5. A Bit of Wine and Whining

5

A Bit of Wine and Whining

It should have been a sin to study someone so closely without their knowledge.

But ’twas surprisingly easy. Servants, after all, were invisible to nobility—at least the sort that didn’t seek to attack or abuse for nefarious purposes.

So, during the candlelit dinner that very evening, with most all the guests arrived and gathered round the long, formal table, Aphrodite watched.

Observed from her quiet, unseen place standing on the other side of a decorative column, disguised by its shadow at the farthest end of the table, awaiting the moment when Lady Ballenger summoned her to escort Harri up to the nursery.

Aphrodite waited, she watched, and she ached. For the strong man who suffered at the hands of war.

For, by now, while waiting to speak with Lady Ballenger earlier and being privy to a horrid, if insightful, blather between three of the younger females, Aphrodite knew:

1. Lord Warrick had the well-earned reputation of Accomplished Flirt and Brash Entertainer.

So that (and perhaps more importantly),

2. He was known for his wildly inappropriate remarks and yet still welcomed by many.

And most important of all,

3. The three “ladies” were conniving, and wagering over, which one would enter his chamber before the sennight expired, to catch him unaware and snare themselves the title of Countess .

The fiendish, immature trio cared nothing about the marriage itself (or the man), only the title , the titters about arranging for their chosen cicisbeo , a multitude of peccadillos already planned! (Which jolted her far more than shock over the wagers.)

To be treated as such? Disregarded? As if your wishes mattered naught to others? It could not help but remind how she had been treated twice upon a time, as though she didn’t matter. And to realize how his inability to walk had reduced him, in their eyes at least, to someone only to be used brought back uncomfortable memories. But this time, for an entirely different reason.

For though Lords Frostwood and Warrick, and Lord Redford if he ever deigned to appear, possessed what most everyone dreamed of—a birthright, no doubt beautiful and immense homes, and ample funds to care for themselves and their loved ones without worry—they were also burdened by tragedies others never considered: the memories of battle and the ever-present wounds of war, whatever form they might take.

You really ought not be thinking of them.

She wasn’t, not really.

She was thinking of him —only one of the three?—

To what end? Why waste a moment’s thought his direction? You cannot fix him!

But how she ached to try.

Were his injuries of a permanent nature? Or might he, in time, recover some use of his legs? Were they simply weakened from a severe wound? Or completely paralyzed? Might her uncle?—

Aphrodite! Behave thyself!

She closed her eyes, attempted to think of anything other than the broken bit of masculinity mere feet away…

Heard the steady hum of a multitude of conversations. The metallic clink of tableware hitting porcelain as an especially aromatic course was served. Tried not to notice the hollow in the pit of her stomach.

That’s what you get for not eating a bite since early that morn.

No, that’s what came from gathering greenery with Harri and Lady Anne directly after breaking her fast so many hours ago. Greenery that Harri insisted they place on every available surface upon their return, the swags and wreathes they’d coiled prior to returning outside for more and being distracted by piggies and peers. The fresh branches wafted the outdoors throughout, tickling her nose with the bracing winter scent that eclipsed the candle smoke but not that of heavy perfume worn by some.

She tucked her hands behind her at the small of her back, fingers straight, palms pressed into the wall and tried not to sniff the food. How she wished her curiosity could be tucked away as easily.

How long until her boisterous, twelve-year-old responsibility disturbed the peace sufficiently for the awaited summons?

Her ears searched for Lady Ballenger’s voice only to be greeted with the tune being played in the ballroom by the string quartet hired for the week, as they rehearsed, the sounds muted but airy.

Deep laughter delivered her eyes and attention to where they ought not to dwell: Lord Warrick.

The scandalously tempting man, with his black-as-midnight hair and inviting smile that showed both teeth and dimples, had just spouted some quip that made those near him lose composure. One poor fellow started hacking a cough.

Oh, to have been a guest seated nearby. To hear what tickled them so...

She’d not known the seating arrangements planned for this eve.

