Chapter 3
Three
Esme had not meant to enjoy herself. Yet as the Woodmere carriage rattled from Hyde Park toward Grosvenor Square, she felt suspiciously light.
By the next morning, propriety had returned.
"Watford was distant," the Viscountess of Woodmere declared. "Quite distant. Did you notice, Harrison?"
Harrison did not look up from his correspondence. "He spoke to Esme only twice by the Serpentine," he said. "And once was about ducks."
Esme hesitated over her marmalade. "They are interesting birds."
"Not as husbands," her mother said. "They waddle."
Esme bit the inside of her cheek. "So do some peers."
The viscountess leveled a look at her. "Esme."
She subsided, knowing the truth was inescapable: Lord Watford had indeed been distant. After his conversation with Lady Honoria, he had retreated into a sort of stunned politeness, bowing at appropriate moments and then fleeing whenever Esme's gaze drifted too near. He had not once mentioned ink.
Esme could not pretend to mourn the loss, but her mother seemed determined to do it for her.
"His mother will hear of this," Mother went on. "Honoria was with him for half the afternoon. Heaven only knows what mischief she planted. I feel sure it will not be to our advantage."
Esme spread marmalade too firmly and the toast cracked. "Perhaps Lord Watford has simply realized we do not suit."
"Suitability is not a feeling," Mother said. "It is an arrangement. You have good bloodlines, a modest dowry, and no visible deformities. He has land, a title, and—"
"A passion for columns," Esme murmured.
Harrison folded his letter very precisely. "You are not helping, Esme."
"I am not trying," she blurted.
His brows knit. "If Watford withdraws, it will be noted. People will talk."
"They always do," she said. "Perhaps they simply require fresh material."
Her mother inhaled sharply. "Lady Esme—"
The door opened. The butler entered with a tray.
“My lady, Miss Moreland has come to call."
Esme's heart leapt. "At breakfast?"
"Miss Moreland," her mother repeated, faintly resigned, "comes at all hours."
"Yes," Genny said cheerfully, appearing in the doorway. "It is my most endearing quality."
She swept in, curtsying to Mother, nodding to Harrison, and dropping into a chair beside Esme without invitation.
"I brought news," she announced, plucking a slice of toast from the rack. "And an apology. And a question about ducks."
Mother pressed fingers to her temple. "In that order?"
"We shall see," Genny said. "Firstly, Watford is not ruined."
"Miss Moreland," Harrison said, "no one suggested—"
"He is merely... rearranged," Genny continued. “Lady Honoria has taken him up as a project. She says he is 'tragically sincere' and 'desperately in need of guidance.' He blushed when she told him so."
Esme's stomach twisted. "Guidance in what?"
"In avoiding ink-stained brides, I suspect," Genny said, “Lady Honoria has decided he requires a lady of 'tranquil disposition.' She has in mind that frightfully docile girl from Dorset—the one who faints whenever anyone mentions thunderstorms."
"That sounds ideal," Harrison muttered.
Woodmere looked pained. "Miss Moreland—"
"Do not fret, Lady Woodmere," Genny said, patting her hand. “Lady Honoria also declared that Esme is 'too vivid for ledgers.' Practically a compliment."
Esme blinked. "She said that?"
"Verbatim. I wrote it down for posterity."
Harrison's expression darkened. "So the entire Park now believes my sister is... too vivid?"
"Oh, no. Only the ones with ears."
Esme's mouth twitched.
Mother sighed. "This is precisely the sort of thing we must avoid."
"Whispers, speculation, the impression that Esme is... difficult," Harrison said.
Esme's fingers tightened around her teacup. "Perhaps I am. Perhaps it is not a disease."
Her mother's gaze sharpened. "Difficult daughters do not marry well."
"Perhaps," Esme said, her voice even, "they marry better than they otherwise would."
Silence fell.
It broke under Genny's bright tone. "On that note, I have an invitation."
"From whom?" Woodmere asked, wary.
"Lady Langley. She and Lord Langley are hosting a musicale this evening. Intimate. A little music, a little supper."
Esme's heart skipped. "Alexandra is hosting?"
"Which means," Genny went on, "most of the ton will assume it is dangerous and attend at once. She is insufferably popular, and she has promised me there will be at least one song that makes the Bishop go faintly purple."
Mother hesitated. "We were not certain of our plans for tonight..."
"You are now. Langley House is expecting you, and Lord Langley will take it as a personal affront if you stay away, given that he has commissioned a special arrangement of something with far too many trumpets."
Harrison looked to his mother. "It is Langley. It would be... noted if we declined."
Mother exhaled. "Very well. We shall go. Esme, wear—"
"The green. The new one. It will frighten half the bachelors and cheer the rest of us immensely," Genny cut in.
