Page 37 of Unending Joy
St. John regarded him with an expression too bland to be trusted. “Miss Whitford’s appearance would never be dimmed by such.”
St. John seemed amused rather than repulsed by Joy’s antics. Freddy reminded himself that was a good thing.
“Have you plans for the afternoon, Miss Whitford? I thought to exercise Banbury and might prevail upon you and Nightingale to join us.”
St. John accepted this request with equanimity. “Alas, duty calls me to the Horse Guards, else I would enjoy watching her put the horse through its paces. Miss Whitford’s company is ever a pleasure.”
“Then you will excuse us,” Freddy said, offering Joy his arm, “I will escort her home.”
She thanked the Colonel prettily and permitted Freddy to accompany her, though he felt the tension in her silence.
“Am I guilty of abduction?” he asked, when distance made confidences safe.
“Not at all. I only happened upon him here with Faith, and she left me in his charge.”
“I should tell you,” he said, keeping his eyes ahead, “that thePostmakes ignoble sport of you this morning.”
“I guessed as much by your expression when you first approached. Does it wound your pride that my foibles supply the scandal sheets?”
“It wounds nothing so much as my faith in mankind’s discretion.” He hesitated. “They speculate upon your dowry.”
Her shoulders lifted, then fell. “I cannot help what tongues wag. If St. John courts me because I am suddenly worth another ten thousand, better I learn it before sentiment complicates matters.”
“Has sentiment,” he ventured, “begun to do so?” Freddy felt as though his heart paused while he awaited her answer.
She was quiet for several beats, the sounds around them muted. At last she answered in a low voice: “I admire him. He is kind, attentive, and does not scold when I do something wrong. But is that enough? I am not certain.”
A curious lightness bloomed in his chest. “Then give yourself time. The Colonel is a man of consequence, yes, but also of ambition. Ensure his affection is constant.”
She turned to him. “What of you, Freddy? Has any particular lady tested the steadiness of your heart?”
“I daily surrender it,” he said, daring a grin, “to whichever filly runs swiftest.”
“That,” she replied, laughing, “is not what I meant.”
He sobered. “When I find the person who renders the rest of the world dull by comparison, I shall know.”
Her gloved hand settled on his sleeve, a light pressure, yet it sent awareness skimming to his fingertips. “Whoever she is,” Joy said softly, “she will be fortunate indeed.”
He had vowed to protect Joy’s happiness at any cost. He could not yet discern whether that cost might be his own.
CHAPTER 12
Joy had never regarded a drawing room with such mixed emotions as she did that mild spring afternoon when Grace—newly Lady Carew, glowing with Greecian sunshine and wedded bliss—returned to Westwood House. The doors stood open upon the terrace, letting in a breeze. Yet the air inside teemed not with serenity but with the whirl of sisters. Faith, Hope, and Patience already occupied the chairs about the low mahogany table. Kittens—two of the original six—prowled between skirts, intent upon crumbs of seed cake.
Grace burst through the door in a dove-grey pelisse, carrying a basket which she deposited on the floor. “My dears!” she cried, and was immediately engulfed by embraces, exclamations, and the inevitable pleasant chaos of family reunited. Joy received a hug smelling faintly of lemons, and, for a moment, forgot every recent perplexity—St. John’s unfathomable attentions, the still-stinging tattles of thePost, even the spectacles that had refused to stay perched upon her nose that morning.
No sooner had Grace deposited the wicker basket upon the Axminster than its lid gave a most determined wobble. In the next instant Theo’s nose appeared, followed smartly by Evalina’s mewl. They scrabbled over the rim, tumbled in aflurry of paws to the carpet, and scampered, pell-mell, across the drawing room towards the others. Frederica lifted her head from the hearthrug, uttered a low, welcoming chirrup, and in a trice both truants were nuzzling beneath her whiskered chin. Lord Orville arched his back in pleasure and bestowed upon his sister Camilla a conspiratorial swat, whereupon the pair bounded forward to join the reunion. In that harmonious circle of purrs and gentle head-butts, the five felines formed a tableau of domestic felicity.
“Where are the others?” Grace asked, looking around.
“Lady Marchmont has adopted Mortimer and Cecilia,” Patience answered.
“Ah, I suppose it would be impossible to keep so many.” Grace’s face evidenced the sadness Joy felt as well.
“We miss Mortimer’s antics dreadfully,” Patience said, handing out cups of tea.
“Lady Marchmont sent a note this morning—he mastered Sir Percival’s trick of begging within an hour and is the darling of her Thursday salons,” Joy felt compelled to tell them as well as reminding herself.