Had not known when she’d silently scuttled to her (mostly) hidden position before dinner was announced that she would be left—drat—in full view of the three or so people seated at this, the far end of the table. Had certainly not known she would be stationed mere feet away from Lord Ballenger, who had proved a surprisingly kind and lenient employer, and next to him, at the far corner of the narrow end where his Merlin’s chair could position him closer to the table, Lord Warrick.

How could he not consume her thoughts?

Especially after having glimpsed the anguish on his features more than once this day, when he failed to fix his expression. To seemingly hold everything within your grasp, only to have it stolen away must be a trial indeed.

So observe she did, beyond befuddled when a mere second later he lifted his glass, in the guise of drinking what never met his lips, and made it a point to snare her gaze with his.

Expression inscrutable, intensity unacceptable.

She blushed—for absolutely no reason at all. Her cheeks flamed to life and she demurred, lowered her chin to study her toes, grateful she at least wore decent slippers tonight. The newer, stiffer ones and not her favored pair (the ones with a hole near the big toe worn right through).

Despite the blaze of self-consciousness blistering her skin, some imp made her abandon all that was proper and she gathered courage to meet his heated stare once again.

Have you more to say to me? she silently challenged, feeling one eyebrow arch quite without intent. Mayhap you have need of a…chamber pot?

’ Twas considerate of Lord Ballenger to direct him toward the head of the table, citing a more informal arrangement than usual and granting the extra room needed to maneuver about in his chair. Considerate, but not what he would have chosen if given a say—easily visible to anyone who chanced to look down the table’s lengthy expanse. Coupled with Frost being a good shout’s distance away at the opposite end, seated near Lady Ballenger and her daughters, Warrick chose to ignore most of the guests and braced himself to deal only with the individuals on either side.

Though he did spare more than one, hopefully comforting, glance at Lady Redford, seated near the middle, his expression indicating he was aware of his promise to travel forth if needed to track down her tardy son.

So he sampled his beverage—no getting tippled now, not if the dreaded jaunt to his estate was in the offing—and attempted to appreciate the food. All while avoiding any hint of acknowledging any of the scornful gigglers.

The meal proved an utter trial.

So he made every attempt to appreciate his place between Lord Ballenger and the sneezing Miss Fairfax (he hadn’t cared sufficiently to determine which one, only ascertained that the young female seated closest to him wasn’t one of the giggling gaggle from earlier—a definite point in her favor).

Attempted to appreciate the easy, intermittent, conversation flowing between him and his host, whose attention—and remarks—were more often than not focused on his daughters, and wife, at the far end of the laden table.

Though courtesy dictated Warrick engage the pleasant-enough lady seated on one side in conversation every bit as much as he spoke to his host on the other, ’twas easier to let her and Sam Gregory banter, offer the stray—if pithy—comment and let his attention wander…

Until he narrowed in on one of the large room’s equally large paintings. Then he startled. Snorted into his glass and covered it with a muffled cough. What, ho!

A surprised chuckle emerged as he quickly inventoried the other paintings. Checking…

Confirming. Shoulders shaking with silent laughter, until he glanced to the next painting on his right, over the slender shoulder of Miss Fairfax (bent toward her lap as she sneezed into a handkerchief), and spied the slight figure stashed just beyond a decorative column.

Likely out of view of 98% of the people present. But 100% visible to him.

Well now. He straightened his spine, more invigorated than he’d been since dinner began.

Miss Primrose, of the red nose, thanks to the instant pink coloring her cheeks when she became aware that he was aware.

She wasn’t quite in shadows, but nearly so. Though flagrant was more his style, he studied her without seeming to, unwilling to alert anyone else to his interest?—

Nay. His curiosity.

No bonnet indoors, thank etiquette, so despite the evening light, more was revealed. And study her he did, as surreptitiously, and as intently, as possible.

A slim oval of a face, her complexion neither porcelain nor bronzed. So she spent time outdoors, yet used a parasol when she had to?

