Kitty's Mix-Tape Read online

  Mr. and Mrs. Brannock greeted the Westons at the door, and Elizabeth immediately looked over their shoulders for her friend, but alas, she was not in view, and Mrs. Brannock had another plan. She and Mrs. Weston exchanged a wink that meant they had been conspiring.

  “Miss Weston, it is my great pleasure to present to you Mr. Richard Forester. He is a cousin on my mother’s side, and expressed a great interest in meeting you after hearing of your many charms!” Mrs. Brannock offered up the handsome young man as if he were wrapped with ribbon.

  Blushing enough to make her head ache, Elizabeth curtseyed, and Mr. Forester grinned as he bowed. Her great charms—her fortune, was what he was thinking. Why was that the first thing anyone learned about her?

  “Miss Weston,” he said, as he was expected to, as this situation was contrived to arrange. “Would you do me the honor of dancing this next set with me?” Music was playing in the adjoining room. Of course the dancing had already begun, and Elizabeth could not have delayed just a half an hour more to miss it. She looked pleadingly at her mother, but Mrs. Weston seemed so happy, Elizabeth could not argue.

  “Of course,” she said, and held out her hand. He led her to the ballroom, where couples lined up for the next dance.

  His touch was cold. Not physically—she was wearing gloves and could not feel his skin. But something in his eyes, a stiffness in his carriage, held a chill all the same.

  “If I may be so bold, Miss Weston, you are the brightest ornament at this gathering. My gaze was drawn to you the moment you stepped through the doorway.”

  The movements of the dance carried her away from him; when next he took her hand, he said, “You are grace itself.”

  “I thank you, sir,” she said, little more than a whisper.

  She heard his words, but another meaning entirely lay behind them, some feeling that came off him like the scent of soap used to launder his shirts, rude and unkind thoughts. His true motivation, his true feelings: she was a silly girl, but someone ought to have her money, so why shouldn’t it be him? She wasn’t even a prize to be won, but an obstacle to be overcome.

  The dances here were like hunts, gentlemen and ladies chasing after one another.

  Her foot missed a beat and she stumbled. One of the other ladies, the kind Miss Allison, took her elbow and steadied her. Elizabeth caught more than the kind look in her eyes; there was also the belief, the certainty, that Elizabeth was a talentless creature who ought to be pitied. While Elizabeth might not hear the words, the feelings directed toward her were plain, sharp as the screaming edge of knives.

  Much speculation went on among her parents and their friends about what could make a girl like Elizabeth so quiet and withdrawn. Mrs. Weston had decided that her dear girl by some accident of birth was simply too sensitive to withstand the rigors of society and the world. Likewise, Mr. Weston declared that the fineness of her disposition made her superior, but also vulnerable. Those outside the immediate family were sure that the girl had obviously been too coddled, too sheltered, and so would always be weak and sniveling. A gentleman who aspired to marrying her fortune would first have to persuade Miss Weston that she was strong enough to accept a firm proposal. But the more forceful a suitor appeared, the more timid Miss Weston became. Another paradox.

  These speculations never happened within earshot of Elizabeth. She knew of them, just the same.

  In truth, Mrs. Weston nearly had the right of it: Elizabeth felt everything. The thousand petty dramas of the typical gathering were as shouting in her ear. She felt the prides and hurts of others as pains in her own heart. She knew what she shouldn’t: which young gentlemen carried on affairs with their mother’s maids, which young ladies were so desperate to escape indifferent families they were prepared to throw themselves into unsuitable marriages. Men who worried over debts, coachmen nursing lame horses—she knew. She could not say how, but she did. She knew that one of the brusque suitors she’d refused, Mr. Rackham, would be cruel if he succeeded in winning her; another, Mr. Carroll, would simply ignore her. From the ladies, she felt the gossip about how Elizabeth was proud and odd and would die an old maid if she were not careful. The old men wondered what was wrong with her, that she should turn up her nose at their sons.

  She felt herself to be like the ancient Greek oracles, caught up in the torture of ecstatic revelation. Empathy was the word she found— profound, damaging empathy. And she could not tell a soul.

