A Lady's Choice

by Donna Lea Simpson

  “Andromeda is right,” Rachel said dryly.

  Colin chuckled. “Good, you can abuse me as a friend. I like that.” He took her arm and guided her back toward the drawing room. “Let us rejoin the company.”

  • • •

  The day ended with an early dinner, and then the company broke up, Andromeda and Colin retreating with Belinda to Lord Strongwycke’s town house. The earl had asked if the brother and sister would like to stay there for the remainder of the Season with his niece, since they were doing him the favor of caring for her. They would then travel north with the girl and take her to Shadow Manor before heading to Corleigh, their own home in Yorkshire, near Haven Court.

  Shortly after everyone retreated, Lord Yarnell was about to take his leave. Rachel’s mother, in recognition of their new status as an engaged couple, gave them a half hour alone together in the drawing room. Rachel sat demurely, her hands folded together, on the dingy sofa, one of the many pieces that her mother had not had time to replace before Pamela’s nuptial breakfast. She waited for Yarnell to speak, hoping he would say something warm, something out of character.

  She did not understand herself at that moment, since it was his elegant coolness that had drawn her initially to him. She had felt from the beginning that they were alike, and suited to each other. And yet she was haunted by the warmth of the look Strongwycke had given Pamela before kissing her so publicly at the wedding breakfast. It had been so full of yearning. Affection. Devotion.

  Desire.

  Shocking thought. She turned away from it and gazed up at her fiancé as he paced on the new carpet in front of her. “What did you think of my sister’s wedding, my lord?”

  “I do not think I have ever seen a less elegant wedding coat than Lord Strongwycke’s.” He sat beside her and crossed his legs. “And I thought your grandmother’s toast very coarse.”

  “It’s just her way, Yarnell,” Rachel said, not sure why she was defending her family when she had been thinking the same things. “She’s from a different time, and has a different sense of humor.”

  “Sir Colin’s was just as distasteful.”

  Rachel frowned and thought that all Colin had said was a toast to long life and happiness in the future. What was wrong with that? But she kept her thoughts to herself.

  Yarnell, his gloves finally discarded, polished his nails on his breeches and stared down at them. “I have been thinking of our wedding breakfast. Do you think, if my mother holds it at our town house, that your grandmother may find it too fatiguing to go?”

  She and her grandmother had never had the closest of relationships, but Rachel was stung that he was obliquely trying to find a way to exclude her. “She has great stamina when she wants to do something. I am her granddaughter. I cannot imagine she would not want to come.”

  “But you don’t even like her. You have said so.”

  “I would never say anything so disloyal as that I do not like her. I merely said we did not always agree. She’s my grandmother, Yarnell, and will want to be at my wedding breakfast.” She paused and eyed him worriedly, then felt compelled by his silence to argue the case further. “She’ll not be able to make it into the church, given the steps, but surely she is welcome at my wedding breakfast!”

  “I didn’t say she would be unwelcome.” He turned and met her gaze. “She may well embarrass you though, my dear. I flatter myself that we think alike on most subjects, and I found her remarks coarse and lewd.”

  Rachel clamped her lips together. She felt like she was suffocating, and wanted nothing more than for Yarnell to leave so she could strip off her gloves—he did not approve of ladies having ungloved hands, he had told her once, and so she had kept them on much longer than necessary—and shed her stays. She longed to crawl into her bed, pull the covers over her head and cry. It would feel so very good at that moment to be free of constraint. Instead, she reined in her temper and collected her thoughts. “As I said, my lord, she is from another time. It’s her way. She thinks it humorous.”

  “Well I don’t, nor will my family. Please consider that when making up the guest list for our breakfast. Or warn her of what is appropriate.”

  Rachel tried to imagine chastising her grandmother. How would one begin?

  “Where would you like to go on our wedding trip?” he said, changing subjects.

  Again, she clamped her lips together. That was another thing that infuriated her; when Yarnell was done with a subject he considered it closed, even when she had more to say on the matter. And no amount of trying to reintroduce the topic would work, she had already learned. He was single-minded and obsessive.