A pert, not quite narrow nose; plump, not quite prim lips (those he already recalled—and more than he ought); mounds of hair, severely scraped back—despite the few wavy strands that escaped and wafted near her face and shoulders.

Tut, tut. Something that thick, that potentially lush should not be so confined. He needed to see it down, unkept. Needed to allow his fingers to sink into the strands, lift them to his nose and inhale.

The fine hinterlands he’d already admired; didn’t need to see them now to remember the allure (good thing, too, as they were flattened against the wall). He’d been overly distracted by the rest of her earlier to note the average bosom above the slim waist—he was a man, after all, if not one in prime twig.

But it was two other things that fueled his growing fascination:

She wore yet another absurd dress of heavy brown bombazine, and—even more compelling—the serene study of her eyes on him had yet to waver.

The unmistakable, unmissable flare of awareness between them could no longer be denied.

Oh? You fool yourself if you believe you have denied it thus far.

He couldn’t help it. Even more than the glazed pigeon on his plate (which was quite divine), she was the most delectable thing in the room.

Since when do you dally with servants?

Never. Well, never, not once—not since he was a brazen lad, soon to be birched and taught better by his stepfather.

A lift buoyed his spirits.

How refreshing. To think of something from his past—something rather painful, mind—with an elevation of his spirits and not a stomping of them.

Ever since that decidedly uncomfortable lesson, never had he been curious about the help. Never studied them more than he ought. Never really even noticed them.

Until today. Three times now.

Seemed as though simply the change in elevation—his attention lowered between twenty and thirty inches, depending upon what he was seated upon—made him more observant than ever.

Blast him, made him more taken over this one than he could remember feeling about a female since long before Albuera stole that handful of feet from his eyesight.

Even with that reminder, he couldn’t help the smile that curved his lips.

Couldn’t help but delight when hers curved in return.

As though she, too, experienced the growing sense of camaraderie and attraction, she licked her lips, mashed them together and looked away to the side—all that was demure and proper.

He absently accepted another drink after all, keeping his attention on her. And was rewarded, when only scant seconds later she glanced back at him.

So. ’Twas as he’d suspected.

Though she might try to pretend otherwise, Harri’s little Latin-speaking governess had some spunk to her. Was able to look him in the eye without appearing either overly bold or excessively embarrassed? And after how he’d run her off at his vulgar (not quite) best? He instantly liked that about her.

What he didn’t like was her dress. Or the fact that she had to stand up against the wall, in hiding. Watching everyone else as they ate.

Look away. Look away, you brazen hussy.

But the braised pigeon looked so divine.

’Tis not the pigeon you stare at, you peagoose.

Was she not allowed the teeniest, tiniest flirt? To enjoy the disordered bubbling in her stomach at the realization a man had actually noticed her?

Noticed?! every hair on her head seemed to scream in outrage. Noticed? Why, he’s rendering your dress gone and you naked with naught but a look.

’Twas about time.

What? Now her nails squawked at her. Have you not spent the last years seeking to avoid lecherous looks?

But nothing about Lord Warrick felt lecherous. Nor did his obvious interest—and, aye, accomplished flirting.

For she knew it could never be anything more.

And so it went, course after course, her heels, back and shoulders leaning against the wall, the rest of her in shadow, her ears attuned not to the hum of conversation, but to Lady Ballenger and the snap of her fingers. Aphrodite’s focus unerringly trading between the inviting pull—and naughty thrill—of meeting Lord Warrick’s heated glances and that of studying the ceiling, her slippered toes, and on more than one slightly embarrassing occasion, the skin at the bottom of two nails that desperately needed trimmed.

How is it he makes me burn with naught but a glance?

How is it you have reached the appalling age of four and twenty without—voluntarily—knowing a man’s touch?

Forcing her hands behind her once again, her shoulders shuffled upward and back in a stretch constrained by her stiff dress.

At the other end of the table, Harriet seemed to be causing both laughter and angst, her repeated (and wholly inappropriate) whines about Sir Galahad the goose and his fate growing in volume and frequency.

