“Those are strong words,” he said. “Did he really do that?”
“I have never been able to fall in love since,” she said. “Although I constantly try, Dom.”
“You don’t still love Purnell, do you?” he asked curiously.
“I don’t believe I ever did,” she said. “I disliked him intensely. I was a little afraid of him. And I was obsessed by him. I really never knew him at all. That is not love. There was nothing about him that was lovable. Only the mystery of what it was that made him so morose, so untouchable. No, I don’t love him or pine for him, Dom. Of course I don’t. So you are to escort Miss Simpson to the opera tomorrow. And are to dance with her at the duke’s ball next week, I would wager. Do you feel any of that old magic, Dom?”
She leaned her chin on her hand and gazed at her brother. She looked remarkably like him except that all the attributes that made him a handsome male made her a lovely female. She was tall and slender with short fair curls and a face that was made beautiful by the glow of life that animated it.
Was he feeling any of that old magic? It was a question that Lord Eden had asked himself from the moment of his first meeting with Jennifer Simpson, and a question that he was to ask several times in the coming days. He saw a great deal of her. He went home with Charlie almost as often as he had always used to do. And apart from the visit to Alexandra and Madeline, and the evening at the opera, he took her walking twice, once in the park and once in the botanic gardens. Always with Mrs. Simpson as chaperone.
He enjoyed the outings. Very much. The girl was pretty, becomingly modest, and shy. And yet, as Madeline had observed, she had sense and character. If he could be alone with her for a short while-even alone in a crowd-perhaps he would find her an intriguing companion.
Perhaps he would fall in love with her. He did not know.
As it was, he seemed to spend more time talking with Mrs. Simpson than with her stepdaughter. He would have thought that after five years of meeting her so frequently at Charlie’s, he knew her well. He had always thought of her as a quiet, serene, dutiful woman. He had always liked her, admired her, respected her.
But he did not know her, he was discovering. She was an interesting conversationalist. She had a lively sense of humor. They laughed a great deal over memories of Spain. And she did not dwell on the horrors of life there, he found. She had a gift for recalling the small, absurd incidents that he had forgotten all about. The incidents that helped him to remember his years there with some pleasure, horrifying as they had been in the main.
The evening at the opera was amusing. A little annoying too, perhaps, but basically amusing. Lieutenant Penworth, it seemed, had a passion for Madeline, and monopolized her company, completely cutting out Colonel Huxtable, who did not look at all pleased at being bettered by an inferior officer. He turned in some pique to Miss Simpson.
And so Lord Eden was left to amuse himself with Mrs. Simpson. Very good thing that he liked her, he thought, and found her an easy companion. And it was a pleasant surprise to see her dressed in an elegant silk gown with her hair dressed more softly than usual about her face. She really was a strikingly lovely woman.
“Do you think the tenor has to stand so close to her,” he whispered in her ear at a most serious point in the opera, nodding in the direction of the leading soprano, “in order to stick a pin in her so that she can reach the high notes?”
“Oh.” She slapped a hand to her mouth and looked at him with eyes that held a horrified sort of amusement, and her shoulders shook. “Oh, don’t,” she said with something of a squeal when she had herself a little under control. “I shall disgrace myself by laughing aloud. And just at a time when everyone is dying so tragically all over the stage.”
“It will be her turn soon,” Lord Eden whispered. “I have seen this opera before. Then the tenor will be able to put his pin away and concentrate on his singing until his turn to expire comes. It is all most tragic, is it not? Would you like to borrow my handkerchief, ma’am? It is large, I do assure you.”
“To wipe away the tears of laughter?” she said. “You have quite ruined an affecting drama, my lord. I would have expected such unappreciative comments of Charlie. I did not expect them from you.” But her eyes brimmed with suppressed laughter as she scolded.
Lord Eden grinned and winked at her.
“You are quite right,” she said when the performance had finished and the singers were taking their bows. “The singing was inferior.”
It was pleasant at times, Lord Eden consoled himself after an evening in which he had hoped to sit beside Miss Simpson, to have a companion with whom he could relax, someone with whom he could share a joke, someone who knew how to laugh. If he really had sat beside Miss Simpson, he would probably have had to pretend raptures for very inferior vocalists. And perhaps he really would have had to lend that handkerchief.
Charlie was a fortunate man. To have such a wife. And-of course-to have such a daughter.
“I DO LIKe Mrs. Simpson a great deal,” the Countess of Amberley said to her husband later that night. “She is very sensible and very charming, is she not, Edmund?”
“Mm,” he said. He was lying in bed, his hands clasped behind his head, watching her brush her long dark hair, though her maid had already done it for her in her dressing room.
“I wonder why she is married to Captain Simpson,” she said.
“I suppose because he asked her and she said yes,” he said.
The brush paused in her hair and she smiled at him. “You know what I mean,” she said. “It is rather a case of Beauty and the Beast, is it not?”
“Ooh,” he said. “Cruel, love. He is older than she is, yes.”
“Dominic has always been very fond of both of them,” she said. “I suppose they must be contented together if he enjoys their company.”
“I would be a great deal more contented with you if you did not feel obliged to stand there brushing your hair,” he said. “A great deal more contented, Alex.”
“Silly,” she said, putting down the brush and slipping beneath the blankets, which he held back for her. “Do you think Dominic is in love with Miss Simpson? She is a delight, is she not?”
“Mm,” he said. “But I have given up waiting for Dominic and Madeline to fall in love to stay. They don’t have my good sense.”
“But you were nine-and-twenty when you married me,” she said. “Only three years ago, love.”
“Was I?” he said. “It must have been because you did not have the sense to meet me sooner, Alex.”
“Captain Simpson must be shy,” she said. “It was a pity he did not come tonight. Do you think Mrs. Simpson minded not having his company, Edmund?”
“No idea,” he said. “I would mind not having your company, but I can’t speak for anyone else.”
“Lieutenant Penworth is taken with Madeline,” she said. “But I think he is too young to interest her. What do you think?”
“I think that I might wait all night for you to be finished with your mouth if I don’t take drastic measures,” he said. “Hush, love. I have better use for it.”
“Do you?” she said. She smiled at him as he raised himself above her. “What?”
He leaned right across her in order to blow out the candle on the table beside the bed. “This,” he said.
“OH, CHARLIE, YOU DO look splendid!” Ellen set her hands on the captain’s shoulders and stood back to look at him in his dress uniform, her eyes dancing with merriment. “And you do look as if you are about to face a firing squad.”
He grinned sheepishly. “But you won’t expect me to dance, will you, Ellen?” he asked. “I will if you want me to, you know, and I’ll be there so that you can take my arm whenever you don’t have a partner. But I can’t dance, lass. My legs seem to turn into two stiff poles when I try.”