by Donna Hatch
“Are you willing to recant, then?”
“No.” Michael jutted out his chin. “I accept your wager.” He considered. “If she refuses your proposal, you muck out my stables.”
Phillip blanched. He had never done such a thing. It would be backbreaking and smelly and humiliating. And if his family found out he’d done something so far below his standing, they’d take him to task. But he wouldn’t have to do it; he would win. He straightened his shoulders. “Done.”
“Wedding must be before the end of the Season.”
“Agreed.” If he couldn’t win her by Season’s end, he had little chance anyway. Angry for a reason he couldn’t quite identify, Phillip stared into the fire, which had died down to a jutting tongue behind the charred log. Silence stretched until finally Phillip glanced at Michael. His friend eyed him silently, that same assessing look he gave to purebreds to determine their worth.
Finally, Phillip barked, “What?”
“Why?”
Phillip blinked. Sometimes determining Michael’s meaning required tremendous insightfulness, and he seemed short on supply just then. “Why what?”
“Why her? Why so certain? You have never conversed with her. She’s pretty, but not beautiful.”
Phillip disagreed with Michael’s assessment of her beauty but focused on his attempt to answer the question truthfully. “She is different. I’ve seen her before—at the St. Cyrs’ ball last week. She caught my eye right away—like a light shining on her face. She never once made a move toward my brother or me. She didn’t even ask for an introduction to my mother, which slyer young ladies sometimes do.”
That alone had captured his attention.
Michael toyed with his glass. “Not after your connections, then.”
“No. And when I saw her yesterday, I had this sense of recognition, as if she were a long-lost love.”
When she chased after Miss Harris’s bonnet, so determined to help, and was creatively kind, both to an urchin and to Miss Harris, he’d experienced a pull toward her.
He glanced at Michael, but he wasn’t laughing or scoffing, only looking sober and thoughtful. Whether he relived his own attraction to his late fiancée or simply tried to understand, Phillip did not know.
Finally, he added, “She intrigues me like no one else.”
Michael nodded. “Then I wish you luck. Or, I would, but I have no desire to ride a mule.” His lips twitched.
“I look forward to witnessing the spectacle of you riding a mule in Hyde Park . . . on the day she accepts my marriage proposal.” Phillip grinned.
“No.” His face a mask of calm, Michael said, “The day after she marries you. Accepting a proposal doesn’t allow for a change of mind.”
“She isn’t a jilt.”
“And you know her so well?”
“Yes, I do.”
With any luck, he would utter similar words while kneeling at an altar by the end of London’s social season.
Chapter Four
Standing in the drawing room of her aunt and uncle’s London townhouse, Meredith gaped at the flowers and box of candy in Aunt Paulette’s hands. “They are from whom?”
“Phillip Partridge.” Her aunt narrowed her gaze as if trying to see Meredith better. “His card says rather benignly, ‘Kindest regards,’ and it is addressed to the family.”
If there was a hidden meaning, Meredith missed it. “They are for all of you—not me.”
“He’s being polite,” Aunt Paulette said. “Since you haven’t been officially introduced, it would be inappropriate for him to send them to you.”
“It’s inappropriate anyway,” Annabel said. “Brother of a duke or no, he has a lot of nerve sending you flowers and candy as if that atones for knocking you into the water. Why, you might have been injured or drowned or caught your death of cold.”
Annabel’s protectiveness brought a sting of tears to Meredith’s eyes. She’d been her one true friend throughout her entire life, even in her darkest hours.
Aunt Paulette handed the flowers to a maid. “Put these in a vase of water, please.” As the maid took the flowers out of the room, Aunt Paulette set the candy on a round Chippendale table. “He’s clearly trying to pave the way to a civil reception when he comes to apologize in person. The question is, do we receive him or cut him?”
“We ought not cut him,” Meredith said. “He didn’t mean any harm, and he apologized the moment it happened—more than once.”
“You don’t have to be polite to him just because his brother is a duke,” Annabel said.
Aunt Paulette added, “People have cut the prince regent.”
