Her brother was yammering on about something. It nipped at her sensibilities. “You told them what?”
“About the wings. You remember. The day we jumped off of the roof into the hay wagon.”
“Surely you didn’t.”
Lord Horton came forward and took her hands in his. “A delightful story, Lady Elizabeth.” He led her into the room. “I only wish I could have been there to see it. Your resourcefulness astounds me. However did you create the wings?”
“Robert, dearest...” She tried, ever so hard, to smile. “Of all the stories to tell—”
“Nonsense, Izzie. First-rate story. Tell them how you made the wings.” Robert turned to St. Evert and explained. “Our governess read us the story about the Greek chap and his father who made wings out of wax and flew too close to the sun.”
“Icarus,” St. Evert muttered, his gaze flitting to hers and then returning to the fireplace mantel as if he saw something of great interest on the naked surface.
“That’s the fellow.” Robert nodded gleefully. “So, our Izzie wonders what would have happened if they hadn’t made them out of wax. ‘Why not make them out of cloth?’ she says.”
“Why not, indeed?” Lord St. Evert sounded cool and skeptical.
Elizabeth wished her vociferous brother would choose a different topic. She pulled on his arm as discreetly as possible. “We were ten, Robert. No one wishes to hear that silly old antic.”
“Eleven. Oh, but Izzie it was marvelous. I’ll never forget the way you soared off the rooftop. I honestly thought you were going to fly. Truly fly. And you did for a minute or two!”
“Hardly.” She had their attention now, but it was not for the reasons she had hoped, not alluring beauty, or entrancing grace—the things men valued. No, she had their attention because she had behaved like an idiot, climbed out of the attic window, put on a pair of willow-whip and silk wings, and jumped off the roof. “I suppose you mentioned how it all ended?”
“Not yet. Told them about me, falling like lead ballast into the hay wagon. Mind you, that was after I saw what happened to Izzie. Wasn’t sure I wanted to chance it, so I just jumped.”
Lord Horton lifted her hand and solicitously patted it, shaking his head. “It’s a wonder you weren’t killed, my dear. A wonder.”
Robert eagerly drew them back to his dratted story. “That’s the thing of it. Those wings she made were quite remarkable. She missed the hay wagon entirely. Sailed clean over. Wasn’t until she tried to flap that things went sour.”
Valen’s mouth quirked sideways. He’d left off concentrating on the fireplace. “And then?”
Lord Horton leaned closer to her. “Yes, Lady Elizabeth, you must tell us all. Were you injured?” He still held her hand, as if holding it might save her from the disastrous results of a child’s flight twelve years earlier.
She tried to smile charmingly, but Lord St. Evert’s smirk made it quite impossible. “Bruised, but otherwise in one piece.”
Robert laughed, and Elizabeth knew, short of gagging him with his cravat, there would be no way to keep him mum.
“The tree, Izzie. You’re leaving out the best part. Tell them about the tree. And Father. It was spectacular. She glided straight into the old beech. Got hung up in the upper branches like a wayward cherub. Everyone on the estate gathered under it. Mother was terrified you were going to fall. Cook sobbed as if you were already dead. The stable lads laughed so hard they rolled on the ground, and Father sacked the governess on the spot. Surely you remember?”
“I was tangled in the branches. Rather busy at the time.”
“Well, you can’t have forgotten Father. As I remember, he threatened you with a horsewhip if you didn’t come down straightway.” Robert laughed as if it were a grand joke of some kind. And why shouldn’t he? He’d been a son, second in line to the title, a boy, not a recalcitrant daughter. Elizabeth recalled, all too well, their father’s livid face as he shouted up at her. She’d clung to the branches, wondering if she might not be better off falling to her death rather than climbing down.
He hadn’t used a horsewhip. It might have been better if he had. A willow switch had served the purpose. Father surmised who’d constructed the wings and led his heir up to the roof. He applied sufficient persuasion to her backside and legs to convince her to think more clearly in the future. After that, she had been consigned to studying household management and endless lessons on deportment and proper etiquette, no more history, or poems, no more myths about Greeks flying too close to the sun.
No more foolishness.
Lord St. Evert broke into her stream of memories. “For pity’s sake, Horton, stop chafing her hands. It isn’t as if she’s fainted.” He appeared perturbed. “The gel jumped off a roof. Not the fainting type.”
Judging by his exasperation, Lord St. Evert preferred the fainting type.
Lord Horton dropped her hand as if it were an ember. “No, no, of course not. Such a harrowing tale, I simply meant to comfort—”
“A child’s adventure.” Valen moved closer to them, his voice a trifle softer. “Who hasn’t dreamed of flying?”
“Yes, quite. Just as the birds do.” Lord Horton eased her away from St. Evert. “And knowing how much you enjoy birds, Lady Elizabeth, I’ve composed a poem in your honor. If you will come and sit on the divan, I will be pleased to recite it for you.”
As Lord Horton led Elizabeth to the couch, she caught her brother and St. Evert exchanging disgruntled glances. So, naturally, she encouraged her
