A Gentleman's Daughter: Her Choice (4 page)

“Handsome enough, certainly not as stylish as Mr. Borden, but Mr. Thornhill is a robust man, well able to hold his own against any whether in the hunting field or billiard room. All that is courteous as well. Our cousin Mr. Treacle finds him proud and many a young man has tried to twist the lion’s tail, as they say, but none are bold enough to challenge Mr. Thornhill outright.”

Cecilia rose and walked to the front window, staring across the small park in the middle of Portman Square. The trees bent in the wind, birds struggled to return to their nests. She touched her cheek, warm, unlike the glass window pane. This Mr. Thornhill might be a rough sort, as many a country gentleman was, not truly gentlemen at all.

“I hope you have not made up Cecilia much to him,” her mother said. “I prefer to wait and survey all her options.”

“I believe I have given him a fair assessment of her. I did assume she would be more proprietous than she used to be. As long as she holds her tongue she shall have many a suitor, I’m sure.”

Cecilia straightened and rooted to the spot, gripping the silk drape in her hand. They may as well place a bit in her mouth and parade her through the streets, a fine filly for sale.

“We shall secure her as good a match as we may. What shall she wear, think you?”

“Her pink gown will show her to best advantage,” her aunt said. “Have you been practicing, Cecilia?”

“Yes, Aunt Higham,” Cecilia said, grinding the words through clenched teeth.

“Let us hear you, then, so I may mark how you’ve improved.”

Cecilia strode to the pianoforte in the corner by the door and slammed out a note. Her mother shot her a deep frown. Cecilia bowed her head and closed her eyes. Stretching out her fingers, she played the song she’d sung with ‘Ret only a few days before.

“The Taylors will be joining us tomorrow?” her mother said as Cecilia finished playing.

“Yes, and Mr. Treacle and Mr. Borden. We shall be an odd number, with Amelia at the Drydens’, but it is as well. You know what an influence she is on your daughter.”

Cecilia stood, catching the tilting bench. “May I rest before dinner, Mama?”

The sisters exchanged a concerned glance. “Perhaps a tray sent up?” her aunt asked.

Cecilia nodded and walked to the door.

“We cannot have her indisposed,” her aunt continued as Cecilia shut the door behind her.

She ran upstairs where she again stared out the front window, as she had in the room below. Mr. Thornhill must be in one of those narrow houses across the square. She crossed her arms. Her mother’s choice be hanged. She would withstand all onslaughts until she could return home. Nodding, she walked to the table, where her books lie. Reading would calm her restlessness.   

The next evening, Cecilia was primped and pulled at to the limits of her patience. However, she had to admit her cousin’s maid had a way with putting up her hair, in beautiful pearl-strewn ringlets and a bit of Fanny’s Rigge’s liquid bloom made her full lips positively dewy. This, coupled with her soft pink muslin gown with its slightly revealing crossover bodice and classical drape, accentuated her shapely figure and youth. She tried to keep her mind on these small pleasures and all the topics her mother told her to avoid, but there were moments she only wished Mr. Cateret could see her looking so and what lively conversations they used to have. Cecilia pushed these thoughts aside; she must learn to scorn him as he had her.

Before dinner, she sat on a chair in the drawing room, off to the side. Fanny’s Mr. Borden was handsome, in a dandyish sort of way, not at all to Cecilia’s liking, with a supercilious curl in his smile and thin, angular features. Quite a contrast to the short, plump Mr. Treacle, whose broad smile cloaked a vicious tongue. Soon Mr. and Mrs. Taylor appeared, ever polite but vacuous, their pale looks as insipid as their conversation. How sensible Mrs. Partridge and the flighty Mrs. Taylor were born of the same parents baffled Cecilia. Having no wish to converse further with any of the party, she rose to cross to the window, only to be stayed by her mother when Mr. Thornhill was announced.

