The Holly and the Ivy, page 27
“Is your hair done or what?” Graham asked, trying to sound casual. He was pretty sure he failed.
“I am to accompany Lady Elizabeth into dinner,” Henry replied and slid his arms into his jacket. “But perhaps you should try to speak with her. Get to know her. She could be your wife in the near future if you’re not careful.”
“You mean if you’re not careful.”
When they reached the dining room, everyone else was already gathered outside the doors. It truly was a small party, even though Aunt Augustina had assured them the neighbors would be over often throughout the week. With Lord Winterfeld’s sister and her husband as the only other company, the Bartlett boys would have to work hard to keep up their pretense.
“You look more radiant than you did this afternoon, my lady,” Henry said to Lady Elizabeth, offering a kiss upon her hand.
Graham gravitated toward Miss Campbell without meaning to, though she was deep in conversation with Lord Winterfeld’s sister, Mrs. Newhurst. Even when discussing wool quality, of all things, she radiated light and energy.
“Oh yes, a good wool is incredibly important,” she was saying, “especially this time of year. My hands never seem to be warm enough.”
Graham knew that to be false since he had felt the warmth of her fingers twice now as she’d held to his arm. In fact, he rather liked the feel of Miss Campbell’s hands.
“What was that, Mr. Bartlett?”
Graham blinked. Mrs. Newhurst was staring at him, waiting for an answer to her question. Goodness, had he spoken his thought out loud? His face burning, he searched for something to say that could dig him out of this hole he had stumbled into.
“Mr. Bartlett had the misfortune of discovering my uncommonly strong grip not long ago,” Miss Campbell said with a grin. “I frighten more easily than I care to admit.”
If she was speaking of that moment in the drawing room when she had spoken out of turn, she was far from easily frightened. Miss Campbell had passion, of that he had no doubt.
“Did you know Mr. and Mrs. Newhurst raise sheep, Mr. Bartlett?” Miss Campbell said.
Lud, he was proving himself to be a bumbling fool as he stood there searching for a response. He had spent so much time forcing himself to say nothing in mixed company that he had apparently forgotten how to have conversations entirely. “I am not well acquainted with the Newhursts,” he managed eventually. “How is your flock, Mrs. Newhurst?”
The woman smiled warmly. “Better than ever, I should say. Oh, if you will excuse me, I believe my husband has finally arrived.” She tottered off just as Aunt Augustina announced dinner was ready and they should proceed into the dining hall.
Graham offered his arm and was met with the same warm fingers as before. “It seems I was wrong about you, Miss Campbell.”
“Oh? What about, specifically?”
“You are prone to exaggeration.” He put his hand over hers as they took up the rear heading inside. That was a strange sensation, not being among the first, but he was quickly distracted by the way Miss Campbell’s hand tightened around his forearm and beneath his fingers.
And when he looked into her face, he found her grinning. “You have found me out, sir,” she said brightly. “But I would rather make a person comfortable in conversation whenever possible. It is not often I get that chance.”
Like Henry, she probably rarely earned the chance to speak her thoughts, and that was a shame indeed. Graham was quickly learning he could listen to the woman speak about anything. Even sheep.
As soon as dinner began, Aunt Augustina launched into her plans for a Christmas Eve ball she was hosting, which she did every year. “I hope this one will be particularly special,” she said and sent a mischievous smile to Henry before turning her gaze to Lady Elizabeth.
Both of them looked like they had lost their appetites as they locked eyes across the table. Graham couldn’t be sure, considering Henry was friendly with everyone, but the two of them seemed to have bonded rather easily over such a short period of acquaintance. Henry sent a commiserating smile to Lady Elizabeth, which seemed to calm her fears a bit, whatever they were, and she even managed to smile back.
Graham wished he knew how Henry did it. How did he connect so easily with people? The only time Graham had managed it was with Miss Campbell, though that surprised him to no end. It seemed losing the pressure of his title had loosened his personality as well.
