* * *
Elinor sankdown onto the bed, gasping for breath. Faintly, she heard Sir Jessamyn cheep with concern behind her. She couldn’t bring herself to turn around, not even for him.
Benedict Hawkins had kissed her hand—but that wasn’t the important part, no matter how much her mind wanted to linger on every irrelevant sensation.Think, Elinor!He had felt the truth behind the illusion. And then…
“No,” she said. “No, no, no!” She lunged up from the bed. “He does not know me. He doesnot.”
Too many prickling emotions were swamping her at once. She paced through the room, struggling to shake them off.Be sensible, she told herself.Don’t let emotions carry you away! You’re not a romantic heroine, remember?
Perhaps Mr. Hawkinshadfelt the wrongness and dissonance between the illusion he’d seen and the truth he had touched for that one, fleeting moment. But it would be madness for him to leap to the impossible, true conclusion based on that moment of startlement. If Elinor carried off her next meeting with him with panache, he would be forced to set it down to a trick of his own mind.
She was safe.Of course. She was safe from Benedict Hawkins in every way.
And now she was lying to herself, too.
Elinor tipped her head against the glass of the window, letting out her breath in a sigh. Outside, the gardens of Hathergill Hall spread out in neatly ordered rows, every flower marching in perfect order. Each one could be confident of its place in the world…just like everyone in Hathergill Hall except for her.
Elinor Tregarth is painfully honest.
She wanted to shut her eyes against the truth, but she couldn’t.
Her knuckles still tingled where Benedict had kissed them. She remembered every word he had said about her.She already knew—no matter how hard she tried not to—that she would hear them again before falling asleep that night, and for many nights to come.
She wondered if she would ever manage to forget them...
But no matter how much common sense railed against it, she couldn’t bring herself to forget the impractical, impossible truth now that she had finally admitted it to herself.
Elinor had fallen head over heels in love with Benedict Hawkins, her cousin’s future husband.
Chapter 11
It took longer than she would have liked, but by the time Lady Hathergill’s abigail, Carter, finally arrived to prepare her for luncheon, Elinor had regained self-control...and formed a plan, too.
“It was kind of my cousin to send you,” she told Carter. “However, as you can see, I’ve managed to dress myself already, and I don’t need you to arrange my hair.”
As an upper servant—and one who worked regularly with Penelope, at that—Carter was, of course, far too well-trained to disagree with her employers. Her horror was clear to read on her face, though, as she looked at the plain, tight, high knot that Elinor had scraped her hair into—the only style Elinor had ever successfully managed on her own, and the one that had been deemed most appropriate for a despised poor relation during the last six months.
Carter was not merely a ladies’ maid; she was a true artist, an acknowledged genius with hair. “Yes, ma’am,” she murmured, dipping a polite curtsey...but she sounded as if she were gagging on the words.
Elinor felt a sudden stab of uncertainty. Benedict’s earlier words rang in her ears:“Eccentricity can be fashionable, and yet…”
Rapidly, she revised her plans. “Actually, what I should really like would be for you to show me how to arrange it better!” She smiled brightly. “I’ve never done without an abigail before, but I’m determined to prove that I can manage. I think it would bemostamusing to learn how to dress my own hair. Don’t you?”
Carter blinked twice in a row. Her face twitched. “Yes...ma’am.”
Carter reallywashighly professional, Elinor reflected. Thus far, the woman somehow hadn’t uttered the words:You inane fool…even though they must have been positively choking her.
“It’s for a wager,” Elinor added. “My friend, Lady”—she paused, searching for a name from the gossip columns—“Lady Featherstone said that I could never manage it. So Imustprove her wrong. You see?”
“Yes, ma’am. I do see.” Carter’s shoulders relaxed, and Elinor let out a silent sigh of relief.
Everyone knew that wealthy and idle people made nonsensical wagers all the time. There was a thin line between eccentricity and implausibility…but this time, Elinor had landed on the right side.
She seated herself at the elegant dressing table, watching Carter’s face in the mirror. “Please,” she said firmly, “do not touch my hairat all—even the slightest brush of your fingertips would count as cheating, by the terms of our wager. If you could simply explain what I should do with it?”
She walked into the front parlour half an hour later, carrying Sir Jessamyn proudly on her shoulder. Her dark grey gown was as cheap and unimpressive as ever, but her hair was arranged high on her head in a reasonably elegant updo that even sent dark ringlets down to frame her face.
“At least you needn’t take the time to curlthose,” Carter had said with approval, as she’d directed Elinor in the arrangement. “Your hair has all the curl it needs already, doesn’t it, ma’am?”
