Chapter 9
Sylvie had never felt more awkward in her life, and that was saying quite a bit when one considered the way her mother liked to push her into unwanted situations.
Next to her, Lucy prattled about how interesting his research must be, while her flat tone contradicted the words and she didn’t ask him any questions to learn more about it.
Sylvie’s chest tightened with each false word sliding from Lucy’s lips.
There was nothing she wanted to do less than parade Lucy in front of Mr. Wentworth.
But she’d been backed into a corner and didn’t see another way to protect her already tenuous hold on that one small bit of freedom.
So she held her breath once Lucy finally stopped chattering, hoping Mr. Wentworth would take the bait and start talking with Lucy without more prodding.
He stared at Sylvie for a long moment while Lucy’s foot tapped harder and faster on the ground next to Sylvie.
It wasn’t as if Sylvie could force him to be interested, though.
She could only try to deflect his interest away from herself and toward Lucy.
Even if doing so might rip her heart in two.
Finally, Mr. Wentworth shifted his attention to Lucy. “My hope is that my research will impact the health of people around the world, which is interesting to me. But most ladies aren’t enthusiastic about talk of insects, so I’ll spare you the details.”
When Lucy’s right eye twitched, Sylvie wanted to huff at Mr. Wentworth.
He was being very uncooperative. All he had to do was go along with her efforts to encourage conversation, and it would be enough to satisfy Lucy for now.
“Miss Casburn, didn’t your family visit England a few years ago?
Perhaps you have memories of someplace Mr. Wentworth has been. ”
Lucy perked up once again. “Oh, I loved the Parliament building. It was so grand. One could almost sense the power of the men who work there. Did you get that feeling, as well? You must have spent a great deal of time there.”
Somehow a presumably safe line of conversation took a turn for the worse as Mr. Wentworth’s expression shuttered, his brow creasing.
“I did not spend time there, Miss Casburn, as I left England before I was old enough to take a seat. And I never liked the idea of those men holding power by virtue of being born to the right people, anyway.”
Silence once again fell, this time fraught with tension. This was going badly, and Sylvie wasn’t certain how to get it back on track.
Thankfully, Lucy was a master at polite small talk and rose to the occasion. “How fitting it is that you live here, then, where our leaders are elected. Tell me, what is your favorite part about the time you’ve spent in America so far?”
Mr. Wentworth began a response, appearing much less bothered since the conversation had moved away from his homeland.
But Sylvie didn’t wait to hear it, as much as she wanted to.
Instead, she used the opportunity of Lucy’s distraction to slip from the tent.
She’d done her part and fulfilled Lucy’s demands for the day.
She wasn’t required to stand by and watch the two of them get along.
With some effort thanks to the crowd, she found her parents and all but begged them to leave early and take her home, claiming a headache from the heat.
But the unknown of how well Lucy and Mr. Wentworth might have gotten along in her absence gnawed at Sylvie for the next few days.
She couldn’t ask or make a single remark about it at Cedar Point when they performed again on Thursday.
In fact, she did her best to speak to Mr. Wentworth as little as possible, feeling silence would be the most helpful course of action in her efforts to keep her identity a secret.
It was near torture trying not to respond to his efforts to engage her in conversation.
Why must he be so charming and enjoyable?
On Friday, she spent the day shopping with her mother and the Moreau ladies—widowed Rachel Moreau and her two daughters, Leila and Adelle.
They were kind and genuine, not any higher in social standing than the Bryce family, and good allies to have in society.
Mrs. Moreau had a mature elegance about her, but mother and daughters alike tended toward gossip more than Sylvie liked.
Indeed, it wasn’t long before the older women started chatting, and an all too familiar name entered the conversation at Mrs. Moreau’s mention.
“Miss Casburn made quite an impression on the marquess at the yacht race Wednesday afternoon, I heard.”
Mrs. Moreau’s waggling eyebrows as she made the statement sent a wave of nausea over Sylvie. She gripped a nearby countertop covered with delicate lace collars and embroidered handkerchiefs so hard, she lost feeling in her fingertips.
