She couldn’t possibly believe that she would act as her mother had. Both Godfrey and Mary had stated what Frederick had had confirmed from countless sources, including his own observations: In character, Stacie was nothing like her mother. Instead, she was a naturally caring and nurturing soul—a person inherently kind, who consciously tried to do good, even when manipulating others, which she would only do if she was convinced it was for those others’ own good.
He sat and, in light of what he now knew, tried to make sense of her stance—and as with all such things female, found that a wasted exercise. He simply couldn’t see what lay at the root of her resistance to marriage.
He shook his head and sat up. “I’m still missing a piece of the puzzle. The central piece, what’s more.”
He still couldn’t see the picture clearly.
As he studied the landscape of their interactions, a whimsical thought bloomed in his mind—that Stacie was like a fairy-tale princess whose evil mother had planted a hedge of thorns all around her and trapped her inside, holding her forever in thrall.
He was going to rip up that hedge, eradicate it root and branch; it had held Stacie captive for far too long, and he was determined to free her.
Jaw setting, he nodded. “So I attack the roots.”
Imagining that, slowly, he arched his brows. How was he to convince Stacie that she would never be like her mother when she was constantly being informed just how very much like her mother she was?
Stacie sat in the Raventhorne House drawing room and laughed at the antics of Clarissa, her three-year-old niece, who was playing on the terrace outside the open windows. Mary had summoned all the family’s female members to welcome a cousin’s baby into the fold, and Clarissa was pushing the empty perambulator back and forth along the terrace, apparently pretending to be a nursemaid.
Felicia lowered herself into the armchair beside Stacie’s. “This is such a lovely idea—getting all the ladies together to meet the new addition.”
Stacie smiled. “Yours will be next.” Felicia and Rand’s baby was due to be born in late May or perhaps June.
“And after that will come Sylvia and Kit’s little one in September.” Felicia directed a fond look across the room at Sylvia, a childhood friend and now her sister-in-law. “She’s certainly got that telltale glow.”
“Auntie Stacie!” Having spotted Stacie, Clarissa had abandoned the pram and come pelting indoors. She skidded to a stop before Stacie and slapped her little hands on Stacie’s knees. Beaming at Stacie, the little girl, with curls the same tawny blond as her father’s and her mother’s blue eyes, jigged up and down. “Up! Up!”
Stacie laughed, leaned forward, scooped the little girl into her arms, and deposited her in her lap. Clarissa wriggled around to face the room, then leaned back, making herself comfortable against Stacie.
Smiling, Stacie settled her arms loosely around Clarissa’s warm little body. “And how’s my poppet?”
Clarissa raised her chin. “I’m Daddy’s poppet, too.”
“Indeed, you are. But you can be my poppet as well,” Stacie said.
Clarissa nodded seriously. “Good.” Turning her head, she shot a mischievous look at Stacie. “I like being your poppet.” Lowering her voice, she confided, “It’s best that Daddy doesn’t think I’m only his.”
Felicia struggled to mute her laugh.
When Clarissa solemnly faced the room again, Stacie arched a brow at her sister-in-law. “From the mouth of babes.”
Felicia smiled and nodded. “Indeed.”
Mary and Ryder’s boys—Julian, now six, and Arthur, five—were out with their tutor, but three other youngsters—a boy and two girls, children of other Cavanaugh cousins, who had been playing a game in a corner—had heard Clarissa’s squeal, seen Stacie, and after some debate, abandoned their game in favor of begging Stacie for a story.
Clarissa—entrenched in pride of place in Stacie’s lap—added her voice, distinctly more dominant, to the plea.
“All right,” Stacie said. “But you must all sit quietly while I tell it.”
The three promptly settled on the rug before her feet, and Clarissa wriggled down to join them so she could watch Stacie’s face as she told the tale with all the histrionic flair at her command.
“Are you ready?” Stacie asked.
Eyes big, the children nodded.
“Very well—today, I’ll tell you the tale of Little Red Riding Hood.” Stacie proceeded to deliver the fairy tale, much as if she’d been on a stage and the four children her audience. They oohed and aahed and clapped in delight as she told them of the little girl who set out to take her grandmother some buns.
When Julian, Ryder and Mary’s eldest son, had turned one year old, Stacie had bought a copy of Perrault’s Mother Goose Tales and, gradually, over the ensuing years, had familiarized herself with most of the stories. To the children, she was now the storyteller of the family, and she delighted in the role.
Her one real regret over her refusal to consider marriage was that she would, therefore, never have children of her own. She’d always loved children; watching them evolve from infants through childhood and their teenage years to their adult selves had always fascinated her, and she possessed an innate knack of engaging with youngsters of any age.
But not even for the chance of having a child of her own would she rethink her refusal to marry; what good would her love for a child be if she meanwhile destroyed its father?
More, while she felt like this about children now, when it came to children of her own, how could she be certain that she wouldn’t turn into her mother?
Courting such a risk was potentially too damaging for everyone involved, so she determinedly made do with her nieces, nephews, and cousins’ children. When she reached the triumphant end of Little Red Riding Hood’s story, she had the four at her feet cheering.
