by Tamara Gill
Hard to see who it was in the dark, especially since he wasn’t looking her way. Still staring at the churning sea, he added, “The rocks can be slippery.”
She recognized his voice this time. Lord Ashford. His sultry sexy deep voice was ingrained in her heart.
“Thank you,” she said, grateful it was too dark to see her clearly. She was a thorough mess. She touched her cheek self-consciously and found it sandy, which meant muddy. Oh, no. Edging backward, she murmured, “I will be careful.”
Her words came out low and husky. Her voice box was probably constricted by terror. Or she was coming down with a chill.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
Pauline squelched an impulse to turn and run. What a time to meet him. She was filthy, under cover of her aunt’s ancient cloak and old-lady cap, and her voice had gone hoarse. Her mother would be horrified.
Perhaps he hadn’t recognized who she was.
If so, how to answer his question about what she was doing here? Especially after he had berated her last time for speaking before being introduced. Yet, this time, he was the one who had spoken first. Deciding that truth was the only way forward with this difficult man, Pauline finally said, “I’m visiting my aunt’s property.” She pointed toward the house. “Up there.”
“Did she accompany you?”
“No,” she said, wishing she were back inside the house or, better yet in London. “I’m here to oversee work that’s to be performed at her home. Workmen are expected tomorrow and she wanted to ensure someone responsible would be here to open the doors when they arrived.”
Mostly true.
He did glance her way then. “What type of work. Will it be noisy?”
Ah! He was concerned with his peace being disrupted.
“Yes, it might be loud at times. There’s to be some stone work done in the great hall. She probably assumed most everyone nearby would be in London at this time of year, and so less likely to be disturbed.”
Her next question remained unspoken. Why are you not there, my lord? She’d enjoyed being in his company at the Patterson ball and had missed his commanding presence at every other event she’d attended hoping to see him.
Now she felt terrible for having invaded his quiet space. He had obviously come here to be alone. So, finally deciding she must respect his privacy, she turned and continued along the beach. “Good night.”
Trailing footsteps dragging in the wet sand alerted Pauline to someone following. Lucy must have caught up.
“It is unwise for a young lady to walk alone in the dark,” Lord Ashford said.
She swung around in shock and her foot did slip.
He caught her elbow, steadying her.
Once she’d regained her balance, instead of letting her go, he kept his hold. His long strides slowed to match hers.
A quick glance back showed Lucy following a good ten steps behind. Her maid held out her arms as if she, too, was flummoxed by this surprising turn of events.
Pauline faced forward, enjoying his lordship’s hold on her arm. It had a comforting feel, as if he meant to keep her safe.
“You know who I am,” he said with confidence.
She glanced at him in alarm. Had he recognized her after all? Was that why he believed she would know who he was? Then her panic receded and reason returned. This close to his home, of course anyone nearby would recognize the Earl of Ashford. So, she breathed deeply to calm her nerves and nodded acknowledgement. “Yes, my lord.”
“Will you share who you are?” he asked.
She’d guessed correctly. He hadn’t recognized her. This was her chance to remind him. Yet, the answer clogged in Pauline’s throat. It felt wonderful to have him accompany her along this dark lonely beach. She didn’t want to ruin the moment by having him reject her again for imposing herself near his home. The silence stretched. Finally, she whispered, “My father calls me Paul.”
He chuckled. It sounded rusty, as if he hadn’t laughed in a long while. When she first spotted him in the Queen’s Drawing Room, he had been full of smiles and laughter. How sad that he’d lost that joy in his spirit.
“Does your mother not object to his masculine moniker for you?”
“She corrects him every time,” Pauline replied, smiling at the fond memories. “Sometimes he uses the name just to see her flare up. He once told me she is at her most beautiful when she’s cross with him, for that’s when her eyes sparkle and her cheeks turn rosy.”
“They sound like a wonderfully matched couple.”
“They are,” she agreed.
