“A wheel’s broken, I’m afraid.” He scratched at the back of his neck as he eyed her.
She knew what he saw. A pretty face, or so she was told, and fair blonde hair. The picture of a lady. Habit and good training had her straightening her posture, ever the graceful swan even when sprawled out across the floor of a carriage.
He held out a hand to help her to her seat but her inner mockery continued.
The ever-graceful Miss Grayson. How often had she heard herself described thus by well-intentioned friends? Graceful and charming and...such a shame she never married.
She gave a huff of laughter as she brushed off her skirts, her dress fashionable but modest. She’d been raised as a lady, despite her lack of wealth or connections, and that upbringing showed. Perhaps too well. She was one of those rare breeds that fell somewhere in the middle of society’s standards. Her appearance and demeanor would suggest she was high born, but reality was another matter. She had enough good connections in her distant family that she would not be left destitute, but not so well off that she had much to offer in marriage. No dowry to speak of and little connections to entice prospective husbands.
Those gentlemen she might have been a fit for—vicars and merchants and the like—they tended to look at her as this driver was right now. As though he was not quite certain what to make of her.
The driver erred on the side of good manners. He gave a low bow as though he were addressing royalty. “Will you be all right, ma’am, if I were to run ahead?” He eyed the expanse of snow around them. “The stables ain’t so far off. I can be there and back with help in no time at all. That is...” He gave her an uncomfortable little bow again and she just barely held back a weary sigh. “If you’ll be fine here alone, that is.”
Her smile felt forced, but it came to her lips out of habit. “Of course I will be fine. I have every confidence that you will return swiftly.”
He beamed with pride and gave another sweeping bow before setting out, like a knight heading out to battle. She watched his retreating form with a sigh. So this was her gallant knight.
She wasn’t quite certain whether she wanted to laugh or cry at the thought. Perhaps it was the jolt from her seat, but no matter how she tried to steady herself, she felt as though her world had been upended along with her seat on the carriage.
She placed a hand low on her belly as if that might settle the swelling tide within her, the wave of dissatisfaction that had been plaguing her for days. Nay, weeks.
Oh heavens, perhaps it was years now that she’d been battling this sensation. But it seemed to be growing with each passing second of silence. Without the horses’ hooves and the rattle of the wheels, she was left with nothing but the sound of her heart beating too wildly in her chest as if it were shouting to be freed.
Nonsense.
She tilted her chin down as if she could speak directly to her heart. Utter nonsense. Her heart wasn’t going anywhere, and her emotions were well within her control.
But her heart did not listen to her chiding, racing away from her as more emotions than she could name reared up. That jolt had not just jarred her from her seat, it had loosened something inside of her that she had been tamping down, stuffing into the darkest corners of herself.
She stuck her head out the door and took a deep breath of the crisp air, but not even the winter wind from a rapidly approaching storm could calm her and it did nothing to cool the fire that was threatening to rage out of control.
She drew back inside. No one seemed to be about but that was no reason not to remain calm and placid and...a lady.
But she wasn’t a proper lady, was she? This new bitter voice nagged at her. She wasn’t certain at what point this voice had been born and when it had grown, but she despised it.
She hated it that much more when it spoke sense.
She was not the lady she’d been raised to be. Not one worthy of respect, not one sought after for marriage, not one with any proper hopes for a good future. She was a spinster, and a poor one at that.
Though she’d spent her lifetime amongst young, marriageable ladies of the ton, it was time to admit that her time had come and gone, and if she’d held out any hopes for a miracle...well, those hopes had withered and died over the last few years. She would never have the life she’d dreamt of. She supposed she ought to be grateful that she’d ever been allowed to view the world her friends had moved in, even if she’d always flitted about on the outskirts, never quite belonging.
She would never be the one who danced and flirted and swooned and...fell in love.
She gave her head a shake. No, the latter she could do. It was the other things that were out of her reach now that she was on the shelf. And she was, there was no doubt about it. She might not have gone through a shocking metamorphosis or felt society place her there, but she was on the shelf and that was where she would stay.
Glancing down, her eye was caught by the letter which had ended up on the floor, the fall making it unfold so Prudence’s tidy handwriting could be seen. There was nothing to be upset about as Madeline had long since come to grips with the reality of her situation. The fact that she would never marry was not newsworthy. It was a fact of life that Madeline had started to embrace the day she’d accepted Lady Charmian’s offer to run the finishing school.
She’d known what she was doing. She’d seen the writing on the wall. The very day she’d moved into the School of Charm, she’d accepted the fact that she was destined to be a spinster.
She just wished everyone else would recognize it, that was all. Even from where she sat she could see phrases and fragments, taunting her with their kindness.
...the vicar is quite handsome, they say.
...older, yes, but in fair health. A widower in need of a wife...
Madeline’s gloved hands twisted in her lap as this burning sensation made her skin feel too tight, her chest ache as though it were in a vice.
With a gasp she shoved the door open and stumbled out of the carriage. The dark clouds seemed so low she could touch them. The weight of the world was coming down upon her shoulders as well.
