How to Play the Game of Love (Ladies of Passion) Page 2

  If? I bristled. Daisy was most certainly making her come out—next year. If she’d only be content to wait a year or two, I wouldn’t be quite so desperate to fall in love.

  The hostess added, “Actually, it’s rather fortunate that you are here. My nephew is only two years older than you, and I’m afraid I didn’t invite many debutantes under twenty. He’ll be happy to have the company of someone his age, I’m sure.”

  “I look forward to meeting him,” Daisy said. A good answer, if delivered with a slight quaver.

  My indignation melted as I studied her face, the tight set of her mouth. Was she nervous? She shouldn’t be. Lady Dunlop was taking more of a shine to her than to me. I was twenty-one, for Pete’s sake. Daisy had years before she found herself in such dire straits to find a husband.

  I schooled the disappointment from my face as Lady Dunlop drew Daisy’s hand onto her sleeve. She guided my sister to the staircase occupying the left-hand side of the foyer.

  “Let me show you to your rooms.”

  Rooms, plural. She must mean for us to follow. Utterly ignored, I picked my way up the steps after the hostess.

  Mary stepped into place beside me. She lowered her voice. “I hear she doesn’t keep slaves. And that she treats her servants with respect.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  “It isn’t, of course. It’s precisely what I would be lobbying for her to do. Now how am I to occupy myself? This will be a dreadful party.”

  It certainly would be, if Mary grasped to find some injustice to champion. I bit my tongue, wishing by some miracle the tides of luck would turn to my favor.

  Chapter Two

  The potted fern whapped me in the arm, leaving a pink mark as I snaked between two wide, red pots. The fronds reached to my shoulder, offering some measure of privacy in this corner of the repurposed sitting room. Lady Dunlop had opened doors between three parlors in a long row to form a makeshift dance floor. My sister warbled in the first room, the one I had just fled, as she pounded on the keys of the pianoforte. Her performance was better tonight than it ever was at home.

  Hunching my back to remain hidden behind the plants, I peeked over my shoulder. The Baron of Lestor’s heir squeezed past the dancing couple in the doorway. He matched me in height, and had a thin, lanky build and a rather long nose. His cravat drooped from his neck, where he’d tugged at it. Despite the hawkish way he scanned the interior of the room—from the heavily-laden buffet table, to the dancing couples, to the potted plants behind which I hid—he boasted a sweet demeanor. The kind of man who would make some woman very happy with his incessant attentions. Unfortunately, a few stolen kisses over the last month had proven that he wasn’t the man for me. I wanted love; he wasn’t it.

  Perhaps because he didn’t seem to know when a woman’s interest had waned. Blast! Had he accepted Lady Dunlop’s invitation solely because he’d learned I’d also received one?

  Crouching, I waddled from pot to pot. When I reached the end of the line, I raised my head over one of the fronds. Lestor’s heir, Pachycaul as my botany-mad friend had dubbed him, turned his back to peer into the first room again. I took the chance and dashed between a man and woman just as they crossed the floor in the next step of the cotillion.

  In the third drawing room, I immediately stepped to the left to avoid standing in the doorway. My height and blond hair stood out among the forty-odd people at this intimate affair like a beacon. That number included the local gentry Lady Dunlop had invited to the dance. The walls of this salon, like the last, seemed to glow a cool blue in the lamplight. Potted plants lined the right hand side, a few unoccupied chairs on the left.

  I caught my breath as I searched for one particular, short figure. I found Francine as she snuck close to the open terrace doors leading into the garden.

  “No, you don’t,” I muttered under my breath.

  One advantage to having long legs was the ability to cross a room in a heartbeat. I snagged Francine by the arm just as she stepped foot onto the threshold and hauled her back inside. I retreated with her into the corner.

  “You can’t escape. You must hide me.” I pressed my back to the wall, using Francine’s plump form to shield myself.

  She batted my hands away from her freckled arms. At some point, she’d misplaced her gloves and her detachable sleeves.

  Her mouth twisted in a pucker of amusement. Her brown eyes glittered. “How, pray tell, am I supposed to hide you?”

