Jeremiah Ripton sent her an oily smile and bowed over each lady’s hand as Honoria made introductions.
“What a jolly group of young ladies you must have,” Wes told Patience. “Mother and I were planning to call on you tomorrow.”
Patience smiled. “I shall make sure all the young ladies are there to meet you. Aunt Honoria tells me you’ve promised to dance with each of them.”
“Indeed, I shall. As will my cousin here. Ripton, you must come as well and stand up with some of the ladies.”
Patience sent Honoria an inquiring glance and said “Of course we will welcome another dancing gentleman. And now, we must run, as we are meeting Doro at one of the shops. Girls?”
“Must we?” Ivy said. “Oh, I suppose we must. But you must come along tomorrow, Major and answer all of our questions.”
Iris giggled, and both girls went off with Patience.
“Handsome girls,” Ripton said. “Lady Seahaven looks very young to have twins as old as Lady Ivy and Lady Iris.”
“They’re stepdaughters,” Wes said. “Lady Seahaven’s just a much younger stepmother than my dear mother here.”
“The ancient one,” Honoria murmured.
Wes nodded and went on, “And I daresay, Gus, Lady Ivy showed a marked interest in you.”
She sighed. They were spirited and beautiful young ladies, and, for all that Augustus was much older, he was a fine-looking and virile man.
“They are merely curious girls,” Augustus said, taking her hand and tucking it over his arm. “Wes, we ancient ones would like to continue our tour of York’s ancient history. Shall we wish them good day, Honoria, and visit the ruins?”
Ripton laughed, too loudly. “We’ve been dismissed, sprout. Lady Twisden, I shall call on you tomorrow.
“No, that won’t do,” Wes cried. “Tomorrow we’ll be out paying calls. You must come to dinner tomorrow night.”
A shudder went through her. Ripton, at dinner—she’d hoped to never look across a table at him with a fork in her hand; the temptation to spear him might be too overpowering.
“We shall have Miss Jones even us up,” she said.
Wes grimaced at that, as she knew he would, and Ripton smiled too broadly. “I should like to join you, but I have a previous engagement tomorrow night.”
“The day after, then,” Wes said. “What time, Mother?”
“The day after is Sunday,” she said. “We’ll have naught but a cold collation in the early afternoon, as the servants don’t work on the Sabbath.”
“Not one of them?” Wes frowned. “And I had no luck at the agency today. Well, you must come anyway, Ripton.”
They sauntered off together, Wes wondering aloud about the nearest watering hole. Augustus watched them go, his thoughts indecipherable.
“Who is Miss Jones?” he asked. “Another candidate for the marriage mart?”
“Miss Jones? Hardly… but, oh, that is unkind. Why should she not seek marriage? Except, of course, that she’s older than me, and I daresay older than you.”
“I’m fast approaching the ancient age of forty,” he said. “Eight-and-thirty to be precise.”
“Ah, well, then I am just a green girl at three and thirty. But Miss Jones is perhaps of an age with Ripton. She’s a gentlewoman fallen on hard times and my mother-in-law’s companion. She didn’t join us for dinner last night because she was moving my things and unpacking.”
“A match for Ripton, then?”
Jones? The thought of the outspoken but dignified lady matched with Ripton made her shudder. “When Melton died, I persuaded Wes and his guardian to sell the hounds to Ripton. It was more important to repair the tenants’ roofs than the kennel’s dry rotted walls. Now that—a pack of prime hounds—was a good match for Ripton. I convinced Wes to keep back two bitches and a male and start his own pack.” In the kennels, instead of the parlor, thank you very much. “Miss Jones tends to say what she thinks and offer unwelcome correction. Upon occasion to Wes.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Just what any young buck deserves. I look forward to meeting her.”
The laugh changed him completely, driving out the dour, frightening warrior. She had a feeling he didn’t laugh much, and she wanted to see him do it again.
Two days later
“You must come with us, Mother.” Wes batted his hat against his leg. “Tell her Gus. It’s a fine day, and Granny will like your company. The fresh air will drive away your headache.”
Outside, Rompole was helping Cousin Genny and Miss Jones into the borrowed open barouche. With the three men accompanying them as outriders and Rompole playing coachman, there was plenty of room for Honoria and her maid. But of course, her maid had gone off to enjoy her free day, just like the other female servants.
Gus supposed that it was such a fine day that Honoria would rather work on her painting than journey out to Knavesmire to see the racetrack and grandstand. Plus, there was the matter of the unctuous Mr. Ripton, who’d taken a seat next to her at table that day, nudging her with his elbow. He’d continued to hover over her as she’d passed around cups of tea. It was especially annoying to hear him gush about what a particular friend Honoria was to him.
“I will stay here,” Honoria said. “Enjoy your afternoon.”
“I should like your company,” Gus said, “but you need not come with us. You and Sancho must enjoy your peaceful afternoon. I’ll scout for Roman ruins and drive you out to Knavesmire on another day.”
“Let us at least bring Sir Sancho,” Wes said.
She glanced back toward the dining room, where dishes still were still sitting out. Sancho would be needed here, and the loyal dog knew it.
“Come, Sir Sancho.” Wes beckoned. Sancho remained seated and sent him a baleful look.
Gus clamped on his hat and took Wes by the shoulder. “Until later, Honoria.”
Wes grumbled his way down to the steps. “She’ll go back and clear that table.”
