| |
AFTER HIS VALET HELPED him make a hasty switch to evening attire of the non-dripping, non-soggy variety, Jasper retired to the drawing room inside his castle.
The other dukes and Mr. and Mrs. Carberry were there. Evidently, his servants had taken the initiative to round them up.
He didn’t see anyone who met the description of Mr. Owens. He knew these people. He remembered that Miss Carberry had met Mr. Owens in the library.
He rose rapidly. “I—er—should leave.”
Brightling scrunched his forehead together. “You just arrived.”
“One of my buttons feels loose,” he squeaked and hurried away.
It was unnerving to look for guests he didn’t know in his own home. Jasper strode hastily over the corridor, lest he miss the arrival of Ainsworth and Miss Carberry. Obviously, it simply wouldn’t be gentlemanly to not be present when Miss Carberry arrived. Certainly, there was no other reason he was eager to not tarry.
Fortunately, in the library he soon found a dark-haired man with a pale face. No doubt this was the lauded Mr. Octavius Owens.
Jasper scrutinized Mr. Octavius Owens, this apparent paragon among men. Jasper had expected the man to resemble an Adonis, and for a moment he thought he might have confused this man with the correct Mr. Owens. The man’s hair didn’t curl in an angelic manner, and he didn’t look like he’d been snatched from a painting, as if even the Lord, upon looking at it, had to make certain this person existed. His height could only have been described as normal, and his shoulders did not lend themselves to comparisons with world-carrying beings made famous in Greek myths.
Indeed, normal was the chief word Jasper would have ascribed to him. Lesser men may have termed him mediocre. Though the man’s figure was not overly rotund or thin, his appearance was unremarkable.
Yet Jasper should have known Miss Carberry was too sensible to choose a potential mate merely by his ability to increase one’s heartbeats each minute. Miss Carberry wouldn’t select a man by his ability to copy whatever musical rhythm might be emanating around him, and she would be too sensible to choose a man simply for his ability to tell romantic stories of him slashing enemies while attired in the Crown’s uniform.
Jasper approached him.
Somehow Mr. Owens appearance still unsettled him. Because this wasn’t the appearance of a man selected more for his fulfillment of childhood fantasies and ideals. If Margaret wanted to be with this man, it must be because she loved him. Except Margaret had only met him once... An odd, unpleasant feeling surged through Jasper.
“Your Grace.” Mr. Owens flung himself into a deep bow, removing his top hat before it bounced onto the floor. He clutched onto it with the triumph of a man unaccustomed to feats of athleticism, then rose. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“Very good to meet you,” Jasper said.
After all, Miss Carberry would be happy, and Miss Carberry’s happiness was important.
“Ah! I must say the same to you.” The man darted into another obsequious bow, extended an arm up in perfect perpendicularity to the floor. When Mr. Owens raised his torso, his cheeks remained a distinct rosier color than previously.
Well. Politeness was an excellent quality in a husband. Jasper tapped his fingers together. Perhaps most debutantes did not muse about the importance of finding polite men, but that was surely an oversight. Trust Miss Carberry to know this.
“It is a great honor to be here with you,” Mr. Owens continued eagerly. “I have been most looking forward to this occasion.”
“How nice.”
Jasper had been foolish to doubt that Mr. Owens was suitable for Miss Carberry. No doubt her presence was responsible for the buoyancy of Mr. Owens’ personality.
“There will be some other people you know,” Jasper said.
Mr. Owens raised an eyebrow.
“Mr. and Mrs. Carberry,” Jasper said.
“Ah. Of Scotland.” For a moment a flicker of irritation seemed to desire to reside on his face, but the moment soon passed.
“Their daughter is also attending,” Jasper said gently, waiting for the man’s reaction.
This was a house party. Mr. Owens would know that he would have a closer proximity to Miss Carberry than he could ever hope to have in London. Not for him would be the strictly two dance policy of the capital. Not for him would be visits that would not be extended longer than one might take to finish a pot of tea.
Mr. Owens would be able to pop into Miss Carberry when they both admired a particularly pretty rosebush, and they would be able to discuss whatever it was intelligent people discussed for hours over the breakfast table as footmen made certain their coffee cups were full.
Jasper would have Mr. Owens proposing in no time, and he would never worry again that Mrs. Carberry might persist with her marriage efforts. Happiness was soon advancing, even if he couldn’t actually feel the emotion yet. No doubt Jasper simply needed to make certain that the door was open for it to enter.
“I know Mr. Carberry and his family only slightly,” Mr. Owens said.
Jasper acknowledged the statement with an inclination of his head. “Even a short time can be sufficient in knowing them.”
