Mary Crawford’s Debut #6
“If you would wait here while I collect my garden basket.” Within moments, she had dashed up to her rooms, donned her pelisse over her jaconet muslin, and Jones had tied the ribbons of a new bonnet of white willow shavings around her chin.
Before Mary had returned to the viscount, a maid handed her the aforementioned basket and shears.
Nearly breathless, she paused before entering the drawing room to calm herself. After regaining her reason, she stepped under the lintel and said, “Here I am. Shall we?”
The viscount had turned from the garden window. “You make quite the picture there with your basket and bonnet. May I be of service?” He took the basket and offered his arm. She pulled him through the house to the back terrace and garden.
The air was intoxicating with the scent of new blooms, their vibrant colours—reds, yellows, and delicate pinks—mingling in a fragrant haze.
Bees flitted from one blossom to another along a narrow path that wound between flower beds.
The sunshine was not yet at full strength, limning an ethereal glow on his comely face.
“I love the month of May,” Halstead said, his voice solemn. “It seems to hold a certain magic.”
Magic, indeed. She feared slipping under his spell again.
Honestly, Mary. He’s just a man!
But his earnestness in his voice made her feel vulnerable to his powers.
She peeked up at him, knowing her face was mostly shielded by the brim of the bonnet, and was glad for it.
“Magic?” she said playfully. “I suppose it is no easy task to cultivate peonies. But perhaps the magic is no more than the toil of my aunt’s gardener. And the promise of hope.”
“And patience.” He stepped closer as she proceeded to snip the long stems of crimson peonies.
“A virtue, yes. Though I suspect, Miss Crawford, that you are not a woman who has much patience. Too much verve in your mettle.” He paused, looking from the blooms to her face. “Suggests you favour immediacy.”
She lifted a bloom to her nose and inhaled the sweet, heady scent before adding it to the basket he carried. “Perhaps I do. But as you have observed, peonies do not bloom overnight. A certain cultivation is required.”
“Cultivation,” he said, as if savouring the word. “Fitting. I imagine you are a careful gardener of your own thoughts, carefully tending to them as one would a delicate flower. Yes?”
Mary could not help but beam at the image he painted.
Tilting her face to the warm sun, she mused how she always tried to consider her words and actions first. Yet, in his presence, she seemed more willing to be spontaneous, as in the stroll through the park the day before.
“I suppose that is true, but I wonder, my lord, if it is not the occasional burst of wildness that makes a garden beyond the ordinary. A bit of untamed growth among the ordered rows.”
He chuckled. “Then you, too, see the value in the unexpected? A sudden turn of the conversation, a change in direction.”
“Certainly.” She admired how the brim of his hat lent a shadow to the strong angles of his face.
They continued along the flora before he stopped to face her, pleasure teasing at the edge of his lips.
“I have always preferred clever, uncalculated, unpredictable conversation. To converse honestly. To encourage words to grow beyond polite boundaries. But then I was raised as a younger son, and my words had not mattered as much before.” A shade of something like regret slipped across his face.
She wondered how his life and sense of duty had changed since his brother’s death.
Then he asked, “Do you ever feel yourself swept away by such impulse?”
The subtle pressure of his scrutiny made her swallow, hard, but she was not one to retreat. Instead, she matched his intensity: “All the time—” making him laugh.
Light-heartedly, she continued, “I suspect you understand that thrill quite well, my lord. However, when I speak too freely, I find myself at loggerheads with my uncle, or my brother, or my dear friend, Miss Robinson.”
They walked amongst the blooms, undisturbed but for the bird chatter and buzzing bees. Then she said, “For a man who seems so… deliberate, you are quite adept at spontaneity.”
He grinned then, his expression bright with mirth. His face so close, his lips… And all she could think was giving way to wild thoughts of kissing those lips.
“I confess,” he said softly, “I do enjoy when words escape their confines. But more than that, I am more fascinated with— “ He drew back. “But more than that, Miss Crawford, I find myself fascinated by those who share an… impatience with the ordinary predictability.”
“Impatience with the ordinary predictability?” she echoed. “Dangerous sentiment, my lord. Given all you shared with me yesterday about your family’s expectations of you.”
