And Then She Fell (Cynster 19 Cynster Sisters Duo #1) (9 page)

James glanced down at her. “She’s too thin.”

Henrietta blinked. “I wouldn’t have labeled her thin—fashionably willowy, perhaps.”

“Thin,” James insisted; when she glanced up, he’d looked ahead, but she saw his jaw set. “And she’s too young. Not Miss Chester.”

She arched her brows and looked ahead, too. “Very well. Admittedly she is rather young.”

They continued slowly strolling about the conservatory. When it came to him, she wasn’t sure what she wanted anymore—no, she did know. She wanted to learn what he had meant by holding her hand all the way home last night. How was she supposed to interpret that? Yet this morning he hadn’t alluded to those moments, or to any . . . connection between them, not in any way. When in the carriage on the way to Osterley Park she’d talked gaily about the prospects of gaining more names for his list, he’d only grunted and let her rattle on.

So what was she to think?

What was she to make of it all—of the necklace, and him?

After several minutes of silence, she drew breath and said, “Thus far we have Miss Chisolm and Miss Downtree on our list—we really need to expand our horizons. You can’t have a viable short list with only two names.” She’d offered to help him find his necessary bride, and she would fulfill her self-imposed obligation.

“I have to wonder if keeping as short a short list as possible isn’t a sensible strategy. That way, I won’t have to try to remember the attributes of too many females all at once. You must know that male brains aren’t as capable as female ones when it comes to recalling details.”

Henrietta would have scoffed, but Lady Jersey appeared and clapped her hands. “Come along, everyone! It’s time to set out. We’ll be using the bluebell dell today. I know several of you know the way, so please”—her ladyship waved them to the doors at the end of the conservatory—“do lead on.”

The guests formed into chattering groups as they exited the conservatory.

“I take it you know the way to this dell?” James inquired as he and Henrietta brought up the rear.

“Yes. It’s a frequent site for Lady Jersey’s picnics.” Henrietta looked ahead. “Not that there’s any danger of anyone getting lost. We just follow the path and everyone else, and when we find the picnic hampers and rugs, along with the footmen, we stop.”

James choked on a laugh.

But he quickly lost all inclination to humor; a Miss Quilley and her mother, spying him and Henrietta ambling in the rear, dropped back to walk with them, and better display Miss Quilley’s charms. Such as they were.

Not having any great fondness for artlessly vapid conversation, James wasn’t impressed, but at Henrietta’s warning glance, he hid his disapprobation behind his customary ready charm.

But the necessity irked. And the subtle abrasion of social demands trumping his inclinations, and his instincts, only grew worse.

They reached Lady Jersey’s “bluebell dell,” a large clearing dotted, it was true, with bluebells, albeit a little past their prime. Picnic rugs had been spread beneath the circling trees, and hampers lay with their contents enticingly displayed, inviting the guests to lounge and partake. But the current fashion for rustic charm extended only so far; the paths leading to and out of the dell passed through largely formal gardens and structured landscapes. The illusion of being in the countryside was wafer-thin—quite aside from the liveried footmen who stood beneath the trees, ready to assist with the opening of a wine bottle and the consequent pouring of libations, or providing any other help her ladyship’s guests required.

James lounged on a rug beside Henrietta and suffered the company of a Mrs. Curtis, her daughter, and her niece while munching on chicken and duck, and sipping some rather thin champagne. He kept his charming persona to the fore, smiling and chatting with his customary facility, yet his mind remained distanced from the conversations, engaged with a far more pertinent consideration.

He didn’t precisely
wish
to dwell on what he felt for Henrietta—in the manner of his kind, he felt thinking too much about that subject only gave it more power—yet he knew what he felt, and given he felt so, how could he continue to pursue some other young lady to fill the position of his necessary bride . . . as Henrietta, apparently, intended he should?

What did her encouragement in that direction mean?

Had she glimpsed his . . .
regard
for her, perhaps through the fraught moments of the previous night, and subsequently decided that encouraging him to look elsewhere was a gentle way of dismissing his pretensions?

He felt her gaze, glanced at her, and saw she was looking pointedly at him—one step away from a glare.

Correctly interpreting the blankness in his eyes, she informed him, “Mrs. Curtis, Miss Curtis, and Miss Mayfair are moving on.”

