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‘You know, his birth caused quite the scandal,’ Aunt Sophoria continued blithely. ‘His father was Lord Theakston.’
‘What’s so scandalous about that?’
‘Nothing at all,’ her aunt chuckled, ‘except that his mother wasn’t Lady Theakston. She never had any children, poor woman. They might have made up for being married to him, the old rogue.’
Ianthe leaned forward, intrigued despite herself. ‘So who was his mother?’
‘One of the housemaids. Not the first he dallied with either, nor the last, but once Lady Theakston found out she was having a baby, she turned her out on to the street.’
‘But that’s awful!’
‘It was, not that Theakston himself did anything to stop it. No one knew where she went after that. Then twelve years later, she and the boy popped up out of the blue in Whitby, he gets himself a job at old Masham’s shipyard, the old man takes a shine to him and before anyone knows it, he owns the whole place. The mother died soon afterward, and there was some kind of reconciliation with his father, but something must have gone wrong. I know they quarrelled before the old man died anyway.’
‘Oh.’ She still didn’t know what to say.
‘Do you know...?’ Aunt Sophoria tilted her head to one side suddenly. ‘You look so much like your mother this morning. I couldn’t see the resemblance last night, but now it’s quite uncanny. I could almost believe you were her again.’
Ianthe smiled, relieved at the change in subject. ‘My father always said we were doubles.’
‘So you are. My poor girl, this past year must have been very hard for you, losing your parents so close together.’
She bit her lip, trying to stop it from trembling. ‘He just seemed to give up without her.’
‘They always had too much romantic sensibility, the pair of them.’
‘Aunt!’
‘They did. He ought to have pulled himself together.’
‘Surely you don’t blame him for dying?’
Aunt Sophoria screwed up her mouth as if torn between two conflicting opinions. ‘No. I suppose not.’
Ianthe stared at her in shocked silence for a moment before bursting into peals of laughter. ‘Father always said you were wicked.’
‘Did he? How wonderful. I’m the black sheep of the family, you know.’ Her aunt smiled mischievously before heaving herself back to her feet. ‘But now I think it’s time to get up. I unpacked your bag, I hope you don’t mind, though there wasn’t much there. It’s all very respectable, but...’ Her face fell and then lit up again suddenly. ‘Would you like to borrow something of mine? I have a pink taffeta that would suit you perfectly. I could do your hair, too, if you like. I do so hate these new flat styles.’
Ianthe bit her tongue. The idea of wearing something belonging to her aunt was more than a little alarming. On the other hand, Percy would doubtless waste no time in bringing Sir Charles to call and, if her drab, old-fashioned attire didn’t deter him, Aunt Sophoria’s wardrobe just might...
‘That sounds like a wonderful idea.’ She wrenched the bedcovers back with a smile. ‘Perhaps I could do with some colour.’
* * *
It didn’t take long for Ianthe to regret her decision. Descending the stairs in her aunt’s idea of a day gown was far more problematic that she’d imagined. There were so many layers and decorative flounces she had to keep a tight hold on the banister to stop herself from falling and breaking her neck.
She stopped on the landing halfway, studying her reflection in a heavy gilt-framed mirror, wondering whether to burst into laughter or tears. Her aunt’s old, steel-rimmed crinoline made her look as if she were wearing several dresses at once, while her puffed sleeves were embellished with enough lace to make a whole other skirt. Her hair, meanwhile, was piled so high on her head that she looked as if she had a bird’s nest sitting on top—the whole frizzy arrangement held in place with an oversized day-cap, fastened beneath her chin with an elaborate bow. She looked like some kind of confection, a pink cake topped with white frothy icing.
For a meeting with Sir Charles, she looked perfect.
‘Ah, there you are!’ Aunt Sophoria met her in the hallway as she finally reached the bottom of the stairs. ‘You have a visitor.’
‘Already?’ Ianthe’s heart sank. Apparently Sir Charles wasn’t wasting any time.
‘He’s been waiting ten minutes. And of course Betsy isn’t here this morning. I’ll have to make the tea myself. Will he want cake, do you think?’
‘No! I mean, I’m sure he won’t be staying long.’
‘We still have to be courteous, dear.’ Her aunt squeezed her hand reassuringly. ‘Didn’t I tell you it would be all right? Now, run along in. You can’t keep a man like that waiting.’
‘But you said...’
Ianthe felt a twinge of resentment as her aunt vanished through a side door. So much for promising to help her—she’d left her to face Sir Charles alone! On the other hand, at least this would get the interview over with. The events of the day before, upsetting though they’d been, had at least clarified her feelings. She wouldn’t marry him, not for money, not for protection, not even for Percy. She had to make that clear once and for all.
She gave the door a firm push, sweeping into the parlour with a determined flourish.
‘Good morning, S—’
She stopped short as she caught sight of the man standing with his back towards her. He was taller and more imposing than Sir Charles, his broad shoulders encased in a smart, three-quarter-length navy coat trimmed with royal-blue velvet, the crisp white collar of his shirt contrasting vividly with his thick, black hair.
