Summer House Party Page 15

  She put out of her mind the desire to suggest that the object of Matilda’s affection did not return her regard and she should look elsewhere—like at the delightful Sir Reginald who loved her.

  Rallying her good senses, Genevieve touched Matilda’s arm. “I am persuaded that having Mr. Amesbury paint your portrait was an exceedingly fine idea—a perfect excuse to spend time with him.”

  Matilda beamed. “It was, wasn’t it?”

  Genevieve glanced over her shoulder at Mr. Amesbury, who listened to one of the younger gentlemen with amusement. As the other gentleman came to the end of the story, everyone laughed, including Mr. Amesbury. His whole face lit in mirth. Genevieve barely resisted sighing at the stunning sight. Then she remembered she wasn’t supposed to look at him.

  To cover up her mistake, she squeezed Matilda’s hand. “I am happy you have attracted the attention of such a fine gentleman. He’s perfect for you.”

  “He is perfect, all right,” one of the other girls said. They all tittered.

  Matilda glanced at Genevieve. Something darkened in her expression. “You certainly seemed to enjoy your little practice waltz with him.”

  “Er, I—Yes, I did. He was kind to teach me. Your Mr. Amesbury is certainly a fine gentleman.”

  Matilda resumed her usual sunny expression. After tea, they chatted and gossiped, all the while Genevieve pointedly keeping her attention on the girls, and not on Mr. Amesbury. The act of refraining from looking at him almost caused physical pain. She rubbed her hands against the fabric of her muslin gown to brush off the warm sensation of his touch. But to no effect.

  She was a terrible friend!

  “Come, Jenny, we should dress for dinner,” Mama’s quiet urging broke in from behind the settee where Genevieve sat.

  Genevieve nodded. “Yes, Mama. Do you need help getting to your room, Mattie?”

  “I’ll help her,” Mrs. Widtsoe said as she reached the circle.

  Genevieve followed her mother out of the room and upstairs. They ascended the grand staircase, and Genevieve admired the carved stone and gothic details.

  “Are you enjoying yourself?” Mama asked.

  “Yes, very much. We played croquet and Blindman’s Bluff, and I own that I laughed quite with abandon.”

  “As did the others, I understand.”

  “Yes. And I am persuaded the practice waltz will be helpful for tonight’s ball.”

  “I suspect it will. You attracted the attention of some gentlemen.”

  Genevieve lifted her shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “My partner in croquet was very attentive. And Mr. Ashton escorted me back to the abbey.”

  “And young Mr. Amesbury taught you to waltz.”

  Genevieve blushed at the memory of his touch on her hand, her back, and the small brushes as their bodies touched during the waltz. No wonder people viewed the waltz as scandalous.

  “Has anyone captured your heart?”

  She hesitated a fraction too long in answering. “In so short a time? Of course not.”

  “Except, perhaps, one who has also captured the heart of your best friend?”

  Genevieve sucked in her breath. Though tempted to deny it, Genevieve acknowledged that Mama already knew. She let out her breath. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Probably not to others, but I can tell. You try too hard not to look at him, but when you do, you soften like I’ve never seen you do. You positively glowed when you danced with him.”

  “It’s pointless. Matilda loves him.”

  “Does he return her regard?”

  “She seems to think he does. He’s fairly reserved, but he was quick to come to her rescue this morning when she hurt her ankle.”

  “That is the mark of a gentleman, not necessarily a young man in love.”

  Genevieve secretly agreed but tried to convince her mother of a truth to which Matilda clung. “He’s attentive to her, and they had a lovely chat while he painted her portrait.”

  “He might merely have been looking for the right expression for her portrait. Or he’s simply polite.”

  “I cannot hope for that, Mama. She loves him. And I want her to be happy.”

  Mama put her arm around Genevieve and gave her a sideways hug. “I know. Matters of the heart are never easy. You are young yet, and have many prospects.”

  While Mama retired to the chambers she shared with Papa, Genevieve went to her room and flopped on the bed. What kind of friend was she? Loyalty and honor were qualities her parents had instilled in her as long as she could remember. Her friendship with Matilda transcended any interest in a gentleman.

