3

By the time Elinor went down to dinner, she was indeed “brightened up.” Her mother had pinched some color into her cheeks and, against the girl’s objections, had blackened her eyelashes with soot. “It makes you look less sickly,” Lady Selby had argued. And she’d brushed the girl’s hair till it glowed, then braided it and wound it round her head like a coronet. Finally, she’d chosen a pretty new dinner gown for Elinor to wear—a jade-green peau de soie, with a low décolletage and a graceful flounce at the bottom. Elinor had intended to save the gown for Christmas Eve, but, as her mother had declared, “Desperate circumstances call for desperate measures.”

Julian, waiting at the drawing room fire for the dinner party to assemble, beamed at the sight of his betrothed. He crossed the room to her in four strides, smiled down into her eyes, and lifted her hand to his lips. “I’ve dreamed of this so often,” he murmured. “I knew I’d find you as lovely as ever.”

The words were soothing to her ears, although she couldn’t help wondering if they were sincere. “Butter sauce, my love?” she asked, smiling.

“Never. You, my dearest, are not the sort to require flattery, nor shall I ever need to offer it to you.” He slipped an arm about her waist and led her to a chair. “When I speak to you, nothing but the truth shall pass my lips.”

Instead of making a proper response to those lovely words, Elinor had to pull a handkerchief from the bosom of her gown and sneeze into it. The cold she’d caught—blast it!—was refusing to disappear. She felt her eyes become teary and her nose sore. As she dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief, she saw a streak of black appear on the white linen. The eyelash blacking! She’d undoubtedly smudged it!

At that very moment, when Elinor’s spirits were plummeting from the feeling that, besides looking pathetic and sickly, her eyes were smeared with soot, Felicia came in with her parents. The girl was a vision in her blue gown. Her cheeks glowed, her eyes danced, and her hair was brushed up in a charming topknot, with tiny curls escaping and framing her face. In fact, she was utterly adorable. Julian stared at her with a look that seemed to Elinor very much like longing. The look made Elinor’s breath catch in her throat.

Julian caught the sound. At once he turned away from the vision at the door and knelt down beside his betrothed’s chair. “Your cousin is a charming child,” he whispered in her ear. “In time she may be almost as lovely as you.”

Now that, Elinor thought ruefully, is butter sauce if ever I heard it. But it was cleverly done—a smooth, practiced cover-up. The Julian she’d known five years ago could not have done it. So, she thought in surprise, Julian, too, has changed. Five years ago she would not have questioned his sincerity; he would have been too youthfully ingenuous. Now, however, his manner was worldly and sophisticated, as if, among other things, the years had given him a great deal of experience in the art of dalliance.

Miles arrived shortly afterward. Elinor went up to greet him at the door. “I hope you’re not still angry with me,” she murmured as she handed his hat to the butler.

He merely eyed her coldly. “I see you’ve taken pains to prettify yourself,” he remarked. “You’d have done better to stay in bed.”

“Really, Miles, must you be so churlish?” she chided with a smile. “You could at least have said my prettifying showed some success.”

“I don’t have to say it. You are perfectly cognizant of how well you look. Even with a smudge of soot under your eye.”

“Oh, dear,”—Elinor sighed in embarrassment—“I was afraid I’d smudged that blasted lash blacking.”

“Lash blacking!” Miles shook his head in disapproval. “I wouldn’t have believed you’d be so foolish as to think you needed such embellishments. But here, let me fix it.” He removed a large handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the smudge.

“Thank you, Miles,” she said gratefully. “You’re the kindest fellow in the world.”

“For a churl,” he retorted.

She laughed. “Yes, for a churl.”

Dinner was announced at that moment. Elinor was glad of it. Perhaps doing something as mundane as eating dinner would keep her mind from dwelling on the discomfort of her head cold and the worry about what Julian was thinking of her.

The seven adults who took their seats round the table made an intimate, friendly gathering. Conversation flowed easily. Elinor’s Uncle Henry, Lord Fordyce, encouraged Julian to relate some of his adventures overseas, which Julian was delighted to do. Most of the stories he told were colorfully amusing, like his account of his elderly native butler who insisted on wearing a pair of spectacles from which the lenses had been removed (the fellow explained to Julian that his eyesight was perfect but that wearing the rims made him look distinguished enough for his high post). The lively way he related another tale—of how he’d reacted to the first meal prepared by his native cook (the dish had contained hot peppers) by leaping from his chair with a cry of agony at the first bite—made the room ring with laughter.

All but two of the diners at the table were charmed. One of the two who found the dinner less than delightful was Elinor, who noticed how often Julian seemed to be directing his words to Felicia. The other was Miles, who spent the meal studying the speaker with an enigmatic expression that any perceptive observer would have interpreted as intense dislike. But with Julian taking center stage, no one, perceptive or otherwise, took notice of Miles.

The gentlemen did not linger very long over their brandies; a mere quarter hour after the ladies had excused themselves, the gentlemen joined them in the drawing room. Lord and Lady Fordyce, always partial to passing the time in modest gambling, organized a game of silver-loo with Elinor and Julian, while Miles buried himself behind the London newspaper, and Martha Selby took the armchair near the fire and busied herself with knitting. Felicia, not greatly addicted to cards, wandered over to the pianoforte and tinkled the keys absently.

Fanny Fordyce looked up from her cards. “Why don’t you sing for us, my love,” she said to her daughter. “I know your aunt Martha would enjoy hearing ‘The Thorn.’” She turned to Julian and explained, “It’s a ballad we dearly love, Martha and I. We could listen to it forever.”

Felicia blushed. “I don’t wish to distract you from your cards,” she said shyly.

“You won’t distract us,” her father assured her. “We can listen to your singing and still concentrate on the cards.”

Felicia good-naturedly began to sing. She had a soft, unexceptional voice and considerable talent at the keyboard. In this informal, unpretentious setting, her modest performance was appealing. Her music made a pleasant background for the other activities in the room. Martha tapped in rhythm as she knitted, Fanny hummed along happily as she sorted her cards, and even Miles put down his Times to listen. As for Elinor, she was glad that the music kept everyone from noticing her own too-frequent need to sniffle into her handkerchief.

At the card table Henry Fordyce led with his trump, followed by Elinor, with another. Then there was an unexpected pause. Lord Fordyce looked up from his hand. “Your play, Loveboume,” he prodded.

But Julian didn’t seem to hear. Elinor raised her eyes from her cards curiously, to discover Julian staring at the singer. Even Madame Neroli, the acclaimed coloratura from Italy, would not have warranted so enraptured a response. Lord Loveboume was so riveted by the girl at the piano that he hadn’t even heard Henry’s reminder. What was particularly disturbing to Elinor was her betrothed’s expression. It could only be called adoration. Oh, my heavens, Elinor thought with a sinking heart, Julian is really smitten!