“Will you count me out of your life because of my status?” He joked, appearing amused as well as seriously dismayed.
“You’re twenty-nine,” she said in accusation.
“I am. You are six years younger. Is there a problem?”
“You’ve waited rather a long time to—” Well, why not say the obvious? “A long time to look for a bride.”
“I’ve had other occupations.”
She harrumphed. Yes, she knew two of them, too. “Aren’t you getting long in the tooth?”
He chuckled, looked about and leaned closer. “Do you think me so doddering that I might be incapable of begetting—?”
“No!” She burned with the power of her blush. “No. I do not.”
He laughed whole-heartedly. “I am in want of a wife. And I have looked for one for many years.”
“With any results?”
“None. Until lately.”
So by their fifth meeting (at Lady Elsworth’s tea), they were jovial friends who appeared to one and all to sit and discuss the cartoonist Rowlandson’s ability to portray the ironies of the Royals.
“May I call on you, Miss Harvey?” he had asked her when those in the room finally left them alone in their cozy corner.
“Why?” she’d been bold enough to inquire.
“I find I need your company.”
She stared at him and dared not believe it. The way he made her breath hitch just by gazing at her told her that if he pressed his magnificent mouth to hers, if he touched her arm or (please, God) her breast or (yesss) her quivering thigh, she could dissolve into little puddles of goo. And that was no way to maintain one’s reputation, especially if one liked to ride out at dawn or drink three glasses of champagne without comment or censure.
“Have dull friends, do you, sir?” She challenged him. Had to.
“Too many.”
“What of the lady you met in the small salon at Lady Wimple’s?” She had to know from his lips if he was engaged in a new affair with anyone. She wouldn’t stand for him having mistresses. She couldn’t bear the competition. She was no Diamond, no Incomparable. But she had her assets. Good hair. A straight nose. Abundant breasts. So she’d brook no competition. Never. If he wished to marry her, he had to be hers, all hers…or not at all.
“Esme, listen to me.” In that crowded drawing room with dozens of the ton chatting on and noting every eye that drifted to every heaving bosom, he put a hand to hers and held it tightly. “That was no lady.”
Oh, how she wished to believe him.
“May I call?” he asked once more, his face full of earnest hope.
“Yes.” She wanted him, as she’d wanted no other. “Tomorrow.”
And so he had.
For three days in succession.
By the fourth day, her Mama (reading the air, Esme supposed) left them alone on some flimsy excuse.
He moved to Esme’s side on the settee and took her hands. Into both palms, he’d placed hot little kisses. Her nipples had beaded. Her belly had swelled. And her head had swum as he threaded his fingers into her coiffure and placed his firm lips on her own. And oh, he felt like heaven.
“Darling, I want to marry you,” he whispered. His mouth traveled her cheek and he bit her earlobe.
She sank her fingers into his thick soft curls and kissed him back with an ardor that (afterward) frankly shocked her.
“That’s yes,” he stated with finality. “I know it is.” He stood up so fast she thought he’d been shot. He left her there, aching to have his hands on her everywhere. But to his credit, he went in search of a footman and asked for her father. Straight away, he asked Papa who gave his immediate approval.
And then, quick as you please, Northington had disappeared.
The man who had rushed her into courtship, who had teased and bantered and lured her to fantasies of lying abed with him naked, had simply vanished.
Then two weeks ago, he had reappeared at Courtland Hall with a special license in hand. He apologized for his absence, but gave no explanations. Then he had promptly taken her out into her mother’s parterre and had kissed her senseless.
“May second, I want us to wed, darling.”
Not a question. A statement.
And she—twenty-three and aglow from head to heart to breasts to quivering belly—was in lust with him. She marveled, for she was no twit. No foolish woman whose daydreams ruled her life. No. She’d entertained numerous swains over the years. After all, she was a wealthy catch. She’d refused six gentlemen in marriage. She hadn’t found any of those fellows—titled, well-healed and accomplished in their own rights— interesting or even vaguely exciting.
