Scales and Sensibility by Stephanie Burgis

Chapter 22

Two days later, though, Elinor was beginning to feel desperate.

The newspapers still hadn’t provided any suitable advertisements for a governess, and she was running out of time. In one turn of shockingly good fortune, Mrs. De Lacey hadn’t had a single exploit reported in London’s society columns in the past two days…but Elinor couldn’t help worrying that that ominous silence only meant that she would explode into more glorious activity than ever with her next feature.

Lucinda had sent a note to Penelope announcing that she had a miserable head-cold and wouldn’t be able to visit her for the next few days. If she really was as cunning as Sally claimed, she wouldn’t return to Hathergill Hall until she absolutely had to, on the very night of Penelope’s début...the night when Sally would publicly expose Elinor’s deception if Elinor didn’t expose Lucinda’s thievery first.

Meanwhile, Gavin Armitage, with help from his sister, was doing his charming best to sweep Penelope off her feet with stories of the glittering London life that he and his future wife would share…while constantly calling upon Elinor herself to supply more pertinent details. Even after all the society columns she’d devoured, Elinor was miserably certain that she must slip up soon, if she hadn’t already—and no matter how much Elinor tried to persuade Penelope otherwise, she was becoming just as certain that she knew which choice her foolish cousin would make if both men did propose.

And worst of all, Benedict Hawkins hadn’t uttered a word to her for the past two days.

Oh, he watched her. She found him watching her at the oddest moments, just when she was absorbed in conversation with someone else, or in the middle of petting Sir Jessamyn. But he always looked away the very moment their eyes met. There had been no shared smiles in these past few days, no private conversations in the gardens or her room.

…Which was hardly the point of his visit, Elinor reminded herself, grinding her teeth as she walked down the stairs with Sir Jessamyn on her shoulder.

Of course there was no reason for Benedict to seek out her company. But if he wanted to have any chance of beating out Gavin Armitage, he would do well to start acting more like himself. For the past two days, he had been so strangely reserved—polite but barely attentive in company, even to Penelope when he sat beside her—it was no wonder that Penelope was falling under Mr. Armitage’s practiced spell. Elinor might find the other man’s ruthless charm as insubstantial as false gold, but Benedict was barely even trying to rival it.

Perhaps if she took him aside to warn him…

No.That was a pitiful excuse.

She stalked off the bottom step with a swish of her aunt’s best riding habit. The house party was going on a picnic today, and as Elinor’s own collection of clothing hadn’t included a habit, Lady Hathergill had offered hers.

“I haven’t ridden in years. Why would I want to spend the afternoon on a horse listening to everyone natter on about tedious things? I hear enough of that at home, and at least here, there’s tea for comfort. You may as well borrow it, just as I borrowed so many gowns from you in our début season.”

This riding habit might be five years out of fashion and far from a perfect fit, but it was also a satisfyingly deep and dangerous crimson that matched Elinor’s current mood…especially as she opened her reticule to take out the folded letter she had finally been forced to write.

To Mrs. Galsworthy,it read. The Oaks, Halstead, Hamps.

There had been no suitable governessing advertisements, so Elinor had been forced to apply for this one, after all.

“Better to go without a salary than without a home,” she whispered to Sir Jessamyn. She tried, without much luck, to find some comfort in the words.

The salver on the front table already held four letters written in Miss Armitage’s elegant hand. Elinor took a quick look around the hall to ensure her privacy, then lifted the other letter up by its corner. If she slipped her letter carefully underneath…

“Mrs. De Lacey,” Benedict said, directly behind her.

Elinor dropped her letter and almost dropped Sir Jessamyn, too. He clenched his claws into her shoulder as he slipped halfway off, cheeping frantically, and she gasped with pain as she re-settled him.

“Oh, your claws are sharp! Oh…oh,” she finished, in a different tone entirely.

Benedict had stooped to pick up her letter.

He looked down at it for a long moment, his eyes shaded by a fallen lock of thick brown hair. Then he looked back up and met her gaze. “Mrs. Galsworthy,” he said. “Would that be Mrs. G. Galsworthy?”

“Well…yes,” Elinor said. “Do you know her?”

“No,” said Benedict, and dropped the letter onto the salver, just on top of Miss Armitage’s missive. She gave an instinctive jerk of protest, and he looked questioningly at her. “You did want to post this, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” she said, “I only…” She forced herself to pull back her hand. “Thank you. It was nothing.”

