Chapter 7
Seven
James approached the musicale as if it were an execution. Haverleigh House blazed with candlelight, music drifting out through the open windows. He handed his hat and gloves to the footman and flexed his fingers, smothering a groan.
"Lord Redford."
The butler's announcement carried him into Haverleigh's grand salon, chandeliers gleaming over a sea of silk and black coats. Pippa, Lady Haverleigh, hovered near the musicians, conferring with a violinist. Her fair head turned at his name and her face lit.
"Redford! I'm so glad you came. Christopher said you would sulk at your club."
"I am very nearly offended," James said. "I save my sulking for more intimate occasions."
The Duke of Haverleigh followed, dark brows lifting. "We assumed you would only appear if you smelled mischief."
"That, or Mrs. Trentham's lemon tarts," James said. "I hear you have both."
Pippa's eyes narrowed. "You also heard that Lady Esme would be here."
He schooled his expression.
Pippa gave him a disbelieving look.
"Behave," Haverleigh murmured to her, his gaze flicking to James with sympathy. "Try not to push anyone into the Serpentine tonight."
"I make no promises," Pippa said. "Esme has been too quiet these past weeks. It makes me nervous."
James's chest tightened. "Quiet?"
"Mm. Smiling in all the right places. Agreeing to every sensible thing. It's unnatural."
"Sounds like Woodmere’s dream come true," James said lightly.
Pippa wrinkled her nose. "Then his dreams are very dull."
Before he could reply, the musicians launched into an overture. Guests shifted, turning toward the makeshift dais. James followed, scanning the crowd.
Lady Woodmere first, in silver silk. Beside her, Woodmere stood straight-backed. And between them—
Esme.
His heart leaped.
She wore soft blue tonight, a shade that caught the gray-green of her eyes. Dark hair twisted into coils at the back of her head, with one curl at her temple. She held herself with her usual poise, but there was a new stillness about her.
Cedric Hargrove, Viscount Watford, stood at her elbow, discoursing with earnest intensity.
Of course.
James's jaw clenched, forcing his hand to relax around his gloves.
"Go," Pippa said under her breath. "You are making a face. It's upsetting the flowers."
"I am not here to disrupt your musicale," he replied.
"You are terrible at lying," she said. "You never disrupt the music. Only the boring bits in between."
Haverleigh's mouth twitched. "For once, I am inclined to agree with my wife. If you intend to do something foolish, Redford, get on with it before Lady Woodmere arranges three engagements and a christening."
James gave them a faint bow. "Far be it from me to disappoint my audience."
He stepped into the room, keeping Esme in his vision as he navigated a gauntlet of acquaintances.
He slowed as he drew close enough to hear Watford's voice.
"...of course, proper ink is a question of consistency," Watford was saying. "Too thin, the lines waver. Too thick, they blot. One must find the happy medium."
"Indeed," Esme murmured. "Happy mediums are very fashionable at present."
James almost smiled.
"And yet," Watford said, clearing his throat, "it may be that I have been mistaken in certain...assumptions about what suits."
Esme's fingers tightened on her fan. "My lord?"
James saw her profile, noting the tension in her voice.
"Forgive me," Watford blurted, visibly flushing. "Perhaps...ah...I might beg a few moments in the conservatory to discuss a...delicate matter."
Esme's gaze flicked toward her mother, then toward Woodmere, who narrowed his eyes.
James's muscles coiled. Esme would be trapped. Do something, every instinct urged.
He did not. This was her choice. He had vowed to give her that much.
Esme lifted her chin. "Very well, Lord Watford," she said. "I should be glad of some air."
Woodmere stepped forward. Pippa appeared, capturing his sleeve.
"Lord Woodmere," she said brightly, "please tell me you have not cheated at battledore since Foxmere."
He blinked. "I do not cheat," he said, affronted. "I strategize."
Pippa gasped in mock horror. "So you admit it! Come, you must defend yourself to His Grace. Christopher, darling—"
She towed Woodmere away. James made a mental note to send her a very expensive gift.
Esme, seizing the gap, placed her hand lightly on Watford's arm.
"Shall we?"
They disappeared into the conservatory.
Heart pounding, hands at his sides, James stood where he was.
He did not follow.
The conservatory at Haverleigh had been designed to impress. Glass arched overhead. Potted orange trees perfumed the air, and ferns clustered in shadows. Lanterns glowed along the paths, casting pools of light.
Esme found the air easier to breathe the moment she crossed the threshold.
Watford stopped a few paces inside and turned to face her.
"Lady Esme," he began, then faltered. "Forgive me. I am not practiced at this."