He strode into the room. Cecilia’s stomach gave an odd jump. He was the rider, that careless, proud man, who had nearly killed little Mary Fordham in his hurry. She ground out a smile as he finished greeting the other guests and approached with her aunt. Her limbs tingled when he smiled, his deep eyes sparkling, as she remembered, calm yet dangerous as a treacherous stretch of the river where the colors called her to wade further into their shimmering depths only to pull her under.

She hardly heard her aunt’s introduction, or her own polite replies. He gave no indication of their previous meeting; perhaps he felt sorry for his actions. Certainly he was as courteous as her aunt had said. And as much of a man as she had implied. His strength exuded beyond his proper form, drawing Cecilia to him like a sunny spot on a chill spring day. His voice as he spoke to her mother coiled around her, a warm, silken restraint. She chafed her arms.

“Are you chilled, Miss Wilcox?” he asked.

“No, thank you,” she said.

Dinner was announced and he offered to escort her. Curving her hand under his sturdy arm, an unsettling heat tingled from her stomach. Anger, that’s what the unfamiliar sensation must be. He was an infuriatingly correct and arrogant man, as he’d proven on their first meeting. They proceeded downstairs to the dining room. The elaborate dishes and service à la russe, wherein the guests were served from the sideboard instead of the food being placed on the table, did nothing to ease Cecilia’s jittery nerves.

Yet at least she was seated next to Mr. Thornhill, who proved the most companionable person in the room. Of course, that did not say much, considering the company. He was attentive to her, but did not press her to converse, probably sensing she had rather not. Instead, he participated in the general talk. They were a small party but even still Cecilia’s thoughts strayed, too often to Mr. Cateret. He would no doubt provide ample entertainment from such as these. Mr. Thornhill probably never teased or mocked, though truly, when she chose to admit it, that made him more of a gentleman than Mr. Cateret. 

“When will Miss Taylor to town?” Mrs. Wilcox asked.

“Oh, she should have been here already, but a particular gentleman desired her to continue in the neighborhood.” Mrs. Taylor tittered. “Perhaps they will both join us soon.”

Her mother, aunt, cousin, and Mr. Treacle each made exclamations of pleasure at the prospect. Smirking, her mother glanced at her. Cecilia gripped her napkin. Surely ‘Ret was not so fickle as that, surely he was not calling on Miss Taylor. Either she was a fool or…whatever the truth, she had misjudged.

“Are you well?” Mr. Thornhill inquired in a low aside.

“Yes, thank you. I am not used to such rich food and drink,” Cecilia said, though she had not had any wine nor eaten much of the white soup, pastry encrusted fish, or shaped gelatins and mousses presented from the kitchen where her aunt’s French chef presided.

“I understand,” he said.

She met his eyes, which flashed, his mouth curved in a suppressed smile. Cecilia stared at her plate lest she giggle. Perhaps he too found their companions tiresome. She stole a glance at him, but he had turned his attention to her aunt, who sat on his other side.

“Will Lord Nefton and his daughter join you soon?” Aunt Higham said.

“I have not heard from either in over a month’s time. They travelled to Ireland in March. I am unsure of their arrival.” His tone left her aunt little choice but to change tactics. Whatever she might think of her aunt, Cecilia knew her to be polite and astute. As Mr. Thornhill must be, to see her aunt’s question for what it most likely was: a broad hint at her introduction to the esteemed peer. Cecilia’s father had mentioned Lord Nefton a time or two as being among the more level-headed of his class.

“Ladies, shall we leave the men to their port?” her aunt said.

Cecilia rose. She’d wager Mr. Thornhill would be in the drawing room within a quarter hour. Smiling, she followed the other women out. Already Mr. Treacle and Mr. Taylor competed over who had the most trying tailor while Mr. Borden bemoaned the lack of decent valets for hire. She glanced back at Mr. Thornhill, who stood and walked to the sideboard. Perhaps she was wrong. He might get too far in his cups to mount the stairs again. She hurried out before she would be missed. 