“I wouldn’t be so cruel,” Meredith said. “If Mr. Partridge calls, I think we should receive him. But I doubt he will. He really owes me nothing.”
Annabel let out a huff. “He couldn’t take his eyes off you. He will call if you’ll let him. Are you sure you forgive him?”
Meredith nodded. “It was not done with malicious intent, and no harm was done. We will receive him, and be polite, and . . .” She shrugged. “That will be the end of it.” Or so she hoped.
“Very well.” Aunt Paulette opened the box of candy and held it out to Meredith. “If you have forgiven him, then so shall we.”
“I won’t.” Annabel folded her arms. “Not unless he has a very pretty apology. I know marrying into such an auspicious family would please your parents, Merry, but don’t settle for someone who won’t make you happy.”
Chewing the candy, Meredith picked up a pillow and hugged it. “I’m not so naïve as to believe my happiness rests on another or that romantic love is required for a successful match. I will be content with an honorable man, if any still exists, and a home of my own. Perhaps I should go back to Sussex and marry Grandmother’s vicar.”
“Nonsense,” cried Annabel. “A stuffy man like that is not for you.”
“At least I would have no delusions about him being in love with me.” Meredith hugged the pillow harder and savored the sweet candy in her mouth.
Annabel sat forward. “Don’t give up just yet, Merry. You promised to stay with me the whole Season.”
“Yes, I did. But since a love match is not in the stars for me, I shall employ my newfound powers of discernment to help others.”
A maid entered carrying the tea service and plates of refreshment. After setting the tray on a nearby table, the maid bobbed a curtsey and soundlessly left the room. A second maid arrived with the flowers arranged in a vase and set it on a sideboard table. The flowers smiled from their crystal vase.
“I cannot like your goal of coming between couples, Meredith, but I have to admit, you were quite right about Mr. Wynn.” Aunt Paulette inspected the plate of scones and biscuits.
Annabel also leaned forward to select a scone. “And about that peacock trying to woo my friend Charlotte.”
Meredith nodded slowly. “I’m only grateful they were spared. And by the way, your handsome Mr. Barrett is not to be trusted either. He strikes me as a rake of the worst kind, just as you said.”
Aunt Paulette’s hand froze midway to her mouth. “Mr. Tristan Barrett? Oh, yes, indeed, he does have a wild reputation. He might be wealthy and well connected, but no one that rakish will do, Annabel. I hope you know that.”
Annabel’s expression turned almost sullen. “I know, I know. But he’s so . . .”
“By all means, admire him like a piece of fine art, but don’t fall for him,” Meredith said firmly.
Annabel let out a huff. “But what if gossip has it wrong about him just like it was wrong about you? I mean, you didn’t actually do anything truly bad, and if no one had discovered that you had eloped, you wouldn’t be considered ruined.”
Meredith blanched at the word that had been flung at her, beating her down like a battering ram, almost constantly for years. “I did do something wrong: I believed the lies of a handsome face.” Twice, but few besides Grandmother knew about the second one. At least she had learned her lesson enough not to attempt
an elopement a second time.
Aunt Paulette handed teacups around. “No need to bring up the past. We will focus on the future for you both. Promise me you won’t get so jaded that you find faults that aren’t there, Meredith.”
“I will try, Aunt. And I will try not to be such a failure.”
Seven years had failed to completely heal the hurt of lies and betrayal or restore her faith in herself or her trust in gentlemen in general. Nor had it yielded her parents’ forgiveness. But if she could protect others from her own folly, she would feel a measure of satisfaction. That would have to be enough.
“Now, now,” Aunt Paulette said. “One miscalculation does not mean you are no longer a candidate for a love match. If you are willing to forgive Mr. Partridge for his overzealous attempts to get your attention, you might consider allowing him to court you.”
Meredith huffed a laugh. “No one of his status would align himself with someone of my background and the scandal attached to me.”
“No one here knows of that,” Aunt Paulette said in a soothing voice. “And surely everyone in Loughborough has forgotten all about it.”
