The marchioness looked at Lady Caire. “Your husband informs us that you’ve known this child since she was a baby.”
Lady Caire nodded, her brows drawn together over her sherry-brown eyes. “She was found on the doorstep at my family’s orphanage on Whitsunday, 1726. Mary grew up in the orphanage, and when I married Lord Caire she came with me.”
The marchioness pursed her lips, her crepey eyelids lowering to half-mast over her eyes. “I suppose we can believe your word.”
Lord Caire stirred. “My wife does not lie, my lady.”
The old lady crimped her lips together in what might have been a smile—although a very cynical one. “If she does not, then she is the only lady in London not to do so. But as I say, I will take her word.” She waved at Mary. “Do get up, child.”
Mary slowly rose and clasped her hands in front of her. This was…goodness. This simply couldn’t be. She didn’t know what to think.
Lady Angrove stood abruptly and gathered Mary into her arms. Her hair smelled of orange blossoms and her hands were very soft. “It’s so strange, isn’t it? For years and years we thought you lost forever, and now here you are.” Lady Angrove pulled away to look at Mary. She’d regained some of her color, though her voice quavered. “This…this is simply a miracle. I can’t wait to tell Joanna—she’ll be thrilled—and your papa will be pleased. There’ll be so much to do. I think dancing lessons and comportment. Perhaps drawing, painting, and music lessons?” She cocked her head, gazing at Mary’s face as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. Lady Angrove shook her head. “No, not all at once, we don’t want to drown you in new things. But the dressmakers, certainly. And French. A lady cannot do without French. Oh goodness, and do you ride, dear?”
“I…” Mary gazed at her in astonishment. She felt rather as if she’d tripped and fallen into a different world. “No, my lady. But I don’t understand. What is happening?”
Lady Angrove’s big blue eyes filled with tears, and she gasped and pressed her handkerchief to her lips as if she couldn’t speak.
The marchioness only snorted.
It was Lord Blackwell who said, “Your mother and grandmother are discussing how to welcome you to the family and prepare you for society, Lady Cecilia.”
Mary turned to look at him in horror.
Those devil-may-care dimples were back on his face. “Oh, and to be my wife.”
Chapter Three
Now, all the other mermaids were content to sing and comb their hair, but Clio cared little for singing and was bored combing her hair. She liked to watch the land dwellers’ ships. They were strange and ugly and ungainly, but she found them fascinating nonetheless.
And she thought the men with split tails who lived in them more fascinating still.…
—From The Curious Mermaid
Henry watched wryly as a look of horror passed over Mary’s—or rather Lady Cecilia’s—face before she quickly controlled herself. The aristocracy’s tendency to promise its offspring in marriage without the approval or even consent of said offspring was a bit hard for the average outsider to understand. Lord knew he himself found it hard to understand sometimes—and he’d grown up with it. Having an arranged marriage complete with bridegroom suddenly thrust upon one?
Well, no wonder she looked appalled.
He couldn’t even take it personally.
“Explain,” Lord Caire snapped.
Henry glanced at the older man. He’d been interested when both Lord and Lady Caire had joined this little tête-à-tête, apparently unaware of why he, Lady Angrove, and the dowager marchioness had called. Lord Caire’s concern seemed nearly paternal, and Lady Caire sat close to her nursemaid as if ready to leap to her defense.
They were obviously quite fond of the girl, which made him curious—most aristocrats barely spoke to their maids. She had to be special to have garnered their loyalty.
The marchioness folded her hands in her lap. “Do sit down, my dear,” she said to Lady Cecilia.
“Come, come.” Lady Angrove beckoned to the girl as she sat on the settee and scooted to the end away from her mother. “Sit beside me, do.”
Lady Cecilia nodded uncertainly and took the seat between the marchioness and Lady Angrove.
The countess beamed, her eyes still bright with tears.
The marchioness turned to Lord and Lady Caire. “My son-in-law in his infinite wisdom decided on the birth of his eldest daughter, Lady Cecilia”—she made a short nod to the girl beside her—“to betroth her to the son of his greatest friend and neighbor, the Earl of Keating.”
