A Provision For Love (Entangled Inheritance Book 1) Page 12

  “I have not decided if I will marry. Appeasing my mother is a poor reason to secure a match.”

  I tsked, shaking a finger at him in mock reprimand. “Seek a man that loves his mother.’”

  His dimples deepened. “But be cautious of the one who worships her. He, indeed, may turn out to be a chronic son who whimpers all his days at his mother’s knee.”

  My lips parted. “Goodness, you have learned the requirements in their entirety.”

  Henry shrugged, smiling. “I believe Bridgestone hangs on my ability to fulfill my duty.”

  For a moment, the sun illuminated his auburn hair and brown eyes, casting a warm glow around his every feature. His looks seemed only to improve with each meeting. My pulse echoed inside my ears, and my hands grew clammy. I exhaled sharply, not realizing I had been holding my breath.

  Henry cleared his throat and stood. “I really must be going. I have business in town and stopped here on the way.”

  I stumbled to my feet, shaking away the nonsensical thoughts of seconds earlier. “Then that concludes your review? I find it interesting that I am made to answer a great many questions while you answer to nothing.”

  “Right…” Henry bowed and took my hand. “I have identified a lady of interest, but I have not yet decided if I have a chance at her heart.”

  “Who?” I asked, pushing away the dread stabbing at me.

  He frowned. “That, Ivy, is none of your business.”

  “Henry!” I followed him back into the house and to the front door. “Is this lady one I know? Perhaps Miss Clawson or Miss Hawkins?” Neither of those ladies would suit Henry, but they were my friends and thereby my first guesses.

  “Ivy, shall I see you at Almack’s?” Henry asked, completely ignoring my questions.

  I sighed, and I allowed every bit of my exasperation to accompany the sound. He was beyond persuasion; stubbornness had set in his expression. Disappointment flooded me. “Yes, I shall attend,” I said.

  He smiled. “Good, then we shall continue our search for your Bridgestone beau.”

  The front door closed before I could say another word.

  * * *

  Dearest Daughter,

  I am not well versed on what makes a young man a desirable husband, but Lord Egerton seems to be an excellent candidate as far as wealth, titles, and disposition (from what you have disclosed). I imagine his Grecian look can only add to his allure.

  I believe a trip to London is in order. My partner sent word of a new investment opportunity. I have volunteered to meet with the shipping company, which happens to be based out of London. So, you shall have your wish; I will be torturing you with lectures and questions in two-week’s time.

  In the meantime, I leave you with a tale of heroism, victory, and gardening. Your grandmother required me to nurse a garden. She lived in Hampshire then (I doubt you will remember the place) as she was still married to her first husband. In any case, she challenged me to produce enough vegetables for an entire meal—something about how a true gentleman can provide in ways beyond money. Needless to say, I succeeded. Though, I admit, the cook’s rendition of soup consisted almost wholly of potatoes and cabbage and was not the finest meal. Your grandmother nearly refused to eat it.

  Your Father,

  Samuel Linfield

  Chapter 16

  “A waltz, with me?” I sent a pleading look to Lady Sefton.

  To my chagrin, Almack’s patroness missed my cue. Instead, she patted Lord St. Vincent’s arm and giggled. “Yes, Miss Linfield is right. I do not usually permit debut ladies to dance the waltz. However, I see no harm in allowing it, Miss Linfield, so long as you behave yourself.”

  Lord St. Vincent and Lady Sefton looked to me for a response.

  I swallowed, but my mouth grew dry, and my lips stuck to my teeth. I had thought Lord St. Vincent’s visit weeks prior had been enough to discourage his pursuit. Yet, his steel-colored eyes had not left my view all evening.

  “Miss Linfield?” Lord St. Vincent asked.

  I wanted to protest. I wanted to flee. Yet, Lady Sefton’s watchfulness weighed upon my senses. I closed my fan and nodded. “I would be glad to.”

  He led me to the center of the ballroom. His dark features seemed to grow more pointed, more focused, as if he were a hunter approaching his prey. His entire attention fixed to me like a sweaty glove I could not shake off. Regret crashed against my chest as he took my hand in his and pressed his other one against my back.

