Chapter Seven
CLARISSA FAIRWEATHER HAD THE advantage, a determined expression setting her features as she lined up her mallet and ball. The croquet match had turned vicious in the last few minutes, Lucy Marcham realising she was getting an absolute pounding and stepping up her game.
Holding a glass of lemonade, Etta watched from the edge of the green, shielded from the view of most by two willow trees. Almost as soon as she’d arrived at the fete she’d stationed herself here, far from the mill of the crowd, and it was only now the croquet game had commenced that others began to encroach upon her solitude. Judging by the turnout, the fete could be counted a wild success, even if it was in support of a school most in attendance thought scandalous…and not in a good way. However, the draw of a new duchess, a duke who rarely appeared in society, and a handful of the most notorious Gothic and adventure novelists in England brought Cambridge society in droves.’’
A commotion near the tent drew her attention. A gaggle of people—from the way they squawked she could not refer to them as anything other—approached, clustered around a central person. Dark-auburn hair appeared briefly, along with a wicked grin, and then his eyes met hers and the grin turned genuine. Warm. Almost as if he were glad to see her.
Her heart tripped in her chest.
Staring out into the distance, she took a calming breath. This was ridiculous. She shouldn’t be feeling such about him. It didn’t matter if he thought her clever, or sweet, or anything. It didn’t matter that his face lit when he saw her, that he looked as if he would push through those clamouring for his attention to be by her side. There could be no truth in such a look, and she abhorred liars.
“Why are you hiding over here?” Skin pale, eyes dark, Gwen came to a halt next to her, rubbing her forearm as her gaze darted from the fete to the house and back again.
“I’m not hiding. I’m in full view of the fete.” She hadn’t even seen her friend approach. Damnation, when would this blasted fascination with the man stop? “Besides, I’m cheering Clarissa Fairweather. She’s thrashing Lucy Marcham.”
Gwen’s teeth worried her lip. “You should enjoy the fete, Etta.”
“I am. I’m drinking lemonade.” She held up her glass.
Her friend barely spared it a glance. “Surely you can spare a moment or two to rub a few shoulders. Be sociable, laugh at their stories, that sort of thing.”
“Me?” Now it was her turn for disbelief. Had Gwen forgotten what it was like? Always there was distance between them and society. At each gathering, it would be Gwen and her against the world. But now it was only her, and the world never let her forget she was against them.
Gwen wrapped her arms about herself. “I can’t do it on my own.”
“I can’t do it at all.” Etta gestured with her glass. “They don’t like me. They never have.”
“Only because you dismiss them. Why can’t you be agreeable, even if you don’t mean it?”
A kernel of hurt burned in her chest, but she pushed it aside. “What, exactly, are you suggesting?”
“Walk amongst them, smile, and listen. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I can’t do it by myself.”
“I am not the one who wanted this fete, Gwen.”
“No, but it’s the only way. We must obtain funds somehow, and these people are the way to do it. Do you think I like parading myself before them? Do you think I enjoy subjecting Edward to their scrutiny? He hates people staring at him, and yet he endures it because he knows what this school means to me. Is it too much to ask that you are pleasant for five minutes at a time?”
“I never claimed to be sociable, and my talents do not lie in that direction. I came to this fete to support the school.”
“As well you should, the school was your idea.”
“It may have been my idea, but you are the one who is compromising. These people couldn’t care less about a female law school, and yet here they are to gawk and stare. We should not suffer their condescension.”
“And yet this is how things get done!” Gwen’s voice rang through the field. Some at the far refreshment table turned to regard them in surprise. “You only ever see black and white,” she continued in a lowered voice as the guests turned back to their own conversations, eyes burning. “But the world doesn’t work like that. Not even the law works like that.”
Clenching her fists at her sides, Etta set her jaw. “Maybe I should just go home, then.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
For a moment, they stared at each other and then, in unison, they turned on their heels to storm in opposite directions.
Etta stalked deeper into the trees surrounding the field. Chest heaving, she stopped under a willow, and, before she could take another step, great sobs overwhelmed her.
Slumping against the trunk, she buried her face in her hands. She didn’t even know why she and Gwen had argued. She knew she should socialise, should tone down her opinions, but it was how she was. She couldn’t change her nature, but it seemed everyone wanted her to.
Wiping at her cheeks, she set her jaw. Maybe she was in the wrong. Maybe it was she should circulate the crowd. Maybe she should swallow her comments and her ire and attempt conversation and...
“What are you doing over here?”
She whipped around. Christopher—Lord Christopher—stood there, that same smile on his face, the one that said he was glad to see her.
Liar.
Lifting her chin, she gave him a look she knew to be belligerent and dismissive at once. “I don’t see what concern it is of yours.”
Smile fading, he searched her face. “Are you well?”
She wiped impatiently at her face. “I’m fine.”
“Are you certain? You don’t appear yourself.”
“I am perfectly well. Shouldn’t you be out there, amongst your public?”
“Probably, but I’d rather be here with you.”
Well, he was in the minority. “Was there something you wanted?”
“As a matter of fact, I did.”
She waited.
