Lord Dearborn's Destiny (12 page)

As he had hoped, she chuckled aloud. "If you were to invite him personally to do so, I doubt she would dare to gainsay you. I dare swear you might even prevail on
her
to play a hand or two, if she thought it would please you."

Lord Dearborn smiled. "I would far rather induce
you
to play, Miss O'Day. I promise to keep the stakes low."

She sketched him a mock curtsy. "Then I shall look forward to it, my lord."

His attention was drawn off then by Mrs. Winston- Fitts, who had a question about the extent of the gardens. It apparently did not suit her in the least that he had spoken to her niece before paying proper homage to her daughter.

"I have no doubt my mother will be delighted to take you on a tour of the gardens tomorrow, ma'am," he said in answer to her query, "for they are her especial pride. In fact, I suspect that it was partly in hopes of showing them off that she arranged this little party."

The Countess immediately launched into a discussion of the glories to be found in the gardens of Huntington Park, promising to guide anyone interested on a full exploration of them on the morrow. "You
must
see my roses, ma'am," she assured Mrs. Winston-Fitts. "I have been told that they rival those at Malmaison."

A short time later, after the arrival of Lady Emma Childs and her daughter from London, the tea tray was brought in for the refreshment of the assembled company. At the heels of the footman trotted two coal-black cats, their attention riveted on the treats he carried.

"Charm! Token! Come here, my pussums! " cooed Lady Dearborn. "Did you manage to escape from Mrs. Hutchins? So clever, my pets, but naughty, naughty!" Gathering the pair onto her lap, she turned apologetically to her guests. "They really are not allowed in here, but they
will
slip away to find me. I generally take tea in my rooms with all my pussies, and Charm and Token have quite come to depend upon me to share little titbits with them."

So saying, she proceeded to break off bits of salmon from a sandwich to feed to her little friends, though she was firm that they eat it on the floor rather than her skirts. Once they had received their due, one cat jumped back to its mistress's lap to curl up for a nap, while the other curiously explored the unfamiliar room and its equally interesting occupants. One or two people offered the cat a crust, but it would not deign to take anything from anyone but the Countess. After winding in and out among the chair legs with feline grace, it finally selected a suitable lap: Rosalind's.

"Here, puss, puss! You are Token, are you not?" Ellie moved quickly, intercepting the cat just before it landed on her cousin's lap. The startled animal extended its claws, but retracted them immediately as she began to stroke it behind the ears. A rumbling purr emerged from its throat.

The Countess, clearly quite observant, noted Rosalind's white, strained face and asked, "My dear, do you not care for cats?" There was just a hint of alarm in her voice.

Rosalind stammered something inaudible before Mrs. Winston-Fitts broke in. "My daughter has not much experience with them, my lady, that is all," she said hastily. "No doubt she will grow accustomed to them in time." She looked at the cat Ellie held as she spoke, and her lip unconsciously curled in distaste.

"How could you possibly know that was Token, Miss O'Day?" demanded Lord Dearborn, seemingly unaware of the sudden strained silence. "I vow, I can never tell them apart."

"His eyes are golden, while Charm's are more green," she replied, grateful to him for deflecting the Countess's and her aunt's attention from Rosalind and her discomfort. "I noticed it when your mother introduced them."

"Why, how clever of you, my dear!" exclaimed Lady Dearborn, obviously eager to put the awkward moment behind them. "I daresay you are the only one in the house besides myself to have noticed that!"

The tension effectively broken, the conversation swelled again to the volume it had enjoyed before the entrance of the cats.
 

The Countess breathed a sigh of relief. It was obvious that Miss Winston-Fitts was more than a little nervous of her precious pussies, and she didn't care to think what might have happened had Token actually landed in her lap. She was pleased that her guests had not been so discomfited, and knew that she owed the smoothing over to her son and, even more, to the quick-witted Miss O'Day.
 

As Forrest continued his conversation with the little brunette, Lady Dearborn regarded her with sudden interest.
 

