The gentleman in question descended the stairs, carrying a sketchbook and a stick of charcoal. His worn cuffs hinted at relative poverty, but his smile was cheerful and his bow perfection.
“Charles Dufair is an old friend of Restive,” Lady Alice said, “and an accomplished artist. One never sees him without his sketchbook. You young ladies might sit for him tomorrow. Ah, here comes our housekeeper.”
She beckoned a spare, kindly-looking woman forward. “Mrs. Bates will escort you upstairs to freshen up whilst we have bedchambers prepared for you.” And thus, with the ease of knowing she would not be gainsaid, she ensured that Dorothea and her mother would remain. It would now be the height of rudeness to refuse to stay.
Mrs. Bates escorted them up the stairs. Tall windows at the landing framed a view of rolling parkland; passageways led to left and right. Mrs. Bates turned left and showed them to a charming chamber where Mother’s maid was unpacking clothing, while a young girl set out jugs of warm water and towels.
“A footman will escort you to the drawing room,” Mrs. Bates said. “The gentlemen will make a punch to ward off the cold—that is Lord Restive’s practice at this festive season—but it will be too strong for ladies. I daresay Lady Alice will order some mulled cider, too.”
“Enough chatter, my good woman,” Mother said. “Leave us be.”
Why must Mother be so peremptory, particularly in the face of kindness? No doubt it was a reaction to being obliged to remain, but why take it out on the blameless housekeeper? It was all Dorothea could do not to apologize, but she smiled and thanked Mrs. Bates, who curtsied and left with the maid at her heels.
The instant the door closed behind them, Mother began her Undutiful Daughter harangue.
Cecil dismissed the footman waiting to escort the Darsington ladies downstairs. “I’ll show them the way.” He took a folding ear trumpet from under his coat and set it against the door.
“How dare you arrange a breakdown? It will not serve, I promise you.” That was Lady Darsington.
Dorothea’s softer voice, which he had to strain to hear, replied, “I’m sorry, Mother, but you wouldn’t listen when I said I would not marry Lord Forle.”
“Foolish girl! He is an excellent match, and besotted with you.”
“Many men are besotted with me, because I’m beautiful,” she said in a voice of loathing. “It is the bane of my existence.”
“It is a blessing for which you should be thankful,” her mother retorted. “Coming here was stupid. Lord Restive is not in the market for a wife.”
“I know that. It’s perfectly fine, for I don’t wish to marry him,” Dorothea said.
“Then you should not have flirted with him in that shameless way. He will assume you are setting your cap at him.”
“Heaven forbid,” Dorothea said. “I’m not interested in marrying Lord Forle, Lord Restive, or Lord Anything Else. I don’t know why you’re so set on providing me with a meaningless title I don’t even want.”
“As I have told you time and again, titles demand respect.”
“Not true respect, but lip service,” Dorothea said. “I would rather command respect for valid reasons such as intelligence, kindness, charity, and so on.”
“You will command no respect at all if you don’t change your ways.”
Evidently, mother and daughter had had this conversation frequently, for after a silence, Dorothea merely said, “I would have been perfectly happy to stay home, but we can’t return there either without a coach. We shall have to stay and make the best of it.”
There was a silence. “Very well, Dorothea. Remaining here need not alter my plans, except in one small way.”
Another silence, and then, “No, Mother. No, you will not.”
“I said you would regret it, and I meant what I said.”
Dorothea’s voice rose. “It won’t work. As you just said, he’s not in the market for a wife.”
“Then he will have to change his mind.”
“Mother,” she cried, “I will not marry Lord Restive, no matter what.”
“You will, when the alternative is being shunned by Society.”
Dorothea made a sound of utter fury. Footsteps moved rapidly toward the door, and Cecil stowed the ear trumpet in his coat and backed away toward the head of the stairs.
Miss Darsington flung the door open and stormed out, slamming the door behind her. Flushed and more beautiful than ever because of it, she spied Cecil and came to a halt.
“May I escort you to the drawing room, Miss Darsington?” Cecil said.
She glowered. “Where is the footman who was to escort us?”
“I took his place,” Cecil said. “He has other duties, whilst I am entirely at leisure.”
She digested that, perhaps assuming Cecil was another of her besotted admirers. Which was true, but he didn’t intend to show it. “Is Lady Darsington ready, too?”
“I neither know nor care,” she snapped, and got ahold of herself. “Thank you, but I need no escort. You may wait for my mother.”
“The footman will return for her.” He proffered his arm. “In the meantime, you are clearly overset. Come, let’s go downstairs—slowly, so you have time to calm down.”
Chapter Three
Dorothea unclenched her fists. She didn’t like being treated like a child in a tantrum, but she refused to care what Cecil Hale thought of her. She tried to imitate her mother’s sneer. “You were eavesdropping.”
He had a charmingly rueful expression, drat him. “How could I help it? Your mother has a loud voice.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I believe you dismissed the footman on purpose.”
“Out of concern for my friend Restive,” he said. “Forewarned is forearmed, where matchmaking mothers are concerned.”
She gave a frustrated huff and took his arm. They moved leisurely along the passageway. If only she were a man, she wouldn’t be forced to such ridiculous shifts to retrieve the medallion. She could win it back. Or demand it at gunpoint. Or…
He cleared his throat, and she realized she’d been stewing in silence, which was ill-mannered. Despite his calm demeanor, perhaps he was embarrassed too, for not only had he listened to a private conversation—not that it was truly private, with Mother’s maid in the room—but they were practically strangers. Yes, he’d been ordered by Papa to keep an eye on her quite often, but they had never spoken before today.
She should make polite conversation. “I wonder if—”
“If I understand correctly—” he said at the same time. “I beg your pardon. Pray continue.”
She shook her head. “I merely tried to break an uncomfortable silence with an irrelevancy about the weather—whether it will snow and so on. What were you about to say, Mr. Hale?”
He had such a kindly smile. “I believe it will snow tomorrow, so you are stuck here for at least a few days, if not more—and if I understand correctly, you arranged for the coach to break down because you prefer to spend Christmas here rather than at Lord Forle’s estate.”
She felt her color rising again. “Yes, because my mother would have tried to force me to marry Lord Forle.”