But this man, this Northington, mesmerized her.
Truth be bald and bold, she pulsed to feel him wholly devoted to her. And soon, all things to her, dear and vital, tender and lusty, sacred and nakedly profane.
That, she concluded, or she was going to run off with him without benefit of marriage and allow him all sorts of liberties.
But that was two weeks ago.
And this morning as she looked out upon the rolling meadow, rosy in the rays of a rising sun, she questioned if her unmaidenly ardor to have him was enough to bind him to her for the next thirty or forty years.
Or did she need much more?
Chapter 2
“He’s a busy man, my dearest.”
Esme folded her arms and gazed down the drive as another carriage headed for their home. She wished she was as sure of Northington’s appearance here today as Mama.
“Do not worry our Esme, wife!” Her father could tame her mother even while he winked at Esme. Skillful man. “He will come.”
Not soon enough to greet the guests, however. Esme shifted from one foot to another as the ebony and gold coach of the Earl of Seaford approached the Hall. She’d wanted Northington here from the start of this party. Where was he and why had he sent such a brief apology for his tardiness?
“You look lovely.” Her mother patted her cheek. “That apple green gives you a glow. Oh, I am so pleased with how your new gowns complement your complexion.”
Esme was more interested in how her fiancé complemented her desire to appear beloved. Northington was a charmer, a wit, a man of the town. But he had also given her evidence that he disappeared when it suited him.
Evidently, he also appeared when it suited him.
“You mustn’t fret, Esme.” Her mother told her as an aside, her attentions riveted on the elegant carriage of Esme’s two school friends, the twin daughters of Seaford, Ivy and Grace. “Once all your school friends are here, you can have a wonderful chat with them. Take your mind off him!”
Esme wanted that. One of her decisions this morning was to have private conversations with a few of her friends. Particularly, her cousin, Fiona, with whom she’d shared many years at Miss Shipley’s School and far too many contretemps. Fiona was to arrive with another of their former school mates, Lady Mary Finch. Fifi and Mary lived in Bath and both were to come today via public coach. And Papa said he’d send his own coach to Chippenham to fetch them up to the Hall.
Seven years was a long time to spend together at school, with a few days off to go home during the year. Ten of the girls had gotten to know each other well. Six had become the core with Esme tagging after the older girls, hoping they’d include her. Over their years together, they’d shaped each other’s views of politics (messy), their French tutor (handsome), their dance instructor (a stickler for liveliness) and mathematics of household management (at which she had excelled).
The girls had studied those elements meant to make them ladies in form as well as fact. The headmistress declared she would turn them into spouses worthy of the best gentlemen in the land. Yet, considering the wars had taken many eligible young men away to the Navy and the Army, only two had married. Ranging in ages from twenty-three to twenty-five, her friends approached that most prickly of conditions, spinsterhood.
Esme regarded all her friends with affection
. She hadn’t always merited it in return. No, she remembered how eager she’d been for their praise. Yet she’d gone about it in the oddest ways, being foolish, often too boastful of her gowns and her abundant pin money. She’d also for a few years been far too competitive. Her passion to be first and foremost at every subject, every art with every person, teacher or parent or brother, had created disharmony. Even when she’d shared her expertise with them that was not often enough to lure them to her side. Taking her mother’s urging as law, she’d striven to be first in grades in French and English literature. She’d been obnoxious about it too. She’d seen how her schoolmates avoided her and she hated being so alone. An only child, she was often alone and did not mind the solitude. But she knew the difference between that and loneliness. When the others out of pique left her to herself, she understood their censure.
The year before all of them went home to prepare for their debuts, Esme had changed her ways. Then most of the others began to include her in their activities and in their confidences. She in turn became generous with her knowledge, her advice and her empathy. A few had accepted her change of heart. Lady Grace Livingston and Lady Willa Sheffield were two. Both would attend this party, as they had often in the past few years. Among those who had never quite accepted the new Esme was her cousin, Lady Fiona Chastain.