With pure mischief writ across his face, he stepped towards her again, only the intoxicating scent of peonies between them. “Are not the most extraordinary outcomes born from a little danger?”
She gasped at his proximity and thought of stepping away, considering the propriety. But forces she could not explain held her in place. “I would not know of danger, sir. Other than what I have read in novels. What do you imagine the outcome of such a daring discussion?”
Time stalled as they stood there studying each other. Slowly, ever so slowly, he bent his head to hers. And then—God help her—she closed her eyes and let him kiss her. Feather-light, no more than the press of mouths, a stolen sweetness in the garden surrounded by verdure and birdsong.
His voice low, he said, “I suspect something satisfying… if one were to take the risk of granting it to evolve.”
The words hung in the air, charged with possibility, as she savoured the sensation of her first kiss.
Did he speak of defying his family, marrying elsewhere?
Did he mean to kiss her again? Was he simply toying with her?
A shiver ran through her, not from the shadows in the garden nor from the warnings her aunt had surrendered only the day before, but from the sudden, undeniable wish that he might want her.
“Perhaps, we shall see.” She was surprised by how steady her voice sounded. “Perhaps.”
One should not be surprised that after such an interlude in the garden, the young viscount should return the following day to offer her another promenade, this time farther to Green Park and with Lily as chaperone.
And the day after that and all the days after, the viscount continued to call.
As the weeks passed, she increasingly found herself torn between her eager desire for more stolen kisses and puzzling conversations and the dark cloud over her shoulder, namely the knowledge of his family’s expectations.
She and Halstead seemed perfectly formed for each other. How could she deny that? They even shared the same taste in books, music, and even horses. After a fortnight, she conceded, she foolishly more than admired Halstead—but would never admit that she was half in love with him already.
Mary knew the connexion was precarious. What she had not expected was how deeply her feelings had arisen. Not just for his manifold charms or even the title but for his gentleness. How refreshingly different from the gentlemen who frequented her uncle’s company.
That afternoon, as she sat in the drawing room, anticipating Halstead’s call, an unexpected visitor interrupted her musings. “The Countess of Huntingdon” was announced.
Mary gained her feet immediately, at once terrified and intrigued why Halstead’s mother might call on her.
Her ladyship entered the room with the imperious grace of one long accustomed to deference.
Her pelisse all but covered the hem of her gown, black crepe silk with black embroidery, obviously chosen not for beauty but for effect—every detail carefully arranged to proclaim her elevated rank.
Her grey eyes seemed to miss little and likely forgave less, much in the striking way of a thunderstorm—impossible to ignore and fairly disconcerting. Accustomed to such forthrightness from her uncle, she curtseyed low, steeling herself against Halstead’s high-handed mother.
With little overture, the lady began. “Miss Crawford, I trust you are well. However, I come to address a matter of some importance.” Severe with dignity, the lady brooked no contradiction.
Mary was surprised the countess had not relinquished her pelisse to a footman and suspected she did not intend to stay long. “Of course, your ladyship, please do be seated. Shall I pour you a cup of tea?”
Lady Huntingdon sat on a black chair with gilding and striped velvet squabs that complemented her ladyship’s attire as if she were arranged for a portrait.
Across from Mary, she only waved her hand at the mention of niceties.
“Your connexion with my son has come to my attention. Rumours began after your ball about your… pursuit of him.” Mary gasped.
Before she could defend herself, the lady continued. “Such rumours have been left too long to fester. My son’s future to marry his cousin has been planned from his birth.”
Her ladyship’s face was angular like her son’s, but unlike Halstead, there was nothing gentle in her countenance. Even her silvering hair, drawn back severely beneath a black-feathered turban, seemed to peek out with authority.
Mary’s pulse stuttered, but she maintained her composure. Never had she wished more for the presence of her aunt or even Lily. “Yes, I had heard Lady Penelope had been betrothed to the late Viscount Matthew Halstead—”
“And the contract will continue through Aubrey. And I am here to warn you that any designs you harbour for my son will not be permitted.”
Mary surmised the countess had been beautiful in her youth, but her mouth looked perpetually poised for pronouncement, and any cheer was likely foreign to her face.
“But what if Lord Halstead and Lady Penelope do not share that desire, your ladyship?”