Henry inclined his head. “That would be my father.”
“Quite,” the marchioness said, her voice so dry it might as well be dust. Henry had always had a sneaking fondness for the old girl, as dreadfully frightening as she tried to be. “When both Lady Cecilia and her twin sister, Lady Joanna, were kidnapped at the age of seven months, and only Lady Joanna was recovered, Angrove decided that the arrangement would be altered so that Lady Joanna would replace her sister as the bride.”
The marchioness halted her recitation and turned slowly to examine Lady Cecilia. The girl sat primly upright, her hands folded in her lap, her expression reserved and neutral.
The sight somehow sat ill with him—it was as if her flame had been doused. Henry had the urge to whisper something scandalous in her ear, just to see that fire again.
Lady Angrove gasped, blotting her eyes with her handkerchief. “But now that Cecilia has been found…”
The marchioness sniffed. “Indeed.”
Lady Caire cleared her throat as the door to the sitting room opened. Two maids bearing lavish tea trays marched in. The one in front nearly tripped when she glanced up and saw Lady Cecilia, her eyes widening.
“Do continue, Beth,” Lady Caire said rather sharply. “There’s no need to stare.”
Lady Cecilia bit her lip, her eyes downcast as her face reddened.
The maid recovered and placed her tray carefully on a low table, darting glances at Lady Cecilia every now and again. There were small cakes and tarts, bonbons, and thin slices of bread cut into shapes and spread with butter.
Henry felt his lips twitch. Ah. A feast fit for treaty negotiations.
Lady Caire was silent while the maids were in the room, merely nodding when they curtsied and left.
“You’ll have to learn to ignore them,” the marchioness said to Lady Cecilia. “You’re no longer a servant. No longer one of them.”
Lady Caire turned a cool smile on the marchioness. “How do you take your tea, my lady?”
The old lady’s own smile was detached. “A splash of milk, if you please.”
Tea was doled out to the participants, and Henry sat back to watch Lady Caire’s first volley.
It was not long in coming.
She took a delicate sip of her tea. “This is all very sudden for Mary Whitsun. I think it would be beneficial for her to have time to consider what you’ve told us.”
The marchioness set down her teacup very deliberately and eyed Lady Caire. So had Caesar probably eyed the Gauls across the battlefield. “I’m afraid that we don’t have the luxury of time. Her training must begin at once. After all, she’ll be wed within the year.”
Lady Cecilia squeaked.
Henry glanced at her and saw that her face had paled.
This wouldn’t do.
“One day won’t be such a loss, my lady,” he murmured. “Indeed, acquiring the tutors you will need for my fiancée will take more time than that, will it not? Let Lady Cecilia rest and recover from her shock for a day.”
He smiled guilelessly at the old virago.
Her eyes narrowed until it appeared that an elderly dragon was glaring at him.
Abruptly she turned to Lady Caire. “Very well. A day. We will return tomorrow for the gel.”
Lord Caire stirred and said deliberately, as if he hadn’t heard her, “Mary Whitsun shall think over the matter and inform you tomorrow if she wishes to go wit
h you.” He rose and bowed gracefully. “What a delight to meet you, my lady. Lady Angrove.”
Lord Caire strolled from the room, leaving the tattered battlefield to the ladies.
Propriety apparently dictated that the truce last another twenty minutes, which time was spent sipping tea, eating tiny cakes, and participating in a discussion so benign it would’ve sent a vicar to sleep.
Henry paid little heed to the polite small talk, watching his intended instead. She said not a word, letting the older ladies carry the conversation.
Perhaps she was not used to being considered an equal in such a setting. Her expression was carefully blank as she sat stiffly at the edge of her seat, her teacup held untouched in her lap, but he could tell from the downcast eyes and the faint knitting of her brows that she was not happy.
He wished that propriety allowed him to talk to her in private. Perhaps he could provoke a smile—or at least a spirited scowl. Anything but that sad, downcast air.
