“I like it very well,” Elizabeth said, and meant it, for once. “And you? I mean—you are new to the neighborhood, it must be quite overwhelming meeting so many people. How do you find it all?”
“I believe I find it quite agreeable. I’m not often comfortable in gatherings such as this,” he said. “So many . . . people in such a close space.”
Would that she could stop blushing. “I understand—about gatherings, that is. They can be very trying. Especially—well. It would all be so much easier if I liked balls and assemblies as much as Amy—Miss Brannock—does.”
“Easier?”
She pressed her lips in a sad smile. “At my age I am supposed to be seeking companionship, not avoiding it. And yet, I feel most at ease when I am alone. I am told this will not do for a young lady.” His frank interest was startling her into honesty when she should have kept quiet. She rarely talked so much.
“The matrons throw their sons at you in hopes of forming an attachment. I do see how that could be tiring.”
She laughed; the sound startled her, and she put a hand over her mouth. “I had three marriage proposals before I turned eighteen. I was able to put them off by claiming my youth, but that excuse no longer serves.”
“You are one of those romantic girls who wants to marry for love.” The jest was meant kindly. His smile was conspiratorial.
“I want to marry for trust, Mr. Wilde. For trust.” She lowered her gaze.
He looked thoughtful. “I think I understand you.” And he did.
Her words had sparked his appreciation.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, blushing so fiercely she thought she must faint. “I speak far too freely.”
“You do me a great compliment by speaking freely. Thank you.”
She was sure that he could hear her heart beating faster. Again, he put her in mind of a hawk—or perhaps a fox.
Because she had said far too much already, she added, “Mr. Wilde, if you are not comfortable in places like this, why tolerate it? You can do whatever you like. You aren’t expected to come to assemblies and make a good show of it. You can run free in the woods if you like, and people would merely think you eccentric—”
He looked at her with something like shock, as if she had uncovered some deep truth. She couldn’t see the truth itself, only that she had exposed him. She fell quiet because, obviously, she kept saying the wrong thing. His thoughts turned chagrined—he had been working very hard to hide his discomfort, she realized. She had exposed him, and now she was sorry for it.
“My brothers and I,” he said, taking a steadying breath, “decided we would like to come in from the woods. There are . . . attractions to drawing rooms and assemblies.”
She felt a great welling of desire, and could not tell if it came from him, or from her.
“Edward! My goodness, but people will talk, with you dominating this poor young lady’s attentions!” Francis Wilde came over and taunted his brother. Elizabeth couldn’t see where Amy had gone to.
She started to say that no, Edward wasn’t a bother at all, and then excuse herself to find her friend, but Edward bristled. An emotion that was half annoyance poured from him—the other half was anger. He rose and faced the other. “Francis. Do not interrupt where you’re not wanted.”
“I’m saving you. No—I correct myself. I’m saving the lady from you. From the gossip you will incite.” He bowed at her, and his smile was mischievous.
She wanted to smile at his playfulness, but Edward’s anger confused her. Something more than what was visible was happening here. The two men had both stiffened, and their glares held challenges.
“You are provoking me, sir,” Edward said, his voice constrained.
Francis blinked a moment in apparent surprise. “Yes, perhaps I am. And how are you getting on with that?”
The two brothers glared at one another, their expressions fierce.
“Miss Weston, you must pardon my brothers.” This was Vincent. He’d deftly stepped between them, grabbed them both by the necks, and glared pointedly until they drew back. The brewing argument vanished. “They are prone to teasing one another.”
Francis started, “It was only a conversation—” But Vincent threw him such a look, the small man wilted and ducked his gaze.
Edward, his shoulders still bunched with tension, looked away. “I will remember myself.”
“Good,” Vincent said to him. “Do endeavor to be pleasant for at least another hour.”
Elizabeth could not interpret what she had witnessed—rivalry, authority, uncertainty, all of it. The goading, the reprimand—perhaps it was that they were only brothers, deeply competitive. But there was more than that at work here. We decided we would like to come in from the woods . . .
Francis bowed something that was like an apology and went off to another room. Vincent followed him, and she expected Edward to do likewise.
Instead, he turned to her, his expression chagrined. “My deepest apologies. Tell me you will forgive me and grant me one more dance?”
She should have been frightened of him, after what she had seen. But she took his hand and stood before she knew what she was about.
“You like him,” her father said, as they sat at supper. She was with her parents near the Brannocks. The brothers Wilde were at the far end of the table. She didn’t dare steal a glance at Edward, though she was sure he was stealing glances at her.
Elizabeth gathered herself as well as she could, folding her hands before her. “I don’t know that I would use so strong a word,” she replied. “Mr. Wilde is very . . . interesting.”
“That is more than you have said about any other man who has ever turned an eye toward you, my sweet girl.” He kissed her hand and smiled knowingly.
Perhaps she could persuade Edward Wilde to return to whatever woods he had come from, and take her with him. This thought was shocking—and pleasant. She wrapped herself up with it.
While the gentlemen smoked and drank their brandy, Mrs. Brannock led the ladies to the drawing room. The gossip that followed there was mercenary. For once, the thoughts of the women were just as stark as the words they spoke. There were more daughters than available bachelors in the neighborhood, and the arrival of the Wildes was a boon.
“But what of their family? Does no one know anything of them?”
“Clearly, the family made its money in business, this is why no one has heard of them.”
“They do have a rough edge to them, don’t they?”
“But money forgives many faults, doesn’t it?”
A few stray glances went to Elizabeth, who pretended to be occupied with the lace on her sleeve.
“I would know more about them before allowing them to claim one of my daughters.”
“Does anyone know if they even have this fortune that everyone speaks of? Taking Lilies Park isn’t a sure sign of it—”
“They’d have had to prove their credit before taking the estate, surely—”
“I’m sure I don’t understand such things—”
“But they do seem very fine, don’t they? Ah, to be young again, I might try to catch one of them for myself!”
The worry over money was valid, but it had a second function: to raise doubt and thus put off rivals. Whatever they said, the mothers would be happy to have their daughters married to money. None of them were so fine that they could easily refuse anything upward of three thousand a year. If the marriage went poorly years hence, whether because of money or disposition, they would all say that they knew from the first it would be so. None would remember the talk of this evening.