut.
“A shame I cannot what, my lord?” Har-ding asked.
Come with me, Christopher had been about to say. Keep me company as I parade about the city. Talk to me about nothing in particular. Advise me on my situation, now that you know nearly all the truth behind it.
An impossible desire, and equally impossible to speak aloud.
“Nothing,” Christopher said in the end.
They left the cloistered world of the dressing room and marched out to meet the footman, Har-ding quiet at his side, Christopher’s heart pounding in his throat.