“Do not be silly, Papa! Lord Clutterbuck was the only viscount who displayed any interest, and he is older than you! No, a handsome future baron is quite sufficient to make Miss Simmons ill with envy!”
Simon had become aware of Olivia’s habit of stating everything as a dramatic declaration. One could hear the exclamation mark that punctuated the end of every sentence. It was one of the most irritating idiosyncrasies he had cataloged ashe sat in silence. Thus far. One did not have much opportunity to speak when the Boyles were talking about themselves, and he was not inclined to contribute to the inane bickering.
“That is correct, Lord Boyle! That fire ship was quite put in her place!” Simon cringed at Lady Boyle’s interjection, and even Isla roused a little with an astonished blink. Molly was sitting beside his mother, and choked. She put her fork down to compose herself. Simon gritted his teeth lest he burst into laughter. He did not know what the viscountess had intended to say, but it could not have been afire ship—a terrible insult which referred to a wench with venereal disease.
Next to him, John was not so composed, breaking into a wheezing cough so he might cover his smile and disguise his amusement. Simon raised his wine to hide his own grin as he grappled with the threads of his self-control.
Then the hilarity was over as Olivia brought the conversation back to what really mattered. “It is true! Miss Simmons is well aware she has lost our clash of wills and that I have emerged the victor … because of my betrothal to a future baron!”
Simon’s spirits plummeted again as he fidgeted in his chair at the uncomfortable warm weather. The aspect of himself that he disliked the most was that his future had been chosen for him, and he was on a path that the fates had set upon him in the manner of mythological gods conspiring to shape his destiny into one of tragedy and denial. The fact that Olivia harped on about his lack of free will served as a constant reminder of his discontent.
Mother said her personality will mature.
He was regretting his commitment to duty, but it was too late. A contractual betrothal was as good as married, except for the final step. Almost impossible and financially ruinous to end. There was no doubting Lord Boyle would sue them for everypenny of the Blackwood fortune if they attempted to break the contract. Nay, Simon’s matrimony was afait accompli.
A wedding was being planned for late October, and with each passing minute, the sensation that he was drowning in a circumstance of his own contrivance increased in teeny tiny increments until he was a heartbeat away from hysterical panic.
He had heard tell of a form of torture they practiced in China.Lingchi, or slow slicing. A victim was executed by a thousand cuts so that he suffered greatly until he eventually expired.
Dabbing a handkerchief over his face to counteract the heat of the day, Simon felt he had stumbled into a form of intellectualLingchiin which he was sliced by a thousand bacon-brained comments until, at last, his ability to think intelligently would leak out his ears to leave him a gibbering fool.
Did all members of their class consider the minutia of precedence to be of such vital importance?
Sometimes his mind would float away so that he was sure he was living in a waking dream, but, unfortunately, he would never awaken. This was his life now. Soon they would all be united by matrimony and … and …Dear God, perhaps laudanum is not such a terrible idea after all?
Madeline was readingin the walled garden, enjoying a tea in the shade and fanning herself to dispel the unseasonable heat, when she heard hurried steps approaching. Looking up, she found Molly entering through the arch with a hunted expression.
“I had to escape the house,” she offered as her explanation, dropping onto the bench with a heavy sigh. “I used you as an excuse, I am afraid. I did not know if you would be here, but I claimed I had made arrangements in order to leave our lunch.”
“I do not mind.”
“It is the Boyles. Lord Boyle is a blunderbuss. His wife is a bufflehead who throws words about without a sensitivity to their meaning, and Miss Boyle … she is obsessed with her station. Every sentence ends with a mention of her betrothal. I actually imagined stabbing my palm with a knife just so I might have an excuse to leave mid-meal.”
Madeline bit her lip in sympathy, her thoughts on Simon, who would hate such an interaction, despite his adherence to duty. He enjoyed intelligent conversation and fine things. When she had begun to sculpt artworks for him more than a decade earlier, he had become quite enthused, asking detailed questions about the craft. Conversation such as Molly described would pain him to his very core.
It is not your concern.
“Then I am glad you thought of using me as an excuse instead,” she murmured, diverting her thoughts from the gentleman she must forget.
A crunching of gravel had both women turning their heads back to the archway in surprise. Simon appeared in a fine, blue wool coat and gray trousers. Madeline’s heart leapt at the sight of him, drinking in the sight of the beard she had yet to see in proper daylight with a direct view. It suited him, the blue of his eyes ever more vivid because of it.
“Oh! I apologize. I was … seeking a moment of respite.”
Molly rose to her feet. “Are the Boyles still here?”
Madeline remained seated, suppressing a smile at her friend’s alarmed tone.
“Are you bringing them to the garden?”
“Uh … no. They are taking their leave as we speak. I … should be … there.” With that, Simon spun on his heel and was gone.
Madeline suspected he might have hoped to see her, knowing this was where she liked to spend her Sunday afternoon. Thepresence of Molly must have frightened him off. She wondered what he had wanted to say.
Simon was notsure why he had gone to the garden. His feet had led him there after pacing the walkway to the side of the house. Perhaps a moment with Madeline would restore his sanity. Or, if she had not been there, he could have sat on the bench to find his bearings and capture the happiness of his youth for just a fraction of a second.
Striding back to the house, he remonstrated his faithless behavior. He would never cheat on his betrothed, but he had been desperate to recapture the calm pleasure of Madeline’s presence. They might no longer be prospective lovers, but this did not alter their long history of friendship.
The worst part about his reaction to his betrothal was he could not air his concerns so he might appease his misgivings. John thought the match to Olivia both appropriate and amusing. Isla thought it the natural state of affairs for a future lord. Nicholas was always drunk. Which left Madeline as a confidante who could understand the torture he was experiencing as a result of complying with his duties. She would have listened to him gripe, then made some suggestions to help him gain perspective. A good friend who would have made his situation more palatable, somehow, despite any disagreement she might have.
