Courting Miss Lancaster (17 page)

“No doubt, has an enormous dowry,” Jane finished for him.

“Almost vulgarly enormous,” Harry conceded. “The discrepancy alone labels me a fortune hunter.”

“And so you simply gave up?” It was something of a scold. Harry couldn’t blame her for thinking so. She was not aware of how long he’d held on to such a hopeless wish.

Harry looked away from his sister, his eyes sliding over the garden, though not seeing anything in particular. “I could not bear it any longer,” he said.

Jane was silent beside him. After a moment she spoke, her tone soft and gentle. “You care a great deal for her, I daresay.”

“I cannot imagine ever loving anyone else.” It was nothing but the truth, though he’d never spoken his feelings out loud before.

“Oh, Harry.” He felt Jane squeeze his hand.

The discussion had grown too serious for Harry’s taste. He had left London to escape heaviness and depression. “So I have come here to be pummeled by your unscrupulous offspring.”

“I am certain they will oblige you with fervor,” Jane replied, obviously catching on to the hint in his forced-jovial tone. “I could even provide them with sticks and such.”

“Weaponry will be unnecessary.”

He helped her to her feet, and they walked back toward the house in silence. Being with Jane’s family would help, to a degree. With four young children, there would be ample distraction. But seeing her loving and growing family would only serve as a reminder of what Harry would never have. And he had discovered nearly a year earlier that nothing ever entirely pushed thoughts of Athena from his mind.

Chapter 19

Adam had quite adamantly refused to join Persephone and Athena for tea, despite knowing Mr. Dalforth was expected. His visit had been discussed that morning over breakfast.

“Suppose Mr. Dalforth wishes to speak with you,” Persephone had said rather urgently.

“Then you can give him directions,” Adam had replied. “I will be in my book room. I have absolutely no intention of altering my schedule for something as mundane as an afternoon tea.”

Athena had instantly stiffened. Adam disliked everything that was essential to her having a Season. She could not expect him to endure a second round. She would simply have to accept any offer that was forthcoming if she wished to make a match.

“Mundane?” Persephone had replied. “And suppose Mr. Dalforth is coming with every intention of whispering passionate words of love to me?”

“I would shoot him through his black heart,” Adam had answered with every appearance of seriousness. “And then return to my book room.”

“It is a very good thing Mr. Dalforth’s attention is quite universally directed toward Athena,” Persephone had answered. Their exchange had shifted from a little tense to playful so quickly that Athena was at a loss to explain when the change had occurred.

“For both of you,” Adam had confirmed.

“Both of us?”

“After putting a ball through Mr. Dalforth’s chest, I would have found it necessary to lock you in the West Tower of Falstone Castle,” Adam explained, eating his breakfast as though nothing untoward was being discussed.

“The one overlooking the gibbet?” Persephone had smiled as she’d asked the question to which she quite obviously knew the answer.

“To discourage any would-be suitors, my dear,” Adam had answered. “You are, it seems, far too tempting for your own good if any man would even consider crossing me in his desperation to secure your affections.”

“And it does not say much for this hypothetical gentleman’s powers of observation,” Persephone had added. “That my affections are not obtainable by anyone other than my husband should be obvious to even the thickest of individuals.”

Adam gave Persephone a look that made Athena blush, though she was still at a loss to say precisely why. Persephone, Athena had noticed, was blushing as well. Adam had that effect on his wife.

Athena did not believe Mr. Dalforth had ever brought a blush to her cheeks. Harry had on more than one occasion—a look, the tone of his voice, that time he had held her hand in the theater. Athena felt her face heat at the reminder. Not only had she blushed but her heart had pounded and raced. It was the sort of reaction she ought to have been having to Mr. Dalforth if he was, indeed, to be her future husband.

A speeding pulse and a flushed countenance had always been part of her imagined courtship. When the butler announced Mr. Dalforth, Athena concentrated on her reaction, ready to analyze every minute change. Except there was no change. Athena had absolutely no discernible reaction to him. It was a depressing realization. She was conceivably on the verge of receiving an offer from a gentleman she was little better than indifferent to.