Thank heaven!
“Oh—sorry. Temporarily woolgathering.” Rising, he summoned his usual easy smile and beamed it at the three ladies as he assisted them to their feet. “It’s been a delight chatting with you all.”

All three smiled and made their farewells, but from the look she cast him, Mrs. Curtis hadn’t been fooled.

Henrietta opened her mouth—no doubt to upbraid him—but instead had to shut her lips and smile as Miss Cadogan and her aunt, Lady Fisher, arrived to replace the Curtis party on the other end of their large rug.

And so it went, with group after group shifting around the dell, chatting and sharing news, and assessing—as he was supposed to be doing—with matrimonial intent. There were several other gentlemen present patently engaged to varying degrees in the same endeavor, so he didn’t feel quite so exposed.

Regardless, courtesy of the revelations of the previous night, he had precious little interest in pursuing their campaign. Instead, he took every opportunity to try to see past Henrietta’s expression—to discover some hint of what she thought in her fine eyes—but to no avail; she had a strong, well-developed social mask, and she kept it firmly in place.

He’d almost reached the point of deciding that any degree of revelation stemming from the previous night had been all on his part and none at all on hers, when they were joined by the too-thin and too-young Miss Chester and her aunt. Mrs. Julian engaged Henrietta, drawing in Mrs. Entwhistle, who’d been passing; the three ladies were soon deep in an exchange concerning the recent spate of political marriages, and the implications of King William’s failing health.

At first James and Miss Chester pretended to listen, but then Miss Chester turned her bright eyes on James and shifted closer. “I’m not terribly riveted by politics, are you?”

He saw no point in obfuscation. “Not at the moment.”

“Perhaps”—Miss Chester glanced around the clearing—“you and I might go for a stroll.” She met his eyes. “Just the pair of us, as we aren’t truly interested in all the gossip.”

The avid light in her eyes set alarm bells ringing in James’s head. Few others had left the dell, and from what he’d seen, those had been the older young ladies, like Henrietta, not the sweet young things like Miss Chester.

And call him old-fashioned, but he hadn’t heard that it was yet common practice for young ladies to proposition gentlemen. Especially not gentlemen like him.

But how to refuse her without being overly blunt?

James glanced around for inspiration but found none. “Perhaps in a little while, if others are of a mind to ramble, too.”

Miss Chester pouted. Literally pouted. James suspected she thought it looked endearing; it made him want to leave—he had not agreed to deal with spoilt, overeager young beauties.

“Oh, I don’t think we need to wait.” Miss Chester shifted closer still and laid a hand on his sleeve. “Why,” she cooed, “I’m sure we can find something of interest to pass the time, away from all these others.” She caught his gaze—rigidly unresponsive—and all but batted her lashes. “I’ve heard the gardens are extensive. I’m sure we can find some quiet path along which to wander . . .”

He honestly couldn’t recall ever being so blatantly propositioned in his life. “I daresay.” Enough was enough. “However—” He bit the word off, along with the rest of what was possibly a too-strongly worded rejection, and sent an entirely instinctive, helpless look Henrietta’s way.

She was looking and caught it. Then her gaze dropped to Miss Chester’s hand, lightly gripping his sleeve . . .

Henrietta noted in that part of her brain that had grown obsessed with James and his reactions that he’d stiffened, holding rigid against Miss Chester’s entreaty, but it wasn’t simply protectiveness that surged through her and had her turning to Mrs. Julian and Mrs. Entwhistle and saying, “Indeed, it’s all quite fascinating, but sadly, Mr. Glossup and I must be on our way.” An appropriately social smile curving her lips, she met Mrs. Julian’s eyes, saw the flash of irritation therein, and evenly stated, “We have other engagements in town and should start back. If you’ll excuse us?”

James promptly got to his feet, helped her to hers, and joined with her in making their farewells. As she turned from the three ladies—leaving two, at least, metaphorically gnashing their teeth—he offered his arm.

She took it. As they strolled away from the trio, he whispered sotto voce, “Are we really leaving?”

The hope in his tone was impossible to miss. Smothering a laugh, she replied, “Of course,” and waved him toward their hostess.