So before Esme went on to her new life as a married women, she wished to change her relationship with her cousin. And she’d start with apologies to Fifi before she made her way down the chapel aisle.
Esme followed her parents toward the door as Ivy alighted from her father’s carriage.
Ivy’s smile was broad, as ever. “Wonderful to see you, my dear.”
“I’m delighted you’ve both come,” Esme greeted her, then her sister Grace who was right behind her. The twins, Ladies Ivy and Grace were unmarried and at twenty-four, a year older than Esme. The two looked alike with dark green eyes and dimples in their left cheeks, but Ivy had blonde hair and Grace bright red. Ivy—heaven help her—was more biting in her view of the world. Grace, more welcoming, and as a result, Grace was more Esme’s confidante than Ivy. “This would not be a party without you.”
“You’re kind,” Ivy said with genuine feeling which Esme often found lacking in Ivy. “We want to wish you well as you start your new venture.”
“Indeed we do!” Grace beamed at her. “Are we first to arrive?”
“No, Althea, Diana and Sandrine came earlier. They’re in their rooms.”
Althea, Lady Scarsden, had arrived with her husband. Diana, Countess of Saunderson, like Althea had married at eighteen, but her husband had died two years ago leaving her with two small children. Sandrine De Compiègne had no financial problems. Her wealth came from her parents’ iron and silk investments across the Continent. She’d arrived earlier and gone to her rooms. Sandrine always came to this May Day Frolic, hosted by Esme’s parents. A welcome guest, she was the daughter of French emigres who’d escaped Madame Guillotine during the Terror. Eager to share her intimate views of decadent French royalty, both Bourbon and Bonaparte, she was also a republican. An odd mix, that, but she was entertaining company.
“The footmen,” said her Mama to them both, “will take up your luggage.”
“Our maids will go with them,” Ivy said with a look at their two servants. “To the same suites as we had last year?”
“The very same,” said Esme’s mother. “You did like them so.”
“We did,” affirmed Grace as she removed her gloves and turned with the others at the sounds of horses clomping in the drive. “Oh, who’s next? I don’t recognize the coach.”
But Esme’s mother did and she was positively lit from within to lean forward and say, “We have new guests this year.”
Esme had to smile at her mother’s enthusiasm for her idea to extend the guest list to include gentlemen home from the wars. Mama so wanted to be the one to say she had aided many young ladies’ quests for husbands. She also wanted everyone to witness what a match her only child had made to a man who one day would be a duke.
Her father stepped forward. “I recognize the escutcheon. The Earl of Charlton, my dears.”
Her mother clapped her hands. “Marvelous.”
Those who emerged from the coach were a surprising party of four. First to emerge was Esme’s friend Lady Mary Trentham-Little-Finch, aflutter to introduce the gentleman right behind her, Lord Lawton-Bridges.
“We suffered an accident.” Mary gave details of their over-tipped public Flyer.
More alarming was the sight of Fifi grimacing in pain as the other gentleman, Lord Charlton, emerged from the coach holding Fifi carefully in his embrace.
Mary hastened to add, “Lord Bridges and Lord Charlton rescued us and brought us here. Sadly, Fiona injured her ankle when the coach tipped to one side.”
Fiona tried to be valiant.
Esme’s mother flew to her. “Oh, my dear. We will tend to you!”
Her father motioned for the footmen to aid Charlton and his servants.
All the while, Mary did the honors to give an account of how they'd met the men and how they had saved them on the road. Meanwhile, Esme stared at Charlton who was a near duplicate of Northington in looks and restrained demeanor.
Her papa was effusive in his praise for their rescue. "Shall I send my grooms to right the flyer?"
"Yes, sir," said Charlton. "They may also need a wheelwright and a blacksmith to help repair the wreck.”
Esme rushed to Fifi and took her hand. She bent near, disturbed that her cousin wouldn’t be able to enjoy herself these next few days. “I’m so sorry to see you injured. It is delightful to have you with us.”
