It will be a Christmas wedding.
Cal
The pen hovered over the page for so long, ink dripped from the tip and fell to the paper with a splat. He wanted to ask how Phee was. If they were comfortable, if the villagers were friendly. And then he wanted to ask about Phee again. If she was happy. If she laughed, or if she moped about like he did.
When he’d visited a couple of days before, Miss Cuthbert hadn’t been any happier with the news than he was. Especially since he’d arrived in her drawing room looking like a grieving wreck. After he explained that the one he loved had married another, Miss Cuthbert patted his hand and suggested they make the best of it. The baron had been thrilled that the Earl of Carlyle had come to call—and all that implied—so he’d been happy to make himself scarce from the Egyptian-themed drawing room. The sarcophagus looked on disapprovingly when Cal and Miss Cuthbert spoke honestly about the situation.
Despite the Season and the house party, she didn’t have a beau who’d caught her eye. They agreed that perhaps a friendly marriage would do, since high passion clearly wasn’t working out for either of them. When they’d first met, Miss Cuthbert had told him she would do her duty, and that was what it came down to.
They were pawns to their fathers. And in the baron’s defense, it was a brilliant marriage for his daughter. It wasn’t egotistical to say so. If Cal were a better son, he’d be content with a beautiful blond wife.
But he missed Phee. He didn’t want blond curves. He wanted red curls on the pillow, finely made bones, her contagious laugh, and easy friendship.
The sand he threw on the ink scattered across his desk, but it was hard to care. Standing to stare out the window, Cal shoved his hands in his pockets. The trees along the street were vibrant with color, but he’d become so gray inside, their hues seemed garish. Soon the weather would turn cold and wet, with a biting wind that cut through even the sturdiest clothes. In his current condition, Cal would blend right in.
The glass reflected a sight that made his lip curl. Blond hair hung lank around a face half covered with stubble. Kingston had despaired and threatened to quit, but Cal had consoled him with a promise that he wouldn’t go out in society again like this. Which gave Cal the perfect reason to decline every invitation—he’d promised his valet.
In fact, Cal had rarely left the library in the last two weeks. The staff tiptoed around as if afraid of spooking their master, who’d clearly gone feral, and a disturbing smell permeated the room that he was afraid might be him.
From the doorway, Higgins cleared his throat. “These arrived via messenger from your solicitor, milord.”
Cal glanced over his shoulder. Higgins held a brown leather satchel. Probably the wedding contracts. “Set it on the chair. And post this letter to my sister. Thank you, Higgins.”
Cal faced the window again, taking in the view but seeing nothing.
Higgins cleared his throat. “May I get you anything, milord? Coffee? A tray of food? Cook would love to send some of her ginger cakes, I’m sure.”
“No, thank you.” A leaf skittered by on the pavement, propelled by a breeze as it trailed along Hill Street. Down the lane, a child’s laughter echoed off the stone buildings. Cal felt no more connected to the world beyond the windowpane than to the one inside his house. As if he’d separated from his body and now remained blessedly numb. Numbness had to be better than hollow pain.
The door closed, and the library fell quiet once more. Ethan had called earlier in the day, but Cal had put him off, needing to write the letter to his sister before he lost the nerve. Something about telling Emma, and by extension, Phee, made the situation too real. Here in his library, hiding from the world, he could pretend his engagement was hypothetical or another tall tale he’d share over brandy. Remember that time Eastly traded me for a horse, and I outmaneuvered him?
Once that letter was posted, it would all be real. He would marry Violet Cuthbert so the lives and properties of his father’s tenants would continue undisturbed, and Eastly would gain a racehorse he didn’t know what to do with. The idiocy of it all was so overwhelming yet melded rather perfectly with this undeniably depressive turn his life had taken.
When the wood door rasped against the floor again, Cal sighed. The servants were concerned; he understood that. But this hovering about him like a bunch of nursemaids needed to stop. “What now, Higgins?”
