James felt blindsided—hit in the head by not one but two punches, neither of which he’d seen coming. He hadn’t even thought that far . . . he looked at Henrietta. Shadows wreathed her face; he couldn’t make out her expression, much less read her eyes. “Ah . . .” The coward’s way out beckoned. “What do you think?”
She didn’t say anything for several long moments, then, in a tone that sounded odd, faintly strained, said, “As far as I know, she would make an excellent candidate.” She paused, then said, “I’ll have to check, of course, but of all the ladies you’ve met thus far, I suspect she should be at the top of your list, even before I ask around.”
So . . . she still thought he was searching for a bride? James’s head reeled as he scrambled to revisit all they’d said that evening, all they’d implied . . . or had it only been him thinking? Imagining?
He honestly didn’t know.
If he stated what he thought—what he’d assumed and hoped—would she laugh, and then balk and turn away?
“Perhaps . . . you can ask around.” At least that would mean he would see her again, and soon, by which time he might have sorted out what was going on. What was really going on between them.
Henrietta forced herself to nod, inexpressibly grateful that the shadows hid her face. Sternly repressing her hurt—and her stupid, stupid heart—she forced herself to calmly say, “I can understand why she might feel a need to know sooner rather than l
ater. I’ll go and chat with the grandes dames—those who are here—immediately.” She dallied only long enough to say, “Perhaps you can meet me in the park tomorrow—I’ll be there with my mother and Mary in our carriage on the Avenue at eleven o’clock—and I’ll be able to tell you what I’ve learned.” In the park, with plenty of others about.
No more strolling with him alone; no more chance of another kiss to cause her further heartache.
She barely waited for his nod of agreement before turning and walking back up the terrace.
James forced himself to stay where he was and watch her go. And drink in the telltale signs—the elevated angle at which she held her head, the tension in her stride, the rigid line of her spine.
He’d got it wrong, hadn’t he?
When she stepped over the threshold and without a backward glance disappeared into the ballroom, he turned, stared out at the night, and swore.
Chapter Five
As instructed, James presented himself in the park the following morning and located Lady Louise Cynster’s carriage in the line of fashionable conveyances drawn up along the Avenue. Henrietta was sitting with her younger sister, Mary, on the rear-facing seat. Parasols deployed against the mild sunshine, both young ladies appeared to be idly scanning the lawns and the tonnish crowd strolling the sward while, seated opposite, their mother and old Lady Cowper chatted avidly.
Approaching from Henrietta’s back and still a dozen yards away, James paused beneath an elm to take stock. He had ground to make up, which was why he was there, but exactly how he was to win Henrietta over he hadn’t yet defined. His quest to find his necessary bride hadn’t changed, but the campaign he and Henrietta had devised was no longer relevant. That had fallen by his wayside, but how to communicate that to her—a Cynster who would, he was perfectly certain, only consent to marry for love—was a problem to which he’d yet to find an answer. He’d spent most of the night bludgeoning his brain into providing one, but in this matter—critical though it was—his imaginatively inventive rakish faculties, his usual unerring wolfish instincts, had been strangely silent. Indeed, uncooperative; when it came to Henrietta, his instincts urged a different approach entirely.
That was a large part of his problem. His instincts viewed her in a different light from any other lady he’d previously set his eye on. His instincts insisted that she was his, and regardless of what was required to make that so, his inner self thought he should just grit his teeth and do it. Securing her as his was, to that instinctive inner self, worth any sacrifice.
But there were some sacrifices a wise man did not meekly offer, did not readily make.
Especially not to a lady of Henrietta’s caliber, a strong-willed, intelligent, clear-sighted female.
Last night, quite aside from disrupting what had, until her appearance, been a highly encouraging evening, Miss Fotherby had reminded him of two immutable truths.
Cynsters married for love.
And gentlemen who vowed love too glibly were almost certain to be distrusted.
He had to somehow chart a course between those two rocks and convince Henrietta to smile upon his suit.
With that goal, at least, clear in his mind, he stirred and strode on to the Cynster carriage.
Henrietta knew James was approaching some moments before he appeared beside the carriage; she’d felt his gaze on her back and had had to fight the urge to look—too eagerly—around.
After the disappointment of last night, the dashing of her apparently unfounded hopes, she was determined to allow no sign of susceptibility to slip past her customary, no-nonsense façade. She intended to keep their interaction firmly focused on their mutual goal—on finding him his necessary bride.
Consequently, she met his eyes with an easy smile and inclined her head politely. “Mr. Glossup.”
His eyes met hers, studied them; for a fleeting instant he hesitated, then he nodded in reply and, lips curving, murmured a greeting, then turned to greet her mother and Lady Cowper.
Hands clasped about her parasol’s handle, Henrietta sat stiffly upright and watched critically as James deployed his usual charm, delighting her mother and Lady Cowper, glibly deflecting them from dwelling overlong on the incident at Marchmain House. But her mother would have none of it, roundly thanking him for his bravery in coming to her—Henrietta’s—aid. James accepted the accolades but quickly steered the talk into more general avenues. For which she was grateful; she’d had her fill of having to assure everyone that the accident hadn’t overset her nerves and scarred her for life.
With the older ladies satisfied, James turned to her and arched a brow. “Would you care to stroll the lawns, Miss Cynster?”