Page 30 of Miss Dramatic
Gavin put a cube of cheese into his mouth. Lark’s Nest cheddar. He recognized the nutty undertones and the smooth tang on the tongue.
“You are smitten,” Hecate said. “No shame in that. I am so smitten with Phillip… I thought romance diminished us, and diminished women in particular. I have no patience with gushing ninnyhammers and bad poetry. But when I contemplate the vast generosity of a universe that put my husband into my life… I am humbled and invincible both. I gather you feel vanquished rather than invincible?”
Rose had been able to converse for hours on so many topics. She was well-read, she’d taken a keen interest in her husband’s estate, and she followed politics, not only in England. The ongoing national French spectacle fascinated her—could a monarchy ever develop fresh roots in soil where a republic had been planted?—and she was an avid student of natural philosophy.
And more impressive than all of that, Rose had the gift of silence. Long intervals of simple affection, of lying hand in hand on a blanket and watching stars wheel slowly across the firmament. Long, quiet walks. Peaceful hacks.
Good God, I’ve pined for her.
“I was smitten,” Gavin said. “I got over it. How are the plans coming for Phillip’s conservatory?”
“He and Tavistock argue regularly over design, because they are both adding conservatories to their homes. They will purchase the glass and frames and so forth together, the better to save money. I don’t suppose Twidboro Hall would like to expand its conservatory?”
“You would have to ask Mama.” She had commanded Vicar’s company at supper and was in fine good looks. Caroline—hair in a lovely coronet—was at the table graced with Phillip’s presence, while Diana was in an earnest, if somewhat awkward, French conversation with the good-natured Lady Duncannon.
“And your mother,” Hecate replied, starting on her tart, “would refer me to you, because Twidboro Hall will someday be yours. Have you considered buying your own place rather than wait for that day?”
“I have, but biding with my family is a priority now. Grandmama is getting on, they’ve missed me, and I’ve missed them.”
“And you don’t want the bother of tending yet still more acres. Phillip delights in making Lark’s Nest prosper. Tavistock is enthralled with the possibilities here at Miller’s Lament, while you…?”
“Confer regularly with my steward, gallop the countryside by the hour, and try to avoid any discussion that focuses on bonnets or calf scours. The idea of having more land to manage… I can’t say it appeals.”
Hecate treated him to a frown, which presaged more keen insights Gavin was in no mood to hear. When he’d fortified himself with another sip of punch, she swiveled her focus in the direction of the back terrace.
“Who is that?” Her question was semi-annoyed.
Gavin watched the figure coming down the steps and knew, at a distance of thirty yards, precisely which personage was making an entrance now, when all the guests were seated, well before the buffet was sent back to the kitchen and while plenty of golden light slanted across the gardens.
“That is Hammond Cicero Drysdale the Third, scion of a great acting family, consummate thespian, and all-around gracious addition to any party.”
“You don’t care for him?”
“It’s impossible not to like him, but think carefully before you trust him. Cissy, as he’s known to his familiars, will upstage his own wife—I’ve seen him do it—and then apologize so graciously in the green room that you almost forget you wanted to strangle him by the end of the first act.”
“Almost,” Hecate muttered. “He’s a good-looking devil. Going distinguished without losing his roguish dash.”
Drysdale made his entrance according to the time-honored formula of leading men. Pause in three-quarter profile a few steps onto the stage, or into the tent, in the present case. Peruse the audience with friendly dignity, perhaps even nod by way of a bow at large, then be about the business of sweeping up to the hostess and graciously capturing her attention.
Cissy was still looking very much the part—a touch of gray at otherwise dark temples, jaw still firm, figure trim, muscular, and tallish. His eyes were a startlingly vivid blue, and his smile would have given Helen of Troy reason to doubt her devotion to Paris.
“He works at being a good-looking devil,” Gavin observed. “Diana never fussed over her coiffure as carefully as Drysdale polishes his appearance on opening night, and the rest of the company swears he married Mrs. Drysdale not for her fine ability onstage—she is very talented—but for her skill with a needle. She can turn the proverbial sow’s ear into a silk purse.” And where was dear Gemma? She rarely let Cissy out of her sight for long, though he appeared to be a faithful, if not always loyal, husband.
Drysdale made a very pretty fuss over Amaryllis’s hand, and a footman was sent scurrying off in the direction of the buffet and punchbowl.
“She’ll introduce me,” Hecate said, patting her lips with her napkin. “Has anybody ever told you that your sister is a devious wretch?”
“Nobody had to tell me,” Gavin said as Amaryllis gently steered Drysdale between tables on a path toward their table. “Prepare to be unrelentingly charmed, my lady.”
“Heaven defend me.”
Gavin stole one last look at Rose, who remained in conversation with Miss Peasegood. The expression of polite interest, the slight smile, the way Rose appeared to consider what Miss Peasegood was maundering on about—that was all playacting.
By the set of her shoulders, by her unwillingness to spare Drysdale so much as a glance, Rose conveyed displeasure in his presence. Drysdale hadn’t noticed her yet, and he would not pass up an opportunity to convey that he had friends and acquaintances among the guests.
Gavin would spare her that nuisance. He’d spare her any inconvenience or trifling bother, because he was an idiot and a fool. He’d missed her, he was protective of her, he desired her, and worst of all, he was still beyond smitten with her.
“How did you meet?” Miss Peasegood asked.
