A Regrettable Proposal

by Jennie Goutet

  Once seated, Eleanor couldn’t help but dwell on the problem at the forefront of her mind. What would she do following the London Season? It seemed as urgent a business as it was elusive. There was one thing of which she was certain. She would not marry this Season. She could not accept an offer when she was this young and knew as little of her own heart as she did of men. Those who had their London Season aspired high. They aspired to a title. She … well, she hoped for deeper sentiments than a marriage of convenience could provide.

  Dinner last night was a foray into acute discomfort as her aunt flaunted her satisfaction at Eleanor’s success. Of course, no one else viewed it as success. More like thievery. At one point she found Lord Worthing staring at her, but when their gazes met, he broke it first and turned away. Then he came into the drawing room, revealing more of that warmth and humor she suspected was tucked away, until he abruptly left her after she divulged the details of her aunt’s less-than-modish address in London. Eleanor sighed. He needn’t have put himself to the trouble of conversing with her if he thought she was so far beneath him.

  Although she hoped her Season in London would be a comfortable one, she did not harbor false expectations. It would be necessary at the Ingram house, where Eleanor would be staying for the Season, to entertain any suitors Lady Ingram put forth for her benefit. When none came up to scratch—as they surely would not, particularly after witnessing Mr. Amesbury’s reaction—she might be free to seek employment, a necessity since she had been denied any kind of useful inheritance. And what will happen to the land if I don’t marry? I shall have to ask.

  “What’s this I see—”

  Shocked out of her reverie, Eleanor sat bolt upright at the slurring, taunting voice that was clearly addressing her. Her neck tingled with fear as her gaze darted back and forth.

  “A Bird of Paradise? Here in England,” the voice continued.

  The edge of the meadow had begun to take shape, and the lumpy form she had thought to be a bush moved. She took a deep breath and blew it out in a cloud before deciding to investigate.

  The mystery cleared when she grew near, as she discerned the gentleman sprawled across another stone bench. She recognized the face, the form, the well-built shoulders, but the cool poise was gone. He was clumsy, disheveled, entirely different. “My lord,” she said, unable to keep the irony from her voice.

  He grunted and, peering up at her, let his head drop back down. “Not a Bird of Paradise.” He shook with silent laughter. “A game pullet.”

  When Eleanor didn’t answer, he opened one eye and stared at her until he was able to focus. “Miss Daventry,” he slurred. “What are you doing on the grounds late at night? It will not do.”

  Suddenly, any intimidation she had felt before in his presence was gone, and she lifted her chin. “It is not late at night, my lord, but early in the morning.”

  Lord Worthing sat up slowly and opened both eyes. “Morning, you say? Yes, I suppose it could be morning.” His voice was thick, but intelligible.

  “The two blend together, I suppose, when one has dipped rather deep,” Eleanor said, dryly.

  He waved his hand. “I’m nothing more than a trifle disguised.” Then, squinting at her, said, “What do you know about dipping deep?”

  She sniffed. “The stable hand in Sussex tells me things so I will not be quite so green.”

  “Not so green, eh? For all that, green is what you’ll remain until you … well, never mind.” Lord Worthing put a hand to his head. “So, Miss Daventry. What will you do next?” He shot her a glance under heavily lidded eyes. “Now that your inheritance depends on catching a husband?”

  Eleanor felt her back stiffen. “Not that it’s any of your concern, but I don’t intend to marry. Inheritance or no, I will not put myself out to please so that some gentleman I don’t care a snap of my fingers for can line his pockets.”

  The earl appeared to mull this over. Then, whether from forgetfulness or doggedness, he asked again. “So what will you do?”

  The wind went out of her sails. There was no easy answer. “I’ll have my London Season. And while I’m there, I’ll search out genteel opportunities to become a governess or teach at a girl’s school.” She stared at the edge of the black pond between the meadow and the estate and tied a weight to her dream of falling in love and having a family of her own. Palunk. She dropped the secret desire and watched it sink to the bottom.

