Sir John lives in a large, gracious manor that he invariably refers to as his “ancestral home” and sometimes, more grandly, a “stately home.” He is a cheerfully gossipy sort of man whom I’ve always liked, and the feeling is mutual.
“There’s the prettiest girl in the county!” he boomed when I entered the drawing room.
Details: a huge room, also used for dancing, with oak paneling topped with blue brocade wallpaper. One end has an enormous fireplace, and the other has double doors that lead onto a terrace.
The Middletons used to have a peacock that would march up and down screaming until someone threw him bread, but he died after eating rat poison, and Lady Middleton couldn’t bear to replace him.
“I expect you’ve been collecting marriage proposals the way other people collect butterflies,” Sir John said after we’d curtsied and bowed at each other.
“Yes, killing each one, exactly as one does with a butterfly,” Squibby—Hugh—said, suddenly looming behind me.
I startled. Surely he wasn’t talking about my rejection of his proposal? It had been so casual that it hardly deserved the title. Helaughedafter I refused him, which hurt. In fact, I cried myself to sleep that night. How dare he imply that I was frivolously rejecting proposals, given his slapdash approach?
I turned slightly and curtsied. “Lord Vaughan.”
He bowed in a very minatory manner. I suppose he didn’t care for the formality, but we’re both grown up now.
No more Squibby and Snaps.
Lord Boucheron promptly joined us, Feodora on his arm.
“Another lovely young lady,” Sir John boomed. “Lucky fellows these, to have such blooming flowers to choose from. I love a bit of matchmaking. I’ll have to decide which two of you should be mated, the way bees do with blossoms.”
Blank silence greeted this sally. I’m not sure that Feodora understood, but I didn’t care for the idea.
“I shall anticipate your meddling,” Hugh said, only the faintest tone in his voice revealing that he was on the verge of bursting into laughter.
“I fully expect that you will leave Colonel Brandon’s house party betrothed,” Sir John told him with satisfaction. “I’ve done it any number of times. Why, matrimonial plans are like confetti to me!”
Whatever that meant.
“Tomorrow, my dear lady and I shall join you for the dinner and dance after the hunt, and I vow that the week will see any number of new pairings. I’ve often thought that a matchmaker holds the power—the future—of the nation in his hands, since the well-being of the country depends on those of high degree making appropriate unions.”
“Indeed,” Hugh said, greatly amused. Perhaps not everyonerecognized that look in his eyes, but I could see the enjoyment he was taking in the conversation.
Apparently, Lord Boucheron wasn’t inclined to be forcibly paired off, as he marched over to the butler and demanded sherry. Feodora, on the other hand, was gazing at Sir John with the awe usually reserved for a conjuror at the county fair.
“Lord Boucheron has good bloodlines, but a novelist will never do for a lady as pretty as you,” Sir John said to her. “I shall keep a special eye out, my dear. You need to becherished. I can see it with a mere glance.”
She peeked at Hugh under her lashes and turned pink.
“Surely Miss Dashwood also deserves to be cherished,” Hugh said in a silky voice that suggested he felt like being troublesome.
The lout!
(Though my heart jumped at the sound of his voice.)
“My darling Miss Dashwood may be suited to a novelist,” Sir John said thoughtfully. “She may look docile, but she is made of sterner stuff.”
“Not gentle,” Hugh agreed.
I didn’t know what to make of that.
“But a gentlewoman,” Sir John said, frowning at him from under bushy brows. “I shall look over all the young bucks at the hunt before I reach any conclusions. Matchmaking is a serious business. Just look at all the fuss that followed Colonel Brandon’s older brother’s divorce.”
Feodora’s eyes rounded as if she’d never heard the word. Divorce is supposedly a forbidden subject in the presence of innocent maidens—but frankly, ladies rarely discuss anything else, what with reviewing recent divorces and predicting new ones.
Hugh’s mouth was quirking at the corners again, and he nudged my shoe with his boot. But since we weren’t friends anymore, I moved my foot to the side.