The tea was interminable. The excellent food provided by Adam’s highly skilled chef tasted vaguely like air and water, tasteless and unnoticed. Athena tried to calm the almost frantic pulse pounding in her head. How had she come to be in such a situation? What was she going to do about it? She had difficulty imagining herself married to Mr. Dalforth, but what other prospects did she have?

“Might we take a turn about the garden?” Mr. Dalforth requested after the nerve-racking tea had been consumed.

Persephone gave her approval of the suggestion, though Athena thought she seemed reluctant. Why was that? Or had Athena imagined the hesitation?

She and Mr. Dalforth walked to the garden in what felt to Athena to be a very awkward silence. He seemed uneasy, nervous even. Could he be planning to propose?

Oh, please no,
Athena silently thought, her panic increasing by the moment. She had not sorted out the situation, had not determined what to do. Could she accept Mr. Dalforth’s offer knowing her heart was not involved? Could she refuse him knowing their engagement was talked of openly in society as an inevitable thing? Her reputation would suffer. And there was no guarantee she would ever receive another offer, as she was not at all certain Adam would allow her another Season.

“Miss Lancaster,” Mr. Dalforth began.

Athena tried to take deeper breaths, though her lungs seemed determined to deprive her of air.

“I have grown fond of you these past weeks,” he continued.

Fond.
The word was monumentally disappointing. Athena, it seemed, was not the only one of them who was not in love. What a disaster!

“I realize that my attention could not possibly have gone unnoted, and I am aware that many in society have begun speculating as to my intentions and your expectations.”

It was not very romantic as proposals went. Was nothing about this destined to match what she had always anticipated?

He paused as if expecting her to respond. “I do believe it is talked of,” Athena managed.

“May I be candid with you?” Mr. Dalforth asked, suddenly quite urgent and glancing at her, his forehead creased.

“Of course,” Athena answered. If she did not mistake his expression, Mr. Dalforth was very troubled by something. He certainly did not at all look like a besotted suitor.

They continued walking through the garden path, the chill air biting at Athena’s face.

“When I first made your acquaintance at the beginning of the Little Season, I did so with the hope of coming to know you better. I liked what I had observed of you and wished to know if there was more I might like, might
more
than like. And I do like you.”

“But not
more than like
?” Athena was beginning to suspect the direction of Mr. Dalforth’s confession.

“I have no doubt raised expectations,” he continued without answering her question. “If not specifically in your mind, then in society’s at the least. And I do realize that, as a gentleman, I could not honorably fail to act on those expectations. Let me say this before I continue. I do believe that we are fond enough of one another and would deal well together.”

That was very nearly
anti
romantic. She sensed a “but” coming and braced herself for it. No matter that she was not enamored of Mr. Dalforth, there was something very lowering about his not being enamored of her either.

“But I have always wished for . . . more in a wife. Not as a person,” he quickly added. “I mean simply more in our feelings for one another. I had always imagined myself marrying for love.”

He seemed to be making the admission apologetically. Athena remained silent, confused and upended. She wholeheartedly agreed with him, but what did that mean for their courtship or for his near-proposal?

“My parents’ marriage was arranged, and though I think they have made a relatively successful union of it, I can see that there is something missing. They are like two individuals living parallel lives. I wish to marry my friend, someone with whom I share interests and ideas, someone with whom I can be a partner. One’s entire countenance should light up, one’s heart should react when his fiancée is nearby. There ought to be . . . something more.”

“Mr. Dalforth,” Athena said, trying to grab his attention. His eyes were focused ahead, his tone indicating he was not entirely aware he was speaking to anyone other than himself. “I completely agree with you. I have always wanted precisely that sort of marriage myself.”

Reluctant relief swept Mr. Dalforth’s features. “You realize that your reputation, even more than mine, would suffer if, after the speculation that has arisen, we do not make a match of it.”

“I believe my heart would suffer even more if we did.” Why Harry’s face flashed through Athena’s mind with that admission, she couldn’t say. Perhaps because he of all people would understand, would empathize. Harry always seemed to understand how she was feeling. He had the uncanny ability to soothe her regardless of the circumstances. Harry would, undoubtedly, know how to relieve the sudden sadness in her heart.