‘Mr Felstone?’ she gasped, annoyed by the catch in her own voice.
‘I’m afraid so.’ He turned around, his expression flitting between surprise and amusement before he seemed to master himself. ‘Thank you for seeing me, Miss Holt. Under the circumstances, I would have understood if you’d refused.’
Ianthe stiffened, fighting the urge to turn tail and run. As if everything that had happened yesterday wasn’t bad enough, now he had to see her like this? In her aunt’s cluttered parlour he looked even more handsome than she remembered, while she looked like some kind of doily! Well, there was no point in trying to hide her outlandish appearance now. He’d already seen the worst. She had to brazen it out, no matter how embarrassing.
‘I didn’t expect to see you here, Mr Felstone.’
‘Ah.’ He seemed to guess the truth. ‘You were expecting Sir Charles perhaps?’
‘Yes.’ She regarded him warily. ‘How did you find me? I don’t think I told you where I was staying.’
‘You didn’t, but I have a friend whose wife is fortunate enough to know everything that happens in Pickering.’ He raised an eyebrow inquiringly. ‘But I can leave if you prefer?’
For a moment, she was tempted to agree. After yesterday, he was the last man—almost the last man, she corrected herself—that she wanted to see. On the other hand, her aunt clearly held a very different opinion. She wouldn’t appreciate her throwing him out, no matter how much she wanted to.
‘It’s not my house.’ She shrugged. ‘You may do as you please.’
‘You’re very kind.’
She glanced at him suspiciously, but he looked utterly calm and contained, a whole different man to the one who’d insulted her just yesterday, in complete control of his words and temper. If only she could say the same about herself.
She pressed her lips together, trying to decide what to do next. The polite thing would be to ask him to sit down, but she was in no mood to be polite. Under the circumstances, it seemed ludicrous to resort to conventionalities. Besides, the room itself made it difficult to concentrate. After her monochromatic bedroom, the parlour was a tumultuous riot of colour, crammed with enough furniture for a room twice the size. A cursory glance revealed at least twelve different places to sit. Even the wallpaper was cluttered, decorated with sprigs of cherry blossom interlaced with tendrils of crimson fruit. Combined with a flower-patterned carpet it gave the distinct impression that her aunt was trying to establish a garden indoors. The effect would have been overpowering even without Mr Felstone standing in the middle.
What was he doing there? She felt a fresh burst of exasperation. After she’d bade him goodbye so definitively on the train—or thought she had—she hadn’t expected to see him again at all. If he’d come to mock her again then she’d have no compunction about picking up the nearest ornament and flinging it at his head.
She glanced around the room, searching for suitable weapons, her gaze settling finally on a large box on the table.
‘What’s that?’
‘A peace offering. You said you didn’t have a gown for the ball.’
‘So you brought me one?’ She frowned, surprise vying with irritation. Peace offering or not, the gesture was hardly appropriate. She didn’t want anything from him—nothing except his departure.
‘Forgive the impertinence, but I mentioned your situation to my friend’s wife, who was happy to offer a loan. You’re around the same size so I believe it should fit. If you wish to borrow it, that is.’
Ianthe made her way warily across the parlour, lifting the lid and trying not to gasp as she caught a glimpse of the satin fabric inside. The dress was beautiful, a silvery light grey, simply cut with a round neckline and not so much as a flounce or ruffle in sight. She ran her fingers over the sumptuous material, resisting the urge to press it against her cheek. Such a gown would be a joy to wear. It also looked suspiciously new.
‘I recall your brother mentioning that you like grey.’
‘It’s lovely.’ She tore her fingers away reluctantly. ‘Your friend’s wife is very generous, but I can’t possibly accept.’
He ignored her objection. ‘I also managed to procure an invitation for your aunt. I noticed her name wasn’t on the guest list.’
‘For Aunt Sophoria?’ She spun around eagerly. That was an even better present than the dress, though she’d no intention of forgiving him so easily, no matter how churlish she sounded. ‘That was very thoughtful. My aunt will enjoy herself, I’m sure, though she hardly needs me to chaperon her.’
‘What don’t I need, dear?’ Aunt Sophoria bustled into the room at that moment, barely visible behind a giant tea tray.
‘Allow me.’ Mr Felstone stooped to relieve her at once. ‘I was just telling your niece that I’ve arranged invitations for you both to the ball this evening. If you care to attend, that is.’
‘The ball?’ Aunt Sophoria’s face lit up instantly. ‘Well, we’d be delighted, wouldn’t we, Ianthe? Do take a seat, Mr Felstone.’
‘Thank you, Miss Gibbs.’
He looked around as if searching for an available seat, and Ianthe felt a smug sense of triumph, pleased for once to see him at a disadvantage. Despite the preponderance of furniture, nearly every chair was hidden beneath some form of lace-based frippery.
