And Then She Fell (Cynster 19 Cynster Sisters Duo #1) (11 page)

Cynsters marry for love.

I distrust gentlemen who vow love too readily.

James felt blindsided—hit in the head by not one but two punches, neither of which he’d seen coming. He hadn’t even thought that far . . . he looked at Henrietta. Shadows wreathed her face; he couldn’t make out her expression, much less read her eyes. “Ah . . .” The coward’s way out beckoned. “What do you think?”

She didn’t say anything for several long moments, then, in a tone that sounded odd, faintly strained, said, “As far as I know, she would make an excellent candidate.” She paused, then said, “I’ll have to check, of course, but of all the ladies you’ve met thus far, I suspect she should be at the top of your list, even before I ask around.”

So . . . she still thought he was searching for a bride? James’s head reeled as he scrambled to revisit all they’d said that evening, all they’d implied . . . or had it only been him thinking? Imagining?

He honestly didn’t know.

If he stated what he thought—what he’d assumed and hoped—would she laugh, and then balk and turn away?

“Perhaps . . . you can ask around.” At least that would mean he would see her again, and soon, by which time he might have sorted out what was going on. What was
really
going on between them.

Henrietta forced herself to nod, inexpressibly grateful that the shadows hid her face. Sternly repressing her hurt—and her stupid,
stupid
heart—she forced herself to calmly say, “I can understand why she might feel a need to know sooner rather than later. I’ll go and chat with the grandes dames—those who are here—immediately.” She dallied only long enough to say, “Perhaps you can meet me in the park tomorrow—I’ll be there with my mother and Mary in our carriage on the Avenue at eleven o’clock—and I’ll be able to tell you what I’ve learned.” In the park, with plenty of others about.

No more strolling with him alone; no more chance of another kiss to cause her further heartache.

She barely waited for his nod of agreement before turning and walking back up the terrace.

James forced himself to stay where he was and watch her go. And drink in the telltale signs—the elevated angle at which she held her head, the tension in her stride, the rigid line of her spine.

He’d got it wrong, hadn’t he?

When she stepped over the threshold and without a backward glance disappeared into the ballroom, he turned, stared out at the night, and swore.

Chapter Five

A
s instructed, James presented himself in the park the following morning and located Lady Louise Cynster’s carriage in the line of fashionable conveyances drawn up along the Avenue. Henrietta was sitting with her younger sister, Mary, on the rear-facing seat. Parasols deployed against the mild sunshine, both young ladies appeared to be idly scanning the lawns and the tonnish crowd strolling the sward while, seated opposite, their mother and old Lady Cowper chatted avidly.

Approaching from Henrietta’s back and still a dozen yards away, James paused beneath an elm to take stock. He had ground to make up, which was why he was there, but exactly how he was to win Henrietta over he hadn’t yet defined. His quest to find his necessary bride hadn’t changed, but the campaign he and Henrietta had devised was no longer relevant. That had fallen by
his
wayside, but how to communicate that to her—a Cynster who would, he was perfectly certain, only consent to marry for love—was a problem to which he’d yet to find an answer. He’d spent most of the night bludgeoning his brain into providing one, but in this matter—critical though it was—his imaginatively inventive rakish faculties, his usual unerring wolfish instincts, had been strangely silent. Indeed, uncooperative; when it came to Henrietta, his instincts urged a different approach entirely.

That was a large part of his problem. His instincts viewed her in a different light from any other lady he’d previously set his eye on. His instincts insisted that she was his, and regardless of what was required to make that so, his inner self thought he should just grit his teeth and do it. Securing her as his was, to that instinctive inner self, worth any sacrifice.

But there were some sacrifices a wise man did not meekly offer, did not readily make.

Especially not to a lady of Henrietta’s caliber, a strong-willed, intelligent, clear-sighted female.

Last night, quite aside from disrupting what had, until her appearance, been a highly encouraging evening, Miss Fotherby had reminded him of two immutable truths.

Cynsters married for love.

And gentlemen who vowed love too glibly were almost certain to be distrusted.

He had to somehow chart a course between those two rocks and convince Henrietta to smile upon his suit.

With that goal, at least, clear in his mind, he stirred and strode on to the Cynster carriage.