“Things like that have a way of resurfacing,” Meredith said miserably. “Besides, nothing will change the fact that my father is in trade. That disqualifies me from anyone lofty—unless they need my dowry.”
“Don’t be so sure, my dear cynic. Keep an open mind and an open heart, and you might be surprised what delightful people will come into your life. Now, as far as tonight, our hostess is Lady Daubrey—she’s such a dear. She will have a sumptuous dinner. I’m certain all the gentlemen present will be of the very best ton.”
“Aunt,” Meredith interrupted, “if the subject of my dowry comes up at all, could we imply that it’s very modest?”
“But my dear, to make an advantageous match—”
“I must avoid fortune hunters, mustn’t I?” Meredith interjected.
Aunt Paulette frowned thoughtfully. “Well . . . er . . . yes, but—”
“Would that not be easier to achieve if people believe I don’t offer an impressive dowry?”
“Your father might—”
“He might understand, all things considered, don’t you think?”
Aunt Paulette’s brows creased, and she closed her mouth, frowned, and said nothing for a long moment.
Annabel piped up. “I think she’s right, Mama. As her sponsor, you don’t have to name a sum, just imply that it’s very modest. And really, it’s all relative anyway, isn’t it?”
“Besides, the last I spoke to Papa,” Meredith said as if that had been weeks instead of years ago, “he mentioned reducing my dowry but increasing trust money that would stay in my control even after marriage. For all I know, he’s done that.”
None of their letters had mentioned such matters. They’d been polite, filled mostly with local events such as marriages and babies born, or the new garden Mama had designed, but no words of forgiveness or an invitation to return home.
Aunt Paulette finally nodded. “I see what you mean. Enough of a dowry so as not to be a true deterrent, but not so much as to attract anyone seeking a way to restore the family coffers.”
The tightness that had knotted inside Meredith relaxed enough to allow the first deep breath she’d taken in years.
The butler opened the door and said, “Forgive me, madam, but are you at home to a Mr. Partridge and Mr. Cavenleigh?”
He’d come. Meredith could hardly believe it. She would not allow herself to look too long at his stunning face or she might fall back into her former stupidity and fail to see his true intentions, whatever they may be.
“Show them in,” Aunt Paulette said.
The ladies touched up their hair and smoothed their skirts. The butler returned a moment later, followed by two gentlemen. Mr. Partridge entered first, followed by his leaner friend, a sandy-haired gentleman who nearly matched him in height. However, Meredith saw little else of his companion with her attention so focused on Mr. Partridge.
The Master Craftsman had certainly taken his time designing this fine specimen of a man. With beautifully formed features and a mouth perfect for kissing, he seemed to embody her girlish dreams of a prince charming who would carry her off to his castle in the clouds.
He and his friend bowed. Aunt Paulette and Annabel curtsied, reminding Meredith to do so.
“Mrs. Stafford, Miss Stafford, thank you for seeing me.”
Meredith had forgotten the musical beauty of Mr. Partridge’s voice.
“So kind of you to call, Mr. Partridge, Mr. Cavenleigh,” Aunt Paulette said. “May I present my niece, Miss Meredith Brown?”
Mr. Partridge’s eyes, the green and blue of a dappled country lake, caressed her face with a contradictory intensity and softness. His blond patch nestled in his dark waves, shining like a beacon. The light in the room emanated from his face, and all else faded away to colorless trivia.
No. Not again. Love was a trite fantasy. She would not be duped again.
“Mr. Partridge,” she said coolly. “Thank you for the flowers and candy. I assure you, it was not necessary.”
He blinked as if trying to merge her gracious words and frosty tone. “It was not near enough, I assure you. I hope you will forgive me.”
“Already forgiven. No need to fret.” Her voice still sounded chilly, even to her own ears.
Her aunt cleared her voice. “Won’t you both please sit and take a cup of tea?”
Mr. Partridge swung back to speak to Aunt Paulette. “Yes, thank you.” He glanced at his silent friend, and they both sat. He addressed Meredith, “I hope you suffered no ill effects from the mishap?”
