A Regrettable Proposal

by Jennie Goutet

  Without pausing to reflect whether his hastily uttered words revealed more than he intended, he took his hat and went to call for his horse. When the mare was brought round to the door, he swung up in the saddle and clicked his teeth.

  His horse started forward, and he let her go at an easy pace. A few streets from his quiet residential square, there was already a bustle as men unloaded crates of carrots, parsnips, and beets to the marketplace. He picked his way around the deliveries and continued another mile beyond Mary-le-Bone where he could let his horse run. A good gallop cleared his mind, allowing him to appreciate how much he’d needed the escape from escorting his sisters and aunt to parties, and now apparently early morning breakfasts too, God bless them. He couldn’t live a bachelor’s life all these years without feeling his loss of freedom.

  Stratford’s horse began to tire, breath steaming in the brisk air, and he allowed her to slow to a trot, still discovering the unfamiliar routes leading from his new house. The well-kept roads and bright morning sunshine brought him pleasure, and he began to feel almost complacent. The feeling did not last, however, as his thoughts turned again to the ball, his apology, the flowers. He had not seen Miss Daventry since.

  Apart from their brief conversation, he’d been too occupied to do anything but watch her dance with other men. First, it was Lord Carlton. They stood very near one another, and when she turned her face to his, Stratford saw the effect it had on the man. He ground his teeth at the memory. Fortunately, another gentleman had come to claim his dance at that moment, and Miss Daventry was whisked into a lively cotillion, where her red cheeks and sparkling eyes drew him from across the room and made him long to invite her for a turn. Since he wasn’t dancing that evening, he hadn’t dared single her out.

  Stratford conjured up Miss Daventry’s teasing response to his apology and then her laughing, dancing eyes as she whirled through the steps with Sir Berrymore. Stratford wanted those eyes turned to him. Perhaps they had lit up when they saw the flowers he’d sent. He’d give anything to know. It was time. He would call on her today. Whistling, Stratford nudged his horse into a canter.

  At Grosvenor Square, Lydia stood in the morning room to greet him, but she was alone. “Stratford,” she said, brows raised. “Who have you come to see?”

  There was something in her look. She knew. Wondering how much she knew, he decided not to dissemble. “I’ve come to see Miss Daventry … if she will receive me.”

  Lydia pursed her lips, gazing steadily at him, punishing him with her silence, he was sure of it. “Eleanor’s not here,” she said at last. “She’s gone out with Lord Carlton.”

  Stratford folded his arms. Again Lord Carlton. The man was everywhere. He did seem a sincere suitor, but he was too young to be thinking seriously of marriage. Although, if Stratford were honest with himself, he was not an impartial judge where Miss Daventry’s suitors were concerned.

  Lydia gestured toward the bouquet he’d sent, which dwarfed every other arrangement in the room. Perhaps he had been too enthusiastic. “Well done,” she said, “even if the gesture was a necessary one.” She knew, then, but mercifully didn’t tease. “Do take care what you’re about, Stratford. Eleanor is a woman of noble character, and I do not care to see her hurt.”

  “Nor I,” he said, vexed at her tone. Surely Miss Daventry had shown him more grace than Lydia and Ingram thought he deserved, old friends that they were. If only he could see her for himself.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bullock’s Museum was empty of all but governesses and children not yet out of the schoolroom. Eleanor breathed in the mingled odors of stuffed elephants and other wildlife she’d never heard of, her gaze transfixed by jeweled carriages, mummies, and the foreign characters written on tablets of stone and the adjacent columns. That a people could live an existence so foreign to her own, some long dead and others still living and breathing on the other side of the world, seemed incredible.

  Lord Carlton followed, hands behind his back, providing what answers he could to her questions and supplementing his knowledge with a guidebook he had brought for the purpose. His sister, Cecily, seemed content to follow Eleanor’s lead and exclaim over whatever she found to marvel at.

  “Do you see the suit on the wall?” Eleanor puzzled at it, her face lifted. “I cannot fathom how it’s secured on a person. Is it meant for a man or a woman?”

  “I … I don’t perfectly know,” Cecily answered. “It’s too broad for a woman. But it has a skirt.”

