Chapter 27

27

Captain Winterton found the assembly something of a trial.

It was not all bad. He was glad that his mother was enjoying herself and knew that part of her pleasure came from his presence. He had been at sea for so many years that she had still not entirely accustomed herself to his return, and she had missed him afresh while he was in London this past autumn. It was an innocent enough enjoyment, surely, for a woman widowed early and with just one dearly loved child, that child long absent in dangerous circumstances, to show him off to a gathering of her friends and say – though not out loud – ‘Look at my grown boy! Is he not handsome and well-mannered?' He knew that he owed her that much and more.

He also knew that she was anxious to see him happily married, and here he began to feel uneasy. He had no idea, for he had recently avoided even the approach to such a conversation with an adroitness born of desperation, whether his mother had stopped to think for a moment that Lady Ashby might be a suitable wife for him. If the thought had so much as crossed her mind, it was very likely that she'd rejected it out of hand, he realised now, because surely she'd much rather he married a Hampshire girl, a young lady whose parents were her friends and neighbours, these people here tonight. It was only natural that she should want him to be bound more tightly than he currently was into the spider's web of intimate connections that tied her little rural society together. If she had even considered Isabella for a second as a prospective bride for him, she might easily have feared that marrying a woman from far-away Yorkshire would pull him away from her, so that she rarely saw him, which was the last thing she desired. And she was right to fear it, because if living out the rest of his life in the north was the only price he had to pay for winning Isabella as his wife, he would pay it in an instant, and gladly.

So he was not quite comfortable in his mind when he found himself in such demand as a dancing partner. His mother ruthlessly disposed of him among the daughters of her friends, and he tried to console himself that there was safety in numbers, but it was hard, when he would have liked to dance with his love for more than one paltry set. He could not help but contrast his emotions now with those he had experienced when he had first gone to London, when the girl in the blue gown had seemed like a distant memory that must always be out of reach, and when he had asked nothing more than to twirl about the floor with one young woman after another, not greatly caring which. That, of course, had been long weeks ago, before he had realised the extent of his feelings for Isabella, and before anything of an intimate nature had passed between them to bind him more tightly to her.

To see that Bastian, Matthew Welby and poor Tom Wainfleet were in much the same predicament as he was very little comfort. It was ironic, he thought as he squired one shy and silent damsel, that of the four gentlemen presumed so eligible none truly was, since Bastian and Matthew presumably dreamed of a world where they might be dancing openly with each other, he would cheerfully consign this whole assembly to perdition for an hour alone with Isabella, and Tom Wainfleet was plainly suffering the torments of the damned, being forced to make some kind of stilted conversation with one young woman after another.

But they were all three of them better off than he was since nobody in their own party was genuinely trying to manipulate any of them into close contact with any particular young lady among so many. Whereas he soon began to suspect that amongst the crowd of damsels, his mother had one special candidate in mind as a bride for him: his distant cousin, Miss Peters. He found himself dancing with her twice, which occurred with no other lady, and which honour he had certainly not sought, and to set the seal on his suspicions, he discovered that she was, by some mysterious process entirely outside his control, his supper partner. When he realised this, he shot his dear mama a less than loving glance, which she met with a smile so implausibly innocent that it confirmed his belief that she had organised the whole thing.

He didn't like any part of this. If he had been on the lookout for a wife in a rational, dispassionate sort of a way – but did any man with warm blood in his veins ever do this? – he might have considered Susannah Peters. She was attractive, he supposed, if one cared for slim, dark women, which he didn't particularly. She was intelligent enough. She was a very distant sort of a cousin on his father's side. She appeared to find him excessively amusing these days, though he wasn't quite sure what he was saying that was so damn funny. But she wasn't Isabella.

The assembly ended at last, and back they went to their carriage. Tom Wainfleet seemed to have been stunned into silence by his experiences, Leo didn't feel much like talking himself, and Isabella was very quiet too. His mother carried the conversation, with a constant flow of comments about the particulars of the evening in which Susannah Peters featured quite prominently. It was his own fault, he supposed; if he had not wanted her to matchmake, he should have thought to speak with her about it in advance. But then he'd have had to lie to her, to say he had no thoughts of marriage just yet, which he didn't feel happy doing, and if he were honest feared he wouldn't be able to pull off. She was his mother. She knew him too well, or ought to.

The journey seemed longer returning than arriving, and it was a weary quartet – with the exception of Mrs Winterton, who appeared to have the boundless energy of a child who'd eaten too many sugared plums – that climbed down from the carriage at Castle Irlam just after midnight and entered the building with their companions from the other coaches. They stood together in the entrance hallway for a moment, shivering a little on the chilly stone-flagged floor, wishing each other goodnight, and Leo looked at Isabella in silent enquiry. Despite the stresses of the evening, he wanted – needed – to be in her arms. For a second he thought she meant to refuse him with a silent plea of tiredness, and then she gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. She wasn't smiling and her face was pale, but he chided himself that it was foolish to be apprehensive. She had agreed to receive him, that was the main thing. There remained the constant need for discretion, and she, unlike Susannah Peters and her chattering friends, was not free to make sheep's eyes at him without fear of consequences.

The drowsy party climbed the stairs and parted to their separate chambers. Later, Leo would deeply regret his unspoken invitation, her acceptance and the events thus set in motion, but now he was conscious only of the familiar excitement and intense arousal that the anticipation of touching Isabella, kissing her, making love to her, always evoked in him. He undressed eagerly – he had no valet and needed none – and watched as the minute hand crept agonisingly slowly round his chamber clock until enough time had passed. Her maid would have left her long since and the Castle had fallen utterly quiet and still; at last, it was time.