Page 43 of The Recluse of Wolfeton House (Ladies of Devon 4)

Chapter 15

The Green family carriage rumbled down the road as the sun slipped closer to the horizon. Hattie tugged her long gloves up over her elbow and ran her hand down her gown as they pulled into the Carters’ drive.

“Don’t fidget, dear,” Lucy said, the wide feather in her hat bobbing along with the swaying motion of the carriage. “There’s no cause to be nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” Hattie countered. Which was mostly true. She had always loved balls and dinners and the like, but she’d also always known most of the people involved. Those present this evening would be friends of Lucy and Jeffrey, amounting to a roomful of strangers.

It hadn’t helped that Lucy had presented her with a new gown that morning straight from London. A surprise, evidently, and one that implied how lacking the rest of Hattie’s gowns were. But the gown was merely an excuse to be annoyed. In truth, Hattie was far more concerned with how Lucy would shove her unwittingly at eligible bachelors. She hoped her sister-in-law had enough sense not to be too obvious in her efforts, however well-intentioned they might be. Though the scene in the duke’s grove gave Hattie cause to worry.

“Hattie is a natural in a crowd of people,” Jeffrey said easily. His confidence in her was sweet.

“Do not worry over me tonight,” she said, sending them both a reassuring smile. “You may focus your attention on your friends. I will be perfectly comfortable.”

Lucy looked unconvinced, her mouth flattening into a thin line.

They came to a stop. A groom opened the door and let down the step before moving away so Jeffrey could first exit the conveyance. He turned to help Lucy and Hattie out, then led them up to the house. The looming Palladian structure was made of pale stone, and the inside was just as pristine as the exterior. They removed their coats, handing them to a footman at the door, and followed the butler down a corridor toward a room bustling with people and noise.

A raven-haired woman stood near the room’s entrance beside a tall, languid-looking man, and Lucy clutched tightly to Jeffrey’s arm as they crossed toward the couple. Now who seemed nervous?

Lucy performed the introductions between Hattie and their hosts, Caroline and Thomas Carter, but her manner was stilted, her voice oddly high, and she kept attaching an awkward giggle to the ends of her sentences. Perhaps her incessant chatter on the drive over had dried out her throat.

Hattie debated offering to fetch Lucy something to drink, but she let her gaze trip over the mingling guests and found that no one held a glass. She supposed it made sense, with the group preparing to go in to dinner shortly. Lucy’s scratchy, awkward voice would just have to wait.

“Ah, the man I’ve been waiting for,” Mr. Carter said loudly, causing Hattie to startle, alarmed that such a loud sound could protrude from someone so thin. “This is an old friend of mine, Mr. Warren.”

A tall, broad-shouldered man with a mop of red hair stepped forward, and Hattie’s mouth fell open. She snapped it shut and curtseyed to the gentleman she’d met on the duke’s lane just a few days prior. Introductions whirled around her, and hope rose in her chest. She’d been unable thus far to determine how to obtain an introduction to this man—for she assumed him to be the cousin Bentley had spoken of—when her painting lessons were to remain secret. But now it seemed as though fate had, once again, chosen to step into her life and organize things to her advantage. How kind fate could be.

Mr. Warren seemed to remember her as well. Rising from his bow, his gaze fastened on her, his green eyes unyielding. “You come from Graton, I presume?”

“Yes,” Jeffrey said, surprised. “How did you know? I’m sorry, have we met before?”

Mr. Warren’s gaze flicked to Jeffrey. “No. I had the fortunate—or perhaps it was rather unfortunate—experience of seeing Miss Green on the road the other day in Graton. Though my horse was not as pleased with the situation as I was.”

“Nor I with him,” Hattie said. “Though you may put your horse at ease, for I did not suffer greatly. It is a pleasant surprise to meet you at last, Mr. Warren.”

“The pleasure is certainly all mine.” His mouth curved in a gratified smile. He was handsome, his thick, red hair in careful disarray, as though he’d intentionally mussed it into perfection.

She couldn’t help but appreciate his kind, attentive smile as he listened to Mr. Carter speak to him. Hattie found herself watching him as the men drifted apart from the women, forming their own conversation. Mr. Warren was a nice, simple name. Certainly, Mrs. Hattie Warren rolled off the tongue. Or it would later, when Hattie was alone and able to practice speaking it aloud. For now, she smiled prettily at him and waited for dinner to be announced.

“We enjoy an informal dinner here,” Mrs. Carter said, lowering her voice as if she was letting Hattie and Lucy in on a secret. “You may sit where you wish.” Eyeing Mr. Warren a few paces away as he listened to Mr. Carter and Jeffrey make conversation, she made herself quite clear.

“Is the man unattached?” Lucy asked, lowering her voice and sidling closer to her friend, putting more space between them and the man they were speaking about. Her earlier anxieties seemed to have slipped away, replaced with a conspiratorial alliance with their hostess.

“Quite so,” Mrs. Carter whispered. “In fact, he has returned to England with the express purpose of finding a wife, if rumor is to be believed.”

Lucy’s smile widened. “Has he shown a decided preference for any particular lady yet?”

Hattie felt she should step in and stop the conversation out of respect for Mr. Warren, but that would be counterproductive. For she very much wanted to learn the same things. The men were but a few paces away, deep in their own conversation, and it was all Hattie could do to keep her gaze from continually straying in Mr. Warren’s direction.

Mrs. Carter leaned in, her narrow chin coming far too close for comfort. “He has not been in Devonshire long enough for that.” Looking pointedly at Hattie, her eyebrows lifted. “But I would be wary of too much hope. He has been known to link himself with fair-haired women of porcelain complexion. It is very possible that he has a decided preference for such.”

Hattie’s stomach dropped like a heavy sack of flour on the kitchen floor. She could not be more opposite from that description in every aspect possible. Her freckle-covered skin would never be considered milky or smooth, her mousy brown hair was flat and plain—not rich or dark enough to be worth any notice, and certainly not blonde. She was wholly average.

But she had one advantage that buoyed her spirits: she had been led to Mr. Warren by a fox.

Perhaps the better question was why Mrs. Carter had swung like a pendulum, earlier pushing Hattie toward Mr. Warren, it seemed, and then dashing her hopes.

Dinner was announced and the crowd of guests moved toward the dining room. Hattie found herself seated across from Mr. Warren, and, for the duration of the meal, had great difficulty not watching him over the rim of her glass. Her table partners were courteous, but the conversation did not flow neatly, and she was quite glad when the lengthy meal came to an end and they were all led into the ballroom. The musicians warmed up their instruments, the sound of bows sliding over strings filling the vast ballroom as groups gathered and mingled. A wide chandelier hung above them flickering with hundreds of candles, and Lucy sidled up beside Hattie, a conspiratorial gleam in her eye.

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