  “Tell me, Miss Linfield, have you ever waltzed in public?” Lord St. Vincent asked.

  He reeked of brandy, and I turned my head, gasping for breath. “Not in public, no. Nevertheless, I am practiced.”

  He spun me beneath his rigid arm, pulling me closer than at the start. “The patronesses did not allow the waltz for some time. They thought it scandalous. What do you think of it, Miss Linfield?”

  I cringed at my name on his lips; did he have to use it so frequently? His face loomed over mine. I studied his thin lips, and a shiver ran down my back. My repulsion to the man had little to do with logic and everything with the unsettling in my stomach. I did not trust Lord St. Vincent, nor did I like him. “I can see how such a dance could turn scandalous.”

  Lord St. Vincent dipped his chin. “I should not like to be caught dancing the waltz with a lady other than one I would consider courting.”

  I scanned the room, hoping for a distraction. “Ah,” I said, gesturing with my chin, “Lord Egerton has finally arrived.”

  “Egerton?” Lord St. Vincent growled. “The man is known for his late arrivals—seems to pride himself on such displays. The marquess seems to think he can arrive late and claim what others already have seen to claim.”

  Men who deal in petty prattle and deride the feats of others with snide remarks and sneers are unsure in their bones and in time will feed upon the spirit of a faithful wife to bolster a waning ego…

  An irrational desire to laugh almost overtook me. I was beginning to think Grandmother’s list of requirements would plague me forever more. I needed no further proof of Lord St. Vincent’s character, however, and my initial distaste for the man was only solidified.

  “Is there something you find amusing?”

  I flinched. “Only your assessment of Lord Egerton.”

  “You agree then?” he asked.

  My lips parted, but no words came. Conversation was not meant to be so difficult, so uncomfortable. I pitied the woman that Lord St. Vincent married—no matter his wealth and title. “I agree that the marquess has a tendency for tardiness, though I cannot speak of his desire to claim anything or anyone. I hadn’t the slightest idea Almack’s had things to be claimed.”

  Lord St. Vincent’s mouth snapped closed.

  His contemplation or offense—I could not decide which—allowed for a quiet finish to the waltz. Tension, however, continued to increase with each count of the music, each spin. I broke apart from his grasp the moment the orchestra struck the final chord.

  “Forgive me, I am in need of refreshment.”

  He retook my hand. “Miss Lin—”

  I pulled away and gathered the folds of my dress in both hands, leaving him before he had a chance to finish my name. I could not argue with him about the marquess’s character; I did not wish to express pleasantries about the dance; I could not endure his talk of courting, particularly if in reference to me.

  Refreshment was, in actuality, just the thing. The dancing had only begun, and the refreshment room was nearly empty. The staff, having only stocked the tables, returned for the final platters.

  I reached the long table and surveyed the spread. Tea cakes and punch. For all the prestige of Almack’s, I rather wondered at the patronesses’ choice of snack. I took a glass of the punch, emptying it in a matter of seconds. The pink liquid cooled my senses, and I took in a slow breath.

  “I have never seen a woman drink so abominably.”

  I jumped at the familiar voice and turned, my cheeks flooding wi
th heat. “Henry.”

  Candlelight flickered across his features, and he bowed. His dimples were manifested, though he did not smile. “Was your waltz that exhausting, or has something troubled you?”

  I fluttered my lashes. I could barely bring myself to say the words. “Lord St. Vincent.”

  “Ah,” Henry said, nodding in understanding. “He seems to have set his sights on you. Again. A viscount is an admirable prize—with or without Bridgestone. Yes, Ivy, I think even your grandmother would approve.”

  I clutched the glass with both hands. “You cannot be serious.”

  Henry’s lips hinted at a smile. “I am beginning to think you would rather ward away attacking turkeys.”

  “Without a doubt,” I said with far too much enthusiasm. I clapped a hand over my mouth and shook my head. “Henry, how do I…Lord St. Vincent, I do not wish for his attention…”

  “You must tell him.”

  My eyes widened. “Tell him I do not welcome the attention?”

