Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
Reluctant fortune hunter and father of Marjorie, known to society as the financially troubled but eligibly titled and devilishly handsome Duke of Selkirk, was irritated.
Alec seemed to be irritated quite frequently these days, and Archibald had begun to wear a martyred air, eyeing him warily as he approached, razor in hand, as though Alec was some caged beast not entirely to be trusted.
Alec desperately wanted to go home, like a grouchy bear returning to his cave.
However, he could not until he had settled this damned marriage business.
Millicent Wentworth’s face still had a nasty tendency to present itself in his mind’s eye the moment he thought Marriage, only to be hastily removed with a stern, “This lady is not for you, Alec.” Perhaps not as frequently of late as she had? He pushed that observation away.
He could not be cold-blooded about Aurora Hardcastle, though, try as he might.
Yes, she was young and inexperienced and no Beauty.
But she was also far too intelligent, damn her eyes, and she somehow managed to get under his skin.
She was a bluestocking, he reminded himself, even though she had a warmth he did not associate in his mind with bluestockings.
I am of half a dozen different minds, and I do not know myself at all, was the only way he could shut down this never-ending circle of thoughts
“Where is Marjorie?” he barked, startling Archibald and resulting in another nick. His face was starting to achieve a distinct resemblance to a battlefield these days. With Alec clearly on the losing side of the clash.
“She is with Peg in the park, Your Grace. She likes to sail her boat on the Pond there.”
“Then I shall go and see her. I have not been spending much time with her of late. My days are far too taken up with all this London Season business. Well, go ahead and finish, man. I cannot take off half shaven!”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“And I am unpardonably rude to you once again. There’s no excuse for me, I know. I do not pay you enough. You are heroic in putting up with me.”
“I am a martyr to my profession, Your Grace.”
“Humph. Looking at my face, you might think it the other way round.”
Thirty minutes later, Alec was seated on his horse and making his way through the streets.
Traffic was not so bad this morning. Still, the going was slow.
He had time, while he rode, to let his mind wander.
The outing of two days ago was still very much on his mind.
A rather large party had ridden out to Hampton Court for the day to wander the gardens and watch the more energetic members whack a ball around Henry VIII’s tennis court.
He had paid his usual dutiful attention to Miss Hardcastle, while trying not to let his eyes slide over to Miss Wentworth.
The latter’s expression never truly varied, except for the occasional dimple and the fluttering of her eyelashes.
She was enchanting, he told himself for the seven hundredth time.
Aurora was quieter than usual that morning. He had not noticed until he realized he had been gazing at Millicent for some considerable time, and a pool of silence surrounded himself and the heiress.
“She is lovely, is she not?”
He turned to face Aurora, who was looking up from her perch on a stone bench with eyes a darker blue than usual.
“Yes, yes, she is.” He had the distinct impression his ears were turning red. He felt in the wrong, as if he had been caught (which he knew he had been), and that caused him to speak with an edge of sharpness. “She is lovely.”
Her face quickly drained of color, and she lowered her eyes. There was a moment’s pause between the two of them when he saw her square her shoulders and look back up at him. He realized he was looming over her and sat down beside her.
“My father,” she began, “allowed me the free run of his library while I was growing up. Books have been my earliest—and my longest held—companions. I know you think me a bluestocking.” She put up a hand to stop the protestations which she knew he would make out of politeness.
“I cannot make that claim for myself. I came to London with a few books only. Shall I tell you what they are? Copies of Chapman’s Homer—his volumes of the Iliad and Odyssey, a guidebook to London, and the poems of John Keats. ”
She took a quick breath and released it in a little laugh.
He was relieved to notice it sounded natural, and not like the increasingly brittle sound he had heard from her more frequently of late.
“None of these is of any help at all in navigating the Season, though I confess I find Keats of greater assistance than the Greeks.” Another pause, and then, “I also confess I do not possess a great facility for small talk, as a young lady should. It was not a skill I was successful in acquiring at Miss Field’s. ”
Alec felt a sudden sympathy for her and impulsively reached out and gently touched her hand. Under its softness, he felt firmness. It was a capable hand. And he wanted to hold it and not let go.
Confused by his reaction, he decided to ignore it.
He’d been doing that a lot of late. “I find the ability to make small talk, while a useful skill in such situations, is primarily a tool for allowing those having the conversation to let their minds wander at will. Are young ladies these days reading Keats?”
Aurora smiled a bit shakily. “I am afraid I cannot speak for young ladies as a species. As for myself, yes, yes, I am. He is the one person who has been able to put into words how I felt the first time I began to read Chapman. I had stumbled somewhat through the Greek.” Alec heard the apology in her tone, then she continued, “Chapman’s words, he simply brought the stories to life. ”
“‘Then I felt like some watcher of the skies / When a new planet swims into his ken,’” replied Alec.