Cradling the new baby, Mary appeared beside Stacie. “I believe you’re the most appropriate person to introduce this little one to our younger family members.” Leaning down, Mary handed the infant to Stacie. Spontaneously smiling, Stacie accepted the warmly wrapped bundle and settled the baby in her arms.
She drew back the fine muslin so she could look down into the tiny, round, pudgy face. The other four children scrambled to their feet and pressed close about Stacie’s legs, the better to peer at the baby.
“Not too close,” she warned. “This is Rex Maximillian. He’s come to join our family.”
“Why isn’t he opening his eyes?”
“Can he play with us?”
“Can I push him in his pram?”
Stacie fielded the questions with gentle authority, aware of Mary’s too-understanding gaze trained on her face.
The children eventually convinced themselves that Rex in his current form was unlikely to actively engage with them and drifted back to their previously discarded game.
By then, Rex’s warm weight had sunk through Stacie’s gown, and when he stirred and turned toward her, the urge to cuddle him close was nearly overpowering. She resettled his wrap, rose, and carried him back to his mother.
After handing over the infant, she remained for a few more minutes, long enough for several of her relatives to comment on the subdued nature of her engagement celebrations. Her explanation that Frederick was a rather private individual rang true and was accepted, however grudgingly, by all.
Intending to slip away, Stacie turned to the door, only to have Clarissa bound up and clutch her hand.
“Come and play, Auntie Stacie!” The blond angel bounced up and down.
Stacie looked into Clarissa’s bright eyes and reflected that no child would ever have approached Stacie’s mother in that way. Stacie smiled and crouched down so her face and Clarissa’s were closer to level. “I have to go now, and you have your cousins to play with.”
Clarissa pouted. “But they’re not you! And they can’t tell stories!”
Stacie laughed and rose. “Be that as it may, poppet”—she ruffle
d Clarissa’s curls—“I need to be on my way.”
Clarissa’s eyes searched hers, assessing her determination, then the little girl’s expression eased into reluctant acceptance. “All right.” She flung her arms around Stacie’s legs, pressed her face into Stacie’s gown, and hugged tight. “I’ll be good and say goodbye.” The words were muffled, then Clarissa released her, danced back, and waved. “Goodbye!”
Stacie laughed, waved, and before anyone else could catch her, found Mary, whispered that she was off, briefly squeezed Mary’s arm, and determinedly made for the drawing room door.
She paused in the doorway and looked back on a scene that spoke of family and the central role of women in establishing and nurturing that—a role that called to her, that she yearned for, yet had accepted could never be hers.
Stacie turned and left. Her inner yearning would have to be satisfied with what came her way via the safer role of spinster aunt.
The next morning, bright and early, Stacie rode out to meet Frederick in the park, with, as usual, her groom trailing behind. As she trotted her mare out of Green Street and into Park Lane, her mind drifted over the events of the previous evening. She and Frederick had elected to attend a soirée at Lord and Lady Manning’s house; the conversation had revolved about politics, business, and investments rather than the usual superficial ton topics, which had been a welcome change.
The difference had kept her on her mental toes and prevented her from thinking of other things, which had been all to the good. Would that that state had extended to the rest of her night. Instead, once in her bed, she’d spent hours restless and wakeful, unable to find sleep—which she blamed wholly on the aftereffects of Mary’s morning gathering.
Stirring those yearnings she normally kept deeply suppressed always left her feeling…empty. Unfulfilled and unhappy when there really was no reason to feel that way.
These days, her life was one many would be delighted to have.
Sternly telling herself that, she turned her mare in at the Grosvenor Gate and saw Frederick mounted on his gray, waiting a little way ahead.
She summoned a suitably bright smile and trotted over to join him. “Good morning, my lord.”
With a slow, appreciative smile, he gracefully inclined his head. “My lady.” The gray shifted, and Frederick looked southward, then, gathering his reins, arched a brow at her. “Shall we?”
With a dip of her head, she turned her mare toward the beginning of Rotten Row.
They cantered beneath the trees, and she told herself to concentrate on the moment—on riding with Frederick and the associated simple pleasures—and not let any other thoughts intrude.
While she was reasonably successful in directing her thoughts, her feelings were less easy to corral.
Frederick sensed her distance, her distraction. After they’d galloped down the tan and turned their horses to walk back for a second run, he studied her face more closely and realized she was pensive.
Instinct prodded. He’d been waiting, watching for just the right moment to broach the sensitive topic that, at least in his mind, hovered between them.
He would have to speak soon, and his manipulator’s instincts were insisting that this moment was propitious.
Should he speak? Or risk waiting for some even better time?
And if no other good chance came his way?
Yet something in him still balked at the prospect of rolling the dice—she might refuse him, and then what?
He glanced around. There was no one within hearing distance. Before he could think any further, he drew breath and, in an even but quiet—private—tone said, “It seems to me that, since announcing our engagement, we’ve rubbed along very well.” When she glanced at him, he caught her eyes, arched a brow, and gently smiled. “For instance, I haven’t previously shared my morning rides with any lady, yet I enjoy our gallops.”
