The two stood there for a long moment, merely gazing at each other with grins that looked (in her opinion) far too silly for such an exhilarating moment, but Hettie’s refused to lessen despite her best efforts. Glancing at the sofa, she wondered if she ought to invite him to stay. Certainly, she wished to, and that was far more decorous than the other inappropriate possibilities her brain supplied, which focused entirely on wondering what kissing him would feel like.
However, she was an unmarried lady, and he was her beau, and it was inappropriate for any courting couple to be alone like this.
Mr. Baxter followed her gaze, and when their eyes locked again, he frowned. “I suppose I ought to take my leave.”
Hettie’s heart gave a happy little hop at the disappointment in his tone. Stepping back, he gave her a low bow, leaning over her hand once more to press another kiss to it before he straightened.
“Until tomorrow, my dearest Miss Stillwell.”
And with that, she stepped away from the door, and he swept out. The air in the room evaporated with him, and Hettie stared at the parlor with unseeing eyes. Moving to the sofa, she dropped heavily onto it and gathered up her marzipan, placing each one carefully back into the box.
She and Mr. Baxter were courting. At two and fifty years of age, Harriet Stillwell had a beau. Mr. Hamilton Baxter! A low chuckle rumbled inside, growing until Hettie couldn’t contain it. Leaning back into the sofa, she held the sweets close and plucked a rose from inside, popping it into her mouth with a giddy laugh.
Chapter 14
Bristow was little more than a village nestled in the Essex countryside, but Baxter adored the place. Not only because he’d spent the majority of his life there, but because its quiet ways suited him. A perfect blend of city and country with people and prestige enough for balls, assemblies, and parties, yet nestled in rolling hills and verdant fields.
However, Bristow could never match Bath’s pretension—a fact his city-born wife had mourned many times. Returning to Bath permanently had been the only saving grace upon leaving Juniper Court for her. Unfortunately, Dolores hadn’t been granted the opportunity to fully embrace all the higher society had to offer before she had fallen ill.
And Baxter could well imagine her raptures if she’d lived to see the Snowdens’ New Year’s Eve ball. In truth, he wasn’t certain how his family had gained an invitation to the event. But then, half of Bath seemed to be crushed into the house.
Flitwick Hall wasn’t the finest home Baxter had visited, for Bristow boasted several grand estates within its reach, and Avebury Park and Hardington Hall were certainly a match in size and grandeur. To say nothing of the Lovells’ opulent manor, which had the benefit of a long lineage, a title, and wealth to match. But regardless of how many times he’d visited such properties, they never failed to instill a sense of awe. Which was precisely their purpose.
The Snowdens’ home boasted a proper ballroom, and the ceiling was gilded in gold and frescos that would do credit to the finest cathedrals in Italy. Candles by the hundreds lit the room until it was easy to forget the pitch black just outside. And Mrs. Snowden had brought in a veritable forest indoors, though Baxter didn’t know how they’d managed to gather that much greenery. Evergreen boughs draped the walls, the dark greens complementing the gold of the extravagant decorations.
Then there was the Christmas tree situated in the corner. The great pine rose like a giant, the candles adorning it glittering against the mirrored ornaments hanging from its branches. When Baxter had first heard of bringing a tree indoors, his mind had conjured up something far more scraggly, but the Snowdens’ decoration radiated such beauty that it was clear why Queen Charlotte had brought the tradition to their shores, and why others were beginning to mimic it.
Music rang through the air, emanating from the veritable orchestra their hosts had employed, punctuated by the steps of the dance as the revelers whooped and clapped, skipping through the energetic steps of the reel.
Yet despite all the beauty of the room, it was the entry doors that held Baxter’s attention. Standing just to the right of them, he was at an odd angle, leaving him unable to see the newcomers until they were fully inside; however, the crush of bodies made it impossible for him to spy the visitors from any other vantage.
Holding firm to her father’s arm, Charity gave another heavy sigh, her gaze drifting across the crowds with unveiled apathy. Baxter frowned to himself and wondered again whether or not he’d done right by insisting she join them. So close to her confinement, there were many reasons she should’ve remained at home, but Baxter suspected her spirits would fare better with a distraction.
Unbidden, Baxter’s mind turned back to last New Year’s Day when Lieutenant Callaghan had asked permission to marry Charity after their year-long courtship, which had begun during the previous Christmas season. With her child soon to arrive, no doubt it was doubly difficult for her to be reminded that her dear husband was far from her side.
Movement to his left drew his attention to the doorway. But it wasn’t the Stillwells.
Glancing about the room, Baxter cast his thoughts to the available entertainments. Of course, there were the usual pursuits—food and cards—though Charity was in no mood for the latter and had had her fill of the former. Of course, there was the dancing, but that was inadvisable in her condition. Or impossible, more like.
The Snowdens had a few games in a side room, which had the guests divining the future for the coming year (or attempting to, at any rate), but that would hardly be worth the effort of fighting through the crowd. The young mother-to-be was reaching that uncomfortable point where every movement was painful and exhausting. Letting out another sigh, Charity arched her back and shifted from foot to foot, and Baxter couldn’t bear it any longer.
Their hosts hadn’t provided much in the way of seating, requiring all guests to go to the dining room if they wished for refreshment (both of the eaten and seated variety), but there were a few scattered chairs along the walls. The moment one became vacant, he plowed through the crowd, herding Charity toward it. He deposited her on it before another could steal it away, and she bit back a groan, but the look of pleasure in her gaze was not lost on him as he stood at her side.
“I apologize for dragging you out tonight,” he said with a frown.
Squeezing his arm, she shook her head. “It is good for me. I fear I’ve been far too maudlin today, and it would only get worse if I were left to my own devices. Thomas would tell me to embrace the evening and enjoy myself, but I fear I do not have his natural levity.”
Baxter smiled at her self-deprecating tone, and his gaze drifted toward the door. Unfortunately, from their new vantage, much of their view was blocked by a wall of people. But there was nothing to be done about it; he wasn’t going to abandon Charity after dragging her here.
“You needn’t stay by my side the whole evening, Papa,” she said, cutting through his thoughts. When Baxter glanced at her, Charity gave him an arched brow. “When Miss Stillwell appears, I fully expect you to abandon me and dance with her.”
Baxter’s throat tightened, and he fiddled with the cuffs of his jacket, straightening them. “Pardon?”
But his daughter merely smirked. “Do not feign ignorance, old man. It is a miracle the others haven’t discovered the truth, but I am no fool. You are courting her, aren’t you?”
“I—”
Charity held up a silencing finger. “Don’t you dare, Papa. Despite hardly ever venturing outside before, the past four days have seen you gone more often than you’ve been home—”
