17. Chapter 17-Bradford
This is why I don’t care for London, Bradford thought as his carriage bumped and lurched its way down the long driveway. All of the lines one must wait in. The repeated starting and stopping was making him vaguely ill.
Finally, he could take it no longer. He thumped on the side of the conveyance and called, “I’ll walk from here.”
The carriage stopped and he jumped out, his polished boots crunching in the pea gravel.
The crisp night air washed over him, and the pleasantness of the evening confirmed his decision to walk the rest of the way.
The moon peeped through the trees overhead, giving enough light for Bradford to mark the way.
Ahead of him, over a dozen carriages waited their turn in the long, tree-lined drive. Bradford stalked toward the front steps, where several lanterns offered flickering light to the guests descending from their carriages.
“Psst,” a feminine voice hissed. “Lord Hayes.”
Bradford turned and found himself facing a polished black carriage boasting a familiar coat of arms. Margaret and Beatrice grinned at him from the open windows.
“Good evening, Lord Hayes,” Beatrice said. She half turned and swatted at someone out of view. “Quit it. We’ve already got his attention; it would be quite rude not to greet him now.”
Bradford couldn’t help but smile. Their carriage lumbered forward a few steps only to stop once more; he followed alongside.
“I’m dreadfully jealous that you get to walk,” Margaret said. “But Claire threatened us within an inch of our lives to act appropriately.”
“What on earth could be scandalous about walking?” he asked.
Margaret thought about it for a moment. “Why, nothing at all.” She turned and murmured something. “Claire isn’t even with us, Lily,” she finally said.
“Lord Hayes, do you know how to let down the steps?” Beatrice asked.
“Of course, though let me at least inform your groomsmen?—”
“No time for that,” Margaret said, thrusting open the door. “Lily means to stop us from leaving.”
Bradford’s eyes widened fractionally. He was frightened that Margaret intended to leap, thinking he would catch her. He jolted forward, his arms outstretched—to catch her or prevent her from jumping, he hardly knew.
“Please, allow me.” The Duke of Ettrick suddenly emerged from the shadows. Without waiting for invitation, he strode forward and picked Margaret up from the doorway.
“Put me down, you great lummox!”
Her outburst was instantly redundant, as the man deposited her neatly on her feet in a puff of silk.
She swatted him in the arm with her delicate fan; he smiled down at her. “Good evening, Margaret. You look more beautiful than ever.”
“How many times have I told you not to follow me around?” she hissed. “And it’s Miss Preston, as you well know.”
Though her tone was acerbic, Bradford couldn’t help but notice that she was blushing and fighting a smile.
She even kept a firm hold of the man’s offered elbow as she chastised him.
Bradford was grateful he wouldn’t be called upon to defend Margaret from the towering gentleman.
That was a task appropriately sized only for Lord Cavendish and his fleet of cannon-armed ships.
Bradford quickly let down the steps and took hold of Beatrice’s outstretched hand. She descended the steps and grinned up at him. “I’ve always wondered what a prison break might feel like. I imagine it’s something much like this.”
Lily appeared in the doorway, shaking her head. “You must think we’re terribly uncouth.”
“Not at all,” he said, smiling up at her. “I quite enjoy your sisters.”
“I had better accompany them,” she said, holding out a hand. “It’s pointless for me to arrive as intended, now.”
Bradford took her gloved hand and she carefully gathered her silk skirts. The groomsmen had stopped the carriage and were watching—there was a significant gap in the line ahead of them, but no one would think of rushing her.
Lily looked as luminous as she always did, though even Bradford’s practicality couldn’t argue that her fine gowns didn’t accentuate her features to their highest level of perfection.
Tonight she wore a sapphire silk gown with a delicate, curving neckline that exposed a swath of flawless skin beneath her velvet cloak.
Bradford swallowed deeply and averted his eyes.
It was the worst possible moment to do so; Lily’s satin shoe slipped on the step.
She gasped and pitched forward. Bradford caught her roughly about the middle.
He hardly knew what he had hold of—there was a great deal of expensive fabric sliding about.
“Are you quite all right?” His voice was muffled as his mouth was currently pressed against her shoulder. The delicate scent of jasmine filled his nostrils; he went a bit lightheaded.
“Of course,” she said. “Please put me down.”
He might have believed her assurance that she was fine if she hadn’t sounded so breathless. Still, he hurried to place her gently on her feet, his hands still at her elbows.