The sight made his heart ache.
Henry cursed silently and glanced away. Did she have a beau she mourned? Or was it he she didn’t want?
It appeared that he was to be shackled to yet another fiancée who wasn’t interested in him.
Who, perhaps, longed for a different man.
He pushed the thought aside and attended to the conversation, trying not to stare broodingly at Lady Cecilia.
At the end of twenty minutes of careful words, the ladies rose.
Henry set aside his teacup in relief and stood to thank his hostess. He had the feeling Lady Caire’s good opinion would go a long way in helping his cause with her former maidservant.
He turned to Lady Cecilia, gazing into her large, sad eyes.
Damn it. All his good intentions flew out the window. He couldn’t leave her looking like this.
“I shall repine until next we meet,” he said, taking her hand and bending over it.
He raised her resisting hand to his lips and placed a not-quite-chaste kiss on her knuckles, deliberately lingering a fraction too long. It was much too soon, too bold, and even a bit scandalous, but it had the desired effect.
He straightened to her angry glare, coffee-brown eyes snapping with fire and life, and his heart positively crowed.
“There you are, sweetheart,” he murmured so low only she could hear.
“Let go of my hand,” she hissed like a scalded cat.
“Anything my lady desires,” he drawled, slowly surrendering her fingers.
When he turned to the waiting ladies, he met Lady Caire’s raised eyebrows and the marchioness’s thoughtful look.
The hell with it.
He’d risk losing Lady Caire’s favor to see Lady Cecilia’s spirits rise any day.
Henry bowed, said his farewells, and strode to the Caire House front door. Once outside he mounted his mare and urged her into a canter down the street.
He’d sat like a tame monkey through the farce this morning. Done everything expected of him as heir to his father—even at the expense of a lovely lady with fiery eyes. A lady who, in different circumstances, he might’ve wooed and won on his own.
Henry gritted his teeth at the thought, reining in his mare before they ran headlong into a cart and he broke his neck. He’d been born and bred to bend under his family’s expectations—the expectations of the title he would eventually inherit. That was the way it had always been.
That was the way it would always be.
There was no use fighting the bit and halter, and he knew it.
It was a pity, though, that Lady Cecilia had lost her freedom as well.
“You do know that you needn’t go to Angrove House if you don’t wish to,” Lady Caire said seriously to Mary Whitsun the next morning.
They were strolling arm in arm in the back garden of Caire House, just the two of them. Mary cherished the times that she could have Lady Caire to herself, and she felt a sudden pang. If she did go to live with the Albrights, she wouldn’t see Lady Caire as much, nor Annalise or Toby.
But if she did go, she’d have a family—a mother who’d cried at the sight of her, a grandmother, and a father and sister she’d yet to meet.
She’d barely slept the night before. How could she? To find out that everything she knew about herself was completely wrong. That the world as she’d understood it was upside down.
That she was expected not only to become an aristocrat, but to marry a stranger.
A stranger who provoked her so. The way Lord Blackwell had kissed her hand had been absolutely shameless. She might have lived her life as a maidservant, but she knew well enough that gentlemen weren’t supposed to actually kiss a lady’s hand. Had he been mocking her? Or did he simply delight in drawing her ire?
She’d felt out of control when he’d held her hand, his humid breath on her knuckles. As if he were snapping all the ropes that held her back.
If she let him destroy all her constraints, what would she feel then?
Mary shivered.
Lady Caire looked at her with concern in her golden-brown eyes, her lips pressed together. Mary knew that she and Lord Caire were as good as their word. That they would try to protect her if she didn’t want to become Lady Cecilia. But what if they couldn’t? An earl, after all, outranked a baron. And if the Albrights truly wanted her as their daughter, she didn’t doubt that they could force her to do as they wished. If Mary balked, would she bring ruin down on the woman who had shown only love and friendship to her all her life?
She didn’t think she could do that.
“Thank you, my lady,” she said. “I…I don’t know quite what to do. Lady Angrove seemed quite sure that I was her daughter.”
“She did,” Lady Caire replied gravely.
