Page 37 of The Spinster's Stolen Hear
All three of them looked up at the dense ceiling of grey clouds.
“Indeed,” Lord Whitmore murmured.
There was nothing for it. Pippa reluctantly untangled her arm from Lord Whitmore’s. Despite her carefulness, her gloved palm brushed the back of his knuckles. He flinched, drawing his arm away a little faster. Or was that her imagination?
Lord Barwick, barely holding back a triumphant smile, held out his arm, and she was obliged to rest her hand in the crook of his elbow. He tucked his arm tight against his side, trapping her fingers in a rather pinching grip. Lord Whitmore folded his arms behind his back, and Pippa felt a pang.
I want to stay here. I want to talk to him. He’s… he’s interesting. Hecares aboutwhat I have to say.
She had no choice of course. Parting salutations were tendered, and Pippa was drawn back towards the house, towards where her mother stood waiting on the terrace.
I don’t have a choice. Do I? No, of course not. That’s foolish talk.
“I hope you know, Miss Randall,” Lord Barwick said, all smiles now that he had his prize on his arm again, “I shan’t coddle you during the game. Chess is very serious, and very tactical. I shall not go easy on you, and I will certainly not allow you to win.”
She bit back a sigh.
“I never imagined for a moment that you would, Lord Barwick.”
***
The carriage ride home was tensely silent. Pippa tried not to mind.
It was not, of course, their carriage. Katherine had lent out hers, since Timothy was working and she was growing too big to bother with the chill air of garden parties and the like, along with having her firstborn to look after. Pippa privately wished that her cousin had been there. There was something about Katherine’s sharp intellect and quiet confidence that made Pippa feel that she, too, might be a confident and outspoken woman, one who deliberately cultivated unusual manners, and did not care what Society thought of her.
The sort of woman who married the man of her choice, not a downtrodden viscount’s daughter who had fallen a long, long way in the world. The sort of woman who, when a man she did not like offered to take her to the opera the next evening, would say no.
Pippa, of course, had said nothing when Lord Barwick benevolently offered to pick her up at seven o’ clock, and simply let Bridget agree and make the arrangements.
“I thought I’d made it clear to you,” Bridget said abruptly, voice tight and angry, “that you were to entertain Lord Barwick today. I also thought I’d made it clear that Lord Whitmore is not a suitable suitor for you.”
Pippa swallowed thickly. Her mother was not even looking at her – she was staring out of the window, her expression unreadable.
“He was only being friendly, Mama.”
“Make no mistake, Pippa. He was entertaining himself, sharpening his skills of charm and fascination. He’ll use these skills in earnest when he comes across some debutante with a large fortune. I thought you were clever enough to understand this. Pray, tell me you are not entertaining hopes of him offering for you.”
Bridget’s voice did not waver from its smooth monotone, her expression never flickering. There was no emotion at all in her eyes. Not a single flare of anger or disappointment.
Pippa took a moment to compose herself.
“I have no expectations at all, Mama. Not from Lord Whitmore, or from anybody.” She stated, her voice almost as cool and calm as her mother’s.
Bridget glanced at her then, her gaze quick and sharp.
“Hmph. Well, I hope so. Because I meant what I said. Nothing lower than a marquess for you, and that rules out Lord Whitmore. And I expect you to be on your best behaviour at the opera, do you hear? Your nicest manners, and your prettiest dress. Of course, an opera isn’tideal. There’s hardly any opportunity to talk, but that doesn’t matter if youlooknice. You’re to sit upright and be very absorbed in the show, but if Lord Barwick wants to talk, you may whisper. Don’t betooabsorbed in the music, of course, in case he is bored and wishes to talk about something else.”
Pippa flinched. “Heavens. How complicated.”
“Indeed, the theatres can be difficult to manage,” Bridget agreed vaguely. “But I’m sure we can do it. Just remember to bealertto what Lord Barwick might require from you. Attention, conversation, or simply to sit there and look pretty and rapt. It will do you no harm to be endearingly fascinated by the opera, as long as he doesn’t think thatheis less interesting than themusic.”
Pippa turned away, watching the scenery skim back. She suddenly felt very, very tired. And cold, too, as if wandering around in the gardens had given her a chill.
“Can’t I simply sit there and enjoy the opera, Mama?” she asked, after rather too long of a silence had gone by. Her mother turned to face her fully, her expression angry and a little incredulous.
“Sometimes, Pippa, I think you only like to irritate me,” she replied.
Pippa flushed, turning away. “I only asked a question, Mama. Can I not just listen to the music?”
