Sedge did indeed find Miss Ashburton's blushes charming.
Another incongruity, along with the freckles, in such an elegant-looking woman. She turned at his words, and he captured her with his smile. Thank God his face had not been injured, for he was quite aware of the effect his smile had on people. Especially women. Though he never quite understood why his smile was any different from anyone else's, he nevertheless recognized its power, and had used it to win many a friend and woo many a lover. He used it now to beguile the Amazonian beauty at his bedside. The blush faded, but she still looked charmingly embarrassed.
"You must forgive my grandmother, Lord Sedgewick. It is just that she ... well, she thinks I... Oh!" She gave an exasperated shake of her shoulders. "You know exactly what she was about. She could not have been more obvious."
"She is fond of you," he said. "That is only natural."
"Yes, she is, but she also believes me to be at my last prayers. So, when fate dropped an unmarried viscount on our doorstep ... well, you can imagine what she has been plotting and planning during your illness."
"Surely not your last prayers?" he teased. "Are the gentlemen of East Anglia so blind? Or merely stupid?"
She shrugged and looked embarrassed again, though she did not blush. "I spend a lot of time with horses," she said. "I am afraid I have never been the lady Gram would like me to be."
This elegant beauty, not a lady? Impossible.
"Mrs. Lattimer tells me you and I have met before," he said. "I confess I—"
"Do not worry yourself, my lord. I would not expect you to remember me. We only met twice, and very briefly."
Not remember her? How could he fail to remember this glorious creature?
"And yet, you remembered me?" he said.
Miss Ashburton threw back her head and laughed—a lilting, musical laugh.
The laugh nailed it. Sedge was thoroughly smitten.
"How could I forget," she said, grinning, "the only gentleman taller than me in all of London?"
"How, indeed? I am told we danced together. When ..."
"Good heavens, my lord. It was six years ago. Of course you do not remember."
Sedge furrowed his brow as he tried to bring to mind the spring of 1808. Each Season consisted of a similar round of balls, routs, card parties, and other endless and repetitive social events, so that there was almost no distinguishing between one year and the next. But there was always something, some event or other, that set apart one Season from another. Sedge began counting backward.
Last year had been the Season his friend Jack, Marquess of Pemerton, had come to Town looking for a rich bride and had become engaged to Lady Mary Haviland. The year before that was when his other good friend, Lord Bradleigh, had broken off a miserable engagement at the last minute so that he could marry Emily Townsend, a young woman Sedge had actually been courting himself. That was also the spring the Prime Minister had been assassinated. Sedge recalled. The year before that had been the year the Prince of Wales was declared Regent, and had given that outrageous grand fete. Sedge kept counting backward, but his mind went blank when he reached the spring of 1808. He beetled his brows until his head throbbed, when, finally, it came to him.
"Ah," he said, speaking his thoughts aloud. "That was the year everyone was agog about what was happening in Spain. King Ferdinand had been abducted and forced to abdicate."
"And that scoundrel, Bonaparte," Miss Ashburton said, "put his brother on the throne. Yes, I remember. It was the talk of the Town."
"And I danced with you twice amidst all that buzz?"
"You were only being polite to a tall, skinny wallflower, my lord."
"You? A wallflower?"
The musical laugh tantalized him once again. "Oh, to be sure," she said. "Not many gentlemen care to dance with a young woman whose eyes are at a level several inches above their own."
Sedge tried to conjure up an image of a tall, red-haired beauty but came up blank. He could try to recall all the wallflowers he had danced with, but that would be a monumental task. Sedge was every hostess's dream, for he never failed to give all the wallflowers at least one dance.
This particular practice, which kept him in the good graces of every hostess or patroness in Town, was not based on any manner of calculation on Sedge's part, but rather on a deeply felt personal commitment. He had never forgotten the day his younger sister Georgiana, in Town for her first Season, had sobbed in his arms begging his intervention with their mother in allowing her to return to their home in Lincolnshire. Georgiana, plain and shy, was miserable at having spent yet another ball seated among the dowagers and chaperones, without a single partner during the entire evening. She knew she would never take, but her mother was determined to keep trying. Sedge's heart had almost broken at his sister's obvious unhappiness, and he had in fact talked their mother into returning to Witham Abbey. But he had never let go of his anger over the shallow stupidity of the gentlemen of the ton who could not see beyond Georgie's physical imperfections to appreciate her sweet nature and gentle spirit.
