She frowned. “‘Nothing’?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head. “My father will grow tired of the idea. He does that, you know. Tends to flit from one thing to the next.”
She tightened her lips. “I don’t see how you can be so confident. My father sets a course and sticks to it.”And some of his courses are better cast aside.
The musicians were coming to the end of the Mozart concerto, the refrain dying away.
He offered her his arm after the dance ended. “Let us not be too impatient.”
They joined the line departing the ballroom floor. “But I am. My father plans a house party in you and your father’s honor, Mr. Feather. You shall be in my company for three or four days. And at the ball my father plans to hold, he will announce our engagement.”
He rubbed his brow with a gloved finger, looking pained. “Who else is invited?”
“Some forty or so guests,” she replied. Her father had complained about the cost. But he’d put it down to an investment.
Mr. Feather’s gaze settled on a small, fair-haired young woman who sat quietly alone in one of the chairs along the wall. “Can you gain an invitation for Miss Florence Beckworth?”
Erina had met Miss Beckworth once and found her difficult to converse with. So dreadfully serious. Perhaps better suited for a simple life by a fire.So that is how things are, she thought gleefully. “I shall send the invitation myself.”
He nodded. “Good. And leave the rest to me.”
“You have hidden depths, Mr. Feather,” Erina said with an impish smile as they approached her father. “I’m in half a mind to snap you up myself. Once I break things off with my father’s pick for me first.”
Mr. Feather bowed. “You are a most frightful tease, Lady Erina.”
Chapter Three
Close to nightfall,Jack had ridden far enough to leave the sprawl of London behind him. Winter was giving way to spring, with buds forming on the trees and snowdrops among the hedgerows, but the damp air still had a bite. When a storm blew overhead and lightning spooked his horse, he was forced to find an inn. A half mile on, he welcomed the sight of one. The lamps of the Old Angel Inn appeared out of the gathering dusk, surrounded by woodlands, fields, and farmhouses.
He rode into the inn forecourt, the moist air smelling of rain. In the stables, he saw to Arion’s needs then left instructions with the stablehand, who stared goggle-eyed at the magnificent chestnut. Then, unstrapping his portmanteau from the steed, he went in search of a meal. During his army life, he’d eaten and slept when and where he could. No telling when the opportunity for either would present itself after breakfast tomorrow.
Hungry, he crossed the cobbles to the thatched-roofed Tudor building. He stepped through the door, pulled off his greatcoat, and removed his black beaver hat, hanging them on a hook near the door, then sought the proprietor. The inn appeared to be a well-run establishment. It appeared to be clean, and tasty aromas wafted from the kitchen. With a room secured for the night, he entered the dining room. It was snug, with a low-beamed ceiling and a hearty fire, whichsnapped and popped in the fireplace. Most tables were occupied. Two men sat together, discussing the merits of crop rotation, while a well-dressed gentleman sat alone smoking a pipe. In a corner, a man and a woman ate their soup in silence.
A dark-haired serving young woman swung her hips between the tables as she approached Jack, a twinkle in her eye. He ordered ale, roast beef and parsnip pudding, cabbage with bacon and onions, and apple pie. He smiled his thanks when she placed a tankard before him. Whilst he drank his ale, he watched her go about her tasks with brisk, neat movements.
While the dull ache caused by the loss of his father still lodged somewhere near his heart, Jack felt at one with himself for the first time in years. He had relished the companionship of his fellow soldiers during the war, and his friends since, but now it surprised him to find he enjoyed his own company and looked forward to his journey through Wales and across the sea to Ireland. He didn’t anticipate trouble. But if he should encounter any, he could handle himself well enough.
Jack’s appearance gave no clue to his background. He wore sober earth tones and leathers, the clothes of a man of relatively modest means or a country squire in buckskin breeches and oxblood leather boots. His coat was a serviceable brown and his cotton waistcoat black. His usual starched white shirts and intricately tied cravats had been replaced with a cream shirt and a brown scarf. Once on horseback, he presented in a different light, however. Arion was a gentleman’s horse, which could make Jack more susceptible to the interest of unsavory characters who roamed the roads. He would need to keep his pistol loaded.
The meal was satisfying, good, simple fare, tasty and well cooked. After a sadly inferior port in the taproom, Jack retired to his small bedroom and stripped off his clothes. He folded them and put them on the chair, washed in tepid water, cleaned his teeth, and toweledhimself dry. Then he slipped between clean cold sheets in the narrow bed. The mattress was too short; his feet hung over the edge. He’d prefer to have slept out in a field and would have but for the storm.
As thunder cracked across the heavens, he lay with his arm under his head thinking about the life he’d left behind. The relatives of his father’s widow were probably eyeing the silver. He hoped Grant would give those hangers-on their marching orders. But he was such a correct gentleman, unlike himself.
Close to midnight, he began to think about sleep. Downstairs, the taproom had finally quieted. Noise from the patrons leaving floated through his window. He turned on his side, bashed his pillow, and closed his eyes.
At the clunk of his door being unlatched, Jack rolled over. He was on his feet in a minute and snatched up his pistol, the chilly air a shock on his bare skin.
The door edged open, and a hand appeared holding a fluttering candle. A young woman’s pale face framed by long, curly, dark hair followed, then her buxom figure dressed in a white nightgown. “Were you asleep, sir?”
The girl who’d served his meal stepped farther into the room. She put a hand to her mouth with a gasp as her gaze roamed from his head to his feet and settled on his mid-section.
“As you can see, I am not.” Jack laid his pistol down and grabbed the small towel, pulling it around his waist. It was woefully inadequate.
“I’m Cassie. I wondered if you might need company.” She put the candlestick down on the table, then came forward and placed a hand on his bare chest, smiling up at him. “You’re a very big gentleman.”
Jack removed her hand from where it had begun to wander. He clasped it in his, breathing in the scent of warm woman. “And one with very little money.”
She put her hand on her wide hips. “That what you think of me?I’m not after money. I’m a bit homesick, is all.”
