Page 17 of The Marquis, the Minx, and the Mistletoe
By the timedinner concluded on the third night, Tia felt that she had fully recovered from her journey and returned to the civilized world. Her muscles still ached a little, of course, and she still wished to retire as early as possible to continue to recover all the sleep she'd lost during the journey, but being around the dinner table at Somerton, surrounded by the hum of vibrant conversation and hearty food, had done much to restore her spirits and remind her of some semblance of normalcy.
The viscount had even rejoined the household, seemingly recovered from his grippe. He was just as dignified as Tia remembered, but for the slight redness about his nostrils and a thickness to his voice. He kept his distance from the others, citing a desire to limit his contagion, though Tia rather thought he enjoyed a larger berth and less bother, as a general rule.
When the men and women separated, as was tradition, for a short time following the meal, Tia found herself once again opposite the dowager viscountess—Glory's mother-in-law—and felt rather compelled to prove to the woman that she was not, as Glory had put it,a bit soft in the head.
It was only after her best demonstration of political acumen in matters both British and American that Ruthie Somers lifted a hand to halt Tia's words and confessed with a chuckle that she found such matters dreadfully tedious. "You must understand," she said with a sly little smile, "that growing up the daughter of a steel magnate in one of America's loudest cities does take a toll on a woman."
"I suppose I understand," Tia replied with a blush. "My father is a barrister, and I'm sick to death of the way he pines poetic about the law."
"Your father," Ruthie replied, tapping her manicured nails against her glass of brandy. "Yes, I remember Harold Everstead well, all the way back from my first Season in London. He was singularly fixated on your mother, no matter how many girls flirted with him, and many did."
"I can't imagine why," Tia replied with a little grimace, which made the dowager laugh.
"We debutantes were fascinated by your grandparents, you know; all of us. I suppose it had been rather a large scandal, some years prior, when the respectable and wealthy Mr. Everstead had debuted a mysterious and strange wife, who seemed unconcerned with the rules of polite Society. In those days, your grandfather would still attend the Season every year, and his eccentric bride, even with marriageable children of her own, would whirl about the ballrooms with her husband, laughing as freely as she wished, and telling fortunes to any lady brave enough to ask for one."
"That does sound like my Nana," Tia said with a smile. "She always said my grandfather was the most romantic of men."
"I believe it," the dowager replied, firelight shining in her eyes. "I knew to which family you must belong when you read fortunes for the girls at Alex's graduation fete last year. You have her look about you, you know. Her accent was undeniably Irish, but everyone still whispered that she had bewitched your grandfather into spiriting her away from a gypsy caravan, come from the Continent."
Tia released a little laugh, shaking her head. "I would not be surprised if she herself encouraged a rumor of that sort. It does sound rather grand, doesn't it? For certain, it is a sight more romantic than growing up a simple miller's daughter in Cork."
The dowager looked a bit wistful, as though she could hear the chords of orchestras past, echoing through the ballrooms of that faraway Season she'd recalled. "That has a romance all its own, my dear," she said to Tia. "For who among us doesn't sometimes dream of a simpler life?"
Simple.
It was a word that had occurred to Tia more than once these past days, for she felt she was living in a kind of limbo between the simple contentment of sharing holiday traditions with another family and the looming dread of returning to her own.
Rose Somers had sent the missives to Norwich almost the instant the ink was dry. Tia had done her best to frame her flight in a sympathetic manner, employing every emotionally evocative turn of phrase she'd ever learned under Mrs. Arlington's tutelage, and knowing damn well that her father would see right through every single word. Perhaps her mother might read the letter instead, though. Mother was much easier to convince.
Every morning she woke up worried that a return letter had arrived, and when she found it hadn't, she was never quite certain if she felt relief or a fresh burst of anxiety.
As they progressed to the final stage of the evening, gathering in candlelit comfort, ladies, gentlemen, and children alike, Tia's eyes fell upon Heloise's daughter, little Callie Laughlin, who was listening raptly to a story being told by her uncle Alex. The girl was just shy of five years old, and charmed all who knew her with neat auburn ringlets, soft manners, and a wide-eyed dazzlement of all the world had to offer. At that age, everything was simple.
If Tia were to talk to a version of herself, just shy of five years old and full of lofty dreams involving golden princes on snow-white stallions, what on earth would she say? She felt a flash of guilt at the thought that adult Tia might make child Tia cry in distress.
She tutted at herself for such a ridiculous thought, straightening her shoulders and taking as deep a breath as she could manage in her borrowed gown. Glory had been generous, sharing her clothes for evening affairs since Tia had arrived, but Glory had the wispy build of a fairy princess, where Tia had much more to manage in the bust and hip.
As a result, the gowns were always just a tad too tight in the places that would get her the most prudish of frowns from the matrons and chaperones, had they been in London at high Season.
Truth be told, she didn’t mind the effect when she beheld her reflection, nor did she dislike the appreciative looks these gowns had gotten during her brief encounters with Lord Moorvale over the last few days.
Of course, thinking of that made her search the room for the man, who, once she found him, appeared to have been patiently awaiting the opportunity to meet her eye. He flashed an easy smile, as though he were accustomed to being magnetic, and strode across the room to join her where she stood near the fire. She noticed that his dog was not at his feet tonight. It was strange to see him without her, as disorienting as if he were appearing in polite society without shoes on.
"Miss Everstead," he said pleasantly, his eyes sliding brazenly over her body in Glory’s lacy gown. He appreciated the effect, apparently, and added, "You are looking very well."
"Thank you, Lord Moorvale," she replied. "Your cheek is looking much improved."
He touched the dark line of his injury, now surrounded with a layer of rugged stubble, and released a self-conscious chuckle. "It must be improving. I'd nigh forgotten it existed until just this moment.”
"My apologies then." She smiled. "It appears I've wounded you anew."
"Never," he assured her, with such warmth in his voice that Tia could feel herself blush. "I've a surprise for the little ones tonight," he confided, leaning close to her so that his voice would not carry, and in the process sending a shiver down her back. He pulled from his trouser pocket a velvet pouch, held shut with a drawstring, and extended it toward her.
She was immediately intrigued, wrapping her fingers around the soft fabric, which was her favorite shade of russet gold. Inside, clinking together, were the most curious little trinkets, wrought of something like pewter into the shape of spiraled stars. She only peeked inside, not wishing to draw one out and ruin his surprise, lest one of the children be looking on.
"How curious!" she marveled with a flicker of genuine, childlike excitement fluttering in her chest. "Are they pawns in a game?"
"They are. How astute you are!" Sheldon replied with a grin. "It is a game of my own devising, conjured up when Gideon and I were but lads."
