A Provision For Love (Entangled Inheritance Book 1) Page 16

  However, I knew her mood had little to do with utensils or breakfast hash. Not even the weather could bring about such irritability. The truth of the matter lay in her distaste for the man beside me.

  Grandmother did not approve of my father. She could not see what a good man he was despite his rigid and strange manners; she failed to see past his frugality and timid voice. Yet, perhaps even more unfortunate, I suspected my father reminded Grandmother of my mother’s absence. Grandmother’s lone child was gone from the earth, and in my mother’s place was the man that had taken her away from home.

  Grief manifested itself in diverse ways. For Grandmother, losing my mother, and the grief that followed, came out as anger. Yet, Grandmother’s loss of Percival seemed to only manifest sadness. Perhaps anger resulted at the injustice; no one wished to see a child die. The death of spouses, though difficult, was to be expected.

  “My staff continues to shock me with their worsening habits. Why, did you see my butter knife?” She flicked her chin toward me, eyes widening to the size of the grapes on her plate. “As clouded as the sky outside—no doubt with butter from last night!”

  “Abominable,” I said, shaking my head. “And to think you might have used it to spread jam on your toast.”

  My father peeked at me from above the newspaper. Beneath the glare of his spectacles, his gray eyes sent a warning.

  Grandmother nodded, scowling all the more. “Exactly so. It’s not that butter mixed with jam is so wrong but the very principle! My staff ought to take their duties seriously.”

  I bit into my toast to keep from smiling. There were more truths revealed in my grandmother’s mood than the state of her butter knife.

  The dining-room door swung open, and Henry’s tall frame appeared. “My cook took the day off, and I hoped to beg a bite of hash this morning—” His jaw dropped, and he looked to my father then to me. “Forgive me, Lady Barrington. I hadn’t the slightest idea you were entertaining…”

  Grandmother waved a hand at him. Her voice sounded as dry as my bite of toast moments earlier. “Posh. Do not stand on ceremony here, Henry. It is only Ivy’s father, come for some business or other. Henry, Mr. Samuel Linfield.”

  My father stood, flapping the newspaper as he did so. He cleared his throat. “A pleasure, Mr.—”

  “Thorne.” Henry shook my father’s outstretched hand.

  “Thorne?” My father’s lips ticked in tandem with his brows. “This is the Henry of your letters, Ivy? My, how he has grown.”

  A deep blush came over me, and I cringed. Had I really written that much about Henry in my letters? I spun my fork around my plate, attempting at disinterest, though I knew the effort appeared pathetic to anyone that noted my reddened cheeks. “Yes, this is the man I am pitted against in my pursuit for Bridgestone.”

  Henry’s lips spread into a smile. “Pitted against? That’s hardly fair, Ivy.”

  My father, still examining Henry, chuckled. “And red hair? I wondered where you got such an idea, Ivy.”

  His words were soft, barely audible—a mere observation. Yet, my heart clamored. “I have no idea what you mean.”

  “Your letter about Lord Egerton and his hair—”

  “The marquess.” I struggled to regain my breath. Had I written of Henry’s red hair? I could not recollect doing so. “You must meet him soon, Father. Shall I send out an invitation for dinner, Grandmother?”

  Henry’s grin grew wider, and I wanted to curse him for it. His amusement was far too apparent. Why did he like seeing me so unnerved?

  My father’s brows dropped, and he pressed his lips together, as he did whenever he made hypotheses. He chewed the inside of his cheek—a habit he had passed to me. Then, he turned back to Henry. His smile appeared forced, and his attempt at a jest even more so. “My daughter says you are rather skilled at warding away turkeys.”

  “Her confidence means everything.” Henry smirked and took a seat across from me.

  Grandmother clicked her tongue. “I haven’t the slightest idea of what you speak of, Samuel. Henry does not deal with turkeys, as you well know.”

  Henry lifted a brow, and my father, already accustomed to Grandmother’s jabs, returned to his seat and paper.

  “I ought to warn you, Henry,” Grandmother said, tapping her fingers against the tabletop. “I had to send my butter knife back to the kitchens. Disgraceful, I tell you. Slathered in a cloudy film of yesternight’s butter.”