That was what it felt like, at least.
She lifted a hand to her neck as if that would rid her of this sensation that was rising up so quickly it was choking her. Perhaps it was for the best that the carriage broke down before they reached the manor, for there was something in her that wanted to thrash and scream.
The hand at her side still held the letter from Prudence and without quite realizing what she was doing, she gripped it. She clenched it tight until it crinkled into a ball. But then even that wasn’t enough.
Pity, that was what was in that letter. Pity and sympathy for the beloved headmistress, but also something worse than that. Something so much worse.
Hope.
Her dear, kind, lovely friends still had hope. Not just Prudence, but all of the girls from the school, and Amelia, too. Even Lady Charmian, the owner of the school and one of Madeline’s friends—she too was forever speaking to her of one days and maybes and all of the phrases that made Madeline want to scream.
She stared at the crumpled, wadded up ball of paper in her hand, guilt and shame fading quickly beneath that much stronger emotion that she could not yet name. It wasn’t anger—not at her friends—and it went beyond humiliation.
It was the unfairness of it all, the fact that she might have been graced with beauty and intellect and decorum and yet none of that mattered a fig because she had neither the wealth nor connections that mattered most.
For years she’d supported her friends and cheered them on and was truly happy for them when they found a match and moved on to build a family of their own.
That ache in her throat moved to her belly and her heart. Oh, her heart felt like it might rip in two at the thought of the family she could not have.
It wasn’t as though she were so silly that she’d been holding out for love—she’d never once thought to hope for something as romantic as all that.
And she hadn’t been so naive as to wish for a title or great wealth.
She would have been happy with a decent gentleman with a modest income. Just so long as he could support her and a child. That was all. But seemingly even that was asking for too much.
She’d had one prospect in her life. One. A handsome young fellow by the name of Mr. Andrews who’d paid her a great deal of attention her first year in London when she’d been a companion to a family friend.
But even kind Mr. Andrews had dropped her flat when a lady with a decent dowry came along.
Something took over inside her and she threw the letter to the ground, stomping on it. All the while telling herself that it wasn’t Prudence’s fault. She loved her friend, and her friend could not have known that this one last effort—inviting a potential suitor—
“I do not wish it,” she muttered as she kicked at the poor piece of shredded parchment. And because it felt so good, she continued to stomp on the letter with its oh-so-kind words of hope that she hated. “I do not want it. I did not ask for their help.” Her breathing was growing ragged as her movements grew more frantic. She tipped her head back until she was facing the storm clouds above, her hands fisted in rage. “I do not want help, do you hear me?”
She had no idea to whom she was speaking, but for the first time that fire in her chest felt relief. It did not ease, but it felt so good to let it out that she closed her eyes and spoke even louder. “I give up. Do you hear me? I give up!”
She was near shouting now, and tears had welled in her eyes. Not of sadness, but of anger. Frustration.
Injustice.
“I don’t want your help.” She had no idea who that was aimed at—her friends, perhaps. “I don’t need help because I’m done. Hope is for fools.” And then, because again...it felt good to scream, she shouted the word at the top of her lungs. “Fools!”
Her lungs might burst from the passion that was ripping through her—anger like she’d never known.
Or at least, like she’d never acknowledged.
Her feet were still moving, kicking at the letter and stomping on the ground as though she could bury her disappointments, her sense of loss for the family she would never have. But more than anything she wanted to dig a deep, dark grave for those lingering hopes that she wished would just die already.
She would kill them herself with her bare hands if she could. And that was why she hated that dratted letter. That was why it had become harder and harder to bear her friends’ well wishes. Their hope taunted the last vestiges of her own and she was done.
“Done, do you hear me?” she roared up at the sky. “I do not need any help because I give up.” She took a deep breath. She might be acting like a lunatic but for the first time in what felt like forever, she actually could draw a deep breath. Her chest felt more expansive, her body less weighted. Letting this anger out had her dizzy with relief, or perhaps it was the calm after a storm.
Her legs began to shake as she threw her head back, tears rolling down her cheeks. She was still not certain who she was pleading with, the apathetic sky, a god she could not see, or perhaps just her well-intentioned friends with their relentless hope. “Just let me be.”
She stared up at the dark cloud above and froze with shock as a voice answered her. “I’m afraid I cannot do that.”
Chapter Two
The deep male voice came not from the sky but from behind her, and it was tinged with amusement. “Not until I ensure that you are safe, at least.”
She whipped around on shaky legs, her eyes wide with shock and...horror. She was horrified at the sight before her. Tall, dark, and ridiculously handsome.
Not terrified, though perhaps she ought to have been, running into a stranger on horseback in the middle of...
She looked around her at the thicket of trees to her left and the expansive meadow to her right. Her suspicions were confirmed. She was well and truly in the middle of nowhere.
“Perhaps I could be of assistance.” He slid gracefully off his horse and headed toward her.
