"More pretty obfuscation?"
"No," she said, looking at him with an oyster on her fork, her eyes large and guileless. "I have never had the opportunity to find out." Then she downed the oyster.
He swallowed. Just who was this Miss Ambrose?
Vivian collapsed onto a love seat and with shaking fingers pushed back the limp curls that had begun to fall out near her damp face. The oysters, venison, fish, soup, chicken, four different wines, anchovy toasts, pigeon, tarts, fritters, and a cup of syllabub churned and roiled in her stomach.
"Tea?" Penelope asked.
"Yes, please." Perhaps it would settle her. The women of the party had at last retreated to the drawing room, the men still at the table with their claret. She had half an hour or so to compose herself and prepare for another round with Mr. Brent.
"Here you are," Penelope said, handing her a cup of tea, then sitting down beside her and leaning forward confidentially. "I didn't know you had it in you-what an artful thing you are!"
"I didn't know I had it in me, either," Vivian agreed, raising her cup in quivering fingers and taking a cautious sip.
"He's fascinated by you! Fascinated!"
"What is it that is wrong with him?"
"To be fascinated by you? Heaven only knows, but I won't argue with it."
"That is not what I meant."
"You are a handsome couple. How surprised Mama will be when you marry so shortly after coming to us!"
"Must I ask your mama what it is?"
"What what is? Really, cousin, you are being far too suspicious. Why not enjoy that a well-bred man has taken an interest in you? Though I must say that eating so greedily cannot have helped your cause any. No one could fail to remark upon it."
"'Twas Mr. Brent who insisted on serving me."
"You are not a child. You need not eat everything put before you."
But she did need to. Her nervousness with Mr. Brent had only increased her appetite, and however it had looked she had been unable to stop eating. She felt like a boiled Scottish haggis, ready to burst, and still she could not help thinking of the sweetmeats on the mistletoe pyramid.
"But tell me, you like him, don't you?" Penelope asked.
"I do not know him."
"But your impression so far?"
"He is… unexpected."
There seemed no other way to describe it. Each man who had been introduced to her this evening, she had wondered if he was the one Penelope meant she should snare. There was the gentleman farmer; but no, he had a wife. The vicar, too, and the baronet, of course. There were a few others, local gentry, but as she forced herself to converse with them, all had soon enough revealed themselves as being out of the marriage market, their wives elsewhere in the room.
And then Mr. Brent had been introduced to her, and she had almost lost her voice altogether. He was average in height, with a trim, square build, dark hair, and eyes of a rich coffee brown. His features were unremarkable, his nose perhaps too large, his eyes set too deep, but the animation of those plain features gave him an unquestionable attractiveness. There were those people whose smiles touched only their lips, but with Mr. Brent his whole face creased and crinkled, and his eyes met hers with intensity and intelligence.
She had never had a man look at her with such interest. She had never had anyone give her such flirtatious, individual attention in all the years of her life.
She was shy under his scrutiny and wanted to run. And at the same time she wanted to take no step that might cool that interest in Mr. Brent's eyes.
Luckily her time with Miss Marbury had taught her one thing well, and that was how to humor one bent on being difficult. It was plain that Mr. Brent fancied himself a bit of a rebel, and she had adjusted her behavior accordingly. She had not had time as yet to decide if he was a man worthy of being humored, or one she could, after all, marry. Her words to Penelope had been more bombast than substance, and she was not at all certain that she would have the courage to marry an odious man if given the opportunity.
Being a beggar among relations might not be a pleasant life, but it was the one she knew. Presented with the opportunity of escape, in reality and not just fantasy, she did not know if she was equal to the challenge.
The oysters in her stomach rolled and turned, and she felt a wave of heat wash over her.
"I'm going to be sick," she said, shoving her teacup at Penelope. Then she left her astonished cousin on the love seat, and ran from the room.
Chapter Three
Christmas Day
The Nativity
Haverton Hall
"I do hope Miss Ambrose can make it tonight," Elizabeth said. "I was surprised not to see her in church this morning."
Richard said nothing, pretending to be engrossed in his book. They were in the drawing room, supposedly enjoying a few moments of quiet. The children had been taken upstairs for their naps, and this would be the only lull in the day, for this evening the Twitchens would arrive for a small family dinner, as had been their custom for many years.
"You seemed fond of the girl," his sister's husband, Sir John, said.
Richard grunted and turned a page.
"I thought that was the only reason you came to church, on the chance of seeing her. What, no answer? You, of the famous forthrightness?" Sir John turned to his wife and said in a stage whisper, "By Jove, I think he is smitten with the girl. Have you ever seen him without a reply?"
"I am not smitten with her," Richard snapped, shutting his book and glaring first at his brother-in-law and then at his sister. "A trifle curious, perhaps. But not smitten."
"Mrs. Twitchen told me some of her history," Elizabeth volunteered, then did not continue.
Richard looked at her, grinding his teeth, the two of them in a duel of stubbornness. "Oh, all right!" he said at last. "Tell me what she said."
"Make him admit he's smitten first," Sir John teased.
"I don't think we should push our luck, darling," Elizabeth said. "He looks ready to pop a vessel as it is."
"But he's making a damn fine show. I haven't had this much fun since the vicar got drunk and came here to beg the hand of that upstairs chambermaid."
"Really, dearest," Elizabeth said. "Just because you've been fortunate enough to marry the perfect woman doesn't mean you should make fun of others in their quest for a similar happiness."
Sir John narrowed his eyes and chewed his upper lip, trying and failing to come up with a suitable rejoinder that would not get him into trouble.
"Now, as I was saying," Elizabeth moved on. "Mrs. Twitchen says that Miss Vivian Ambrose is her first cousin twice removed, and comes from one of the weaker branches of the family. She has no fortune or rank, and her parents were killed in a carriage accident when she was a small child. She has spent these last several years as a companion to an elderly aunt, and has not yet been out in society, although she is twenty-five years of age. Mrs. Twitchen is hoping to make the girl a match in London this season. She says she feels rather sorry for the awkward thing."
"She's not awkward," Richard argued, privately surprised at Miss Ambrose's age. She was only a year younger than himself. Her face did not show her years.
"Isn't she? Of course, I had only a few moments to speak with her. She seemed quite shy."
"I wonder if we spoke to the same young lady."
"It may have been weariness I noted," Elizabeth amended. "Mrs. Twitchen said she had been remiss in having the girl attend the dinner party, as she had only arrived that morning. The strain was too much for her, and she was forced to retire after dinner."