There was no reason to worry about other people seeing it, she told herself. No one would think anything of it.

…Except, perhaps, for Benedict Hawkins, who was giving her exactly the kind of disconcertingly probing look that she had surprised upon his face all too often in the last two days.

“How do you know of Mrs. Galsworthy?” she asked him.

He raised his eyebrows. “How do you?”

She was silent for a moment, weighing possibilities. He smiled ruefully and reached out to scratch Sir Jessamyn behind the ears. Sir Jessamyn leaned into his hand; Elinor forced herself not to step closer and seek his warmth, too.

“There you both are!” Penelope swept into the hall, resplendent in a bright blue riding habit that matched her eyes perfectly. The feather on her bonnet curled fetchingly against her cheek; her smile turned jubilant as Gavin Armitage, his sister, and a wide-eyed, giggling Millie all followed in her wake. “Now we can finally leave. I hate waiting!”

So do I, Elinor thought grimly.

In three days, she would leave Hathergill Hall and never see Benedict Hawkins again. The sooner the better. Every day that she allowed herself to watch the shifting expressions on his face, to listen for his voice and his rich laugh, and to wonder hopelessly what he might think of her, only intensified the unwilling attraction that she felt…and the pain of its impossibility.

She was too sensible for such foolishness, so she swept past him to the front door without looking back.

Somehow, though, she found him at her side again only ten minutes later, as they rode across the fields on the way to a picturesque set of ruins that Penelope often visited with her friends. They had begun the trip in a close cluster of horses, but Elinor struck off as soon as she could, grateful for the opportunity to escape Penelope’s high-pitched laughter—aimed equally at both gentlemen—and Gavin Armitage’s mocking wit. She could even forget Miss Armitage’s watchful—and coolly assessing—gaze as she urged her mare forward, away from all of them.

It was the first time she’d been on horseback in over a year, and it felt like pure freedom. Lady Hathergill’s mare, Buttercup, was sweet-hearted and clearly anxious for a good gallop. The wind against Elinor’s face swept away every worry that plagued her. Even Sir Jessamyn, harnessed tightly against her lap, lifted his head to luxuriate in the sensation.

When she heard approaching hoofbeats, she bit back a groan. It would be Miss Armitage, no doubt, ready to press more offers of friendship…and even more of her sleuthing, which had become more and more blatant over the past two days. Elinor readied a neutral expression, marshaled her inner resources, turned…

And Benedict smiled at her, only a few feet away. “I couldn’t resist,” he said. “It’s the first time I’ve ever seen you truly happy.”

His words felt, ridiculously, like the sun breaking through the clouds. Elinor tried and failed to look reproving. “You shouldn’t be here,” she told him, even as she nudged Buttercup to match his pace. “You’re leaving Penelope to Gavin Armitage.”

He shrugged. “She was riding between him and his sister anyway.”

“Only because you didn’t make an effort to push yourself forward.”

“I didn’t want to,” he said. “I wanted to be with you.”

Elinor had no good response to make. Luckily, he didn’t seem to expect any. He tipped his face back to soak in the sunlight, and they rode side by side in silence for a few minutes. Laughter from the others floated through the air as if from very far away, mixing with the soft hum of insects and the low mooing of cows at the other end of the field.

In their own perfect bubble of companionship, they were alone.

Together, they jumped their horses over a low hedge. It felt like flying through the air. Laughter bubbled up in Elinor’s throat for the first time in days. She looked across at Benedict and found him grinning at her, his intelligent hazel eyes warm with pleasure.

For the first time in days, he looked the way he had when they’d first met: open and relaxed and effortlessly charming, with none of the tension that had gripped him ever since. It must have been the pressure of battling Gavin Armitage to woo Penelope that had made him so tense and grim these past few days. But how could he possibly forget that worry with Gavin and Penelope laughing together only half a field behind them? Unless…

All the pleasure that had been radiating through her body suddenly coalesced into a tight, spiky ball of sickness in her chest. She nearly choked on it.

Unless he thought that he had found a new marital prospect to replace Penelope…an even wealthier one.

“What is it?” Benedict’s grin had disappeared; he was frowning at her. “What’s amiss?”

“Nothing.” Elinor swallowed hard. “Nothing of importance. Let us race to the end of the next field.” She urged Buttercup on before he could respond. Any answer that he might have made was lost in the wind as she galloped across the field, her heartbeat thumping loudly in her ears.

