Rannulf, just like the rest of his family, had never been much enamored of social gatherings, whether in London during the Season or at Brighton or one of the spas in the summer or at house parties any time of the year. The house party at Harewood was going to be particularly insipid, he could see almost immediately. Yet he could not escape it. He must spend the next two weeks determinedly dancing attendance on Miss Effingham. During those two weeks or soon after he was going to have to propose marriage to her.
Two proposals to two different women, both within a month of each other. But from the second he could expect no reprieve.
It was made embarrassingly obvious from the moment of his arrival at Harewood for dinner that he was the honored guest, even though he was not staying at the house as all the others were. Not only honored guest, but most favored suitor for the hand of Miss Julianne Effingham. The mother led him about the drawing room after his arrival to introduce him to those guests he did not already know—most of them, in fact—and invited her daughter to join them in their progress. Then she had him lead the girl into the dining room, and he found himself seated beside her through dinner.
He was interested to discover that one of the guests was Branwell Law, a fair-haired, good-looking lad, who was presumably the brother of Judith Law—had not Claire Campbell named him? Of Judith herself and Mrs. Law there was no sign, for which fact he was enormously thankful. To say that he felt embarrassed after their encounters in the garden, especially the second one in the rose arbor, would be to understate the case. She had refused him .
Miss Effingham seemed absurdly young and alarmingly empty-headed. She talked about nothing but the parties she had attended in London and how this one and that one— mostly titled gentlemen—had complimented her and wished to dance with her when she had already promised all her dances to other gentlemen. She really thought dances should come in sets of two instead of three so that there could be more of them during an evening and more gentlemen could dance with the lady of their choice. What did Lord Rannulf think?
Lord Rannulf thought—or said he thought—that was a remarkably intelligent suggestion and should be brought to the attention of some of London’s more prominent hostesses, particularly those of Almack’s.
“How would you feel,” she asked him, gazing at him with wide blue eyes, her spoon suspended over her pudding, “if you wanted to dance with a lady, Lord Rannulf, and she was engaged for every set to other gentlemen even though she wanted desperately to dance with you?”
“Kidnap her,” he said and watched her eyes widen still further before she laughed with light, trilling merriment.
“Oh, you never would,” she said. “Would you? You would cause a shocking scandal. And then, you know, you would be forced to offer for her.”
“Not so,” he said. “I would have borne her off to Gretna Green, you see, and married her over the anvil.”
“How romantic ,” she said with an excited little gasp. “Would you really do that, Lord Rannulf? For someone you admired?”
“Only if she had no dances left to offer me,” he said.
“Oh.” She laughed. “If she knew that ahead of time, she would make very sure that there were none.
And then she would be whisked off... But you would not really do such an outrageous thing, would you?”
There was a small cloud of doubt in her eyes.
Rannulf was weary of the silly game. “I always make sure,” he said, “that if there is a lady I particularly admire, I arrive at a ball early enough to engage her for at least one dance.”
Her mouth turned down at the corners. “Are there very many ladies you admire, Lord Rannulf?” she asked.
“At the moment,” he said, fixing his gaze on her, “I can see only one, Miss Effingham.”
“Oh.”
She must surely know that she looked her prettiest with her mouth pouted just so. She held the expression for a moment, then blushed and looked down at her dish. Rannulf took the opportunity to turn to Mrs. Hardinge, mother of Miss Beatrice Hardinge, at his other side and to address a remark to her.
Soon after, Lady Effingham rose to signal the ladies that it was time to follow her to the drawing room while the gentlemen settled to their port.
The first person he saw when he entered the drawing room half an hour later was Judith Law, who was seated by the hearth close to her grandmother. She was wearing a pale gray silk dress which looked to be as shapeless as the striped cotton she had worn to Grandmaison earlier. She was also wearing a cap again. It was slightly prettier than this afternoon’s though it covered her hair just as completely. She was holding a cup and saucer for the old lady, he could see, while the latter held a plate and made short work of the cream cake on it.
He ignored the two ladies after nodding genially to Mrs. Law, who smiled and nodded back. It was intriguing to notice that for everyone else in the room Judith Law might as well have been invisible—as of course she had been to him just yesterday when he had first been introduced to her. All her vivid, voluptuous beauty was quite effectively masked.
Sir George Effingham offered him a place at a table of whist, but Lady Effingham took him firmly by the arm and bore him off in the direction of the pianoforte at which Lady Margaret Stebbins was favoring the company with a Bach fugue.
“It is your turn next, Julianne, dearest, is it not?” her mother said even before Lady Margaret had finished. “Here is Lord Rannulf come to turn the pages of your music.”
Rannulf resigned himself to an evening spent charming and flattering a gaggle of giggling young ladies and matching wits with a group of foolishly posturing young gentlemen. He felt a hundred years old.
Judith Law, he could not help noticing, was kept busy by her grandmother. She was constantly going back and forth between her seat and the tea tray. Twice she was sent from the room. The first time she came back with the old lady’s spectacles, which were set down and never used. The second time she returned with a cashmere shawl, which was then folded and set over the arm of the old lady’s chair and forgotten. Nevertheless, he noticed that the two of them were talking to each other and smiling and apparently enjoying each other’s company.
He smiled and complimented Miss Effingham, who had finished her second piece on the pianoforte and was clearly angling for a request for an encore. Meanwhile the Honorable Miss Lilian Warren and her sister awaited their turn at the instrument.
And then there was a commotion from the direction of the tea tray. Judith Law had apparently been pouring a cup of tea when someone—it was Horace Effingham, Rannulf could see—must have jogged her elbow. The tea had spilled all down her front, darkening the gray of her dress, making it half transparent, and molding it to her bosom. She had cried out, and Effingham had produced a handkerchief and was attempting to mop her down with it. She was pushing his hand away with one of hers while with the other she was attempting to pluck the wet fabric away from her bosom.
“Judith!” Lady Effingham cried in awful tones. “You awkward, clumsy girl! Remove yourself immediately.”
“No, no, it was all my fault, Stepmama,” Effingham called. “Allow me to wipe you dry, Cousin.”
There was laughter in his eyes, Rannulf saw—lascivious laughter.
“Oh dear,” Miss Effingham murmured, “Judith is making such a cake of herself.”
Rannulf found himself clenching his teeth and striding across the room to grab the shawl from under Mrs.
Law’s elbow. He hurried toward the tea tray and tossed the garment about Judith Law’s shoulders from behind without actually touching her. She looked around, startled and grateful, even as her hands grasped the ends and drew it protectively about her.