Charlotte Louise Dolan

by Three Lords for Lady Anne

  Bronson could feel his temper rising at their lack of confidence in him. But with effort he managed to keep his voice even when he replied. “In the unlikely event that she turns down my proposal, you have my permission to offer her continued employment.”

  On the other hand, was it really so unlikely? He turned to regard himself in the mirror and was not very satisfied with what he saw there. In spite of the new clothes, direct from London and of the latest mode, no amount of tailoring could disguise the fact that he was far too large and muscular to look a proper gentleman. And his skin, which was naturally swarthy, had darkened even more on his latest journey through the tropics.

  In addition, he rather needed a haircut, his hands were calloused from the rough life he had been leading ... and he had thirty-five years in his basket to her twenty-seven. Would she want such a travel-worn specimen as himself?

  The only thing in his favor was that he was a few inches taller than she was, but would that really signify to someone of her superior intellect? After all, in what way could the length of a thighbone indicate a man’s worth?

  “Actually,” Andrew interrupted his thoughts, “I think she’ll accept you.”

  “Yes,” his brother agreed. “She always smiles more when you’re around.”

  With those words of encouragement, Bronson set out to find and woo his fair lady.

  * * * *

  Anne had been standing at the window of her room for a full hour, staring out at the moor. Ever since Dear Aunt Rosemary had driven away in triumph with her prize—although why anyone would think Trussell was a prize was beyond Anne’s comprehension—ever since then, Anne had been arguing with herself in her mind.

  The twins were no longer in danger, she was no longer laboring under the misapprehension that Lord Leatham was the father of Martha Miller’s son, and she no longer had the slightest reluctance to give up her single state for married life, so there should have been no obstacle preventing the baron from asking for and receiving Anne’s hand in marriage. Except ...

  Lord Leatham himself, she had realized while changing into her prettiest dress, harbored some misconceptions about her, and it would be not only dishonest but also dishonorable to allow him, so long as he remained in ignorance of her true nature, to make her an offer in form.

  There was, of course, a chance—a very slight chance—that if he learned the truth about her, he would still wish to marry her, but it was vital that she tell him before he made any commitment, else he might, as a gentleman, persist in his offer rather than drawing back, even though he felt nothing but disgust for her.

  * * * *

  Bronson found the door to Anne’s room ajar and the room empty. The library was also empty, and for a moment he was afraid that she was again hiding from him. It was almost discouraging enough to make him retreat to his own room, but Chorley, when questioned, informed him that Miss Hemsworth was taking tea on the lower terrace.

  Bronson paused on the upper level and looked down at her. She was wearing a blue dress and her hair was done in a softer style, and she looked ridiculously young and vulnerable sitting there. For a moment he felt despair, but adjuring himself not to be a total coward, he went down the few steps to join her.

  Coming up behind her, he unintentionally startled her, and she spilled a few drops of tea in her saucer. But she regained her composure with unnerving speed.

  “Won’t you sit down, my lord? Would you care for some tea, my lord? It is a pleasant day, is it not, my lord?”

  She was evidently determined to hold him at arm’s length, and he became equally determined not to let her. Sitting down beside her, he took the cup of tea she held out to him, promptly set it down on the table, and took her right hand in both of his instead. The slight tremble he could feel in her fingers reassured him that she was not as calm as she was trying to appear.

  “Miss Hemsworth,” he said, knowing no way to do the thing other than simply to get on with it, “will you do me the honor—”

  “Stop!” she said, laying her left hand against his mouth.

  He kissed her finger, and she jerked her hand back as if it were burnt, but he managed to retain his hold on her right hand.

  “Before you say another word, my lord, there are some things about me you should know.” She again tried tentatively to retrieve her right hand, but to no avail. Taking a deep breath, she continued. “To begin with, I am not Anne Hemsworth. That is to say, I am she, but not completely. That is— Oh, dear, this is a muddle. Here I have lectured the boys on how telling part of the truth can be just as deceitful as telling an outright lie, while all the time I myself—”

  “You are Lady Gloriana Hemsworth, the daughter of the Earl of Faussley,” Bronson aided her, since she did not seem able to explain very well. Her confusion was absolutely delightful, but he wished very much to determine if she meant to have him in the end.

