Once Upon a Kiss (Book Club Belles Society) (18 page)

“Certainly, Captain,” she replied, head high despite her over-heated cheeks. “Delighted to oblige.”

It was very warm in that crowded barn. Darius sat with his hands on his knees, feeling out of place in his fine evening clothes, watching the villagers become slowly more inebriated. His head spun with the unremitting noise of giddy, raucous laughter. So much dust was kicked up by the dancing, stomping feet that he could taste it on his tongue.

Watching Miss Justina Penny dance with a very smug fellow in a scarlet coat, his discomfort rapidly multiplied. The couple laughed and chattered easily in a familiar way, teasing one another when they forgot the steps or moved in the wrong direction.

Darius, who always worried too much about getting his steps exactly right, could not imagine being able to laugh at a mistake.

Fingers digging into his knees, he watched the two of them making sizeable fools of themselves. When the dance was over, they stood close together, talking. Then they walked, arm in arm, to where her friends waited.

Miles returned to his side. “Have you not danced yet, Wainwright? Surely you cannot say there is no one to dance with. There are far more ladies present than gentlemen.”

Darius felt his tight, reluctant lips crack like a fissure in marble. “I’m sure the ladies prefer your company.” Without moving his head he searched the crowd and saw that Miss Justina and her friends had dispersed. Lucy Bridges was now dancing with Sam Hardacre, who spun her around like the sails of a windmill, and the tall, auburn-haired girl danced with the rector. There was her quieter friend—the one with the somber expression and pretty green eyes, talking to the elder Miss Penny. But no sign of Justina in that virginal white muslin gown with the little yellow sprigs.

He raised a finger to his cravat and loosened it. His gaze picked over the scene with increasing irritation.

Where could she have gone? It was never wise to let a lively young woman out of sight. Her parents were there by the punch bowl, and they did not seem at all concerned about their missing daughter. Darius shook his head. This was how bad things happened. Crowded, noisy parties like this, wild young girls left unguarded. Too much punch consumed and smug fellows in uniform, hanging about to take advantage of a stolen moment.

Was this buffoon, this “wag,” who seemed to find everything an amusing jape, the captain she’d planned to meet for an illicit bedchamber romp in Bath?

Ice slivers formed in his veins.

“I need a rest, old chap,” Miles was saying. “I give you leave to take my place with the ladies. Try not to bore them too much.”

“Thank you. I prefer to sit here and wait for you to be done making an exhibit of yourself.”

“But look, Wainwright. Over there is the very lovely Miss Penny. Imagine my surprise when I realized she and I had danced together once before in Bath! And she is currently without a partner. I would dance with her again if it was not unseemly to monopolize the same young lady all evening. You must dance with her now, before she is snapped up by another.”

“I appreciate your concern to find me a partner, Forester, but rest assured I am content to observe the festivities.” Darius still could not see that red coat or Justina. He tugged again on his cravat and then the cuffs of his evening coat. Something about his attire was extremely uncomfortable. He had never perspired so much simply from sitting in one place, and yet inside he was cold to the bone.

In a deeply disgruntled tone, he added, “I have seen enough folk making dancing fools of themselves tonight, acting without decorum or dignity. I’ve no intention of doing the same.”

“But Wainwright—”

“I see a great deal of misbehavior that can only lead to trouble and if you ask me, those Penny girls are left unguarded far too often. The younger one in particular. Her manners leave much to be desired. I’ve never known a young woman so brazen. Every encounter I’ve suffered with her has left me wounded or stained in one way or another.” And then, afraid he’d said too much about her and was in danger of rousing his friend’s suspicion, he added, “Whatever her name is. I have forgotten it.”

***

Justina had approached the benches with the intention of saying a polite good evening to Wainwright. He may not be the dancing sort, but she could at least show her maturity and notice his presence. There was also a slight satisfaction to be had in forcing him to acknowledge that he’d seen her. She was, after all, wearing her mended best gown and Cathy had helped dress her hair in a new style. She’d been told she looked quite passable for once.