  Henry nodded, clenching his jaw. “Men like St. Vincent are too daft to take hints or snubs. They consider difficulties reason for greater triumph.”

  My shoulders caved forward, and I took another glass of punch. Speaking to Lord St. Vincent again, even if it was to reject him, brought a heaviness to my chest—one I did not wish to confront.

  Henry’s hand flew over mine. “One glass of punch is enough for now.”

  I relented, allowing him to take away the second glass. There was something about Henry’s directives that I did not mind. Perhaps it was the gentleness in his voice, or the fact that reason seemed to agree with him in most instances.

  I brushed my fingers over the white lace atop the dark tablecloth. The fabrics ran clear to the floor. “I suppose you are right.”

  “About?” he asked, nudging my arm.

  “Both…the punch and the viscount.” I flinched. My words seemed to have summoned Lord St. Vincent. He paused at the doorway, glancing into the opposite room. “No, no, no.”

  “Ivy…what—” Henry asked, following my line of sight.

  Self-preservation overtook rationale, and I dropped behind the table of refreshments. My knees hit the wooden floor, sending a searing pain up my leg. How juvenile did I have to be to hide behind cakes and punch? I sent Henry a pleading look and hoped he understood my pathetic reasons. He would most likely always see me as a child, but desperation overrode my senses.

  Henry’s lips twisted and his auburn brows wriggled back and forth. He looked as if he might scold me, but then he turned away. “Ah, yes, good evening to you, St. Vincent.”

  “My thanks, Thorne. Have you seen Miss Linfield? I was sure she came for refreshments moments ago,” came the viscount’s determined tone.

  I buried my face in my hands, struck with my own ridiculousness. If I stood now, I would look the fool I already felt.

  “Miss Linfield?” Henry took a step closer to me, gesturing with his foot to the underside of the table. “She passed by here, in search of something or someone. Have you checked by Egerton?”

  I pinched Henry’s calf, which was now only inches from me. How could he tease me about the marquess when I was ducked behind a refreshment table? He had no compassion.

  Henry kicked toward the edge of the table once more. Did he wish me to climb underneath?

  I did not have to wonder long, for Lord St. Vincent’s voice grew louder, his footsteps closer. “Egerton, blast him. Yes, I checked near him. He hasn’t seen her.”

  I crawled beneath the layers of tablecloth, regretting the decision as I did so. My childish inclinations fueled my body forward, but I knew my choice a short-lived solution. More alarming, the sinking sensation in my stomach whispered of the disastrous possibilities that might follow such impropriety.

  “Oh?” Henry fiddled with the glasses of punch above. They tinkled together in an apparent effort to distract from the creaking of the floor beneath me. “Well then, what was Miss Linfield wearing this evening?”

  “Pink gown, quite the embellished piece. I would say silk, though I did not ask. Her gloves were white, and her hair was adorned with pink flowers…or was it white? I forget now. You understand the distraction her eyes create, don’t you, Thorne?” He cleared his throat. “You know well enough her beauty. My efforts to construe her look fall unquestionably flat.”

  I cringed. Henry would be sure to remind me of this display, particularly Lord St. Vincent’s oddly descriptive account of my appearance.

  “Ah, yes—her beauty,” Henry said, poking the edge of my dress beneath the table with his shoe. “I am well acquainted with Miss Linfield’s look. Shall I send her your way, should I see her?”

  I watched in horror as Lord St. Vincent’s shoes travelled to Henry’s side. “Yes, do. I was hoping to discuss something of great importance with her this evening.”

  “Really? I shall certainly alert her of your wishes.” Henry’s voice held a musical tone.

  I held my breath. This situation could very well be my undoing. I watched Lord St. Vincent’s shoes tap in sync with each word he spoke. Seconds dragged on to minutes, and the viscount launched into a diverse set of topics—his never-ending misfortune at cards, the disgraceful state of Mr. Perry’s Scottish reel, the tepid state of the ballroom, his aching arches on the bottom of his feet, and the ton’s lack of culture.

  I curled my legs to my chest and buried my face atop my knees. How much longer would they speak?

