Chapter 15
Alice’s fingers constricted around her fork in a grip tight enough to strangle a snake. Sir Henry’s head was close to Miss Watts, and a charming smile tilted his lips with whatever he’d just said.
The last several days, she’d watched as this man—her guest—attempted flirtations with nearly every young lady of the party.
He’d partnered several in card games, strolled the gardens at least twice, wheedled his way into the role of Puck in their theatrical, and given marked attention to .
. . Well, actually he’d not given marked attention to any one lady. Yet.
Irrational anger boiled in her because she knew it was all a facade. All a pretty covering to the secret he held.
If he wished to pursue any of them, Alice would be forced to reveal his true character. As a drunk.
Somehow, through the red film of vexation, her conscience pinged at that. Not once had she told anyone about George’s drinking, and she felt rather bad to now accuse someone else as such. But George had never gotten so ill from not having alcohol that he missed nearly a week of a party.
Perhaps that was because he’d never tried to go without the stuff.
Her fingers tightened again as she flinched away from the past and the memories it held.
She’d only ever seen George truly in his cups maybe a dozen times.
It was enough to set her on a path of limiting the amount of alcohol in the household.
If he’d ever known how she hid brandy bottles and altered purchasing lists, he would have been terrifying to behold.
Though George never seemed without, even when it was not apparently purchased through estate accounts.
Yet another reason she so detested the smuggling on the island: she could be fairly certain it was to blame for her husband’s frequently intoxicated state.
She suspected his valet had acquired it, his only thought to serve his master.
Could Sir Henry also be getting his drink elsewhere? That had to be why he was suddenly in a much better state. He could be off to Dunsmore every night with Lieutenant Shelbourne; she would ask her butler.
She mentally berated herself. She was being unfair, silently accusing him of potentially unfounded actions. But she could not help it. The memories that had resurfaced when she learned of Sir Henry’s drinking were not willing to be repressed.
She may have loved her husband, but she had hated his drinking. He had not been kind when he drank. Had berated her for all of her failings. Once, he’d even thrown a goblet in anger. It had shattered against the wall a foot from her. Another time—
Alice forced back a shudder. George had been all things solicitous and charming. Until he drank too much.
“I am so looking forward to visiting these ruins,” Lord Danbury said, cutting into her thoughts. There was a man who she should be spending precious mental energy on. Titled, attractive, but a bit boring.
Alice should like boring.
And yet, in that moment, her traitorous eyes strayed back to Sir Henry.
He was already looking at her. In the second their gazes connected, he sat a little straighter, the left corner of his mouth lifting in half a smile.
She tore her eyes away.
By the time she looked up again, he had returned to his conversation.
The group finished their breakfasts, then gathered in the entry hall. About half the party would go on the trip to the ruins. For the most part, it was the chaperones and a few island locals who opted to stay behind. Several carriages would take the rest on the hour-long journey.
As the hostess, Alice stayed at the back, watching as her guests grouped off to alight into the carriages, occasionally offering a suggestion of who ride where.
Lord Danbury coaxed Miss Watts and Miss Fawcet to join him, and the elder Mr. Warren rounded out that carriage.
A few chaperones and a couple entered another.
The younger Mr. Warren joined Lady Hemmersley, and Alice was pleased to see Lord Jennings escort Julia into the third equipage.
Julia’s face was not flushed with pleasure, exactly, but she was speaking with the man with a smile.
And for his part, Lord Jennings appeared completely entranced, hanging on her every word far more closely than she held onto his arm.
These sorts of pairings were exactly why she suffered through these parties. Because of her, Lord Jennings and Julia might have a chance at a love that would otherwise not have been.
Alice watched as the first carriage ambled away down the drive, then turned to see who remained.
Sir Henry smiled sheepishly at her. “It seems it will be just the two of us.”
Alice blinked at him, then looked to the remaining carriage.
Drat.
“May I?” He offered his arm.
Her lips twitched downward, but she had no choice but to join him. She could not very well remain home when the majority of her guests were already on the way.
But she didn’t take his arm. She helped herself in with the hand of a groom, not looking back to watch his reaction. Her back was stiff at the thought of being alone with him. Surprisingly, a little fear seemed to mingle with her wariness.
Or perhaps it was not so surprising, considering her past with George’s drinking.
Silence reigned within as the carriage lurched forward. Alice avoided Sir Henry’s eye. But she could not avoid his conversation when ten minutes in, he determined to speak.
“My sister is greatly enjoying the party thus far.”
“Good,” Alice said, arms crossed as she tucked herself further into the corner of the carriage. How long was this ride, again? She’d not taken it in months.
“As am I.”
“Hmm.”
He cleared his throat. “Are you feeling well?”
“Yes.”
“Is hosting wearing on you?”
“No.”
Sir Henry slid the length of his bench, stopping directly in front of her. “Have I done something to offend you, Mrs. Seymour?”
For the briefest of moments, she considered sliding down her own bench, away from him. “I cannot understand why you would think that,” she told his cravat instead.
“It certainly could have nothing to do with your avoidance of me. Or monosyllabic responses,” he returned.
Despite herself, she nearly found that humorous.
“I do apologize for whatever it might be.” He ducked his head, trying to catch her eye. She successfully avoided it.