She dipped her head. “I do, too. I love to ride, and given my brothers are rarely available these days, I haven’t recently been able to indulge in the pastime. As you know, a single lady galloping down Rotten Row is frowned upon and not just by the grandes dames.”
He nodded. “There’s our shared appreciation of good music, too, which reaches deeper than most of our peers.”
Her lips quirked upward. “It’s not easy to find someone willing to sit through an opera a second time just because there’s a new first violin.”
He chuckled. “Indeed. I have to admit that, on occasions such as that, I usually end up going alone.”
Their gazes met and held as the obvious extension—that she would always readily accompany him—hovered between them.
He couldn’t risk the moment stretching too thin. “Even last night,” he smoothly went on, “I gathered from the discussions that your views on politics and business largely align with mine.”
“Given our families, that’s probably not surprising.”
“Indeed—and then there are our families and, more, our views of society.” He didn’t have to fabricate his wryness as he said, “Despite our station, it seems you and I both prefer to live quietly, outside the glare of the ton.”
“Definitely.” After a moment, she added, “We are remarkably well matched.”
He could never hope for a better moment. They were almost back to the head of the track. He edged his horse higher on the verge and drew rein, and obligingly, she halted her mare alongside.
When she looked his way, her brows arching in question, he met her eyes. “In light of all the above, I can’t help but wonder if us actually marrying each other wouldn’t be the answer to both our prayers.”
Stacie held Frederick’s gaze and waited for her instinctive, violent aversion to marriage to leap to the front of her mind. But that habitual reaction didn’t materialize—at least not as her first thought. Instead, she found herself tilting her head, regarding him steadily, and with wary curiosity, asking, “How so?”
“Well, in my case”—his gaze remained on her face—“marrying you will rank as me very satisfactorily doing my duty to the title, which will mean my mother, sisters, and older relatives will cease badgering me over doing just that, and I will no longer be hounded to distraction during those times I choose to appear within the ton—for instance, at your musical evenings or at the theater or opera. You have no idea what a relief these last few evenings have been, now that the ton has accepted our engagement and I’m no longer viewed as an unclaimed eligible nobleman.”
She couldn’t help gently smiling; she knew the ways of their world.
He continued, “And in my eyes, best and most important of all is your understanding and appreciation of music. That’s something I could never hope to find in any other.” His gaze held hers. “You are unique—I have never come across a lady who would fit the position of my marchioness as perfectly as you.”
He paused, then went on, “That our engagement was initially proposed as temporary protection shouldn’t blind us to the fact that us marrying could well be in the best interests of us both, nor is there anything in our current situation that should discourage us from changing our minds and making our faux engagement real.”
The mare shifted, and Stacie glanced at the horse and patted its neck. She knew—in her mind, in her heart—that all he’d said was true. Yet even though her usual aversion had yet to strike with full force, she knew the picture he was painting simply could not be.
Regardless, most strangely—and she had no idea why—curiosity was still trumping, still holding back her usual panic, her invariable recoil from and denial of any suggestion of her marrying.
Perhaps because he was being so utterly reasonable and…unpushy. She sensed no pressure from him at all, no threat; this was just another discussion between them, albeit one of potentially life-changing consequence. She raised her head, met his eyes, and rather challengingly asked, “What do you see as the benefits for me?”
Frederick held tight to his purpose and fought to hit the right note—one of cataloging
the obvious. “Quite aside from consolidating your position in wider society and bestowing all the benefits and freedoms accruing to a married lady, marrying me will reassure your family as nothing else will—despite their outward acceptance of your decision not to wed, they worry about you and your future. Deep down, all would prefer to see you suitably married, and you marrying me will come as a relief.”
He paused to see if she might feel prompted to volunteer something of the reason behind her decision not to wed, but when she remained silent, one dark brow slowly arching as if to inquire if that was all he had to say, he went on, “Most importantly, however, you becoming my marchioness will give you all the position you could wish for and all the clout you might need to engage with the ton in support of worthy local musicians.
“The goal you’ve embraced as your life’s work is to introduce local musicians to the ton—to create an avenue whereby they get the right sort of exposure so they gain patrons who can advance their careers. That, I’ve discovered, is important to me as well, and I will continue to support you regardless of any formal connection between us.” He clung to her gaze. “However, you know, as do I, that the best—the most effective and certain—route to achieving your goal, which I now share, is to become my marchioness—to throw in your lot with mine and work with me to convert our sham engagement into a real one.”
Pensiveness had returned to her eyes and brought a frown along with it. Frederick braced to hear her reject the notion out of hand.
Instead, after a moment that seemed to stretch forever, she blinked, refocused on him, studied his face, then glanced around.
More riders had arrived, and the queue for the track was lengthy.
“I believe I’ll return to Green Street.” She shook her reins and turned her mare.
Frederick swallowed his temper along with his impatience and, lips thinning, nudged the gray to pace alongside.
He held his tongue—there was nothing more he wanted to say—and waited as they trotted their mounts back up the park, then slowed and walked through the gate back into Park Lane.
The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh: The Cavanaughs Volume 3 Page 23
