Beatrice was in fine fettle. Nell watched her greet each guest as they arrived, all smiles. Her stepmother was sparkling with good humour, a spangled gown and her own wit. Nell hovered nearby, in case she might be needed.
While Beatrice detested work of any kind, she simply adored hosting events. Having Nell there to organise and plan, to lead the staff and ensure that all went smoothly, meant the Widow Godwin’s reputation as an excellent hostess was building. Wyatt House was held to be both elegant and convenient to London, and Mrs Godwin’s house parties guaranteed good food and wine, pleasant company and excellent entertainment.
That was why, Beatrice had informed Nell, people like Mr Beresford—younger brother to an earl—had deigned to choose Wyatt House for his Christmas sojourn.
If that was true, then Nell was entirely grateful for her stepmother’s reputation, for it had enabled her to meet the one man above all others who had managed to hold her attention, pervade her dreams, and make her think of impossible things. A wedding. A wedding night. Becoming a mother.
Stop! she told herself. None of these things are real.
Yet she could dream, could she not?
But something in her remained wary. Mr Beresford occasionally acted with great reserve towards her, and she knew instinctively that he was not yet sure of what was happening between them.
She sighed. Men could be stubborn and lacking in insight at times. Even Mama, who had loved Papa dearly, had occasionally lifted her eyes to heaven at some of his less discerning pronouncements, before correcting him in a gentle but effective manner.
Mama had died of a lung infection the winter following Nell’s fourteenth birthday. At fourteen, Nell had still had much to learn from her mama.
Oh, I wish she were here to advise me about Mr Beresford. What should I do?
Mama had always behaved with perfect propriety, and yet had managed to ensure Papa married her—despite his initial slowness to understand that that was what was to happen.
Mama had also had an added complication, in the form of Grandfather Wyatt, who had died when Nell was a baby. That formidable gentleman had insisted on a marriage settlement which ensured the bulk of his wealth and possessions remained in trust for his daughter and her children. Papa, who had had no need of the Wyatt wealth, being himself a gentleman of means, had agreed with alacrity, but apparently the two men had nearly fallen out over it.
‘It was their pride you, see,’ Mama had told Nell. ‘Your grandfather was determined to see my future protected, while your Papa took umbrage at any suggestion he was a fortune-hunter.’ She had laughed, before saying, ‘Nell, understand this: men are wonderful creatures, but they are much more emotional than they admit. Nonsensical notions of pride and how others see them can drive even the most sensible of men to foolish actions. They have been reared to deny they even have sensibilities, which means we women must use all our ingenuity at times to ensure they do the reasonable thing.’
Nell needed every ounce of Mama’s wisdom to guide her now. Mr Beresford was due to leave when the house party broke up after Twelfth Night, and Nell sensed her campaign to win his heart was faltering.
Perhaps he does not feel as I do?
Nell considered the notion. He had been just as affected as she by their kisses, and yet she knew she could not read too much into just two kisses.
Tonight I must see progress.
She nodded to herself, as if deciding so would make it happen.
There he is!
Finally Mr Beresford had appeared in the line of guests. Relief and excitement warred within her. Evening wear suited him. If such a thing were possible, he grew more handsome each time she saw him.
He was unexpectedly late. She knew Mr Bridgeton’s valet had seen to him before returning to his own master, and Mr Bridgeton had been downstairs for more than half an hour already. What could have delayed Mr Beresford, she had no idea. Still, at least he was here now.
She kept a close eye on the footmen as they moved in and out of the salon, bringing fresh trays of drinks—wine, ratafia, and even lemonade, in order to cater to all tastes. The housemaids, including Sally, were assisting guests to don their dancing slippers in the front parlour, and Jemett was standing stiffly at the entrance to the salon, ready to announce each guest as they entered the room.
Nell’s gaze returned to Mr Beresford as he reached the front of the line. He made some polite remark to Beatrice, and kissed her hand, but even from a distance Nell could tell he was somewhat distracted. Timing her walk carefully, she approached Jemett just as Mr Beresford left Beatrice.