Chapter Four

C
ecilia sat on the well-stuffed sofa by the pianoforte, attempting to concentrate on her embroidery. No doubt her mama wished her to appear proficient in the domestic arts, though as far as Cecilia could gather, this was not an attribute most men searched for in a wife. Not any man she would wish to marry. The men of her acquaintance, especially her uncles, rather married sensible, intelligent, caring women, who could support and sometimes challenge them when their native Wilcox good nature got the better of their sense.

Fanny and Mrs. Taylor sat on a far settee, their cawking and tittering grated no less than the gossip of her mother and aunt next to her.

“Why did you ask Mr. Thornhill about Lord Nefton?” her mother asked. “I assumed you had renewed your acquaintance.”

Cecilia dropped her hand and lowered her eyes to glance surreptitiously at her aunt, who actually blushed. No one had ever mentioned her aunt knowing Lord Nefton, a fact her mother and aunt would be expected to boast of, as they did their other titled acquaintances, such as Sir Mainmount and Countess Sini-Masala.

“No.” Aunt Higham spied her.

“You have not seen him these twenty-eight years past?”

“Your mouth runs ahead of your mind, sister,” Aunt Higham said.

Cecilia scooted away, hoping her mother had not seen her smile at her aunt’s scold. Male voices echoed from the hall.

“The gentlemen already?” her aunt said with a grin at Cecilia, who could not help but stare at the door.

Mr. Thornhill stalked into the room, a lion on the hunt. His eyes roved before settling upon her. She met his challenge though moisture prickled under her gloves.

“Was the port not to your liking?” Aunt Higham asked the gentlemen.

“We had not even raised our glasses before Mr. Thornhill insisted we should join you,” Mr. Treacle said with a satisfied smirk at Cecilia.

Cecilia raised her eyebrow while Mr. Thornhill’s jaw flexed.

“Perhaps a round of whist?” Aunt Higham said.

Cecilia’s mother coughed lightly, most likely attempting to signal her daughter to stop staring at Mr. Thornhill. Gladly would Cecilia endure a scold rather than demure to his demanding eyes.

“While I am happy to oblige,” Mr. Thornhill said without moving, “I have not had the pleasure of hearing music in some time.”

Cecilia would not be put on display. “Miss Higham is an accomplished--”

The others had settled around the room, which had become too quiet when Cecilia spoke.

“Nonsense, niece,” Aunt Higham said, grasping her hand. “You know your cousin fell yesterday and cannot play.” Cecilia did not know any such thing. “Perhaps you will favor us with a song or two.”

“Yes, Aunt,” she said. She stood, throwing a quick frown at Mr. Thornhill.

Mr. Thornhill capitulated and sank into the green-upon-green striped padded armchair facing the pianoforte. Cecilia rushed to the instrument and eased onto the bench. Horrid man, he stared at her again with those eyes, sapphire and jade. A river god enchanting her, ready to snatch her to the depths of his murky waters if she dared set a foot too close. She closed her eyes. Opening them, she smiled at her own fancy. Mr. Thornhill remained stony-faced, tapping his fingers on the armrest.

“Do you have a favorite song?” Cecilia asked him.

“’Love Will Find Out the Way,’” he said.

Mr. Treacle guffawed and the Taylors tittered; incredulous smirks caused Cecilia to sit taller.

“Can you not play something fresher, more lively?” Mr. Treacle ventured.

Cecilia ignored him and smiled at Mr. Thornhill, only because their companions were even more disagreeable than he was. “I too appreciate the old songs,” she said, beginning before more protest could be given.

While she sang, she gazed toward the window, urging her mind to Mr. Cateret, for was it not he she loved? Yet by the second verse, her eyes met Mr. Thornhill’s again and stayed locked for the rest of the song. Was he trying to torment her? He did not gaze at her with longing or flirtation, but instead his eyes seemed to search her, wishing to plumb the depths of her being. She shivered and then played a lively air, some new music Mr. Cateret had given her. The company applauded when she finished, save Mr. Thornhill. Giving a curtsy, she returned to the sofa.

