Winter Wonderland (18 page)

Honoria clasped her hands at her breast, her eyes shining. “He's taken her in there, just the two of them,” she whispered gleefully, “and he's teaching her to play
Hearts
!”

“Well, what of that? There's nothing especially meaningful in two people playing a simple card game.”

“Yes, but I don't remember Barnaby ever doing such a thing before. And there's something about him today. Something edgy. Why, at breakfast this morning, he dropped the jam jar.”

“Then that settles it,” Delia said dryly. “Dropping the jam jar is all the proof one needs.”

That remark did succeed in deflating Honoria's high spirits. Her smile transformed itself into a glare. “What sort of proof do you need, for heaven's sake?” she retorted. “It's as plain as pikestaff he's pursuing her.”

“If you'd seen through the keyhole that he was down on his knee before her, I might have taken you seriously. But frankly, Honoria, I don't believe he can be such a fool as that.”

Honoria's whole body stiffened. “Why, whatever can you mean? Don't you
want
him to marry?”

“Yes, of course I do. But not your little Livy.”

“Why not? What's wrong with her?”

“Nothing's wrong with her. But nothing's right with her, either.”

“
Everything
's right with her!” Honoria exclaimed, ready to defend the girl to the death. Having convinced herself that Livy was the ideal partner for her dearest Barnaby, she would not give up that dream merely on Delia's say-so. “She's well-bred and pretty and kind and shy …”

Delia expelled a grunt of disgust. “I don't know why you think Barnaby needs a shy, retiring flower of a female.”

“Because he's so shy himself,” Honoria declared without hesitation. It was the same argument she'd used with her friends in London, so it came easily to her tongue. “He's not attracted to those over-animated, domineering sorts.”

“Barnaby is
not
shy, Honoria. You must stop believing that he is. He hasn't been shy since early manhood. And an animated woman is probably the only sort who'll keep him interested.”

Honoria blinked at her younger sister-in-law, her confidence shaken. “How can you sound so sure, Delia? Has he said anything to you on the subject?”

“No, not much. But I have good instincts in these matters. And my instincts tell me that he'd grow bored with the likes of Livy Ponsonby in a very short time. I think he'd do much better with someone like … well, like my governess.”

“Your
governess
!” Honoria eyes popped, her face reddened, and her voice rose to a squeak. “Your governess would be the very
worst
choice for him. Do you know who she
is
?”

“What sort of question is that? Of course I know who she is. She's Mrs. Velacott. Or
Lady
Velacott, if her dropped title is what's bothering you.”

“That's
not
what's bothering me. She's
Miranda Pardew
!”

“Heavens,” Delia said, puzzled. “You say that as if you were saying Lucrezia Borgia. Who's Miranda Pardew?”

“Miranda Pardew, I'll have you know,” Honoria ranted, “is the woman who made mincemeat of poor Barnaby at his very first ball. I blame her, and her alone, for his avoidance of females and for his bleak and miserable bachelor existence.”

Delia stared at her sister-in-law, her breath arrested in her throat. “Good God,” she gasped after a moment, “is that
true
? My governess is the same woman who offended Barnaby all those years ago?”

“As true as I'm standing here. She is one woman, believe me, whom I shall never forget!”

“Aha,” Delia crowed as if in triumph, “I
thought
there was something havey-cavey about his interest in her.”

“See here, Delia Traherne, if you're speaking of Barnaby, you can be certain that he
has
no interest in her! The woman is nothing but a … a …
flibbertigibbet
.”

“She may well have been, for all I know,” Delia acknowledged. “But it was long ago, wasn't it? Even Lucrezia Borgia turned out to be praiseworthy in the latter part of her life.”

“What has Lucrezia Borgia to do with this?” Honoria snapped disgustedly.

“Never mind.” Delia eyed Honoria with a speculative gleam. “When, exactly, did this infamous set-down business occur?”

“I don't remember
exactly
when. Ten or eleven years ago. Barnaby was nineteen.”

“And he remembers the incident, I suppose.”