Aphrodite slid forward to peer around the column. Lady Ballenger was speaking with the guest next to her and not looking at her daughter, nor for Aphrodite, so she stepped back. Felt warmth brim over her body and face yet again when she found Lord Warrick, that flirty fiend, lifting his glass to her and giving her a slight nod.

Then he toasted the painting to her left, tilted his head that direction. Inviting her to look?

Peculiar.

Her action hidden by the column, she turned her head, saw the heavy gilded frame surrounding one of Lord Ballenger’s prized hunting paintings. The particular one inherited from an ancestor and huge—eight feet wide and six feet tall, at least. Her employer had hired an artist to come in and paint over the dogs this past summer, making them look like his hunters instead.

She couldn’t see the painting now, only the frame, but she knew by memory nearly everything visible in the public rooms, had enjoyed walking the halls, exploring each wall table and shelf, studying the art and knick-knackery, enjoying the freedom to do so at leisure and not having to cast glances over her shoulder or fear being trapped anywhere she might happen to trod.

Seeing nothing amiss, she turned back to Lord Warrick and lifted one shoulder. What? I see naught beyond the ordinary.

He pinched his lips and shook his head at her, as though vastly disappointed. Then he casually aimed one finger behind his shoulder—directing her to inspect the painting on the wall opposite? The frame was graced with heavy swags of greenery, much like all the others, Harriet draping what she could from the top corners of every frame thick enough to hold it, winding greenery around the balustrade, coiling the wreaths around busts of philosophers she fortunately hadn’t asked Aphrodite to name.

Another course was brought out, servants exchanging empty plates for full ones. Her middle squeezed at the new scents, but her attention stayed on the painting, this one of Lord Ballenger’s great-grandfather and his family: wife, seven children, three dogs and a cat, all sitting or standing clustered around a settee, their likenesses captured forever enduring daubs of color.

But then she saw it.

Harriet’s handiwork.

Each dog “wore” a red ribbon bow—pinned? glued?—upon its neck. The cat’s was gold.

Aphrodite bit her lips against a giggle. Oh, Harri, you will be reprimanded for this. Severely, I fear.

How many paintings had she…?

Aphrodite jerked her head back to the left, toward the wall parallel to her position, took one tiny step forward to see beyond the frame surrounding the hunting depiction. A muffled squeak escaped as she looked closer through the shadows on this side of the room, most of the candelabra and wall lamps concentrated near the guests.

Gracious punishments indeed.

Little red and gold ribbons stuck out from the canvas, their positions matching what she remembered of the exuberant canines racing across the hunting fields. She whipped back, shushing laughter by biting on one knuckle.

Couldn’t stop herself from seeking out his gaze. While conversation—and another of Harriet’s whines (followed by a wail of her mother’s)—swirled around him, he somehow managed to study Aphrodite while appearing to stare through his glass.

This lord, his eyesight positioned differently than most, had seen what others had not? Why did that fill her with admiration? Impress her every bit as much as the sacrifices he and his friends had made as part of the dragoons?

More laughter from the other side of the room tried to interrupt their silent communication. Even Lord Ballenger, from practically right in front of her, joined in, offering something that had the entire table chiming in with good spirits. But another screech from Lady Ballenger told Aphrodite she didn’t have much time.

These brief, all-too-surprising moments with a member of the titled class would be over all too soon. Never to be repeated.

She widened her eyes and twirled her finger, indicating the entire room. All of them?

He gave a single, decisive nod. Aye, every single one.

Punishments aplenty, then.

By now, her palm covered her mouth and chin as she sought to regain composure that had fled. Oh, Harri.

Harri, who must know beyond doubt that with this action, she had exceeded the bounds of behavior that even her understanding parents would tolerate.

Firming her stance against the wall, she pulled her hand from her mouth and gave him a slight nod, acknowledging the shared secret.

He gave her another heated glimmer, pleasure emanating from him now that she’d recognized what he’d already seen.