“My husband is worried about you, which is inconvenient for me. And when it’s inconvenient for me, it becomes your problem.” Lottie didn’t wait for an invitation. She sailed in on a lemon-scented breeze, then took a seat by his fireplace. Cal couldn’t help but straighten his posture when she snapped, “Take a seat, Calvin. If you wanted sweetness and light, you shouldn’t have turned away Ethan this morning. Now you have to deal with me, and I have enough on my plate without worrying about your pretty little head as well. Sit.”
He sat. The path of least resistance was often the smarter option with Lady Amesbury.
“You look like hell, you haven’t seen Ethan in days, and everyone is concerned for you. Ring for brandy or coffee or whatever will get you talking. Because this is ridiculous.” She motioned toward Cal’s general person.
Higgins entered with a cart. He must have scuttled off for refreshments the minute Lady Amesbury arrived. Never mind that the master of the blasted house had left strict instructions barring visitors. Lottie’s smile and murmured thanks to his butler confirmed his suspicions. They were plotting against him, but Cal couldn’t make himself care beyond a faint stirring of indignation.
Pouring with a serene expression, she handed him a cup and saucer, then bit into a small frosted ginger cake. She settled deeper into the chair. “Now, talk.”
Cal took a sip of the coffee. Like everything else recently, it inspired neither appreciation nor satisfaction. It was just brown bean water that helped him stay alert until he could retire for the day and stare at his bedroom ceiling. “I’m fine,” he lied.
Her snort wasn’t delicate or amused. “Try again, but make an attempt at honesty this time.”
The cake didn’t tempt him in the least, but he took a bite to avoid answering for a few seconds. Words gathered in his throat, turning the sweet treat to ash. “I’m getting married.”
Lottie froze with her fork halfway to her mouth. “I beg your pardon? To whom? And how did we not know you were courting?”
“Violet Cuthbert, daughter of Baron Rosehurst. My father traded me for a horse. Ethan might have told you about that a few months ago. Well, it’s come down to it. I can’t escape the situation.”
If Lottie rolled her eyes any harder, they’d stick, and she’d be staring at her own brain forever. “Calvin, darling. Yes, you’re beautiful, but I also know you’re uncommonly intelligent. Others might not give you credit for that, but I know. You are not a damsel in distress, so stop acting like it.”
“What are you talking about?” Cal’s question was automatic, but her statement stung. All his life, he’d garnered praise for his looks—something entirely out of his control. Not once had he gained notoriety for competently handling his family’s affairs or making his own fortune on the Exchange and through investments.
“You’re handsome, titled, rich, and wickedly smart. Stop standing on the sideline of your own life and take charge, for God’s sake. Your father is an arse and a grown man. His consequences are his, and the natural result of his actions. Those problems are only yours to deal with if you take that responsibility on yourself.” Lottie’s voice was firm, her focus on him unshakable, and for a moment, Cal envied Ethan. To have such a partner in your life, an equal and a fighter, must be amazing. That Phee had been all those things wasn’t lost on him.
“It’s my father. He’ll be ruined if I don’t do this.”
She made a dismissive noise in his general direction, then took a sip from her cup. “Nonsense. The Eastly title has the entailed estate, which will provide an income if he doesn’t make an utter hash of it. Even if he sell
s off literally everything else, he will still be head and shoulders ahead of the average British citizen. To whine about his lot only shows what a spoiled brat he is.”
Cal’s chuckle sounded rusty, but it felt good to laugh. Lottie had a point, and as usual, she happily speared anyone’s argument with an arsenal of logic.
Unfortunately, she was also acutely observant. She narrowed her eyes. “This level of grime and sloth isn’t due to your father’s latest misfortune. There’s a woman involved. Who is she?”
All the fight seeped from him, and he slumped in the chair. His chest went tight, and Cal wondered for a moment if breath would simply stop under the weight of his emotions. “You remember Adam Hardwick?”
She blinked. “I didn’t know your interests leaned that direction. But if that’s where your heart lies, I see the problem. Being in love with your brother-in-law is problematic at best.”