  Only one more day. Genevieve could last one more day. Then the house party would end. She and her parents would leave and spend their summer in Bath helping her mother restore her health. She would never see again Christian Amesbury, except at Matilda’s wedding.

  Her maid, a middle-aged woman who preferred to be called simply by her last name, Hill, entered. “Do you wish to rest, miss? I could return later.”

  Genevieve sat up. “No, come in.”

  The abigail set out the two gowns Genevieve had not yet worn at the house party.

  After a glance, Genevieve gestured. “The silk ball gown, please. We’re dancing tonight.” Poor Matilda. She’d been so excited to waltz.

  After a quick sponge bath, Genevieve dressed in a clean shift and stays, and donned a dressing gown. Seated at the dressing table, she stared at her reflection without seeing it. Instead, she plotted how to survive the evening without allowing her discomfiting jealousy to affect her thoughts or behavior. If Matilda were at a loss for company, Genevieve would sit with her. If Mr. Amesbury sat with Mattie, Genevieve would find an excuse to leave them alone. If he were to speak with Genevieve, she’d only talk about Matilda. Matilda would attain her heart’s desire, and Genevieve would be happy for her—even if it killed her. Which was silly, really, as she hardly knew Christian Amesbury.

  No matter how often she reminded herself of that fact, it never offered comfort.

  “Are you unwell, miss?”

  “Oh, no—just thinking.”

  She should tell Hill to do her hair in a very simple chignon—something as plain as possible so as not to compete with Matilda—but she couldn’t make the words come out. Besides, her hair was almost finished now, and to ask for a different hairstyle would be unkind to Hill, who’d already combed her hair into soft curls. After the abigail dampened the fine hairs on either side of Genevieve’s face and curled them around her finger to make ringlets, she added a green ribbon as the finishing touch.

  “Lovely, Hill,” Genevieve said. “Thank you.”

  She stood and lifted her arms so Hill could lower the gown over her head. As the abigail fastened the gown down the back, Genevieve eyed her reflection in the full length mirror. Green ribbon threaded through the sleeves and around the bodice accented tiny green leaves embroidered on the ivory silk, and the ball gown fit beautifully. If only she had been blessed with curves like Matilda, instead of the figure of a fourteen-year-old. Mama called her “elfin,” but saw her through the eyes of a mother’s love. Removing her focus off her reflection, she tugged on her silk stockings and stepped into her dancing slippers.

  Mama tapped on the door and stuck her head in. “Are you ready? Oh!” She clasped her hands together. “You look lovely!”

  It was impossible to wallow in self-pity while her mother admired her so enthusiastically.

  “You do, too, Mama.”

  And truly, she did. With auburn hair the color of Genevieve’s, still untouched by gray, and a lovely face, her mother looked far younger than her age. Only the faintest lines around her eyes belied her departure from the first blush of youth.

  Putting on the final touch, Genevieve pulled on long gloves and a cashmere shawl before she joined her father, who waited for them in the corridor.

  Papa kissed her brow. “What a lucky man I am to escort two such lovely ladies.”

  In the drawing room, half the guests
waited, sipping sherry and conversing. Matilda had yet to make an appearance, but Christian Amesbury and his father had already arrived. Wearing a dark blue frock coat and a gold and white brocade waistcoat, he had an elegant sense of style. Next to him stood the cheerful, curly-haired Sir Reginald and the solemn Mr. Ashton, both sizing up Mr. Amesbury.

  Did they view him as competition for Matilda? Did Matilda know she had so many admirers? If she knew, would she be less likely to set her sights on Christian Amesbury?

  Genevieve squelched the traitorous thought. Matilda hadn’t formed an attachment for him out of a lack of prospects; her preference came as a natural result of his kindness and charm. Being handsome and the son of an earl only added to his allure. For many reasons, he was a desirable match, and Matilda was smart to recognize it.

  Genevieve glanced about the room. Noting Matilda’s absence, she turned to her mother. “Matilda isn’t here yet. Should I have looked in on her?”

