“Sweet, sweet Miss Welles.” Darlington’s hand traced a path down her cheek. “So soft,” he whispered, “like the petal of a rose. Sometimes, I admit, you confound me, but Mr. King—the Master of Ceremonies—was right. You are an ‘original.’ ”
“I can assure you, sir, that Mr. King and I have never embraced like that,” C.J. teased. “Nevertheless, I shall take your remark as a compliment.”
And then it was as though a cloud had passed between them and lingered in the air. The earl became quite formal, stepping back a pace or so, leaving C.J. utterly confused by such a profound shift in his manner. “Miss Welles, in my position in society there is only one way that I may consider it proper to address you more familiarly, and for that I must speak to your aunt.”
“More familiarly than that kiss? And I am of age, your lordship.” C.J. smiled. “Were there any doubt in your mind.”
“In that case, I shall advise you of the nature of the conversation I intend to have with Lady Dalrymple.” He seemed to pause for emphasis. “While I allow that we have known each other for only a brief space of time, I have spent enough hours in your company to have been able to arrive at an informed decision. I may appear to you, Miss Welles, to be a propertied man of leisure. That is certainly true in many respects; nevertheless, I also pride myself on being a man of action. And as I mentioned to you in one of our prior conversations, I am one who derives immense pleasure from acts of discovery. Therefore, tomorrow morning I shall ask your aunt if I may pay my addresses to you.”
Why not. Why the hell not?
He was answered with a spontaneous cry of joy and a passionate embrace. What followed were many kisses and sighs and the promise of a pastoral promenade the following day. C.J. hated to part company with him and stood outside Lady Dalrymple’s town house watching the earl’s barouche traverse the modest length of Brock Street until it rounded the Circus and disappeared from view. Had she been capable of becoming airborne, she would have giddily floated all the way to Lady Dalrymple’s beloved moon.
Yet not a half hour later, C.J. paced the floor of her chamber trying to figure out how, or even whether, to tell Owen Percival the truth.
AT TEN O’CLOCK the next morning, C.J., who had passed a sleepless night, was taking breakfast with her “aunt” in the sunny front drawing room when Collins entered, bearing a cream-colored note on a silver salver. “This just arrived for you, Miss Welles,” the butler announced.
“Thank you, Collins.” She gingerly lifted the folded note from the tray and turned it over to inspect the seal. Lady Dalrymple instantly recognized the Earl of Darlington’s burgundy and black crest embossed and outlined in gold leaf at the top of the sheet of vellum. After scanning the note to see if it contained anything of an exceptionally personal nature, C.J. shared the missive’s contents with the countess.
Miss Welles,
I regret to postpone our engagement to parade in Sydney Gardens this afternoon; however, Miss Austen remains delighted to accompany you and I hope to join the two cleverest young ladies in Bath, albeit at a later hour than I had anticipated. Please accept my apologies if I have caused you even a moment’s disappointment.
With fond thoughts,
Darlington
C.J. refolded the note and looked at Lady Dalrymple.
“Perhaps I should have signed it ‘Percy,’ ” a warm baritone voice teased, as the earl himself entered the room.
“Why did you send Collins in with a note?” C.J. asked.
“I was afraid you might turn wrathful at the prospect of a temporary setback in our plans,” he smiled. “I must make certain arrangements today that interfere with our appointed hour of rendezvous, but the morning’s most pressing engagement of all could not be postponed.” Darlington then greeted Lady Dalrymple, depositing a kiss on both of her cheeks. “May I say, Aunt Euphoria, that you are indeed the picture of health. I am greatly encouraged to see you so fully restored in so short a time.”
Lady Dalrymple blushed. “Fie, Percy, only you have this effect on me. And under the present circumstances, I think you should consider an alternative term of endearment for me. I cannot have both of you calling me Aunt Euphoria, can I?”
“I don’t see why not. But if I may be so bold, I can only hope that it will soon be acceptable for Miss Welles to address Lady Oliver as Aunt Augusta.”
C.J. spluttered into her coffee. The delicate Wedgwood cup teetered on its saucer. “I do not think your aunt fancies me,” she said, recovering her poise and hoping his lordship had not observed her unmannerly reaction.
“Nonsense,” Darlington smiled slightly. “She fancies no one.” He was only half joking. “Aunt Euphoria, I have come to pay a call of a particular nature upon you this morning—and perhaps it is proper for your niece to absent herself from—”
“Felicity?” C.J. interjected sweetly, unable to resist the Shakespearean reference.
“—the room, so that I may speak to you privately.”
“Don’t be silly, Percy. Cassandra is not a child. Unless you plan to say something that would surprise one of us, I see no reason not to throw custom to the hounds. Let my niece continue to enjoy her eggs and porridge before they become cold and inedible; otherwise you will also incur the wrath of my cook!”
“Since you phrase it so delicately,” Darlington began, “last night I gave Miss Welles an inclination of what I intended to say to you, in case she should not feel kindly disposed toward me . . . and it appears to be the case that Miss Welles is quite . . .” Darlington twisted his signet ring. “I feel like a schoolboy. Here I am, a widower, closer to forty than thirty, and I have become tongue-tied. I confess to both of you gentle ladies that I had
