What the Saintignons claimed to be a small dinner party actually was an informal dinner upwards of fifty people. The Great Dining Hall was utilized, and it was a banqueting situation that could have been used by Moses in the Exodus.
The saloons on the ground level were opened up to receive the guests, who milled around examining over the riches decorating each other. Tempest felt like the veriest fraud, and from the expression on Yolanda's face, she was not alone. It was a glittering array, and Tempest was glad of the restrictions on debutante dress, as it afforded her a small measure of protection and excuse. She had to remind herself that she had nothing to excuse herself for, but it was tenuous comfort when one matron showed up in a carriage with no less than four footmen attending her and jewels haphazardly adorning her dress as though someone had thrown them at her. It further was even more mortifying when she overheard two other ladies whispering, "Paste, my dear. Nothing of interest." Tempest had not had the fortune to come across such large jewels as to be able to tell at a glance what was real and what wasn't, and the way the matron's outfit was dismissed underlined another division between her and this most privileged sect.
It should have been a happy event for Tempest that the majority of the guests were not more than forty years of age. Yet it wasn't, for the main reason that it reminded her so much of London society, although she recognized nobody. Surprisingly, though, the way she was treated was much different from how she had been treated there. She was even approached by several young men, who came forward to beg an introduction.
One was Lord Walbrey, a good-looking man in his thirties, who seemed earnest and more interested in discussing the state of the nation. It surprised and pleased her, since she had despaired of finding company whose first words did not comprise of materialism. On the other hand, Tempest was distressed to find that, despite her disdain of the frivolities of London society, she was far too ignorant to converse intelligently on political events.
"Walbrey, are you boring my fiancée with your political views again?" drawled a voice and Tempest was not surprised to find Saintignon at her side.
Lord Walbrey looked very surprised at this news and Tempest also could not help being annoyed that Saintignon had introduced this topic in the middle of their conversation. Without laying a finger on her person, Saintignon managed to give the impression that she was his property and his eyes were narrowed in a way that antagonized Tempest to no end.
"Not at all, my lord," Tempest said in a voice like ice. "Lord Walbrey was speaking of the atrocious need for supplies in Spain, where our troops are dying, not from waging war with the enemy but disease."
"A most appropriate topic with which to regale the gentler sex," said Saintignon in a voice dripping with sarcasm.
"The gentler sex understands Lord Walbrey's altruistic motives and will do her best in spreading the word so that more supplies can be sent," bit out Tempest, who was now well on the way to full-fledged anger.
Lord Walbrey looked from one to the other in some dismay. "I say, jolly good. Miss Makepeace, a most delightful conversation-er, not that delightful," he tacked on hastily seeing the storm clouds on Saintignon's brow. "Saintignon, good of you to invite me. I see I'm wanted elsewhere. I beg your pardon." And then he beat a fast retreat.
Saintignon and Tempest watched his retreating figure with very different expressions. Saintignon turned to Tempest with a smirk on his face. "Well, your would-be suitor was certainly quick to run off."
Tempest pursed her lips to control the flood of words itching to come out to do battle. "Lord Walbrey was not my suitor, and he is a very pleasant, good-hearted man, with his mind on the higher things of life."
Saintignon lost his smile in an instant. "That mincepot of a man?"
"He was not a mincepot, and we were having a very interesting conversation about his views on the state of the union, particularly on how the Peninsular War is progressing."
"You have no need to discuss such matters with another man," Saintignon said haughtily. "You have only to ask me, and I shall tell you my opinions on everything concerned."
Tempest could feel her fingers clenching into a fist and her earlier good intentions flying out the nearest window. "It is my opinion that Lord Walbrey had very educated views, and my opinion that I desired to hear more. You are not involved in this decision!"
"As your future husband, I shall be involved in every decision that pertains to your life!" Saintignon returned with just as much fire.
"Am I to have no say as to anything?" Tempest asked, aghast with this implication.
"Do not be so bird-witted, my dear," he drawled. "You certainly have the right instincts as to your appearance, a state of which I certainly had my doubts before tonight. However, you have acquitted yourself and look exceedingly lovely-"
Tempest's small surge of girlish glee at this dissolved at his next comment:
"But imagine my displeasure when I find that such ensemble was for the purpose of enticing feeble-minded rattleplates like Walbrey! Faugh! Control yourself, woman," he said through gritted teeth.
