Chapter Eighteen
Angus found himself uncommonly restless the following morning and was bordering on downright surly by the time he finally arrived at Mason House.
Being faced with Lady Mason and her three younger daughters did little to improve his mood as he kicked his heels in the entrance hall, waiting for Miss Mason.
He refused tea — it would only prolong the agony — and by the time they finally departed, he had once again been forced into declining an invitation to ‘a little family supper’.
That apparently was the final straw, tilting his humour into the morose once more.
As a consequence, he barely uttered three words to the poor girl perched beside him as he manoeuvred the curricle through the affluent streets of London towards the park.
“Well,” sighed Sylvie at last, breaking the silence, “I think they rather like you.”
“Really? Your middle sister actually sniffed in disdain,” he muttered before he could guard his tongue on such an utterance.
“Oh,” Sylvie laughed, “she is so naughty! I told her not to. But it was not disdain, I assure you. She was trying to decipher what scent you wear. Ever since Monsieur Beaumont, Papa’s old perfumer friend, stayed with us, she’s been obsessed.
Now I understand why she kept whispering, ‘He’s a lemon. ’”
“A lemon!”
Looping her arm through his in a most familiar way, she asked, “May I?” and, without awaiting permission, tilted her face towards his neck and inhaled deeply. “Mmm, you do smell exceedingly nice, and there is definitely a hint of…” sniffing again, “oh… no, not lemon. Pine, perhaps?”
Feeling uncannily bashful, like a young buck at his first ball, he spluttered, “S… Sylvie, stop.”
“Oh, my lord, does this mean I may call you Angus? Mm, Aaangusss. Such a strong, masculine name. I like it very much.”
“No, it does not, Miss Mason. It… it would be highly improper.”
“Improper? Oh, you are funny. We are lovers, remember… about to be wed.”
“Lovers!” he choked.
“Why, of course! Parading through the park for all to see. Though, my dear Angus, if we are to make them believe, mayhap you could smile occasionally, pretend you are enjoying my company… and possibly relinquish the tortured look from your face?”
He turned sharply to deliver a warning, but she smiled up at him with such hopeful warmth that he realised her boldness was likely nerves, a defence, a bit of theatre.
They were on display, after all, to all of London for the first time.
To be watched and whispered about, and he didn’t have to imagine how disconcerting that was.
“It is pine,’ he muttered. “And I am not.”
“Not?”
“Not… not finding your company too torturous.”
“What an endearing compliment, I think I may swoon.”
“Well, mind you don’t swoon too far over the edge and fall out. It is a long walk home.”
“Would you not stop to rescue me?”
“No. It would ruin my reputation.”
“Mm,” she murmured thoughtfully. “Though have you not already rescued me… from a fall from grace?”
“Hm, and not something I intend on repeating.”
“I should hope not, my lord, as I think one bride is quite sufficient for any man.”
“One too many,” he huffed, then instantly regretted his words, yet she surprised him by chuckling.
“You know, my lord, you truly are terrible at this.”
“This?”
“This pretending… our courtship. You should say, ‘Sylvie, my love, my heart beats only for you, you are the only bride I could ever desire to have. You fulfil me and complete me as no other could.’”
He rolled his eyes, “The Pirate Captain, I take it?”
“Indeed. He is very romantic… and would never abandon his lady love if she fell from the carriage.”
“Hm, I suppose I would stop and throw you back up. Otherwise, you would cause a hold-up.”
“Lord Westland,” she laughed, “you are such a romantic. Who would have thought?”
“Who indeed.”
Turning, she clutched his arm in both her hands, her expression suddenly soft. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For playing along. For… dare I hope… becoming my friend.”
“Well… I…”
“My lord, whether you chose it or not, it seems we have the rest of our lives together. Would it not make it easier if we were to get along? To be relaxed in each other’s company… to talk as friends do?”
He considered her for a long moment. The concept of becoming responsible for her well-being obviously was not new to him.
He had deliberated over where he would place her, what she would require, but when doing so, he had merely turned his mind to an unwanted complication.
An obligation! Yet, now, the bright, cheerful creature sitting beside him was a living, feeling, inescapable presence — tangible and vividly real.
Sylvie Mason would indeed be part of his life…
so long as ye both shall live… and for a startling second, his mouth went dry, and his heart quickened.
Taking a deep breath, he fixed his eyes ahead.
“I daresay we may be able to accomplish a certain level of acquaintance, Miss Mason… so long as you are done sniffing me.”
“Golly, a certain level of acquaintance?” she laughed. “You really are too kind.”
“So, you keep telling me. Now… have you had enough, or shall we do another loop?”
“Another loop would be delightful if you have time. And maybe, we could begin my education on keelhauling?”
“I see. So you would rather not pass the time discussing lacy, ribbony confections that sit upon your head?”
“Bonnets?” she laughed. “Ugh, no. Dreadfully boring. I endure enough idle chit-chat about such mundane things when the ladies pay their morning calls. I think a lesson in keelhauling will be far more entertaining.”
“Hm. And walking the plank?”
“Blistering barnacles — yes please!”
A short, reluctant laugh escaped him before he could stop it. With a resigned shake of his head, he flicked the reins and urged the horses on.