by Kelly Bowen
“You needn’t chatter, my lord,” Ada said, as the coach turned down a wide Mayfair thoroughfare. “I know we will likely fall short of our goal.”
“Ada Beauvais, we still have three days to go. Anything can happen in three days.” Three short days and then he’d likely be bidding her farewell.
“Much has happened in the past few weeks,” she said, “all of it good. I do believe I’ve acquired a taste for frivolous slippers.” She stuck out a dainty foot adorned with flowered embroidery and wiggled her toes. A month ago, John would likely not have remarked the sight—he’d seen many a slippered foot.
But that was Ada’s ankle turned so gracefully. That was Ada’s lemon verbena scent wafting through the coach. Those were Ada’s skirts brushing against his boots and swishing through his dreams.
“I will never acquire a taste for stale shortbread,” John said. “But I will bless the day you knocked upon St. Jerome’s door, Ada Beauvais. The whole building is a lighter, happier place for your efforts, and I hope you will—”
The coach hit a pothole, always a hazard in springtime.
“You hope I will—?”
I am a penniless younger son who has nothing to offer you. “I hope you will recall us fondly. Tell me about Hopewell Grange.”
“I’ve told you about the Grange,” Ada retorted. “It’s a typical country manor and I will very likely never lay eyes on it. I put the Bonhoff’s at the bottom of my list because they were witnesses to the worst of my clumsiness.”
“You are no clumsier than any other woman of my acquaintance. I’ve squired you about on a year’s worth of social calls, and you never put a foot wrong.”
“Because with you, I’m not nervous.”
She wasn’t exactly cheerful in his presence lately either. “So what great faux pas did you commit that you still recall it to this day?”
Recall it, and regret it. “I fell on my arse at Almack’s, knocked a footman down at the same time, and ended up with my dancing partner and lemonade all over my person. When I attempted to get to my feet, my hand landed on an unfortunate part of my partner’s anatomy, and all of Mayfair applauded my mortification.”
“Applauded? Metaphorically?”
She slowly clapped her gloved hands together. “My Aunt Kitty made me go back the next week, and produced a few intrepid bachelors for me to dance with, but Mr. Bonhoff wasn’t among them. I’m told he had to keep to his rooms for a fortnight in close proximity to a bucket of ice as a result of the injury I’d done him.”
Oh, dear. “Mr. Bonhoff?”
“Horatio Bonhoff, brother to my schoolmates. I half-way fancied him, to the extent I’ve ever fancied any man.”
Could you ever fancy me? “Adelicia, you cannot blame yourself for an accident.”
“Horatio was the worse for drink. I could smell it on him, but young men are a bibulous lot and I was enchanted to think he chose to waltz with the awkward Miss Ada Beauvais.”
“He got what he deserved,” John said. “If a man can’t hold his liquor, he has no business taking a lady in his arms, much less in public.”
The coach slowed, though John wasn’t nearly done with this conversation.
“Then I got what I deserved, too, didn’t I? I stood up with an inebriate simply because he smiled at me.”
“And your aunt, or whoever was chaperoning you, failed to intervene when she clearly had the wisdom and experience to do so. I hope that she, at least, has found an occasion to apologize.”
The coach came to a halt, though for once, Ada did not bound down the steps, parasol at the ready.
“You really are quite fierce,” she said, cupping his jaw with her gloved hand. “I admire that about you tremendously.”
John caught her hand in his own. “You are fierce as well, Ada Beauvais, and in the loveliest way imaginable. I hope we achieve our objective, not only for the children, but also for you. Hopewell Grange should be yours, and I look forward to visiting you there someday.”
He moved nearer, thinking to punctuate that sentiment with a parting kiss to her cheek, but the dratted, benighted footman chose that moment to open the door and let down the steps. Ada descended, all grace and lace, and promenaded with John to an imposing front door.
The footman rapped the knocker and then they were making the last of the calls that Ada herself had scheduled.
Someday was an annoyingly vague concept.
Lord John had said he hoped to visit Ada someday at Hopewell Grange. What good was a someday visit when a Tuesday or a Friday visit could have served instead?