"I spoke to the man for-but a few minutes! What right have you to castigate my behavior? Are you my keeper?"
"Not a few minutes, my lady-although I mean that title in the loosest of meanings," he said so silkily his insult initially escaped Tempest. "You conversed with him for nigh three quarters of an hour. And yes, I certainly do plan on becoming your keeper, and as such, I would advise you to keep your dallying to a minimum."
"This is-this is mad!" Tempest breathed. "You are mad-"
"How insightful of you to notice," he said, his teeth baring. "But I shall contain my anger for now."
"No-not angry," Tempest cut in. "Delusional. You are insane, my lord, and so I pray leave to inform you. No one looking on would question the integrity of either Lord Walbrey or myself."
"That is because only I understand how little indiscretions start," he said with a cynical twist of his lips. "And you shall do well to remember that!"
"Brother," Countess Wivenbrough cut in with a hand on his arm. "We have guests who are watching." She had a polite smile on her face that didn't move as she spoke to them. "Please do not give them more fodder for gossip."
"I am so sorry, Lady Wivenbrough," Tempest apologized immediately. "This is-certainly not the place for our little squabbles." It was hardly a little squabble, considering her future husband was claiming the right to manage every aspect of her life.
Saintignon raised an imperious eyebrow at his sister. "This is my home," he said haughtily. "Am I not lord and master of all I survey?"
"Only inasmuch as you command the respect of your peers," the countess retorted. "And you are failing at that."
"Peers!" he snorted. "Who is responsible for inviting this group of riffraff, my lady? Was it you who invited that slowtop, Walbrey?"
The countess rolled her eyes at Tempest. "Please do not tell me that you were jealous of a leetle conversation between Miss Makepeace and him? That would be quite, quite silly of you, Saint."
Saintignon didn't respond, and the countess winked at Tempest behind his back. "Come, we have host duties, or had you forgot?"
Tempest watched as Saintignon was led away with something close to admiration. Would that she could manage Saintignon half as well as his sister did. But oh, how he did antagonize her to no end! And who could fault her for seeing pitfalls in every corner when he did his utmost to upset her? Surely his husbandly demands were far too excessive to be borne!
And yet, Tempest knew there were worse fates. There were women who disappeared from polite society because of their cruel husbands. English law still awarded no property to women, no seats in Parliament, no voice except the occasional trivial article on fashion or household affairs. There were men who beat their wives, men who filled the countryside with their illegitimate offspring, men who gambled to excess and left their families to wither away in debt. And then, there were the most unsavory tales that were whispered, tales that were only mysteries to the innocent Tempest, tales that involved the French pox, man-milliners, and filly-hoppers-terms that seemed innocuous but carried with it a dark taint. Unfortunately, only history could show what fate awaited each woman, and Tempest was similarly in the dark as to the type of husband Saintignon would prove to be.
The joy with which she had started this evening had worn away, and she was riddled with anxiety as she was led into dinner by an ancient rector on Saintignon's estate, who Tempest guessed to be nearing his eighth decade. She had only one guess as to who could have arranged such a dinner companion and a glance towards the head of the table at a triumphant Saintignon revealed that she was correct. To punish him and enliven a long dinner, Tempest did her level best in engaging the septuagenarian in conversation. The rector, Mr. Henley, despite his horrible breath, was a lively bachelor with quite tall tales to tell, and Tempest soon found herself laughing at his stories. After the third remove, she glanced towards the head of the table and was incredulous to find that Saintignon's lips were white with suppressed fury. She snorted with exasperation. What now ailed the man?
The ladies, led by the highest ranking lady present, Duchess of Pembury, left the men to their port and cigars and gathered in the ordained Great Saloon, which featured an entire wall of windows, two fireplaces, a piano and various other instruments, no less than six card tables, and enough chairs to seat a small country. Yolanda had been pulled away by the rector's niece, and Countess Wivenbrough tugged Tempest towards a couple of chairs.
"I must apologize on Saintignon's behalf," the countess said.