"Neither am I," she said gently. "We may bumble through together."
He offered a strained smile. "You are very kind. That is...precisely the difficulty."
She folded her fan. "I see."
He took a breath, squared his shoulders. "Your family and mine have encouraged our acquaintance. Your conduct has always been beyond reproach, excepting certain aquatic incidents, which were hardly your fault."
Her lips twitched. "The Serpentine bears a portion of the blame."
"Quite," he said.
Silence stretched.
"Lord Watford," she said quietly, "are you wishing to offer for me?"
He went scarlet. "I had considered—that is, your brother—no, I am not expressing myself well at all."
"Then allow me," she said. "Do you want to?"
He blinked. "Want to?"
"Yes," she said. "Not 'ought,' not 'makes sense on paper.' Do you, Cedric Hargrove, want to marry me?"
He stared at her.
"I—" He swallowed. "I admire you very much. You are clever and brave, and not afraid of ink, which I find comforting."
"But?" she prompted.
His shoulders sagged. "But you are also vivid," he said. "You say things. You do things. You fall into lakes."
She fought back a laugh. "I do not do that as a hobby."
"No, but..." He ran a hand over his hair. "I have realized that what I had taken for suitability was mere expectation. Your brother speaks well of you. Your parents are anxious. My mother is enthusiastic. On paper, everything aligns."
"And off paper?"
He met her gaze. "Off paper, I think you would be miserable with me. I would always be trying to keep you tidy, and you would always be trying not to offend my sense of order. I do not wish to spend the rest of my life apologizing for asking my wife not to climb trees."
"I rarely climb trees," she said, wounded, "not in evening dress."
He laughed. "You see? I cannot keep up."
Pity pricked her. "And you? What would make you content?"
He considered, then confessed, "I should like a wife who is pleased when I speak of ledgers, who finds it soothing. Someone who is happy for our lives to be predictable."
"You deserve that," she said.
His shoulders dropped, relief loosening his jaw. "Then you do not...?"
"Want to marry you?" she finished. "No."
His flinch was brief. "You might have lied."
"I respect you too much," she said simply. "And I respect myself too much to promise what I cannot give. You are an excellent man, Lord Watford. Our difficulties stem entirely from the fact that you wish to live in straight lines, and I am ink that runs."
His eyes widened. "Lady Honoria said something very similar once."
"I am both gratified and alarmed to have anything in common with Lady Honoria," Esme said dryly.
He smiled, small but genuine. "Your brother will be disappointed."
"He will survive," she said. "If he gives you any trouble, tell him I sent you."
Watford hesitated, then offered his hand. "May we at least be friends?"
She took it, shaking solemnly. "We are friends. And if I encounter any lady who lights up at the prospect of hearing about drainage, I shall send her directly to you."
His expression brightened, absurdly hopeful. "Do you think such a lady exists?"
"Somewhere, there is a woman rearranging her inkpots for pleasure," Esme said. "You must have faith."
He bowed over her hand. "Thank you, Lady Esme. For your honesty, and for not letting me blunder into a marriage that would have left us both smudged."
She watched him retreat toward the ballroom, then released a breath she felt as though she had been holding for months.
One expectation gently laid down.
Now came the difficult part.
James had successfully refused three games of cards, two introductions, and one earnest invitation from the Bishop to join a philanthropic committee when Watford reappeared in the conservatory doorway.
The viscount paused, scanning the room. His gaze landed briefly on James, then flicked away—a promising sign, as he did not march over or challenge him to a duel.
Instead, Watford made a beeline for Lady Honoria, who raised her brows in surprise as he bowed low before her. Within moments, the two were deep in conversation, Lady Honoria's fan fluttering.
James blinked.
"What on earth did I miss?" he muttered.
"Hopefully," Magnus said at his shoulder, "the imminent union of ink and gossip."
James started.
Magnus followed James's gaze. "Ah. Watford looks...lighter."
James's attention slid, inevitably, to the conservatory doors.
Esme had not yet reappeared.
His hand tightened around his glass. "Do you suppose," he asked lightly, "that I have time to flee to Scotland?"
"None whatsoever," Magnus replied. "Niall has barred the exit."
Sure enough, Foxmere lounged near the main doors, engaged in conversation with Genny. The two of them looked up in unison, eyes narrowing on James.
"Traitors," James muttered.
Magnus clapped him on the shoulder. "You'll thank us later. Or you won't. Either way, it will be entertaining."
James drained his wine, set the empty glass on a passing tray, and turned toward the conservatory.
He slipped through the French doors.