  At last, finally, the music ended, and Elizabeth curtseyed with a sigh of relief. Mr. Forester insisted on seeing her to a chair, when all she wanted was to flee.

  “Miss Weston, you seem quite flush, do let me bring you a sherry,” he said, but he was not concerned with her well-being, only with flattering her so that she might fall in love with him.

  “No, I thank you, I only need to sit—”

  “Elizabeth! How long since you arrived? I did not see you! Here, come with me, I’ve been longing to speak with you—oh, pardon me, Mr. Forester, but I must steal Miss Weston away from you, I’m sure you understand.” Without further explanation, Amy Brannock swept between them, hooked her arm around Elizabeth’s, and pulled her into the next room, leaving Forester staring.

  “Thank you,” Elizabeth breathed.

  “Richard Forester is such a bore, I’m sure you have had quite enough of him. I knew my mother was going to waylay you. I had wanted to be there, I was watching for you, but then she sent me off to see that Emma knew to fill the punch bowl—Mother can’t leave well enough alone.”

  Amy looked very well, as she always did, with roses in her cheeks, wearing a pink muslin gown that complemented her light hair and creamy features. Elizabeth wore a gown of blue with lace—it suited her because Amy had helped choose it, and her friend beamed at the compliment Elizabeth paid by wearing it.

  In the drawing room they settled on a pair of chairs. Elizabeth could listen contentedly for hours while Amy gossiped. She might not move for the rest of the afternoon.

  And then three strange gentlemen entered the drawing room.

  The trio stopped at the door to look around, and because they were strangers, everyone else paused to study them.

  “Goodness, will you look at them?” Amy said, hand on her breast like some romantic heroine. “Have you ever seen such . . . shapely gentlemen? Is shapely the right word for it?”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth said. “I think it is.”

  All three had powerful forms under well-made suits; they possessed broad shoulders and took graceful steps. They . . . prowled, looking about with a hooded darkness in their gazes, which scoured every surface, every face. Elizabeth could not take her eyes from them. Mr. Brannock immediately went forward to meet them, shaking hands all around, and the room returned to a normal state of pleasantness, as if a cloud had passed by the sun.

  “Who are they, do you think?” Amy asked.

  “It’s your ball,” Elizabeth said. “Do you not know?”

  “I’ll just go see, then.” She flounced up and made her way to where her mother sat with the matrons. Elizabeth felt herself shrinking in her seat, hoping that no one felt the chivalrous need to come and speak with her. She did not mind being a wallflower.

  Fortunately, Amy flounced back soon enough. “I’ve gotten all the news of it from Mother. They are the Misters Wilde, brothers who’ve come into the neighborhood and have taken the lease at Lilies Park. Father met them in town and invited them, to introduce them to the neighborhood. It never hurts having more beaux among the number, yes? I imagine Father thinks to put them in my way.”

  “Brothers? They don’t look anything alike.”

  Indeed the tallest of the men was fair; the shortest had a brown complexion, calling to mind the West Indies sun; while the middle had dark hair and striking gray eyes.

  Amy furrowed her brow, an expression her mother was always complaining of because it marred her features. “They don’t, do they? Ah well, who’s to say?”

  The middle one, with the gray eyes, caught
her staring. She quickly looked away, but knew he still studied her—she felt a focused attention that put her in mind of a hawk.

  “That one there has his eye on you, I wager,” Amy said, her smile mischievous.

  With increasing dread, Elizabeth watched the Wilde brothers make bows to the host, who brightened after a moment’s conversation and turned toward her and Amy.

  “Oh, you see?” Amy said brightly. Of course she was thrilled. New gentlemen meant new attention.

  “Do stay close,” Elizabeth said, clutching her friend’s hand.

  “Of course, but promise me that if he asks you for a dance, you will accept? It’s only a dance and perhaps you will like him. Not all men are Mr. Foresters.”

  That was Amy—every gentleman deserved at least one dance.