“Er—yes.” Mr. Owens frowned, then stared at Jasper, as if hoping he might give some indication on his thoughts of the Carberry family so Mr. Owens might know how to best proceed.
Evidently the man was not going to venture into a soliloquy on the marvels of Miss Carberry. Jasper supposed he might be intimidating. Perhaps Mr. Owens reserved his romantic outbursts for visits to public houses with his friends, where he might later blame any effusiveness and sentimentality on the strength of his ale.
Miss Carberry was quiet, and she’d chosen a man who equaled her in that regard. Jasper only hoped Mr. Owens also equaled Miss Carberry in intelligence and kindness.
Jasper was happy.
Obviously.
Naturally he wasn’t vexed he’d been hauled from his conversation with Miss Carberry. The point of having her come here wasn’t for them to converse together. That would be absurd.
He had his friends to converse with. He didn’t need to occupy Miss Carberry’s time as she sought to find a suitable husband.
Naturally, that was good news.
Jasper strode back toward the drawing room. He peeked out a window, wondering if Margaret was outside. He hoped she hadn’t become lost.
Margaret was outside, accompanied by Ainsworth.
Jasper frowned, and his fists tightened. No doubt they would both make excellent conversation, since they were both bright and clever. Most likely the moonlight continued to cast alluring beams over Margaret, casting her in a golden glow that should make any man in possession of eyes to have his heart squeeze.
This is what I wanted.
They were well matched.
Better than the odious Mr. Owens, no matter what Margaret might think about suitability.
Jasper entered the drawing room.
“You’re looking sullen there,” Brightling said casually.
“Nonsense.” Jasper cast a glance at Mr. and Mrs. Carberry.
After all, Jasper made a point of not being sullen. Life was too short to be sullen. He’d decided that long ago. He gestured to the violinists. For some reason, he hadn’t truly wanted them to play. The castle seemed sufficiently romantic. But he reminded himself that this was a time for romance.
After speaking with Miss Carberry at length, he was more convinced that she deserved everything in the world, and most people in the world agreed that Ainsworth was the epitome of the very best sort of man.
The musicians began to play their melodic tone, and his heart jerked.
He’d worked hard to select romantic pieces for the musicians to play. Obviously, he’d succeeded magnificently. After all, his heart normally didn’t jolt and lurch in odd manners. It was clearly influenced by music.
There was one more step in preparing the castle, and he sighed. If he was going to ensure Miss Carberry’s and Ainsworth’s everlasting happiness, he couldn’t do anything half-way. He glanced at a vase of roses on the mantle. There was everything lovely about the vase, but it was hardly completely necessary. The room was filled with vases brimming with roses.
He removed the roses from the vase, ignoring the manner in which the thorns pierced his skin. Then he pulled petals off.
“What are you doing?” Brightling asked.
“I just think these petals will look nice on the floor,” Jasper said.
Brightling’s eyes bulged.
“Not over the whole floor,” Jasper assured her.
“That would be odd,” Brightling said, still eying him strangely.
Jasper nodded absentmindedly and focused on pulling off the petals from the stems. He then went to the entrance, striding past the butler, then proceeded to scatter the petals from the main door toward the reception rooms.
“Your Grace?” Powell’s eyes bulged in the same curious manner as Brightling’s eyes had.
“Just decorating,” Jasper said breezily.
“Are these to be an—er—permanent decoration, Your Grace?” Powell asked.
“Just for the duration of the house party,” Jasper said. “You better have the housekeeper tell the maids to put fresh petals there each morning.”
The butler inhaled, seeming to draw more air than was his normal habit. “Very well, Your Grace.”
*
MARGARET ENTERED THE castle with the Duke of Ainsworth.
“Welcome,” the butler said. “May I congratulate you on your success on finding your dog?”
“It was all the duke,” Margaret said.
“The Duke of Jevington,” the Duke of Ainsworth said, and the butler nodded his comprehension.
Lily wagged her tail as she entered. The butler closed the door hastily, and Margaret removed Lily’s makeshift lead.
Petals were strewn over the floor, and the Duke of Ainsworth raised his brows. “I would have noticed these before.”
“Indeed, Your Grace.” The butler nodded. “I have no doubt you would have been able to do so.”
Lily investigated the petals, sniffing some with her snout, and crushing others as she padded over them toward the reception hall.
The butler helped Margaret with her pelisse, and the Duke of Ainsworth handed some outdoor items to the butler as well.
Violin music drifted into the room, and despite herself, Margaret let out a sigh. She took the Duke of Ainsworth’s proffered arm, and they proceeded into the reception room. The others stood rapidly as they entered. Surprise shown on Mama’s face, but then she shot Margaret a pleased smile.