  “How did you know that?” She regarded him with suspicion. “I told no one but the twins, and I cannot believe that they—”

  “No, I am afraid I must take the blame.”

  “Blame?”

  “I hired a Bow Street runner to investigate Trussell, who I feared was dipping into the twins’ funds, and in the course of his investigation, he found out Trussell had hired you, and that you were not exactly who you claimed to be. It is perfectly understandable of you not to mention your father. I also have relatives I would as lief not acknowledge.”

  “You hired a runner?” she said, her tone mild, but the merest spark of temper in her eyes.

  “As I said, I admit I am to blame.” He waited, but she made no effort to berate him for such a despicable action, which rather made him suspect she had given up on him.

  “There is more,” she said tentatively. “I know I have impeccable references, and everyone thinks my behavior is above reproach, but actually I have done some very disgraceful things.”

  It belatedly occurred to Bronson that she would not be going to all this effort to convince him that she was not worthy of marrying him if she intended to reject him out of hand, and his anxiety was replaced by undiluted happiness. He was, in fact, hard pressed to keep from laughing aloud out of pure joy.

  “For example,” she continued, “I told the twins that eavesdropping was wrong, and that I did not approve of it, and yet, when the opportunity arose, I set a very bad example for them.”

  “And hid in the secret passageway.”

  She nodded. “Not only that, but I have lectured them on the necessity of being honest with oneself and warned them against making excuses for what is really inexcusable behavior. Yet when the time came, I immediately thought up several ways to justify my eavesdropping. So you see, my lord, I am afraid that I am a thorough hypocrite.”

  “Bronson.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You said, ‘my lord,’ and I feel that we have reached the stage of intimacy where we should be allowed to use given names with one another.”

  She blushed a very becoming shade of pink. “I am not sure—”

  “It is not so difficult. Just say, ‘I am a hypocrite, Bronson, and a thoroughly bad example for impressionable minds.’”

  “I would not go that far,” she said indignantly.

  “Bronson,” he said smoothly. “You seem to have trouble saying that name. My middle name is Alden, if you find it easier to pronounce.”

  “I am trying to have a serious discussion, Bronson, but if you persist in mocking me—”

  “There, you see, my dear Anne, we are perfectly suited for one another—you are a hypocrite and I am an irreverent scoffer.”

  The corner of her mouth twitched slightly, as if she were having trouble repressing a smile. “If you will not interrupt, my lord—I mean, Bronson—I shall continue with what I have to tell you.”

  He nodded agreeably. “As you wish, my dear Anne.”

  “Although I prefer to think of myself as a calm, rational human being who uses intellectual reasoning instead of brute force, I have
discovered I not only have a temper, but I also, when under the influence of that temper, still have a deplorable tendency to resort to physical violence.” She looked at him expectantly.

  “If you are waiting for me to condemn you for manhandling Trussell, you will have a long wait. I can only applaud your style, my dear Anne. And as for your temper, I admit I have derived a great deal of enjoyment from each of the times you have lost it.” He smiled, and she blushed again.

  “You are no gentleman,” she said, but her effort to censure his conduct failed miserably, because this time she could not completely control her expression, and despite her most determined effort, a shy smile crept out. “And I am no lady,” she continued, her smile fading away. She turned her head away and looked at the far horizon.

  “I know people think I am quite proper, but—” she hesitated, but he did nothing to prompt her, “—the truth of the matter is, I sometimes behave quite improperly. When you k-kissed me,” she said, stuttering a bit over the word, “and when I sat on your lap in Sidmouth, I am afraid my thoughts were quite shocking and highly improper.”