  “Why not marry?” There was again that sardonic curl to his lip. How could she have ever thought there was warmth to this man? “Assuming, of course, you can distinguish yourself from the other bird-witted debutantes clamoring for a matrimonial prize.”

  “I’m not …” She fumed for a moment before answering. “I don’t think I’ll marry this young, if I marry at all.” And you are only proving the soundness of my objections. What have I to look forward to in marriage but a drunken lout who thinks he can ring a peal over me whenever it pleases him? I thank you, no.

  Lord Worthing snorted. “All young women want to marry. You’ll change your mind soon enough.” He kicked the earth at his feet, missing the clump of grass and losing his balance in the process. “And you’ll jostle one candidate against another until you get the best fool to come up to scratch.” He closed his eyes as if in pain.

  Eleanor swiveled abruptly. “My lord, I wish you good day. I must return to my room.”

  With unexpected agility, he grabbed her arm and pulled her next to him on the bench. “No, stay.” He waved his hand in a tipsy salute. “Some men like brown hair.”

  What is that supposed to mean? Eleanor pulled her arm away and glared at him. “My lord?” she said, torn between confusion and anger.

  He blinked, as if coming to himself. And though she wanted to leave, his sudden, direct gaze rooted her to the spot. “Miss Daventry, I have a proposition to make, and I ask you to accord me a few minutes of your time.” Now her heart was in her throat. Gone was the slurring. He was focused.

  Lord Worthing shifted on his seat, pulling away from her to draw breath and, she feared, to combat a wave of nausea. “I also must do the London Season, but unlike you, mine comes with the weight of responsibility. I must find a wife.” He leaned forward on his elbows and shook his head. “What maggot got into my uncle’s head to will away the unentailed estate that way. He must know it’s only useful to Worthing. And I don’t like having my hand forced in marriage.” Eleanor tapped her foot, waiting.

  With a sideways glance, he went on. “This is what I propose. Marry me, Miss Daventry. You’re young enough to be trained as a peeress and not likely to be an exacting wife, which is just what I should choose. In return, I’ll be an undemanding husband. Then, you get a title, and I’ll get the land that should’ve come with the estate. I imagine the benefit will be mutual.”

  Having thus laid his heart bare, Lord Worthing loosened his limp necktie, and Eleanor was afraid he would truly be ill. He did not notice her concern—or her disgust—but went blindly on. “It will save us both from a Season that is unlikely to be pleasant or brought to a satisfactory conclusion.”

  Eleanor leapt to her feet, quivering with rage. How dare he insult her in such a manner. Not even to accord her the barest courtesy of a gentleman? Oh ho, and he thought she might be tempted to accept his proposal? Not if her life depended on it! She struggled for mastery over her emotions and cast about for the perfect retort, her fists clenched at her sides.

  “So, Miss Daventry? What’s it to be?”

  Eleanor lifted her gaze to the windows of the manor, which now reflected the pink hues of sunrise. He may not act the gentleman, but she could still be a lady.

  The noble thought died quickly when the earl made an impatient gesture, assaulting her senses with the overpowering smell of spirits. Never mind being a lady, she thought. He won’t remember this conversation anyway. With cloying sweetness, she replied, “I am sure, my lord, to be just the sort of undemanding wife that would please you”—she took a step back, this time cautious
ly lest he reach for her arm again—“however, I’m sorry to disappoint. My answer is ‘no.’ ”

  Lord Worthing’s voice was harsh. “Miss Daventry, on what grounds do you refuse me?”

  “On the grounds that I do not love you, my lord,” Eleanor blushed at the vulnerability of her words, but turned to face him fully, “and that you clearly have no love for me.”

  “No one marries for love! You have no great fortune, beauty, or prospects apart from this parcel of land that’s of use only to me. It’s unpardonably mawkish of you”—he spat out the word—“to refuse me for such a paltry reason.”

  “And yet, my lord, I remain steadfast.” Hugging her arms inside her pelisse, she faced Lord Worthing, her eyes narrowed. “Were love not possible in a match, I should at least demand respect. You have shown me by your proposal the impossibility of such a thing.”