“Do you enjoy balls, Mrs. Newhurst?” Miss Campbell asked.
Graham was immediately grateful she hadn’t asked him. He hated balls, particularly because balls required dancing. He didn’t dance if he could help it.
Mrs. Newhurst chuckled and patted her husband’s arm next to her. “I met Mr. Newhurst while dancing,” she said, fond remembrance warming her words. “It was at a ball much like the one we will be having here, and I had never had such a wonderful partner.”
Mr. Newhurst coughed into his napkin. “You forget the many times I trod on your feet, my love.”
“That was not what mattered, even if I ended the night somewhat bruised. You were so attentive and concerned each time you stepped on me, and I knew that night I had found a man who would never intentionally hurt me.”
“And that is the only reason Father would listen to your petition to marry a man without a title,” Lord Winterfeld said with a chuckle.
Mrs. Newhurst scoffed as her husband turned red. “You are the reason he allowed the match, and you know it, dear Brother.”
Graham stared at his uncle as the man smiled into his soup. Lord Win-terfeld was an earl like Graham’s father, and a wealthy one at that. He had convinced his father to allow his sister to marry someone not of the peerage? A sheep farmer, no less? And he saw no issue in the match?
True, Lord Winterfeld himself had married the daughter of a marquess, but could there be a chance for Graham?
He turned and found Miss Campbell smiling at him, and though he couldn’t fathom what she might be thinking, her expression sparked hope in his chest. Perhaps there was more of a chance than he’d thought. Perhaps he could find happiness this Christmas after all.
“That is a remarkable story, Mrs. Newhurst,” Henry said, loud enough that it made Graham jump. “I myself happen to adore dancing.”
Graham would have jumped across the table and strangled his brother if that were not considered uncivilized.
“That is not what I’ve heard,” Miss Campbell replied.
If Graham could have sunk into the floor and disappeared, he would have. Miss Campbell had heard about him? About Lord Bartlett? Of course she had, with the company she kept.
Amusement danced in Henry’s eyes. “And what have you heard of me, Miss Campbell? I don’t get out often enough to learn the London gossip.”
“That much is true,” Miss Campbell said with a grin. “In fact, I’m rather surprised you attended a house party at all, my lord. If the talk of Town is correct, you are not the most social of men.”
“London has gotten more accurate over the years, it seems.” Henry’s grin made Graham’s blood boil. “They used to think I was secretly already married, and that was the reason I never gave ladies any attention.”
Wait, had they really? Graham frowned, which made Henry laugh.
“In fact,” Henry continued, “I do not mind being social when the company is good, though that is a rare occurrence these days.”
“That would explain why you don’t fit the picture Society has painted of you,” Miss Campbell replied. “I daresay we here are good company.”
Like Graham, Lady Elizabeth seemed inclined to duck under the table and hide, as if she found her friend’s boldness humiliating. If anyone was not as Society painted her, it was the duke’s daughter. Did she put on a front while in Town, just like Graham did? The poor girl looked horrified and seemed to have no idea how to correct her situation.
Graham thought quickly. “It seems Lord Bartlett has found a kindred spirit in Miss Campbell. Wouldn’t you agree, Lady Elizabeth?”
Her head snapped up, her eyes wide. She had looked at him the same way back in the drawing room, like she hadn’t expected anyone to notice her distress. “In-indeed,” she stammered, and then she swallowed and sat up straighter. “Though I am surprised anyone can keep up with Miss Campbell. She is a most spirited companion.”
That much was true, Graham agreed, and he accepted the lady’s grateful smile with a nod. She seemed to be a lot like Graham, and though he could hardly see her by his side as his wife, he could easily picture her as a friend. They were too similar to suit otherwise.
“And my brother often forgets himself,” Graham muttered, hoping Henry got the hint. He was supposed to be pretending to be Graham, not taking on the title of Lord Bartlett and keeping his own personality.