  “It’s the native dress from Captain Cook’s voyage to the Australias,” Lord Carlton said, looking up from his guidebook. “That is the chief’s wardrobe. And that over there,” he pointed to the opposite wall, “is his headdress.”

  Eleanor’s gaze followed where he indicated. “I shall never again complain of the folly of having added fruit to my bonnet,” she said, eyes twinkling. “I now see I am but an amateur and have not added nearly enough.”

  “Oh no, I think it’s enough,” Cecily said earnestly.

  Lord Carlton was also quick to reassure. “Your bonnet is very becoming. I’ve been meaning to say so since I first laid eyes on it.”

  Eleanor glided to the next exhibit with a quiet sigh.

  Upon completing their tour of the lower level, they began the climb upstairs, where Eleanor spotted a familiar profile. “Why, Miss Tunstall,” she called out. The woman turned and took in the party at a glance, encompassing them with her smile.

  “Miss Daventry, how wonderful to meet you here. I didn’t expect to see anyone of my acquaintance at such an early hour. I’m here with my young cousins, who cannot be far.” Miss Tunstall glanced around, then signaled to a boy a few feet away.

  “I confess it was my own inclination to come at an early hour, and Lord Carlton was kind enough to accompany me, and this”—Eleanor, having given Lord Carlton time to bow, turned to Cecily—“is Miss Cecily Carlton, Lord Carlton’s sister.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Phoebe Tunstall glossed over Cecily’s youthful blushes and brought her cousins to her side to perform the introductions. “Amelia and John live in Canterbury and are visiting London on their way to Norfolk.”

  Lord Carlton addressed the young man. “Confess. It was you who dragged your sister and cousin up the stairs to see the stuffed snake eating a woman, was it not?”

  The boy laughed. “Yes, but truly, where else will you find such a thing? I could not leave London without seeing it. I shall have such stories to tell my friends when we’re home.”

  “Come then,” Lord Carlton called out, marching forward. “Let’s see the thing. The ladies can decide whether they have the stomach for it.”

  “Are you and your cousins here alone, Miss Tunstall?” Eleanor fell in step with Lord Worthing’s sister as Cecily followed her brother and the two new acquaintances.

  “Yes, Anna would never rise this early. Oh, and do call me Phoebe, will you? We’re not strangers because you’re staying with one of my childhood friends, and I understand from Stratford you had made his acquaintance at the estate.”

  “Then you must call me Eleanor,” she responded warmly. “Yes, we met in Wiltshire, but I didn’t know then his connection to the Ingrams.”

  “I’m sure had he known you were to stay with Lydia, he would have introduced us as soon as we arrived in London. He has always had so many friends staying at our house on holiday, but Frederick is his closest.”

  “I didn’t imagine him to be someone who’d have a stream of friends over—” Eleanor stopped short as her cheeks grew warm. “Forgive me. Of course, I cannot claim any knowledge of what he is likely to do.”

  “Ah.” Phoebe looked at her keenly. “You’re thinking, of course, that he’s too somber to have many friends.”

  Eleanor hesitated over how honest she should be with the earl’s sister and finally settled for the truth. She chose her words carefully. “Although he is at ease with Lord Ingram, he seems to be a man who is not prone to gaiety. But perhaps with the w
ar …”

  Phoebe exhaled. “My brother was different growing up,” she said, her eyes fixed on a distant memory. “My father was very jolly, and … capable. Stratford was never forced to endure the pressure that eldest sons are sometimes made to feel.” She looked again at Eleanor. “I believe he suffered his broken engagement very deeply, even if he never spoke of it. It was not made public, but I think Lydia will have told you …” She paused, and Eleanor nodded for her to continue.

  “He left immediately for the Peninsula. I can only imagine what horrors he faced there. The men hide it from us women, but I’ve caught scraps of conversation. And then …” She sniffed and turned bright eyes toward the group making its way back down the aisle.

  “And then we lost my father, which no one expected. He was thought to be too hearty to expire from an attack of influenza, but the doctors believe there was something else, and that he had been suffering for a while without telling us. I think Stratford stepping into my father’s shoes at the same moment he inherited a title was indeed a strain.” Phoebe concluded, “He’s not as light-hearted as he once was. But I hope one day to see my brother’s old humor return.”