Then she heard his comments.

Quickly she changed her mind about approaching the miserable fellow. Just before she turned away, Miles coughed and got Wainwright’s attention. He glanced over his shoulder and saw her standing there, half in shadow. She had no doubt her face was glowing. His, however, was suddenly drained of color.

There was nothing to say to him, she decided, and he could not possibly have anything to say to her. The girl whose name he did not even know.

Returning to the brighter side of the barn, she sought out her sister, who was full of excitement at having recognized her dancing partner from Bath.

“Jussy, do you not recall that he was dancing with me when you caused that riot and he had to leave with his friend? I knew he seemed familiar, but I could not place it!”

“I did not cause a riot. It was not my fault.”

“Yes, but Mr. Forester was the gentleman dancing with me when it happened. I was terribly sorry to see him leave.”

“He left you in the midst of a dance, Cathy. It was very rude.”

“But he had no choice. He had to leave with his friend for they came in the same coach.”

Justina sneered. “I daresay everyone does what Mr. Wainwright says.” She straightened her spine in a manner that would have made her mama proud. “He must be accustomed to having folk at his beck and call.”

“Here he comes now, moving very purposefully toward you.”

Justina’s pulse was as uneven as a line of her own hasty stitches.

“I do believe he will ask you to dance,” said Cathy.

“Me? I very much doubt it.” He had better not dare, she thought angrily. Just let him say one word to her and she would—

“Miss Penny.” He was there before them, bowing. “And Miss Justina. No butterflies this evening?”

She looked up in time to see his lip curl disdainfully. While she was still composing a suitable reply, struggling to calm her temper and move her stiffened tongue, Cathy politely replied to his greeting and asked how he enjoyed the dance.

Justina’s mind raced. If she had a cup of punch in her hand she might have thrown it all down his dull, spotless, very expensive waistcoat. Let that one be stained too, just like the one in Bath.

He’d fondled her and kissed her when no one was there to see. He treated her like a plaything. Would no doubt take advantage of her innocence if she had stayed in his clutches. But he was still sneering at her and her family. Still looking down his long nose at her, as he did in Bath.

And she, swept up in a generous mood after perusing his great-uncle’s love letters, had imagined he too might have a gentler side, and that she might befriend him.

Befriend
him?
Ha! He would not want her friendship. The blasted man could not be helped. He would never get out of the way of his own arrogance and conceit.

“May I have the honor of the next dance, Miss Justina?”

Oh, the sheer bold-faced gall of the man! “Did your friend remind you of my name, sir?”

“Of course not. I do not need reminding of it.”

Perhaps he did not realize what she’d heard. She swallowed, stared at his broad shoulder, tried to catch a breath.

He stood before her, waiting, expecting her to feel honored, no doubt, that he singled her out. That he lowered himself to dance with her.

Justina licked her lips, heaved a deep breath and demanded, “Why?”

Wainwright’s eyes narrowed like arrow slits in his stony fortress face. “
Why?
”

“You don’t actually
want
to dance, do you?”

He paused, apparently confused for a moment. “I am assured by my friend that it is the established mode of movement on such occasions.”

Justina bit the inside of her mouth and it smarted. “I hope you do not assume I stood here waiting for a partner. I don’t feel the need to dance just because everyone else does.”

“Neither do I, madam. It seems we can agree on that much, at least.”

Cathy pinched her arm.

She ignored it. “I am quite exhausted from dancing already, sir.”

“I am not surprised, madam. I am exhausted from watching you.”

He did not move away, but remained before her like a great obstacle in her path, his face grimly forbidding, eyes unblinking, lips firm. Apparently he would not allow her to dance with anyone else until she danced with him. In her peripheral vision she spied their mama heading toward them and knew the mortification was only about to get worse, so she finally accepted the hand he offered and let herself be dragged into the dance. All around them, she knew people were watching and must be marveling at his strange choice of partner.

