Suitors and Sabotage(33)

Glancing toward her, Ben realized that he was rather pleased to see Emily, too … and that the use of his full name did not rankle as it had at Gracebridge. And while he was not aware of any acceleration of his heart, Ben thought that his keenness deserved a little exploration. In deference to Ernest, he would not flirt.… But that did not mean he had to ignore Emily’s company. They might suit just fine—and then wouldn’t that be a happy situation? Yes, suddenly Christmases and baptisms held much more appeal.

“Might I stand back for a moment or two? I would like to take in the entire facade of Shackleford Park before entering,” Ben called over his shoulder, even as he stepped around the departing carriage and horses and onto the lawn.

He turned to see that Emily’s smile no longer reached her eyes; the mischief had faded. “Yes, of course,” she said. Grabbing a handful of skirts, she moved toward the front door.

“Would you care to join me?”

Emily’s head snapped around. She paused as if considering and then hopped down the stairs, walking out to where he now stood facing the manor. “Yes, of course,” she repeated quietly. She stared up at him for a moment and then turned toward the manor.

Shackleford Park was without a doubt a beautiful building, and though Ben knew it to be at least a decade in age, the manor could have been mistaken for new. No wear on the stone, no rot in the sills, and no mold on the lower floor. The blue mansard roof sparkled in the sun, and tower caps pointed straight to the sky. The architect had done a masterful job. The effect was understated elegance.

“So…” He waved his hands in the general direction of the east wing—and then the west.

“So?”

“Tell me about Shackleford.” A quick side glance to Emily allowed Ben to offer her encouragement—in the way of a saucy grin. He couldn’t help it; that was the way he grinned. If Ernest had a problem with it, then …

“As you likely know, the manor was built in 1807 by Lord Harold Lestor,” Emily began, and proceeded to explain the ins and outs of Shackleford, adding a few anecdotes from her own childhood memories.

They stayed out of doors, slowly strolling across the front of the building, for some time—at least a quarter hour or so. Emily used words such as gable and pediment to describe the windows and various embellishments. Ben wondered if Emily had known the meaning of those words a fortnight ago, but he was rather flattered that she might have gone to the trouble of studying up on his favorite subject.

It was a very pleasant interlude that did bode well for the visit. And Ben found himself not only anticipating exploring Shackleford but getting to know its occupants as well.

*

LOOKING OVER HER SHOULDER, Imogene squinted at the looking glass, trying to see the pearl buttons running down the length of her back. She had managed all but the last few. Now she could neither reach the rest nor see them. Cream on cream. Who thought that a brilliant idea?

“Mama,” she said with a snort into the empty bedroom. And then she huffed, pulled out the vanity chair, and flopped elegantly onto the edge of the seat. It was a beautiful silk gown, with tucks and ribbons, one made for her Season in London and far too grandiose for the country. Still, Mama had insisted. Imogene had to make the right impression.

She could have argued that if she had not already made that impression, Ernest would not be back in their company. Imogene sighed instead.

Mama did not realize that they—she and Ernest—were trying to get to know each other, assessing character, not affluence. Mama thought it the same thing, but it most certainly was not. Imogene wanted to know Ernest’s interests, his pursuits, not how to lead him around on a short leash—whatever that meant.

With another huff, Imogene rested her elbow on the small table and then her head in her hand … and huffed a third time. She could huff as much as she wanted without reproach or queries. She was alone. There was no need to double up in Shackleford Park; there were plenty of rooms, enough to accommodate all the guests and then some. Imogene was installed in a room that had been hers to use every summer for almost ten years—a room that seldom heard huffing. This was a change.

This was a new Imogene, waiting for Kate to help with her dress and put up her hair. This was not the Imogene of a few hours ago, looking forward to an idyllic stay at a country estate, a relaxing visit that included getting to know Ernest Steeple. No. This was a foolish girl, a befogged girl. A young lady with a noodle for a brain. A ninny. A dunderhead. A …

She could call herself names all evening, but nothing could alter the unalterable.

It took a moment—a mere moment—for Imogene to look down on the Steeple brothers and realize that while she thought very highly of Ernest, her foolish, foolish heart had practically thrummed out of her chest when Ben had looked her way.

Ben, not Ernest, had stolen her heart, and she had to get it back. Whether she gave it to Ernest upon its return remained to be seen. First things first: purging Ben.

But how did one go about doing such a thing? The person Imogene would normally turn to for such advice was Emily. However, this was not a question for her closest friend. No. Emily would be hurt, or furious, or never wish to speak to her again—or all three—if she learned that Imogene harbored deep feelings for Ben. Emily had all but started the guest list for their wedding—as if Ben had no say in the matter. As if the mere fact that Emily wished to marry him meant that Ben would wish the same.