Quiet descended on the carriage again as it swayed with motion. Why had she chosen an outing so far from Windvale?
As if oblivious to her desire for continued silence, Sir Henry crossed his ankle over his opposite knee and leaned back into his seat.
“Did you live on the island prior to your marriage?” Before she could speak, he added, “And if I could possibly request an answer only the smallest bit longer than the last few, I would be very grateful.”
“No.” She paused. “I did not.”
He laughed, and a smile tried to tug its way onto her lips. She tamped it down. And mentally kicked it for good measure. “Four words, well played. Your husband’s work brought you here?”
She heaved an internal sigh, accepting her conversational fate. “Yes, he was stationed in Dunsmore.”
He nodded, though she only saw the action through the corner of her eye. “It suits you.”
That statement was confusing enough that she actually looked at him. The hint of a smile teased his eyes. “The island, I mean. I think it has something to do with your hair. The vibrant red complements the flowers and colors here. Somehow, I cannot imagine it with the dreary backdrop of London.”
Subconsciously, she reached a hand to brush a stray strand back into her bonnet.
“I admit,” he continued the one-sided conversation, “I am already dreading returning. I think I will miss the birdsong.”
The birdsong. It was truly delightful to wake to. She could not blame him for his thoughts.
Oh dear, her ire seemed to be melting. That was not possible. She had too much history with drunkenness. She could not allow herself to be friendly with this man. Would not.
“I suppose what I mean to say is that I am grateful you invited my sister and I.”
“You were recommended to me,” she said, not willing to take the responsibility of inviting him herself.
“Oh? And who is our mutual acquaintance I ought to thank?”
“My mother, actually.” One of very few letters Alice had received in the last several years.
Sir Henry’s brows lifted, his hands stilling in his lap. “Your mother? I did not know we were acquainted. What is her surname?”
“Bartlett. Mrs. Eugenia Bartlett.”
She saw his mind working, his eyes narrowing in thought. “I cannot place the name. You said she lives across the Channel?”
“Yes, she has been in London for the Season. I believe she knew your father.”
Henry nodded slowly. “Oh.”
She did not respond, assuming he did not require anything more. She had long since accomplished his requested lengthier response, after all. Then she turned to watch the passing scenery outside the carriage window. Twenty minutes to go? Maybe? That was likely wishful thinking.
He sighed, and she could not help herself from glancing over at him.
Heavens but the war within her was exhausting.
Something about this man drew her into conversation, but logically she ought to stay away.
And then there was the part of her—the hostess that her mother and husband taught so well—that wished to drop her aggravation if only to set him at ease.
“I am sorry,” he said of a sudden.
Her fingers froze, twisted into the folds of her skirt. “For what?” Her voice was strained.
He ran his palms down his thighs to his knees. “To own the truth, I do not know exactly. I am sorry for forcing you into conversation today, and I know that I did something in the past as well. Was it my collapsing in your entrance hall? I—”
She had no desire to relive that scene, and shook her head to cut him off. “That was no trouble.”
“But I did do something. I must have for you to—” He stopped, taking a breath and fastening his eyes on hers. “If it is not too forward of me, I would appreciate it if you told me what I have done so I might apologize properly.”
She felt backed into a corner and forced to a confrontation she was not prepared for. Normally, she would flee. Yet she was in a moving carriage.
Her eyes darted out the window even still.
But his stayed steady on hers, and she had no other choice.
“Your sister informed me what ailed you. I do not take kindly to drunks.”
Shock registered on his face. His mouth opened then closed, his hands folded together. At last, he met her eye. “I truly am sorry then. But, if you will allow me a moment to . . . to explain myself?”
She hesitated, but nodded.
“Part—most, really—of what you attribute to me is true, yes. And for that I most humbly apologize. But I am not a drunk, Mrs. Seymour. I am many things, but not that, I assure you.”
“I am unsure that you would have been so affected by the lack of drink if you were not.” She lifted her chin, challenging him to disagree, though her hands shook in her lap at the thought.
He rubbed a hand up his opposite arm. “You are right, of course. And I will admit that these last several days have made me realize that I had a reliance on drink that developed without my noticing. But though I did partake in drink often, I did not become drunk. I did not forget myself or lose my temper or anything of the sort when I drank. Not for years. I swear it.” He leaned forward, his eyes seeming to beg her to believe him.
“I recognize that it is a situation of semantics; I do not mean to split hairs. I only mean to tell you that while I have been overly given to drink, I make it a point not to become drunk.”
The carriage began to slow. Deliverance had come only a moment too late.
Alice’s eyes flicked between both of his. “Very well.”
“You believe me?” Whatever she answered seemed of immense importance to him.
She wanted to lie. Truly, she did.
But she could not. “No, Sir Henry. But perhaps I will in time.”
Hurt flashed across his face as the carriage stopped and rocked as the groom descended. “I understand. I will do what I must to prove myself to you. And I truly am sorry for my behavior.”
She had not a clue what he meant by proving himself to her, but she was grateful she did not need to find it out, as the door opened and the groom assisted her down.
For once, it was a relief to return to her hostessing duties, if only to remove herself from Sir Henry’s unnerving presence.