Page 10 of Fair as a Star

“Yes, yes,” Aunt Hortensia interrupted impatiently. “But why didn’t you invite this Dr. Black? If he’s the new physician—”

“We hardly know the fellow,” Mama said. “It would have made little sense to extend an invitation.”

Winnifred opened her painted-paper fan. “I’ve met him on several occasions, and I don’t like him at all. He’s an aggravating man, with no respect for tradition.”

Aunt Hortensia turned her lorgnette on Winnifred. “Since when do you concern yourself with tradition, my girl?”

“That’s different. I may flout the rules, but Dr. Black doesn’t acknowledge them at all. He’s a revolutionary, intent on dismantling the aristocracy.”

“I doubt that very much, my dear,” Mama said.

Their aged footman, Wilmot, stepped into the drawing room. “Sir Henry Rivenhall,” he announced in stentorian tones.

Sir Henry entered an instant later. He was a strikingly handsome man, with the same dark hair and blue eyes possessed by his younger brother. Only two years older in fact, his gaze was ages older in experience. After his father’s death over a decade ago, he’d single-handedly brought the Rivenhall Estates back from the brink of bankruptcy, managing to pay off his father’s debts and make a fortune in the bargain. The stress of it had taken its toll.

Indeed, he looked even older than Beryl remembered. It was no doubt a result of losing Jack. Henry had always been closest with his middle brother.

His gaze lit on her the moment he walked into the room. He bowed to them in greeting, acknowledging her mother and aunt before gracing Beryl with a slight smile. There was no particular warmth in it. No more, she suspected, than was in her own

She extended her hand to him. “It’s good to see you, Henry.”

“Beryl.” He pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Paris agreed with you, I see.”

“Doesn’t she look beautiful?” Mama asked. “A sight for sore eyes, that’s what I call her.”

“She’s had too much sun,” Aunt Hortensia said. “When you take her out, sir, you must see she remembers her parasol.”

“Indeed,” Henry said. “I’m eager to start looking after her.” Releasing Beryl’s hand, he took a seat beside her on the settee. He was clad in evening black, with a light-colored satin waistcoat and cravat.

“We haven’t many weeks to wait until the wedding,” Mama continued brightly. “Though it can’t happen soon enough for my taste. I shall be grieved to lose my daughter, naturally, but the pair of you have waited long enough, I feel.”

Henry smiled at Beryl’s mother. “My sentiments exactly, ma’am.”

Beryl’s own smile remained firmly on her face through dinner. By the time they all returned to the drawing room for coffee, her cheeks were aching. No one seemed to notice. Mama, Winnifred, and Aunt Hortensia were too busy discussing wedding plans and the fast-approaching summer fete. It was Henry who finally put a stop to the conversation by the simple expedient of rising from his chair.

“It’s a fine evening,” he said to Beryl. “Will you walk with me awhile in the garden?”

“Oh yes, do,” Mama encouraged her.

Beryl stood, and taking Henry’s arm, accompanied him through the glass doors that led out onto the terrace, and down the steps to the garden.

“It smells like a perfumery,” Henry remarked as they crossed the lawn.

“Mama does love her roses.” They were the crowning jewel of the Grange’s garden, each bush perfectly manicured, and every bloom in the peak of health. Leaf mold and whiteflies weren’t allowed within an inch of the place, and weeds daren’t show their scraggly faces. A gentle lady in every other respect, Mama was absolutely ruthless when it came to protecting her flowers.

Henry steered Beryl onto the flagstone path. It was flanked with torches, recently lit for the evening. “You don’t share her passion?”

“I don’t, I’m afraid.” She cast him an apologetic glance. “Why? Were you imagining I had an affinity for gardening?”

“Not at all. My groundskeeper and gardener do well enough without feminine intervention. Still…” Henry seemed to weigh his words with greater than usual care. “I’d hoped you might find something to interest you at the Park. Some little hobby to occupy your time.”

Beryl’s smile faltered. She recognized what he was about. He was managing her. Attempting to manage her. Just as he managed everything else in his world. She usually didn’t mind it. But tonight, for some reason, it grated.

Some little hobby.

Could he be any more patronizing?

Her whitework was her hobby—her passion. Henry would know that if he troubled to know her at all.