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Althea poured herself a brandy and poured one for Stephen too. The day, though sunny, looked warmer than it was, a common trick of Yorkshire weather. A brandy to settle the nerves or ward off a chill was permitted to even a lady on occasion.
“The scheme started out as Milly’s,” Althea said, “and where’s the harm in it? I have a ballroom that’s never used. I can afford to feed my guests well and people like to dance.”
“But people do not like you,” he said, launching into a pianissimo reprise, “and now they can all take you into dislike together while eating your food and criticizing your string quartet. More significantly, you are besotted with a man you can never have, and the whole point of these inane balls is to pair up the willing female and the adoring male. If you are not willing, what’s the point of assembling two dozen eligibles?”
The brandy was first quality, but it failed to soothe Althea’s temper.
“I want to tell the lot of them to go to hell,” Althea said quietly. “They might tear my hems, spill punch on my bodice, and make faces behind my back, but they will not refuse my invitations. When they admit that I have the power to summon and dismiss them, the torn hems and spilled punch will stop.”
Stephen brought the music to a soft, sweet cadence. “You are declaring war on Lady Phoebe. Is that what this is about?” He accepted the brandy from Althea, half turning on the piano bench.
“Lady Phoebe has declared war on me,” Althea said, “and that was to be expected. Miss Price needs a husband, and I am arguably an impediment on that path. But Lady Phoebe is maligning Rothhaven now, telling all and sundry that she saw His Grace and me in a torrid embrace at daybreak.”
Stephen swirled his drink and held the glass beneath his nose. “Were you in a torrid embrace?”
“We were in a farewell embrace. If kissing me in passing on the cheek qualifies as torrid, England has become a very dull place indeed. Rothhaven’s situation is difficult. He can make me no promises.”
“Thea, he’s promised you his regard can go nowhere. If he’d done otherwise, I’d have to call him out, and lest you think my leg impairs my aim, I’ve proven that assumption incorrect on two occasions.”
“You’ve fought duels?”
“A gentleman doesn’t shoot and tell. Cancel this ball, Thea. It can wait until Lady Phoebe has other quarry in her sights, until Miss Price has wrangled a proposal from Ellenbrook—unless you are setting your cap for Ellenbrook?”
Unthinkable, though Althea should be doing exactly that.
“I am preparing to host a fine entertainment for my neighbors, and to let Lady Phoebe and all of her ilk know that they no longer have anything I need or desire.”
This was true, which should have been a relief, though Althea mostly felt…empty. The indifference she’d strived to affect toward polite society was finally within her grasp, and it hardly mattered compared to the nasty threats Lady Phoebe had launched at Rothhaven Hall.
Stephen took a sip of his brandy. Of all the Wentworths, he alone had the natural ease of the aristocrat, the elegance and self-possession of a man born to privilege.
“This is Rothhaven’s fault,” Stephen said, wrinkling his nose. “He’s roused your protective instincts. Not well done of him, but then, you’ve roused his. He’d not be wishing you farewell, torridly or otherwise, if you were a mere passing fancy to him. I respect your objective, Althea, and I understand how tedious it is to be found wanting when you’ve committed no wrong, but I implore you—note the verb and the man using it—to take this step with the backing of your family, not in some furtive rearguard action that could easily go awry.
“Lady Phoebe is begging for a setdown,” he went on, “and I would love to be the daring adventurer who spills punch on her bodice, but I want Quinn and Jane on hand when that unhappy accident transpires. For you to ignore them as allies only proves that you are not in fact ready to assume an independent role at all. You have a duke and duchess at your beck and call. So beckon and call to them.”
Stephen typically fired flaming arrows of insight and then affected surprise when they struck their targets. He wasn’t given to speeches or discourses on strategy.
“You are cozening me. You should have been a barrister.”
“Right, a barrister who cannot pace about like Mr. Garrow before the jury box.” He took another swallow of brandy and maneuvered himself back into his chair. “A barrister who can barely rise when the judge takes the bench. Some barrister I would be. Instead I am a lowly brother, offering what wisdom I can to a sister whose resolve makes the cliffs of Dover look like so many piles of fairy dust. You can charge the citadel of polite society only once, Thea. If you do not rout the enemy with the first engagement, she will regroup and counterattack. Best deploy all the artillery you can command.”
He set his half-empty glass on the piano and wheeled himself through the door.
The longer Althea sat alone in the music room, sipping brandy and watching a relentless wind batter the tulips in her garden, the more she appreciated Stephen’s strategy. Jane and Quinn were coming—they were already on their way—and Althea could turn that to her advantage.
Septimus strutted into the room, almost as if Stephen had sent the cat to keep an eye on an unpredictable and unhappy sister.
“I didn’t want to bother Quinn and Jane, didn’t want to impose.”
The cat leapt onto the piano bench and regarded her as if she was supposed to offer to turn pages for him.
“But a slight to me has always been, in a way, a slight to them.” Also a slight to every young lady who didn’t take, who wasn’t born with the grace of a sylph, whose settlements were merely modest. A slight to every young man whose compliments were less than smooth, whose dancing was too enthusiastic.
“And that is rude,” Althea said, rising and gathering up the cat. “We have one more invitation to write, my friend, and then we will consult Monsieur Henri regarding the desserts.”
The cat began to purr, while Althea’s reasons for hosting a ball underwent slight but significant revisions.
Chapter Sixteen