Fifi gave her a small smile. “Thank you, Esme. You mustn’t worry.”
She had to get her request in before she lost her nerve and Charlton carried her up to her rooms. “When you’re feeling better, I’d like us to talk privately. Would you mind?”
“Whenever you wish, Esme. I’m not going anywhere quickly.” Fifi smiled bravely and pointed to her foot.
“Today is impossible. Might we meet in the morning? After breakfast?”
Fifi nodded. “Before everyone goes to the village?”
“Perfect.”
Charlton made for the stairs, holding Fifi as if she were his prize. As they went, the two of them joked and teased each other. Their ease, their repartee, struck Esme as much like that between Northington and herself. She wondered if they faced the same conflict she and her fiancé did. Title or money? Love or necessity?
Oh. Why would they? They had just met. No discord marred their relationship…yet.
She shook her head and returned to the duties of welcoming more guests. When Northington arrived, she’d pull him aside and have a long talk with him about her questions.
He must have answers. After all, he had proposed. He must feel…passionately for her.
But she hoped his was more than desire. More than fascination with their exchange of witticisms. Marriage had to be built on more than that.
True love was not a game, a sparring match, a competition. It required more than wit or dash or style.
Esme knew it to be so. Her parents were the models of such a union. And to perfect herself for such a union, Esme must clear the air of her problems with her cousin. Esme had always been too abrasive to Fifi. Too interested in showing Fifi that she could be her equal. Such actions were so infantile. She would marry—if she did marry—with amends to those whom she’d hurt in the past.
That would be a good beginning. To speak as a woman. Responsible, caring.
First, she’d do it with Fifi.
Then Northington.
Refreshments were served in the salon for those who’d arrived and Esme checked the doorway one more time.
Where was he?
“I shall be pleased to meet him,” Willa Sheffield confided to her with a hearty smile. “You never told me you’d met him. Never wrote a word until two weeks ago.”
Willa was o
ne of her closest friends from school. The daughter of the Earl de Courcy, Willa loved racing her father’s prize stallions and reading the gothic novels (titillating and yes, forbidden) of Eliza Parsons. Those two passions matched Esme’s and had always provided the basis of their camaraderie.
“I apologize for that, Wills. But the truth is, I did not know we would wed. I dared not think it. He seemed so far above me.” So much so that my mother wanted another man for me because she thought a marquess too high in the instep for the daughter of a viscount.
Willa blinked in confusion. “But did you not write that you met him months ago?”
“During Christmas Season in London.”
“I see. And you fell in love at once?”
“Come over here, will you?” She dared not reveal how she’d been captivated by him so quickly. Was he like so many other men who thought a few good words and a seductive smile could lure a virgin out of her stockings? Was he a rogue at heart? Like his father. “I do not wish others to overhear us. He and I have met any number of times. At proper parties. But I never knew when he would pop up. Or where. He is mysterious that way. So when I didn’t see him after he asked for my hand, I had no idea where he was or what to think. Not until he appeared here two weeks ago with a special license did I know he meant to follow through.”
Willa’s hazel eyes faceted in sympathy. “Oh, my dear.”
Her pity made Esme swallow her frustration. “I’ve no idea why he disappeared or where he was.”
“But you should ask. Mustn’t you?” Willa was in earnest. As an earl’s daughter, she had often encouraged Esme to be bold. Esme had treasured her for it, too. “He is to be your husband. You have a right to know.”
Willa was assertive. And why not? She was strikingly beautiful with features fine as a Renaissance lady. With bright hazel eyes and a halo of ebony curls, she had a heart-shaped face and delicate black brows. Her family were of Norman French derivation and cousins to the royal Valois. Last July, her older half-sister had married a French comte who had reclaimed his estate near Amboise on the Loire. After Napoleon’s exile, Willa and her father had gone to visit them. Like her sire, Willa was considered an expert in French family histories of Normandy and La Flèche.
Miss Harvey's Horribly Lovable Fiancé: Four Weddings and a Frolic Page 2