“Mr. Taylor,” her aunt said as she rose, “I have looked forward to a hand with you, sir.”

“Capital,” Mr. Taylor replied.

Aunt Higham gathered her guests for whist, save Mr. Thornhill, who for some reason ventured to appear before Cecilia.

“May I say I found your performance most pleasing?” he said, standing next to the sofa. “I do not hear music as often as I should like and yours is a voice I would like to hear again.”

“Thank you,” Cecilia said. She motioned that he might sit down. He did, but not too close. “My playing is lacking, I’m afraid, for I do not practice as I should, except in inclement weather.”

“You are of a more active nature? I understand you ride?”

“Yes, since I was a small girl. I know you to be a capable, if reckless, rider yourself.” Cecilia met his eyes.

“Indeed not. I remember you had no wish to be introduced to such a thoughtless man as myself, but it cannot be undone. I had important business and you ought keep your young friends from straying into the road.” He leaned back, a smug frown emphasizing the chastisement in his voice.

Cecilia clasped her hands. She had thought he began with some hint of mirth, but his final statement proved her wrong. Horrid, humorless man. “I wonder you should wish to speak to me, sir, if I am so neglectful and ill-mannered.”

He crossed his arms. “I have said no such things.”

“Have you not?” She felt as though beset by fever, so hot and uncomfortable he made her. Mr. Cateret never induced such feelings, he was entertaining and light, except when he annoyed her, but she could forgive such small irksomeness. Not like this infuriating man who sat staring at her in cold silence. “I care not, sir. Most likely I shan’t see you again beyond these few weeks I am in London.”

“I wonder you are here at all.”

“I am visiting my aunt and cousins.”

A sly smile lit the corners of his lips. “Perhaps you would do well to discuss your purpose with your aunt. I believe we both know why young ladies and gentlemen converge on the town at this time of year.”

He was not so polite after all. “Very well, have it that I am humoring my mama, then.”

“Do you not wish to marry?” His smile broadened, as if he would laugh at her. Did he think no man would have her?

“I shall marry the man I love.” She flushed as his smile disappeared. His eyes darkened, like the river before a storm.

“You have a suitor, then,” he said, his voice tight.

She fingered the sofa cushion and darted her eyes. Oh, why had she said such a thing? Yet why should he care? “No,” she said. Her stomach tightened.

“A true love, perhaps,” he said. His shoulders relaxed again, his eyes sparkling once more.

“No.” Her cheeks burned. If she loved ‘Ret, she ought have said yes, but she could not. But she did love him, truly. Mr. Thornhill had no right to know her private affairs, that was all.

He studied her and she forced herself to remain steady, though she could not keep heat from spreading over her being.

“I apologize, Miss Wilcox. Perhaps I have been improper in my questions.”

“Thank you. I hope you have not found me too impertinent.” The falsity of their words made her palms itch. She wished to run outside, peel off her gloves, and let the cool night air clear her mind.

“Will you attend the Mainmounts’ ball on the morrow?” he asked as he stood.

She shrank back, he was too near. “Yes.”

“Would you honor me with a dance or two?”

“Yes, thank you,” she said. She clenched her teeth. He bowed and she inclined her head. Now he took politeness too far. Surely he did not wish to dance with her. She could not believe he would want to be in the same room with her, unless he enjoyed angering and tormenting women. Perhaps his gentlemanly appearance hid a churlish boor. Leaning forward, she gripped the cushion in her fingers. Hateful man.

Mr. Thornhill took his leave of the company, with only a quick bow to Miss Wilcox, who still sat on the sofa. She nodded, acknowledging his farewell, but her eyes showed her to be lost in thought and certainly unaware of her whispering companions who lounged playing cards with less enthusiasm than they exchanged gossip.

As he crossed the square, he shook his head. The unseasonable cold tore through him, but could not cool the flames which blazed within. Her voice alone had been enough to spark him. He ran up the steps of his uncle’s town house, nodding to the servants before rushing up the three flights of stairs to the isolation of his room. Tearing at his cravat, he pulled it off, discarding it on a chair with his gloves. He rang for his valet.