“All too well. He recognized her at once. She, of course, has no recollection of the incident or the devastation she caused, the heartless creature.”

“I shouldn't think she would. One can't be expected to remember
all
the foolish acts of one's youth.” Delia rubbed her chin thoughtfully for a moment, and then, as a wicked smile suffused her face, she grasped her sister-in-law's arm. “Honoria, my love, come with me into the sitting room. I'll have Cummings bring us some soothing tea, we'll put our feet up, and you'll tell me every detail of this fascinating story.”

Honoria, although quite suspicious and full of objections to everything Delia said and was not saying, allowed herself be led away. “I don't understand you, Delia. Why on earth do you wish to hear those unpleasant details?”

“Because I'm beginning to understand the enigma of Barnaby's heart. I think, my dear, that we may have stumbled upon the one woman who'd be a perfect match for our Barnaby. With a bit of good fortune, we may marry him off after all.” She squeezed Honoria's arm affectionately before giving a final blow to her sister-in-law's hopes. “But
not
,” she added, laughing, “to your little Livy.”

Twenty

In the library, completely unaware of the scheming going on in his behalf right outside the door, Barnaby sat at a small card table in front of one of the windows dealing cards to Livy Ponsonby, who sat opposite him. They'd been playing long enough for him to realize that Livy did not play cards with the same zest for winning that Miranda had exhibited when he'd played with her at the inn. At that time, he'd found Miranda's chortling triumph quite annoying, but he now reluctantly recognized that her enthusiasm had added to the game a vivacity that was absent here, with Livy showing such good-natured indifference to the outcome. “Are you sure you'd enjoy playing another rubber?” he asked, searching her face for signs of boredom.

She threw him one of her sweet, sincere smiles. “Yes, of course,” she said. “Positively.”

The game proceeded quietly, the only sounds being the occasional snap of sparks from the fireplace and the occasional groan from Barnaby when his luck was bad. Livy didn't say a word. Barnaby glanced up at her from time to time, wondering what the girl was thinking. Was it wise, he wondered, to pursue a girl who never made her thoughts or feelings known?

Playing Hearts with Livy did not occupy his full attention, so his mind roamed about at will. This afternoon he was preoccupied with the question of offering for her. Honoria had hinted quite broadly at breakfast that she was expecting to hear the happy news within the next few days. Honoria was right about the importance of prompt action. If he truly intended to offer for the girl, he ought to do it soon. There were only a few days left before this fortnight's visit came to an end. The matter would have to be broached before Lawrence and Honoria took Livy back to her mama. Positively.

But somehow he couldn't seem to bring himself to the sticking point. Although he was sincerely taken with the girl—she had a lovely face and form, a most pleasing voice, the modest demeanor that he believed enhanced a woman's appeal and, at times, a look in her large, shockingly blue eyes of surprised fright that never failed to touch him and make him feel protective toward her—he felt, in her company, that something important was missing. The trouble was that he couldn't figure out what that something was.

As these thoughts were circling round in his mind, the library door opened and Miranda came in, heading for the bookcases. A moment passed before she saw them. When she did, she stopped dead in her tracks. Her cheeks reddened painfully. “I'm so sorry!” she gasped. “I didn't know—”

Barnaby peered at her in some surprise. He had not seen her since Christmas Eve, when she was wearing her green gown and her hair was gloriously tumbled about her face. She was now wearing her blue muslin with the white ruffle, and her hair was covered with her widow's cap. She hardly looked like the strumpet he'd conjured up in his memory. “That's quite all right,” he assured her politely. “You are only interrupting a card game. Livy, my dear, it was Mrs. Velacott who taught me to play this game.”

“Did she really?” Livy gave the governess a warm smile.

“Yes, I did,” Miranda said, speaking rapidly to mask her embarrassment. “I'm glad to discover, Mr. Traherne, that you still remember it. But let me not interrupt.” She backed awkwardly to the door. “I'll come back later.”

“That's not necessary,” Barnaby said, rising. “Please do what you came to do.”