“Adam was a twin. His sister, Ophelia—Phee—took his place when he died.” He couldn’t say more, because saying her name aloud made his heart race.
Lottie cocked her head, considering. “That explains so much. I wonder why I didn’t see it.”
“People see what you tell them to see. At least, that’s what Phee says.”
“Let me guess—Emma is with child, and your Miss Hardwick stepped in to help?”
Cal nodded. “After I ruined everything. She’s well out of reach now. A relationship is impossible. It doesn’t really matter if I marry Violet Cuthbert or the onion seller on the corner. If I can’t marry who I want, I might as well save my father. Again, and for the last time.”
“I understand you’re distressed and wallowing, Cal. And truly, this is the most epic wallowing I’ve seen outside Drury Lane. But you’re talking nonsense.” Lottie wiped her fingers on a cloth serviette, with dainty motions that were at odds with her tone.
“It’s not nonsense. This is my life, and it’s a disaster.”
“Let me ask you something. Are Emma and your Miss Hardwick in love? Or at least lovers?”
Cal blinked. “Not that I know of.”
“Then what is stopping you from living with them and having a relationship while she plays the part of Adam in public?”
“You mean besides the fact that it’s a scandal waiting to happen?”
“So? Speaking as a former scandal, I can tell you it isn’t that bad when you’re with the right person.”
That hadn’t been his experience. As a child he’d dealt with the whispers, the drama. Boys at Eton had been merciless with their tormenting. Developing a carefree facade had been vital to his survival. If you pretended none of it mattered, it stole the fun out of it, and the boys eventually found other targets. In reality, each barb only reminded him of the truth—his parents didn’t care. He and Emma weren’t enough reason to be civil or to live separate lives so their relationship wasn’t constantly under discussion by all of society.
As an adult, he’d done what he could—and sometimes more than he should—to protect Emma from the lasting consequences of their parents’ choices. Given her the best chances at a good match. Tried to handle everything, until he felt like a performer he’d once seen at a traveling fair who’d managed to juggle a knife, a ball, and a shoe from a child in the crowd.
“If anyone is qualified at handling scandals, it’s you. You’ve been training your entire life for this, and here you are, pouting in your library, instead of doing whatever you need to do to get into her good graces.”
“I won’t ever have heirs.” The protestation sounded weak, but a lightening in the pressure near his heart felt an awful lot like hope.
Lottie shrugged. “Everything entailed reverts to the crown. Our new king could use the boost in his coffers. You know his divorce from Queen Caroline must be bleeding him dry. If the earldom means more to you than Miss Hardwick, you don’t deserve her, anyway.”
Cal felt his mouth go slack. “You make it sound simple.”
Lottie reached for the leather satchel Higgins had brought in earlier. Reading the note attached, she arched a brow. “Wedding contracts, I assume?”
He nodded.
“It is simple. Burn them. Then go get your woman and tell her you’ll do absolutely anything to live out the rest of your days with her. Pass along my condolences to Miss Cuthbert on the loss of her handsome fiancé.” Lottie kissed his forehead in a sisterly gesture that struck him as both sweet and patronizing. “And next time my husband calls, please don’t turn him away. You are surrounded by people who love you and want to help you, if only you’ll let us.”
Lottie set the leather satchel, heavy with papers, in his lap. The door closed behind her, leaving Cal and the tempting flames crackling in the hearth.
Chapter Twenty-Five
After a night of tossing and turning, examining Lottie’s words from every angle, Cal finally came to a decision as dawn broke across the rooftops of London. With the resolution, he felt at peace for the first time in weeks. The solution had been simple, just as Lottie had said. Sometimes it took an outside perspective to help when one found himself stuck in a pit of his own making.
A handsome face was currency for his father, who’d always encouraged Cal to marry someone highborn, rich, and connected. Eastly himself had been using his looks to get what he wanted for his entire life.
Unfortunately, the marquess’s willingness to take advantage of those around him didn’t have a bottom. The more Cal gave, the more Eastly would take. It was simple math, and the sum would never be in Cal’s favor if he continued to do his father’s bidding.
