Chapter 10 #3
“Such nonsense,” she said impatiently, cutting up a piece of chicken with such ferocity one might believe it had mortally offended her.
“Being an architect is perfectly respectable, and even if your client is not precisely good ton, I do not see how that reflects upon you. How it can be that a man who gambles and fritters his life away, never lifting a finger to make his own way, is more worthy of the title of gentleman is something I shall never comprehend.”
“I see I am the subject of conversation again,” drawled Damian’s voice from the other end of the table. Gideon sent him a warning look but Damian only grinned.
“What? I do not deny being a worthless article, fit for neither use nor ornament,” he said, leaning back and lifting his wineglass to his lips.
“You are too harsh, Rivington, you are ornamental. No one could deny that,” the Dowager Duchess of Hawkney said soothingly.
Damian laughed, and Gideon was hardly surprised when everyone turned to look at him.
Even Gideon, who knew his brother of old, could not help but smile at the infectious sound.
“I am glad to hear you defend my brother, though, Lady Henrietta. He is a saintly fellow who deserves better than being besmirched by my infamous name and the stigma of getting his hands dirty.”
Gideon stiffened, ready to take offence, but despite Damian’s rather mocking tone, Gideon heard something else, something that sounded remarkably like respect. Good heavens.
“How goes work at the hotel, Mr Bramwell,” the reverend asked, turning the conversation, for which Gideon was grateful.
The landscape of this evening seemed to be constantly shifting beneath his feet, and he had the disquieting notion that if he didn’t step carefully, he might plunge into a deep hole.
Somehow, they made it through dinner, and Damian behaved himself immaculately as they took port with the duke and the Reverend Honeywell.
“A dreadful business in the north,” Honeywell sighed, refilling his own glass before passing the port to Damian. “This appalling weather is causing such misery. Riots over the price of bread in many places. I hear Manchester has been dreadfully unsettled.”
Damian refilled his own glass, leaning back in his chair and swirling the liquid in his glass. “It is the same story everywhere, in one form or another. The weather is not the sole culprit, though for the Corn Laws have done little but line the pockets of the landed gentry and starve the rest.”
Hawkney regarded Damian with surprise, which Gideon could not fault him for. Damian, interested in politics? Since when?
“Parliament’s debates are all smoke and mirrors,” Hawkney said with a nod as Damian shrugged.
“Naturally. No one dares address the real cause.”
“You follow the debates?” Gideon asked, unable to keep the astonishment from his voice.
Damian returned a wry smile. “One must know which way the wind blows, even if one prefers to keep out of the storm.”
“Have you taken your seat?” Hawkney asked curiously.
Damian snorted, looking appalled at the prospect. “Good God, no. I doubt the Lords are in desperate need of another idle viscount cluttering up the benches.”
“But if you have something sensible to say, as it appears you may have, is it not your duty?” Hawkney pressed.
Gideon held his breath as he saw Damian’s grey eyes spark with devilry.
It was just the kind of question that would provoke him into saying something outrageous.
His gaze met Gideon’s however, and he saw the tension leave Damian’s taut features, replaced by his usual mocking smirk.
“No, no, your grace. My words are merely parroted from the mouths of cleverer men than I. Far safer I leave the fate of our great nation in the hands of men like you, who take such duty upon themselves with the gravity it ought to be shown.”
Hawkney frowned, but seemed to accept this answer readily enough, though Gideon had to admit he was not entirely satisfied with it himself. He considered his brother curiously, wondering if he knew him as well as he thought he did.
Hetty fidgeted in her seat, glancing at the clock which seemed determined not to move as the evening dragged on.
“How much port can four men consume?” she demanded irritably.
Cilly smiled over the rim of her teacup. “Patience, Hetty. Your Mr Bramwell will be here soon enough.”
“Stop that,” Hetty scolded her. “He’s not my anything, as well you know. I just want to get a look at those bedroom layouts. I’m tired of twiddling my thumbs. Lord Rivington might delight in being neither use nor ornament, but I’m sick of it.”
“If you think he meant that, you were not paying attention, my dear,” Cilly replied mildly.
Hetty narrowed her eyes, focusing on Cilly. “What do you mean?”
Cilly pursed her lips, considering. “I don’t know, really. Only that I believe there may be more to Viscount Rivington than he wishes us to see. He does not strike me as a happy soul, though.”
