Suitors and Sabotage(62)

AUGUST 1817

Ben stood in line with his grandparents and brother on the balcony of the horseshoe staircase outside the great edifice of Musson House. On each side, one to a tread, a uniformed servant waited with them. The entire household was present, right down to the scullery maid and boot boy. Grandmother was trying to impress.

And what an impression it would be, coming straight up the gravel drive past pristine lawns toward the large foursquare manor. Three stories above a raised rustic, huge Corinthian pilasters framing generous windows and capped with a pediment filled with stone swags and the Steeple coat of arms. There was no doubt of grandeur.

One of the footmen had been positioned in the observatory with spyglass in hand. As soon as the coach had been spotted, the call had gone out, and there had been a great rush to get into place—chests heaving at first, calming as the coach sedately made its way to the front door.

Ben did not want to be there. Anywhere else would have suited him just fine. Anywhere Miss Imogene Chively was not. However, Grandmother would not be persuaded. Even the suggestion of returning to Canterbury early to reestablish himself before Lord Penton mustered his troops fell fallow. Grandmother wanted a show of support for Ernest. Besides, Ben was needed to help entertain—a duty that Grandmother deferred to him because of her age and vacillating health.

There was nothing wrong, in fact, with Grandmother’s well-being other than possessing a character somewhat like Ernest’s: a preference for little company and a pile of books by her elbow. Grandfather was just as bad—his greatest amusement was a nap in his chair midafternoon. The family pretended not to notice his snoring.

And so it was that company depended on Ben’s chatter and easy manner to be comfortable. It was all very taxing.… Though it wasn’t usually. No, it was more common for Ben to be eager to have others about, laughing and regaling them with fantastical stories of one sort or another, and then listening to their offerings. His reluctance for the arrival of the Chivelys was solely his lack of enthusiasm to see Imogene.

No, that wasn’t right, either.

Ben ached to see Imogene. Every night, hers was the face that saw him into his dreams, and recollection of her laughter brought him awake in the morning. He thought about her constantly, always knowing, always aware that she was not for him. That he could never court her. That if she ever agreed to marry a Steeple boy, it would be Ernest meeting her at the altar, not Ben. That thought alone crushed his heart.

And then there was the guilt. He was extremely mindful of his breach under her parasol. If Emily had not called out when she had, Ben would have kissed her—Imogene … Ernest’s soon-to-be-intended. There was no doubt that he would have to apologize and forget the look of mutual longing that he thought he had seen on Imogene’s face. He had been mistaken—his error was mired in his own desire, not hers. He would have to beg Imogene not to tell Ernest of this terrible near blunder and then walk away.

No, Ben was not looking forward to the arrival of the Chivelys. And to make matters worse, the Beeswangers and the Tabards were not to arrive until tomorrow. A full afternoon and evening with no other focus—no one, like Emily, to provide a distraction. Perhaps he’d chat with Percy—pull him out of his sulks, engage him in a rousing game of billiards, or something of that sort.

Grandmother sensed a problem, but Ben refused to speak of it. He claimed his lackluster sensibilities were a result of his sore hands. In truth, they had stopped hurting, but as he had been stung only six days ago, he could get away with a little prevarication. He would have to look for another excuse soon.

“Chest up, Sir Andrew,” Grandmother instructed as the coach came to a stop below them.

Looking across to where his grandfather stood, Ben chuckled. Grandfather had a generous belly, and this order had to do with the protrusion of his gut more than the straightening of his shoulders.

“Doing my best, Lady Margaret, but it seems to be quite content where it is.”

Catching Ernest’s glance, they shared their amusement by way of a silent grin. Ben was pleased to see that Ernest was all anticipation. He hoped and prayed that he had not ruined his brother’s chances by gawking at a beautiful young lady under her parasol and looking at her luscious, delectable …

“There she is,” Grandmother said under her breath.

As Imogene stepped down from the coach, she released her hold on the footman’s supporting hand and placed it, instead, on the back of her bonnet in order to look up. Up, up, and up, until she saw the line of people waiting on the balcony. Her eyes grew wide, flew to Ben, and then immediately back to the ground.

“She’s lovely, Ernest,” Grandmother continued to whisper.

But his brother heard and beamed. “Yes, I think so, too.”

“I should hope so,” Grandfather added, offering Ben a wink.

Once everyone had been handed down, Mrs. Chively picked up the skirts of her ochre gown and led the family up the stairs in a procession that left Imogene at the end. Ernest conducted the introductions, following the expected protocols. While once again Imogene was the last to be presented, Ernest made it very clear that she was not the least. His tone and broad smile hinted at a welcome and pride that made Ben swallow in discomfort.

It was the oddest of positions to be in—everything was contrary. He didn’t want to see Imogene but longed for her company. He was pleased to see Ernest happy and yet wished that he could wear that smile, hold her elbow, and stand close. He was filled with guilt over a nonexistent kiss when all he could think of was how it would have felt had it occurred.