The Dutiful Daughter. Jo Ann Brown

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СКАЧАТЬ I disagree with some facets of it and am uneasy with others, I prefer not to repeat it.”

      Lord Northbridge and his friends looked at Sophia. Honest curiosity gleamed in the eyes of Cousin Edmund and Mr. Bradby, but she read more than curiosity in the earl’s. To avoid his gaze until she was more composed, for the first time she avoided them. She looked down at her bowl and realized she had not taken a single bite.

      The clatter of wooden heels sounded as a boy rushed into the dining room. Sophia recognized him as Ben, an apprentice at the village baker’s shop. He skidded to a stop beside Mr. Fenwick’s chair as a maid came into the room in pursuit of the boy. She flushed as she hurried at a more studied pace toward the table.

      Ben ignored the glare the maid fired at him. Instead he spoke to Sophia, but kept glancing at the vicar. “Miss Meriweather, I am sorry to interrupt.” He turned to Mr. Fenwick. “’Tis Mr. Joiner. He has taken a bad turn, and the family asks for you to come as soon as possible.”

      The vicar got up, placing his napkin on his chair. “Thank you, Ben. Will you have the horse hitched to my cart?”

      “I stopped by the stable, and one of the lads said he would see to it, Mr. Fenwick. I will go and help him.” He raced out of the dining room with the maid following hastily with a guilty glance at the butler. It was well-known that Ogden insisted that only footmen be in the dining room to assist him during meals.

      Mr. Fenwick said, “I beg your pardon for taking my leave abruptly.”

      Sophia stood, and the other men did, too. “Please don’t let us delay you with goodbyes, Mr. Fenwick, when you are needed elsewhere now.”

      Vera set herself on her feet, as well. “Thank you for the invitation, Catherine. I will see you and Sophia again soon, I hope. My lords, Mr. Bradby, it has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Do stop by the parsonage when you visit the village.” She took her shawl from her brother and draped it over her shoulders as she hurried with him out of the dining room.

      Looking across the table, Sophia saw her sister’s dismay at the idea of the two of them being alone with the new Lord Meriweather and his friends. Sophia knew it could be worse. She and Cousin Edmund could be dining alone as he prepared to propose.

      Neither Sophia nor Catherine had needed to fret, because Cousin Edmund seemed to have found his tongue, and he prattled like a chatter-box. He directed the conversation toward his friends, never to her.

      Sophia saw her sister begin to relax and smile when Mr. Bradby told amusing, but silly stories. The redhead’s grin got wider each time Catherine reacted to one of his jests. Sophia was glad she had accepted his apology because he was making every effort to make the evening convivial for Catherine.

      She wished she could let her guard down, too, because Mr. Bradby, aside from his unconsidered words upstairs, was both endearing and skilled with gaggery. However, the very idea of unbending when Cousin Edmund sat on one side of her and Lord Northbridge on the other was unfathomable.

      Instead she watched the interaction between the three men. Even though the earl did not speak as often as the others, each time he did, the other two were quick to defer to his sentiments. It was clear they held him in the highest esteem. At the same time, Lord Northbridge was enjoying their company. When Cousin Edmund mentioned something about the war, the earl glanced at her sister and said, “Herriott, the ladies.”

      His words confirmed Sophia’s suspicions that the three men had fought together against Napoleon. That would explain both the earl’s scar and his friends’ respect. She could easily picture Lord Northbridge giving calm orders in the midst of gunfire. Had he honed his ability to control his emotions under such stress?

      When the last course, a sweet and light meringue, was crumbs on their plates, Sophia said, “Please allow us to withdraw so you gentlemen may enjoy your port.” She started to push back her chair to rise.

      The men surged to their feet, and both Lord Northbridge and her cousin reached to help draw out her chair. The earl pulled back his hand as if the wood had suddenly burst into flame. He bowed his head slightly to her cousin who assisted her to stand, and her cousin’s eyes narrowed.

      Confused, Sophia wondered what unspoken message had passed between them. She thanked her cousin, then turned to leave the table. A firm chest covered by an embroidered waistcoat halted her. Oh, bother, she should have gone in the other direction, but Cousin Edmund had been standing too close on that side.

      She raised her eyes to Lord Northbridge’s, and her breath caught over her heart, which seemed to have forgotten how to beat. His eyes were no longer hooded, and she saw the powerful emotions warring within them. She should look away, but she was held by the shadows of sorrow in his eyes. He must continue to grieve for his wife, even after more than three years. Many questions begged to be asked. Many words of comfort she wanted to offer, to speak of how deeply she understood his loss.

      But she was unable to speak because she could not breathe. If she drew in another breath, his powerful essence would come with it. They could not have stood unmoving for more than a moment; yet it seemed like one life she had known had ended and a new one had started. A life in which he played a role. Which role she did not dare to guess, but that brief second of connection eased the icy cocoon that had surrounded her heart for longer than she wanted to admit.

      Sophia stepped away. She had to fight her feet, which wanted to take her back to Lord Northbridge. Instead she walked slowly to where her sister waited at the end of the table. Together they left the room. She saw curiosity on her sister’s face, but how could Sophia explain that she was captivated by the good friend of the man she was expected to marry?

      * * *

      “When I saw the vicar in the foyer, I thought I was done for, about to be caught in the parson’s mousetrap.” Herriott shuddered as he grimaced.

      “Did you really believe that Fenwick was here because Miss Meriweather intended to force you into popping the question the very first night you arrive?” Bradby put down his glass and folded his arms on the table and chuckled. “Stop acting like a scared rabbit, and put yourself in the lady’s place. She knows nothing of you, save that you are a distant relative.”

      “Listen to him, Herriott,” Charles said, stretching out his legs beneath the table. “Why would she command you to make an offer? From what I have seen of Miss Meriweather, she would never do something skimble-skamble.”

      Herriott leaned forward. “What do you think of her?”

      Bradby cleared his throat and shifted uneasily, a sure sign that Charles must not hesitate on his answer. He would not lie, but how could he say that Herriott’s future wife invaded too many of his thoughts? He had never met a woman who exhibited a grace that suggested she moved to music the rest of them could not hear.

      “It matters less what I think of her than what you do,” Charles replied, hoping Herriott did not see his answer as an evasion.

      Across the table, Bradby smiled tautly. Charles had given him the rough side of his tongue after Miss Meriweather had fled, and Bradby had taken the dressing-down he was due.

      “You are no longer in garrison,” Charles had snapped. “You are in the company of ladies, not soldiers. You can no longer speak churlishly and expect nothing to come of it.”

      Bradby had apologized, then made a joke, as he did whenever he was under stress. Had he always done that? Charles could not recall, but he seemed to be jesting more and more of late.

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