  He could not help smiling, and he tugged on her hand, urging her closer, but she still resisted. “My sweet, sweet, Anne. Wherever did you get the ludicrous notion that men prefer women who think of propriety when they kiss?”

  “Well, you see,” she answered seriously, “kissing was not a subject that was covered adequately in my education.”

  “I would never have guessed,” he replied. “If that is indeed the truth, then I must say you show a remarkable aptitude for it. If you would wish me to speak truthfully and openly, I have never in all my travels and all my vast experience, enjoyed anyone’s kisses as much as yours.”

  She started to smile again, but then almost immediately looked stricken. “The worst is yet to come, I am afraid. Before we go any farther, you must know that for a while I suspected you.”

  “What!” Bronson dropped her hand and stood up, glaring down at her. “You suspected I was trying to harm the twins?”

  Instantly the picture of outrage, she likewise leaped to her feet. “Of course not, you dolt! I never for a moment suspected you of that. I suspected that you, in your vast experience, had seduced Martha Miller and were the father of her child.”

  Her lower lip was thrust out pugnaciously, and Bronson could only be thankful she was not as prone to resorting to physical violence as she thought she was.

  “I apologize, my dear Anne.”

  “And I have not given you leave to use my given name.” She continued to scowl at him.

  He stepped closer to her, and her gaze faltered. Another step and he was within kissing distance. “Are you done enumerating your failings and shortcomings?” he murmured softly. “Because if you are, I have something to ask you.”

  “There may be something I have forgotten,” she said in an equally soft voice, all trace of temper gone from her expression.

  “It doesn’t really matter,” he said, stroking her face lightly with his fingertips. “I like you fine the way you are.”

  She caught his hand and pressed it against her cheek.

  He bent his head slightly and brushed his lips against hers. He was taking unfair advantage of her emotions, but he didn’t particularly care. Whatever it took to convince her to marry him ...

  “Marry me,” he said, pulling her the rest of the way into his arms. “Marry me,” he repeated when she did not immediately reply.

  “Kiss me,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  After a long while he lifted his head and said calmly, “Now you shall have to marry me.”

  She leaned her head back so that she could see his face. “And why is that, my lord?”

  “Bronson,” he said, correcting her once more. “Because you have thoroughly compromised me.”

  Still standing in the circle of his arms, she glanced over her shoulder. Not six feet away were the twins, grinning from ear to ear, and behind them were gathered virtually every servant on the estate. Embarrassed, she buried her face in Bronson’s chest.

  “You may congratulate me,” he said loudly. “The redoubtable Miss Hemsworth has agreed to marry me and stay here in Devon forever.”

  A cheer went up from the assembled servants, and under the cover of their huzzahs Anne whispered indignantly, “But I have not yet said I will marry you.”

  “Ah, but I have three weeks while the banns are being called, during which time I am confident that I can persuade you.”

  She looked up into his eyes and experienced again that feeling of unspoken communication. Happiness welled up inside of her. “I am quite looking forward to your persuasion, Bronson. You are so eloquent—”

  “I had not planned to use intellectual reasoning, my dearest darling,” he murmured for her ears only.

  She trembled in his arms. “In that case, I must be sure to demur as long as possible.”

  “But in the end?” he asked, suddenly unsure of himself.

  She smiled up at him. “In the end? Well, if all else fails, there is always clotted cream with strawberries.”

  Epilogue

  Over a cup of hot chocolate, Lady Letitia Morrough perused the morning paper. She smiled with satisfaction when she noticed a small announcement: “Married, in Tavistock, Devon, Lady Gloriana Hemsworth and Bronson Roebuck, Lord Leatham.”

  Succinct, but sufficiently informative for those who cared about them. She must remember, Lady Letitia thought, to invite Dorothy Wiggins over for lunch one day soon to celebrate their success. And perhaps at the same time she would invite the widowed banker her husband had brought home to dinner Saturday a week ago. Mr. Carrwell might just be the one for dear Dorothy, who had been without a husband long enough.

