by Joyce Alec
Lord Davenport’s response was immediate. “Oh, but there was,” he grated, his voice now dark and no longer filled with good humor. “Miss Smythe might have been a wallflower, but she was the only one with enough beauty to interest me. I shall have to do my husbandly duty, of course, and I shall have to ensure that the heir is produced—therefore, I required a wife who is tolerable enough to interest me.”
Arthur felt his hands tighten into fists as he forced his temper to remain under his control. There would be no good in allowing his anger loose now. With a small degree of satisfaction, he glanced back at Lord Davenport and saw the bruise still evident on his face. His fist had done a remarkably good job.
“Miss Smythe is to be mine, Lord Wickton,” Lord Davenport continued, ignoring Arthur’s gaze. “I have stated so from the beginning. She will become biddable enough in time, although I confess that I am less than pleased about the fierceness of character she has shown of late.” His voice became softer, as though he were speaking to an acquaintance instead of to the gentleman he had forced to remain within the walls of his townhouse. “It is rather annoying, but I am certain I can beat it out of her should it be required.” His eyes darted back towards Arthur, a small, cruel smile capturing one side of his mouth. “You know well of what I speak, do you not? After all, a wife is a gentleman’s property and I shall be free to do whatever I wish with Miss Smythe.”
It was becoming more and more of an effort to contain his anger and frustration. Arthur had to bite down on the inside of his cheek simply to remain seated, fully aware that Lord Davenport was baiting him and that he was almost succeeding in producing the reaction from Arthur that he wanted.
“You will not see her again, Wickton.” Lord Davenport’s voice had become soft, as though he were expressing regret. “We will be gone on our honeymoon by the time you are given your freedom. We shall be gone for six months, I think, at the very least, and thereafter, I will return to my estate. She will not be back in London until the start of next Season, but only as a wife and not as the debutante she once was.” He laughed and slapped Arthur on the back. “If you ever cared for her, Wickton, then you should have gone after her the very moment your heart began to draw towards hers. It is much too late now.” He slapped Arthur on the back again, making Arthur flinch violently. He wanted to get up and grab Lord Davenport’s collar, to throw him against the wall and beat him senseless, but he knew that there would be no good outcome should he attempt such a thing. The footmen were at the door and he would, once again, be pulled back from Lord Davenport and made to endure either harsh words or a beating of his own.
“Do enjoy this evening,” Lord Davenport said as a final parting blow. “I have been assured that you will be able to hear the music and be able to see some of the guests when they make their way into the gardens. I do hope that you will enjoy it.”
Arthur closed his eyes tightly, his hands balling into fists and his jaw working furiously. The sound of the door closing behind Lord Davenport was a welcome relief for once, allowing him the freedom to breathe a little easier and to push the anger from his bones. Yes, he would have to endure this evening’s ball and yes, he would have to hear the music and watch the guests, but that did not mean that he would lose hope. What Lord Davenport did not know was that Arthur had written to Miss Smythe. Whilst Polly had come and gone over the last few days, they had never had the opportunity to speak and so he still did not know for certain whether or not the letter had been given to Miss Smythe.
Lowering his head into his hands, Arthur took in a long breath and blew it out again, aware of the slight shake in his limbs. If he had the strength, he would have planted a facer on Lord Davenport and then fought his way through the two burly footmen who stood by the door, but given what had happened before, Arthur knew he had very little opportunity to do so.
A sudden sound caught his ears. The key was being turned in the lock again. A groan escaped from his mouth and he remained exactly where he was. Had Lord Davenport come back to say more? To laugh all the harder into Arthur’s face, to revel in Arthur’s weakness? Arthur was not at all certain he could accept any further humiliation without losing control of his anger completely.
“Lord Wickton.”
It was not Lord Davenport’s voice that caught him but rather the sound of Polly’s voice. She had barely spoken a word to him these last few days and to hear her speak so now suddenly gave him a thrill of hope.
“I have your dinner tray, my lord,” she said, casting a quick glance over her shoulder to where the two footmen stood. “And a pot of tea. The cook thought you might wish for something hot.”
Arthur nodded, surprised when she brought it over to the table in front of him and began unpacking it slowly. Her movements, usually so quick and flustered, were now slow and unhurried. It was as if she were waiting for something.
“Hurry up!” one of the footmen shouted, making Polly start in surprise, the pot of tea in her had. “You know we’re needed.”
“Look what you’ve gone and done!” Polly exclaimed, whirling around and pointing down at the tray which, to Arthur’s eyes, seemed perfectly fine. “I’ve gone and spilled the tea now.” Huffing, she tugged a cloth out of her apron pocket and began to wipe at the non-existent stain.
The footman grunted. “You had better give the key back to Lord Davenport, then,” he said, taking a couple of steps into the room but no more. “You know we’ve got other duties, Polly.”
Arthur watched as Polly nodded, not even turning her head to look back at the footman.
“I won’t be more than a few minutes,” she said, waving a hand in his direction. “I can take the key back.”
The first footman grunted. “Peter will stay nearby. He’s upstairs most of the night anyway.”