Ada passed her cloak to the Bonhoff butler and checked her appearance in the mirror hanging near the porter’s nook. The woman staring back at her was nearly a stranger. Her eyes were alight with purpose, her ensemble was fashionable without being ostentatious. Her cheeks sported a natural blush, and her coiffure was neither a severe bun nor a fussy affectation. A single curling tress lay against her shoulder, a style that Aunt Kitty might have suggested but never had.
“This way, miss, my lord,” the butler said, gesturing to a curved staircase. “The ladies are expecting you.”
Ada wanted to get this call behind her so she could resume her discussion with Lord John: When will you call upon me, if I am so fortunate as to acquire Hopewell Grange? Why haven’t you pursued that comment you made more than a fortnight ago, about having me take on some duties at the orphanage? Does Cora have any friends yet?
When will you kiss me?
The butler announced them, and then Ada was curtsying before Miss Daniella Bonhoff and Mrs. Sarah Bonhoff Merriman. They were attired in silk day gowns with tasseled paisley peacock shawls, and the scent of orange blossoms was so thick Ada nearly asked the butler to open a window.
“Miss Ada Beauvais,” Mrs. Merriman cooed. “What an age it has been. And Lord John, a pleasure to see you. I would never in my wildest dreams have paired the two of you for any occasion. Do sit down.”
John took a seat beside Ada on the sofa. “Miss Beauvais has been kind enough to take an interest in St. Jerome’s,” he said. “I wish more of polite society had her genuine concern for the less fortunate.”
For his lordship, that was very direct speech, indeed. Even more direct than Ada would have been.
“We are very concerned for the less fortunate,” Mrs. Merriman replied. “That’s why we pull back the drapes whenever we host a ball, right Daniella? We provide a marvelous spectacle at no charge whatsoever and brighten the lives of those of humble stations. Tell me how your sisters get on, my lord.”
“My sisters are well. I cannot report as cheerfully on the state of St. Jerome’s.”
Daniella scooted to the edge of her seat, just as her older sibling waved a hand. “Let’s have no talk of dreary orphans, my lord. How is your dear mama?”
Even for the lovely and well-dowered Sarah, that was less than deft.
“The marchioness is well, but I’ll thank you not to refer the children at St. Jerome’s as dreary orphans.”
Daniella darted a glance at her sister. “Sarah meant no offense, my lord. I’m sure your orphans aren’t dreary at all. I wonder where the tea tray could be.”
Daniella was still apparently a follower rather than a leader, though clearly, the role sat ill on her today.
“I would enjoy a cup of tea,” Ada said, mostly to fill a silence during which Lord John glowered—glowered—at Sarah. He was her social superior, and without his escort, Ada would likely not have been received.
“I doubt we’ll be staying for tea,” Lord John said. “Miss Ada has recounted a tale for me involving Mr. Horatio Bonhoff, public drunkenness, and premediated harm to Miss Ada’s person and reputation. I was hoping to hear an apology today—two apologies in fact.”
Ada stared at him, his profile a study in heroic resolve. How could this be the same man who’d spoken so encouragingly to little Cora and pitched the slowest cricket inning ever to while away a sunny afternoon?
“I beg—I beg your pardo
n?” Sarah said, chin coming up.
“Sarah….” Daniella muttered.
Lord John rose. “You challenged your sot of a brother to subject Miss Ada to public humiliation, never thinking she might have twisted an ankle, sprained a wrist, or landed on broken glass. She had done nothing to deserve that sort of abuse, and you are not fit to donate to St. Jerome’s. Miss Ada, let’s be leaving.”
He offered his arm. Ada took it, dipped half a curtsy to the room at large, and returned with him to the foyer, where a surprised butler passed Ada her cloak.
Lord John took his hat, he didn’t put it on.
“I can make your excuses,” Ada said, leaving her cloak unbuttoned. “I can go back in there and explain that you are under a lot of strain lately, and your chivalrous nature has leapt to unfortunate conclusions.”