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"F
ORREST
,
IS
there any gentleman friend of yours that you'd care to invite out before my little ball next week?" asked the Countess that night as she prepared for bed, having summoned her son to her boudoir. "Lady Emma had hinted that she and Prudence would not be coming, but here they are, after all, and now my numbers are off. We need two more gentlemen. The vicar will do for one, but I can think of no one else in the neighbourhood."

Forrest gently dislodged a calico cat from the purple velvet settee and seated himself, steepling his fingers thoughtfully. "As a matter of fact, Mother, there is. Sir George Bellamy. I met him at Lady Sefton's— decent chap, very likable. A neighbour of the Winston-Fittses, I believe."

Lady Dearborn directed a searching gaze at her son. "An admirer of your Rosalind, perchance, or of Miss O'Day? By the bye, I like that girl," she informed him.
 

"Which one, ma'am?"

"Well, both of them, of course, but I was referring to Miss O'Day. She showed great presence of mind this afternoon, as well as an understanding of cats. I don't know that
I'd
have realized in time what Token meant to do, and certainly I'd not have been quick enough to prevent it. Why did you not warn me that your Miss Winston-Fitts was afraid of cats?"

"I had no notion of it. It was not a subject that naturally arose in our conversations."

"Nor did many others, I'll be bound," surmised the Countess. "She hasn't much to say for herself, has she?"

"I believe she shows a very becoming modesty, not putting herself forward as so many young ladies are wont to do." It was Forrest's turn to watch his mother. She was only echoing what his own thoughts had frequently been, especially of late, but he felt obliged to defend Rosalind nonetheless.

"Perhaps you are right. I can scarcely claim to know the girl yet, though certainly she is lovely enough. The two of you would have the most beautiful golden-haired children..." Her words trailed off as she imagined the prospect.

"You go too fast, Mother," Forrest interrupted her happy musings. "I have not yet offered for her, remember."

Lady Dearborn hesitated before replying, picking up a large, fluffy white Persian and stroking it thoughtfully. "Her mother tells me you danced with her three times at Lady Allbeck's last week," she finally said. "You should not have done so, Forrest, if you do not intend to follow through with an offer. Whether Miss Winston-Fitts expects it or not I cannot say, but her mother most assuredly does, and I believe you can count on her to tell the world if you jilt her daughter now."

"Yes, yes, I know all that," said the Earl irritably. "However, standing up with her that third time was... Well, at any rate, I
do
intend to offer for her. She is very beautiful, is she not?" His eyes almost pleaded for reassurance.

"Indeed she is, as I have already said. However, there is more than that to a happy marriage, as I am sure you are aware. Your happiness means more to me than golden-haired grandchildren, Forrest. If you do not love her, you should not marry her. It is as simple as that." She forced herself to speak bracingly. She
did
so want those grandchildren!

"And what of your Madame Fortunata?" asked Forrest, not altogether jokingly. "Would she not warn me against flouting my 'Destiny'?"

The Countess was nonplussed. She had almost forgotten that she was the one who had instigated this whole business, with her suggestions to Cora for her son's "fortune."

"Destiny has a way of working itself out," she finally said. "The path is laid before your feet, whether you see it or not. You must simply do what you think is best— and right." She prayed that Miss Winston-Fitts, as insipid as she appeared on the surface, might indeed have the capacity to make her son happy. If he married her and was miserable, she would never forgive herself.

"Thank you, Mother. That is precisely what I intend to do," he replied, rising to go.

It was not until he reached the door to his own bedchamber that he remembered Sir George. Why the devil had he asked his mother to invite the man? For Miss O'Day's sake? After having observed them together during his last two weeks in London, he no longer believed that she had any real partiality for him, nor he for her. Besides, the thought of Ellie O'Day married to Sir George Bellamy did not bring nearly the satisfaction he had thought it would. Ah, well, it was done now. He would wait to see what came of it.

He also wondered why had he not told his mother the truth about that dratted third dance at Lady Allbeck's. Was he simply too embarrassed to admit that it had been a mistake? When Mrs. Winston-Fitts suggested that he might enjoy a second dance with her daughter, he had absent-mindedly agreed, completely forgetting that he had already danced twice with her— as Mrs. Winston-Fitts had no doubt intended.