The band struck up a new tune—a rowdy country jig. Usually it was a dance that Justina enjoyed more than any other, since it gave her an excuse to bounce about vigorously, but this time there was none of that joyous freedom she felt when dancing with Captain Sherringham. It was an ordeal, painful and dolorous. She went through the motions, her heart simply not in it. This man danced with her because he felt obliged, or else he wanted to correct her manner of dancing. Either way there could be no delight in it. There was too much anger bubbling away inside her and, try as she might, she could not be like Cathy and bottle it away in a pickling jar.

“If you meant to dance only so late in the evening, you should have danced with one of the other ladies, Mr. Wainwright. Any one of them would make a more obliging, more elegant partner. I have a tendency to forget the steps.” She pressed her toe hard upon his. “Oops.”

He wheezed, “I have observed your peculiar manner of making up your own steps.”

“I cannot help it. I always feel mine are more suited to the music.” She turned the wrong way and clapped a beat before everyone else. Let the wicked old bugger try to keep up with her, she thought smugly.

He gripped her fingers a little too tightly and she stifled a yelp. “Do you like to paint, Miss Justina?”

“Oh, Lord, are we going to have blasted conversation?” she groaned. “Is it not bad enough already? I doubt either one of us really wants to
talk
to the other, and I ought to concentrate or I might embarrass you with my ineptitude. As well as my brazen manners.”

Wainwright squeezed her hand again. “It is a civil question, madam. It deserves a civil answer. I have always endeavored to answer your many and varied questions.”

“Yes,” she snapped. “I paint. What else do you want to know? I paint with all the wrong colors stirred up together,” she added smugly, “and I always paint outside the lines.”

“If I might make an observation then, it is a very good thing that some people stay within them.”

She scowled. “I despise the lines. I never follow any.” She tugged her hand free of his and clapped so vigorously her fingers throbbed and her palms stung. But no worse than her heart after she’d overheard him deny that he even knew her name.

“And yet if there were no lines at all,” he replied, “you would have nothing to rebel against, would you?”

He recaptured her hand and thus her best efforts to turn the wrong way again were stymied. At the edge of the dancers, she saw her sister seated on a hay bale with Captain Sherringham, talking amiably. Rebecca was now enjoying a dance with Wainwright’s friend and laughing heartily at something the man just told her. They both looked over at Justina and her partner, making the subject of their hilarity quite obvious. Justina’s insides turned over in a sideways flip. She knew the story of her debut in the Upper Rooms at Bath last year would soon be the talk of the village. Wainwright’s friend was evidently a jolly sort and saw the joke in it. Unfortunately for Justina, while not so long ago she too would have laughed and made sport of herself, she was less inclined to see the humor in it now.

“Do you play, Miss Justina?” her partner demanded, making no apparent attempt to soften his pitch from its usual air of self-righteous interrogation. “Do you sing? I know you like to use your voice loudly.”

“This attempt at polite chit chat is not required, Mr. Wainwright. I wish you would not speak at all.”

“But you like to talk.”

She glared at him. Was he mocking her? “From now on I shall be silent, sir.”

“We must have conversation. It is expected when two people stand up together for a set.”

At once she forgot her promise not to speak. “You always do what is expected?”

“Of course.”

“Did you think you were expected to dance with me?”

“I did.”

“Then, if
I
might make an observation, you must see that always doing what is expected of you can have severe drawbacks.” Again she stomped hard on his foot.

Darius observed how all the leaping, jumping, and clapping increased the glow in her cheeks and the vivacious sparkle in her eyes. The husky, breathless tenor of her voice forced him to listen closer, watch her lips, made him forget his bruised toes.

Tonight Justina Penny had emerged from her cocoon of dowdy, deliberately unkempt eccentricity and shaken off the rumpled girl in muddy petticoats. Now he had her closer, he recognized that the tiny yellow sprigs on her white gown were, in fact, daisies. It was a reminder of summer and of her youthfulness. Not that he needed reminding of the latter.