They walked on in the darkness, falling into a companionable silence. Finally, Pauline called a halt. It had been a very long day, and it would be a good walk back. Also, she wanted to be up early when the stone delivery arrived.
She faced him with regret. “Time to return.”
“Wise,” he said. “The air feels heavy; it might rain again.”
She nodded and they traipsed back, passing Lucy. When they finally arrived at the spot where she must climb up to her aunt’s home, Pauline said in a rush, “My lord, I am very sorry for your loss.”
As if words failed him, he gazed across the water.
Pauline hesitated to leave him like this, so full of sorrow. Her mother was right. It was time he focused on the living. She’d spent only a few moments in his company tonight and during the Patterson ball and already she was more attached to this aloof gentleman than any other man who had ever courted her. His friends must miss him, too.
“From what I’ve heard,” she said gently, hoping she was not about to alienate him yet again, “your brother loved life.”
“He did,” Ashford replied in a choked whisper.
“Then I suspect he would want for you what he most enjoyed while he was alive.”
“What would that be?” he asked. “My brother loved being a soldier, but as an earl, I have duties to uphold. I can no longer return to combat.”
“Whether he was in Spain or here, I suspect he would have behaved the same,” Pauline said in a thoughtful tone, thinking of Cecil’s letters about his gaming and having fun between bouts of horror. “He would have celebrated every moment that he was alive as a precious gift not to be squandered. Do you not think he would want you to do the same?”
Leaving him to think that over, Pauline continued up the rocky slope. “Good night, my lord.”
“Good night, Paul,” he replied, sounding thoughtful.
At least he didn’t sound angry at her suggestion he should live life to the fullest. As well, hearing that dear nickname on his lips brought a blush to her cheeks as hot as any her mother might have experienced.
Lucy hurried to catch up.
A final glance back showed Ashford still on the shore, but now he watched her retreat instead of the sea.
Chapter Four
Stone slept in the next morning until men grunting and wheels rolling had him jumping out of bed to rush to the window. It was morning already. He must have slept the whole night through. The first time he’d done that since he was injured. All seemed peaceful outside but shouts and grunts still echoed in the air, coming from his neighboring property.
He called his valet to help him dress quickly and then settled for a small breakfast. Within the hour, in an unusually elated mood, he strolled next door to speak to his new neighbor again. She should be up by now and ready for visitors. The workmen would have awoken her early, since their noise had reached all the way to his home. Time for him to go over and admit that he had recognized her last night after all.
In fact, he had heard her fall and been hurrying up to assist when she stood, dusted herself off and looked around as if ashamed at having fallen. He’d retreated behind a tree then, not wanting to embarrass her by admitting that he’s witnessed her small mishap.
When she neared him, he couldn’t help speaking up, for he had been thinking of Miss Blackburn quite a bit since he left London. Then she shied away and he’d moved to follow, to en
sure she would be safe on the beach. Once he touched her, though, he hadn’t been able to let her go. Even after she prevaricated about who she was. Paul, indeed. He chuckled at the memory. Despite her reticence in owning up to who she was, it had felt right to hold her arm, to speak to her, to simply be with her. He’d deeply regretted it when she said it was time for her to go home. Then her parting words left him shaken by her insightfulness.
Miss Blackburn likely didn’t realize it, but last night she had cheered him immensely. Until she mentioned it, he’d forgotten how much Geoffrey had loved life. She was also correct that his brother’s greatest wish would not be for Stone to grieve his passing but rather to celebrate his brother’s life and accomplishments.
Stone arrived at his neighbor’s house and knocked with an eager, rap, rap, rap, his mind flowing with ideas of what he wished to do next. Hopefully with Miss. Blackburn at his side.
A footman opened the door and came out to speak instead of inviting Stone inside. “It’s a mess in there, my lord, the hall’s not fit for visitors.”
Stone nodded absently. “I’d like to speak to the lady of the house.”
“Mrs. Josephine Kendal is in London, my lord.”
