Theresa Romain: It Takes Two to Tangle

“We must make a grand entrance,” Emily said in a hurried hush. “I told you we shan’t leave until nine.”

Jem shrugged, squeezed by his wife, and came to stand next to Henry. “It’s too dim in here,” he decided as he regarded the painting. “I can’t tell what you’ve painted.”

Henry swept his arm to indicate the baroque table. “This table, for a start. And your carpet. And my breeches a bit.” He regarded his garments ruefully.

Jem nodded. “Rather ambitious for your first effort.”

“Yes. It’s served me well to be ambitious, hasn’t it?”

Jem managed a smile as his eyes found Henry’s. “I suppose it has. Well, best get ready. Em’s told you about our grand plan, hasn’t she?”

“If you mean the plan to marry me off, then yes. I can’t say I’m shocked. I’m only surprised it took her two weeks to broach the subject.”

“She’s been plotting it for weeks.” Jem sighed. “Quite proud of the scheme.”

“I’m still right here ,” Emily said from the doorway. “And I am proud of it. It’s just…”

When she trailed off, both brothers turned to her. Emily’s merry face looked sober all of a sudden. “We think you’d be happier, Hal. If you were married.”

Henry pasted a smile across his face. “Don’t worry about me. I’m quite as happy as can be expected.”

Emily studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “One hour, Hal. Jemmy, do come with me. You may help me decide which dress to wear.”

The earl followed his wife. “It doesn’t matter, Em. You always look marvelous. Besides which, you never wear what I choose.”

“That’s because you’d send me out with no bodice. Honestly, Jem!”

Their voices quieted as they moved down the corridor, and Henry allowed the smile to drop from his face. He could guess what they’d begun talking about: just how happy was he?

He’d given them a truthful answer on the surface of it. He was as happy as could be expected. But a man in his situation had little enough reason for happiness.

Still, he had determination. Surely that was even more important. With enough determination, happiness might one day follow.

He dragged his easel to the edge of the morning room and gave his painting one last look.

Just as horrible as he’d thought. But in time, it would get better.

With a rueful shake of the head, he left behind his first foray back into painting and went upstairs to prepare for his first foray back into London society.

***

Frances Whittier was too much of a lady to curse in the crowded ballroom of Applewood House. Barely.

But as she limped back to her seat next to Caroline, the Countess of Stratton, she found the words a gently bred widow was permitted to use completely inadequate.

“Mercy,” she muttered, sinking into the frail giltwood chair. “Fiddle. Goodness. Damn . Oh, Caro, my toes will never recover.”

Caroline laughed. “Thank you for accepting that dance, Frannie. The last time I danced with Bart Crosby, he stepped on my toes twelve times. Oh, and look—I think I’ve cracked the sticks of my fan.”

Frances wiggled her feet. “He’s improving, then, for I’m sure he stepped on mine only ten.” She exchanged her own unbroken fan for Caroline’s. “And if you would quit batting everyone with your fan, it wouldn’t break.”

“I can’t help it,” Caroline said. “Lord Wadsworth puts his hands where they don’t belong, and the only way to remove them is by physical force.”

“In that case, we should have a new fan made for you of something much sturdier than ivory. A nice rosewood should help him remember his manners.”

“Or wrought iron, maybe?” Caroline replied, and Frances grinned. Caroline was in quite a good humor tonight and more than willing to share it.

The role of companion to a noblewoman was often seen as thankless, but except when her toes were trod upon, Frances found her position quite the opposite. Maybe because her employer was also her cousin, or maybe just because Caroline was cheerful and generous. The young countess had been locked away in the country for the nine years of her marriage; now that her year of mourning for her elderly husband was complete, she collected admirers with the deliberate joy of a naturalist catching butterflies.

Frances enjoyed helping Caroline sort through the possibilities, though she knew her cousin was as determined to guard her independence as Frances had once been to fling hers away.

“What’s next, Caroline? Are you of a mind to dance anymore?” Frances leaned against the stiff back of her chair. It was not at all comfortable, but it was better than having her feet stomped on.

“I think I will, but not just yet.” The countess leaned in, conspiratorial under the din of hundreds of voices bouncing off a high ceiling. “Emily has told me she’s bringing her brother-in-law tonight, and she intends to introduce us. He’s a war hero, just back in London after three years on the Continent.”

“A soldier?” Frances said faintly. The hair on her arms prickled from a sudden inner chill.

Caroline shot her a knowing look. “Yes, a soldier. That is, a former soldier. He should be intriguing, don’t you think?”

“I have no doubt of it.” Frances’s throat felt dust-dry. “At any rate, he won’t be one of your tame puppies.”

“All the better.” Caroline adjusted the heavy jonquil silk of her skirts with a practiced hand. “They’re so much more fun when they don’t simply roll over, aren’t they?”

Frances coughed. “I can’t really say. I haven’t rolled over since I was widowed, you know.”

Caroline raised an eyebrow. “Maybe it’s time you changed that.”

“Believe me, I’ve thought of it.”

Caroline chuckled, though Frances’s smile hung a little crooked. Any reference to her brief, tempestuous marriage that ended six years before still trickled guilt down her spine. Which was probably why she hadn’t rolled over in so long.

“How do I look?” Caroline murmured. “Satisfactory enough?”

Frances smoothed the dark blue crape of her own gown, then cast an eye over Caroline. With quick fingers, she tugged one of the countess’s blond curls into a deliberate tousle, then nodded. “You’ll do very well, though I think you’ve lost a few of your jeweled hairpins.”

Caroline pulled a droll face. “Tonight’s casualties: one fan, an undetermined number of hairpins. I don’t suppose a soldier would regard those as worthwhile, but I rather liked them all.”

“They were lovely,” Frances agreed. “I saw Lady Halliwell hunting the same hairpins on Bond Street after you last wore them five weeks ago.”

“Oh, horrors.” Caroline frowned. “She’ll remember that I’ve worn these before.”

“If she does, it won’t matter, because she admires you greatly. Besides, she wasn’t able to get any for herself. I’d already put the remaining stock on your account.”

Caroline looked impressed. “You do think of everything, don’t you?”

“I do. I really do.” Frances permitted herself a moment of pride before adding, “But if Lord Wadsworth calls on you again, he’d better bring you a new fan.”

“And himself some new manners,” murmured Caroline. “Oh, look, I see Emily now.”

Frances squinted, picking out Caroline’s good friend Lady Tallant pushing through the crowd. The countess wore a grin on her face and her husband on one arm. A tall, fair-haired man followed a step behind. The war-hero brother, no doubt; his taut posture was military-perfect, his handsome face a calm cipher.

Caroline lifted her—well, Frances’s—fan as soon as the trio were within a polite distance. “Emily! You look beautiful, as usual. How do you keep your silks from getting creased in the crowd?”