  “I thought Rome would be lovely,” she said.

  “Too hot this time of year, and infested with artistic types. You would not like it.”

  “But I thought—”

  “No, you must accept my word on this, my dear,” he said, holding up one hand. “I have been there and you have not.”

  And likely never would be. With sudden clarity she saw her future; after a very short while she would likely be with child, the requisite heir with luck, and so unfit for travel, and that would be the end of that.

  With child!

  As much as she knew it was the purpose of their marriage, for Yarnell had never evaded the cold hard fact that he needed an heir, it still gave her the shivers. A girl she had been friends with in childhood had died just the year before in childbirth. If she expressed her fears to Yarnell, would he comfort her? Her mind tripped lightly back to Colin’s hug in the hallway, and how for one brief moment she had let her guard down and had been filled with an unwelcome warmth. He was so strong and sturdy; comfort flowed from him and through her in waves, and for a few moments all had felt right with the world.

  Which was all wrong. And so she had drawn away, disturbed by how sheltered she had felt, how protected. Would Yarnell ever comfort her that way? Make her feel so protected? Perhaps that would come when they knew each other better. Someday they would be old friends and he would feel free to offer her the little caring gestures that a woman might need on occasion. Not that she was so weak as that. She took in a deep breath. No, she was calm and cool and derived strength from that cold inner core of her that was impermeable to pain.

  “I think a short trip to Wight—we have a summer home there—and then back home,” Yarnell mused. “That will be adventurous enough for us. Mother thinks she would like to come along,” he finished, casually.

  “Your mother is coming on our wedding trip?” she said, her voice rising as she considered the thought. Not only had he never really meant to consult her on where to go—the Wight trip was evidently already planned—but now she had her mother-in-law to contend with on her wedding trip!

  “It is her summer home too, Miss Neville, and she will be exhausted once the wedding is over.” His tone was reproving. “Surely you would not deny her the rest and relaxation of her own summer retreat.”

  “Then perhaps we could go elsewhere, even to your estate. Then your mother would have the Wight summer home to herself.”

  “No, I think our original plan is best,” he said, standing.

  “Our” plan, Rachel thought, hysteria bubbling up. It had never been her plan!

  “I will take my leave now,” he said, bowing to her. “I’m relieved that this wedding nonsense of your sister’s is over so we can commence the planning for our own.” He took her hand and laid a circumspect kiss on the glove.

  And then he was gone.

  Rachel slumped down on the sofa. How had things spun so out of control?

  Chapter Two

  Sir Colin Varens entered the smoky, dim tavern and looked for his contact, a fellow with a hook for a hand. He surveyed the room; that presented unexpected difficulties. There were three men with hooks for hands that he could see with a cursory glance, and likely more.

  The tavern was old, probably going back three centuries, with low-beamed ceilings tobacco-stained with age and a floor that sagged and moved and cre
aked with every step. They were by the river, and the ineffable stink of the Thames was soaked into every timber and every breath of fetid air. In fact the tavern felt like being in the hold of a ship more than being on dry land.

  He glanced around, looking at each one of the three hooked fellows in turn. One of the three was sizing him up, too, sauntered across the smoky room and grimaced up at him. He was blind in one eye, the film over it making it look like veined marble. “You ’ere ta see Jimmy?”

  Colin nodded. That was the name he had been given. “I was told Jimmy was the one who could show me something special.” This all seemed silly to him. There was nothing illegal in what he was looking for, after all.

  “Foller me, then, mate,” the fellow said. He turned and made his way through the crowd, his rolling gait attesting to his former profession as a seaman. He was now a procurer, of sorts.

  As Colin made his way through the room he was uncomfortably aware of the bleary gaze that followed him from many a denizen of the tavern. A girl rubbed up against him and whispered something in his ear. He caught enough to be shocked at her lewd suggestion, and uttered a hasty negative reply. She made a rude gesture. His London sojourn might prove to be an education for him in more ways than one.