“Are you certain?” His brow creased as he scanned her from head to toe. Other than some extra color in her cheeks, she looked as she always did—ridiculously flawless.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, tucking a strand of her ash-brown hair behind her ear. “My slipper caught on the step.”
“I’m simply glad I caught you. Are you sure you aren’t injured? You didn’t turn an ankle?”
“Not at all.” She lowered her eyes; her eyelashes stood out against her cheeks like two dark fans.
“If you’re quite finished throwing yourself at Lord Hayes, shall we go inside?” Beatrice called over her shoulder.
Lily gave an indignant splutter.
Bradford smiled and offered her his elbow. “Shall we?”
There was the usual crush in the entrance near the cloak room.
Harried-looking maids darted to and fro, collecting wraps and coats.
Strains of music and laughter trailed down the hallway and the crowds followed in the direction of the noise.
The hall smelled of perfume and aftershave and the faint hint of biscuits fresh from the oven, as if the house’s cook was turning out a last minute batch to ensure the elegant guests were well fed.
“Where is your other sister?” Bradford asked once the ladies had divested themselves of their outerwear.
Lily’s dress was as distracting as he’d feared.
Even though it was exceedingly modest by modern standards, it exposed her delicate neck and collarbones.
The sleeves were just off the shoulder, threaded through with what appeared to be tiny genuine sapphires.
Her long gloves nearly brushed their lacy edges.
“She’s arriving with Lord Rutheridge and his family.”
“I see.”
She smiled. “You needn’t say it like that. Our families have been close since our parents were still alive.”
“Certainly.”
Lily chuckled. “They’re friends, nothing more.”
Bradford nodded, but only to be agreeable.
Though he found Lily to be intelligent and capable in most areas, when it came to her sister and Lord Rutheridge, he didn’t think Lily had hit the mark.
He wondered whether it was willful ignorance or that odd blindness that was the specific affliction of family members.
The ballroom was a swirling hubbub of conversation and music.
Dancers hopped up and down then circled each other.
It was a rollicking sort of dance that provoked laughter from both the dancers and the onlookers.
Though entertaining, Bradford didn’t suggest that he and Lily join the fray.
He intended to dance with her, but he didn’t want to share his time with a semicircle of strangers.
Margaret and Sylvia plunged into the crowd, soon swallowed up by the glittering throng. Lily and Bradford lingered at the edge near the windows.
He nodded at her sisters across the room. “They seem to be enjoying their Season.”
“I’m glad, though it would be more reassuring if either of them had shown partiality to a beau.” She shrugged. “Perhaps they have their favorites. It’s not as if I’d know; they’re not very forthcoming.”
“I imagine it’s hard to share one’s delicate, private hopes with others.”
It certainly was in his case. Why, he could barely admit them to himself.
The trill of the strings in the corner announced that the next was a waltz. He turned to Lily and offered his hand. “May I have this dance?”
“Of course.”
Dancing with Lily was one of Bradford’s new favorite things. He thought it preferable even to riding his horse in complete silence upon a country road.
“Mrs. Holland intends to start teaching Rebecca how to dance,” he said to start the conversation. “I’ve had a letter only just this morning.”
“Do you hear much from home? I suppose you miss her very much.”
There was a resounding, hollow twinge in the vicinity of his heart—some combination of loss and guilt.
“I do, though Mrs. Clark and Mrs. Holland write me daily.”
Lily smiled. “I’m sure Rebecca will make a wonderful dancer.”
“Eventually. Doubtless it will take many years and much practice.”
“She is but a child.” Lily nodded. It was several moments before she said, “I hope you know I care deeply for your daughter.”
He smiled. “Your affection for her was the one thing I never doubted. Which makes me wonder…did you never plan on seeing her again?”
“Of course I was going to see her,” Lily said, her forehead crinkled. It was the crossest Bradford had ever heard her. He nearly had to bite back a smile, at least until she said, “I was going to visit after I’d married.”
He shook his head, ignoring the lance of jealousy that speared through him at the idea. “Did you truly think I would allow you in her presence after you left the way you did?”
“Forgive me, but there are some individuals one wouldn’t dare to turn away.”
He arched a brow. “That was your plan? To marry so well—to become a duchess or marchioness—that I’d have to let you visit my daughter? If you think I’m so easily impressed by a title, perhaps you don’t know me that well.”