Mother’s droll countenance turned sharp. “Whatever do you mean, Rachel? That girl hasn’t gotten so much as a glance from him since she arrived.”
Glancing around the room as if worried she’d be overheard, Mrs. Moreau grinned, missing the hints of Mother’s impending irritation.
“Several reputable sources claim they exited an otherwise-unoccupied refreshment tent arm in arm. And everyone saw them parading around together for the rest of the afternoon. You didn’t notice? ”
Sylvie gulped back the remnants of her lunch.
She’d been in such a hurry to avoid watching those two together, she hadn’t considered the talk if they were seen alone by anyone else.
The suspicious gaze Mother turned on Sylvie confirmed she was mentally putting together the pieces of what might have happened.
Sylvie would have to answer for her actions in convincing her parents to leave the race early—there was no question about it.
The reckoning came more promptly than she’d like. An hour later, Mother had no sooner seated herself in the family’s carriage after saying goodbye to the Moreau ladies than she speared Sylvie with flashing eyes. “What on earth happened on Wednesday, Sylvia?”
Resisting the urge to ask Mother to use her nickname for the millionth time, Sylvie drew a deep breath before responding.
It never turned out well to answer rashly where her mother was concerned.
“Mr. Wentworth and Miss Casburn were getting along well, and I didn’t see a way to interject myself into their conversation without being rude.
And that’s the last thing I thought you’d want. ”
Mother stared at her for far too long, making Sylvie itch to squirm the way she had as a little girl when things grew too tense.
But now she’d mastered the ability to remain still no matter how uncomfortable the moment grew.
Mother had seen to that. So Sylvie kept her chin high and met Mother’s gaze as if she’d done nothing wrong.
Because she hadn’t. Mr. Wentworth didn’t belong to her.
Finally, Mother sighed and turned her head to look out the window. “We’ll have to pursue a different tactic, then. I know that man is interested in you, and there’s no reason you can’t outshine Lucy Casburn in a million different ways. We’ll win this one yet.”
Panic choked out Sylvie’s better judgment. “No, Mother. Please leave it alone.”
The instant the words left her lips, Sylvie clenched her hand as if she could grab them back.
Mother’s response to opposition, even from her daughter, had always been to dig in her heels even more.
Sylvie had made matters worse. “You deserve the most prestigious match possible. And the marquess is more than satisfactory. We’ll host an event, I think.
Something to put you at the front of everyone’s minds for weeks. I’ll speak with your father.”
Unfortunately, the carriage stopped in front of their house before Sylvie could formulate any protest. Mother alighted without hesitation and marched straight into the house, afire to make a plan.
Sylvie dropped her head back against the plush seat and let her eyes drift closed for a moment.
What had she done? There was no telling what horrible means of embarrassment Mother would come up with in her crusade to best Lucy.
The next morning had hardly dawned and Delia was still arranging Sylvie’s hair when Mother burst into Sylvie’s bedroom and confronted her with the grand idea, already sanctioned by Father. “A literary reading. You enjoy books, so it should be an opportunity for you to stand out.”
What were the chances a hole would open up in the tiled floor and swallow Sylvie?
Anything would be better than for her mother to attempt to understand literature.
“A reading doesn’t seem like something you would enjoy hosting.
Perhaps a grand ball instead.” At a ball, she could disappear, blend in.
An intimate literary reading would not allow her to hide, especially if Mother had it in her head that Sylvie should be the center of attention.
But her mother would not allow herself to be dissuaded or talked out of the scheme in any way. “No, no, this is the best plan. We’ll keep it small, invite only a few carefully selected guests who will receive a personal invitation to help make up for the short notice.”
Thus, Sylvie plodded through the next week, dreading Sunday.
She did her best to avoid Mr. Wentworth both at a visit to the opera on Tuesday evening and at their archery shows.
Word had spread about the lady archer’s dashing new partner, which brought much more attention to the show and gave Sylvie an unintended boost in her quest to keep distance between them.
As soon as a show ended, he was surrounded by women vying for his attention with sappy flattery.
Not that Sylvie noticed their efforts. Not one bit.