  I craned my neck, searching for Pachycaul. Safe, for the moment. Daisy’s caterwauling penetrated to the far end of the makeshift ballroom. As long as I heard her, my services as chaperone weren’t needed.

  I answered absently. “I don’t care how.”

  “Very well.” Francine spoke with an edge of annoyance to her voice. “Then perhaps you’ll tell me why you’re hiding?”

  “I’m in love.”

  Francine smirked. The dimple in her right cheek was almost swallowed by her swamp of freckles. “That’s hardly a reason to hide.”

  “Of course not. But Pachycaul is here.”

  “I take it he isn’t the object of your affections this time?”

  “No. You know I’ve already ruled him out.” Reminded of the danger, I scanned the room again for the man I wished to avoid. Daisy pounded out a flourish, ending the song, and the frothing sea of colorful dancers jolted to a halt. They parted like wildflowers bent in the wind.

  Instead of the traditional two-dance set, Lady Dunlop had implemented a one-dance-per-partner rule, so her guests would “become acquainted with one another.” Including the country squires, the daughters of a local factory owner, and even the town vicar.

  There was one hidden gem in the rabble invited to plump out the visiting party. If Lady Dunlop hadn’t invited anybody and everybody local to this gathering, I might never have crossed paths with him.

  Francine didn’t even have the good grace to ask who had caught my eye. Instead, she cast less-than-surreptitious glances at the open door to the garden. Cool air wafted in, smelling just a bit damp.

  I coughed into my fist. “I am in love, you know.”

  My friend took the bait. She heaved a sigh, an unspoken plea. With heavy reluctance, she asked, “Who is it this time?”

  “Frederick.”

  She speared me with a look of bald unrecognition. “Frederick…” She let the last syllable hang in the air, in question.

  I nibbled on my thumbnail. “I don’t remember his surname. Last we met, I was twelve. He’s in the next room talking to a group of men including the Becklands or some other such rabble living hereabouts.”

  “The Beckwiths? Did you speak with them?” She craned her neck, trying to see above the crowd towering around her. He wasn’t in here, anyway. I’d left him in the first parlor when I’d made my escape.

  “Does it matter?” I brushed a stray strand of hair behind my ear. Was that a leaf in my curls? I yanked the deep green sprig out and tossed it to the floor.

  “I know them.”

  My breath caught. I clutched her hand. “You do? You can introduce me.”

  A small furrow formed between her eyebrows. “To the Beckwiths?”

  “No. To Frederick.”

  “I thought you said you knew him.”

  I sighed. Would I have to spell everything out? “I met him almost ten years ago, before Papa gave up our country house and moved us to Town. Back then I was wild. Better we start anew.”

  She shook her head. “How can you be in love with a man you haven’t seen in ten years?”

  “Our eyes met.” In an instant, I’d been transported to the past. To the drizzly afternoon in the village when my two older sisters had tripped me into a patch of mud to escape my company. Lo and behold, Frederick had arrived armed with a ready smile and a handkerchief that couldn’t hope to clean my arms. He looked harder now, more reserved, but I’d recognized him instantly.

  Francine met my gaze with a droll expression.

 
“We had a moment,” I insisted. “Like the poets say.”

  She covered a chortle with her hand. “Which poets would these be, exactly?”

  “I don’t know. Shakespeare.”

  She laughed in earnest. A flush crept up her neck in splotches. I feared she might turn purple. “Shakespeare’s plays never end well for the courting couple.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Maybe not the tragedies, but the comedies, surely.”

  “Name them.” She crossed her arms and lifted her eyebrows in the challenging stance she seemed to reserve for me. When gentlemen were present, she remained as quiet as a mouse.

  I opened my mouth, grasping for a reply. Unfortunately, nothing came to mind. I hadn’t read all the plays in question. Francine, with her inordinate love of books, no doubt had read every play and memorized the sonnets.

  I scowled. “You know what I mean.”

  “I do not.” She swept her arm toward the crowd, now grouped in clusters to chat and pick new partners before the next dance. “You could have any man you want. You never lack for dance partners.”

