And Then She Fell (The Cynster Sisters Duo 1)

Henrietta would have scoffed, but Lady Jersey appeared and clapped her hands. “Come along, everyone! It’s time to set out. We’ll be using the bluebell dell today. I know several of you

know the way, so please”—her ladyship waved them to the doors at the end of the conservatory—“do lead on.”

The guests formed into chattering groups as they exited the conservatory.

“I take it you know the way to this dell?” James inquired as he and Henrietta brought up the rear.

“Yes. It’s a frequent site for Lady Jersey’s picnics.” Henrietta looked ahead. “Not that there’s any danger of anyone getting lost. We just follow the path and everyone else, and when we find the picnic hampers and rugs, along with the footmen, we stop.”

James choked on a laugh.

But he quickly lost all inclination to humor; a Miss Quilley and her mother, spying him and Henrietta ambling in the rear, dropped back to walk with them, and better display Miss Quilley’s charms. Such as they were.

Not having any great fondness for artlessly vapid conversation, James wasn’t impressed, but at Henrietta’s warning glance, he hid his disapprobation behind his customary ready charm.

But the necessity irked. And the subtle abrasion of social demands trumping his inclinations, and his instincts, only grew worse.

They reached Lady Jersey’s “bluebell dell,” a large clearing dotted, it was true, with bluebells, albeit a little past their prime. Picnic rugs had been spread beneath the circling trees, and hampers lay with their contents enticingly displayed, inviting the guests to lounge and partake. But the current fashion for rustic charm extended only so far; the paths leading to and out of the dell passed through largely formal gardens and structured landscapes. The illusion of being in the countryside was wafer-thin—quite aside from the liveried footmen who stood beneath the trees, ready to assist with the opening of a wine bottle and the consequent pouring of libations, or providing any other help her ladyship’s guests required.

James lounged on a rug beside Henrietta and suffered the company of a Mrs. Curtis, her daughter, and her niece while munching on chicken and duck, and sipping some rather thin champagne. He kept his charming persona to the fore, smiling and chatting with his customary facility, yet his mind remained distanced from the conversations, engaged with a far more pertinent consideration.

He didn’t precisely wish to dwell on what he felt for Henrietta—in the manner of his kind, he felt thinking too much about that subject only gave it more power—yet he knew what he felt, and given he felt so, how could he continue to pursue some other young lady to fill the position of his necessary bride . . . as Henrietta, apparently, intended he should?

What did her encouragement in that direction mean?

Had she glimpsed his . . . regard for her, perhaps through the fraught moments of the previous night, and subsequently decided that encouraging him to look elsewhere was a gentle way of dismissing his pretensions?

He felt her gaze, glanced at her, and saw she was looking pointedly at him—one step away from a glare.

Correctly interpreting the blankness in his eyes, she informed him, “Mrs. Curtis, Miss Curtis, and Miss Mayfair are moving on.”

Thank heaven! “Oh—sorry. Temporarily woolgathering.” Rising, he summoned his usual easy smile and beamed it at the three ladies as he assisted them to their feet. “It’s been a delight chatting with you all.”

All three smiled and made their farewells, but from the look she cast him, Mrs. Curtis hadn’t been fooled.

Henrietta opened her mouth—no doubt to upbraid him—but instead had to shut her lips and smile as Miss Cadogan and her aunt, Lady Fisher, arrived to replace the Curtis party on the other end of their large rug.

And so it went, with group after group shifting around the dell, chatting and sharing news, and assessing—as he was supposed to be doing—with matrimonial intent. There were several other gentlemen present patently engaged to varying degrees in the same endeavor, so he didn’t feel quite so exposed.

Regardless, courtesy of the revelations of the previous night, he had precious little interest in pursuing their campaign. Instead, he took every opportunity to try to see past Henrietta’s expression—to discover some hint of what she thought in her fine eyes—but to no avail; she had a strong, well-developed social mask, and she kept it firmly in place.

He’d almost reached the point of deciding that any degree of revelation stemming from the previous night had been all on his part and none at all on hers, when they were joined by the too-thin and too-young Miss Chester and her aunt. Mrs. Julian engaged Henrietta, drawing in Mrs. Entwhistle, who’d been passing; the three ladies were soon deep in an exchange concerning the recent spate of political marriages, and the implications of King William’s failing health.

At first James and Miss Chester pretended to listen, but then Miss Chester turned her bright eyes on James and shifted closer. “I’m not terribly riveted by politics, are you?”

He saw no point in obfuscation. “Not at the moment.”

“Perhaps”—Miss Chester glanced around the clearing—“you and I might go for a stroll.” She met his eyes. “Just the pair of us, as we aren’t truly interested in all the gossip.”

The avid light in her eyes set alarm bells ringing in James’s head. Few others had left the dell, and from what he’d seen, those had been the older young ladies, like Henrietta, not the sweet young things like Miss Chester.

And call him old-fashioned, but he hadn’t heard that it was yet common practice for young ladies to proposition gentlemen. Especially not gentlemen like him.

But how to refuse her without being overly blunt?

James glanced around for inspiration but found none. “Perhaps in a little while, if others are of a mind to ramble, too.”

Miss Chester pouted. Literally pouted. James suspected she thought it looked endearing; it made him want to leave—he had not agreed to deal with spoilt, overeager young beauties.