“Sir,” Jennings said. “I had not expected you so early.”

“The company was most irritating,” he said while Jennings assisted him.

“I had heard Miss Wilcox--”

Jennings was perhaps too well informed. “Yes, she is quite lovely.” Lovely did not capture the allure of her: her heart-shaped, unblemished face, full lips, spirited smile, pert nose, flashing dark eyes, shining chestnut hair, fiery temper, fragrance of sun-warmed roses, and her figure…he cleared his throat. “Very young,” he added. Though perhaps not innocent, from the way she answered his questions, her blush betraying her. Or she may have been merely dismayed by his ungentlemanly inquires.

“Your uncle will be disappointed not to find you here,” Jennings said.

“Spying for him again?” Mr. Thornhill chuckled. A more loyal man than Jennings could not be found, but sometimes he wondered to whom he was more loyal: himself or his uncle.

“Certainly not, sir. Shall I begin packing?”

“No, I plan to stay in London.”

Jennings raised a bushy eyebrow but forbore to comment. “Will you attend the Mainmounts’ ball tomorrow?”

“Yes. Have my blue coat ready.” He tied his dressing gown.

“Might I suggest the dark green, sir?”

“Very well.” He would not be surprised if Miss Wilcox appeared in a green gown at the ball. Really Jennings’s talents were underutilized. If young Mr. Mainmount was indeed back from his banishment in the East Indies, as that odious Treacle had said, Jennings’s special skills could be put to proper use. Only to protect Miss Wilcox from that rogue. No doubt such a one as Mainmount would find the fresh beauty of Miss Wilcox irresistible. Of course, Mainmount would likely fight back if he attempted to thwart him. Perhaps he would have to pay a visit to Mrs. Carter after all. And Mrs. Brown. His own indiscretions were well hidden, unlike Mainmount’s, but a determined man could find them out easily enough. It would be simpler to forget Miss Wilcox and return to Lionel Hall.

“The Wilcoxes are a fine family, sir,” Jennings said as he poured him a glass of wine.

He sank into a chair and took the offered glass. Glancing at Jennings, he shook his head. Jennings bowed. “Very well, Jennings. It is the women…”

“Especially ladies are not always as they appear, sir.”

He knew that well enough. Jennings disappeared. He sat, soon the glass stood empty. He need not go through the trouble he would no doubt encounter. There were women aplenty easily secured. He pounced up and paced. Too many times he had tried and always met with disappointment. Yet once again he contemplated walking into the flames rather than choosing the safety of a cool, reasonable attachment. He ought not risk it. Perhaps he should return home.

***

“Do you see now what I have had to contend with?” Mrs. Wilcox said the next morning as they rode out to the shops in the carriage. She had scolded Cecilia into the night and throughout breakfast.

Cecilia leaned back in her seat, the rattling of the wheels over the streets and the rank smells of fish and unidentified waste assailed her senses. She would soon become accustomed to it, she knew from her last visit. But it might take more out of her this time. Already she did not feel herself, but like a stranger inhabiting her body.

“Yes,” Aunt Higham said. At least Fanny and Amelia had gone calling instead of accompanying them. “Mr. Thornhill left full early. You must have said something to offend him, Cecilia.”

She bit her tongue. The salty bitter taste of her own blood made her queasy.

“She will not answer,” her mother said. “Ungrateful girl. Make yourself agreeable this evening and I will forgive you.” Her mother smirked, clearly pleased. What odious peer would be attending tonight’s ball? At least Mr. Thornhill was tolerable.

“Leticia, I caution you--”

“We have discussed this already, Adelaide. She is my daughter and shall do as I see fit.”

Her aunt shook her head, but said nothing to Cecilia’s quizzical frown. Cecilia could not imagine what her mother could have planned to which her aunt would object. Usually they were in perfect accord, once they had the fun of arguing a point.