“Not the owner, her niece. She’s overseeing the construction work. She goes by the name of Paul.” He chuckled. A delightful name for a brilliant young lady. He was about to say he knew she was Pauline Blackburn when then the footman spoke.
“Don’t know any lady by that name, sir,” the servant said.
Stone frowned. Surely, he hadn’t been mistaken in his assumption that Paul was short for Pauline? “Who is overseeing the work today?”
“That would be me, I suppose,” he said. “Is there a problem, my lord? The delivery men just left.”
Stone frowned, and glanced around, cursing himself for not insisting on obtaining Paul’s full name last night. Still, there was more than one way to solve this little mystery. “Never mind.”
He returned home, his limping steps moving at a slower pace. He asked his butler to have his valet come to see him. His valet was a champion of gossip. Within hours of arrival anywhere, he always knew everyone and everything that went on in the neighborhood.
Questioning him soon produced the information that Mrs. Josephine Kendal was indeed related to the Blackburns, making Pauline, or Paul, her niece. She had said herself that she was staying in her aunt’s home and pointed to the house next door to his. He grinned in triumph.
I knew it!
Perhaps she did not wish him to think she’d pursued him down to Ashford from London. If so, how to approach the lady without tipping his hand that he was aware of her game yet not discomfit her?
Sitting at his writing table, he picked up the little plaque of the master and dog which had been holding down a stack of invitations and notices that he’d ignored for weeks. Glancing at the carving made him think that perhaps it was time he obtained a puppy. This house was much too quiet.
Then he idly glanced at the mail. At the top was an invitation to attend a play, A Trip to Scarborough, written by playwright Richard Brinsley Sheridan. Stone leafed through the page and noted that the play was scheduled to be performed at the Theater Royal at Drury Lane. He checked the date. Tomorrow.
Geoffrey had loved Sheridan’s quick wit. He glanced at the address. This invite had been meant for his brother. The playwright always sent Geoffrey notices of when his plays were being performed in London. Could this be a sign that Paul was correct, and he should follow in his brother’s footsteps?
He penned a note to Patterson inviting him to come along. Once in town, since Paul was apparently unreachable, he could see about inveigling an invitation where he was likely to meet the equally delightful Pauline.
* * *
Hidden behind a curtain, Pauline watched the earl leave her aunt’s home with sadness. His mood had looked much improved when he first arrived but he left forlorn at finding her not here. Yet, how could she show herself as Pauline, when he was expecting a woman named Paul? She’d have to admit she’d lied about her identity last night.
At a loss on how to proceed with his lordship, she walked over to the tall Alabaster stone that stretched well past her head and closer to the ceiling. She’d chosen this medium because of its ease to sculpt and inherent beauty. She hadn’t been mistaken in her choice. The stone rested on a rolling platform, wedged to keep it in place while she worked, yet the platform would give it ease of mobility when it was time to move it outside and transport it to London. She had a small stool and a taller chair at hand to reach higher when needed.
Unlike with the earl, she felt confident she could effectively handle this task. Anxious as she was to get started, she wasn’t quite ready to begin. She had learned much about Geoffrey Livingston in the past few weeks, but the form the statue would take was still amorphous in her mind. It was as if it remained hidden behind a white curtain.
She took out her sketch book and sat with her notes to come up with a plan of attack. She stopped for lunch and returned to work, discarding more sketches than she had notes.
“Miss,” Lucy said, coming over later in the afternoon with a letter in hand. “This was brought here by a footman. It’s from your mother.”
Pauline opened the missive with excitement. Her mother would not be writing to her, and in such an urgent fashion that she sent a footman to deliver it, unless she had important news about Lord Ashford. She did. Apparently, the earl was expected to accompany his friend Thomas Patterson to the theatre tomorrow night.
Pauline sat back, pleasure coursing through her. He had taken her advice and decided to enjoy life again. Good!
“Lucy, ask John to get the carriage ready. We’ll be returning to Town tonight.”
