One only had to take a look at the line of his jaw to know that Mr. Felton’s pride was as fierce as the north wind. If he inherited that trait from his father, it was no wonder the family was split asunder.
Then Lady Clarice’s voice caught her attention again, and Tess realized with a shudder that it was Imogen who was receiving the brunt of Lady Clarice’s description of her son’s betrothed. Lady Clarice must have caught the glances that Imogen kept sending Maitland.
She had captured the attention of the entire table now, although her comments were still markedly addressed to Imogen. According to her future mother-in-law, Miss Pythian-Adams had the most superb carriage, the most intelligent mind, and the most exquisite sensibilities of any living young woman.
“She sounds charming,” Imogen said, clutching her glass so tightly that Tess hoped it wouldn’t break.
“Oh, she is,” Maitland put in. “Miss Pythian-Adams is quite, quite charming. Any woman with five thousand pounds a year is, by definition, a dazzler.”
There was an unholy edge to his voice that made Tess uneasy. Surely that wasn’t an appropriate thing to say about one’s betrothed?
“Dearest,” Lady Clarice said to her son, “that was unworthy of you. While it is true that Miss Pythian-Adams is quite fortunate in having such a generous dowry—left to her by her maternal grandmother, the Duchess of Bestel—your lovely fiancée is far more than merely an heiress. Miss Pythian-Adams is cultured in every way. I declare, I have been all a ruffle, thinking what I can do to keep such a cultivated young lady amused during this visit! It’s not as if I could teach her a new tatting stitch, after all; she has had her sketches of the Roman Coliseum printed in The Ladies’ Magazine.”
Imogen was holding up remarkably well. “What an honor,” she commented, taking a deep draught of champagne.
“I don’t suppose you had superior tutors in the art of sketching up in Scotland,” Lady Clarice commented kindly. “Miss Pythian-Adams combines true ability with the very best instruction. I’ve heard her sketches compared to those of the great Michevolo himself!”
“I believe you may be referring to Michelangelo,” her son put in. He was getting a tight-lipped look that reminded Tess of the petulant tempers he indulged in when his horse didn’t perform as he wished at the track.
Mr. Felton leaned slightly toward her, and said, “Alas, it appears that the course of true love is not quite smooth.”
“A cliché,” she told him.
“I didn’t say that it never runs smooth,” he said. “But I stand corrected, Miss Essex, and shall quote you no more Shakespeare.” His eyes had a wicked twinkle to them. Probably because Mr. Felton’s place had been added later, the footmen had placed his chair at an improperly close distance to her own. She felt as if his hard physique was positively towering over her. The sensation was not quite pleasant: it was rather unnerving, in fact.
Tess pointedly turned her gaze back to Lady Clarice, who was still talking of Miss Pythian-Adams’s visit. “She must see the ruins at Silchester. After all, it is one of the very finest Roman ruins, and so close to here. I’m quite certain that she will be able to regale me with its provenance and—and all manner of interesting facts about it!”
Her son cut in with an acid comment. “I suspect you are no bluestocking, are you, Miss Imogen?” he asked. “There’s nothing more tedious than a woman with her nose in a book.”
Tess was certain that Mr. Felton was still looking at her; it was as if she could feel his eyes on her face. She turned her head and was instantly caught by his gaze. His eyes were indigo blue and curious, with something so intense about them that she felt it almost like a blow.
“I’m afraid that my sisters and I have had little opportunity—” Imogen began.
“Of course not,” Lady Clarice broke in. “Raised in the backwoods of Scotland as you were. Why, it’s not fair even to compare a young lady with Miss Pythian-Adams’s refinement and—to be frank—her advantages to a young lady of Miss Imogen’s background.” She beamed at Imogen, although to Tess’s mind there was something of the cat’s greeting to a mouse in her smile. “You are a perfectly charming young lady, my dear, and I cannot allow my son to slight you in this manner.”
“Lady Clarice,” Rafe said, his voice only slightly slurred, “I have heard the most extraordinary rumor about one of our neighbors. Now surely you can tell me the truth of it…is it indeed the case that Lord Pool has embarked upon elk farming?”
But Lady Clarice was not to be deterred by such a weak ploy. She gave him a stern glance and returned to the fray. “You see, Draven,” she trumpeted to the table at large, “it wouldn’t do to slight this sweet child by implying that anyone in the ton might compare her to Miss Pythian-Adams. We are not so unkind, not at all! We in the ton accept every gentleman or lady for what he or she is, and we do not judge on the opportunities he or she may not have had.”
“That is very kind of you, Lady Clarice,” Imogen said bravely, into the curdling moment of silence that followed.
Draven Maitland stood up with an abrupt scraping of his chair. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said through obviously clenched teeth, “I needs must garner a bit of culture before I grow a day older. Perhaps I can find myself an opera singer.”
And with that extraordinary bit of impudence, he smashed his way out of the room.
“One might suppose that he meant that to be a cutting remark,” Mr. Felton said to Tess, imparting to this quite reasonable assessment a degree of disdain that would have made her curl up like a hedgehog had it been applied to her.
“Perhaps Lord Maitland had an urgent appointment,” she suggested with no conviction.
He threw her an amused glance. “As I understand it, his mother holds the purse strings and has selected a cultivated bride in an effort to overcome the influence of the turf. One can only assume after this display that he doesn’t agree with her tactics. Or,” he added thoughtfully, “one might conclude that cultivation is wasted on the man.”
Lady Clarice was gently patting her mouth with a handkerchief. “My son,” she said, in a clear, carrying voice, “has an artistic temperament. I’m afraid that sometimes his nerves get the better of him. But I expect that marriage to Miss Pythian-Adams will calm his tempestuous nature. She understands the artistic nature since she has one herself.”
Suddenly Rafe leaned in Tess’s direction, and said, “You four already know Maitland, don’t you? That’s right…you said—no, Imogen said…” His voice trailed off as he looked down the table at Imogen. She was looking quietly at her plate, but there was a little smile playing around her mouth that said volumes.
Tess couldn’t think what to say.
Rafe blinked at her. “I gather that your sister Imogen was not competing with Annabel to become a duchess?”
Tess bit her lip.
“Damnation, if this guardian business doesn’t look like more work than I anticipated!” Rafe muttered.
“Mr. Felton, why are you visiting the depths of Hampshire?” Lady Clarice asked. Her customary arch tone was a little strained—one must suppose that she felt the stress of her son’s departure—but she seemed determined to avoid comment on it.