Brows drawn, he studied her.
Lifting her chin, she said, “Well?”
Seeming to make some decision, he grinned. “I have pages.”
“Pages?”
He produced a notebook and handed it to her. “Pages.”
The book contained page after page of tightly spaced writing, diagrams and lines that looped over themselves. “What is this?”
“It’s my detective novel. Or the bones of it, in any event.”
Something in his tone made her glance up. Concern painted his features, but his brow quickly smoothed and his usual smirk took residence. No, it wasn’t really a smirk. It was more a grin. Or maybe just amusement.
She shook herself. Lord, who cared what to term his expression? In any event, this was distraction, and she welcomed it.
She thumbed through the pages. The bones of a story were there, and the introduction of the characters. They fairly leapt off the page, the staid inquiry agent Edmund Ballantine and the vivacious Lady Penelope. “You wrote all of this in three days?”
“I would have written more, but I had commitments.” He looked about them. “I’m going to sit,” he announced, and then he virtually collapsed onto the ground, his long legs sprawled before him.
Lowering herself with substantially more decorum, she arranged her skirts in precise folds, laying the pages atop her lap. This was truly amazing. How did he do it? How did he write so fast?
“What do you think?” he asked, leaning back on his hands.
“I think it’s good.” His thigh was near hers, so close they almost touched. Concentrating on the pages in her hands, she stared until the ink began to run together.
“So, what in particular?”
“You’ve only just given it to me. Perhaps if I’d had more than a cursory glance, I might be able to give an informed critique.”
He snorted. “An informed critique? Why on earth would one desire such a thing? No, a half-baked, ill-conceived bare whiff of a notion will suffice.”
She battled the twitch of her lips. She would not reward such nonsense. She absolutely refused. “Why do you write?”
Clearly surprised by her sudden question, he answered, “Because I like it.” He looked ridiculously comfortable, sprawled as he was. “Because I have to.”
The fabric of his grey trousers outlined the heavy muscles in his long legs. A queer feeling began in her belly and her breasts.
Dragging her eyes from him, she told herself the sight of him made her feel nothing at all. Or, if it did, it was purely annoyance. Yes, that’s what it was. Definitely. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. I just must. It’s what I’ve always done.” He tilted his head back. “Well, you know. I always had a book with me.
His throat held for her a strange fascination. The lightest of stubble caught the sun, shining a red kind of gold. “Yes, but I didn’t know you were obsessed.”
“Of course you did. You used to jape me about it all the time.”
“What? When?” As soon as she said it, she remembered. He always had one book or another with him, and they were always sensational in nature, invariably from the Minerva Press or some other disreputable publisher. “Why did you read them?”
He shrugged. “I liked them.”
Apparently, that was reason enough. She opened her mouth to argue, only to pause. Why should there be a more involved reason? Because he liked it was perfectly valid. “I’m sorry.”
His brow puckered. “For what?”
“For making fun.”
How was it he could stagger while seated? “It cannot be true. Henrietta Wilding-Marsh apologising to me?”
She scowled. “I’ll take it back.”
Clearly knowing her words for the empty threat they were, he smiled winsomely, auburn hair a tumble over his brow, his throat strong, his shoulders broad and shown to advantage by his dark jacket.
That queer feeling began again in her stomach. Glancing away, she cursed her weak nature. How was it she was swayed by a pretty face? Further, she had a horrible feeling she was only swayed by his pretty face.
“Come now, I must show you a particular passage.” Placing his hand behind her, he leaned over her to thumb the pages with the other. “I found myself inspired, by no more than it was two o’clock in the morning and I’d just consumed a particularly fine cup of chocolate.”
He hadn’t noticed she’d frozen. Warm breath stirred the strands of her hair, while his fingers bumped hers as he turned the page. Determinedly, she focussed on the notebook. She would not notice the brush of his arm against her, the firmness of the muscle beneath his coat and shirt. She wouldn’t.
“Etta?”
Swallowing, she turned her head. Her gaze fell upon his lips, so near her own.
His tongue darted out to wet them. As if it were someone else, she saw her hand lift to capture a lock of his hair. The fiery strands were cool to her touch, and soft. The curl wound about her finger, as if it wouldn’t let go.
“Etta?” he asked again, his voice husky.
Cold reality slapped her. Horrified, she launched to her feet, stumbling a little.
He struggled to a half-sitting, half-standing position, hovering awkwardly. “Etta—”
“I must— I will—” She couldn’t form a coherent thought. Abandoning the attempt, she fled.
Mind a whirl, she dashed across the field. First the fight with Gwen and then the…the…whatever that was with Christoph—with Lord Christopher.
The crinkle of paper in her hand drew her attention. His pages. She still had his pages.
Slowing to a measured pace, she glanced toward the fete. She needed distraction. She needed to occupy her mind so she wouldn’t think of the disaster this day had become. She would socialise. She would be personable even if it killed her, and if Maria Seebolm or Octavia Fairchild saw fit to snark, she would grit her teeth, smile, and take it in her stride.
It didn’t matter that Gwen was mad at her, and she wouldn’t think about Christopher at all.