Yes, she truly ought to be terrified. Or at the very least nervous. But all she could feel was complete and abject horror and humiliation that a stranger had caught her...
Well, there was no other term for it. Her tantrum. It had been a temper tantrum worthy of a child, and she had been caught raving like a madwoman.
She closed her eyes. This had to be a nightmare. He must be a figment of her imagination. But then his boots crunched against the snow and there was no denying the reality of her predicament.
Oh Lord, please strike me down right here and now so I do not have to face this gentleman.
“Are you alone out here?” His brows drew together and now he was not just handsome. He was intimidatingly so, with his thick dark brows and his stern features, the hint of gray in his side whiskers and the lines near his eyes that crinkled with concern as he drew close. “Has there been an accident?”
She was too busy taking him in to reply at once, her gaze roaming over the dark overcoat that covered most of his clothing and the horse he was riding, which seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.
“Where did you come from?” she breathed.
His eyes widened slightly, just enough to remind her how rude her question was. But truly, he seemed to have come from nowhere. He nodded behind him. “There is a vicarage just there, beyond the trees.”
Vicarage.
Of course.
He was the vicar that Prudence had such high hopes for. Poor Miss Grayson’s one last chance at marriage. And he’d been the one to find her screaming at the heavens. Oh, it was just too perfect. The final nail in her spinster coffin. Hysteria had her choking on a laugh. “You’re the widower.”
She hadn’t meant to say it aloud, it had merely...slipped out along with a laugh of disbelief that had her clapping a hand over her mouth as if that could undo the damage she’d already done.
His brows hitched higher and the curve of his lips was rueful. “Is it so obvious?”
Obvious that he was a widower? Not necessarily, although the creases near his eyes, the gray at his temples—it all spoke of a man who had experiences to share, both good and bad. Her mind called up Prudence’s words about the vicar. And he was handsome, as Prudence claimed the vicar to be. Even with that heavy brow and a brooding gaze, he was undeniably handsome.
So yes, it was clear that this man was the handsome vicar she’d heard mention of. How wonderful.
That bitter voice was back in full force.
Of course the one man to come along during her moment of insanity was the widower Prudence hoped to match her with.
“Let’s get you somewhere warm,” he continued, casting a glance around and taking in the broken wheel and the abandoned driver’s seat. “Your driver will be returning soon, no doubt, but—”
“No!” It was horribly rude to interrupt, but why start behaving properly now? Again with that hysterical lightness, this urge to laugh and weep at once for her own idiocy. Never in her life had she been so humiliated, and now she would be forced to see this kind, absurdly handsome vicar for the entire duration of her stay at the manor.
“Or rather, yes,” she said, more urgently this time. “He will be back and bringing help, so I assure you I do not require assistance.”
His lips twitched with mirth and his eyes danced with laughter, which seemed at odds with the grim visage he presented. “Yes, you’ve made that perfectly clear.”
With her ranting. With her raving. She clamped her lips shut as she prayed for the earth to open and swallow her whole. “Yes, well. That was not directed at you, but the sentiment remains.”
“You do not require assistance,” he said. “Understood.” He looked around at the admittedly bleak surroundings and looming clouds. “But perhaps you would give me the honor of accompanying you just until your driver arrives.” He raised his hands. “I assure you that while we have not been officially introduced, I am aware of who you are and I have heard much about
you.”
“Have you?” It wasn’t so much a question as just...something to say. Of course he had. She had no doubt Prudence had filled the vicar’s head with talk of the pretty not-too-terribly-old headmistress who would be coming to visit.
She just barely held back a sigh. Heaven save her from her matchmaking friends.
“Indeed,” he said. “As I am nearly certain you are aware of my name.”
His hint of amusement, that low voice...
Oh, he was indeed charming. Dreadfully so. Handsome and gallant and that perfect combination of serious and amused. He would be the type of gentleman one could rely on, but one who could laugh at himself as well. With one look she could see just what sort of man he would be.
A good one. A solid one. A steady companion and maybe even a friend to some worthy young lady.
She couldn’t hold back her sigh any longer. Her luck seemed to have gone from bad to abysmal in a heartbeat. Her one last chance at finding a partner and she’d ruined it with a temper tantrum—the very first in her entire life.
It was a struggle to calm herself, to return to the placid calm she’d exuded every day of her life...up until a few minutes ago.
“If you please, sir, perhaps we should wait to be properly introduced before we become any further acquainted.”
Two things happened at once. He smiled—a real, genuine, beautiful smile—and the clouds opened up in a torrent of rain, sleet, and hail.
This vicar knew how to take charge of a situation, that much was certain. If this were anyone but a vicar and an acquaintance of Prudence, she might have been concerned with the way in which he manhandled her.
Not that he was rough. Not at all. He was just...thorough.
Crossing the distance between them in three long strides, he shrugged out of his great overcoat and threw it over her shoulders, tugging it together tightly at her chin before leaning down and...
Oh sweet heavens. “What are you doing?”
The School of Charm: Books 1-5 Page 54