Mary sighed. What a very strange thing to consider: that the elegant daughter of a marquess might be her mother. She couldn’t quite think of Lady Angrove as Mother yet. Perhaps she never would, despite the lady’s kind air and obvious longing for her.
It was too much to take in all at once.
“You have several more hours yet,” Lady Caire murmured, sounding worried. “And if…if you do go to the Albrights and later decide that you don’t wish to remain with them, please know that you will always have a home with Lord Caire and me.” She turned and took Mary’s hands, squeezing them warmly. “I’ve long thought of you as a friend, Mary.” She smiled a little sadly. “A friend and an adopted daughter. I hope that whatever you decide, you’ll remain my friend?”
“Oh yes, my lady,” Mary said, feeling tears prick at her eyes. She blinked quickly, not liking to lose her composure entirely.
Lady Caire kissed her cheek. “You have much to decide, so I’ll leave you to think. Remember, though, that whatever you choose to do, I shall support you.”
Mary nodded, unable to respond for the swelling in her throat.
Lady Caire gave a last pat to her hands and turned to walk back inside Caire House.
Mary inhaled, pressing her palms to her cheeks, as she tried to consider what she must do. The garden was lovely this time of year. Michaelmas daisies were just beginning to flower, the small purple blooms nodding cheerily. She strolled slowly, her arms wrapped about her, along the fine gravel path, contemplating her future.
Contemplating Lord Blackwell and the…the things he made her feel.
Did she wish to lose her control? To experience again that wild heat in her belly, those rising, reckless emotions? It didn’t seem ladylike, what he made her feel. And she was wary of the emotions he provoked in her. Surely the man she married ought to make her controlled and serene—not urge her to anger and…and heat?
At the end of the garden Mary came to the gate that led to the mews and the stables that held the Caire horses and carriages. She was just about to turn and take the path back again when she heard a strange sound.
“Hist!”
Mary blinked.
“I say, hist!”
Mary walked to the gate and peered through the crack.
Looking back at her was a wide brown eye. “Let me in, will you?”
Curious, Mary unlatched the gate and opened it.
On the other side stood a figure in a cloak, her head covered by a hood. Beside the hooded figure was a short, plump maidservant with a very disapproving expression on her face.
The hooded figure immediately shouldered past Mary and into the garden, then glanced back at the maidservant, who was still in the mews. “Come in, Pickering!”
The maid grimaced and reluctantly stumped into the garden.
Her mistress turned to Mary and threw back her hood.
Mary stared. It was the oddest thing. For a moment she thought she knew the other woman. That she must be a good friend whose name was just on the tip of her tongue.
And then she realized.
No. It was the face—the face that was the same as hers.
The lady—for she must be a lady—stared back, seemingly equally startled. “Oh my. It’s true, isn’t it?” She stepped forward, peering at Mary. “It’s really true.” She smiled suddenly, widely and happily. “You’re my sister.”
Mary’s lips parted, her mind entirely blank with wonder. “I…”
“Oh, where are my manners?” the other girl continued. “I’m Joanna, but you can call me Jo if you wish. I’ve always wanted someone to call me Jo. It sounds so dashing, don’t you think? And you’re Cecilia. Shall I call you Cece? Then we can be Jo and Cece.”
She beamed.
“Erm…” Mary tried to think of a polite reply to this woman—her sister—but all she could come up with was that she wasn’t sure she wanted to be called Cece.
“Oh, this is wonderful!” Jo enveloped Mary in a hug before she could reply, squeezing her warmly. “You can’t comprehend how often I dreamed of you when I was little. Mama would cry when you were mentioned, and Papa just clamped his jaws together and wouldn’t say anything.” She drew back to gaze into Mary’s face. “I thought you might be a ghost or a fairy tale—someone not real at all. But you’re not. You’re here.”
Mary swallowed, feeling her throat grow tight again. “It’s hard to believe, isn’t it? I never knew about you.” She touched Jo’s cheek with a trembling finger.
Once Upon a Maiden Lane Page 3