“Not at all. You can rest easy knowing you owe me nothing. All is forgotten.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, and he tilted his head rather like a child trying to determine if an adult had told him the truth or a fanciful tale. It gave him a rather endearingly innocent expression. But she would not be so easily swayed. She had yet to determine his character. Which was foolish, really, since no ducal family member would lower himself to a factory owner’s daughter. And that line of thought was even more foolish.
“Truly,” she added with a smile. “I harbor no grudge. But thank you so much for taking time out of what is no doubt a busy schedule to call upon us.”
A dark brow shot up. “Am I being dismissed?” A curve to one side of his mouth revealed a dimple. Oh heavens, not a dimple!
“I wouldn’t presume to do so, Mr. Partridge; only to convey my appreciation of your solicitousness.” She had, in truth, been trying to subtly suggest he had no reason to stay. How surprising that he’d called her on it. If only he’d leave before she started to like him! She bowed her head and folded her hands in an attempt to appear demure.
“It is my pleasure,” he said.
“Did you enjoy your visit to Vauxhall?” Aunt Paulette addressed both of them.
“Yes, for the most part,” Mr. Partridge said in his lovely voice. “But I admit I was so concerned for Miss Brown’s well-being that I hardly saw it all. Perhaps we might enjoy it together one day?”
Meredith’s palms grew damp. Was he inviting her to spend time with him?
He held up his hands. “I vow not to touch the oars and to leave all the paddling to the ferryman.”
Meredith laughed in spite of herself. “I’ll hold you to that.”
He brightened, and that blasted dimple reappeared. “Then you’ll go? We can make a group of it, can’t we?” He glanced at his friend.
Mr. Cavenleigh made a gesture that seemed to convey agreement.
“Well,” Annabel drew out the word. “I’m not as forgiving as my cousin, Mr. Partridge. If you get even so much as a drop of water on Meredith, I shan’t forgive you—ever.”
Mr. Partridge held up a hand. “I vow not to cause Miss Brown any further discomfort.”
Meredith chewed on her lower lip. An outing with Mr. Partridge was the last thing she ought to have.
“Miss Brown?” h
e said softly. “What say you? Are we for Vauxhall in the near future?”
Oh, heavens. How to escape this? “I am not certain . . .”
“By all means, Miss Brown, check your social calendar.” He stood. “I hope our paths cross again very soon.”
Very soon?
He gave her a soft smile that felt ridiculously affectionate. How could she stay strong against the onslaught of his beautiful face and seemingly genuine manner?
Aunt Paulette replied, “I do hope so, Mr. Partridge, Mr. Cavenleigh.”
Mr. Cavenleigh inclined his blond head. “Madam.” Was he always so quiet?
They bowed and bade a good day. Meredith let out her breath. All the strength in her limbs traveled out on that exhale. She must not lose focus. She came to enjoy time with her cousin, ensure Annabel made a good match with someone deserving of her, and be this Season’s guardian of young ladies in danger of falling prey to rakes and fortune hunters. Come summer, she would return to her grandmother and marry a respectable man. Then perhaps her parents would forgive her for her humiliating mistakes. Perhaps she would even forgive herself.
Chapter Five
In the foyer of the Staffords’ home, Phillip lowered his voice to address the butler as he slipped him enough coins to buy a few pints at an alehouse. “I say, my good man, would you happen to know where the Staffords will be tonight?”
The butler paused, probably considering whether such information made him disloyal. Finally, he said, “I believe they are bound for a dinner party at Lord and Lady Daubrey’s this eve.”
Perfect. Phillip knew them well enough to enlist them in his scheme.
Outside, Michael shook his head. “Bribing the staff now?”
“I plan to win the hand of the fair maiden—whatever it takes.”
“And avoid mucking out my stables.”
“I assure you, I’m more motivated by the thought of you on the back of a mule than by avoiding a little time in your stables.” He grinned.
They took Phillip’s town coach to the Daubreys’, where the hostess admitted them even though it wasn’t her usual at-home hours.