‘Allow me.’ She smiled condescendingly, uncovering a small sofa beneath a pile of cushions.
‘My thanks.’ He caught her eye with a flash of amusement in his own. ‘Won’t you join me?’
The smile dropped from her face at once. Getting dressed, the thought of sitting down had somehow never occurred to her. She’d worn hoops in the past, of course, but never such a vast crinoline. Now she wondered how her aunt managed. Awkwardly, she reversed towards the opposite sofa, bending her knees slowly as she tried to make her progress look as natural as possible.
‘Sugar lumps!’ Her aunt’s sudden cry made her freeze halfway down.
‘What’s the matter, Aunt?’
‘I forgot the sugar lumps.’ Aunt Sophoria was already back on her feet. ‘Do pour Mr Felstone some tea, dear. I won’t be long.’
Ianthe stared at the teapot in horror. If she offered him tea then she’d have to stand up again! She cast an anxious glance towards him, but he seemed oblivious to her distress, apparently engrossed in the porcelain figure of a small dog at his feet.
She cleared her throat. ‘Would you care for some tea, Mr Felstone?’
He glanced up, the shadow of a smile passing his lips. ‘I think perhaps we ought to wait for your aunt.’
She dropped the rest of the way into her seat with an unladylike thud. What was he still doing there? He’d made his peace offering, as he called it. If he was waiting for her to forgive and forget, he could wait all day. Silently, she stared down at her hands, her fingerless, crocheted gloves folded neatly in her lap. Why couldn’t he just put her out of her misery and leave?
‘Miss Holt.’ His deep voice broke the silence at last. ‘Yesterday I behaved in an appalling manner. I’m afraid that my temper has a tendency to get the better of me. My apology was churlish and my proposal somewhat less than chivalrous. I beg you to forgive me.’
She looked up again quickly, glancing towards the parlour door in alarm. She didn’t want her aunt to overhear that!
‘Very well. We’ll say no more about it.’
‘Just one more thing and I’ll be silent. Before you left, you accused me of mocking you. I assure you that I wasn’t.’
‘No?’ She couldn’t keep the scepticism out of her voice.
‘No. You may not think me a gentleman, but I do have some sense of decency. Why would I joke about such a thing?’
‘Because, as my brother so delicately observed, I’m not the kind of woman men generally propose to.’
‘None the less, I was quite sincere.’
Ianthe curled her hands into fists. He sounded genuine, but he couldn’t be. More likely he was simply regretting his behaviour and attempting to cover his tracks, pretending that his proposal had been real in order to protect his reputation. It would serve him right if she said yes!
‘Mr Felstone...’ she pulled herself up haughtily ‘...if you’re afraid of me spreading gossip about you then I can relieve your worries at once. I assure you, I have no intention of telling anyone else about your proposal.’
‘I’m not worried at all. I’m quite accustomed to being talked about.’
‘Then if you think you’ve compromised me...’
‘I don’t.’
‘Then I don’t understand you, sir! Why would a man of fortune, apparently in full possession of his faculties, make such an offer? Unless it’s your custom to propose to complete strangers?’
‘It’s not my custom, as you say, to propose at all. Up until a few months ago, I’d never given the matter any thought.’
‘Then why...?’
‘I’ll be blunt, Miss Holt, since you seem to favour that approach. I’m a busy man. I like business and I like my work, but I don’t enjoy the social obligations that come with it. Lately, I’ve felt I might be better placed if I had a wife to assist me.’
‘So naturally you asked me?’
‘Naturally, I asked a woman of my acquaintance who I was led to believe would favour my suit. She didn’t. When we met on the train, I was returning from that interview. I won’t deny that injured pride played a part in my proposal to you, but I was perfectly serious. I still am. When I learned of your predicament in regard to Sir Charles, I saw an arrangement that might suit us both.’
‘My predicament, as you call it, is none of your business!’ she snapped. How dare he talk about her private affairs so familiarly, never mind the arrogant presumption that she needed his help! She didn’t need him or any other man to save her! She could save herself from the Baronet...just as soon as she figured out how.
‘I do not need rescuing, sir.’
‘I never said that you did.’ He sounded infuriatingly calm. ‘I’m simply offering you a solution.’
‘But you don’t know me!’ She sprang back to her feet, crinoline forgotten. Where was Aunt Sophoria? Surely it wasn’t so hard to find sugar lumps!
‘How well do any couple know each other before they marry?’
‘Better than this!’
He shrugged. ‘I’m sure over time we would develop a regard for each other. You strike me as a sensible, respectable woman, and I want a respectable wife. My life has been more than eventful enough.’
‘Oh.’ She flinched inwardly. Sensible and respectable were good. They were what she wanted, how she strove to appear, yet somehow the words still felt like an insult. Besides, he didn’t know her at all if he thought she was sensible. Sensible women didn’t elope with their employer’s sons!