  “Neither do you.”

  She rolled her eyes. “And do you know what they talk about while they dance? You, and how best to secure your affections.”

  They’d likely pay more attention to Francine if she endeavored to speak in their presence. She had wit and insight to put me to the pale. If she refrained from rolling her eyes in the presence of men, she might conquer them all. She could, at the very least, pretend at ladylike behavior until after the wedding. We argued over the point frequently.

  I opted not to veer onto that long-standing topic. I examined the room once more, hoping to get a glimpse of Frederick. And, if I was lucky, find a way to wrangle an introduction.

  “I’m holding out for love. You know that.”

  “I do.” Francine sidled to stand beside me, examining the crowd. “I can’t fathom why. It’s impractical.”

  My mouth dropped open. I glanced down. Her unruly, brown curls obscured her face, but from her tone she meant every word.

  “How can you say that? You know better than most the power of love.”

  She batted the hair away from her face. Her thick eyelashes fluttered as she stared at me. “I do?”

  “Of course you do. Your parents are the epitome of love.”

  She grimaced. “Oh. That. It was an arranged marriage.”

  “That blossomed into love.”

  “Funny you should say blossom…”

  Oh no. Not another rant about plants. I diverted her before she was lost to me for the rest of the night.

  “Did you mention you knew that baronet with whom Frederick was speaking?”

  Francine stopped in mid-sentence, mouth agape. After a moment, she closed it. “I do. But I was twelve. He wasn’t particularly fond of me back then.”

  “You were children. His opinion of you must have changed.”

  As if speaking of the man summoned him, Baronet Beckwith strolled with Frederick and another fellow into the room. I stopped breathing for a moment as I soaked in Frederick’s features. His brown skin beamed against the paler hues from the gentlemen surrounding him, from alabaster to suntanned. His dark hair was clipped short on his head, a striking contrast to the messier manes of the ton. As I stared, he lifted his gaze from across the room to meet mine. A warm ache bloomed in my chest. I gasped for air.

  After capturing Francine’s hand, I tugged her around the perimeter of the room.

  She dug in her heels. “Where are we going? It is cool by the doors.”

  “It’s April. It’s far from sweltering,” I countered, though the stuffiness of so many bodies mounted as we navigated the crush. “It will only be for a moment. You must introduce me.”

  “To Baronet Beckwith?”

  “To his friend Frederick.”

  Francine shook her head. The stray curls escaping her pins bounced. “But I’ve never met Frederick.”

  “No, but if you introduce me to the baronet while he is standing in the group, the baronet will have to introduce him. It is only polite.”

  Francine took one last, longing glance toward the sconce by the door. No wonder she wasn’t married yet. Aside from her father’s impossible standards, she always chose the one place in the room she would be overlooked.

  When she faced forward again, in time to sidestep a couple that paid no attention at all to where they walked, she hung her head in defeat. “It had best be quick. I’ll introduce you, and I’m going out into the garden.” She spoke so softly her words barely traveled over the indecipherable babble of the crowd.

  I smiled. “Bless you, Francine.” I squeezed her hand.

  Daisy’s high-pitched laugh drifted to my ears. I reared my head. Where was she? But then Mary’s sharp voice pierced the air, calling my sister’s name. Mary would occupy Daisy for a moment or two, at least.

  We reached the trio of men. Nervous wingbeats batted the inside of my belly. I let Francine take the lead.

  She stopped squarely in front of the baronet, a short, blocky fellow with a wide grin and bushy sideburns. She inclined her head, but didn’t dip in a curtsey. “Jonathan, I hear congratulations are in order.”

  He narrowed his eyes and gave a short-lived bark of a laugh. “Damnation, Francine… I mean, Miss Annesley. Is that really you?”

  She spread her arms. “Well, I certainly do not pretend to be anyone else.”

  He shook his head. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

  Beside him, a leaner man with the same grin and dark eyes drawled, “I think you’ve even gathered a few more freckles.”

