Bel wanderedinto the kitchen in a daze, absently sniffing the broth simmering on the hob.Ridgemont apologized. He wasn’t privy to Cecil’s mischief, and yet he apologized for his part. Ridgemont was not at all the man she thought he was. He treated Sophie with respect. He went back to check on the others. He… He apologized to Bel. No one ever did that. Certainly, no man ever did.
“Is all well, Miss?” Annie’s question snapped Bel out of her abstraction. The girl’s worried expression brought her back to business.
“Glazed lamb tonight, I think,” she said, removing the cloak, memories of the hands that had so gently placed it on her shoulders haunting her. She put them away just as she put the cloak on its peg. “We still have dried apricots to go with the sugar syrup.”
Breathing a collective sigh of relief, the entire kitchen hummed productively, and the afternoon sped by.
She wasn’t certain later how she managed to dress for dinner on time to join guests in the drawing room. She endured the meal with great effort, placed as she was between Lady Arncastle and Mr. Barnstable the vicar, who was slightly deaf. Lady Arncastle sniffed every dish while eyeing Bel suspiciously. Cecilsat across from her three places down, and the sneer he sent her way seemed particularly menacing.
Worse, she struggled to keep her mind from Ridgemont, and her glance from wandering his way. She chided herself not to act like a schoolgirl, but could not seem to control it.Curiosity. That’s what it is. Curiosity, she told herself.Just get through dinner.She disciplined her mind to think only about the service and general reactions of the guests to her cooking and decided she would retire as soon as the ladies withdrew.
But then Uncle announced that, since card games were planned for the evening, the gentlemen would forego their port and join the ladies. Cecil commandeered the bottle and trooped out after uncle. Bel shuddered.
“He won’t misbehave in front of his father. At least one hopes not.” She turned to see Ridgemont offering his arm. She took it; warm pleasure flowed through her at the touch and all thoughts of hiding away upstairs evaporated.
What is going on with you, Bel?
“You frowned, Miss Westcott. Do you not enjoy cards?” he asked.
“I sometimes enjoy whist,” she stuttered.
They had reached the music salon where tables had been set up for cards. “Would you prefer to take a turn around the room and observe?”
The urge to follow him anywhere startled her. She couldn’t formulate a reply.
“Or perhaps a walk in the garden?” His intense gaze scattered her thoughts.
“Alone?” she croaked.
A grin, slow and sensual, transformed his face. “Perhaps not. Shall we take tea then?” He nodded toward a settee along the side between the tea table and the pianoforte that had beenpushed to the side. One with room for two and no one else. Private in the midst of company.
Bel studied it briefly. The moment she raised her head to look at him, a smile filled her entire being. He wasn’t the horrid man she thought. He was the catch of the Season. And he sought her company. “I would like that very much,” she said.
She couldn’t say later, alone in her bed, what happened between them. They never did play cards, despite hints from Aunt Violet, Sophie, and even from Lady Bellachat. Dinah Beckwith’s comments were even more pointed, but Ridgemont—John—ignored them.
They spoke of mundane things. Her lonely childhood in a house of scholars. His favorite pony. Boyhood pranks. Books they liked and ones they didn’t. Mutual acquaintances. His education. Her struggles over its lack and efforts to educate herself. None of it was intimate and yet…
As the company began to disperse, everyone seemed to stare at her. She didn’t care. John’s last words were to ask her to walk out with him tomorrow. She would. Even icy rain wouldn’t keep her from it.
Chapter 9
The stinkof cigar and spilled spirits wafted under the door to the billiard room accompanied by raucous laughter and the punchline to a particularly vulgar story. John’s nose wrinkled, recoiling, but he pushed the door open with grim determination
Harry Smithers struck the table with his cue, ripping the covering and sending his ball bouncing across the room. The other players doubled over in inane hilarity, as if Harry’s clumsiness was amusing rather than destructive. Another aging adolescent snored where he lay on his side in the corner while a fourth puked into a potted fern. Bottles lay strewn across the floor.
How can the earl and countess tolerate this boorish behavior?John slammed the door behind him. “Where is Lord Cecil,” he demanded.
“Oy, Ridgemont. Finally come to play?” Smithers grinned. “Best find a drink.” He gestured, swayed, and almost lost his footing. “We’re way ahead of you.”
“I asked a question. Where is Cecil?”
“D’you know, Edwards?” Smithers asked the man by the fern, still green around the gills.
“Wen’ out. Hadda piss.” The man swayed and dropped to his seat on the floor.
The French doors were slightly ajar. John made his way cautiously across the floor and out. The billiard room was located in the farthest reaches of the house facing the back, probably so the countess could avoid knowing what went on. It opened out on to a flagstone terrace with a few mismatched chairs with rattan seats.
Cecil stood at the end relieving himself into a rose bush.