He was, he realized glumly, entranced by her and no longer capable of denying it to himself. His Wainwright countenance had begun to crack under the pressure. He felt it. He was also suffering a wretched sensation he could not identify, but it had come upon him when he saw her standing near and realized she might have overheard his comments to Miles. Surely he had nothing to feel remorse about, nothing for which he need apologize. Everything he’d said was quite true. This young woman was left unguarded too often, and it could only end badly. She was recklessly curious, temptation personified, and rather wicked.

After all, he ought to know, since he’d taken advantage of her several times.

And there it was. Guilt.

He knew she’d heard him pretending not to know her name, but since she insulted him readily enough at every opportunity, he did not think that could be so great a sin. But apparently she thought differently, if the stomping of her feet upon his was anything to go by.

Fortunately for the sake of his toes, the second dance of the set was a more sedate minuet.

Just when he enjoyed a sense of calm comfort, thinking he had done his duty as far as the requisite conversation and could now simply enjoying looking at her, she said suddenly, “Your friend seems very amiable. From watching him dance, I would say
he
does so for pleasure.”

Darius did not reply.

“Is there anything that you do for pleasure, Mr. Wainwright?”

“Not very often.”

“And when you do, it would be….?”

He sought for something. What
did
he like to do? Obligations were many in his life, pleasures rare. Images passed through his mind: of himself at his desk, writing correspondence, checking ledgers of figures, addressing his employees, or striding briskly across a loading dock. He pictured the slender slices of private life spent at home in London: visiting Sarah in her quiet wing to check on her progress with the governess, trying to avoid his stepmother by taking servants’ doors and passages around the house. Then came the half hour a month he spent checking the accuracy of all the timepieces he owned, large and small.

“I mend clocks,” he said finally. “It is a fascinating task and satisfying.”

“Of course,” she murmured, looking away from him. “Clocks.”

“I hear a tone of scorn, Miss Justina.” Because he did not leap about like a fool, capable of making her laugh?

“Not at all. You are entitled to find pleasure wherever and whenever you choose.”

“Thank you, madam. I shall. And I hope, in the future, we shall find activities of a mutual enjoyment. In fact,” he curled his fingers tighter around hers, “I have no doubt of it.”

She frowned at him briefly, but then looked a second time for longer and with surprise upon her face, as if she’d never seen him smile before. It was, in actual fact, just as startling to him when he felt it there, moving his lips. He should have been concentrating on the steps.

“Are you quite all right?” she demanded.

He gave a solemn nod, straightening his lips again, quickly terminating their foray into geniality. “Perfectly.”

“I would advise you not to drink too much punch, Mr. Wainwright. I’m afraid Mrs. Dockley makes it from an ancient family recipe and rumor has it that she strains it through her old, unwashed stockings. Many a strong gentleman has been felled by the strangely intoxicating brew, including her dearly departed husband who drank far too much of it.”

“I am duly warned, madam. I shall proceed with caution.”

The dance ended, and she walked away from him at once, barely sparing the time to rise from her begrudging curtsy. Within moments she was dancing again with her favored partner, the jolly soldier with grinning teeth, floppy, uncombed hair, and gleaming brass buttons. Darius was not the friendliest of men, but even he had never disliked a person so intensely on sight.

***

Even if it might be considered improper to dance too many times with the same partner, Captain Sherringham wouldn’t care and neither did she. Between them there was none of that dreadful, heavy tension she felt when in Wainwright’s presence. In dear Sherry’s company, all was easy and uncomplicated. With Wainwright everything was difficult and vexing, pulling her in too many directions.

But the captain’s mind was on Diana Makepiece. He began talking immediately about the mistake she was making with William Shaw. Justina found the twinkle in her old friend’s eye—usually to be depended on in any circumstance—muted for once.

“Diana has certainly become very tedious,” she agreed. “I expect she will bore you too with the subject of her engagement. It is her only conversation these days.”

“Fool woman! Why on earth would she fix herself on him? I thought she had more…more…” He shrugged, unable to finish apparently, exasperation clear in the set of his jaw as they moved down the dance together.

