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Eleanor followed her gaze to find that it rested on Yarborough. She ought to be thankful that the comment had referred to someone other than Sorin, but all she could muster was a faint sense of unease. “I suppose,” she answered with a shrug.
“His jacket is simply splendid,” Caroline went on, her voice eager.
She looked again. Indeed it was—and far more suitable for a promenade down Rotten Row than for the start of a six-day journey on horseback. He looked every inch the dandy from the top of his jaunty felt hat down to his gleaming and obviously new Hessians. The ensemble had no doubt cost a fortune, but Eleanor knew the difference between a surface gloss and deep shine. No amount of expensive trappings would ever make a true gentleman of Donald Yarborough.
Her gaze lit then upon Sorin beside him. By contrast, the Earl of Wincanton wore the modest, practical clothes appropriate for a long journey. The morning sun kissed his hair and face with gentle golden light as he soothed his overeager horse and jested with Charles. He’d never been unpleasant to look at, but it struck her now that he was actually quite handsome.
“Eleanor?”
The insistent inquiry forced her to return her attention to Caroline. “Remember what we discussed,” she said quietly. “Be polite during our journey, but do not encourage him overmuch. You don’t wish to give the impression that he has your favor before we reach London, lest he boast of it to others upon our arrival and lead them to think you already spoken for.”
“But what if—”
“You have only just met him,” Eleanor cut in, giving her a stern look. “Neither of you knows anything about the other, much less whether or not you will suit. Let his actions speak for his character along the way without your prompting. If you still find him of interest after we arrive, I’ll be glad to help further the connection.” She lightened a little. “Be patient, and keep in mind that you may soon have many more appealing options to consider. You don’t want to limit yourself before you’ve even seen what is available.”
The pout didn’t entirely disappear from Caroline’s face, but she nonetheless nodded, albeit reluctantly. “Very well, I shall be careful not to let him think he has any advantage.”
Satisfied, Eleanor led the way to the coach where Rowena waited for them with Lady Yarborough.
“There you are, my dear,” the woman crowed as she approached. “I was beginning to think we might have to send a search party for you. London awaits—come, let us be off!”
A twinge of dislike ran through Eleanor as the lady gave her cheek a maternal pat before turning to board the coach. The woman was barely acquainted with her and ought not to be so familiar. She waited until Lady Yarborough’s ample backside disappeared inside the vehicle’s confines. Like
her offspring, she was ridiculously overdressed for the occasion. With her feathered bonnet, heavily be-ringed hands, and the ceaseless prattle issuing from her mouth, Lady Yarborough reminded her of nothing so much as a stout magpie.
The ladies settled themselves while last-minute adjustments were made to the luggage to accommodate their traveling companions’ trunks, and then they were off.
As Holbrook slipped past her window, Eleanor filled her eyes with its emerald lawns and sun-dappled woods. Already she felt a pang of homesickness. If she didn’t return to Somerset, she would have to make a new home. Was there a way to marry and remain in Somerset? Yarborough was out of the question, of course. She’d sooner wed a pig! Again, her thoughts turned to Sorin.
Could I be happy as his wife? Another question arose, one that presented a whole new set of problems. Could he be happy as my husband?
Just as she held every man up to the standard he’d helped her set, so did he hold every woman up to his. A sense of hopelessness flooded her at the thought of Miss Jane Perfection Stafford. Over the years, he’d painted a vivid picture of the woman as meek and mild, patient and kind, never uttering a wrong word or acting in any way other than modest and proper.
How in heaven’s name am I ever to measure up to that?
The answer was she couldn’t. She wasn’t meek, she was rarely mild, and while kindhearted, she often lacked patience. Speaking her mind was one of her biggest faults. How many times had she argued with Sorin? Between him and Rowena, she’d learned modesty and propriety, but the urge to rebel against starchiness was still strong. No matter how much she aspired to be like Jane, she always fell short of the mark.
And I always will. I cannot become something I’m not.
He’d said he had yet to find Jane’s equal, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one out there. She could see it now: he’d find a quiet little ingénue tucked away in a corner at some ball, her shy and retiring demeanor the perfect antidote to the brazen behavior he so deplored, and Saint Jane would be replaced by Saint Someone Else.
A sudden wave of nausea threatened. The swaying of the coach was causing her difficulty. Strange, I’ve never suffered carriage sickness before… Taking a deep breath, she tried looking through the window to settle her stomach. But the feeling only receded a little, leaving behind an uncomfortable tightness.
What really rankled was knowing he’d see some girl straight out of the schoolroom as more of an adult than her. Age wasn’t her problem. The problem was his perception of her. Hers was a war with two fronts; on one side hovered the inviolable specter of Jane, on the other stood Sorin’s view of her as an eternal child.
What if she did manage to succeed in making him see her in a romantic way? What if they did marry? What would it be like? Would their friendship hold, or would they find life with each other intolerable? She didn’t like to consider the latter. The thought of losing his friendship pained her more than she’d thought possible.
“I suppose you must be very excited to see London again, Lady Eleanor,” chirped Lady Yarborough. “I have not been in years, myself. Not since Sir Yarborough died.”
In a way, Eleanor was grateful to the woman for breaking her melancholy woolgathering. At least if she was busy being talked to death she wouldn’t have time for pessimistic what-iffing about impossible things. “I’m quite happy in the countryside, but I’ll admit to missing the variety of musical entertainments offered in Town.”
“I am so looking forward to seeing several of my old friends,” continued Lady Yarborough with a dramatic sigh. “We’ve written countless letters, of course, but it’s not the same as seeing one another.”
No, it was certainly not. “I’m sure you will be received with great joy,” Eleanor answered politely.
The woman’s face pinked at the compliment. “My son jested this very morning that he fears I might not wish to return at the end of the Season and that he’ll have to send me home tied in a sack,” she said with a giggle that sounded absurd coming from a woman her age.
Eleanor bit back a groan. “I’m certain we will all be glad to return home once the heat arrives. London is simply not to be borne in summer.”
