He ignored her slight sarcasm and said, “Brides are considered to be good luck, and many centuries ago young women who wanted a piece of that luck tried quite literally to get a piece of it by tearing off bits of her gown.”
“That’s barbaric!” Frances exclaimed.
He smiled at her outburst. “I can only deduce that some clever soul realized that if the bride could offer a different token of her romantic success, it might prove beneficial to her health and well-being.”
“I should say so,” Frances said. “Think of all the brides who must have been trampled.”
Sarah chuckled and reached out to take what was left of her cake. Frances had made significant progress on the icing. Hugh started to tell her to take his; he’d already had a piece back when he’d been watching her dance. But with his leg on the table, he couldn’t bend forward enough to slide his plate in front of hers.
So he just watched as she took a bite and listened while Frances chattered on about nothing in particular. He felt remarkably content, and he might have even closed his eyes briefly, until he heard Frances say:
“You’ve got a bit of icing.”
He opened his eyes.
“Right here,” Frances was saying to Sarah, motioning to her own mouth.
There were no napkins; Frances hadn’t thought to bring them. Sarah’s tongue darted out of her mouth and licked the corner of her lips.
Her tongue. Her lips.
His downfall.
Hugh yanked his foot off the table and came awkwardly to his feet.
“Is something wrong?” Sarah asked.
“Please give my apologies to Lady Chatteris,” he said stiffly. “I know she wanted me to wait for her, but I really do need to rest my leg.”
Sarah blinked with confusion. “Weren’t you just—”
“It’s different,” he interrupted, even thought it wasn’t, really.
“Oh,” she said, and it was a very ambiguous oh. She could have been surprised or delighted or even disappointed. He couldn’t hear the difference. And the truth was, he shouldn’t want to be able to hear it, because he had no business lusting for a woman like Lady Sarah Pleinsworth.
No business at all.
Chapter Ten
The next morning
The Fensmore drive was one long line of carriages as wedding guests prepared to depart Cambridgeshire and travel southwest to Berkshire, more specifically to Whipple Hill, the country home of the Earls of Winstead. It would be, as Sarah had once put it, the Great and Terrible Caravan of British Aristocracy. (Harriet had, quill in hand, insisted that such a term required capitalization.)
As London was only a bit out of the way, some of the guests who had been relegated to the nearby inns chose to return to town. But most had elected to turn the dual celebration into a three-week-long traveling house party.
“Good gracious,” Lady Danbury had declared upon receiving her invitations to both weddings, “do they really think I’m going to reopen my town house for ten days between weddings?”
No one had dared to point out that Lady Danbury’s country estate was located in Surrey, which was even more directly between Fensmore and Whipple Hill than London.
But Lady Danbury’s point was a valid one. The ton was a far-flung society this time of year, with most people in the north or the west, or more pertinently, somewhere other than Cambridgeshire and Berkshire and points between. Hardly anyone saw reason in opening their London houses for less than two weeks when they could enjoy the hospitality of someone else.
Although it must be said, that opinion was not shared by everyone.
“Remind me,” Hugh said to Daniel Smythe-Smith as they walked through Fensmore’s entrance hall, “why am I not going home?”
It was a three-day journey from Fensmore to Whipple Hill, two if one wanted to push it, which no one did. Hugh supposed it meant less overall time in a carriage than returning to London and then heading out to Berkshire a week later, but still, it was going to be a mad journey. Someone (Hugh was not sure who—it certainly wasn’t Daniel; he’d never had a head for such things) had plotted the route, marked all the inns (along with how many rooms each held) and figured out where everyone must sleep.
Hugh hoped no one not planning to attend the Chatteris-Smythe-Smith-Wynter weddings was out on the roads this week because there would not be a room to be had.
“You’re not going home because your home is dull,” Daniel told him with a slap to his back. “And you don’t own a carriage, so if you were to return to London, you’d have to find a seat with one of my mother’s friends.”