Justina remembered what Diana had said to her earlier, and she repeated it now for the captain. “It is surprising how much a person can keep inside. Especially when they are bound by duty.”

“A marriage should not be for duty’s sake. That is the sure way to misery.”

“I could not agree more.” As always, she was glad to have her own opinions vindicated by a man who was older and ergo, supposedly wiser.

“Who is that dreadfully grim fellow I saw you dancing with? I thought he must have some constipated disorder of the bowel with that look on his face. Is he one of your father’s patients?”

Both she and the captain glanced through the crowd to where Darius Wainwright stood talking to his friend again. Just at that moment he looked back at them and his face bore more than passing resemblance to that of a bull newly cognizant of trespassers in his field. Or his orchard, she mused.

“That is a very fine and fancy gentleman from London, by the name of Wainwright,” she explained. “He has been here little more than a fortnight and is not liked by anybody.”

They were parted for a few beats of the music and then joined hands again. “He seems to keep a very keen eye on you, Jussy.”

“He looks at me only because to him I am a clock that is out of order. He would like to fix me, make me chime at his bidding and in unison with everyone else.” She wrinkled her nose. “But he’s nothing more than a cockatrice trying to kill me with his stare and I”—she put her nose in the air—“shall ignore him completely.”

“Quite right, too!” The captain feigned a schoolmasterly expression and shook his finger in her face. “You make certain to keep him wanting—lure him in, sigh by sigh, wink by wink, petticoat by petticoat, before you capitulate, and he might offer you plenty to be his mistress.
If,
as Lucy tells me, that is your plan.”

She snorted with laughter, quickly forgetting to maintain her imperious expression. “You must tutor me in the ways of a Cyprian, Sherry.”

Now a little of that old gleam returned to his eyes, and her pulse skipped to see it there again. She much preferred him in a happy, carefree mood than a contemplative one. “Capital idea, Jussy. I was afraid all my friends here in Hawcombe Prior had grown too old and serious, but I see at least one of you may be relied upon to amuse me.” He looked over his shoulder, pretending to be sure they were not overheard, although with all the shouting and laughing from the dancers around them they had to stand closer just to hear one another. “I shall take you under my wing and teach you the arts of the fan, how to pour and warm brandy, how to light his cigar—”

“Cigar?”

“I have some from France. I’ll show you one day. A mistress must also know how to serve her lover with grapes and sweetmeats. How to tantalize”—he lowered his voice and shot a sly glance sideways at the distant, hovering figure of Mr. Wainwright—“her haughty lover.”

They both laughed. It was just like old times, she thought happily. Captain Sherringham was not afraid of mischief and for as long as he encouraged her, as long as he was amused by her, what harm could there be in the friendship? She felt her mother’s eyes scorching into her back from across the barn, but this only urged her on. It was easier to win her mother’s disapproval than to struggle for her approval. Besides, to have the dashing captain sharing a jape with her was almost as good as a kiss.

Yes, indeed, she was glad of dear Sherry’s company tonight. It chased away the menacing dark cloud of Darius Wainwright and helped her forget that she was at least partly at fault for catching the Wrong Man’s attention in the first place.

Under the influence of
Pride
and
Prejudice
she’d been ready to forgive his stiff manners and look beyond them. But she was misled into thinking she might find any tenderness of feeling beneath his grim surface. Thank goodness she was reminded now that life was no romantic novel. It might not have been the first time her imagination and optimism ran away with her, but she swore it would be the last.

***

The two gentlemen stayed up late that evening, discussing the dance. Or, at least, Miles spoke of how much enjoyment he’d had. Sprawled in a chair by the hearth, a glass of brandy resting on his chest, he rambled at length about Miss Catherine Penny’s sweetness and grace, which survived despite her mother’s unconscious ability to undo both with one thoughtless comment. Then, obviously keen not to be heard picking a favorite already, he talked also about the aloof beauty of Miss Makepiece, the delightfully freckled Miss Sherringham’s witty and rather daring banter, and Miss Bridges’ amusing naïveté.

