Page 28 of Mending the Baron's Sins
“Then I encourage you to see the peaks of Derbyshire, or the hills of the Lakes. It’s not so small there.” Horace kept his smile. He knew England was small compared to the Americas, but he felt such a keen affection for his homeland. He wished to defend it in case she belittled it a little too far.
She didn’t seem to notice what he had said, though.
Orla noticed.
She had glanced toward him, evidently hearing a scrap of their conversation, before she returned her focus to Adam at her side.
“Dear England. Oh, what a fine thing it is. And London too, what fine society…” As Grace continued to gush, Horace watched Orla.
The heavy timbers of the dining room that hung high over their head often had the habit of making the room too dark for feasting, but tonight, he’d insisted that so many candles were lit, there was not a nook or cranny that did not glow. A whole bank of candles fell on Orla’s face, lighting every part ofher expression and every smile that made Horace twitch with jealousy.
“So many gentlemen in London too, are there not, Grace?” Victory said from the other side of the table, a coolness in her gaze. She looked around the room and even glanced at the old timbers overhead and a particularly ancient coffer that was pressed into the side of the hall. “Houses with great modern designs. Places built with modern fortunes.” She had spoken pleasantly, but the words still made Horace bristle.
He sat forward in his chair, reaching to top up his wine rather quickly. He caught Orla’s eye across the table. She seemed a vast distance away, but even with that far between them, he saw her eyes narrow ever so slightly. She was trying to warn him, wordlessly, that the wine may not be good for him. He put the glass decidedly down again without taking a single sip.
“Oh yes, Aunt,” Grace said eagerly, nodding and leaning forward too, taking the wine carafe and passing it to Walter at her side. He topped up her glass for her. “So many gentlemen, so attentive and kind. I am never without a partner at an assembly or ball, am I, Mr. Gladstone?”
“No, you are not.”
Horace’s gut tightened again as he stared at Walter.
It seemed though Walter was plainly besotted with Grace, smiling at her at every opportunity, pouring her wine and complimenting her, Grace received his attentions well but with little partiality.
“Many suitors?” Horace asked. “So, you have not settled on one suitor just yet?”
She smiled in Walter’s direction. There was kindness in those eyes, as if she was considering him. Then she looked away again.
“So many men with such good and kind hearts?” she asked with a loud laugh. “How is a poor American girl to choose between all these fine English gentlemen?” Walter and Victory laughed with her, but Horace did not. “I hear, my lord, that a few years ago you were quite a darling of the ton yourself. Oh, yes, my dear friend, Mr. Gladstone, has told me much about you. So many balls and parties, such admiration. What was it like to be a darling of the ton, yet so far removed from London?”
“It was… freeing,” Horace said simply. Across the table, they broke off their conversation. He was very aware that Orla was now listening to him intently. “Some of the finest moments of my life have been had at such balls. The beauty of those events is in that feeling.
The feeling of freedom, of enjoying the moment for what it was, without thinking of the headache the next morning.” His jestmade many of them smile. There was even a flicker on Orla’s lips. “In fact, I have a tale for you…” He was about to tell them of a particularly raucous party that was attended by himself, Walter and Adam, when suddenly his stomach lurched.
The food did not want to stay in his gut. It was rising, threateningly, and he knew from experience that despite the suddenness of the sensation, he could not quell it.
“If you would excuse me.” He snatched up his napkin and stumbled away from the table.
“Oh!” Mrs. Holmes gasped in surprise when he accidentally knocked over her glass in route. A commotion ensued, as many people tried to mop up the wine.
Horace reached for the nearest door and burst through it, running through the house as fast as his body would allow. He collided with a wall, his stomach nearly rolling over as he swallowed, trying to clamp down upon it, then veered toward another door. He couldn’t make it to his bedchamber in time nor to a chamber pot, leaving him with one choice. He found the door that led outside and stumbled in his dizziness out on to the frosted ground.
Somewhere in the garden, he landed on his knees. He felt gravel pressing into his kneecaps, felt the cold air invading his mouth and lungs, he fought the battle with his stomach. He pressed the handkerchief against his lips, urging himself not to be sick,then someone’s footsteps sounded behind him on the gravel. He didn’t dare turn around in his embarrassment, though he didn’t need to in order to find out who it was. A delicate hand touched his shoulder.
“Orla?” he whispered, lowering the napkin from his lips.
Chapter 9
“My lord,” she whispered.
“Please, do not call me that.” He bent his head forward, practically burying himself in the twiggy bushes before him.
“Aye, if you wish.” She clutched onto both of his shoulders. They were surprisingly firm beneath her touch.
Stop thinking of such things!
She glanced back toward the door, but no one had found them yet. She’d excused herself to go to the water closet, so knew she was on borrowed time before Colm followed them to check on the baron himself, but she had to come after him.
She had watched him far more than she should have done during the dinner, far more than was appropriate. She’d seen him slowly pale throughout the meal, wondering if something like this would happen.
