Someone to Wed

She was remarkably tall for a woman—only a couple of inches shorter than his own six foot one—and willowy and slender. She was doing nothing to minimize her height, as tall women tended to do. She held herself very erect and kept her chin high. She was dressed with simple elegance in a lavender high-waisted dress and a small-brimmed silver-gray bonnet with matching facial veil. A few of the other ladies had retained their bonnets too, so hers did not look totally out of place. The veil did, however. Her face was visible through it, but not the birthmark. She looked haughty and cold and remote, and it seemed to Alexander that the temperature of the room dropped a few degrees. Even her hand when she set it in the one he held out toward her—slender and long fingered—was chilly.

“How do you do, Lord Riverdale?” she said in that low voice he remembered with its very precise diction.

“I am delighted you came, Miss Heyden,” he lied. “Do you know any of my neighbors?” He was fully aware that she did not—he had been careful not to invite either Sweeney or Richman. “Allow me to introduce you.”

Conversation in the room had all but hushed. That was partly understandable, of course. A new face was always of great interest to people who spent the bulk of their lives in the country with the same few friends and neighbors. Even more intriguing, though, was a face that ought to be at least partly familiar, since she lived no farther than eight miles or so away but was in fact not familiar at all. Of course, no one was seeing a new face even now. She did not raise the veil as Alexander took her about the room, introducing her to everyone as they went. He watched all his neighbors being polite to her but leaning back from her an almost imperceptible half inch or so, clearly disturbed by the anonymity of her appearance and the aloof arrogance of her manner despite the fact that she repeated their names and had a polite word for each of them.

There was something … other about her, Alexander thought. He could think of no more definite a word.

His neighbors resumed their hearty, good-humored conversation over the next hour and a half, during which time they were joined by the remaining three guests. Clearly they were all gratified to have been invited and were happy to see the inside of his home, to judge for themselves how shabby it was, to see him in his own proper milieu. They had come to please and be pleased, to be amiable, to make a friend of him. Brambledean Court and the Earl of Riverdale were, after all, at the heart of their neighborhood, and his arrival here had raised their hope of a more vivid, more elevating social life than they had enjoyed for years, or a whole lifetime in many cases. They sat or stood and moved about freely while partaking of the feast Mrs. Mathers, Alexander’s cook, had produced with great enthusiasm and ingenuity with her ancient equipment.

Miss Heyden sat in their midst the whole while. At first, she was with the vicar and his wife and a retired army colonel and his wife. Then others took their place, clearly curious about her and kind enough not to leave her isolated. She did not move from the chair to which he had directed her after introducing her to everyone. She was not unsociable. She spoke when spoken to and listened with a certain poise and grace. She sipped her tea beneath her veil but ate nothing.

It was hard, Alexander discovered, not to be aware of her at every moment. It would be unkind to say that she was the one discordant note in an otherwise warm and harmonious party. She was not. But everyone who approached her somehow became overhearty in her presence, and no one stayed beside her for longer than a few minutes. It would have been inaccurate to describe her manner as cold. It was not. She was neither taciturn nor supercilious nor anything else a guest ought not to be. She was just … other. And it was the veil. Surely it was the veil. It all felt a bit like being at a party one of the guests had mistaken for a masquerade, and no one liked to tell her she had been mistaken. Everyone seemed a little embarrassed. Everyone made a point of not noticing the shrouded face.

One of his tenant farmers and his wife were the first to take their leave. It was the signal for everyone else, though most people seemed flatteringly reluctant to go.

“I took the liberty,” Alexander said when Miss Heyden too got to her feet, “of having your carriage sent back to Withington, Miss Heyden. I shall do myself the honor of escorting you home in mine.”

She looked steadily at him through the veil before sitting again without a word of reply and clasping her hands loosely in her lap.

Alexander shook hands with all his departing guests, a long, slow process as each wished to thank him profusely for the invitation and the tea. Some asked him to pass on their compliments to the cook. A few hoped, as they had on previous occasions, that he would be remaining in the country and that they would see much more of him. One or two asked about Mrs. Westcott, his mother, and about Lady Overfield, his sister. One tenant farmer thought the weather they had been having so far this spring boded well for the year’s crops, while another, overhearing him, argued that a dry, warm spring often presaged a wet, cold summer and a poor harvest. The young lady who had performed a pirouette earlier repeated her hint that his lordship’s drawing room would be quite divine for an informal dance. Her mother again told her to mind her manners. But finally they had all left and Alexander gave the order to have his carriage brought around.

Miss Heyden rose to her feet again when they were alone. “You dismissed my carriage without consulting me, Lord Riverdale,” she said. It was a clear reproof.

He wished he had not done so. He would have been quite happy to see her on her way with the hope that he would never see her again. He would have liked her better, perhaps, if she had stamped her foot and thrown a tantrum. But her annoyance was perfectly controlled. He set his hands behind him and gazed steadily back at her. Good God, she was tall. He was unaccustomed to looking almost straight across into a woman’s eyes—or what could be seen of her eyes through her veil.

“Miss Heyden,” he said, “the last time we met you asked me to marry you. Do you not feel we ought to get to know each other somewhat better before deciding if it is what we both want? Unless, perhaps, you have already decided and wish to withdraw your offer. If that is indeed so, I shall send a maid to accompany you and an extra footman to sit up with my coachman.”

“I have not changed my mind,” she said. “You are considering my proposal, then?”

“Considering it, yes,” he said reluctantly. “I would be a fool not to. But I am sure neither one of us wishes to marry in haste only to repent at leisure, as the old saying goes. Shall we?” He gestured toward the doors. “I believe I heard the carriage drawing up a moment ago.”

She came toward him and he opened one of the doors for her to pass through. As he followed her, he considered offering his arm but decided against it. It was a breach of gentlemanly manners unlike him, but there was something about her … It was as if she were surrounded by an invisible wall of ice. Though that was unfair. There was nothing definably icy in her demeanor. It was just … other. He had still not thought of the word for which his mind sought—if there was such a word.

He wondered suddenly if this tea had been her first social event ever. It seemed incredible when she was almost thirty. But … perhaps she really had been a total recluse until today. Perhaps all afternoon she had been terrified and holding herself together by pure force of will. He had challenged her to have the courage to come. Perhaps she had shown more courage than he could possibly imagine.