‘All is well so far, Jemett,’ she declared calmly.
‘Indeed, miss. I am content,’ was Jemett’s reply. ‘Are you going inside?’
She could sense Mr Beresford was behind her, and slightly to the right. ‘I am.’ She turned. ‘Good evening, Mr Beresford.’
He bowed, but did not kiss her hand. ‘Good evening.’
Her heart sank.
He looks...closed, somehow. Why?
‘I shall announce you both,’ said Jemett.
Nell, in something of a daze, walked in step with Mr Beresford.
What ails him? And what does it mean?
They paused briefly, once inside. A number of the local guests had turned at the announcement of an unfamiliar name, and Nell could see interested gazes—and even a few quizzing glasses being utilised in Mr Beresford’s direction.
‘Nell! My dear!’ Mrs Hoskins was the first to reach them. ‘You look ravishing, dear girl!’ She paused, eyeing Mr Beresford expectantly.
Nell introduced them, and Mrs Hoskins promptly claimed him, inviting him across to meet her three unmarried daughters.
That set the tenor for the evening. Mr Beresford was fêted, flattered and courted by all the local families. Hardly surprising since he was, as Beatrice kept reminding everyone, brother to an earl, and possessed of a creditable fortune. He was also pleasing in face, figure and manner.
None of the guests, Nell would swear, had discerned the lines of tension about his face tonight, his slight air of distractedness, the subtle stiffness of his tall frame.
He is deeply troubled about something and is masking it.
Quite how she knew this, Nell had no idea. But she was convinced that something had occurred to disturb him. She had no idea what it might be. Remembering their conversations about his history, the truth he had shared with her, she felt her heart ache for him. She hated to see anyone in distress, but Mr Beresford had become so dear to her, so quickly, that she could not help but feel distressed at his pain.
She had no way to reach him—no way to discover what might have disquieted him today. All she could do was watch from a distance and hope his worries would ease in this pleasant company.
And pleasant it was. The evening, from many perspectives, could be described as a great success. The house guests mingled easily with the county families, conversing, playing cards, eating and drinking, and finally dancing.
Nell’s hand was claimed for every dance, and she noticed that Mr Beresford did not sit out any of the dances either. He danced with Lady Cecily, with Beatrice, and with every one of Mrs Hoskins’s smiling daughters. Then, just when Nell was beginning to give way to doubt, he finally approached her.
‘Miss Godwin.’
His expression was grave. Stern, even. As if he had not wished to approach her but had been compelled to do so.
Perhaps he is fighting against this connection between us?
The realisation came to her as she glanced up at him.
She curtseyed. ‘Mr Beresford.’
‘Might I have the pleasure of this next dance?’
She nodded, and preceded him towards the centre of the room. His visage remained unyielding as she turned to face him. But his male beauty, she noted, was undiminished by his unsmiling harshness. Indeed, the air of danger about him served only to heighten Nell’s inner response. He was a fox. A wolf. An unbroken stallion.
They moved together through the first figure, silently executing the steps with grace, fluidity and perfect harmony. It was easy, somehow—so much so that it seemed to Nell as though they had danced together a hundred times before. And yet at the same time all was new. For the only time in her life to date she was dancing with a man who called to her heart as no-one ever had. Happiness rose within her, and she gave herself over to the moment.
Gradually, as they moved through the second figure, then the third, she sensed a subtle change in him. The stiffness was leaving his shoulders. His expression was now more open. His eyes clearly showed hunger. The same hunger that had overcome them each time they had kissed.
Yes! she thought, relief flooding through her. Yes! And yes!
Before long the dance came to an end, and with it her time with him. He bowed, offered to fetch her refreshment, then excused himself when she declined.
Nell turned away with equanimity, understanding that he needed to leave her in this moment. She had once more pierced his mask and scored another hit in her assault on whatever fortress it was guarding his heart.
For the remainder of the evening she carefully stayed away from him, concentrating on all her old friends who were there and giving Mr Beresford the chance to retreat for a time. Inside she felt satisfaction, and confidence, and the renewal of hope. Her heart was singing.