  Crossing her arms, she donned a most pugnacious glower. I brushed my hand over her shoulder. What was she doing? She was supposed to introduce me, not start a spat in the middle of a crowded country parlor. She twitched her shoulder, throwing off my touch.

  “I find that insulting,” she accused, eyeing both men.

  Oh no. Now she sounded like Mary. With Mary’s keen nose for insults against women, my friend would undoubtedly materialize within moments. I didn’t need her spreading her peculiar ideas about women’s independence while I searched for a husband. Plenty of time after the vows were said to educate the man in question as to the uses of an intelligent woman.

  Francine lifted her chin. Even though the baronet stood a good deal shorter than me, Francine had to look up to meet his gaze. “I’m a woman now, not a child.”

  To my immense gratification, he chose to ignore her entirely. “If only Julian was here to see you.”

  His friend chuckled. “You should have dragged him along.”

  Francine scoffed, but a smile teased the corners of her mouth, winking her dimple in and out of existence. She dropped her arms to her sides again. “If he were here, I would fear for my feet.”

  “And your sanity, no doubt,” Beckwith said with a good-natured smile.

  I nudged Francine surreptitiously with one elbow. This time, she took the hint.

  She stepped slightly to the side, gesturing to me. “May I introduce my dear friend, Miss Wellesley? Rose, this is Jeremy—”

  “Captain Beckwith, now,” the taller man corrected with good cheer.

  “Forgive me,” Francine said. “Captain Jeremy Beckwith and his older brother Jonathan Beckwith… I believe you have inherited the title of baronet, now?”

  The gentleman in question inclined his head. “I have. My father died shortly before my son was born.”

  Gravity befell Francine’s features. “I’m sorry to hear that. It must have been a terrible blow.”

  He nodded, but didn’t dwell on the issue, thankfully. To me, he said, “Miss Wellesley, it is a pleasure to meet your acquaintance.” As he bowed, I returned the gesture with a slight curtsey, offering my hand. He laid a kiss to my knuckles and dropped it. His brother did the same, but lingered a bit.

  I eyed the captain. He sported the same broad shoulders and military posture as Frederick, but carried an amused twinkle in his eye. He lit up the
room with his mischievous grin, whereas Frederick remained to the side, a solemn shadow with piercing brown eyes. A pity I was already in love.

  The baronet indicated the gentleman to his right, Frederick. “May I present Captain Paine? He is recently returned from the war with the French.”

  Two gentlemen home from war at once? “I didn’t know the war was over.” Though I didn’t read the newspaper, if there had been a triumph or defeat Papa would have mentioned it over the breakfast table.

  Frederick shook his head. “It wages still, miss. I was granted special dispensation to return to attend my father’s funeral.”

  I shot him a sympathetic smile. “My condolences. You must have piles of affairs to tend to in settling your father’s estate.” I feathered my fingers over Frederick’s forearm, clad in his black evening attire.

  He shifted away. My chest constricted. Did he remember me? If he recognized me for the horse-mad, mud-faced girl I’d been, I’d never convince him to fall in love in time. We only had a week. No gentleman wants a wild wife. Mama had drummed the notion into me with such vigor, I mumbled the words in my sleep.

  As my hand fell short, my fingertips grazed his sleeve before I returned them to my side. They tingled. His gaze dropped to my fingers. He raised it inch by inch up my arm to my face.

  Our eyes locked.

  The warm bloom in my chest returned tenfold. Did he feel it, too? He held my gaze a moment longer before turning his attention to Francine then Baronet Beckwith, seeming to recall the conversation.

  “My brother can aptly handle that. He’s been training for it all his life. He is the heir, after all.”

  “Then you won’t be staying long?” I asked in a weak voice.

  My stomach sank. If he planned to leave, I’d have to move Heaven and Earth to secure a marriage proposal. Convincing men to fall in love took a Herculean effort, better suited to weeks rather than mere days.

  He answered, “Now that we’ve laid my father to rest, I’m due back on the continent by the middle of next week.”

  “So soon.” I counted the days. Five, at best, but some of those would be spent traveling. “Surely you’ll be granted a bit of leeway to grieve?”