  “You’re being unreasonable,” he called out, swaying now from effort.

  “It appears you and I are alike in one thing, my lord.” She turned to leave. “Neither one of us wants our hand forced in marriage.”

  Eleanor walked away, her dark brown skirt heavy with moisture from the frozen grass. “You are not a trifle disguised,” she muttered, her words floating back on the breeze.

  “You, sir, are foxed!”

  Chapter Six

  Josiah Benchly strode across the room and ripped the curtains across their iron rod, allowing the bright sunlight to force its way across Stratford’s face. That the valet was displeased with his master was obvious, and that he dared show it revealed he had been in Stratford’s employ since before the earl had reached manhood. The shaving cream was mixed vigorously, and the brush whapped against the coat with loud thumps.

  When the valet picked up a boot, Stratford said, “Enough. Benchly, I implore you. Have a care for my head. What o’clock is it? Am I to hurry for lunch?”

  Benchly let the brush fall loosely to his side. “Lunch, my lord? The ladies will be sitting down to tea before long. Billings asked Mr. Grund to lead the company on a tour of the grounds in your stead. We let your guests understand you were laid up with a megrim.”

  Stratford groaned. He sat up quickly, but his stomach revolted, forcing him to lie back down. “That’s a woman’s complaint. Could you not have been more inventive?” When Benchly did not respond, Stratford sat up again, this time more gingerly. “You said it’s tea time? The sun is too bright for that. It cannot be much past midday.”

  “I believe you are not yet accustomed to the manor, my lord,” Benchly replied. “I am told the sun reflects off the windows on the side of the estate that juts out, and it appears to be overhead. But, I assure you, it’s three o’clock. Now, my lord,” the valet coaxed, “if you’ll just make your way over to the bath, I shall see that you are properly turned out.”

  “Blast you,” Stratford barked. “I’m not a milksop. Just get on with it.”

  Seeing his valet reduced to sniveling silence, Stratford stood, giving a cross between a groan and a laugh. “I’m a beast, Josiah. I don’t know how you put up with me.”

  “Well, you are not yourself, if I may make the observation.” Benchly picked up the bar of soap and set it on the stand near the copper tub. His features seemed less glacial.

  “Yes, well, I don’t know whatever possessed me to get so bosky like a regular greenhorn.” Three o’clock, and his guests must soon return from the tour. It would be too cold and damp for them to remain out of doors for long. He would have to …

  Damp! How had he known it was damp? After spending most of the night drinking Amesbury’s brandy, he’d spent the remaining hours outdoors, and, aye … Who was it he’d met there? A vision floated before his eyes of a fresh face peering at him against the grey sky. Miss Daventry.

  He drew in a sharp breath, this time his mind revolting as much as his stomach. He’d proposed to the girl! And, if his hazy memory was correct, in the most insulting terms imaginable. He was not a sensitive creature, but this was obtuse even for him. What in the world had possessed him to do such a thing?

  Pity, most likely. No wonder she’d given him the right-about. Stratford sank into the water, as boiling hot as he could stand it. His stomach lurched, and he almost lost it into the basin the valet had provided for the purpose, but he held back. Instead, he quietly took the sponge, eyes fixed on the copper rim of the deep tub. His hand holding the sponge sank down to his leg and remained there. He was horrified.

  His own words came back to him. You’re not likely to be an exacting wife, and I will be an undemanding husband … That alone would not have been so bad, but then when she’d refused him: You have no great fortune, beauty, or prospects.

  Why did she refuse him again? Oh, yes. Love. And perhaps my mode of address, Stratford thought wryly. He applied soap to the sponge and started to wash, but the almond scent did nothing for his conscience. Ducking under water, he allowed the hot liquid to fill his eardrums and block everything else out.

  The last thing he remembered with any sort of clarity from his evening debauch, after his befuddled mind had grappled with Miss Daventry’s plight, was how little he wanted to see Judith in London—how tempted he was by her still, and how he’d do anything to resist her spell. The brandy had muddled the two situations until one became a means of escaping the other. What a fiasco.

