Page 45 of Yielding to Love

They rode in silence for a while. Camellia shook off her melancholy. “Now, since you have played Inquisitor to me, may I ask you a question?” She was sitting close enough to feel the way his whole body tensed.

“One. But I may not answer.”

She had a hundred questions, but decided to ask a simple one because he was so nervous, acting as though he had deep secrets he must hide. “Do you, or don’t you, drink wine?”

His gaze slid away. His pursed mouth was something between a smile and a scowl.

“I can,” he finally said. “That is, I am fairly certain that I can, so long as I don’t drink a vat.”

“But that isn’t what I asked.” She was going to press while she had the advantage. “My question was do you. Not can you.”

He sniffed a laugh. “I do on occasion. But I don’t enjoy the taste. And I don’t like…I like to keep my wits about me. The feeling of drunkenness, that false euphoria, does not appeal to me.”

“That is admirable.”

He sniffed again. A short time later, he came out with, “It is the same with meat. I think I can eat it so long as there is no gravy. No sauce. But I’ve never liked eating flesh. It is odd, I know, but the thought of it disgusts me.”

“Perhaps because you think of it as flesh. Now I feel disgusted too.”

He laughed. And his body relaxed. “What would you like to do in Tunbridge Wells, Miss Harrington? Besides taking the waters. I hear there is a theater. An Assembly Room with dancing. Teashops? Bookshops?”

“Everything. I want to do everything.”

*

The water tasted horrible. Like drinking rust. And it smelled like rotten eggs. She had no desire to soak in it. Major Taverston said he did not either. So while Mr. Diakos accompanied Neville to the baths, Major Taverston squired Camellia and Mrs. Clay about town.

He took them to teashops, public gardens, a marionette show, a curiosity shop, and a reading of poetry. The poems were mediocre, but afterward, the poet came around and kissed all the ladies’ hands. There was nothing to rival the Temple of the Muses, but there was a small shop selling old books. While she didn’t purchase anything, the major bought a handful, and later, she found a copy of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage tucked into her reticule.

He took everyone to a play one evening, Much Ado About Nothing. They were able to wheel Neville’s chair into the aisle at the theater. And while her brother nodded off during the second act, Camellia was entranced. Claudio was a true idiot, and Hero should have felt herself well shed of him.

And then, somehow, the whole two weeks had flown by. It was their last evening, and they were going to an Assembly—Major Taverston had managed to acquire the necessary tickets. It was not a London ball, but it was as near to it as she had ever been. Or was ever likely to be.

The Assembly Hall was as large as a city block. There were steps to enter, but Mr. Diakos carried Neville up them and the major brought up the chair. The floor was yellow-painted wood. The walls were papered with a bird-and-floral design. Chandeliers dotted the ceiling and made the entire room bright. There were tables and chairs along one wall to encourage the purchase of refreshments. They claimed a table close to the front so that Neville could watch the dancing.

Camellia wore her red-plaid gown and one of her black bonnets, decorated with red roses. The major was in his blue jacket and white pantaloons. His cravat was elaborately tied. He looked so splendid it almost hurt to look at him.

Having brought her there, of course he had to ask her to partner him. The first set was a country dance that left her breathless. He danced as skillfully as she would expect from a gentleman of his rank, but he also appeared to be enjoying himself.

She danced the second set with Mr. Diakos. A cotillion. The steps were more complex, and he was a bit clumsy, but good-humored about it. When the set ended, they returned to tables where they found Neville and Major Taverston talking with a very well-dressed, dark-haired gentleman with a hook nose.

The major said, “Miss Harrington, permit me to introduce Lord Gilbert, an old schoolmate of mine. He is here escorting his mother who is taking the waters. Lord Gilbert, Miss Harrington, the colonel’s sister.”

She curtsied. He bowed slightly at the waist, then straightened and stared at her hair. He blinked and said, “Would you care to dance the next set with me, Miss Harrington?”

“Thank you. I would.”

He escorted her onto the floor as the music began again. What did it matter that he had stared? She was dancing with a lord! They made polite conversation as they moved across the floor, weaving through the steps with the other dancers. When the music ended, he brought her back to Neville, and thanked her, smiling. It was quite pleasant. When he stepped away, she turned and beamed at the major, who looked startled a moment, then smiled back.

“Miss Harrington, I believe it is my turn again, if you’d like.”

“I would. I’m having a great deal of fun. What is the dance?”

“The program says the next is a waltz.”

Her spirits fell. “I can’t waltz.”

The major whooped. “Of course you can. The female despots of Almack’s are not here to stop you.”