  Elizabeth looked up and met the gray-eyed gentleman’s gaze. This time, she could not look away, though she was sure she ought to. He held her fast, and her heart sped up, like that of a rabbit fleeing the hunt. He offered a polite nod of his head. She had forgotten to breathe.

  He was intrigued by her—the same way she could identify arrogance and pity, she knew he was intrigued. But his interest would quickly fade once he actually spoke to her, surely. When she stumbled during their inevitable dance.

  “Truly, he will not ask me for a dance,” she said to Amy. “Will he?”

  “I am certain he means you no harm. Don’t be afraid.”

  She steeled herself as if she were walking into battle. “Then I promise. Because you asked. I may even enjoy it.”

  “With that one? Oh, please enjoy it!”

  At last the gentlemen approached, and the ladies stood to make curtseys as Mr. Brannock presented them.

  The tallest one was Vincent Wilde; the shorter, swarthy man was Francis Wilde; and the middle, dark-haired man was Edward Wilde. Amy’s father said, “This is my eldest daughter, Miss Brannock, and her good friend Miss Weston.”

  “How do you do?” Amy said for them both.

  Mr. Brannock said suggestively, “Do you think the music is very good? The quartet came highly recommended.”

  “It’s very good,” Amy agreed.

  “Indeed,” Vincent said.

  There was only the slightest pause before Francis Wilde bowed again. “Miss Brannock, will you grant me the next dance?”

  Amy’s true feelings were as eager as her smile. “Thank you, sir.” She took his offered hand.

  That left Elizabeth standing before Edward Wilde, whose emotions were plain to her. Though the strangeness of it . . . the gentleman’s interest in her was, indeed, for her. Not her money, her family, or her brown curls. He might have been as intent as a hunting hound, but the attention was honest. This as much as anything startled her. Perhaps he simply had not been in the neighborhood long enough to hear of her fortune or her oddness.

  “Miss Weston, I would not be left behind by my brother, if you will do me the honor?”

  She did not think twice before taking his hand. Yes, her stomach might still be roiling. But the feeling was not dread this time. Edward Wilde’s touch was light, as if he knew that any pressure on her hand would incite panic. If she wanted to flee, he would not hold her. This comforted her to a degree that surprised her. In turn, Mr. Wilde’s feelings also settled.

  She would engage him in conversation, if she only knew what to say. She did not have Amy’s open nature, alas. The benefit of dancing was that she could pretend to be so engrossed in the music and where she placed her feet that she need not speak.

  The couples lined up; Elizabeth repeated steps to herself, watched others for the proper cues.

  Mr. Wilde’s gaze kept drawing her. In spite of herself, she kept wanting to look at him. To study him. To learn exactly why he was so different from anyone she’d ever met. He and his brothers, really, but he was the one standing before her.

  Of course, she stumbled. It was the part of the dance where one crossed over with one’s opposite partner, and one was meant to look into his eyes and not at one’s feet. She always feared losing her place or running into the other gentleman, and that was what happened—she took a wrong step, saw herself about to collide, and quickly moved to avoid it, which meant she lost the rhythm of the entire sequence and ruined the figure for her partner and the other couple besides.

  Mr. Wilde rescued her. He did so deftly and without fuss, when the next bar of music came and it was his and the other lady’s turn to cross over, he touched her elbow and pressed her over while nodding to exactly the spot she should have been, next to him, before the music told them to turn half a circle back to their original places. What was more, he did not express contempt or pity, as others before him had done when they tried to dance around her mistakes. He did not leer, did not roll his eyes, and his emotion was . . . sympathy. If he smiled, it was not to laugh at her, but out of understanding, that there was nothing more difficult than remembering where to put one’s feet while others were watching you.

  The other gentleman, however, chuckled, passing a mocking glance to his lady. The usual behavior that Elizabeth had come to expect.

  And Edward Wilde growled at him.

  She distinctly heard the burr in his throat. He glared hard at the other man, who stopped, wide-eyed and trembling, before his partner pushed him into the next phrase of the dance.

  “I beg your pardon,” Edward whispered hoarsely, and they crossed over with the next couple in the row. Far from granting him pardon, she wanted to thank him.