Georgiana had eventually married, though the memory of her shame and humiliation had never faded. From that time on, Sedge had made it a point to seek out the plain-Janes and wallflowers at each ball or assembly, to offer them at least one opportunity to dance. And, more often than not, his cheerful attempts to draw them out had been so successful that others began to take notice. Many a young lady found herself with a much more respectable dance card once Sedge had made the first offer.
Could Miss Ashburton have been one of his wallflowers? Tall women were often overlooked, gentlemen of the ton generally preferring small, dainty women who made them feel protective. He squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to bring to mind various tall girls he may have danced with. He conjured up a vague recollection of a gawky redhead in an abundance of unfashionable ruffles. He opened his eyes and found it hard to reconcile that memory of gangly awkwardness with the statuesque beauty before him.
"Could it have been at Lady Sefton's ball?" he asked.
"Good heavens!" she said. "You do remember."
"I seem to recall a very thin, very shy, very tall young woman, in lots of ruffles."
Miss Ashburton laughed. "That was me. Gram dressed me up like a wedding cake, hoping to make me appear more ladylike."
"But," he said, his eyes narrowing as he studied her, "you do not seem overly shy, despite those charming blushes. And you are certainly not... well, as thin as I recall."
As expected, that comment elicited yet another blush, but at least this time she did not turn away. "I have filled out... that is, I have put on some weight over the last six years." She looked up to meet his eyes, and he turned the full force of the famous smile upon her once again. "Besides," she continued, more at ease, "I have never really been shy in familiar surroundings. It was only the strict rules of the Season that intimidated me, not to mention the frequent disdainful looks from so many people who saw me as an awkward country miss. I rather hated it all, in fact."
"Have you never been back?" he asked.
"Good heavens, no."
"You should," he said, stifling a yawn.
"I beg your pardon, my lord, you must be exhausted. Oh, I completely forgot about Gram's herbal. Here, take a bit more before you go back to sleep."
"Must I?"
She chuckled. "I am afraid you must." She held the cup for him and he shamelessly wrapped his fingers around hers and brought it to his lips. He grimaced after one swallow, but eventually drained the cup. Another yawn overtook him while she replaced the cup on the nightstand.
"I am sorry," he mumbled through his fingers. "But I cannot seem to keep my eyes open."
"You will continue to feel weak for the next few days, I am sure," she said as she fluffed the pillows behind his head. "A fever like that wreaks havoc on a body, and it will take time to regain your strength."
"Yes, I suppose so." His voice sounded fuzzy as the herbal took effect. "You will come back, won't you?" He blinked furiously in an attempt to keep his eyes open.
"Of course," she said. "You will be confined to bed for a few weeks, I should think, and will be bored soon enough. Gram and Terrence and I will take turns keeping you company."
"I. .. look . .. forward ... to .. . it," he said, and then his eyes closed completely.
* * *
Meg left Lord Sedgewick's bedchamber and returned to her own, where she changed out of her habit and into a light woolen dress. Her thoughts were full of the viscount, who was every bit as charming as she remembered, even in his weakened state. More so, in fact, for though she had almost swooned under the effect of that first smile, he had proceeded to put her entirely at ease. And his conversation had been much more flirtatious than she recalled. Of course, it was easier to converse with him in her own home rather than on a dance floor with the disdainful eyes of the ton upon her.
But she must be careful not to succumb to that boyish charm and flirtatious nature, not to make too much of that smile. She had watched often enough as he turned it on any number of women to believe that it meant anything special. He would walk out of her life as soon as his leg healed, and that would be the end of it. There was no sense in weaving foolish dreams. Despite Gram's transparent expectations.
Thoughts of Gram led her downstairs toward the stillroom. She needed to put a stop to Gram's interference before she went too far. As expected, Meg found her grandmother at her favorite workbench, grinding dried herbs with a pestle.
Meg walked into the stillroom, breathing in the varied aromas of the hundreds of plants Gram used for her concoctions: sweet, pungent, tangy, peppery, minty, and spicy all mingled together into a pleasant, fragrant whole. Herbs and flowers of every variety hung from the beamed ceiling, and two walls were filled with shelves of stoneware jars and crocks—some with fitted lids, some tied with muslin caps, each carefully labeled with its ingredient.