  For his part, Henry only encouraged Lord St. Vincent. I was severely tempted to kick Henry’s shins each time he asked the viscount a question or opened a new line of discussion.

  My mind spun at the horrid possibilities before me.

  Finally footsteps signaled a departure, and when I peeked beneath the tablecloth, I saw only Henry’s shoes.

  Henry lifted the edge of the tablecloth and leaned over. “Are you well enough down there? Shall I join you?”

  I frowned. “Could you be any more unfeeling?”

  “Actually—” Henry’s face drained of color, and he knocked a cake to the ground. He crouched beside me, and with a look of panic, he began to crawl beneath the table beside me.

  “Henry, what on earth?” I whispered, trying to block his way. “Are you trying to cause a scene? You realize if I were to be caught with you beneath the table, this would ruin all chances of my marrying?”

  He shook his head, pushing onward. “Ivy, I promise I would never stoop to such a level.”

  My jaw dropped; he was slinking beside me despite my protests. “Henry, this will never do. Kindly return to your feet.”

  “Forgive me, but you would not wish either of us to arise now.”

  I pulled my hands into fists. “Why ever not?”

  He adjusted the layers of tablecloth and leaned until his lips were almost at my ear. “Your dearest viscount is keeping watch at the door. And my…my mother is standing beside him.”

  I pushed him away. “Your—” My eyes threatened to bulge from my head. And I had believed my own behavior reprehensible! I placed a hand to my chest, waiting until my pulse settled. “You mean to tell me that you risk scandal in an attempt to avoid your own mother?” I whispered.

  “Do not judge me,” he said, visibly swallowing. “You have no idea what that woman is capable of.”

  If not in such worrisome confinement, I might have laughed. “Judge you? I most certainly do. Why on earth are you hiding from your own mother?”

  He winced, and he readjusted his weight. His long legs were bent into a tangle of limbs in the dim light under the table. “I told you that she wishes me to marry.”

  I lifted a brow. “And…?”

  “And I might have told her such things were of no concern of hers.”

  A breath broke through my lips, but I managed to stifle the laughter. “Henry, you mean to say you are scared she will wallop you?”

  He shook his head, putting a finger to his lips. “Not at all, quite the contrary. I worry she will cry, and if she
does…Ivy, I cannot…I worry I will agree to something to appease her, and I cannot allow for that.”

  I studied the freckle near his left eye, his dimpled cheek, and the scowl line between his brows. Henry possessed something different, something greater than the usual attractiveness in a man—definition. The lines near Henry’s lips from his propensity to smile, the skin that wrinkled near his eyes each time he concentrated, and the sun-tanned color of his cheeks from his enjoyment of the outdoors—every part of Henry bespoke his character.

  Footsteps creaked against the floor with increasing frequency.

  Henry spoke, and his voice grew raspy amidst the whispers. “You must understand. My mother has the ability to draw my consent to almost anything with her—”

  “Shhh.” I covered his mouth in desperation.

  Henry’s eyes rounded, and his cheeks darkened considerably.

  My heart clamored, but my fingers remained fixed to his lips.

  Voices rose like a swarm of bees, the clinking of glasses and indulgent laughter lifting with it. I recognized the distinct pitch of Lady Sefton and the deep laughter of Lord Egerton. I imagined the scandal of being found beneath the table with Henry. My chest rattled, and I gasped for breath.

  Henry pulled my hand away from his mouth, crinkling his brows. “Are you well?”

  Self-awareness overcame me. I shook my head, frowning. I hardly knew how to respond; I was hiding beneath a table whilst the ton—and my reputation—threatened to crash around me. And all the while, I had just cupped my hand over Henry’s lips. The thought sent a second wave of heat to my chest.

  Henry lifted a brow in response, but his lips remained in a straight line. The familiar look of concentration etched into the creases near his eyes.

  “Perhaps we will die beneath this table,” I said, noting the sets of slippers peeking beneath the cloth. I recognized those of Miss Hawkins. “How will we ever get out of here without being seen?”

  “That is the mystery,” Henry whispered in response. He scratched at his chin. “If all else fails, we can wait out the evening.”