Hugh opened his mouth to speak, but Daniel wasn’t done yet. “And that’s to say nothing of getting to Whipple Hill from London. There might be room with my mother’s former nanny, but if not, you could try booking a seat on the mail coach.”
“Are you done?” Hugh asked.
Daniel held up a finger as if he had one last thing to say, then brought it back down. “Yes,” he said.
“You are a cruel man.”
“I speak the truth,” Daniel replied. “Besides, why wouldn’t you want to come to Whipple Hill?”
Hugh could think of one reason.
“The festivities begin as soon as we arrive,” Daniel continued. “It shall be continuous and magnificent frivolity until the wedding.”
It was difficult to imagine a man with a soul lighter and more filled with joy than Daniel Smythe-Smith’s. Hugh knew that part of this was due to Daniel’s upcoming nuptials with the beautiful Miss Wynter, but truthfully, Daniel had always been a man who made friends easily and laughed often.
Knowing that he had destroyed the life of such a man, Hugh had found it that much more difficult when Daniel had been exiled to Europe. Hugh was still amazed that Daniel had returned to his position in England with grace and good humor. Most men would have burned for revenge.
But Daniel had thanked him. He had thanked him for finding him in Italy, and then he had thanked him for calling off his father’s witch hunt, and then finally, he had thanked him for his friendship.
There was nothing, Hugh thought, that he would not do for this man.
“What would you do in London, anyway?” Daniel asked, motioning for Hugh to follow him down the drive. “Sit about and do sums in your head?”
Hugh gave him a look.
“I tease because I admire.”
“Really.”
“It’s a brilliant skill,” Daniel insisted.
“Even if it did get you shot and run out of the country?” Hugh asked. It was true what he’d said to Lady Sarah—sometimes gallows humor was the only choice.
Daniel stopped in his tracks, and his expression turned somber.
“You do realize,” Hugh said, “that my aptitude with numbers is precisely the reason I have always excelled at cards.”
Daniel’s eyes seemed to darken, and when he blinked, his face took on an air of quiet resignation. “It’s done, Prentice,” he said. “It’s over, and our lives are restored.”
Yours is, Hugh thought, then loathed himself for thinking it.
“We were both idiots,” Daniel said quietly.
“We may have both been idiots,” Hugh replied, “but only one of us called for the duel.”
“I did not have to accept.”
“Of course you did. You wouldn’t have been able to show your face if you had not.” It was a stupid code of honor among the young gentlemen of London, but it was sacrosanct. If a man was accused of cheating at cards, he had to defend himself.
Daniel placed his hand on Hugh’s shoulder. “I have forgiven you, and you, I think, have forgiven me.”
Hugh had not, in fact, but that was only because there was nothing to forgive.
“What I wonder,” Daniel continued softly, “is if you have forgiven yourself.”
Hugh did not reply, and Daniel did not press him to. Instead, his voice returned to its previous jovial tones, and he declared, “Let us go to Whipple Hill. We shall eat, some
of us shall drink, and we shall all be merry.”
Hugh gave a brief nod. Daniel no longer drank spirits. He said he had not touched them since that fateful night. Hugh sometimes thought he should follow his example, but there were evenings when he needed something to take the teeth out of the pain.
“Besides,” Daniel said, “you have to be there early, anyway. I’ve decided you must join the wedding party.”
That stopped Hugh cold. “I beg your pardon?”
“Marcus shall be my best man, of course, but I think I need a few more gentlemen to stand up for me. Anne has a veritable flotilla of ladies.”
Hugh swallowed, wishing he weren’t so damned uncomfortable accepting such an honor. Because it was an honor, and he wanted to say that he was grateful, and it meant so much to him, and he’d forgotten just how steadying it felt to have a true friend.
But all he could manage was a jerky nod. He hadn’t been lying to Sarah the day before. He didn’t know how to accept compliments graciously. He supposed one had to think one deserved them.