Henrietta knew James was approaching some moments before he appeared beside the carriage; she’d felt his gaze on her back and had had to fight the urge to look—too eagerly—around.

After the disappointment of last night, the dashing of her apparently unfounded hopes, she was determined to allow no sign of susceptibility to slip past her customary, no-nonsense façade. She intended to keep their interaction firmly focused on their mutual goal—on finding him his necessary bride.

Consequently, she met his eyes with an easy smile and inclined her head politely. “Mr. Glossup.”

His eyes met hers, studied them; for a fleeting instant he hesitated, then he nodded in reply and, lips curving, murmured a greeting, then turned to greet her mother and Lady Cowper.

Hands clasped about her parasol’s handle, Henrietta sat stiffly upright and watched critically as James deployed his usual charm, delighting her mother and Lady Cowper, glibly deflecting them from dwelling overlong on the incident at Marchmain House. But her mother would have none of it, roundly thanking him for his bravery in coming to her—Henrietta’s—aid. James accepted the accolades but quickly steered the talk into more general avenues. For which she was grateful; she’d had her fill of having to assure everyone that the accident hadn’t overset her nerves and scarred her for life.

With the older ladies satisfied, James turned to her and arched a brow. “Would you care to stroll the lawns, Miss Cynster?”

“Thank you, I would.” She shifted forward.

As James reached for the door, Sir Edward Compton, who’d been standing nearby and, it seemed, biding his moment, stepped forward and made his bow to Louise and Lady Cowper, then inquired if Mary might like to stroll as well.

The implication being with Henrietta and James. While Henrietta could stroll alone with a gentleman, Mary was still too young to be allowed such license, at least not in the park, directly under the censorious noses of the ton’s matrons.

Henrietta didn’t expect Mary to accept; her sister wasn’t one to waste time where she had no true interest, and Henrietta was sure Mary had no interest in mild-mannered Sir Edward, but after an instant’s pause, Mary smiled and inclined her head to Sir Edward. “Thank you, Sir Edward. I would be delighted to stroll on your arm.”

James opened the carriage door and handed Henrietta down, then Sir Edward stepped forward and performed the same office for Mary.

Mary smiled at him sweetly, placed her hand on his arm, and promptly steered him out over the lawn.

Mystified, her hand resting on James’s sleeve, Henrietta strolled beside him as they followed Mary and Sir Edward across the neatly clipped grass. Her gaze on Mary, Henrietta murmured, “I wonder what she’s up to.”

James glanced at her. “Why would you think she’s up to anything?”

Because otherwise Mary would not have done anything to interfere with Henrietta’s time alone with James . . . Henrietta tipped her head toward her sister. “Just wait—you’ll see.”

Sure enough, they hadn’t strolled far when Mary pointed ahead, spoke to Sir Edward, then looked over her shoulder to inform Henrietta and James, “Sir Edward and I are going to join that group over there. Miss Faversham and Miss Hawkins are there, too, and we’ll still be within sight of Mama and the carriages.”

Despite remaining unsaid, the words
so you don’t need to play chaperon
could not have been clearer.

Henrietta scanned the group in question. As well as Miss Faversham and Miss Hawkins, it contained several eligible young gentlemen, chief among them the Honorable Julius Gatling and Lord Randolph Cavanaugh, second son of the late Marquess of Raventhorne, yet the company was suitable and innocuous enough. Henrietta nodded. “Very well. I’m sure Sir Edward can be trusted to return you to the carriage in due course.”

Mary smiled beatifically at the clearly smitten Sir Edward. “You will escort me back in due course, won’t you, Sir Edward?”

Henrietta inwardly snorted and didn’t bother listening to Sir Edward’s earnestly bumbling reply. She had business to which she needed to attend; meeting James’s eyes, she arched a brow. “Might I suggest we stroll on and find a place where I can tell you what I’ve learned thus far about Miss Fotherby?”

Somewhat to her surprise, his lips tightened fractionally, but he nodded and led her on.

Once past the knots of younger ladies and gentlemen dotting the areas adjacent to the carriages, the lawns were much less crowded, and it was possible to stroll and converse freely without fear of being overheard. Turning her to promenade parallel to the avenue, now at some distance, James finally asked, “So what have you learned?”