  Eleanor nodded. “Of course.” She did not know how else to respond. That was a heavy burden, indeed.

  Phoebe moved alongside Eleanor, taking her arm. “I’m sure my brother did not show to advantage at Worthing, having just arrived in England.” She smiled. “But he does think highly of you. Just this morning, he said,”—Phoebe paused in her steps, pulling Eleanor back as Lord Carlton was almost upon them—“He said he hoped your suitors would realize between your inheritance and your hand, you are the greater prize of the two.”

  Eleanor’s breath froze in her chest.

  “We’ve seen it all,” Lord Carlton announced, flanked by the younger set, still arguing whether the detail of the half-eaten woman was realistic or exaggerated. “And it’s just as I predicted. You two have no interest in the reptiles.”

  Phoebe laughed. “You have judged correctly, my lord. Our meeting was most fortuitous, for you’ve saved me from any nightmares I’m sure to have suffered by the sight.”

  Eleanor summoned a smile. “I believe I shall have enough conversation from the curiosities we’ve visited below for my purposes.”

  As the two groups converged on their way to the awaiting carriages, Eleanor wondered at all she’d learned of Lord Worthing. Those rare glimpses of kindness and humor were buried under a serious and unyielding disposition. Yet his sister spoke of Lord Worthing’s pain and her hope of seeing the return to his former self.

  And if his sister is to be believed, the thought churned through Eleanor’s mind with delight and surprise in equal measure, Lord Worthing holds me in esteem.

  Eleanor saw Phoebe again the following afternoon in the company of Lord Worthing and their sister, Anna. It was the hour to be seen at Hyde Park, and it was not an opportune time for private conversation or testing theories about whether the earl was burdened and reticent, as Phoebe had seemed to suggest, or simply uninterested. Did he really admire her? Impossible to say, especially when he bowed over her hand with a solemn, “Miss Daventry,” and then greeted Lydia more informally.

  Lydia linked arms with both twins, leaving Eleanor to fall back on the path beside Lord Worthing. Carriages drove by, and the men and women on horseback clip-clopped on the fenced-in path to her right while a stiff wind in the leaves overhead caused the sunlight to dance in her eyes. At last she said, “Thank you for the bouquet of flowers, my lord.”

  He sought her gaze before turning to face ahead. “I wanted to show my repentance.”

  She remembered her implacable words after his first apology and laughed quietly. “When I said I would withhold my forgiveness until I could be certain of your sincerity, I had no idea you were so adept at apologies.”

  Lord Worthing smiled. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had to offer so many.”

  They walked in silence as Eleanor thought up and rejected a series of things she could say, and finally settled on, “Phoebe told me you brought home many of the gentlemen I am now becoming acquainted with when you were still at school. So, apart from Lord Ingram, you knew Sir Braxsen?”

  “Not as intimately as Ingram, although in a sense, everyone knows Braxsen. We grew up with him. He was part of Ingram’s hunting party, so we spent at least one week a year together, besides seeing each other in London.”

  “He does seem to be a favorite. And Lord Carlton?” Eleanor turned to him. “I imagine he was not one of your guests since Phoebe did not seem to know him.”

  The firm set to Lord Worthing’s mouth reminded her of their first meeting, and she wondered at it. He seemed to choose his words. “Lord Carlton is several years my junior, and I can only claim the barest acquaintance. We’re both members of White’s.”

  “Oh.”

  The earl tapped his cane against a tree trunk in passing. In the ensuing silence, it dawned on Eleanor that perhaps she’d not been wise to have brought up Lord Carlton’s name since he was showing himself to be a suitor. Before she had time to dwell on the thought, Lord Worthing asked, “Will you be presented at Almack’s?”

  Eleanor nodded. “Wednesday hence. Lydia’s mother prevailed upon Lady Jersey to lend her support to Lady Sefton, though I am virtually unknown. She was successful in securing the vouchers. So I’ll go.” Eleanor knew she should exalt at such a victory, but in truth, she dreaded it. She’d heard that not even when presented at court were women put so on display. She longed for quiet conversation and small assemblies where she could dance with people who were comfortable. Here, walking with Lord Worthing, she had it. Yet she longed for something else as well and couldn’t put her finger on it.