  “Is that so?” Henry’s lips trembled, and his dimples indented.

  “Quite.” Grandmother leaned forward. “And even worse, the bacon was burnt to a crisp. I might as well have bit into a fried piece of cowhide. Not a single difference between the two.”

  Henry rubbed his hand along his jaw. “That is a tragedy, Lady Barrington. Bacon ought not be ruined. Breakfast hash is not nearly the same.”

  I poked my fork into the perfectly crisped meat and lifted it in Henry’s direction as proof of Grandmother’s theatrics.

  Henry smiled, and his eyes fell to my upturned lips.

  I froze, and warmth spread to my recently recovered cheeks. What was happening? Why did my body seem intent on humiliating me in front of Henry?

  “And to make matters worse,” Grandmother said, voice cracking. “This weather. London is known for its fickleness, but rain all day and all week? I should think my arthritis might be the death of me.”

  “A misfortune indeed, Lady Barrington,” Henry said, still watching me.

  His gaze, one of immeasurable weight, did not leave me. My limbs went numb, and my thoughts seemed as transparent as my strange embarrassment. Since our last meeting, I had accepted my attraction to him—inexplicable as it seemed.

  “Samuel does not mind the rain,” Grandmother continued. “My son-in-law seems to think weather has no bearing on one’s spirits. Too rational, if you were to ask me…”

  I took another half of toast and slathered jam upon it.

  The butler returned with a new set of silverware and set it in front of my grandmother. “The housekeeper sends her apologies and promises it won’t happen again.”

  Grandmother’s lips puckered. “Thank you, Elliot. At least I may depend on you.” She tapped her finger in my direction this time. “You would do well to pay attention to this disastrous morning, Ivy.”

  A dirty butter knife—which was in fact sparkling, burnt bacon—which was cooked to perfection, and clouds were far from disastrous in my mind. “Oh?” I managed.

  She sighed. “Yes, as you will most likely inherit Bridgestone with your impending marriage to Lord Egerton. You might attempt to get a handle on the staff now.”

  “Impending marriage?” Henry’s tone was clipped. “Has he offered then?”

  Grandmother sighed again, this time even louder. “Not yet, but I do not doubt it. His attentions have been marked. In fact, I believe you are right, Ivy—a dinner is an excellent idea. I shall have the invitations drawn this very day. Henry, should you like to come?”

  Henry’s jaw tightened, and his brows furrowed. His expression reminded me of a brooding child. “Certainly.”

  “No need to lament the loss, Henry. Bridgestone will always welcome you, won’t it, Ivy? Now, let us enjoy the last moments of breakfast. I feel the day improving already.”

  Henry schooled his features and addressed me. “Perhaps Lord Egerton will offer the evening of the dinner, Ivy. You must be pleased.”

  “I—I do not expect…” I shook my head and, to my surprise, stood. “The marquess…”

  My father and Henry mirrored my movement, tinkling their forks against the plates as they stood.

  Grandmother’s eyes rounded. “Ivy Estelle Linfield, what are you about?”

  I clutched my hands behind my back. I did not possess a reasonable response, not one I could speak aloud in any case. I only knew that I could hardly stand to be in Henry’s presence, let alone converse about an impending offer of marriage from Lord Egerton.

  “Well?” Her voice was c
lipped.

  Only one excuse came to mind, and I detested my triteness. “My head. I feel a headache coming on.”

  Grandmother scowled. “Not likely.”

  My father, who had remained silent since his humiliating comments about Henry, only watched from around his paper.

  I brushed past my grandmother and out of the room, not daring to look upon Henry. I could not; I would not. I charged through the main hall and up the stairs to my bedchamber. By the time I reached my quarters, tears blurred my vision.

  Deceiving myself was impossible. I threw myself against the bed, until my chest convulsed in sobs. My blush, my tongue-tied attempts, the burn and tingles that circumnavigated my entire being—I knew them well enough. I was not experienced when it came to matters of the heart, yet even I could not deny the truth.

  Emotion cracked against each sob.