Henry had the decency to wince sheepishly, though he still looked a bit too amused for Graham’s liking. In fact, Henry had been happier and less frazzled ever since his time alone in the corridor with Lady Elizabeth, and that did not bode well. If he was growing attached . . .
“Tell me, Miss Campbell,” Graham said, keeping his voice low so that conversation would stay between the two of them. “What are the Duke and Duchess of Westermoor like? I mean, when it comes to their daughter.”
Miss Campbell’s eyebrows rose in surprise, and she glanced at her friend. “You mean in terms of marriage?”
“I suppose.” Would it ever be possible for someone like Henry to take her hand?
“They offer their daughter some freedom to choose her match, but they will not see her diminished. She must marry her equal.”
Graham was afraid of that, and he doubted the younger son of an earl was equal to a duke’s daughter. “Ah.”
“I would imagine it is the same for Lord Bartlett.” Miss Campbell’s voice seemed to reflect the misery sinking into Graham’s chest, though he couldn’t imagine why. As far as she knew, Henry was a perfectly viable option for her friend.
“Most likely,” he said glumly.
Why, blast it, had Henry suggested they trade places? All of this could have been avoided, and Graham wouldn’t have been enamored by Miss Campbell, of all people, because she wouldn’t have looked at him the way she did down in the kitchen. Like everyone else, she would have seen nothing but his title, and he could have spent his Christmas in peace.
Ha! If he thought he would ever find peace in being the future Lord Greystone, he was a bigger fool than he’d realized.
The rest of dinner passed in conversation about the upcoming ball, most of the talking done by Aunt Augustina and Mrs. Newhurst. Graham didn’t have the heart to join in, even though Henry sent him several furtive glances that told him the real Mr. Bartlett would have definitely spoken up about an event like this. He was too busy thinking about how, after this week, he would have to forget about Miss Campbell.
He hardly knew her, but saying goodbye was not something he looked forward to in the slightest.
Chapter Six
Beth had never been one for sitting still. Neither had she been one for following societal niceties, apparently, though she pretended not to be bothered by her own rudeness as she wandered the corridors of Camden Park. She doubted anyone but Jemma had noted her absence anyway, so what sort of trouble could she get into, really?
“‘You’ll be lucky to find a man to keep a hold of you,’” she muttered as she turned a corner, hoping to find something interesting. Mama was just as bad as the rest of Society and thought Beth’s fortune was the one thing she could provide her future marriage. Unlike the rest of London, however, Mama worried Beth’s personality would outshine her dowry, and she did not see that as a good thing. She said so often enough that Beth could mimic her perfectly.
Oh, if Her Grace could see her daughter now . . .
Beth stumbled upon the portrait hall, and she grinned as she took in the first subject. He was a stern-looking fellow and most certainly would have ensured his daughter married well if he had one. He likely took great care to recommend her to the best of the best and would have been furious if his daughter pretended to be something she was not.
“Did you know this is not my dress?” Beth asked the portrait. She used to talk to portraits all the time as a child, but her mother had quickly forced her out of the habit. She found herself missing such a delightful pastime since her only companionship as a child had been her governess. “Proper ladies do not waste the day away with foolish imaginings,” Mother had said more than once. Well, Mother wasn’t here, and Beth was not a proper lady. She was a simple companion, Miss Campbell, and she wanted to talk to the portraits.
“Mama would die of shock if she saw me wearing something so simple, but it is actually more comfortable than anything I own. Fancy that.”
The next portrait must have been Sour-Face’s wife; she had the same pursed-lip displeasure as the man in the first portrait.
“Did your daughters resent you for wanting to keep them elevated in life?” Beth frowned a little as she examined the woman. Mama had never been cruel about her dislike of Beth’s more unconventional tendencies, and she more often than not smiled when she looked at her daughter. Beth could hardly imagine the woman in the painting smiling at anything at all. She supposed she was lucky in that regard. “I don’t resent my parents,” she decided. “They simply want what is best for me.”