  “Not necessary, surely. Do join the other girls.” Mama gave a gentle nudge.

  Genevieve moved to a group of chairs drawn up to make a conversation area.

  “. . . only my first Season, so Mama says not to become discouraged,” one of the young ladies said.

  “That’s all well and good for you,” said another, “but next Season, Mama is launching my younger sister. This house party is my last chance to receive an offer.”

  Matilda arrived, and all the girls turned their attention to her and her well-being until dinner was announced. After dinner, the guests filed into the drawing room that had been transformed into the ballroom, with flowers and hundreds of candles blazing in the chandeliers and tall wrought iron candelabras. Local musicians played their instruments in that odd discord of pre-performance tuning. While Matilda sat like a queen on her wheeled chair up front where she would command a view of the room, several girls clustered around her. Surely most of her current companions would be asked to dance shortly, which would leave her alone. And if she were alone, Genevieve would keep her company.

  The musicians struck up a quadrille. Heading up the set stood Christian Amesbury across from the girl in white muslin who’d expressed a fear of losing her only chance at marriage. Genevieve moved to join Matilda so she would not find herself alone, but before she had taken more than a few steps, a voice stopped her.

  “May I have this first set?” Sir Reginald appeared at Genevieve’s side, his hand extended and his warm eyes merry.

  Genevieve hesitated. “I had planned on keeping Matilda company.”

  He glanced at Matilda. “Miss Widtsoe is surrounded by friends at present. Once the set ends, I plan to stay with her, but I must first dance.”

  She cocked her head to the side. “You surprise me, sir; I would have thought you’d take every chance to be at her side.”

  He grinned. “I don’t wish to make a cake of myself by sitting at her feet like an overeager puppy.”

  Genevieve gave in to the urge to tease him. “Are you using me to inspire a bit of jealousy in her?”

  “Not entirely.” With a covert wink, Sir Reginald took her hand and led her to the dance floor. He stood next to Christian Amesbury and grinned impishly at her as two other couples made up their square.

  Using every shred of self-control not to look at Mr. Amesbury, she fixed her focus on her partner. As the music started, they took hands for the moment it took to dance past each other to the other dancers in their square, which led her to Mr. Amesbury.

  He looked directly into her eyes and smiled, a slow, heart-melting curving of his lips that quite literally dried her mouth. Trying not to fall flat on her face, she danced past him to the next gentleman where they repeated the steps. After she made her way around the square, she arrived back with Sir Reginald, did the required little skip-step, and took hands as they watched Mr. Amesbury and his partner, the girl in white muslin whose smile practically illuminated the room, dance within the square. Genevieve would probably be wearing a similar smile if she were his partner, only hers would be dimmed by guilt.

  Under his breath, Sir Reginald said, “You’re staring.”

  Dragging her gaze off Mr. Amesbury, she whispered tersely, “I am not.”

  His eyes twinkled. She lifted her chin, pointedly looking everywhere but at the dashing figure in blue. Each time she found herself temporarily partnered with Christian Amesbury, he looked into her eyes as if he were trying to memorize her face. Clearly, her imagination had gotten the better of her.

  During the course of the set, she managed not to collapse at his feet, and while she danced with the other gentlemen in the square, even kept her eyes off him—most of the time.

  Upon completion of the set, Sir Reginald escorted her to her mother and bowed. “A delight, Miss Marshall.” He all but sashayed to Matilda’s side where he bowed over Matilda’s hand and promptly took a seat next to her.

  Matilda smiled at Sir Reginald flirtatiously. “Reggie, how kind of you to join me.” She frowned briefly in Mr. Amesbury’s direction but resumed her smile at Sir Reginald.

  Mr. Ashton stepped into Genevieve’s line of sight. “If I may have the honor?”

  “Of course,” she replied.

  During the country dance, she again danced a few steps with Mr. Amesbury, whose gaze again darted over her, his lips curving in a way that seemed to beg her to ask what he thought.

  “Stand up with me the next set?” he murmured as they circled.

  A warm rush ran over her skin. “As you wish.”

  He smiled, and she stumbled. Must he be so handsome?