  Love had come softly, like a thief in the night. Henry had stolen my affection one smile at a time, one conversation at a time, one perfectly absurd moment at a time. He had stolen every part. I adored his dimples, the way his lashes tangled with each smile and look of concentration. The freckle near his eye had claimed my attention each time he appeared at my side. And his lips—those perfectly crooked and expressive lips—took hold of my attention, far more than I had dared to admit.

  He was far from perfect. Henry was no Grecian god; his arms lacked Lord Egerton’s roundness; his teeth lacked the marquess’s perfect alignment. Yet in Henry’s face’s marked lines and freckles and dimples and flaming auburn hair, lay every piece of my heart. I adored each part of him, each imperfect and lovely bit.

  In my efforts to attain Bridgestone, I had weaved a web. My situation had become layered, complicated, and absurdly sticky. I wished to shake it all away, yet doing so was impossible. I had allowed Lord Egerton to hope. Worse, I had given Henry no indication of my growing affection.

  I sat up and dug through the papers on my bed-table. My grandmother’s list. I was tempted to tear it to shreds. Reality knocked harder than any physical blow might have; life could not be contained in catalogs or sequences of words. There was no recipe, no equation for love or happiness.

  I crumpled the paper and tossed it across the room.

  Henry Thorne was my competitor. How had I allowed myself to care for him? I doubted every consideration Henry had shown for me. I was Percival’s granddaughter and therefore commanded Henry’s kindness. And, Henry’s attaining Bridgestone was threatened only by me; he might well be employing his own strategy. Like the game of croquet those years ago, Henry hated to lose.

  I buried my face into my hands and let out a lone sob. Was the woman of his interest me, or was it someone else entirely? How could I trust anything I felt for Henry?

  Chapter 22

  Dinners were not meant to be so stiff, so excruciatingly painful.

  Four days after my suggestion, my worst fears were realized; Henry and Lord Egerton were seated next to one another—and I across, where I witnessed their tense and sparse conversation. Nothing could have been so troublesome—to compare the marquess, my probable future husband, and Henry, the man I had only recently realized I loved.

  Thankfully, I had made significant strides to compose myself and resign myself to my fate since my epiphany days earlier. I did away with tears; I had greeted Henry without a single blush or tongue-tied mistake.

  “Ivy, are you well?” my father whispered.

  I dropped my gloved hands to my lap and attempted at a reassuring smile. “Yes, I am well indeed. Why should I not be?”

  My father’s lips disappeared into a pursed expression. His brows twitched above his golden-rimmed glasses, and the candlelight gleamed across the lenses and his balding head. He gestured toward my plate. “You’ve scarcely eaten more than three bites of each course.”

  My smile fell flat, and I looked to my plate and then to the others’ at the table. Their plates were nearly scraped clean, while mine remained untouched. I cut into my fish and took a bite. “The fish is excellent, Grandmother. You will have to send my compliments to the cook.”

  My effort did little to impress my father. He dabbed his handkerchief at his forehead and did not say another word.

  “I quite agree, Ivy.” Grandmother, who had spent the majority of the meal conversing with Mrs. Thorne, turned toward the marquess. “Lord Egerton, I understand Pemberton is a lovely place. I read in the Newspaper about your father. Is it true he stocks the lake and allows his servants to fish there?”

  The marquess nodded. “Yes, actually. My father believes the staff have as much like for the fresh fish as our family, Lady Barrington.”

  “Yes, I suppose fish are better fresh, no matter one’s station. Do you fish with the servants?” Grandmother asked, scratching the loose skin at her neck. “I do dislike the idea of servants mingling with the family—brings about murky lines, blurring all sense of authority.”

  Percival might have returned from the grave, if only to censure Grandmother. He, like the duke, believed in befriending those in his employ. What on earth was Grandmother getting at?

  “I am not the fishing type, Lady Barrington.” Lord Egerton smiled politely. “Neither is my father. “

  Not the fishing type? I dared a glance at Grandmother. Fishing seemed just the type of thing Grandmother should have put on her list if she were truly trying to persuade me to find a man like Percival. My grandfather enjoyed the outdoors immensely—and almost never as much as when he was aboard his fishing boat on the glassy lake near Bridgestone.