Above the table at which Gram now sat, narrow shelves were lined with glass vials of every size, filled with concentrated oils and extracts, and smaller crocks of pungent medicinal herbs and roots, for this was where she produced her physics. Another table was lined with baskets of dried flowers, sweet herbs, and orange peels for use in making potpourris, pomanders, and scented waters.
Gram sat with a receipt book propped open before her, listing ingredients and measurements for a specific infusion, written in Gram's own hand. Several other books, including some quite old and rare herbals, were lined up against the wall. Meg pulled over a stool and sat down next to her grandmother. Without a word, Gram handed her a stalk of dried chamomile. Meg grabbed two tiny stoneware bowls from a stack against the wall, and began to crush the stalk between her fingers, depositing crushed flowers in one bowl and crushed leaves in another.
"Did you have a nice chat with the viscount?" Gram asked without looking up, as she continued to grind crushed yarrow leaves into a fine powder.
"Gram, you are an incorrigible old meddler."
"I don't know what you are talking about."
"My dear old love," Meg said as she stripped the chamomile stalk of its last leaves, "your motives are as transparent as gauze. I fear you will send Lord Sedgewick running for his life."
Gram looked up, her eyes wide. "Did he say something?"
"He was quite aware of your reasons for throwing us together like that. You are likely to scare him away, you know."
"Hmph." Gram snorted and returned to her mortar and pestle. "He is confined to bed. Where is he going to go, I'd like to know?"
"He will bolt at the first opportunity if you are not careful."
The two women worked in silence for a moment. Meg was hopeful that her hints had made Gram reconsider her actions, for the last thing the old woman would want would be to have Lord Sedgewick take flight. Once he regained his strength, a broken leg was not such a serious malady to forestall his departure, if he felt the need to escape. Meg must keep reminding Gram of that possibility.
"He is a charming gentleman, though," Gram said at last, "is he not? Such a lovely smile."
"Yes," Meg replied as she took up another stalk and began removing its flowers, "very charming."
"What did you talk about?"
"Oh, this and that," Meg said. "Nothing special."
Another silence fell between them, broken only by the rhythmic grinding of pestle against mortar. After a moment, Gram laid down the pestle and tested the pulverized yarrow. Apparently satisfied, she dumped the contents into a large bowl already filled with sizable amounts of dried betony and comfrey. She glanced at the receipt book and turned to inspect Meg's bowls of chamomile. She picked up a small amount of the crushed flower petals, lifted them to her nose, and nodded in satisfaction. She grabbed another stalk and began crushing the flower heads into the same bowl.
"Did he remember you, after all?"
Meg looked up, startled at the question, but Gram's attention was directed at the chamomile. Meg smiled. Gram had, of course, planted the information in hopes that he would pursue it. "Yes, he did," Meg said. "At least he appeared to do so. No doubt he was only being polite. You may be interested to know that it was those horrid dresses you made me wear that finally jarred his memory."
"Then I was right to have you wear them."
"Gram!" Meg laughed and shook her head. "You are, indeed, incorrigible."
"I just want you to be happy, my dear." She looked up and smiled. "And he does seem so perfect for you. Why, he must be even taller than you, Meg. The poor man's legs practically hang over the edge of the bed. Tall, and handsome, too. Oh, my dear, I just know that—"
Meg put a finger to her grandmother's lips. "Not another word, Gram. Promise me! Not another word. I tell you, if you persist in pushing this notion of yours, we will see the back of Lord Sedgewick by week's end."
Gram flashed a contrite look, and Meg removed her finger.
"Do you really think so?" Gram asked.
"I do. Gentlemen do not like to feel pressured, Gram. They turn scared and run. Only ask Terrence. So, please, do you promise to give up this campaign?"
Gram heaved a deep sigh. "I promise," she said at last. "But I shall not stop hoping. You are a beautiful young woman, Meg. I saw how he looked at you."
It was Meg's turn to sigh. "Lord Sedgewick is a very friendly, courteous gentleman. Exactly as he was six years ago. But that is all! He will never offer anything more than friendship."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Gram, a rich viscount, even a tall one, would never be interested in a red-haired giantess. He will no doubt prefer a petite, tractable, fragile-looking blonde. All men do. I can never be any of those things, Gram."
"But I saw how he looked at you!"
"He will never be interested in me, Gram. I am merely a novelty. Not the sort of woman to draw serious attention. Not from any man, and certainly not from Lord Sedgewick. You must accept that. Now, remember your promise. Please, do not get your hopes up."
And please, do not get my hopes up, either.