Tempest considered the countess curiously and then decided to speak her mind. "My lady, how is it you, the daughter of a duke, are apologizing to me for his behavior? By right, you should be happy that we are quarreling like cats and dogs."
The countess unfolded her fan and covered the bottom half of her face with them. "That is because I pray that you continue to favor Saint, you see. There is nobody with the fortitude to quarrel with him, and that is what he so dearly needs."
"I should think many have quarrel with him," Tempest returned pertly. "Only they are too afraid to speak."
"Precisely! And that is why you shall be the making of him."
"My lady, I'm quite certain that he is not as enamored as you think," Tempest argued in a more subdued and respectful tone. "And I'm equally certain that this engagement shall not play out. A man who is...enamored-is indulgent, kind, and gentle. Saintignon is none of these things. He is rude, boorish, angered by every little thing I do or say! In short, I cannot be convinced of his dedication to this match as you appear to be."
The countess looked like she wanted to laugh. "You truly are a treasure, my dear. Did you not note his jealousy?"
Tempest blinked. "Jealousy?"
"Surely you did not think Saintignon insults every man who...oh dear. I suppose he does. My brother actually has a very amiable relationship with Walbrey, prior to his encounter with you. He was seething with jealousy, you see, and even halfway across the room, I could see he was about to explode."
"This does not bode well for any relationship," said Tempest with some alarm. "Especially since I did but speak to the man on affairs of war."
"How can I convince you?" said the countess. "It is only that Saintignon never feels jealousy. He feels anger, undoubtedly. That is his primary emotion most of the time, but never jealousy, and never because of a woman. He has never had to feel such an emotion, and doubtless it feels foreign and cumbersome to such as he."
"Lady Wivenbrough, I know you do mean well, but it can't be that a relationship needs so much intervention in order to proceed smoothly," Tempest said with a sigh. "Two people embarked on the journey of marriage should not constantly require a third party to explain away their actions."
"There you are wrong," the countess said. "Have you not heard the saying that it takes a village to make a marriage?"
Tempest shook her head.
"Well, it exists," said the countess airily, waving her fan. "Oh, I see the duchess hailing me. I beg your pardon." And the countess hurried away in a flurry of silks without explaining her quotation.
Before Tempest could circulate in the group of women, the doors opened and the men marched in, led by Saintignon. Tempest shrank back into her chair as his eyes briefly scanned the room and settled on her before he made his way over to her.
"I see you had a riveting meal," he drawled.
"Yes, the scallops were delicious," Tempest replied, looking anywhere but at him.
"I meant with Mr. Henley."
"Was that your doing?" Tempest demanded, dropping her nonchalant air.
"Certainly," he said and smirked at her expression. "Did you expect me to deny it? Given that my affianced apparently has a penchant for conversations pertaining to the 'higher things of life,' I certainly endeavored to grant it to her."
Tempest gritted her teeth. "I had a perfectly wonderful time, thank you. Mr. Henley is the sweetest man and he also has a very engaging smile." She smiled at Saintignon in challenge.
Saintignon's brows snapped together. "What, that old lecher! Why, I never would have expected him to-"
"What is wrong with you?" snapped Tempest, realizing that her precipitate words could put the elderly man out of a living. "Anyone can see that Mr. Henley is perfectly respectable and above reproach! Why must you think so lowly of these people who are supposed to be your friends and guests? Why must you think so lowly of me?"
He gazed at her with something approaching uncertainty and heaved a sigh. "I-cannot help myself," he admitted in a low voice. "I suppose if I were more certain…"
"I cannot hear you above the harp," Tempest said, straining to hear his lowered voice above the revelry.
"It is nothing," he said, looking almost sheepish. At the expression in his eyes that resembled nothing so much as a puppy dog looking for affirmation, she forgave him the earlier quarrels.
"You see," she said, shaking her head with a smile. "If we could only communicate like this…"
Tempest trailed off as a commotion along a few of the open windows led much of the party to congregate there. There were loud hoots and yells, and she barely noticed as Saintignon took one of her hands in his gloved fingers. She only just heard him murmur her name before the doors opened, and three men strode in, preceded by the butler.
"Lord Nigel Sare, the Viscount Lord Harry Rochefort, and the Baron Lord Ashton Marchmont," the butler announced.
The Four Horsemen were together once more.