Margaret dropped her hold on the duke’s arm. She hardly wanted her mother to get romantic notions about Margaret with him or any of these other men. Mama had brought a great many items with her, and it was entirely possible that one of the items might be rope.
“You’re back.” The Duke of Jevington bowed, but his demeanor seemed more guarded somehow.
Lily showed less restraint. She bounded into the Duke of Jevington’s arms with enthusiasm, then rushed to Papa showing him similar affection.
“We can put Lily in our room,” Mama said.
“Nonsense,” the Duke of Jevington said.
Lily rushed back to him, and he bent to pet her.
“Shall we go eat? The servants have worked hard to keep the food warm, but I would not like to test the powers of the natural world more.”
Margaret nodded. The duke’s tone possessed an additional formal veneer that it had lacked earlier. Perhaps the man was simply hungry. He had worked heroically to find Lily. People tended to act oddly when they were hungry.
She followed the others into the dining hall. Everyone was happy when the footmen began to place enticing dishes before them. The dining room was beautiful: red silk lined the walls, giving the room a cozy quality despite the high ceilings, elaborate wood paneling and large hearth. Still, it was impossible for the dining room to compete with the food splayed over the long table. Everything appeared delicious.
Margaret knew. She knew every dish.
She turned. “It’s Scottish.”
He shrugged nonchalantly. “Indeed.”
“B-But.” She stared. She’d been to festivities before. She’d even attended dinner parties given to honor her father. But she’d hadn’t been served Scottish food at a single of those events. “I don’t understand.”
He smiled, and his gaze was once again warm. “Don’t tell me you’re not familiar with these dishes. They were created by Chef Parfait. I’m afraid none of our kitchen staff are actually Scottish. They’re probably all up there, enjoying their easy access to black pudding.”
Her heart felt oddly light, as if it bobbed against her throat, but she still managed to thank him, even if her voice did squeak.
He’d spoken to her about Scotland today, but he wouldn’t have had time to have people prepare such foods. This must have been planned in advance.
Her heart glowed, and perhaps something shown in her face, for he stiffened and cleared his throat. “Everyone, please note that Miss Carberry comes from Scotland. It is a beautiful land with a good cuisine.”
Her parents stared at him oddly, and he shifted in his chair. He turned to the dukes. “Do you not like Scotland?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Absolutely.”
All the other dukes nodded and murmured their assent. The violinists entered the room. They shifted to a Scottish reel, and even though Margaret was not overly fond of dancing, she thought she could have easily made an exception.
After all, her heart was already dancing. It twirled and pirouetted merrily, undaunted by its lack of feet. Candlelight glowed throughout the room, gleaming from golden candelabras. From time to time she glanced at the Duke of Jevington. He sat at the head of the table, but he did not use the opportunity to utter into monologues relating to his greatness, his family’s greatness, and his plans for his future’s inevitable continued greatness. Instead, he managed the conversation, as if to make certain everyone felt included, and that everyone was able to voice an opinion in the conversation.
Though the dukes had seemed bewildered when she’d first met them, she soon learned they were all different, and not simply in how their consistently pleasant appearance was manifested in various standards of beauty.
Mr. Owens eagerly explained the importance of every bill and his own indisputably important role in the writing of each part of it. Commas were essential in legal matters, and Mr. Owens had been tasked with checking all of them. Margaret had hoped she might sit beside him, but the man pontificated so freely, she still learned more about him. At least, she learned of Mr. Owens’ utter delight of having been included and the similarly important people he’d met over his lifetime. The Duke of Ainsworth of course was very intellectual and was an expert in the classics, and she chatted with him.
Most people forgot their Latin after school, but Margaret had a particular fondness for reading the exciting stories in the Aeneid. Somehow, it was comforting to know that the ton had not existed forever, and that once everyone had followed different rules entirely, rules that had become forgotten.
After dinner, the violinists followed them to the drawing room. The Duke of Brightling whispered something to them, then sat at the piano. Soon, they played a quadrille. Uncharacteristically, Papa led Mama to the center of the room. The Duke of Ainsworth quickly took Margaret’s hand and led her beside them. The Duke of Jevington gave a stiff smile, then led Margaret’s grandmother to the dance floor.
Margaret didn’t want to dance.
She didn’t like dancing.
But perhaps because Lily was found, perhaps because the Duke of Jevington had created such a pleasant environment, or perhaps because she simply didn’t want to refuse the Duke of Ainsworth, she began to dance.
And it wasn’t utterly horrible.
Sometimes the Duke of Jevington’s gaze fell on her, and she shivered.
If only their stroll hadn’t been curtailed. There were more things to chat about with him, though they could hardly speak while bobbing about.
She wasn’t counting the days until the trip would end, as she normally did when she left the house.