He did up the frogs of her cloak. “I would hate to be the reason you stooped to dissembling, Miss Beavais. They aren’t worth it. I know Horatio Bonhoff. He’s a notorious drunkard who should never have been admitted to Almack’s, but his family is old and wealthy. You were ambushed for their entertainment, and I refuse to pretend otherwise.”
Ada respected Lord John, the patient teacher and conscientious administrator. She enjoyed the company of the well-bred young man with the courtesy title, and she treasured her friend, the cheerful, honest, hard-working failed cleric. She dreamed of the handsome fellow whose embrace had been so intriguing and longed for.
This gentleman, though, who stood up for a lady’s honor, who refused to wink at wrongdoing, captured her heart.
“Very well then,” she said, accepting her bonnet from the butler. “Let’s get back to St. Jerome’s, and to blazes with—”
Miss Daniella hurried up the corridor. “You must take this,” she said, brandishing a piece of paper. “Sarah is sorry, I’m sure of it, she just doesn’t know how to say the words. I am very sorry, Miss Beauvais, but Sarah and Horrie had concocted that unfortunate prank before I got wind of it, and the next thing I knew, Almack’s was littered in broken glass and Horrie was being helped into the coach by three footmen.”
The butler passed Ada her parasol, bowed, and withdrew.
“So you did ambush me,” Ada said. The realization was painful, but not mortifying. “You put your brother up to making a fool of me.”
“Mr. Merriman had remarked flatteringly about your figure more than once, and Sarah had set her cap for him. She had no other followers, and thus she went to Horrie. Horrie never has any money, so he agreed to her scheme in exchange for a portion of Sarah’s pin money. Now it’s Sarah who has no money. She would donate to the orphanage if she could, but she can’t.”
This recitation was delivered in a near whisper.
“She’s a married woman,” Ada said. “Why has she no pin money?”
Daniella glanced down the corridor and leaned near. “Gambling. Can’t help herself. Mr. Merriman had to take measures, but I have money and I insist on donating.” She pressed the piece of paper into Ada’s hand. “Please take it. Please.”
“My lord?” Ada left the decision to John.
He considered for a moment, then nodded. “You have my thanks, Miss Bonhoff. Miss Beauvais, shall we be going? Miss Bonhoff, good day.”
Ada took her place in the coach a moment later, and passed John the folded piece of paper. “I almost feel sorry for them. Almost.” She unpinned her bonnet and let a sense of relief wash over her. The visits to schoolmates were done, St. Jerome’s was much better off, and Ada would soon be free to return to her compost heaps and butterflies.
Lord John sat beside her, the piece of paper in his hand. “Ada, look at this.”
She tossed her parasol to the opposite bench and leaned her head back against the squabs. “You look at it. I’m all visited-out for the day, and probably for the rest of my life. I still think we should call on your papa, though. Your mother and sisters—”
“Ada, look at this.”
She opened her eyes and caught his hand, because he was waving a bank note at her. “What?”
“Miss Daniella Bonhoff must manage her allowance very well, because with this sum, you have achieved the goal set for you last month by that Carruthers fellow. You will soon be the proud owner of Hopewell Grange, my dear, the proud and happy owner.”
John would not lie to her, or miscalculate, or misrepresent. “Truly? We did it?”
“You did it, with your determination, honesty, and ingenuity. Even a failed call results in funds with you. You are a marvel, Adelicia Beauvais. A walking, talking, marvel.”
Ada had the oddest urge to cry, to bolt from the coach and put distance between Lord John’s words, and her fluttering, capering heart.
“We did it,” she said. “I could never have made these calls on my own. We did it, and oh… Hopewell Grange. I could just kiss you, John Waverly.”
He tucked the bank note into his pocket, took off his hat, and set it next to Ada’s bonnet on the opposite bench.
“So why don’t you?”
John would have said that Ada Beauvais’s most memorable characteristic was her determination. She marched through life from objective to objective, undeterred by doubt, despair, or dark of night. Her kisses though…
When it came to kisses, Ada was an adventurer. She swaggered into the kiss with a bold press of her mouth to his, then retreated as if she expected that warning shot to draw return fire.
