Chapter 8 #2
Beyond, distant from the servants’ wagons, three lines of smart coaches and curricles, barouches and landaus were forming, most of the gleaming, high-bred horses already unharnessed and being led by their grooms to a river, far down the bottom of the slope.
Lady Frances’s postillions drove the now-empty landau to join the vehicles.
If Lady Frances or her friends were stiff from their journey, none of them showed it, but set off with bright—but gliding—steps towards the rugs, where around twenty people already stood, conversing in small groups.
Resisting the urge to stretch and ease the mild ache in her lower back, Madelaine followed in their wake.
Lord Cotereigh was there. He’d been glancing their way since the landau came into sight. Now his head was up, watching them approach, Sir Nathan Handley talking at his side. Another man was with them, large and strongly built. Lord Leighton, perhaps? One of her aunt’s Impossibles, for sure.
Glide, glide, Madelaine repeated to herself, a beatific smile fixed over her gritted teeth. There was something like amusement in Lord Cotereigh’s dark-eyed study, but he soon looked from her to Lady Frances, greeting her warmly and bending to kiss the hand she held out to him.
“Doesn’t it look perfect, Cote?” she asked once all the bows and murmured greetings between the parties had been exchanged. “You brought your plate, just like I asked.”
“Of course.”
“And doesn’t it look just like I said?”
“Even better.”
“And Mrs Ardingly here has taken on the role of seer and promised us it won’t rain a drop. So I’m about as pleased as it’s possible to be.”
“What good news.”
He glanced at Madelaine, that amusement still simmering, but it was Lord Leighton who spoke to her.
“A confident forecaster of the weather, are you, Mrs Ardingly?”
“Steadily growing less confident under this scrutiny.”
The company laughed.
“I think today will hold fair,” Lord Leighton said, glancing at Lady Frances, seeming to linger for a moment on her soft, golden curls.
“But I predict something darker in future.” He gave Madelaine a smile, a scar at the corner of his lip making it slightly wolfish.
Or perhaps it was the odd hint of knowing significance in his eyes that made her uneasy.
To her relief, he turned to Handley and started discussing their chances for soft turf or hard at some upcoming race event.
Lady Frances and her companions moved off to greet some of the other guests. Madelaine was left standing with Lord Cotereigh and the other two men. They were still talking of horses and racetracks, but Sir Nathan Handley kept shooting her glances as though she had annoyed him greatly.
“Don’t mind my rude friend,” Lord Cotereigh murmured. “He’s currently afflicted by the vision of two thousand pounds slipping through his fingers.”
Lord Leighton laughed, and Handley turned red. “Devil take you, Cote, but it’s not fair. The bet was made on the Pretty Pariah, not this…this creature. How’s it fair if she ain’t even that anymore? It’s like changing your horse halfway through a race.”
“That being no way to speak of or to a lady,” he calmly advised his friend, “I’d rethink that comparison if I were you.”
The man flushed deeper. Lord Cotereigh’s voice might have been calm, even smiling, but it had held a freezing note. Madelaine couldn’t help her own flash of self-conscious heat.
Lord Leighton slapped a large hand on the shorter man's shoulder. “Handley, Handley…” He began to usher him away. “You repine too much on these games. Mere trifles, my man, mere trifles… Back to the weather, shall we? I do declare the skies might soon turn dark after all…”
Their voices faded as they moved away. Lord Cotereigh met her eyes. He was only flexing his social power, signifying to all that she was to be treated with respect. Of course he did. He’d hardly win this wager if he allowed her to be laughed at.
But even knowing his motives, her instinct was gratitude. It was horrible to feel indebted to the man. It was horrible to feel his power.
“Comfortable journey?” he asked.
“Yes, very. Thank you.”
He looked amused. “You get incredibly polite when you’re uncomfortable. Have you ever noticed that?”
Had she been feeling grateful? At least it had only been for a moment. “No, but I’ve noticed that you never are.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Polite or uncomfortable?”
“Polite! Or not to me.”
He smiled. “Ah. But I’m only polite when I’m angry.”
“And I’m only angry around you!”
For some reason, that seemed to please him, a gleam in his eyes, a lantern in a dark mine. Under the brightness of open daylight, she could just see the hidden brown in the depths of his iris…
Oh, for goodness’ sake! She gave herself a shake. None of this had anything to do with beaten children.
Curtly, she nodded over his shoulder. “Tell me who I need to impress today.”
“All of them, ideally.” But he turned, standing next to her so they could survey the gathering guests together.
“The Marquess of Pembroke…” With a nod, he identified a young, brown-haired man sitting alone towards the edge of the rugs.
“I’ve already ear-marked him for your board.
His mother keeps telling him to get a hobby, and this will be just the thing.
But let me speak to him. He’ll probably faint if you do. Nervous type. Unfortunate, really.”
He continued, giving her a dozen names and likely topics of conversation for each. When he led her forwards to make introductions, her skull felt as full as a bulging corn sack. One with a mouse-nibbled hole in the corner, leaking its contents behind her.
She was nervous, a horrible buzzing in her pulse. They were nearly at the rugs when he flashed her a faint smile. She might have believed he was sympathetic until he whispered like the devil’s own mischief in her ear:
“Do it for the children, Mary.”