“It’s settled then,” Daniel said. “Oh, and by the by, I’ve found you a spot in my favorite carriage.”
“What does that mean?” Hugh asked suspiciously. They’d exited the house and were nearly down the steps to the drive.
“Let’s see,” Daniel said, ignoring his query. “Right . . . there.” He motioned with a flick of his hand to a relatively small black carriage fifth in line down the drive. There was no crest, but it was clearly well made and cared for. Probably the secondary coach of one of the noble families.
“Whose carriage is that?” Hugh demanded. “Tell me you did not put me with Lady Danbury.”
“I did not put you with Lady Danbury,” Daniel replied, “although truth be told, she would probably be an excellent traveling companion.”
“Who, then?”
“Climb up and see.”
Hugh had spent an entire afternoon and most of a night convincing himself that his crazed lust for Sarah Pleinsworth had been brought on by momentary madness which had been brought on by . . . something. Maybe more momentary madness. However it had happened, a full day at close quarters with her could not be a good idea.
“Winstead,” he said in a warning voice. “Not your cousin. I’m telling you, I’ve already—”
“Do you know how many cousins I have? Do you really think you could avoid all of them?”
“Winstead.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve put you with the best of the lot, I promise.”
“Why do I feel as if I’m being led to slaughter?”
“Well,” Daniel admitted, “you will be outnumbered.”
Hugh swung around. “What?”
“Here we are!”
Hugh looked up just as Daniel wrenched open the door.
“Ladies,” Daniel said grandly.
Out popped a head. “Lord Hugh!”
It was Lady Frances.
“Lord Hugh.”
“Lord Hugh.”
And her sisters, apparently. Although not, as far as Hugh could tell, Lady Sarah.
Hugh finally exhaled.
“Some of my finest hours have been spent with these three ladies,” Daniel said.
“I believe today’s journey is to be nine hours,” Hugh said dryly.
“It will be nine very fine hours.” Daniel leaned closer. “But if I might offer some advice,” he whispered, “don’t try to follow everything they say. You’ll get vertigo.”
Hugh paused on the step up. “What?”
“In you go!” Daniel gave him a push. “We shall see you when we stop for our luncheon.”
Hugh opened his mouth to protest, but Daniel had already slammed the door shut.
Hugh glanced about the interior of the coach. Harriet and Elizabeth sat facing forward, a large pile of books and papers on the seat between them. Harriet was trying to balance a lap desk on her knees and had a quill tucked behind her ear.
“Wasn’t that nice of Daniel to put you in the coach with us?” Frances said, as soon as Hugh had settled into his seat next to her. Or rather, it was a bit before he was settled; he was coming to realize that she was not a particularly patient child.
“Indeed,” Hugh murmured. He supposed he was thankful, actually. Better Lady Frances than some stuffy old lady or a gentleman with a cheroot. And surely her sisters would be tolerable.
“I asked him specially,” Frances continued. “I had such a nice time at the wedding yesterday.” She turned to her sisters. “We ate cake together.”
“I saw,” Elizabeth said.
“Do you mind riding backwards?” Frances asked. “Harriet and Elizabeth both get sick if they do.”
“Frances!” Elizabeth protested.
“It’s true. What would be more embarrassing, my telling Lord Hugh that you get sick from riding backwards, or actually getting sick from riding backwards?”
“I would prefer the former myself,” Hugh said.
“Are you going to chatter the whole way?” Harriet asked. Of the three, she looked the most like Sarah. Her hair was a few shades lighter, but the shape of her face was the same, and so was her smile. She looked at Hugh with a hint of embarrassment. “I beg your pardon. I was addressing my sisters, of course. Not you.”
“Think nothing of it,” he said with a light smile. “But as it happens, I don’t intend to chatter the whole way.”
“I was planning to write,” Harriet continued, moving a small sheaf of papers onto her lap desk.
“You can’t do that,” Elizabeth said. “You’ll get ink everywhere.”