* * *
At the Drury Lane theatre the next day, Stone glanced around at the audience as much as at the actors. His pain at Geoffrey’s loss had not diminished, but he had stopped moaning that his brother was not there with him, because, for the first time, he noticed the joy and happiness in those around him.
This was what Geoffrey would have noticed had he been here. He would have taken pleasure in the happiness of others. In noticing what Stone had taken for granted most of his life, he felt a changed man. Mimicking his brother’s way of living, was making him a slightly better man. This was Geoffrey’s legacy to the world. He had made an impact on many of those he interacted with, including his own brother. If Paul had been sitting beside him, he would have given her a heartfelt hug.
“What are you smiling about?” Patterson whispered, leaning in.
“I met a girl, an extraordinary one.”
“What’s her name?”
“Paul,” Stone whispered back.
“What?” Patterson asked, shocked.
Someone in the next box said, “Shhh!”
Stone grinned and returned his attention to the play. His glance skimmed by the boxes directly across from him and then swerved back in surprise. Miss Blackburn was present over there in the company of her parents. She had on a fetching crepe and muslin dress in shades of pale blue that made her look like an angel. Not a muddy streak in sight. He quietly chuckled. Hardly noticing the play, he amused himself with the idea of wishing her good evening during the intermission.
At the first opportunity, he abandoned his friend to hurry over there. When he arrived by her box, soldiers crowded so deep, he couldn’t make inroads within two feet of her. Cooling his heels back in his own box, he barely listened to Patterson go on about the latest rave in London, until he mentioned Pauline Blackburn’s name.
“What did you say?” he asked.
“She’s been labelled a diamond of the first water,” his friend repeated, “despite no longer being of tender years.
Counting back from when he met her in the Queen’s Drawing Room, Stone put her at one-and-twenty. Hardly ancient.
“She’s of good family,” Patterson continued, listing the lady’s assets, “with a father who inherited a goodly sum from his
mother. As a result, the lovely Miss Blackburn comes with at least one thousand a year on her marriage.”
“Why wasn’t she snatched up before this?” he asked, thinking she had a great many other assets that Patterson hadn’t listed. She was a good listener, perceptive and had a gentle heart.
“I’ve not seen her socializing much in the past few years,” his friend said. “Must have decided to get back into the game this year. Our luck, if we can make it past those troops.” Patterson chuckled, gesturing to the crowded box across the theater.
At the rate of her rise in society, she would no doubt be betrothed before the end of the Season. With that outcome looming, the next day, Stone wasted no time and called at the Blackburn residence. The butler invited him into the salon and Stone groaned inwardly at finding not less than seven gentlemen already entrenched in various chairs, including Patterson, surrounding the lovely Miss. Blackburn.
Her mother came to greet him and led him forward. Patterson stood to offer Stone his chair while he fetched another from those arranged along the far wall. All the men were soldiers, cavalry or army or navy. Many he recognized as friends of Geoffrey. The lady apparently had an interest in the war.
As yet another story began about a dashing officer who fought off impossible odds, escaped nail-biting ambushes, and succeeded in getting through with his dispatch, Stone felt forced to interrupt.
“All is not derring-do and bravery on the part of our soldiers,” he said, looking straight into Miss Blackburn’s clever gray gaze. He wanted her to understand that war involved loss as well as excitement. “I’ve seen examples of savagery by the Spanish toward the invading French.”
A hush fell on the group, but Stone couldn’t stop.
“Have you been told the story of the rifleman who was cut off from his regiment and nearly starved to death? Or of the wretched Portuguese peasants having their crops stolen, their animals slaughtered and their women abused? War, Miss Blackburn, is not all pleasantries. Living in the safety of London, with your thoughts on the next ball or the prettiest gown, you may not comprehend the true hideousness of combat. It isn’t all wild hunts and chivalrous escapades. War is simply a necessity to ensure your and my freedom.”