“Most likely.”
“We could have had Rompole do it.”
“He’s playing coachman.”
“There would have been a good chance for Ripton to walk with her and woo her.”
The urge to smack the lad was overpowering. “On that issue, she’s made her feelings clear. If you open your eyes, you’ll see it.”
* * *
Honoria tidied up, let Sancho run wild through the garden while she deadheaded flowers, and then went up to her studio.
She smiled. Her studio-bedchamber-study, as Augustus had called it. The smell of paint and turpentine greeted her. Sancho padded in behind her and sniffed.
“You did well today, Sir Sancho.” The only rat that had caught his attention today was Ripton. He’d growled, actually growled, at the oily man. And then Sancho had intervened in almost every attempt by Ripton to sit close to her. She’d have given the dog a seat at the table if it wouldn’t have been too shocking.
From across the table, Augustus had watched Ripton like Sir Ebenezer used to do in her fanciful imaginings at Twisden Manor. If Ripton had tried anything more than elbow-poking, Augustus might have drawn a fireplace poker.
She liked him. Well, perhaps more than liked him. He was intelligent and thoughtful, dignified, but no pompous ass. If she could believe her ears, they had a common interest in antiquities. Not art, perhaps; or at least not Turner’s sort of painting. But at least he hadn’t openly scoffed about Turner. She would have to broach the subject again and learn his true feelings.
And she would dearly love to hear about his travels—not the battles, not unless he wanted to talk about them.
He was just the sort of man she might once have dreamed of meeting, before she’d been shackled to Melton, before widowhood had granted her this liberty.
Sancho stopped at his water bowl and then scooted to his favorite spot under the bed clanking his collar along the floorboards, while she tossed aside her shawl, changed into an old gown and drew on her paint-stained smock. The complaint of a headache had not entirely been a lie, but bedrest wasn’t called for. She needed to paint.
Drawing open the window, she let the spring breeze cool her cheeks while she studied the twin west towers with their gothic crowns and compared the image on her canvas. Close up, the detail was astounding; from a distance it was hard to render the magnificence. Was that line straight enough? Was the shading right?
She prepared her paints, one eye on the sky.
The view troubled her. It was true that the day was fine, but there was a miasma to the floating clouds, a yellowish-brownish haze that had nothing to do with sunlight filtering through. Coal smoke, perhaps? Though few people kept fires going once true winter had passed. She reached for her brush and palette and in a matter of minutes, lost herself in her work.
The sound of the kitchen door opening pulled her out of her reverie. One of the servants was back early, and a good thing because she was parched. She’d ring for a cup of tea in a few moments.
Pausing to freshen her palette, she daubed on a bit too much tint. But never mind, she was no Turner after all.
Immersed in her murky sky, she didn’t notice the minutes passing until the floor outside creaked and the door opened.
A low growl came from under the bed. Sancho had not entirely taken to Bixby, and he might not like the maid disturbing him, but at least Honoria would have her tea soon. “Shush Sancho,” she said. “Greetings, Bixby. How was your afternoon?”
Sancho’s nails tapped as he clattered out. She felt the swish of his tail and glanced down. He’d stationed himself before her, head lowered facing the door, growl deepening, poised to strike.
Air whooshed from her, and her breath tightened. This wasn’t Bixby. Jeremiah Ripton had crossed her threshold.
She looked past him to the empty doorway and took in a slow breath.
“You’ve returned early,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “Is Lady Twisden with you?”
“No, but I left her in good hands, probably enjoying her picnic by now. Kellborn went to fetch food from an inn.” His gaze skittered to the floor. “Kindly call off his ill-trained cur.”
“You mean to say, the others aren’t with you?”
In reply, he smiled and licked his plump lips.
She heard her own breathlessness and tried to swallow the rising panic. Ripton had tried this sort of tactic before during a house party. Two of the hounds had saved her, and after that, during his visits, she’d slept in the nursery, or Bixby’s room, or wherever he wouldn’t find her. The man fancied himself handsome and irresistible. She’d never thought he’d follow her to York, or that Wes would be knuckleheaded enough to encourage it. Though, in fairness, her frankness with Wes hadn’t stretched to bedroom matters.
She mustn’t show fear or temper, which would only whet Ripton’s desire. Yet, he would be made to leave, and soon. She’d find a way.
“With no horses running,” she said blandly, “I knew Knavesmire would be a bore. Go down to the drawing room and wait for me. I’ll come down directly as soon as I put away my paints and shed this smock."
His gaze trailed over the bulky smock. The stains were old; he might not recognize that most of the paint was dry.
His boot moved an inch and Sancho’s growl erupted into a sharp bark.
She eased in a breath. “Come now, Ripton. You’re an old friend of Sir Melton. Do take yourself downstairs and wait for me there. Wes will have some spirits somewhere, and I’ll fetch them for you. Your presence here is inappropriate.”
“Come now, Honoria.”
The unctuous tone raised her hackles.
Unfortunately, he went on. “What could be more appropriate than Melton’s old friend comforting his widow. You’ve allowed Kellborn to… why his bed is right across the corridor from yours.”
“How would you know that unless… You’ve poked into the other bedchambers?”
“Looking for you, my dear. I wonder, hmm, have you discarded all that prim propriety, or was that all a ruse? If you’re welcoming Kellborn to your bed, well, why not comfort an old friend who’s just lost his wife?”