"Is that what happened, then?" he asked. He had been disappointed to arrive in the drawing room only to find the young Miss Ambrose missing, and had consequently been unable to think of anything but her the remainder of the evening.
"She was overcome quite suddenly. She seemed fine when she was talking with Miss Twitchen; then all of a sudden she ran from the room, and Miss Twitchen said she had taken ill."
"More likely Miss Twitchen said something to her," Richard said. "She's a little minx, is Penelope Twitchen." He shifted in his chair, reopening his book and pretending once again to read, although his mind was on what the girl likely had said to scare Miss Ambrose off.
He really should stop thinking about the girl. He was only doing himself damage by brooding over her. It used to be that his hopes would rise upon each introduction to a friendly young woman, but as he'd gotten to know them-those who did not spurn his conversation-his expectations had died, hope squeezed from his heart.
Miss Ambrose had, with her oyster gluttony and her taunting, frank remarks, stirred that last drop of hope remaining in him. He was caught between wishing for it to grow and wishing he could drain it onto the muddy ground and stomp it under his boot, so it could no longer cause him pain.
It would be all the better if Miss Ambrose did not come to dinner tonight. He could put an end to this nonsense in both his heart and mind.
The Twitchen carriage bounced and rolled along the lane leading to Haverton Hall, jostling its four occupants, who sat two across, bundled in their coats and hats. Outside the windows, the heavy, overcast sky blotted out the last hints of day, the countryside blanketed in a layer of shadows.
Vivian almost wished she were still ill, so that she did not need to attend this dinner. The nausea from greasy fried oysters was preferable to that induced by nerves. At least one could throw up oysters and be rid of them.
Last night she had not returned to the drawing room after being ill, for how could one come back? What explanation could one give for such an absence?
This morning had seen her confined to her bed while the family went to church. Mrs. Twitchen had fretted, blaming herself for Vivian's illness. "'Twas entirely too much strain for you, poor girl," the lady had apologized. "No, you must stay abed. I won't have you overexciting yourself. You should have rested yesterday, only I gave you no chance."
And so her breakfast and lunch had been sent up to her on a tray, and she had devoured them with good appetite, not having known that this dinner party was waiting for her in the evening. If she had, she'd have rung for a third tray.
The day abed had given her more time than she wanted to brood upon meeting Mr. Brent, however, and to suffer a dozen embarrassments over her own behavior. She ate a butter tart off the plate by her bed each time such a distressing memory came to mind.
Mr. Brent had coaxed her into being naughty, and she had let him do so. However much he might have enjoyed her antics, though, his opinion of her had to be low because of them. She had painted herself as fast and daring, and he had likely believed her, for what evidence had he to the contrary?
Another butter tart helped her worry over the question.
Men did not marry fast women; that was common knowledge. And yet, if that was what intrigued Mr. Brent, what other choice had she than to play that role?
If it was a role. It had come much more easily to her than ladylike behavior, with its subtle rules and unspoken commandments. Perhaps she was a coarse, unrefined woman at heart.
The carriage at last drew up under the porte cochere, and they got down and entered the house. Sir John and Lady Sudley greeted them, servants took their coverings, and they were ushered into the drawing room to pass the time before dinner.
And there was Mr. Brent, looking uncertain, and then their eyes met and for a moment his face lit up, then as quickly composed itself into a bland, noncommittal welcome.
"See if you can make him laugh again," Penelope whispered to Vivian, giving her a playful shove toward him.
"Push me again," Vivian whispered through gritted teeth, "and I'll spill red wine on this dress." It was a periwinkle gown she wore this time, with embroidery and beadwork over the bodice. Penelope had once again done her hair and her face, working with the same care and concentration as if Vivian were a spun-sugar castle to be presented to the king.
"I'm just encouraging you. You need a bit of that, I think," Penelope complained. "Dowdy girls usually do."
"Red wine, and grease from my dinner," she threatened.
"You can overcome many problems of face or figure with a bright personality," Penelope advised in a teasing tone. She seemed to be enjoying this marriage hunt far more than the huntress herself.
"Leave me alone," Vivian said, although Penelope's insults did serve to distract her from the matter at hand.
"And remember, it may be a feast day, but you needn't stuff yourself: we will have had a half-dozen of them by the end of the Christmas season. You're in no danger of starving." Penelope gave her another little shove toward Mr. Brent, and left her. Vivian watched her go, almost wishing she'd stayed, but when she turned she was startled to find Mr. Brent standing before her.
"Miss Ambrose, I was sorry to miss you the remainder of last evening," he said. "And now look, you are being shy with me."
She saw the devilish light in his eyes, and out of the swirling mass of confused choices for how she should behave-innocent or knowing, shy or fast, flirtatious or proper-what came forward was the truth. "I am being shy because I am shy, Mr. Brent."
"You do not seem so to me."
"Only because you make outrageous comments that encourage a similarly outrageous response. You are enough to put any young woman on edge."
"Not any young woman would answer as you just have."
"I don't know any better," she said.
He laughed. "And I pray you never learn. Last night's conversation was one of the most enjoyable I've had in recent memory."
"I had been hoping you would forget it."
"Impossible. And I would never want to."
She blushed, fidgeted, yearned for a bit of spice cake, then looked around for something to comment upon. She was aware of him watching her, taking in each uneasy movement. She combed back through her memory of their conversation at dinner the night before, and finally found something to say.
"You never answered my question last night."
"Which was that?"
"I asked if you had advice for me for hunting a husband during the season," she said, hoping it did not sound as if she were asking advice for hunting him-although that actually was what she was doing. Not that she could use whatever information he gave her; it would be too transparent. Oh, heavens, why had she said anything at all?
"That all depends upon which sort you wish to catch. You must dangle the proper bait for the beast."
"I have only one very poor bit of bait to dangle, and it rules out fortune hunters and social climbers."
"That is a shame. Many a young lady has made her match with such," he said. " London is full of them."
"I was rather counting on an elderly gentleman with a comfortable income."
"Simply because they are aged does not mean they are any less likely to want an heiress," Mr. Brent said. "Their greed does not slow with their limbs."
"Dear me. How about impetuous youths who have already inherited, and so cannot be disowned for making a bad match?"
"Those are difficult to catch, and make poor husbands, being prone to drink and gambling. Like as not you will end up living on credit, and soon enough be bankrupt."
"There is no point in returning from whence I started," she said.