  Lady Letitia laid the paper aside and was pouring herself another cup of hot chocolate when Amelia Carlisle was announced.

  “My dear Amelia, how fine you are looking. Is that a new bonnet?”

  “Oh, Letty, do you think it will do?” Amelia hurried over to check her appearance in the mirror hanging above the sideboard.

  “Do? Do for what?” Lady Letitia asked.

  Amelia blushed. “Well, I have met the most wonderful man.”

  “How interesting, my dear. Sit down and have a cup of hot chocolate with me, or tea if you prefer, and tell me all about him.”

  Amelia sat down, but waved away the proffered refreshment. “No, no, I am too excited to drink a drop. I met him quite by chance, and he has the most fascinating hobby. He has been studying the art of spying—”

  “Spying? He is a military man then?”

  “Military?”

  “You said spying. I presumed you meant spying on the French.”

  “The French? Oh, no, no, nothing like that. He is practicing to be a Bow Street runner. Or rather, he is practicing their techniques, but of course he would never actually become a runner.”

  “Of course,” Lady Letitia murmured, taking another sip of hot chocolate.

  “Mostly he has been following people, and you will never believe what he has discovered. Did you know, for example, that Lady Brownell is definitely having an affair with a captain in the Horse Guards? And Lord Ahrendale is not only sleeping with Toveson’s new bride, but also with the Gravenstoke’s widow?”

  “But really, Amelia, a runner?”

  “Oh, he is not a real runner, of course. He is Felix Sommerton. You know, Sommervale’s younger brother.”

  “Younger? My dear Amelia, have you taken to robbing the cradle?”

  “Oh, pooh, he is not that much younger than we are. And he says I am quite well preserved for my age. Besides, I have not mentioned one word about marriage.”

  “But you have stars in your eyes, and a certain tone in your voice when you say his name....”

  “It shows?” Amelia gave a girlish giggle. “You have found me out. I am indeed in love, and I am sure my feelings are reciprocated. You do not think I am too old to consider marriage, do you? To be sure, I am already a g
randmother, but I was a very young bride—”

  “Oh, absolutely.”

  “And besides, dear Felix says that one is only as old as one feels, and I feel positively fifty again.”

  “And you do not look a day over forty in that bonnet.”

  “Do you think so?” Amelia jumped up again to check her appearance in the mirror.

  While she was occupied, Lady Letitia glanced down at the paper once more and her eye was caught by another nuptial announcement, this one so unexpected she dropped her cup, spilling chocolate all over the table.

  “Letty, good heavens, what are you about?” Amelia hurried to mop up the hot liquid, since Letty was laughing too hard even to attempt it.

  “Read, read,” Lady Letitia finally managed to say, pointing with her finger at the small announcement.

  Picking up the paper by one corner and holding it so that the chocolate would not drip on her clothes, Amelia managed to decipher through the brown stain: “Married, in St. George’s London, Mrs. Rosemary Pierce-Smythe née Pierce and Mr. Creighton Trussell.” For a moment she looked puzzled, then with dawning comprehension, she exclaimed, “The mushroom’s widow! But however did she catch Trussell? Is he not the grandson of the Earl of Bardeswythe, or am I thinking of a different Trussell?”

  “No, you have the correct man. But it is quite a long story, and unfortunately you are pressed for time.” Lady Letitia could not resist a smile.

  “Nonsense, Letty,” Amelia replied, seating herself again on the settee and removing her bonnet. “I always have time for a comfortable coze with you. Ring for a pot of fresh tea and tell me every detail!”

  Dedicated

  To my mother-in-law,

  Virginia Bess Fisher Dolan,

  for twenty-five years

  of love, affection, and friendship.

  I wish to thank Dee Hendrickson and Mary Jo Putney for their advice and encouragement, and I wish to thank Vickey Duffey, formerly of Devonshire, England, and now of Idaho Falls. I also wish to thank Russ Burnham, my favorite Mohawk, for letting me borrow his great-grandfather’s name.