Hope Deferred Maketh The Heart Sick #2
With blond curls windswept, Cousin Jeremy was lounging in the Firth barouche as best he could in an impossibly tight purple jacket while Aunt Mildred, wearing a dun-brown pelisse that matched her hat and bonnet, was surveying the line of carriages with an eagle eye.
Alas, it then eagled upon himself.
“There you are! Halt driver. Stonewold? To me!”
Miles swivelled back to Dair. “No wonder you keep your own lodgings.”
His cousin’s lips were pressed. “Not far enough some days.”
With pressed lips of his own, Miles sauntered over to the barouche. “Jeremy. Aunt Mildred.”
“Stonewold,” she hissed. “Come closer. A word in private.”
He raised a brow and took one step forward. “Can I be of service?”
“Is it true? Have I erred? Are these not in fact related to the Taits of Twickenham at all but come from…Manchester?” She shuddered. “The Manchester of trade.”
“That’s correc–”
“I accepted this invitation believing them to be related to the Taits of Twickenham.”
“I’m afraid not, Aunt Mildred. You could, however, cry off.”
“Oh no.” She narrowed her beetle-brown eyes. “I’ve just seen Viscount Farnsworth and Lord Kane. The latter’s daughter would do very well for Jeremy here.”
Jeremy was peering over at the Taits, fingers tapping a rhythm on his knee, before a slap on the arm caused him to turn.
“Hmm?”
“Kane’s daughter. You are to ingratiate yourself with her. She’s timid enough and will make a perfect bride. Won’t complain when you state your wish to live with me after your marriage.”
Jeremy gulped. “Well, I…”
“Do you have a complaint?” Aunt Mildred twisted on the seat. “I begat you life, boy. Was in monstrous pain for nigh twenty hours. And had to suspend all social events when you contracted the measles, so to be clear, I am not to be usurped by some wife.”
Older than Dair by two years, Jeremy Firth had been a sickly child and had grown into a man who still looked as though a strong breeze might finish him off.
At his gentle poetic mien and gentle poetic looks, many a debutante fluttered her lashes.
But upon introduction to Aunt Mildred, stilled them with the abruptness of a dropped fan.
Jeremy’s lips moved but naught emerged.
“Good,” responded Aunt Mildred. “Now, Kingston-upon-Thames is suitably genteel, Stonewold, but I still expect you to escort us most vigilantly at this fair.”
Miles tapped his cane upon the pavement.
For the genteel Kingston-upon-Thames was also the venue of an unruly football match each Shrove Tuesday.
He’d once read it had become so disruptive that the Riot Act had been read and the cavalry at Hampton Court called for.
Unfortunately, the calvary had failed to attend… They’d been one of the teams.
“Alas, I am already committed to escort a lady.” A slight stretch of the truth but when needs must. Miles slid a sideways glance to Alasdair as he strolled up.
“Not…Miss Tait of Manchester?” Aunt Mildred hissed, ignoring her younger son Dair completely.
“No–”
A clatter of wheels, a neigh of horses, joyous laughter and–
“What in heaven’s name…” squawked Aunt Mildred, thrusting out a finger, “is that!”
“Egad,” ventured Jeremy. “What a prime pair of steppers.”
A mid-perch phaeton of the latest mode had halted just outside the Cumberland Gatehouse.
The coach body was painted a light green whilst the mahogany woodwork and four wheels gleamed in the sunlight. Two thoroughbred bay horses were harnessed and Jeremy was correct – a prime pair of steppers.
Sitting atop were two ladies. One was Miss Nash.
And holding the reins was Miss Verity Seymour, her expression jaunty, as though she knew full well the fuss she was causing but didn’t care one jot.
An exquisite gold-brocaded pelisse clung to her form and she wore a diminutive hat with a white plume.
As a lass, she’d been the same. Spirited and so full of life that she’d drawn Miles’ young eye like a heliotrope flower relentlessly seeking the sun’s warmth.
Naturally, he was now quite above such foolishness. And yet, most inconveniently, his lust was less noble.
In nature, the life and vigour that flowed through each flower and plant awed him, but to find such traits within a woman stirred him evermore, and at this moment, he felt the full force of it.
Of her.
The manner in which her supple frame leaned forward.
The way she flicked the reins, lips curving.
The recollection of how those lips had tasted.
Sweet nectar.
Yet when she’d scorned his affection, those same lips had thinned to a sabre’s edge, overflowing with bitter words and vinegar disdain.
He drew a steadying breath and hoped he was not about to make a terrible mistake. “In answer to your question, those ladies are whom we are escorting, Aunt Mildred.”
“Alasdair Firth!” she shrieked, addressing her younger son for the first time. “Is that not the Scandalous Scarlet Spinsters I’ve read of? Don’t you even think it!”
Dair raised a brow, straightened his cravat and then rested a hand on the barouche.
“Along with Stonewold, I shall indeed be escorting those ladies to the fair. For you’ll never again tell me what to do, Mother.
Good day, Jeremy.” A curt nod to his brother before he withdrew his hand, turned on his heel and strode off.
“Well, I never!” Aunt Mildred narrowed her eyes as her younger son greeted the Misses Nash and Seymour and admired their steeds. “Stonewold, for the journey, you will sit here with us.”
“I have my horse, Aunt Mildred.”
“Peasant travel,” she muttered. “Your brother would never have treated me thus. The indignity of it. I now see the venerable Stonewold earldom, a title bestowed by Henry the Fifth no less, has been sullied by your claim to the title.”
“Not a claim, Aunt Mildred. Succession.” Miles bowed, lips tight. “And by the by, I hear you seek an increase to your stipend?”
Her face bloomed red. “My smelling salt. Now! I feel faint.”
With a mutter, Jeremy rooted around in a bag upon the floor and so with another bow, Miles enacted a rapid retreat.
Then slowed his step as he neared Miss Seymour’s phaeton. The bay horses fidgeted but with a twitch of rein and a gentle word from her, they quietened.
“Ladies.” He doffed his hat. “A fine pair of mares, you have.”
Miss Seymour had shifted a little uneasily upon his approach but now offered a tentative smile. “Thank you, my lord. I adore them.”
The lad who held the reins nodded sagely. “Deep through the girth, heads like duchess’ but arses like dox–”
“Thank you, Daniel,” she cut in. “Are we all assembled then?”
“I believe so. And if you and Miss Nash are agreeable, we will ride alongside you as escort.”
Both ladies raised their brows as though strings were attached.
“Er…” Miss Seymour managed. “But shouldn’t you escort the Taits?”
Dair and he exchanged the sharp glance of soldiers bracing for engagement.
“Their barouche is too slow,” drawled his cousin. “Whereas keeping pace with your dashing phaeton is perfect for our restive steeds.”
“But…but…” Miss Seymour’s face was a picture of confusion. “We are travelling in a convoy. We’ll all be slow.”
Miles tapped his lip. “Ah, the message must have been delayed. I spoke with Mrs Tait.”
“You did?”
“Hmm. We are to forge ahead in order to coordinate stabling for all and refreshments at the inn.”
Miss Seymour’s eyes widened like brown figs swelling on their stems. She had been caught off guard, stumbled straight into an ambush and now Miles held the advantage.
“In that case, we would be delighted,” declared Miss Nash. “Wouldn’t we, Verity?” An elbow jabbed.
“Yes!” Miss Seymour squeaked. “We would welcome your escort.”
Miles allowed a smile.
The troops had successfully secured initial objectives. Flags planted atop the conquered phaeton.