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An hour of listening to the vicar deliver scathing indictments concerning the innately sinful nature of humanity was all the reprieve she could expect. As soon as it was over, Charles would spot Sorin and drag them all over to stand and politely listen to, if not actively participate in, their conversation. She closed her eyes. How can I face him?
There had to be a way to avoid him. Immediately, she crossed Caroline off the list of possible excuses—her friend would delight in any opportunity to hang at his elbow and upon his every word. Her desperate eye fell on Rowena, who was speaking to Mrs. Quimble about an upcoming charity fundraiser. In that instant, Eleanor determined that should Rowena go to speak with her after the service rather than stay at Charles’s side, she would accompany her. No matter how tedious the conversation, no matter if it meant a month of embroidering napkins or stitching quilts, she’d do it and be glad.
The church bell rang, and as everyone moved to take their seats, Eleanor marked the presence of an unfamiliar gentleman sitting beside Lady Yarborough. A hiss of dismay escaped from between her lips as the man turned to speak to his companion.
“What is it?” whispered Caroline, following her gaze. “Oh, I see,” she murmured, appraising the young man with an appreciative eye. “A handsome fellow, is he not? I assume from your reaction that you know the gentleman?”
“That’s Donald Yarborough, and he is no gentleman,” Eleanor replied, keeping her face averted so he wouldn’t see her. “He was a terrible bully when we were children,” she added in response to her friend’s blank look. “I knocked him down once in this very churchyard.”
“You appear to have a strange penchant for hitting handsome, eligible men.” Caroline’s eyes twinkled. “Well, I don’t suppose he’ll remember it now all these years later.”
“Oh, I can only imagine he will, and all too vividly,” Eleanor muttered, busying herself with her hymnal.
“You were only children. Surely he’s forgiven you by now?”
“I very much doubt it. I humiliated him in front of half the village.”
“Well, be that as it may, I don’t think he holds it against you anymore,” said her friend. “The man is staring at you as if he would eat you with a spoon.”
What? Before thinking better of it, Eleanor looked. Yarborough was staring at her. Their eyes met, and after a momentary furrowing of his brow, his face broke into a wide grin of recognition.
Quickly, she turned away. He was supposed to be at university! Ignoring him, she looked to the other side of the aisle—a mistake, for Sorin and his mother had taken their seats there. His gaze met hers for an instant and then, without so much as a nod of acknowledgement, he turned to stare impassively at the front, as though he hadn’t seen her.
Her stomach clenched. He’d given her the cut. Him. Sorin. Her oldest friend. She ought to have looked away, too, and pretended not to have noticed, but the little muscle jumping at his jaw fixed her attention. She knew that expression all too well. He was annoyed. With her, apparently. Pain lanced through her, and her eyes began to smart. Steeling herself, she poured all of her concentration into singing hymns. Then the sermon began—a treatise on, of all things, the many blessings bestowed by the institution of marriage.
Beside her, Caroline giggled softly. “It seems the good vicar has taken a liking to the eldest of the Braithwaite girls,” she said, indicating a pretty, young blond woman sitting near the front.
Eleanor bit back a sigh of frustration. Was heaven against her, too? She’d rather suffer the usual blisteringly cautionary diatribe than this! She spent the entire service in a state of utter wretchedness.
…Trying not to look at Sorin.
…Resisting the urge to elbow Caroline, who kept wriggling about and making little noises to draw attention to herself.
…Attempting to ignore Yarborough, who was trying without much subtlety to attract her notice. She sucked her teeth in irritation. Really! Couldn’t he at least wait until after church to make a laughingstock of her?
When the final blessing was issued and the congregation dismissed, it was all she could do to keep from hiking her skirts, jumping the pew, and bolting for the door. Dignity, she reminded herself. Donald Yarborough must never have the satisfaction of knowing he’d troubled her. As for Sorin, he would have no excuse to reprove her this day either, and he would certainly never know how much he’d hurt her with his coldness.
Two could dance that waltz.
Holding her head high, she exited her row just as Sorin, who was following his mother, came to the end of his. The Dowager Countess she greeted with a sweet smile and a nod before allowing the lady to go before her. Sorin, on the other hand, she did not deign to acknowledge, though he waited politely for her to precede him. Without so much as a glance, she gave him her back.
Her teeth clenched with frustration as behind her she heard Caroline’s enthusiastic greeting. Hoping for a quick exit, she made to follow Rowena who, much to her relief, was making a beeline for Mrs. Quimble. Before she’d gone ten steps, however, a male voice—not Sorin’s—called out her name.
“Lady Eleanor! Wait—I say, do stop a moment and greet an old friend, won’t you?”
Damn. And how dare he call himself my “old friend”? Groaning inwardly, Eleanor stopped and turned to Yarborough with as blank an expression as possible. “My humble apologies, but have we met?”
“Do you not recognize me?” His mouth stretched into a saucy grin. “I certainly remember you. How could I ever forget? Why, it was in this very churchyard that you taught me the meaning of humility.”
At that moment, Sorin passed them by—again without seeming to see her. Blood boiling, she looked to her old nemesis, let out a little feminine squeal, and clapped a hand to her chest in a manner that would have made Caroline proud. “Donald Yarborough? Upon my word, you are so changed that I did not even know you! You’ve grown so very”—she ducked her head, feigning embarrassment, but then peeked up at him coyly—“so very tall.”
Satisfaction filled her as Sorin halted in his tracks, stiff as a poker. Ha! “Goodness, but it seems to be the time for old friends to return,” she said to Yarborough. “You cannot have been home for very long?”
“I arrived just yesterday. Felicitations on your birthday, by the bye. Mother info
rmed me that I missed the festivities,” he continued, his smile turning sheepish. “I’m afraid she was most displeased with the lateness of my coming, though it could hardly be helped. One of the horses drawing my coach stepped in a hole and lamed itself.”
“Oh, well I’m truly sorry to have missed you,” she replied with an exaggerated pout, watching with glee as Yarborough stood a bit taller and as, behind him, Sorin half turned around. “You are home to stay, I hope?” she added for good measure.