She heard Mr. Dalforth sigh as if her answer had freed him from an onerous obligation. It was not a very flattering realization. Only the fact that she did not, particularly, wish to marry Mr. Dalforth kept her from feeling utterly depressed.

“I will be certain to show society that you and I remain friends, though I believe it would be best if we were seen to spend less time in one another’s company,” he said. “The Little Season will end very shortly, and by the time the Season is upon us, I believe expectations will have lessened significantly.”

“I believe so,” Athena acknowledged. There would be talk, she was certain of that. But an amicable split and the passage of time would help squelch any gossip that might arise.

Mr. Dalforth left a few minutes later after taking his leave of Persephone. Knowing she was bidding farewell to the only gentleman who would probably ever court her, Athena ought to have felt more disappointed. Mostly she felt tired, worn down from weeks of worry and uncertainty. She’d had her chance to find love, and it had slipped away.

She had the almost overwhelming urge to cry, though she could not say precisely why. And she wished almost desperately for Harry.

* * *

“You have a letter, Harry.” Jane held the missive out to him with a look of mischievous curiosity on her face. “It is franked by the Duke of Kielder. Perhaps he is calling you out from several counties away.”

“Not his style,” Harry answered, reaching for the letter. “He prefers to see his victims tremble in terror. That cannot be accomplished through the post.”

It was, indeed, franked by Adam, but, if Harry didn’t miss his mark, the handwriting was feminine, though he knew it was not Athena’s. Persephone, perhaps? That was odd. Harry hadn’t ever received a letter from her.

He glanced up at Jane, watching him expectantly and hovering near the chair Harry occupied. “I believe I can read it without assistance,” he hinted with a smile. “If I come across any difficult words I will consult the children’s governess.”

“You always were a bit too cheeky,” Jane replied, smiling as broadly as ever. “Be warned. I shall use all my devious powers of persuasion to force a recounting out of you.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

Jane made an overly dramatic face meant, he guessed, to represent those devious powers she had referenced, complete with wiggling fingers pointing supposedly threateningly in his direction, before turning and leaving him to the quiet of the sitting room.

Harry broke the seal on Persephone’s letter and read quickly.

Harry,

Forgive me for intruding on your time with your sister, but I am writing most anxiously. The household is in utter chaos, I fear.

Artemis is unwell, an infectious fever not unlike the one Athena only recently recovered from. The state of Artemis’s health has sent Adam’s mother back into the country, she being most agitated when confronted with illness.

Daphne has grown oddly pensive, and not even Adam seems able to ascertain the reason for her very heavy state of mind.

Athena spends a great deal of time—far too much if you ask me—with tears hovering in her eyes. She has grown pale and does not smile as she once did. When I try to ask after her well-being, she simply tells me she is fine and changes the subject.

Adam is grown grumpy in this house full of emotional women, and I am at a loss. I know it is inexcusable of me, but I would ask a favor. Will you please return to London, even for only a week or so, until we are prepared to leave for Falstone Castle? If you could only keep Adam from being entirely irritable, then I could deal with the remaining crises.

Please come if you can.

Gratefully,

Persephone

Athena was apparently quite unhappy. Harry’s heart wrenched at the thought. She had been like that after Persephone’s wedding, the first time Harry had met her. But a few kind words of reassurance had set her mind at ease and lessened her burden. What could he possibly say or do to help her now? She despised him, distrusted him.

But then Persephone hadn’t asked him to come for Athena’s sake. He was to entertain and distract Adam, something that was remarkably easy to do. A few cheeky remarks about how nonthreatening he found his friend and a joke or two, and Adam would cheer up—as much as Adam ever did.

Harry could do that. But it would mean possibly seeing Athena again, seeing her with tears in her eyes, unhappy, and being unable to do anything to help.

Perhaps he was simply masochistic. Harry knew being back at Falstone House, being near her again, knowing she was angry with him, would be torturous. And yet he was already on his way to his room to pack.