Chapter Twelve
Trentham should have been congratulating himself.
He had not veered one step from his program.
Everything was going just as he’d hoped.
And that despite the fact that throughout the whole evening, at the edge of his field of vision, Miss Delancey swirled by again and again in the arms of yet another young blade.
He’d swear an oath that her feet floated six inches above the floor.
He was glad, certainly, that his roué behavior, kissing her then ignoring her, had not dimmed her light.
Her golden aura. She’d laugh if she heard him call it that—“Oh! Overdone, Mr. World-Class Flatterer!”—but the description fit.
Good God, that gown. The satin shimmered in the gaslight, adding to her glow.
The flair at her hips accentuated the slenderness of her waist. The bodice was “off-the-shoulder.” Tulle ruffles did all that was required to preserve modesty, but no man in the room was so lacking imagination he would not be ensnared.
Lynch would not be able to claw his way through his drawing room tomorrow; it would be so full of bouquets from her admirers.
However, none of this was any of Trentham’s concern. He had already picked out the very tasteful floral arrangement he would send to Lady Elizabeth. He’d even written the note to accompany it.
But for now, he had to deal with a pounding headache. He couldn’t leave early; that would be unpardonably rude. Yet if he didn’t get away from the music, the odor of sweat and too many competing perfumes, and the tapping, swishing feet, he might be ill.
What he needed to do was to talk to Lynch. His lodestar. Lynch would see what he was doing. Everyone saw it. Either Lynch would give him a quiet nod—or a kick in the trousers.
He left the ballroom and threaded his way through the halls, nodding, murmuring greetings, half lost in thought, looking for Lynch, hoping to find him without Dessie and Miss Delancey, so that he might get his bearings.
What he was doing made sense. Good sense.
He would rescue Lady Elizabeth; she would redeem him.
Fortunately, Lord Barrington seemed amenable.
That had been Trentham’s biggest concern, that he might be aiming too high, that four years of irreproachable behavior had not been enough.
If Barrington snubbed him, Chatterwick would have to follow suit, and he would have lost his chance with that chit too.
But he’d aimed high. And Barrington had not snubbed him.
Combining the two families was a feat long overdue.
There likely hadn’t been a Barrington-Wormsley wedding since before the civil war.
The first one. Probably because his ancestors had supported Mathilda while the Barringtons were for Stephen—the usurper.
But that was neither here nor there. He saw the old guard nodding approvingly when he led Lady Elizabeth out for the first set.
And even the Dowager Maryhurst fleetingly lost her habitual scowl when he approached Lady Elizabeth for the cotillion. The match made too bloody much sense.
Except to him.
He’d danced the waltz with Felicity’s friend, the unfortunately club-footed Miss Cornelia. Why? To be kind? No. To keep himself from seeking out Miss Delancey? Not even that. But because rumor had it Barrington felt his daughter was too young to waltz.
Too young to waltz. Good God.
Dancing with Lady Elizabeth had been like dancing with Julia, his niece. There was no escaping the fact that, precociously well-mannered though she might be, Lady Elizabeth was a child. Gad, his head hurt.
Ah, but there was Lynch now. Alone, thank God.
He was marching along near the hallway’s wall, a determined set to his chin.
The wall was noticeably devoid of decoration, except for discolored areas where paintings must once have been displayed.
Trentham dodged Lady Walpole with a bow from the shoulders and an “excuse me” and hurried toward him.
“Lynch.” He stepped in front of the man.
“Trentham. Have you seen Dessie?”
“You’ve misplaced her again?”
Lynch grimaced. “More likely she’s hiding from me.” His eyes flicked up. “But I suppose that gives me an excuse to step onto the terrace for a dip of snuff. Care to keep me company?”
“Always.”
He fell into step with his friend and waited for a verdict. But Lynch was worried about something else.
“I’ve lost Falstaff.”
The name raised Trentham’s gorge. “You don’t want Falstaff. If he ever votes with you, you are on the wrong side.”
“Maybe so.” He still sounded bothered.
“How did you ‘lose’ him?”
“I declined to introduce him to Ophelia.”
For a moment, Trentham felt deprived of the ability to speak. Then, pushing open the glass door to the terrace, he said, “Good.”
“Dessie doesn’t agree with you. She said I’m being patronizing. Ophelia can take care of herself.”
“Even if Miss Delancey could swim, I wouldn’t tip her into the Thames.”
Lynch gave him a sideways look, then grinned. “Precisely.”
They were not the only ones to seek refuge outside.
Lord and Lady Beming were arguing quietly near the balustrade.