  Grandmother’s narrowed eyes fell upon me, and the light danced across them. “I say, best leave the fishing to the servants then.”

  The same blood that coursed through my veins coursed through Grandmother’s. I was tied to her, for better or worse. However, I was severely tempted to throttle her every now and again. Grandmother was able to convey her every sentiment through expressions. Perhaps I caught on because I was accustomed to her, but I suspected she was not so subtle.

  She was teasing me; the fact was undeniable. Something about her expression hinted that she understood my disappointment with Lord Egerton and was challenging my resolve.

  Was I as transparent as her? Were my feelings plastered across my every feature and action? I cut into my fish once more, determined to become more aware of my faculties.

  I did not find Grandmother funny. Bridgestone was no game; neither was my marriage and future. When such choices—those of enormous consequence—lay before me, how could she act so callously? She loved me; that I knew, despite her crustiness, lectures, and unending contrary displays. Why then did her eyes gleam at me?

  “I never particularly enjoyed fishing myself, Lord Egerton,” my father said.

  Grandmother tsked, and her gray wig bounced as she shook her head. “Goodness, I cannot say I am surprised. Most likely, my son-in-law stuck to his library, hovering over books and calculations and the like. But then again, Samuel, you are happy in your choices.”

  A raging boil climbed my throat. My father deserved none of her unfeeling words.

  “I suppose we all cling to our own versions of fishing,” Henry said. His voice was lower than usual, a subdued yet cutting quality coating each word. “I am sure you would agree, Lady Barrington. Not many baronesses enjoy making a game of their posterity’s inheritance.”

  I flinched.

  Grandmother nearly choked on her wine, hacking until her coughs transitioned into scratchy laughter. “Right you are, Henry. I suppose a person might find satisfaction from a variety of pastimes.”

  Henry’s lips held a slight curve, and he nodded at me.

  My bubbling anger simmered to a dull ache. Henry was the only person, save Percival, whose criticism might draw amusement, rather than anger, from Grandmother. Henry was also one of the few souls brave enough to try.

  My father clutched my left hand from beneath the table. He spoke quieter than usual. “Henry is a good sort of man.”

  “Yes,” was the only word t
hat came.

  Lord Egerton wiped a napkin across his perfect lips and smiled, oblivious to the slight of my father. “Thorne, pray tell me. How has Lady Barrington made a game of her inheritance?”

  Henry clenched his jaw. “A slip of the tongue, my lord—nothing to worry your mind about. Miss Linfield is set to inherit Bridgestone and its properties.”

  The marquess’s smile grew. “Miss Linfield, you might have told me. I do so enjoy the country around Chatham—the royal dockyard of the queen on one side and Sittingbourne on the other. I believe they call the area ‘the bridge’. Is that where the estate’s name originates?”

  “Precisely,” Henry answered for me.

  “And your estate also resides in Kent, does it not, Thorne?” Lord Egerton asked. I might have welcomed his attempts at conversations, as they distracted Grandmother from uttering another abominable word, but I found his choice of conversation even worse. “How appropriate that you have grown up so close to Bridgestone and your great-uncle, Lord Barrington. Your association with Miss Linfield may continue easily enough. That must be of great comfort to you.”

  My throat went dry, and my attempts to swallow felt like sand scraping against my flesh. Grandmother and Lord Egerton made a vile pair, though the marquess had little idea that his words were lemon to my wound.

  Henry nodded. “Yes, how very fortunate, indeed.”

  My breath hitched. Was that resentment of losing Bridgestone buried beneath Henry’s words, or was that…indicative of something more? The ways his eyes glistened, the way his lashes tangled. Henry almost seemed…

  Pained.

  Grandmother resumed her position as discussion leader. She clapped her hands together. “I suppose we have all had our fill, except for Ivy who seems intent on disgracing my cook’s attempts. Shall we continue our conversations in the parlor after the men take their drink?”

  Escape could not have come soon enough, and for once, I did not even pay mind to Grandmother’s curtness or abruptness. I moved to my feet, and the company of men stood. Mrs. Thorne and Grandmother followed.