Lady Jersey wasn’t the least surprised to learn they had some other engagement. “Why, of course, my dears—you must be in
such
demand.”

Duly taking their leave, Henrietta directed James down a secondary path. As he led her out of the clearing, she glanced up at him. “You really didn’t enjoy this, did you?”

He grimaced. “The thing with being a wolf of the ton, you see, is that we avoid all such affairs when we’re younger, so now I’m . . . well, you might say ‘constitutionally unsuited’ to such entertainments. I’m all the time thinking that I’d much rather be somewhere else.”

She snorted. “Knowing Simon, I can believe that.”

Looking down, she wondered if that was it—she was Simon’s sister, after all. Was that why James had been so protective at Marchmain House? Was that why he’d held her hand all the way home—purely to comfort her? It had been a comfort, but . . . she’d thought it might have meant more, but perhaps that was just wishful, necklace-induced thinking.

The jewelry in question lay about her throat; she could feel the warmth that seemed to emanate from the beads and pendant. Strangely, she only ever noticed that when James was about.

Yet it was she who was wearing the necklace, not him; there was no reason to imagine it would have any effect on him. No reason to suppose he was thinking of her in any light other than as Simon’s sister, The Matchbreaker, who had broken up the match he’d arranged, and then, once she’d learned of his noble reasons for seeking a bride, had offered to help him find a suitable lady.

“Aah . . . do you know where we’re going?” James glanced around, but the path they’d been following had led them into a long walk bordered by thickly growing laurel hedges taller than him. They could see down the walk, or look back to where they’d turned into it, but he couldn’t see beyond in any other direction.

Henrietta glanced around as if only just noticing where they were. “This is a secondary route back to the house. If we just keep going, we’ll reach there soon enough.”

James wondered . . . “Secondary . . . so the others won’t be coming up on our heels?”

“Probably not. The mamas and matrons will opt for the shorter way, taking most of the young ladies, which means most of the gentlemen will take that path, too.”

So they were, for the moment, more or less alone. Out of sight of anyone. James drew in a breath. “Henrietta?”

“Mmm?”

He halted, and when she halted, too, and, drawing her hand from his sleeve, turned to face him, he . . . knew what he wanted to ask, but his courage abruptly deserted him. He’d been searching all day for some sign of her true view of him; when she’d leapt so decisively to his aid over Miss Chester, he’d thought—hoped that perhaps . . .

Moistening his lips, his eyes on hers, he heard himself say, “I was wondering . . . about kisses.”

She stared at him. “Kisses?”

“Yes.” He pointed at himself. “Wolf of the ton, remember?” He’d had no idea his past would prove so useful.

She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Well, you see, there are kisses, and”—he lowered his voice—“
kisses
. I was wondering, with young ladies, what was acceptable? What degree, so to speak.”

The look on her face told him more clearly than words that she had no clue how to answer him.

Which was exactly as he’d hoped. “Perhaps,” he suggested, and prayed she’d swallow the line, “I could demonstrate. So you could see the difference between what I imagine a ‘young lady’ kiss might be, as distinct from a ‘seducing an experienced matron’ kiss.”

Naturally, she looked suspicious, but he’d expected that. He sighed. “Yes, I know it’s a bit much to ask, but you did offer to help me, and how else am I supposed to find out? If I get it wrong, I might shock some young lady out of her stays.”

She snorted. “Most young ladies don’t wear stays, as you very well know.”

He widened his eyes at her and managed to keep a straight face. “Actually, I didn’t know—wolf of the ton, if you recall. Experienced matrons are the standard fare for such as I—as you well know—and, in general, I assure you they do wear stays.” His eyes on hers, he smoothly continued, “But we aren’t here to talk about stays.”

Eyes narrowing fractionally, she studied him, but then—
yes!
—gave a small nod. “All right. One kiss—one young lady kiss. Just enough for me to be able to tell you if you’ve judged it wrongly.”

His lips curved—and if there was a greater degree of triumph in the gesture than there should have been, she didn’t get a chance to register it. Looping an arm about her waist, he drew her close—not too close—as close as he judged she would allow, while with his other hand he tipped up her chin, and before she’d managed to catch her breath enough to even squeak, he swooped and set his lips to hers.