What is best apparently meant marriage to the viscount downstairs. Beth sighed. “He’s not all bad,” she told the painted man in the next portrait. This one seemed to find something funny, his eyes dancing on the canvas. “He is handsome, I suppose, and he is far from some of the vile men I have been forced to meet.” He could have been the sweetest, kindest nobleman in all of England, for all Beth knew, but there was something about Lord Bartlett that felt wrong. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but it had her nervous.
“I wonder if the duke knows about his wife’s plans,” Beth said to the man with the laughing eyes. That was a silly question; Her Grace never did anything without her husband’s approval. The real question was whether Beth’s father had had any reservations about his wife’s choice before he agreed to the idea. He would know more of the viscount’s disposition than Mother. “Does he approve of Lord Bartlett the man?”
“Does he?” a deep voice repeated.
Beth screamed and leaped back, and only when she stumbled into a pair of strong arms did she realize she hadn’t just heard a painting speak to her. Spicy citrus filled her nose, and the shockingly familiar scent calmed her down enough that she laughed.
“You shouldn’t sneak up on people, Mr. Bartlett,” she said, hardly caring about the fact that he still held her arms to steady her. She rather liked the feeling, actually.
“Maybe you shouldn’t talk to paintings,” he replied. “They’ve been known to respond a time or two.”
Twisting around, Beth grinned as she caught sight of laughter in Mr. Bartlett’s eyes. “Why do you think I was talking to them in the first place?”
He still kept his hands on her shoulders, and he didn’t seem to realize it. Beth certainly did since his hands were warmer than she’d expected, and the heat from his fingers spread through her. Though not as tall as his brother, he was tall enough that if he were to wrap Beth up in his arms, she would feel entirely safe in his hold.
Mr. Bartlett cleared his throat. “So it seems the Duchess of Westermoor had a similar idea to my aunt’s,” he said and finally took a step back, releasing her and leaving her slightly chilled without his warmth. “Was Lady Elizabeth as uninformed as Lord Bartlett about the hopeful match?”
Beth couldn’t help but let out a sigh. “All she wanted was to spend Christmas away from the matchmakers of Society. Apparently she is not to be so lucky.”
His smile turned somewhat playful, and it was enough to spread heat through Beth’s face as she looked up at the man. “I suppose, being a companion to Lady Elizabeth as you are, you have plenty of experience with the ton.”
“More than I ever cared to.”
“And yet you’ve remained unmarried all this time?” As soon as those words left his mouth, his eyes went wide, and he took another step back. “I am sorry,” he said with a cough. “I didn’t mean—”
“I suppose I haven’t found someone worth my attention before now,” Beth said before he could get too far away.
Her words did as she’d hoped, and his smile returned. Goodness, she could get used to a smile like that. It was so different from the practiced smiles she saw throughout London Society, and she had a feeling it only appeared when he was genuinely happy. Beth had never had many goals in life since everything about her day was generally set for her, but she was determined to see that smile as often as possible while she was at Camden Park.
Mr. Bartlett’s eyes shifted to the painting behind her, the one with the man who seemed to be laughing at something, and he frowned a little bit. “I’ve never really known much about my extended family,” he muttered. “He looks like a scoundrel.”
“Aren’t all men of titles scoundrels?”
His smile flashed, but she had been hoping for a laugh. She would have to try harder.
“I would agree when it comes to most of them, yes. I like to think Lord Bartlett is a good man, however.”
“You’re his brother,” Beth replied. “You have to say that.”
“In my experience, brothers are not often genial toward their relations. Particularly younger brothers.”
Though she couldn’t claim to know the Bartletts well, she had only seen a kind and happy relationship between the two of them. In fact, they rather seemed to support each other and lift each other up in the best possible way.
“You care about your brother,” she noted, though she hardly needed to tell him that. “It is an admirable quality indeed.”