He and Lynch moved to the opposite end of the terrace.
Here, one could gaze out over a large English garden that was surrounded by a high iron fence.
The gate must be far in the back. The fence was being overrun by London creep: weeds and stray grasses and unidentifiable seedlings.
All that would have to be cleaned up; two or three more gardeners put on the staff…
Lynch pulled his snuffbox from his pocket, pinched, sniffed, and sneezed.
Trentham shook his head. He could not comprehend the allure.
“Leave it be. It is the only vice I have,” Lynch said.
“Because you never bothered to sample any of the others. You’ve missed out on quite a good bit.”
Lynch shrugged. “Virtue is its own reward.”
For a moment, Trentham considered whether this was the nod he’d been waiting for, but decided no.
It was simply Lynch stating his own rather priggish creed.
Enough of that. It had always been his job to shake Lynch out of it when he got too intense for his own good.
Distract him. Remind him of the finer things in life.
“Dessie is looking particularly fetching tonight.”
Lynch stiffened a moment, then relaxed. “Yes. She is.”
The stiffening was odd. “Is she…over whatever it was that had her so worn out?”
“I wouldn’t say ‘over’ it.”
So there had been something.
Lynch looked off toward the stars. “But she’s moved along from sleepy to weepy.” He smiled. It was a strange smile that Trentham couldn’t interpret. “Drop of a hat, she cries.”
“Crying?” How was that amusing? How could Lynch find that amusing? How badly was he neglecting his wife? “Laurence, this has gone too far.”
Lynch whirled to face him, surprised. “Gone too—?” He shook his head. “Lud, Robin, I hadn’t pegged you for a hollow cap.”
“What?” What was he missing? “Tell me what is going on.”
“It isn’t something I can tell,” he said, chest expanding with indignation.
“People don’t bandy such things about. Not, of course, that that stopped Dessie from running first thing to Ophelia.
” He stared hard, as though his eyes would drill the information into Trentham’s brain.
“But I am not allowed to tell you. I thought you’d guessed. ”
Light dawned. He was an idiot.
“Laurence! Good show!” He clasped his friend’s shoulder. A flash of unmitigated joy swamped him. “I’m happy for you. For you both. This is wonderful news.”
“Thank you.”
“And Dessie is well?”
“Except for the weeping.” Lynch scratched his chin, looking bemused. “Did you know that is normal?”
“No.” Trentham shook his head. What a wonder. “I’d hate to be a woman.”
Lynch laughed.
The joy started to dim. He couldn’t envision Lady Elizabeth in such a state anytime soon. The thought was faintly repugnant to him. He would be responsible for—in fact, duty bound to—get the girl into that state.
A little sheepish now, Lynch begged, “Don’t let Dessie know I told you.”
“You didn’t. I guessed.” Something else occurred to him. “When Dr. Ballantine came to my house, he mentioned he’d been to yours that morning.” Another clue he’d missed. “And Miss Delancey was stitching a baby’s cap a few days ago. I’m sure of it.”
“Was she? Well, then. Still, don’t say anything. Dessie says it’s too early to share the news.” A cloud passed over his eyes. “Things happen.”
“They won’t.” He felt a bit uneasy making that statement. Things very well could. “When do you think? Do you know?”
“Six months? Maybe five.”
Trentham winced. Lynch had hoped to bring his bill forward in six months. “Should you postpone? Give yourself a bit more time?”
Lynch shook his head. “Dessie won’t hear of it. We’d lose ground.”
Something Trentham had noticed: it was always “we.” Even when talking of his political struggle, Lynch included his wife. A baby would change some of that. Wouldn’t it?
“Once her sister leaves, Dessie will need more—” Trentham wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence, but Dessie would undoubtedly need more of something.
“Fortunately, Ophelia has agreed to stay. Eight months, perhaps a year. It’s awfully good of her. Dessie relies on her more than one might think.”
A year? Lord help him. Their paths would keep crossing.
They would continue to attend the same gatherings.
This was not going to work. He was too drawn to her.
And not only physically, though that appeal was undeniable.
He could control his response to that. With effort.
What he couldn’t fight was the something about her that lightened his heart.
He managed a reply. “I suspect that goes both ways.”
“Well,” Lynch said, “mutual reliance is something you and I understand.” He leaned against the stone balustrade and let out a long sigh. “Am I supposed to say something or not?”
“I don’t know.” But that was why he had chased Lynch down. For his opinion. Or rather, his blessing. “Yes.”
“It is a good plan. An excellent plan.”
“But?”