Chapter 13 #3
Her gaze narrowed. “Much to my shock, I found the heirs and peers could also comport themselves like disgraces-at-large. The younger sons had no monopoly on atrocious behavior.”
She spoke from bitter experience. St. Didier’s intended script hadn’t accounted for the fact that she and Swidhelm might view Mayfair with similar contempt.
What else—if anything—had they discussed at their marathon picnic? St. Didier had seen them wandering across the park with their basket. He’d spent nearly two hours discreetly watching for their return and no homeward sighting had rewarded his vigilance.
“Swidhelm knew he was tolerated by Society,” St. Didier said, “but he came to see that straining that tolerance merely confirmed Society’s prejudices.
He then set about confounding the hostess’s expectations, and became enviably successful at good manners, graceful dancing, and politely witty conversation. ”
“While he regrettably excelled in trade as well.” She paced off along the balustrade, her slipper heels beating a tattoo against the flagstones. “What, I ask you, is so much more worthy about raising sheep and collecting rents than importing wines that proper gentlemen cannot function without?”
She came about at the top of the steps and headed back to him.
“I went to London feeling like the luckiest young lady in Yorkshire. I was to stand up with handsome partners in candlelit ballrooms, float around the dance floor like a zephyr in silk—me, a zephyr—and become ever so slightly animated on the magic of sophisticated libation and clever conversation.”
Sheer bitterness colored her words, bitterness at variance with the golden sunset, green hills in the distance, and lush blooms of the garden below.
“I’m sorry,” St. Didier said. “You were disappointed.”
“I was a lamb to slaughter. I am glad Richard twisted Society’s rubbishing tail and even tied it in a knot. They did not deserve him, much less deserve to treat him so ill. Orla can’t wait for his lordship to return to Town, and I understood her impatience, but I find…”
Orla was perhaps most in need of scolding, despite her supposed invalid status. “You find?”
“I find…” Miss Fielding’s shoulders relaxed. The fire in her eyes dimmed. “I find his lordship’s company congenial, and routing Wopley was only the beginning of what the Glen needs from its new owner.”
“Then you won’t be hastening him back into his traveling coach?” Did St. Didier want her to shoo the new viscount off the property?
Miss Fielding adjusted her shawl. “Orla has presided over this household for years, and she’s groomed Wealtha to take on the same role.
They are resentful of Richard’s presence, which is shortsighted of them.
They will nudge and suggest and sigh and otherwise indicate that the man now supporting them ought to leave them to enjoy his generosity without his presence. ”
“And you would have agreed with them, wouldn’t you?”
“I did agree with them. They are easier to manage without Richard on hand, but now… Why have I allowed all of life to revolve around placating Orla and Wealtha, Mr. St. Didier? I don’t expect you to answer that, but the question has recently troubled me.”
“Perhaps you have been like that new peer, without much support, save for the company of parties with whom you have little in common. If so, please know that I am ready to serve as an ally, provided you do not ask me to betray my obligations to Swidhelm.”
She frowned at him as if he’d just come out with some risqué French. He’d expected to lecture her about toying with Swidhelm’s affections, not pledge fealty to her.
But she’d been mauled by Mayfair and hadn’t even had the comfort of successful commerce to salve her bruises.
“You conclude that I need allies?”
“You deserve them, despite how magnificently you manage on your own. You do realize that Swidhelm might well jaunt back south a fortnight from now. His business interests are demanding and complicated.”
“I know. Let’s go in, shall we? The air will grow chillier as the sun sinks, and this shawl is little protection from the elements.”
“But pretty.” Green, gold, cream, bronze… Flattering and unusual.
“Thank you. What does Mayfair make of you, Mr. St. Didier? They have all manner of experience with by-blows and poor relations who should be on remittance, but you are something of a rara avis.”
What an odd, uncomfortable, tempting question. “I like to keep Mayfair guessing. They need me, they resent me, they don’t quite know what I make of them. I am careful to see that matters remain in an ambiguous posture.”
She tucked her hand around his arm. “Should you ever need an ally, you must consider me among that number, provided, of course, that you do not ask me to betray any prior obligations of honor.”
St. Didier had no witty rejoinder. No polite rejoinder. No rejoinder at all. He escorted her back into the relative warmth of the family parlor and wondered again what had actually transpired at the endless picnic.
Not a casual tryst—that much was certain.