“Miss Fotherby’s case is exactly as she stated it. Apparently her mother has an unfounded and unreasoning fear that her second husband will be captivated by Miss Fotherby and transfer his affection from mother to daughter. No one who knows the family believes this to be the case, but as you might imagine it’s made Miss Fotherby’s situation very difficult. Consequently, she is seeking a husband so she may leave her stepfather’s house, and Miss Fotherby’s mama has, of course, insisted on remaining in the country, keeping her husband with her, and has packed Miss Fotherby off to find her own way forward under her aunt’s aegis.”

Glancing at James, Henrietta saw his lips twist. Looking ahead as they strolled on, he murmured, “So Miss Fotherby is something of a damsel in distress who needs saving?”

Henrietta inclined her head. “You could paint her in that light.”

And in so doing . . . Henrietta had no difficulty seeing that James might consider rescuing Miss Fotherby, while simultaneously rescuing himself and his people from the requirement imposed by his grandaunt’s will, to be a reasonable bargain all around.

Yet she had to be impartial, and impartiality demanded she report on Miss Fotherby favorably. From all Henrietta had gathered in the short time she’d had the previous evening, Miss Fotherby possessed a spotless, entirely blameless reputation, and the difficulty she found herself currently facing was no fault of hers. Henrietta had heard not one adverse comment against Miss Fotherby, which left her with the unenviable conviction that both duty and honor dictated that she assist both James and Miss Fotherby by reporting the unvarnished truth, and subsequently, if James was so inclined, by fostering a match between them.

Both he and Miss Fotherby deserved no less.

Even if fostering a match between them was the very last thing she wanted to do.

They’d been strolling in silence. After a moment more, James asked, “Did you learn anything else?”

While Henrietta reported, in careful and neutral terms, what she’d thus far gleaned as to Miss Fotherby’s standing, character, and personality, James found himself increasingly biting his tongue.

He wanted to ask Henrietta point-blank whether she truly wanted him to marry Miss Fotherby.

He wanted, badly, to ask the confusing female walking so fluidly—so confidently and easily—by his side what she’d thought about the kiss they’d shared. Whether she’d felt anything at all—anything like the cataclysmic and ineradicable shift in focus that that kiss had imposed on him—and whether, just possibly, she might consider marrying him herself.

He wanted to ask her all those things—wanted to look into her soft blue eyes and say the words, direct and without any obfuscation—but he couldn’t.

Not while she was strolling beside him singing Miss Fotherby’s praises and all but specifically encouraging him to look at Miss Fotherby as his prospective bride.

Confusion wasn’t the half of what he felt. Frustration roiled, mixing with a wholly unfamiliar panicky fear—a fear of not acting and through that losing her, which itself was solidly counteracted and blocked, stymied, by the weight on his shoulders and the horrible prospect raised by the question, What if she said no?

If he asked, and Henrietta refused him . . .

“I’ll inquire further at the teas this afternoon, but I suspect Miss Fotherby really will prove to be the most outstanding candidate.”

His temper snapped and flicked him on the raw. Goaded, he said, his tone terse and harsh, “All right. Enough of Miss Fotherby.” He looked at Henrietta. “Who else should I look at?”

Me. Say,
Me
.

She’d been looking down while she’d been speaking; now she drew in a deep breath as if girding her loins—and his heart leapt in hope.

“Well, we still have Miss Chisolm and Miss Downtree on the list, so I’ll ask after them, too.”

Hope crashed and died on the rocks of futility. The deflation that hit him left him feeling hollowed out inside.

“And you really should look further afield—we have Lady Hamilton’s ball tonight, and that’ll be another crush, so we may well find more suitable candidates there.” Raising her gaze from the grass, Henrietta was about to glance up at James—unsure of what might show in her own eyes, she hadn’t allowed herself to do so while speaking of Miss Fotherby—but as her gaze rose, she saw the lady in question standing a little deeper into the park and speaking with a very recognizable gentleman: Rafe Cunningham, gazetted rake, profligate gambler, and all-around hedonist.

The pair weren’t conversing; they were facing each other, several feet apart, and Rafe was clearly arguing. Hotly. Miss Fotherby had her back to Henrietta and James, but from the angle of her head, and her gestures, she was arguing just as hotly back.