  His leader pushed open a plank door at the back of the tavern and led Colin down a dark hallway that opened out to a larger room, equally crowded with men who stood in a circle and cheered, waving chits in the air, smoking and spitting, and arguing. A pall of smoke hung over the crowd, drifting through the yellow light of the lanterns hanging from the beamed ceiling.

  “Is this it?” Colin asked.

  “Aye. P’raps you was expectin’ Carlton bloody House?” He roared with laughter at his own jest. He went back the way he had come, leaving Colin alone to find his way through the dense crowd.

  Colin stood for a moment, letting his eyes and ears adjust. The gathering was raucous, primarily merry but with moments of dispute between men. Mostly, the gathering seemed to consist of fellows very like his guide—seamen, Thames boatmen, a few he took for barrowmen. Bit by bit he could begin to pick out the better-dressed among them. Some were very young gentlemen in expensive jackets, sloshing tankards of the house ale in their hands. Young sprigs of the nobility, no doubt, on a tear and experiencing the seamy underbelly of London life. One or two were being watched by unwholesome chaps willing to relieve them of their gambling money by fair or foul means, Colin was sure. Though he had not been to London in many a year himself, he was too wary and canny a bird to be as incautious as those young fellows. Never drink above your weight limit was his axiom.

  But apart from the young men, there were others who were a cut above the rest of the crowd, too. He watched as he began to circle the crowd, and soon, among the hubbub, he picked out three he considered the leaders of this fray.

  One gentleman, his face red and choleric and his coat unbuttoned to expose his stout belly, was waving a fistful of banknotes in another’s face. It looked one moment as though it would devolve into fisticuffs, and then the next moment the two fellows were pounding one another on the back and laughing uproariously. A sly-looking barmaid swayed up to them at their summons and brought them tankards of ale. The two men clanked the pewter tankards together and drank deeply.

  The short, stout fellow’s companion was a tall man of advanced age, well-dressed, though not as radiantly attired as the younger fellows, who sported canary waistcoats and a multitude of fobs and were just there for a lark. These gentlemen were here for business.

  And still the noise of the crowd shuddered through the rafters, swelled, and there was a final shout that rose from the throng as though it was a single entity. Then a hush, and the crowd parted, a burly specimen breaking through, carrying on his back a burden; it was a muscular fellow very much bloodied and beaten, his cut lip swelling and one eye closing up. By the morrow it would likely be black

  Another cheer went up and Colin could see, above the crowd, another fellow lifted on someone’s shoulders and paraded around in front of the gathered mass of men, his head almost bunged a couple of times on the low beams. Colin’s blood thrummed through his veins.

  “’Ere, you lookin’ to get in on the sport, mate?” A stunted and misshapen gentleman stood before him, a gleam of money-lust in his eyes.

  “You mean the betting, I imagine. I’m no gambler, sir.”

  The fellow looked him over, expertly assessing him. “I see,” he said, scratching his chin. “Then yer ’ere fer some action. Tell yer what, if yer ready now, you can ’ave a go.”

  “Who sent you over to me?”

  The short man indicated by hooking a thumb over his shoulder toward the old, well-dressed man, who gazed at Colin with interest and raised his tankard in salute. This was not what he had expected, but he was indeed here to find some action, and this, apparently, was it. “I’m ready now,” Colin said.

  “Foine, then.” He chuckled, and it was a gurgling, unhealthy sound that ended in a fit of coughing. Flecks of blood were on the fellow’s lips when he was done, but he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “Yer up next. C’mon.”

  As swiftly as that he was in the middle of the crowd, his coat and shirt off, and he faced a bloody giant of a man. Lanterns hanging from the rafters lit the circle of avid faces, some of the men standing on barrels and benches, others crowded in their own tight circles, wagering as they glanced from one to the other of Colin and his opponent. The smell of sweat and beer and blood was overpowering.