Arthur froze, realizing that the footman named Peter was almost to be a guard of some sort, keeping Arthur out of reach from anyone who came up the stairs to seek him out.
Polly did not seem fazed. “That’s fine,” she said, shoving the cloth back in her pocket. “Like I said, I’ll only be a few minutes.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw the two footmen move away from the door, although the murmur of voices continued.
“It’s to do with the ball, see?” Polly murmured, her eyes darting to his. “Lord Davenport’s been awful busy trying to get us to do all sorts of things in preparation. Miss Smythe’s going to be here, too.”
At her name, Arthur sat up straighter, looking directly at Polly. “You saw her?”
“I spoke to her,” Polly whispered, finishing setting out the things from the tray onto the table. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner, but there just wasn’t the chance to speak to you.” Looking over her shoulder, she nodded slowly, as if to reassure herself that the footmen were not there and could not overhear her. “Her and Lord Matthews were there together. She said to give you a message.” Frowning, she looked down at her hands, clearly trying to remember what had been said.
Arthur bit his lip, not wanting to interrupt her thoughts. Inwardly, however, he grew more and more desperate, his heart beating furiously as he thought of Miss Smythe and what she might have to say to him.
“It was something about making sure you’d be going free somehow—and I think they said something about tonight,” Polly said hesitantly, a flush of color in her cheeks as she grew embarrassed at her lack of ability to recall. “And that she wasn’t going to marry Lord Davenport after all.”
Arthur collapsed back into his chair, awash with relief.
“You care about her, don’t you?” Polly said gently, her eyes now a little soft. “You’ve got a sweetness in your heart for her.”
Swallowing hard, Arthur closed his eyes. “She is just an acquaintance,” he lied, not wanting to tell Polly the truth about his heart before he spoke to Miss Smythe herself. “I am relieved that she is not going to marry Lord Davenport. I did not know if she would have the courage to do it.”
Much to his surprise, Polly
laughed aloud, as though he had said something foolish. “You are a strange one, Lord Wickton,” she said, her eyes dancing as she looked at him. “That Miss Smythe, she’s got more strength in her than I have ever seen in a lady of quality before.” She shook her head and picked up the now empty tray. “Don’t you go thinking her weak or any such thing, my lord. She’s not that. She’s strong and determined and knows her own mind. Lord Matthews told me that she’s been forced into this betrothal to Lord Davenport, although I didn’t really understand how it had all happened.” Shrugging, she looked away from him and smiled. “There’s more to Miss Smythe than I think you know, my lord.”
Making her way to the door, the smile now fading from her face, Polly threw Arthur one last look. “I’ll remember about that work you offered me, Lord Wickton,” she said, her voice holding a touch of desperation. “Just in case something happens.”
“I will not forget any of this,” he said firmly, wanting to reassure her. “I keep my word, Polly.”
Nodding, she shot him a quick smile and then headed out the door, pulling it closed behind her. The key turned and was pulled out, leaving the door as securely bolted as before. He was back in his confinement.
Sighing, Arthur ran one hand through his hair, trying his best to think of Miss Smythe and see her in a new light. Polly had said that she was strong and determined, but whenever he thought of Miss Smythe, such words did not come to mind. Instead, he thought of Miss Smythe as a quiet and weak-willed creature. Had she truly changed so much these last few days? Had his absence forced her to delve deep inside herself and find the strength she needed? Mayhap he was giving her too little consideration. Had he not hesitated over his letter to her, fearing that she would be almost overcome with the news and thereby unable to help him? If he was to take Polly’s word, then it seemed that he had been mistaken in his concerns. Miss Smythe was stronger than he had thought. Could he, therefore, allow himself to believe that she might be able to do as she had promised and find a way to remove Arthur from this place?
Letting out another long breath, Arthur settled his shoulders and poured himself a small cup of tea. Part of him did not want to believe it, did not want to hope that such a thing could occur, especially on the night of the ball when all eyes would be fixed upon her, but then again, he could be discrediting her by refusing to hope that she could do it.
“I must allow myself to trust,” he told himself, his voice echoing around the empty room. “I must allow myself to hope.”
The tea made its way down his throat and into his belly, sending warmth running all through him. His chest rose and fell as he took in deep breaths, feeling a spark begin to rise in his heart. A spark that told him he would not have to endure this evening, as Lord Davenport had predicted, but that this entire evening might be Lord Davenport’s downfall. Once he was freed, Arthur was not certain what he would do, for he would have to expose Lord Davenport in some way so that the beau monde knew the truth about his character. Should he simply march into the ballroom and demand that everyone listen to him, so that he might tell them about what had occurred these last few days? Lord Davenport would not be able to deny it, surely, given the state of Arthur’s clothes, as well as the fact that one or two guests would certainly go in search of the room that Arthur had claimed to be in. The rumors would circulate, of course, and the ton would look down upon Lord Davenport, which was the only thing the gentleman seemed to fear.
And what of Miss Smythe? Arthur had to hope that, somehow, she would manage to remove herself from her betrothal to Lord Davenport. She could not do so now, not when their engagement ball was just about to take place, but by this evening’s end, he hoped she would be freed from it. He would do whatever he could to ensure such a thing occurred, for he did not want her to marry Lord Davenport. Arthur wanted Miss Smythe to marry him.