And there went her belly, circling and swooping.

Totally inappropriate!

Nay, totally thrilling.

Her toes curled tightly toward the floor. Her nails practically scratching the wall at her sides as she strove to remain outwardly calm.

He took a bite of the latest dish and chewed slowly. E-x-c-r-u-c-i-a-t-i-n-g-l-y s-l-o-w-l-y. To fend off any attempt of his seat mates to engage in conversation?

After he swallowed, the tip of his tongue slid over a small part of his upper lip.

But ’twas more than sufficient.

For his actions sent hers to tingling. Her heart to thrumming.

Oh my. My oh my. This was no way for an employed, sedate female to behave: nearly giddy and out of breath from the illicit attention. The shared knowledge of painting defacement.

How she wished they could talk. Truly talk. No table between them, no other guests vying for his attention. No responsibilities claiming half of hers. No?—

What do you anticipate would come of it? Is not courting privacy with him simply courting the sort of danger you take pains to avoid?

If only they could meet in the garden?—

’Tis near freezing outside now.

They could sit up on the bench, exchange?—

A bench? What of his invalid’s chair. His legs do not work.

What about the rest of him?

Mayhap she need not fear— do you not mean thrill to? —the notion of him ascending the staircases up to her room and barging in.

Of course she didn’t. Lord Ballenger’s guests wouldn’t do such a thing.

Lord Warrick certainly couldn’t do such a thing.

Drat.

And there it was—the imminent summons heralded by Lady Ballenger’s near skreak of outrage toward her youngest.

My apologies, my lord, she told no one but herself, I must be away.

With nothing more than a regretful inhale, a swift blink—that did nothing to erase his compelling attention or features—and a reluctant step, Aphrodite pushed off the wall and clasped her hands together at her waist. On silent slippers, she made her way around the perimeter, ready to remove her charge up to the nursery before Harriet’s scandalous holiday adornments were discovered.

How much damage had the child caused? Could the paintings be repaired? Or would some damage remain visible, regardless?

Lady Anne rose and accompanied Harriet from the room, mere moments ahead of Aphrodite.

Doubtful even the engagement of Lord and Lady Ballenger’s eldest would save their youngest from their ire. That and dire consequences.

With every second that elapsed, every inch she traversed, longing deepened and sorrow strengthened. For she’d had no chance to bid him good evening.

Are you a fanciful loon? ’Tis not as though you owe the titled lord anything.

No, but she wished …

In vain, she knew.

Escaping out the dining hall, Aphrodite had to fist her fingers to keep from slapping her forehead.

With a craving he’d not known himself capable of mere hours ago, Warrick watched the little governess fade back into the walls. Her silent exit unnoticed by all—but him—left him reeling at how those few moments of shared mirth reached inside and clouted him in the gut.

How he wanted to call her back.

To shove the snuffling Fairfax chit out of the way and order a chair brought round for Miss Primrose, she who didn’t constantly snivel her nose, so she could sit beside him and?—

And what? ’Tis not as though you can do anything about it. The attraction. The desire.

Of course not. She was a servant. He shouldn’t even be noticing her.

And you cannot do anything about it even if she wanted to.

A squawk from Lady Ballenger and loud round of chuckles drew his attention toward the end of the table closest to the exit as Lady Anne escorted her sister away.

Despite the unfamiliar ache gnawing at his gut, he managed his own chuckle. Doubtless misery coated Frost like his namesake, as he suffered the jubilant spirits of everyone around him—especially since his stalwart friend hated everything to do with the holidays. One of those “secrets” a good man let his fellow schoolmates and soldiers keep to themselves, knowing that if Frost were privy to the truth—that those closest to him saw right through his attempts at falsity—’twould wound his pride most heartily.

Let Frost blithely go on thinking Warrick and Ed didn’t know that his own personal tragedies had hardened Frost against even the most minimal amounts of holiday merriment.

For Warrick now had his own holiday horrors to contemplate: lusting after the illictus governess.