  “’E’ll never stand up against Mike Lafferty, ’e won’t. Look at ’im! Puny.” One fellow jeered.

  “Aye, but mind, ’e’s a moite short, but ’e’s fresh; Moike’s bin through the wringer with that last bruiser. I’ll put a guinea on the new one.”

  “I’ll match that, and give you a tenner ’e won’t go the distance. ’E’s a greenhorn, not a bruise on ’im!”

  Colin shut out the voices and gazed steadily at his opponent. He scuffed his feet in the sawdust on the floor; the finely ground dust was pink with blood and stank of beer foam. This was not home, he thought, feeling a surge of trepidation. Perhaps he should have waited and watched for a while. He knew every fellow within thirty miles at home. He glanced over at the chap who was nominally in charge.

  “You know the rules, lad?”

  The man looked him over, and Colin felt he had been assessed and dismissed. He nodded, sharply. Too late for second thoughts.

  “Then orf you go!”

  The shouting immediately started, and the giant circled, his dark eyes gleaming with bloodlust. Colin crouched, put his fists up into the defensive position, and advanced.

  And then, as quickly as it began, it was all over.

  Colin stared at the ceiling, feeling his jaw swell, the bruising already taking place. So ended his first match in London. It seemed boxing was a little different in London circles.

  • • •

  It was the day after Pamela’s wedding and Rachel sat quietly on a sofa in her fiancé’s drawing room. Lady Yarnell, his mother, was spewing a monologue on the benefits of a very abbreviated guest list for the marquess’s nuptials. She had just rattled through their own extensive family, naming those who would be invited, those who would not, and those who would be deliberately snubbed. Then she said, as she sewed, “There are so many who have been waiting for so long to see Yarnell wed. He has been the catch of many Seasons, to use the vulgar vernacular. Your family, my dear, I know will want to come, but we must limit it to those who will grace the proceedings with dignity. And we do not want the affair to become too costly, do we? I will tell you whom we believe would be acceptable. I have no objection to your mother, of course, as you well know, and your brother Lord Haven, would be most welcome, if he should happen to come back to London. I have heard his new wife spoken of as a very dignified young lady, and would be pleased to improve our brief acquaintance; it was so difficult to do so before you were known to be engaged, and with the hustle and bustle of t
he Season. Yarnell has told me that she is a very pleasing young woman, and with connections that would not disgrace.”

  Finally Rachel could no longer hold her silence. “My lady, may I interrupt?” As her future mother-in-law was looking very startled at being interrupted, Rachel hastened to apologize. “I am so sorry but I must say that since my mother has been so good as to allow you to put on the wedding breakfast, even though it is her responsibility, in truth, I think that we would like to contribute monetarily. That way we will feel more comfortable inviting all of the family and friends with whom we would wish to sit down.”

  Lady Yarnell, her face frozen into a mask of polite disbelief, took in a deep breath, let it out slowly. “I will not take that as an insult, since I feel sure you did not intend it to be.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Rachel said. “I certainly did not mean any insult, my la—”

  “However,” Lady Yarnell went on, her hand up, palm out. “I am terribly sorry you are so . . . so gauche, as to offer money to us. I had been assured by Yarnell that you were well-bred. I must now doubt my son’s ability to judge, it seems.”

  The result was a half-hour lecture on the etiquette of weddings, and how they were conducted in proper society. It appeared that Lady Yarnell’s idea of this etiquette was solely based on what she wanted and what she did not want. Rachel was resigned, and spent the time gazing around the parlor where they sat together.

  This would be her London home, for Yarnell had assured her they would attend each Season, as long as she was able—that was his delicate way of speaking of her being with child—and that he would still come without her when she was no longer able, since he had duties and responsibilities that could be handled only by himself.

  The house was so very different from Haven House, her family’s London home. Where Haven House was tall and narrow and gloomy, Lord Yarnell’s residence was bright and airy, stately and gleaming with familial pride. The furnishings were cream and white, touched by gilt, and the carpets were thick and plush. And she would soon be mistress of this grand place!