II #3
Clarissa’s high-pitched laughter sped Nell on her way to her own room where she found Madge, the tirewoman who had served her since her come-out, awaiting her.
Quickly, she seated herself at the dressing table, relaxing while Madge’s skilled fingers dealt with the fashionable tangle of curls and plaits that adorned her head.
Removing pins and brushing ruthlessly, Madge chattered as she always did, but Nell knew from vast experience that it was mostly rhetorical and required nothing more of her than an occasional murmur of interest. Thus, she was able to indulge her own thoughts without fear of offending her maid.
That she might, as mistress, simply tell Madge to hold her tongue never occurred to her, which was just as well, for after years of similar indulgence, it would probably have done little good.
Madge would merely think her out of temper and try to scold her into a more cheerful frame of mind.
Fortunately, such drastic steps were unnecessary, and as the brush strokes became a sort of underbeat for the drone of Madge’s chatter, Nell found her thoughts returning to the seventh Earl of Huntley. There had certainly been more of a change in him than the mere change of title, she thought.
Philip Radford had been about twenty-four when she had first met him.
He had been handsome enough then, too, although his looks had been a good deal more boyish and his hair, minus the sidewhiskers, had been tied back neatly at the nape of his neck.
Of all the young men she had met that Season, he, with his easy sense of humor, expressive, penetrating eyes, and friendly smile, had made the greatest impression.
He had been kind and attentive, easier for her to talk with than most of the others, and he had made her feel quite grown up.
She thought they had become excellent friends, despite the fact that he had been merely the younger son of an earl and therefore not precisely the sort of young man her parents might have expected her to marry.
Her grandfather, after all, had been a marquess, and that fact added to her father’s very respectable fortune meant that Nell could look where she chose for a husband.
It did not matter, however, for Philip Radford had not offered for her, and neither he nor any of the others had made an attempt to seek her out after her father’s untimely death.
She had no idea what had become of him, and she had managed after a passage of time to convince herself that it did not matter.
But now she recognized a strong sense of curiosity.
What had he been doing these past years to change him so?
The heavy, dark brows knitting together in a near shelf over those still expressive eyes seemed almost alarming now where once they had been merely interesting.
Initially, to be sure, there had been that twinkle of amusement at her failure to recognize him.
But the twinkle had faded rather quickly, replaced by a more cynical glint.
He spoke little and seemed a good deal more at ease conversing with Lord Crossways, Sir Henry, or even Kit than he did when speaking to his intended wife or to the two older women.
With Nell, he had exchanged not so much as a word after the introduction.
It would be interesting, she thought now, to see if he would speak to her at dinner.
Madge brushed her hair up into a twisted knot at the crown of her head and confined it there with two jeweled combs and a slim braid of Nell’s own hair.
As a final touch she combed out a few curling tendrils to frame her mistress’s face, then stepped back to view the results of her handiwork, while Nell checked to be sure her pearl eardrops were firmly fixed in place.
“That will do nicely, Madge,” she said, smiling into the looking glass. “I shall want my lace scarf, and then you may go. I’ll ring when I’m ready to retire.”
“Certainly, Miss Nell.” The woman returned the smile, then turned away to do her bidding.
A moment later, looking precise to a pin with her lovely lace scarf caught up at her elbows, Miss Lindale descended the stairs to join the others in the drawing room.
The gentlemen had preceded her, and Lady Crossways and Rory followed some five minutes later.
Scarcely thirty seconds after their arrival, Pavingham entered to announce that dinner had been served.
Sir Henry, nattily attired in proper evening dress, with his curling gray hair confined at the nape of his neck with a black silk ribbon, took his place opposite his hostess at the foot of the table.
Crossways, of course, was seated at Lady Agnes’s right hand next to Nell.
Rory sat at her grandmama’s left, while her mama and Huntley flanked Sir Henry.
Kit sat opposite his younger and next to his elder sister.
Nell concealed a little smile at the table arrangement.
Unless Huntley’s manners had suffered a great deal in the time that had passed, he would be forced to converse with her even if the conversation did not become general.
She bided her time while helping herself to dishes from the first course as they were offered to her.
Crossways’ attention was claimed almost immediately by his hostess, whose company manners were always above reproach.
Nell overheard Lady Agnes saying quietly that she hoped the early rains hadn’t depleted his crops entirely.
His reply was lost to her, however, when Jeremy presented a dish of oyster patties and turbot garnished with crisp fried parsley sprigs, gherkins, and lemon butterflies.
Nell helped herself to a slice of the fish with overlapping gherkin slices, then nodded to the maid carrying the fish gravy in a heated sauce boat.
No sooner had Katy spooned some over her fish, however, than Huntley spoke to her.
“You are looking well, Miss Lindale.”
“Thank you, my lord,” she replied politely. “Do try some of the turbot. ’Tis excellent.”
“No doubt. I prefer the oyster patties, however. Do you care for some of this spinach soufflé?” He indicated the side dish nearest his elbow.
“Thank you, sir.” She allowed him to serve her, but when their eyes met, she felt as if his gaze went straight through her, numbing her.
It made her feel nearly giddy, like a young girl again.
Color rushed to her cheeks before Huntley’s gaze slid away.
It was a moment before she could speak. “I-I trust you had a pleasant journey.” The moment the words were out she wanted to kick herself.
What an inane thing to say! She had been out of the schoolroom for years and was practically mistress of her own home, yet she sounded quite as shy and tongue-tied as she had consistently sounded during her come-out. Despicable behavior!
Huntley answered her smoothly enough, saying that the journey had been no more wearing than one might expect. “The town seems already quite full,” he added.
“Indeed, yes,” she replied, smiling. “The Duke of Marlborough’s house is nearly overflowing. They say that his highness has already complained of the noise, saying they will have to acquire better manners before Mrs. Fitzherbert arrives.”