John obliged, gently at first, because a kiss wanted savoring, and because he wasn’t certain what manner of kiss this was. Celebratory? Friendly? Both?
But a friendly kiss didn’t involve the lady taking a subtle taste of the fellow, did it? Or her hands shaping the muscles of his arms, and her fingers sinking into his hair. Ada tucked in closer, anchoring an arm around John’s waist, and he reciprocated by drawing her into his embrace.
The coach might have started forward, the coach might have floated aloft like a hot air balloon. All John knew was that Ada was in his arms, kissing him as if he were her every wish come true.
“A moment,” he panted as the carriage took a corner that brought Ada even closer. “The shades…”
“Hang, the shades. I like kissing you.”
“If you merely like it, I’m not going about it properly.”
She slanted him a look and sat back. “Properly is a relative term. You are a fine kisser, Lord John.”
He ran a hand through his hair trying to bring order to more than his thoughts. “You have kissed enough men to evaluate my relative abilities?” he asked.
Ada passed over a silver comb. “I have kissed you enough to evaluate your relative abilities, sir. Will you call upon Mr. Carruthers with me?”
Not in my present state. “To confirm your success?”
“Somebody must. He will never believe we raised all this money. I don’t believe it.”
John’s body had made off with the reasoning portion of his mind. He watched Ada’s lips as she spoke, he breathed through his nose the better to inhale lemon verbena, and he imagined her fingers rather than her comb putting his hair to rights.
“Pay a visit to Carruthers,” he muttered, returning the comb. “You kiss me like that, and then speak of solicitors and social calls.”
Ada reached for her bonnet. “Did I do it wrong?”
Ye saints abiding. “You kiss very well, Miss Beauvais, which I think you know. So well, I am only just now remembering that I have the patron’s luncheon tomorrow.”
Ada toyed with her bonnet ribbons. “As long as the money was raised within the allotted thirty days, I don’t suppose it matters whether we call upon Carruthers today or the day after tomorrow.”
John reached past her to pull down the window shade, then he gently pried her bonnet from her hands.
“The day after tomorrow, we’ll make a proper morning call on Mr. Carruthers, and I will have all of my documents in hand. I’d like to resume kissing you now.”
“I’d like that too.”
Who knew kissing wa
s so complicated? The mechanics weren’t all that complex—lips, hands, bodies, breath—but what did it all mean? Ada could not ask even Aunt Kitty that question, so she spent the day of the patron’s luncheon wandering about her little house, staring off into space, and alternately missing Lord John and dreading her next encounter with him.
Would he think her forward? Backward? Would he kiss her again?
As the hour to call on Mr. Carruthers drew closer, Ada dressed in the finest of her new attire, right down to her flowered slippers, and tucked a few extra pins into her hair. When the coach came by, she was waiting for his lordship in her parlor, though she wasn’t prepared for the dapper gentleman who greeted her.
“My lord.” She curtseyed, Lord John bowed. “You have troubled over your appearance.” His coat was tailored to perfection, his boots gleamed, and his lapel sported a pink rosebud.
His smile was a bit sheepish. “Solicitors can be sticklers for protocol. This is an important day, and I wanted to look my best.”
As had Ada, but not because Mr. Carruthers might be a stickler. “Let’s be off, then, shall we?”
His lordship handed her into the coach, and then the blighter sat on the backward facing bench.
“John? Are we no longer friends?”
“We will always be friends, I hope.”
“So why are you perched over there, when you could be beside me?”
“One doesn’t want to presume.”
“One is behaving very oddly. You kissed me two days ago as if I were the answer to your every dream, and today you are back to being Lord Headmaster. Do you regret kissing me?”
He looked out the window, which he could do, because the shades were rolled up—all the way up. “Of course not, but kissing has an effect on a fellow’s humors, and one doesn’t want to arrive to an appointment with a solicitor in a state of… in a state.”
Ada’s grasp of reproductive biology was more sophisticated than most unmarried women of her station, but she also knew an excuse when she heard one.
