But perhaps it was only Darden’s presence. They did worship him, and perhaps they wished to please him.
Beatrice had been very quiet throughout dinner, which was not at all like her. He’d even tried to draw her out on two occasions, but she’d blushed and given short answers.
That was concerning. What was taking up all her thoughts?
If he knew Beatrice as he thought he did, there could only be one thing taking up her thoughts—romance.
Had Cahill made a move he was unaware of? Or worse, had Conbatten?
They had since repaired to the drawing room. Cordelia was consulting with Miss Mayton and Darden on how they would manage footlights and not burn anything at the same time.
This was considered from every angle, as everybody knew the earl would be unhappy if something were to catch fire. Not to mention Tattleton, who would have smoke coming from his ears were they to start a fire so soon on the heels of the last one.
Matthew sat next to Beatrice, waiting for Cordelia’s inevitable overwrought account of Desdemona to proceed. Cordelia liked to recite the end of Othello, removing everybody else’s lines but Desdemona’s. It made absolutely no sense, but they were all so used to it that it had somehow begun to make sense.
“I must ask, Beatrice,” he began. “That is, I mean,LadyBeatrice,” he said, correcting himself, “you seem very quiet and out of spirits this night. Are you well?”
She seemed surprised to be asked, or to even find him beside her, as if her thoughts had been very far away indeed.
“I am perfectly well.”
He did not think that was at all true.
“I only wondered if something had occurred to put you out of sorts,” he said.
“What on earth could put me out of sorts?” she asked.
If he knew that, he would not be asking. He was silent for some moments, then he said, “All of this, coming to Town and receiving invitations, will be so new to you. Then, of course, those YBC gentlemen hanging about, and their mentioning that Conbatten took an interest…I just wondered if something…had been said. If you…consider something.”
Matthew watched her closely to see her reaction. She did have a reaction, but he was at a loss to interpret it.
“I consider a lot of things, just now,” Beatrice said.
“I will only say,” he said quietly so as not to be overheard, “about Conbatten, it’s all well and good that he’s a duke, but he takes entirely too much time on his person and I cannot imagine that would suit you. As for those YBC fellows, they may be friends of Darden’s, but they do not seem…”
He’d trailed off, and as well he should. What on earth was he doing? He was in the earl’s own house, talking down his son’s friends? And then a duke, for good measure?
“If I have any thoughts about any gentleman,” Beatrice said, “then they are my thoughts alone. I see no reason to speak of them just now.”
So it was a gentleman. The question was, who?
It must be Conbatten.
“I see,” he said stiffly.
“I very much doubt you do.”
What didthatmean?
Cordelia interrupted his thoughts. “I think we have it suitably arranged,” she said.
Cordelia, Darden, and Miss Mayton had taken a low table, turned it lengthwise, and lined it with candles for Cordelia’s footlights. Desdemona’s dying was set to commence.
Cordelia curtsied and said gravely, “Desdemona’s final adieu.”
The family clapped, which Van Doren knew perfectly well was de rigueur at such a moment.
She draped herself across the mantel and cried, “Alas! He is betrayed and I undone. O, banish me, my lord, but kill me not. Kill me tomorrow, let me live tonight. But half an hour. But while I say one prayer.”
