“Mr. North’s uncle was the vicar in Anston before him. He had been for decades. I was particularly fond of his wife, Alice. She always attended these gatherings.”
“I was not aware that his uncle preceded him as vicar. That’s very interesting.”
“Yes, Mr. North first came to our parish as the curate, serving under his uncle, of course. His mother’s brother, if memory serves. I was so taken with him that I moved heaven and earth to make sure he became the next vicar. Impressive young man. And he would be a fine catch for any young woman.”
Cassandra’s cheeks flushed at the recommendation, and yet a sensation of uneasiness quaked within her. She glanced back at Mr. North. When he noticed her looking at him, he nodded. Smiled. Based on what Mrs. Kent had said, perhaps the sentiment was spreading. Perhaps others were seeing her as a contender for his hand.
She allowed herself to be led through the hall, pausing to be introduced at Mrs. Kent’s whim. It was clear Cassandra was here as the woman’s amusement—to be shown off. But with every new introduction, she was watchful. Mr. North had suggested that Peter Clark might attend. She would never dare inquire so obviously, but her eyes and her ears were open.
When they ventured from the great hall to the parlor, another man entirely captured her attention—one she had not expected to see.
She was looking at none other than Mr. Warrington.
Chapter 23
Maria’s sad expression refused to leave him as James arrived at the Kents’, and he was in no humor for socializing.
His earlier conversation with Maria about Elizabeth was still alive and vibrant in his mind, and at a time like this, he’d much rather be alone with his thoughts. Duty called, however, and there was business to conduct. Peter Clark was supposed to be here, and if they were going to defend their mills against the angry locals, then they needed to find some way to collaborate efforts.
He looked around the ornate, candlelit parlor. All of the regular attendees were present: the mill owners, some of the gentlemen farmers, even the innkeepers and local breeders. He needed to remain focused.
Elizabeth would have laughed at his apprehension. She would have smiled, fussed with his cravat, and told him that he’d worked too hard on the mill and invested too much time to allow an opportunity—any opportunity—to go to waste.
She was right, of course.
She’d always been right.
Milton elbowed his arm. “This day just keeps gettin’ more interesting. Isn’t that your little visitor? The one Longham asked about?”
James turned from his place next to the mantel and looked in the direction Milton indicated.
Miss Hale.
She was the last person he had expected to see, being led around by Mrs. Kent, no less.
What was she doing here?
A general hush fell over the chatty room as other guests took notice of her arrival. It was not often a new face joined them, especially a lovely young woman.
James tried not to stare, but how could he not? Her chestnut hair was curled and coiled at the base of her neck. She was in an exquisite gown of a striking shade of palest pink—a fetching, decidedly feminine hue in a sea of sedate blacks and browns. The gown’s empire waist accentuated the delicate curves of her body, and the candlelight reflected from the smoothness of her skin. She possessed a freshness, an overwhelming sense of radiance that seemed to awaken the very room.
Mrs. Kent had a possessive hold on the young woman’s arm, and judging by the animation in the older woman’s expression and the volume of her laughter, she was enjoying the role very much.
“What’s her name again?” Milton lowered his voice.
“Cassandra Hale.”
“Ah, that’s right. I wonder if Longham was able to speak with her, as he had wanted to.”
James took a drink of his beverage to mask his discomfort at discussing the topic. Yes, he knew Longham had spoken with her. And he also knew that Robert Clark was her father, but it was not fodder for gossip. And it went deeper than that. He’d seen the tears. This experience was painful for her, and he wanted to protect her from the local meddlers as best he could. “I’m not sure.”
Oblivious to the battle within James, Milton continued. “Well, at least one of the rumors about her ’tis true.”
“What rumors?”
“Well, she’s a beauty.” Milton pivoted. “Heard she was. I only saw her but the one time at Briarton, but I’d been so befuddled over Riddy’s attack I hadn’t really noticed.”
James’s gaze landed on the faint flush to her cheeks. The soft curl of the escaping locks of hair framing her face.