If only I had pushed myself forward when I first had the opportunity, he thought to himself ruefully. Then I might now find myself in less difficult circumstances.
That was the one thing Lord Davenport had been correct about. Had Arthur realized that he wanted to pursue Miss Smythe much sooner, then there would have been no opportunity for Lord Davenport to court her. Why had he been so slow in his determinations? Why had it taken him so long to see her as she was? The beauty of her face, the kindness of her character, and now, apparently, the determination and strength within her all filled him with admiration for her. If she was to be his savior, then he would have nothing but gratefulness within him, and a desperate hope that she might turn towards him once again. Had not his sister suggested, in as quiet a way as she could, that Miss Smythe might have feelings of affection towards him? Why, then, had he ignored that completely? Why had he stayed away from London instead of returning to it as he had promised Charlotte? Had he done so, then he might now be wed to Miss Smythe, the happiest man in all of England instead of the shadow he was now reduced to.
“I must hope,” he said aloud, slamming one hand down on the table and making the plates rattle. “I must hope that she will allow me the chance to share my heart with her, once this situation with Lord Davenport is at an end.” The first strains of orchestral music began to rise up towards him as the orchestra began to prepare for the ball. Arthur rose to his feet, drew a long breath, and wandered to the window, feeling a good deal more determination and anticipation in place of the fear and darkness that had dogged him for so many days.
“I am waiting, Miss Smythe,” he whispered, as though in some way, she might be able to hear him. “Come and find me.”
13
Emily looked all about her, wondering where Lord Matthews might be. Their plan was in place, but she knew full well that there was no guarantee of their success. This was to be a difficult evening.
“Do stand up a little straighter, Emily.”
Emily tried her best not to scowl at her father who, for the first time in some days, seemed in complete control of his senses, having abstained from liquor for the last day or so. She did not even attempt to stand up straighter, being perfectly content with her composure and posture.
“Do try to smile, Miss Smythe.”
Lord Davenport was on the other side of her, leaving Emily feeling trapped between her father and her fiancé. She was not at all pleased at how Lord Davenport was speaking to her, as though she were nothing more than a servant to be ordered about. He was shooting her a slightly frustrated look now, as though what she was doing was less than what he expected, as though she ought to be disgraced by her lack of poise and elegance.
“I am doing my utmost to appear delighted,” Emily murmured quietly, not quite looking at her fiancé but rather at the many guests that were now congregated before them. “It is a little overwhelming, however, I must say.”
Lord Davenport nodded stiffly, as though what she had said was ridiculous and clearly upsetting for him. Emily did not care. This façade would all be over quite soon, she was certain. Once she saw Lord Matthews, she would know that he had managed to slip into the ball and the plan could move on from there.
Lord Davenport cleared his throat and, after a moment or two, the orchestra brought their music to an end. The guests, as one, turned towards him and he beamed at them delightedly, whilst Emily stood still, not looking at anyone in particular. To her frustration, she found that her stomach was tightening, her heart quickening, and her whole body washed with a light sheen of sweat. Was she anxious about what Lord Davenport would have to say to the guests? Or did she fear being the only object of the beau monde’s attention?
Lord Davenport immediately launched into a welcoming speech, being loudly grateful for each and every guest who had attended this evening. This was met with a murmur of approval from the gathered crowd, whom Emily knew were all looking at her with interest.
I am not going to marry Lord Davenport, she reminded herself. I am not going to say my vows before God and man. I shall never be his wife.
It did not matter what the ton would think of her when she cried
off. She did not care. Her reputation might be left in tatters, her father might be furious and would pack her off to Scotland before the week was out, but it would be better than being married to such a cruel and dishonest gentleman as Lord Davenport!
Wickton.
His name was a sigh in her heart, the thought of seeing him again filling her with a flood of butterflies. She would be glad to see him released from this house, glad to have him restored to himself. Charlotte would be frantic with worry by the time she arrived in London—which Emily expected to be any day now—but what a relief it would be to be able to tell Charlotte that her brother was quite all right.
“To my beautiful betrothed, Miss Smythe.”
Emily started violently as the crowd called her name and lifted their glasses in a toast to her. She did not smile, looking up at Lord Davenport and seeing the flicker of a frown appear across his forehead. He was not pleased with her lack of response.
The music started up again very soon afterwards and Emily found herself letting out a long breath, relieved that, for the moment, the attention was taken from her.
“Miss Smythe.”
Lord Davenport’s voice was hard as he grasped her arm, taking her away from her father’s side and to a small alcove where they could not be seen by the assembled guests. Emily winced in pain, wrenching her arm out of his grasp just as soon as she could.
“Is there something the matter, Miss Smythe?” Lord Davenport asked harshly, glaring down at her, his grey eyes almost black in the gloom. “You have not smiled, you have not looked upon me with delight. The guests will wonder at your countenance.”
Emily looked up into his face, refusing to be intimidated. “I am overwhelmed, my lord,” she said tartly, fully aware that he would not believe her but finding that she did not care. “It is rather a large gathering and I am finding it difficult to be looked upon by so many.”