His dances with Rosalind must not have been especially memorable, he supposed wryly, if he were able to forget one so easily. Still, he was now in honour bound to offer for her— not that he was disinclined, of course. She would make him an admirable wife. It simply rankled to have the decision taken out of his hands. Sighing with an unnamed discontent, he prepared for bed.

The Countess, meanwhile, was also thinking about her son's suggested guest. He had never answered her question, she recalled, but now it scarcely seemed to matter. Destiny would do what it would, and perhaps this Sir George would be a tool for it. Hanging a pierced stone on the bedpost as she always did to prevent nightmares, she climbed into bed, willing, for the moment at least, to let Fate take its own course.
 

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*

"I vow, I could spend all day tending the flowers had I no other responsibilities," said Lady Dearborn to her guests as she guided them through her gardens the next morning. "Have you any hobbies or interests, my dear?" she asked Rosalind. Determined to get to know her, she had kept the tall girl by her side during the tour.

"Er, not... not really, ma'am," Rosalind replied nervously, not meeting the Countess's eyes.

"Indeed." Disgruntled at yet another setback, for she had been trying for half an hour to draw Miss Winston-Fitts out, Lady Dearborn turned to Miss O'Day, who walked just behind. "How about you, dear? Do you care for gardening at all?"

The question clearly caught the girl by surprise, but she answered readily enough. "I adore anything that allows me to be out of doors, my lady. Riding, walking, even astronomy, which my father taught me. Gardening, however, is a particular passion of mine. I do so miss my mother's rose gardens." Her smile was sweet, but wistful.

The Countess regarded the girl's heart-shaped face and intelligent grey eyes with approval. "You must see mine, then, and tell me how they compare. Perhaps you might have a hint or two for their care that I have not heard." She ushered the group, which consisted of her feminine guests, along with Forrest and the two Willoughby sons, through an opening in the high, thorny hedge that divided up the gardens.

"Oh, Lady Dearborn! How magnificent!" gasped the little brunette as they rounded the corner to see the rose gardens spread before them. The other ladies
oohed
and
aahed
appropriately, but the Countess privately thought Miss O'Day's response the only sincere one.

"What think you, Miss O'Day?" she asked. "Would your mother have liked my roses?"

"She would have been in heaven," the girl replied simply. "We did not have anything to compare to this. Why, you must have two or three dozen varieties here, at least!"

"Forty-one, actually," said the Countess with pardonable pride. "I began collecting them shortly after my marriage to Forrest's father, thirty-two years ago."
 

"Yes, I can recall more than one summer trip to the north for that express purpose," remarked the Earl. "Not to mention France. Most women go to Paris for the fashions. My mother goes for the rose cuttings."
 

This drew a general chuckle, but Ellie said, "And see how much more she has to show for her travels than they do!" She was still looking about her in delight. "I see now where the inspiration for the Rose Room came from."

"Oh, yes, Forrest suggested that room for you, Miss O'Day," said Lady Dearborn, with a quick, piercing look at her son. "He must have known of your fondness for roses."

Miss O'Day glanced at the Earl, who was looking self-conscious, and then at her aunt, who was frowning. Miss Rosalind appeared not to be attending to the conversation at all. "I believe I may have mentioned it to him once. How astute of you, my lord, to remember. And how kind." Forrest met her glance then, and something in his look made the girl drop her eyes in confusion.

"Well!" said the Countess briskly, deliberately breaking the mood. "Shall we proceed to the herb garden?"

The group continued on their tour, John Willoughby managing to secure a place at Miss Winston-Fitts's side while his brother walked along next to Miss O'Day, soon drawing her into an animated discussion of the countryside. Forrest followed along at the rear of the group, trying to decipher his feelings.

What was it about Miss O'Day, he wondered, that made him so enjoy pleasing her? Was it simply that she was so easy to please? She had been sincerely grateful to him for the simple favour of selecting a room that he thought she would like. He could not think of another woman of his acquaintance who would have appreciated, or even noticed, such a small kindness. There was more to it than that, though. There was something about the girl that made him
want
to please her. At first, he had thought it was merely pity, combined with his admiration for her gallant spirit. Now, however, he began to suspect another motive in himself, one he was not certain he wanted to probe too deeply.