  “I will accompany my sisters there,” Lord Worthing said. “Will you do me the honor of saving me a dance?” She peered at him from the corner of her lashes and noticed his flush. With his cane, he took a swipe at the grass, and something blossomed in her heart. She wasn’t the only one who felt unsure.

  “I’d be delighted, Lord Worthing,” she answered, and was rewarded with one of his rare smiles.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Stratford and Major Fitzwilliam left the treasury building at a brisk pace and were about to part ways as the major headed toward the war offices. They were using this time to compare notes on the people they’d deemed, along with Ingram, worth watching. Fitz was studying the activity of the soldiers who had just returned, and Stratford was listening in the clubs for any tête à tête that could be considered suspect. So far, neither had come up with much.

  Their path required some side-stepping through the teaming streets. Idle young men contemplated their next lark, mothers hurried their daughters along before someone else took that last bit of lace in just the color yellow needed, older gentlemen made steady strides toward parliament for the session that was to open.

  “Fitz!” To his left, Sir Braxsen disengaged from a crowd of brightly plumed young men and came forward, hand extended. “I’d not thought to see you here. I expected you’d be buried in running messages for Lord Ingram.” He seemed to notice Stratford then. “Oh, hallo, Worthing. You two together?”

  “As you see.” Stratford gave a nod, not wishing to say too much in case Sir Braxsen should guess their objective. With access to every social circle, the man was a known gossip. Fitz answered more fully, turning the conversation with practiced ease.

  “I am indeed on my way to the Ingram residence. And you—” Fitz grinned disarmingly. “I’m sure to find you on any street corner where there are people to watch. How did you ever keep up with the rigors of the campaign?”

  “One does what is required. But I’m enjoying the slower pace for once. In Portugal, it was nothing but bad rations, joints stiff from the cold ground, and getting fired at, which is a deuced nuisance.” He brushed a falling blossom from his sleeve and affected unconcern, but Stratford knew better.

  The major looked at him sideways, a sympathetic grin lurking. “
You’d sell out in a heartbeat, wouldn’t you?”

  “I don’t see why you don’t. Worthing, here, did.” Braxsen jerked his head toward Stratford. “You’re not in straightened circumstances, and there are other ways to serve the country than going off to fight.”

  Fitz patted Braxsen’s shoulder. “But someone does have to fight, and I’m a career soldier, so who better than me? Let me run this up to the person who’s waiting for it, and you can join me at Colonel Ingram’s house.”

  Sir Braxsen gave a sly smile. “Are you going for military intelligence or to see his fair sister?”

  “What makes you think I tell people my business?” Fitz retorted good-naturedly. “I’ll be back in ten minutes if you want to wait.”

  When he was gone, Stratford tapped his cane on the ground. “What will you do if you leave off soldiering? One day you most certainly will since your heart’s not in it. Have you something to fall back on?”

  Braxsen met Stratford’s eyes briefly. “I have some income from my mother’s estate, even if my father lost most of it. Perhaps I will hold out for a wealthy debutante.”

  Stratford shrugged. “You could, I suppose. As for me, I don’t like to be doing nothing. If trade doesn’t suit you, and you won’t enter the church—” He laughed when Sir Braxsen shuddered, “You might try politics. You know enough people.”

  Sir Braxsen gave a considering look. “I’d thought of it. If you and Ingram will take me up, perhaps I will try my hand.”

  “Let us first meet to see if we are in accord on the issues. But why not?” Stratford replied. When Fitz returned, Stratford left them to their visit. Though he was tempted to haunt Ingram’s drawing room in hopes of having conversation with Miss Daventry, he had a meeting with his solicitor that could not wait.

  Fitz hailed a hansom cab and swung into it, laughing at Braxsen’s grumbling over their mode of travel. He continued to complain until they pulled up at Grosvenor Square, but it was in such a comical way, Fitz could not take offense. Lord Ingram was out, but the ladies would receive them. For once, Miss Ingram was not surrounded by suitors, but was sitting next to Miss Daventry, embroidering with more determination than skill. She set aside her needlework with relief.