As she hesitated in the doorway, he stared at her with what he knew was undue intensity. He'd scrupulously avoided her since Christmas Eve, five whole days ago. When he wanted to see his nephews—which he liked to do daily—he sent the butler up to get them. Miranda tactfully had not accompanied them on those occasions. Now he could not tear his eyes away. It was as if they'd been starved for the sight of her. But this sort of thinking, he knew, was contrary to the rules he'd set for himself. Such thoughts were dangerous. “Were you looking for something, ma'am?” he asked, his tone formal and distant.

“Yes,” she said, stepping back into the room. “The last volume of Smollett's
History
. We took only three volumes upstairs the other day, but today I learned there are four.”

“There are indeed. Come in, ma'am, please. I'll help you search for it.”

Before she could object, he crossed to the shelves nearest the window and began to look. She went to the opposite side. Since the books were shelved in no discernable order, it was necessary to read the title of each one. Many minutes passed in silence. Finally, squatting down and peering through the tomes on the lowest shelf, Barnaby came upon it. “Here it is, sandwiched between John Wesley's
Primitive Physic
and Madame D'Arblay's
Journal
,” he announced.

Miranda ran quickly to his side to get it, arriving and bending down for it just as he was rising. He didn't see her, for though the Smollett's was in his hand, his eyes were still on the other books on the shelf. The top of his head struck her chin with a loud clunk. She cried out and tottered back. “Damnation!” he swore, dropping the book and reaching for her with quick instinct to keep her from falling over. “I'm so sorry!” he muttered. “Are you hurt?”

But before the words had left his lips, he realized he was holding her round the waist. For a fraction of a second their eyes met. Then he dropped his hold on her with the alacrity with which one drops a hot coal.

“N-No, don't b-be alarmed,” she stammered. “I'm all right.”

He nodded and handed her the book. She took it, made a quick curtsey and fled from the room.

“I don't think she was hurt,” Livy said calmly from her place at the card table.

He looked round in surprise. He'd forgotten she was there. Embarrassed, and with his feelings in turmoil, he returned to the card table. “Where were we?” he asked absently.

“Perhaps we ought to start this game again,” she suggested, her manner so placid and sweet that it was obvious she'd seen nothing untoward in what had just passed.

He fixed his eyes on her as his racing pulse quieted itself. There was something soothing in Livy's company. Being wedded to her would be calm and reasonable and eminently sane. He would never feel the turmoil, the tension, the downright agony that he invariably experienced when Miranda was anywhere near. He needed protection against the disquieting feelings that Miranda always generated. Livy could be that protection. If he had a brain in his head, he would propose marriage to this girl. Right now.

Livy looked across at him with her big blue eyes. “Is it my turn to deal?”

“Your turn? Yes, I believe it is your turn. Livy, my sweet, will you marry me?”

It was done. Said and done. His chest heaved with a large, relieved breath. He smiled over at the girl for whom he'd just offered, confident that he'd made both of them very happy.

But Livy, her mouth slightly open, was staring at him with her shocked, fearful, helpless look. “Wh-what did you s-say?” she asked.

“I'm sorry, my dear,” he said contritely, realizing that he'd not shown an iota of romance in his proposal. “I was thoughtlessly abrupt. But you must have known what my intentions were. Surely I've shown you how much I care for you. I'm asking you to marry me.”

Her eyes opened even wider. “Oh!” she breathed. Her response was unquestionably more frightened than happy.

He reached for her hand. “May I take that as a ‘yes'?”

The little hand trembled under his, and her eyes fell from his face, her long lashes brushing her cheeks. They sat, silent and unmoving, for a long moment. Then she wriggled her hand free, stood up and looked down at him. “Yes,” she breathed. “Th-thank you.”

“Do you mean it?” he asked, getting to his feet and smiling down at her. “Positively?”

She didn't laugh, nor did she meet his eyes. She merely nodded. “M-Mama will be so g-glad,” she said, and then she, too, fled from the room.

Barnaby gazed after her in bewilderment. For the second time in less than five minutes, a woman had fled from him. “Barnaby, my boy,” he muttered dryly under his breath, “how do you account for this magical effect you have on the ladies?”