  The more he thought about it, the worse it became. He was going to have to apologize. That much was clear. Three years in the Peninsula had obviously been enough to erode his manners. Now, if he had any hopes of still calling himself a gentleman, he needed to rectify the situation. No one could behave like he had to Miss Daventry and still deserve that title.

  “Benchly!” At a word, his valet came in with a plush towel and handed it to his master, who had stood, letting the water splash over the sides of the tub. Stratford took the towel and buried his face in it. Apologies did not come easily, but he was not a man to shirk his duty. He must own his fault and face up to it as soon as possible.

  The party following the tour had just entered the hall when Stratford descended the stairs. The guests, stamping their feet and removing wraps, turned as one when he came into view.

  “I beg your pardon for not joining you earlier. I had …” he scanned the crowd, searching for Miss Daventry’s face and catching her gaze, “… the headache.” He couldn’t speak to Miss Daventry now. It would cause too much talk to pull her away from the crowd. Besides, it would be a simpler task when he’d got something in his stomach.

  Stratford retreated into the library, trying to summon the energy to ring for something to eat though he wasn’t sure it would help. He opened his ledger and let the numbers swim before his eyes until he finally turned to stare out the window, willing the pounding headache and bouts of nausea to fade. Oh lord, I deserve my punishment.

  R

  Eleanor watched the earl enter the library and turned to face the window so no one would witness her confusion. How uncomfortable it was to see him again. Worse than she’d feared. What had she expected? An apology? For him to look contrite? It appears only I am to suffer from embarrassment.

  When the butler brought her aunt’s attention to a letter she’d received, Eleanor was finally ready to show her face. “Who’s it from, Aunt?” Eleanor went to her, guessing it might be from her aunt’s sister. Perhaps Mrs. Renly would invite them to stay. Now that the will had been read, nothing prevented them from leaving, and she had no desire to spend another night in this house.

  “It’s from Matilda.” Mrs. Daventry noticed the butler still standing there, and she turned the letter over. “Ah, it’s not been franked.” She reached into her reticule and pulled out two small coins. “Thank you.”

  Silently, Eleanor trailed her aunt up the stairs and into her room where she walked over to the window. Goodness! Those were snowflakes falling, and at this time of year. Her aunt had not been mistaken in insisting they all return because the weather was getting colder.

  It would only be a light dusting, sh
e decided, as she watched the flakes fall. Not enough to keep her here with Lord Worthing. He had appeared only partially recovered this afternoon. Clean, upright, and freshly shaven, but he looked almost as if he were in pain. Maybe he did regret it. Or better yet, perhaps he had forgotten about the whole incident. That would be fortuitous. Since she was neither his inferior to take by force nor someone he would pursue seriously while sober, much better he forget about the entire thing than embarrass her by bringing it up.

  You have no great fortune, beauty, or prospects. So she had no fortune, did she? She would bet he’d not have made her a proposal had she not inherited that parcel of land. He was trying to downplay it, but she knew it was no paltry inheritance. This morning, the bailiff had taken her to view it on the solicitor’s instructions, and she was stunned to find out how much she was now worth. A small fortune, and unfortunately one she would never fully own.

  Eleanor had never seen what a marriage based on love looked like. She had no role model for it nor would anyone of her acquaintance consider it a worthy ambition to marry for love. Yet she knew with all her heart the only thing that could induce her to enter the state of matrimony was that she loved a man and was loved in return. With such conditions, there was little hope of marriage, but she could show Lord Worthing that even a girl with no very great beauty could receive a more worthy proposal than his.

  Her aunt folded the cream-colored paper, and Eleanor turned to her. “Are we invited to stay? When may we go? Does she mean to come to London this Season?”

  “Not so many questions, Eleanor.” Mrs. Daventry placed the letter on the dressing table. “We are invited to go, but I fear it won’t be a pleasant stay. My sister is sick. It seems quite sick because I’ve never seen her write such a short letter. I’m concerned and think we should remove from here as early as tomorrow if a conveyance can be found.”