She shook her head. “None. I’m quite recovered, and this evening has been . . . the right sort of distraction.”
“Good.” They stepped into the gallery at the top of the stairs. James hesitated. The ladies were wandering off in twos and threes down the corridor to the left, while all the males had been housed in the opposite wing. Reaching for Henrietta’s hand, trapping her gaze, he raised her fingers to his lips and lightly kissed. “In that case, I’ll wish you a good night’s rest. Sleep well.”
She smiled brilliantly, lightly gripped his fingers, then drew her hand free. “You, too.” She held his gaze for an instant, then inclined her head and turned away. “Good night.”
He watched her walk away, then followed the other gentlemen down the corridor into the other wing. Just before he reached his door, he sensed someone watching him, felt the weight of their gaze on his back. Halting before his door, grasping the knob, he glanced up the corridor.
Rafe Cunningham stood in a doorway back along the corridor, watching him.
The light was too dim to make out Rafe’s expression, but if James had to guess, he would have said that confusion dominated. Rafe, he realized, must have seen him part from Henrietta.
Opening his door,
James went in and shut it. He paused, wondering if he should speak with Rafe now and put the poor devil out of his misery, at least with respect to James’s intentions toward Miss Fotherby, which, from Rafe’s reactions, Rafe at least partly knew, or rather, thought he did.
James considered, but the certainty of what Henrietta would say if he asked whether he should speak with Rafe decided the matter. She would say he should speak with Miss Fotherby first, then leave it to Millicent to decide what to tell Rafe.
Shrugging off his coat, James thought through the likely scenarios and decided that, after he’d told Millicent, if Rafe asked him directly he would tell Rafe, too. Rafe had the devil of a right hook. Explaining a black eye to Lady Ellsmere, let alone Henrietta, wasn’t a scenario he wished to face.
As he slid beneath the sheets, his comprehension of and empathy for Rafe’s situation shifted into a review of his own. On the one hand he wanted to give Henrietta all he could by way of courtship. She was twenty-nine; to his mind, she’d waited for him to come along, and he was abjectly grateful that she had, so it was only fair that he do his level best to woo her properly.
But simultaneously he wanted to speak; for him, the fright of the morning hadn’t subsided but rather had transmogrified, adding to an unexpected compulsion to say something aloud, to stake a verbal claim. Even though he knew it was too early for a full-scale declaration, for some unfathomable reason his wolfish instincts had turned on him and were hotly urging him to make, at the very least, a statement of intent.
Why it was so important to his inner self that he tell Henrietta in plain English that he wanted her for his bride he didn’t know. Settling to sleep, he closed his eyes—and wondered for how long he could stand against his surging inner tide.
Breakfast the next morning was a leisurely affair. Guests drifted downstairs and into the dining room from eight o’clock onward. The sideboard along one wall played host to an array of silver platters and chafing dishes offering everything from boiled eggs and bacon, to sausages, kedgeree, and a dish of boiled mutton, ham, and celery said to be a local delicacy.
James arrived reasonably early, helped himself to a selection of viands, then pulled out a chair midway down the long table. Settling next to Channing, he joined the discussion already raging between Percy Smythe and Dickie Arbiter over which company made the best pistols in this modern age. Dickie was all for the latest American guns, while Percy expounded the virtues of the English makers.
When appealed to, James admitted to the attraction of the new American mechanisms but, on balance, gave his vote to the English makers, “Purely on aesthetics.” He looked at Dickie. “Have you seen one of their guns?”
Percy chuckled, while Channing erupted with his usual barking laugh.
Others arrived, and then Henrietta appeared, along with Miss Hendricks and Violet. They were the first of the female contingent to arrive, but other ladies quickly followed, and with their higher-pitched voices, the conversations changed in sound, tone, and subject.
James kept his eye on Henrietta as she progressed along the sideboard; in a golden-yellow walking gown she looked like summer sunshine to him. When she turned to the table, he immediately rose and drew out the chair beside him. With a smile, she accepted the unvoiced invitation and let him seat her. Channing had also risen and held the chair on his other side for Violet, while on the opposite side of the table Percy performed the same service for Miss Hendricks.
The ladies settled, and the talk turned to the one subject in which they all had an interest, namely what had been planned for the rest of the day.
“We’d thought to have a morning around the house—a croquet competition for those up to the challenge, with billiards for those gentlemen who would prefer it, and there’s the library or the gardens for the ladies should they not wish to join those on the croquet lawn.” As daughter of the house, Violet had been intimately involved in formulating the schedule. “And after lunch, we thought a ramble through the woods to the ruins would be nice.”
“Ruins?” Both Miss Hendricks and Dickie Arbiter spoke the word simultaneously. They shared an arrested glance, then looked at Violet for further edification.
“They’re the ruins of the original priory that the grange was attached to,” Violet explained. “They’re very old—no one knows how old, but old enough that they’re half-buried. Not that we have to go into caves, or anything difficult—what we call the ruins are the walls and columns and altars and so forth that are exposed on the side of a hill. Goodness knows how much more of the original buildings are still buried beneath the hillside, but many of the walls are covered with moss and have ivy trailing over them.” Violet smiled at Miss Hendricks. “Very atmospheric.”
“The woods are old, too,” Channing put in. “Huge old oak trees, that sort of thing. Easy to walk beneath, and the path to the ruins is relatively flat.” He glanced up the table to where Lady Ellsmere and several friends of her generation sat breaking their fast and gossiping. “Even the older ladies would have no great difficulty reaching it, but it is a few miles away—it’ll take us half an hour to stroll there, and another half hour back, so I’m not sure they’ll want to waste the time.”
Miss Hendricks looked positively enthused. “It sounds like a delightful excursion.”
“Hmm.” Dickie caught Miss Hendricks’s eye. “I’m rather fond of old places. I, for one, will join the party for the ruins.”
All their group voiced their intention to join the ramble, then Violet went on, “And this evening, as I’m sure you’ve all anticipated, there’s to be a ball. Not a massive affair—we want to keep it a touch more relaxed. We’re not in London, after all. But there will be musicians, so lots of dancing, and a few of our neighbors will be joining us, so there’ll be several more people to meet.”
“Excellent!” Percy beamed. “Sounds like my sort of day.”
As Percy was an acknowledged social gadabout, everyone laughed and agreed.
They’d all finished their breakfasts. Together, they rose, the ladies gliding to the doors that opened to the sunlight terrace, the gentlemen sauntering behind.