you are. My poor girl, this past year must have been very hard for you, losing your parents so close together.’
She bit her lip, trying to stop it from trembling. ‘He just seemed to give up without her.’
‘They always had too much romantic sensibility, the pair of them.’
‘Aunt!’
‘They did. He ought to have pulled himself together.’
‘Surely you don’t blame him for dying?’
Aunt Sophoria screwed up her mouth as if torn between two conflicting opinions. ‘No. I suppose not.’
Ianthe stared at her in shocked silence for a moment before bursting into peals of laughter. ‘Father always said you were wicked.’
‘Did he? How wonderful. I’m the black sheep of the family, you know.’ Her aunt smiled mischievously before heaving herself back to her feet. ‘But now I think it’s time to get up. I unpacked your bag, I hope you don’t mind, though there wasn’t much there. It’s all very respectable, but...’ Her face fell and then lit up again suddenly. ‘Would you like to borrow something of mine? I have a pink taffeta that would suit you perfectly. I could do your hair, too, if you like. I do so hate these new flat styles.’
Ianthe bit her tongue. The idea of wearing something belonging to her aunt was more than a little alarming. On the other hand, Percy would doubtless waste no time in bringing Sir Charles to call and, if her drab, old-fashioned attire didn’t deter him, Aunt Sophoria’s wardrobe just might...
‘That sounds like a wonderful idea.’ She wrenched the bedcovers back with a smile. ‘Perhaps I could do with some colour.’
* * *
It didn’t take long for Ianthe to regret her decision. Descending the stairs in her aunt’s idea of a day gown was far more problematic that she’d imagined. There were so many layers and decorative flounces she had to keep a tight hold on the banister to stop herself from falling and breaking her neck.
She stopped on the landing halfway, studying her reflection in a heavy gilt-framed mirror, wondering whether to burst into laughter or tears. Her aunt’s old, steel-rimmed crinoline made her look as if she were wearing several dresses at once, while her puffed sleeves were embellished with enough lace to make a whole other skirt. Her hair, meanwhile, was piled so high on her head that she looked as if she had a bird’s nest sitting on top—the whole frizzy arrangement held in place with an oversized day-cap, fastened beneath her chin with an elaborate bow. She looked like some kind of confection, a pink cake topped with white frothy icing.
For a meeting with Sir Charles, she looked perfect.
‘Ah, there you are!’ Aunt Sophoria met her in the hallway as she finally reached the bottom of the stairs. ‘You have a visitor.’
‘Already?’ Ianthe’s heart sank. Apparently Sir Charles wasn’t wasting any time.
‘He’s been waiting ten minutes. And of course Betsy isn’t here this morning. I’ll have to make the tea myself. Will he want cake, do you think?’
‘No! I mean, I’m sure he won’t be staying long.’
‘We still have to be courteous, dear.’ Her aunt squeezed her hand reassuringly. ‘Didn’t I tell you it would be all right? Now, run along in. You can’t keep a man like that waiting.’
‘But you said...’
Ianthe felt a twinge of resentment as her aunt vanished through a side door. So much for promising to help her—she’d left her to face Sir Charles alone! On the other hand, at least this would get the interview over with. The events of the day before, upsetting though they’d been, had at least clarified her feelings. She wouldn’t marry him, not for money, not for protection, not even for Percy. She had to make that clear once and for all.
She gave the door a firm push, sweeping into the parlour with a determined flourish.
‘Good morning, S—’
She stopped short as she caught sight of the man standing with his back towards her. He was taller and more imposing than Sir Charles, his broad shoulders encased in a smart, three-quarter-length navy coat trimmed with royal-blue velvet, the crisp white collar of his shirt contrasting vividly with his thick, black hair.
‘Mr Felstone?’ she gasped, annoyed by the catch in her own voice.
‘I’m afraid so.’ He turned around, his expression flitting between surprise and amusement before he seemed to master himself. ‘Thank you for seeing me, Miss Holt. Under the circumstances, I would have understood if you’d refused.’
Ianthe stiffened, fighting the urge to turn tail and run. As if everything that had happened yesterday wasn’t bad enough, now he had to see her like this? In her aunt’s cluttered parlour he looked even more handsome than she remembered, while she looked like some kind of doily! Well, there was no point in trying to hide her outlandish appearance now. He’d already seen the worst. She had to brazen it out, no matter how embarrassing.
‘I didn’t expect to see you here, Mr Felstone.’
‘Ah.’ He seemed to guess the truth. ‘You were expecting Sir Charles perhaps?’
‘Yes.’ She regarded him warily. ‘How did you find me? I don’t think I told you where I was staying.’
‘You didn’t, but I have a friend whose wife is fortunate enough to know everything that happens in Pickering.’ He raised an eyebrow inquiringly. ‘But I can leave if you prefer?’
For a moment, she was tempted to agree. After yesterday, he was the last man—almost the last man, she corrected herself—that she wanted to see. On the other hand, her aunt clearly held a very different opinion. She wouldn’t appreciate her throwing him out, no matter how much she wanted to.
‘It’s not my house.’ She shrugged. ‘You may do as you please.’
‘You’re very kind.’
She glanced at him suspiciously, but he looked utterly calm and contained, a whole different man to the one who’d insulted her just yesterday, in complete control of his words and temper. If only she could say the same about herself.
She pressed her lips together, trying to decide what to do next. The polite thing would be to ask him to sit down, but she was in no mood to be polite. Under the circumstances, it seemed ludicrous to resort to conventionalities. Besides, the room itself made it difficult to concentrate. After her monochromatic bedroom, the parlour was a tumultuous riot of colour, crammed with enough furniture for a room twice the size. A cursory glance revealed at least twelve different places to sit. Even the wallpaper was cluttered, decorated with sprigs of cherry blossom interlaced with tendrils of crimson fruit. Combined with a flower-patterned carpet it gave the distinct impression that her aunt was trying to establish a garden indoors. The effect would have been overpowering even without Mr Felstone standing in the middle.
What was he doing there? She felt a fresh burst of exasperation. After she’d bade him goodbye so definitively on the train—or thought she had—she hadn’t expected to see him again at all. If he’d come to mock her again then she’d have no compunction about picking up the nearest ornament