“Not happy?” Hetty repeated doubtfully. “Whyever not? From all accounts, he lives life to the full, every day is a party, he gambles and has affairs and does dreadful things to keep himself in the scandal sheets. He seems to care nothing for what people think or say about him. Though I cannot like or respect such a man, I can admit that he has made a kind of freedom for himself which I envy a little. Imagine what it must be like not to care a fig whether or not people think you are a horrible person.”
“Imagine,” Cilly repeated, though there was a somewhat ironic lilt to her voice Hetty did not understand.
At that moment the door opened, and the gentlemen came in. Too impatient to care if she looked overly eager, Hetty leapt to her feet. “Mr Bramwell, shall we look at those plans now?”
“As you wish,” he replied, looking around uncertainly.
“Oh, it’s quite all right, come along,” Hetty said, tugging on his sleeve as she headed for the door. “We’ll leave the door ajar, but everyone knows you are the saintly brother now. I shall be quite safe.”
He said nothing, though a flicker of some emotion glimmered in his eyes, there and gone before she could catch it.
Hetty led him to the library, where the drawings had been laid out ready for them. “Oh, is this the Principal Suite,” she asked, looking at the floor plans before reaching for the drawings he’d done.
“Yes. It’s the largest and grandest of the suites, intended for the most distinguished guests. Each of the main suites comprises a bedroom, a private parlour, and a dressing and bathing room. They all have sea views, naturally.”
“Oh, it’s splendid,” Hetty exclaimed, admiring his drawings.
“I can just picture it. What a wonderful view there will be from the windows, and a terrace too. I am there now, sitting with a glass of champagne, watching the sun go down.” She closed her eyes, perfectly able to envisage the delightful scene.
“You have a wonderful imagination.”
“Oh, I’ve never been short of that commodity,” she said with a laugh, looking back at him, but there was no laughter in his eyes. In fact, she felt his mood had darkened perceptibly.
“Well, perhaps you will honeymoon there when you marry.”
Hetty looked at him in surprise, for the words had been terse rather than teasing. “Do you know something I don’t, Mr Bramwell?”
His lips quirked. “Isn’t that the aim of every young lady, to make a splendid match? I imagine there is a line of eligible gentlemen queuing up, hoping to snare you.”
She did not know if it was the slightly cynical note to his words, or the assumption that this was the sum total of her ambition, but Hetty’s temper lit. “Of snaring my dowry, you mean. I can assure you, they don’t care a button about me.”
He laughed, but there was an edge to it that felt like judgement. “Oh, they care,” he said dryly. “Come, my lady. You know you are beautiful. What man in his right mind would not wish for such a prize?”
“I am also opinionated, loud, bossy and as stubborn as a mule,” she said, crossing her arms. “The only offers I’ve had are from men who would tolerate me and welcome my money with open arms. That’s not the kind of marriage I want, nor my sister, though she is to be married off to some fat old man now as our father has lost patience with her refusing every offer she’s had.
If he thinks I’ll be as biddable, he’s mad. ”
“Who?” he asked, looking troubled by this information.
“The Earl of Crenshaw,” she said bitterly.
“Good God.” Mr Bramwell appeared as disgusted at the notion as she was, which mollified her somewhat.
“Indeed. So, you see, our lives are not quite as carefree and pretty as you might wish to believe.”
He frowned, bracing his arms on the table and staring down at the plans, though she did not believe he saw them. “I apologise. It was crass of me to speak so.”
“Then why did you?”
He was quiet for a long moment and then shook his head, his lips quirking. “I don’t know. Jealousy, perhaps. Something about the vision of you sitting on the terrace of this wonderful hotel. It’s my design, my vision, and yet I shall never be able to afford to stay there.”
“You don’t know that,” Hetty said, touched that he would confess such a thing to her.
She might not have much experience with men, but she knew from observing her brother and father that a man’s pride was a force not to be underestimated.
“I believe a man of your talents and ambition will be wildly successful.”
“You really do have a vivid imagination,” he said with a laugh.
Hetty smiled wistfully. They were standing close now, the sleeve of his coat brushing her bare arm.
It was such a small thing, but her attention fixed upon that tiny brush of fabric, her skin burning with the longing for something else, something more.
“I do, though I do not need it to know that much is true. But perhaps we shall both enjoy visiting the hotel one day, perhaps we shall both find happiness.”