Mrs. De Lacey was at least fifteen years older than Benedict…but older women married younger men often enough when those women were wealthy. And with Gavin Armitage so clearly charming Penelope, who could blame Benedict for fixing on a new prospect for his family’s salvation?

Elinor wanted to be sick. But when Benedict caught up with her, and their horses stood panting at the end of the race, she only gave him an imperiously dismissive smile. “I think we’d better let the others catch up with us, don’t you?”

He looked at her steadily. His cheeks were flushed with colour from the race; his brown hair was tousled by the wind. “Is that what you wish?”

“Of course,” she said, and turned away from him. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

They arrived at the ruins half an hour later, in company with the rest of the party. The servants had come much earlier, of course, so a picnic lay spread out and waiting for them near the remains of a medieval manor house. The roof had crumbled long ago, along with half of the outer walls, but the skeleton of the old stone house still remained, rambling along the side of a broad brown river.

“Oh, how perfectly delightful!” said Miss Armitage. “Gavin, you must build a set of ruins at Stanton Court. I absolutely insist upon it.”

“Oh, yes,” Millie breathed. “Just think, Mr. Armitage, you could have Roman ruins of your very own! Or even an abandoned abbey. Just think of all those ghosts!”

“Oh, I would love ghosts,” Penelope said. “Just think how everyone would talk about them!” She smiled into Gavin Armitage’s eyes as he set his hands firmly around her waist and swung her down off her horse.

Elinor rolled her own eyes as she slid down off her horse, too quickly for Benedict to assist her. The last thing she needed—for the sake of both the illusion and her own peace of mind—was for him to put his hands around her waist right now.

“I am almost entirely certain,” she said, “that ghosts only haunt real, abandoned ruins.”

“Nonsense,” Gavin Armitage said gaily. “Any ruins I build will be quite convincing enough for ghosts, I promise you. If Miss Hathergill desires ghosts, then ghosts she shall have.”

“You may trust my brother on that,” said Miss Armitage. “Gavin can persuade anyone of anything, I assure you. Ghosts would have no chance whatsoever of resisting his blandishments.”

He bowed, grinning. “You see? The matter is settled. Now the only question left is which era the ruins should hearken from.” His lip curled into a sneer as he looked across at Benedict. “What about you, Hawkins? Can you advise us? How many ruins have you built upon your great estate?”

“Oddly enough,” said Benedict, “I haven’t even been tempted.” He looked the other man in the eye with open disdain. “I like real ruins, like this one, but I don’t care much for wasting an estate’s funds on a pretense of past glory.”

Elinor winced and stepped away from Benedict. As she brushed down the skirts of her aunt’s riding habit, she watched Mrs. De Lacey’s hands perform the task. Just how much pretense had gone into her disguise in the past few days?

“A noble principle,” said Gavin Armitage. It wasn’t just his lip curling now; his nostrils flared too, until he looked like an angry horse. “It’s a pity your father didn’t share it.”

Benedict’s jaw set. He stepped forward. “I beg your pardon?”

“He—”

“Oh, Gavin.” Laughing, Miss Armitage placed a hand on her brother’s arm. “Honestly, gentlemen. Only let them outside on a nice sunny day and they turn into territorial animals, don’t they?” She shot commiserating glances at all the women in the circle.

Benedict was still glaring at Gavin. “What exactly did you mean to say about my father?”

A long look passed between Gavin Armitage and his sister. He shook off her arm and stepped back. “Nothing at all. Only a moment of confusion. Because we all know…” He raked Benedict up and down with a contemptuous gaze. “You would certainly never pretend to be anything other than what you are, would you? Even to impress…” His gaze slid idly across Penelope’s frowning face. “…anyone?”

“I…”

“Of course not,” Miss Armitage said warmly, before Benedict could continue. “Mr. Hawkins doesn’t believe in putting on any pretense of false glory. So I am certain he is to be trusted.”

Benedict stayed stonily silent, while Penelope looked back and forth between them with narrowing eyes. It was left to Millie to say, with a half-giggle, “I don’t understand a word that any of you just said. What are you all gossiping about?”

“Nothing relevant,” said Mr. Armitage. “At least—it won’t be relevant as long as Mr. Hawkins doesn’t break our trust.”

With a charming smile, he offered Penelope one arm, and Millie the other. “Shall we enjoy a little stroll before we picnic? I do like to work up an appetite.”