At some point, there had to be an end to it all. He desperately hoped Phee would be at the center of that happiness, but even if she never forgave him, Cal had to try. One thing was certain: playing his father’s games would never lead to anything good.
After that bit of soul searching, he’d slept like the dead until Kingston woke him with coffee and a gentle reminder of the time. The coffee scalded his throat as he dressed in a hurry, bypassing his usual morning rituals.
Searching for a ribbon to tie back his hair, Cal opened the drawer in the table beside his bed. A piece of wood rolled forward and clunked against his knuckles.
Lifting it slowly, Cal caught his breath.
She’d left him the bird. Each feather was carved with exquisite detail, capturing the beauty of flight with wings outstretched. Before Lakeview, Phee had confessed that she’d carved a bird because she wanted to fly away.
And she had, hadn’t she? Phee had flown. She’d found a way to be free.
He was the one in a cage.
But no more. Cal brushed a finger over the polished wood, then placed it on the table.
He had an engagement to break and a life to reclaim.
At the Rosehurst home, Miss Violet Cuthbert sat on the same awful zebra-striped chaise where she’d been when he’d visited her the first time. Admittedly, she was pretty as a picture, reading the paper with her gown draping around her as she sat in a beam of sunlight streaming through the window. When the butler announced Cal, she jumped to her feet and met him in the middle of the room.
That was a far more eager greeting than he’d expected.
“Good morning, Miss Cuthbert. I wish I’d called under better circumstances, but I’m afraid I come bearing unpleasant news.” He grasped her fingers between them and looked her in the eye. “A gentleman never breaks an engagement, but I’ve discovered I’m less of a gentleman than I believed. You deserve a perfect match, and we both know I am not he—and you’re not mine. I’ve realized I am not willing to settle for less than happiness, and neither should you. I’m sorry, but I can’t and won’t marry you. Our fathers will have to find another solution to their wager.”
Miss Cuthbert shook her head, sending corkscrew curls swinging every which way. Cal’s stomach sank. Given how open they’d been about their lack of attachment, this was upsetting her far more than he’d expected. Perhaps she feared that Rosehurst would be impossible to deal with about this.
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“Any way I can facilitate your happiness, I will. I’ll make introductions, get you invited to the highest functions. Whatever I can do.”
“You’re being so brave, presenting such a strong face. Milord, I’d never expect our engagement to go forward when your family has been dealt such horrible news. I read about it in the Times. I don’t know how you’re maintaining your composure after such a loss. I only knew him through you, and I’m overwhelmed by how tragic it is.” With that impassioned declaration, Miss Cuthbert’s eyes went glassy blue with tears.
She was nearly crying, and Cal had no idea what the devil she was talking about.
“You read about it in the Times?”
“Oh dear. You haven’t seen it?” With a flutter of hands and swirling skirts, she gathered the paper from the chaise and flipped pages until she found what she was looking for and thrust the newssheet at Cal. “Here. I wish they’d given him more print space, especially given his connection to a noble family.”
Deaths
Mr. Adam Hardwick, age 24, recently of London, died Monday of last week while on his wedding trip with his new bride, The Lady Emma Hardwick, at his side. His body was interred in the village of Warford, Northumberland, with services officiated by Rev. Charles Arcott. Mr. Hardwick leaves behind his loving wife to grieve his loss.
“They’d only just married,” Miss Cuthbert said in a broken whisper.
Cal’s knees were having a hard time supporting his body, so he let her guide him to sit on the ghastly zebra chaise. She sank beside him, patting his arm while he clutched the paper and read the words over and over.
Dead and buried. Gone. A tear slipped down his cheek and his nose went stuffy. Phee couldn’t be gone. Surely, the world wouldn’t be so cruel. Maybe it was silly, but Cal thought for sure that some part of him would sense it if Phee died. She’d taken so much of him with her, he’d have felt it if she’d simply ceased to exist.
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