Woodmere shot her a look but did not object. "You may wear the green if you promise to behave."
Esme folded her napkin with care.
"I shall," she said. "Within reason."
Genny's eyes gleamed. "Then we shall see what reason will bear."
James had begun to suspect that the universe was conspiring to make him earnest.
He stood in the Langley music room that evening, glass in hand, back to a marble column, watching Alexandra rearrange the seating chart.
"You cannot simply rearrange the cards," Magnus murmured, following her as she moved between chairs. "My mother will have apoplexy."
"She is not here," Alexandra said. "And if she were, she would applaud the efficiency. Do you want Watford seated beside the girl who collects ceramic lambs, or someone who might enjoy hearing about ledgers?"
Magnus sighed. "Is this about Watford?"
"This is about Esme," Alexandra said, "and our James."
Within earshot, James nearly choked on his wine. "Our James?"
"We have all taken an interest in your improvement."
"I do not recall consenting," he said.
"You rarely do," Magnus replied. "And yet here we are."
Langley House glowed—candles, polished wood, gilt. The music room, opened into an adjoining salon, held rows of chairs, a grand pianoforte, small tables bearing refreshments. Servants moved like shadows as guests arrived.
Alexandra, in pale blue silk, was in her element.
"Here," she said, swapping two place cards.
"Esme between Genny and Lady Oakford. Lady Oakford will be an ally.
She loathes tidy marriages. Genny will be a menace.
Watford..." She pursed her lips. "Watford can sit three seats away, near the door.
If he grows faint, he will have a clear route of escape. "
"And me?" James asked.
She handed him a card. "Precisely here."
He glanced down. "Beside Esme."
"Within whispering distance," she agreed, "but not possessively so. We must not alarm Lady Woodmere."
Magnus folded his arms. "And if Lady Woodmere objects?"
"Then she may take it up with me," Alexandra said. "I shall remind her that her daughter is a guest, not a parcel to be stored in the nearest closet."
James's mouth twitched. "You are enjoying this."
"Of course," she said. "Do not pretend you are not."
He could not.
Beneath the banter of Magnus's caution, and Alexandra's meddling, a thread of anticipation bloomed. Lady Esme would be here and he would sit beside her.
It felt perilous.
"Remember," Magnus said quietly, as Alexandra greeted a new arrival, "no wagers on her life. Only with her."
James nodded. "I made the rules."
The room filled. Lady Honoria's gown outshone the chandeliers. Lord Watford looked as though he'd found all his remarks wanting. Mr. Dane glanced anxiously toward the door, surrounded by eager mothers and bored husbands.
Then the Woodmere party arrived.
Esme entered with her mother and brother, Genny trailing. The green gown fit her to perfection. Her hazel eyes swept the room with curiosity and resignation.
James felt something settle inside him.
He didn't approach her immediately, watching as greetings were exchanged. Lady Woodmere’s calculations began, and Watford edged closer.
Genny caught James's eye and waggled her fingers.
The Mutual Mischief Society was in session.
From the moment she entered the music room, Esme felt the seating arrangements closing in. A long evening of listening, applause, and whispers from unsuitable men awaited her.
She remembered the last musicale Mother had insisted upon, where the singer's vibrato nearly rattled the windows and Watford critiqued the program notes.
Tonight, however, the air felt lighter for this was Alexandra’s affair.
"Lady Esme," Alexandra said, hugging her. "You look dangerous."
Esme smiled. "That was not my intention."
"I know," Alexandra said. "That's what makes it effective. Come, let me show you your seat."
She led them down the aisle. Esme felt Harrison tense as he scanned for suitors.
"Here we are," Alexandra said, tapping a card on the second row. "Lady Esme, Miss Moreland, Lady Oakford."
Lady Oakford gave Esme a warm smile. "We shall do our best to behave."
"And Lord Watford?" Harrison asked.
"Ah," Alexandra said, her expression innocent. "There."
She indicated a seat several places away.
"And who is between?" Mother inquired.
"Mr. Dane, for one," Alexandra said, "and Lady Honoria."
Esme's gaze drifted to the empty seat beside hers.
The card read: Viscount Redford.
Her pulse jumped.
Mother followed her gaze and stiffened. "Lady Langley..."
"Oh, do not worry," Alexandra said smoothly. "I am far too fond of your daughter to place her in danger. You see?" She gestured at the surrounding seats. "Genny, Lady Oakford, half a dozen witnesses. Redford cannot cause trouble with so many people listening. He will be as tamed as a lapdog."
Genny snorted softly. "You have clearly never met a lapdog."
Mother hesitated. The room hummed around them and people were watching. To object now would be to admit fear.