“No, I won’t. I’m developing a new technique.”
“For writing in the carriage?”
“It involves less ink. I promise. And did anyone remember to pack biscuits? I always get hungry before we stop for lunch.”
“Frances brought some. And you know Mother will have a fit if you get ink on—”
“Watch your elbows, Frances.”
“So sorry, Lord Hugh. I hope that didn’t hurt. And I didn’t bring any biscuits. I thought Elizabeth was going to do so.”
“Did you sit on my doll?”
“Oh, bother. I knew I should have eaten a bigger breakfast. Stop looking at me like that. I’m not going to get ink on the cush—”
“Your doll is right here. How does one use less ink?”
Hugh could only stare. There appeared to be sixteen different conversations going on at once. With only three participants.
“Well, I just jot down the main ideas—”
“Do the main ideas have unicorns?”
Hugh had been completely unable to track who was saying what until that.
“Not the unicorns again,” Elizabeth groaned. She looked over at Hugh and said, “Please forgive my sister. She is obsessed with unicorns.”
Hugh glanced down at Frances. She’d gone rigid with anger and was glaring at her sister. He didn’t really blame her; Elizabeth’s tone had been as older-sibling as it got, two parts condescension and one part derision. And while he didn’t really hold that against her—he would have been the same at her age, he was sure—he was seized by a sudden urge to be a little girl’s hero.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been anyone’s hero.
“I rather like unicorns,” he said.
Elizabeth looked stunned. “You do?”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t everyone?”
“Yes, but you don’t believe in them,” Elizabeth said. “Frances thinks they are real.”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Frances eyeing him nervously.
“I certainly cannot prove that they don’t exist,” he said.
Frances let out a squeak.
Elizabeth looked as if she’d been staring into the sun too long.
“Lord Hugh,” Frances said, “I—”
“Mama!”
Frances stopped midsentence and they all looked toward the carriage door. It was Sarah’s voice, just outside the carriage, and she did
not sound happy.
“Do you think she’s going to ride with us?” Elizabeth whispered.
“Well, she did on the way here,” Harriet replied.
Lady Sarah. In the carriage. Hugh was not sure he could imagine a more diabolical torture.
“It’s here with your sisters or with Arthur and Rupert,” came the voice of Lady Pleinsworth. “I’m sorry, but we just don’t have room in . . .”
“I won’t get to sit with you,” Frances told Hugh apologetically. “They won’t all three fit on the other side.”
Lady Sarah would be sitting next to him. Apparently there was a more diabolical torture.
“Don’t worry,” Harriet assured him, “Sarah doesn’t get sick riding backwards.”
“No, it’s fine,” they all heard Sarah say, “I don’t mind riding with them, but I was hoping—”
The door was wrenched open. Sarah was already halfway up the step, her back to the carriage as she continued to speak with her mother. “It’s just that I’m tired, and—”
“It’s time to depart,” Lady Pleinsworth cut in firmly. She gave her daughter a little shove. “I won’t be the one to hold everyone up.”
Sarah let out an impatient exhale as she backed into the carriage and turned around and—
Saw him.
“Good morning,” Hugh said.
Her mouth hung open in surprise.
“I’ll move over,” Frances grumbled. She got up and moved across the carriage, trying to take the window seat from Elizabeth before ending up, arms crossed, in the center.
“Lord Hugh,” Sarah said, clearly at a loss. “I, ehrm . . . What are you doing here?”
“Don’t be rude,” Frances scolded.
“I’m not being rude. I’m just surprised.” She sat down in the spot Frances had vacated. “And curious.”
Hugh reminded himself that she had no idea what had happened the day before. Because nothing had happened. It had all been in his head. And perhaps a few other parts of his body. But the important thing was, she didn’t know, and she would never know, because it was going to go away.
Momentary madness, by definition, was momentary.
All the same, it took some effort not to notice that her hip was only a few inches from his.