Darius said very little but stared into the drawing room fire and pondered his predicament. Of course, by dancing with only one woman that evening, he had singled Justina out publicly. It was a declaration of sorts. He had not really thought about what it meant when he felt the overpowering urge to make her dance with him. It was simply instinct, the need to have her in his company, make her look at him and talk to him. An excuse to hold her hand. Truth was, he couldn’t bear it when he watched her dance with others. Any of them, but particularly that laughing fool in the red coat. The captain reminded Darius of his elder brother, and he knew the sort of trouble Lucius used to get himself into. And women into.

He rubbed his brow with two fingers and then ran the hand down over his face. All this time he had assumed that when she claimed to find herself in the wrong bed it was merely a fib, an attempt to save face because he spurned her. But now he remembered the name “Captain Sherringham.” So she had not been a fortune hunter setting her nets for him; she truly did find herself in his bed by mistake.

Glancing up at the mantel clock he noted the hands were stuck again on the figure one. He sighed fretfully and scraped his fingertips over the curved chair arm, feeling the rough, worn threads of velvet upholstery where Phineas must once have sat, just as he did, and contemplated that clock in frustration.

Miles laughed. “It’s no good, old chap. You can’t wipe that scowl off your face. You’ll just have to do something about her.”

He glowered across the hearth to where his friend’s face was lit by trembling amber slivers of firelight. “Her?”

“The Penny girl. The one with all the pretty brown curls and the spirited eyes. I found her a delightful partner, but I think she preferred you. And you, so I saw, could not take your eyes off her.”

Darius pushed himself to sit up and stop lounging. “Me? Don’t talk nonsense.”

“The entire two dances I shared with her, she questioned me about you! Most disheartening for a fellow who prefers to be the center of attention.” He laughed good-naturedly. “But when I realized she is the very same little miss who caused all the alarums and excursions last year at Bath, I knew why she looked familiar. I suppose she’s the reason for your extended stay in Buckinghamshire. Yes, I am certain of it now. Not know her name, indeed! She is quite intriguingly naughty, I suspect. A young woman does not have bright eyes like those without having a wickedly wayward mind illuminating them from behind.”

“Forester, I told you why I stayed. It was certainly not to get another waistcoat ruined.”

“Aha, but the delightful little Miss Bridges told me all about dear Sir Morty and how she and her friend have been invited here to help you with your great-uncle’s possessions.” He paused, grinning. “Do stop drumming a tattoo on the arm of that chair. You’ll wear the fabric away and get shouted at by your formidable housekeeper.”

Darius stilled his fingers, resting them in a claw over the end of the chair arm.

“If I were you,” Miles added, stifling a yawn, “I’d take that lively creature off the market before someone beats you to it. Take my advice, Wainwright. If you want her, act now.”

“She is not a shipload of Persian carpets.”

“Aha, but see!” Miles lurched forward, almost tipping out of the chair, brandy sloshing up the sides of the glass. “This is where you go wrong. You should think of her precisely as that, because trade is where you are expert. That is where you are at ease. The conventional courtship is not for you, Wainwright, you’re far too…well, just
you
. You are to romance what a bull would be to a roomful of Wedgwood plates and china cabinets. But think of her as a commodity to be bartered over and won.” He fell back in his chair, shaking his golden head. “For a man who is so firm, decisive, and ruthless in business, you’re a complete ass when it comes to women.”

Darius hardly ever paid heed to his friend’s warblings. They were well-meaning, certainly, but not often well-thought out. Miles gamboled through life chasing pretty birds under rainbows and a pleasant summer sky. As the third son of an earl he’d known a life of privilege without the responsibility of property or a title. He had never worked a day in his life, but at least had the grace to appreciate that other folk weren’t so fortunate. He had a generous spirit and a good heart. He was also much valued by Darius because he knew exactly how to handle women, including the dreaded stepmother and stepsister. Miles didn’t mind keeping them distracted, entertained, and out of the way when Darius was at the edge of his patience.