  She did not make another mistake for the rest of the dance. When Mr. Edward Wilde asked for the next dance as well, she accepted.

  Propriety dictated that for the third dance he move to a new partner, and Elizabeth politely declared that she must rest. Much of the company was watching her as she found a chair to sit and catch her breath. She realized this was because she was smiling. Those in attendance had known her since her girlhood, and they were shocked—no, that was too strong a word, more they were all astonishment—because she was not slouching. Might she even be enjoying herself? Because of this new gentleman? When he wasn’t dancing, Edward Wilde stalked the edges of the room, glaring at any who dared look at him, until the light-haired brother touched his arm and brought him back to himself.

  The music ended, and Elizabeth looked up from her seat to find Mr. Wilde—the dark-haired Wilde, Edward—and Amy approaching.

  He said, “Miss Brannock asked me to escort her to sit beside her best friend, so here we are. Might I be so bold as to bring you both refreshment?”

  “Oh yes, please, that would be lovely,” Amy said, patting Elizabeth’s wrist. “Wouldn’t it, Beth?”

  “Oh yes,” Elizabeth said. “Thank you.”

  Mr. Wilde made a bow and went away.

  Amy took both of Elizabeth’s hands in her own and gave her a smile large enough to knock her over. “Well?”

  Elizabeth bit her lip. “Well what?”

  “What do you think of Mr. Wilde?” she said with mock frustration.

  “Which one?”

  “Oh, Elizabeth!”

  “He is very kind.”

  Amy seemed to be nonplussed at this. “I will take that to mean you like him.”

  They had to leave off then, because Mr. Wilde returned—along with his brother, Mr. Wilde. This could become quite confusing, Elizabeth reflected. She couldn’t tell by looking who was eldest. They seemed of an age.

  The brothers had brought them glasses of punch, and Francis drew Amy off for a conversation—intentionally, Elizabeth was sure, leaving her with Edward Wilde seated attentively beside her. Francis Wilde offered a smile that was not entirely as kind as his brother’s.

  She made herself sit very straight and proper.

  “How do you like the ball, Miss Weston?” Edward Wilde asked in a way that suggested he had practiced this question as a crutch for polite conversation. He was looking about warily as if he expected someone to leap at him.

  “I like it very well,” Elizabeth said, and meant it,
for once. “And you? I mean—you are new to the neighborhood, it must be quite overwhelming meeting so many people. How do you find it all?”

  “I believe I find it quite agreeable. I’m not often comfortable in gatherings such as this,” he said. “So many . . . people in such a close space.”

  Would that she could stop blushing. “I understand—about gatherings, that is. They can be very trying. Especially—well. It would all be so much easier if I liked balls and assemblies as much as Amy—Miss Brannock—does.”

  “Easier?”

  She pressed her lips in a sad smile. “At my age I am supposed to be seeking companionship, not avoiding it. And yet, I feel most at ease when I am alone. I am told this will not do for a young lady.” His frank interest was startling her into honesty when she should have kept quiet. She rarely talked so much.

  “The matrons throw their sons at you in hopes of forming an attachment. I do see how that could be tiring.”

  She laughed; the sound startled her, and she put a hand over her mouth. “I had three marriage proposals before I turned eighteen. I was able to put them off by claiming my youth, but that excuse no longer serves.”

  “You are one of those romantic girls who wants to marry for love.” The jest was meant kindly. His smile was conspiratorial.

  “I want to marry for trust, Mr. Wilde. For trust.” She lowered her gaze.

  He looked thoughtful. “I think I understand you.” And he did.

  Her words had sparked his appreciation.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said, blushing so fiercely she thought she must faint. “I speak far too freely.”

  “You do me a great compliment by speaking freely. Thank you.”

  She was sure that he could hear her heart beating faster. Again, he put her in mind of a hawk—or perhaps a fox.

  Because she had said far too much already, she added, “Mr. Wilde, if you are not comfortable in places like this, why tolerate it? You can do whatever you like. You aren’t expected to come to assemblies and make a good show of it. You can run free in the woods if you like, and people would merely think you eccentric—”