“You do know Keats!” Her eyes widened. Then she smiled. “Yes, yes, you have it exactly. Words are, at least they can be, like music.”
“I understood music was like mathematics,” Alec couldn’t stop himself from adding.
He watched Aurora blush. “Well, yes. They are really all the same things. Though I suppose that makes it into a muddle. Now you can see, sir, I am neither a great wit nor a great thinker. When you see, or hear, what is beautiful—” she broke off what she was saying and looked over at Miss Wentworth. He turned and followed her gaze.
“Yes.”
It was a moment of utter honesty between them, that cut through his weeks of reserve and her resulting bashfulness.
He found himself looking not back at the Incomparable Millicent, but at Aurora.
They both stopped talking. The silence between the two of them was different now, grown companionable.
For the moment, Alec was aware they had been wrapped together in a small cocoon.
The murmur of voices, the thwacking sound of the ball as it bounced against the walls of the tennis court, the soughing of the breeze, the cries of the birds darting about the flowers and bushes around them: all of these seemed to be outside the glass walls of their bubble.
Alec found himself leaning toward Aurora as she began to lean toward him.
All he could see were her eyes. Blue, not gray, but with a pull he could not stop.
He was trapped inside them with no desire to get out.
And then the sun had disappeared behind a looming shadow. Miss Wentworth and Finn were standing beside them.
“You both have been far too quiet for far too long. What you want is exercise. Come on, Alec, up, up! Help Miss Hardcastle to her feet. We are going for a stroll in the maze.”
Millicent gave an affectionate coo at her partner. Alec pushed himself to his feet and extended his hand down for Aurora. She reached up and grasped it. For a moment, the two of them held together tightly. Then they were walking, and the moment passed.
The mood had been broken and the sounds of the day around them broke in once more. They were back to the polite nothingness of conversation. For the rest of the excursion, the glances and looks they exchanged were full of warmth and more-than-simple acquaintanceship.
The day had ended on a happy note, but Alec woke up the next morning with the clear recollection he was pursuing Miss Hardcastle for her money.
All his self-loathing burst in on him again, and two days of foul temper ensued.
Regardless, he found himself looking forward to seeing her at Lord and Lady Cumnor’s, but she did not show.
“’Tis only a slight cold,” protested Lady Wentworth.
“She will soon be back to health. I expect her to join us at tomorrow’s picnic.
” He had bowed, hit by a feeling of disappointment, which surprised him to the point where he completely ignored her ladyship’s beautiful daughter and took himself away for a hearty swig of punch with a little something extra he added to settle his spirits.
Regardless of whatever feelings he was experiencing, the business of this entire Season was all, well, business. It would have to be done, and soon. He stopped himself in time from jerking the reins hard enough for his horse to shy.
He would make his application for her hand as soon as possible.
He supposed Lord Wentworth would act as proxy for Mr. Hardcastle.
Afterward, he would have to sit down, explain it all to Marjorie, and find a time for her to formally meet to become properly acquainted with her new step-mama.
Next, they would have the wedding—Lord, would she want it in London?
Some type of high society spectacle? He would request it take place on his estate, as the most fitting surroundings for the new duchess, though he was unsure whether he was truly doing that for her benefit or his.
There, it was done. Sorted out. He had mapped the remainder of his campaign; all he needed to do now was execute it. Execution felt like the right word to use. At least it would allow him to turn his attention, after too many weeks, wholly to his daughter, albeit briefly.
He was now inside the park and following the carefully cultivated pathways.
At this time of the morning, the park’s primary inhabitants were nursemaids and their charges.
Two dragoons passed him on their mounts, their gleaming swords and elegant uniforms drawing admiring glances from said nursemaids.
An elderly gentleman sat on a bench, holding a white rose between his gnarled hands as he gently stroked the petals.
An indignant quack announced to Alec that he was nearly to his destination, and he stopped his horse to let a mother duck and her ducklings cross the path in front of him en route to the Pond.
He dismounted and looped the reins around the end of the bench closest to where it appeared most of the boat launches were happening.
A race was in progress, and there were shouts and whistles of encouragement from everyone involved.
His eyes scanned the clump of children for his daughter, and he quickly picked her out.
Naturally, she was the one jumping up and down with the greatest amount of enthusiasm.
As usual, seeing Marjorie acted as a balm. Whatever happened, she would remain at the center. His center. He headed toward her, exactly at the same moment as she turned and caught his eye.
“Papa! Papa! You came! I’m winning, Papa! I’m winning!” But Alec had stopped dead in his tracks. Because the person who had been standing closest to Marjorie and cheering along with the crowd was none other than the object of his endless ruminations.
She turned and saw him. “Your Grace,” she stammered.
“Miss Hardcastle!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here, and what are you doing with my daughter?”