  The steps took them apart and brought her back to Mr. Ashton. He said nothing and his expression remained solemn as they danced, but in his defense, the vigorous dance provided little opportunity to converse. Dancing always brought her joy, and at the end of the first dance in the set, she stood laughing and trying to catch her breath. Her focus fell on Mr. Amesbury, who watched her with such intensity that her heart fluttered. He inclined his head, smiling in a way that felt almost secretive. Only by sheer willpower did she manage a courteous smile rather than gape at him. He turned his focus onto his partner, his expression smoothing over into polite interest.

  “This is the last night of the house party,” Mr. Ashton said, stealing Genevieve’s attention.

  She glanced at him, ashamed she’d had the bad form to stare at another while on the dance floor with a partner. “Yes, it is.”

  He nodded. “Not much time, then.”

  “Oh, I think it’s been a lovely few days. Of course, it’s always a little disappointing when a party ends, but that’s better than wishing for its end, don’t you agree?”

  He gave her a curious look. “I am sure you must be right.”

  At the conclusion of the set, Mr. Ashton returned her to her mother. Genevieve’s gaze roamed the room, and she gave a little start. Lord Wickburgh stared at her. The lord stood still as a statue, gripping his walking stick with white knuckles. He, too, inclined his head in greeting as Mr. Amesbury had, but his gaze left her with an urge to seek protection.

  Mr. Amesbury appeared, his smile in place, his hand outstretched to her. “If you would be so kind.” Did she imagine a sultry quality in his tone?

  She laid her hand in his and walked with him, her feet barely touching the floor.

  He stepped closer. “It’s the waltz.”

  “How lovely,” she said, breathless. “I hope I remember how to do it. I’m not sure one brief lesson with a real partner is enough.”

  Oh, dear. Matilda hurt herself teaching Genevieve how to waltz, and now she, instead of Mattie, was waltzing with Mr. Amesbury. Guilt shadowed her joy.

  The music began, and as he drew her into waltz position, he smiled down at her. “I am honored to be your first, Miss Marshall.”

  Her attention focused on his lips. Her first what? Kiss? Her heart pounded at the thought.

  He added, “I hope to be a worthy waltz teacher.”

  Waltz. Of course. How ridiculous she was being!
After only a few moments, she moved with him with little thought, following his skillful lead and moving with the music. He did several basic steps, giving her a chance to become acquainted with the rise and fall and with the music’s timing. A timelessness, a sensation of everything being so right in the world while she danced in his arms filled her. A missing ingredient to the recipe of happiness had been added to her life.

  But she had not known him long enough to know if he were her perfect match. He might be a passing fascination. Perhaps, in a few days or weeks, she would meet some other dashing fellow and forget all about Christian Amesbury. And perhaps she would discover that fairies truly did open flowers and Cupid’s arrows were real—it seemed just as likely.

  As they sailed across the floor, his smile faded to a solemn expression. “Miss Marshall, as a close friend of Miss Widtsoe’s, you are best qualified to advise me.”

  Oh, no. He would ask her about Matilda’s favorite flower, or what kind of wedding ring she would want . . .

  “I have somehow raised her expectations.”

  Genevieve’s thoughts stuttered to a halt.

  At what must have been confusion in her expression, he rushed on, “I assure you it was purely unintentional. In fact, aside from painting her portrait—well, and helping her when she twisted her ankle—I have made every attempt to appear distant while still being polite. Nonetheless, she seems to think there is some sort of understanding between us.”

  Everything inside her went still. “Then you have not formed an attachment to her?”

  Sincere eyes fixed on her. “None. I never meant to give her that impression. I cannot imagine how she got that idea.”

  Genevieve didn’t know whether to jump for joy that his heart remained unclaimed or weep for what would be a stinging disappointment for Matilda.

  She moistened her lips. “I advise you to be direct. Quietly take her aside and tell her.”

  He winced. “I cannot imagine how I will find the words to deliver such a cutting speech.”

  “The longer you delay, the worse it will be.”

  He nodded, his expression clouding. “She might accuse me of raising her expectations.”