The Chaperone's Secret

by Donna Lea Simpson

  At the end of the story Mr. Lessington said, “I had heard the gossip, that Lord Bainbridge had eloped with the Duke of Sylverton’s daughter. I have many friends in the aristocracy and they love a good scandal. Oddly enough it abated the moment it was learned that there was no terrible secret that made them elope. The girl was apparently not with child, nor was there some awful family secret. According to rumor it was a mad whim on their part, just a young couple wildly in love. They married the very day of their elopement. If there had been a necessity it would have kept the scandal alive. But since they have come back—”

  “They’re back?” Amy asked. “Rowena and Bainbridge are in London?”

  “Yes, so I have heard, just days ago. They apparently traveled Europe, roaming over Italy and Greece, the Adriatic . . . the duke was reportedly beside himself. But then, you knew that part, didn’t you? Poor girl; you must have been frantic with fear, with no place to go. What a dastard the man is!”

  “I was terribly afraid,” Amy admitted, reliving for a moment the few days she had spent not knowing how she was going to survive. “The duke is a hard man. I pleaded with him for time to find another position, for a reference so I would be able to find another job, but he was relentless and forced me to leave.”

  “Spoilt brat, that Lady Rowena, it seems to me.”

  There was silence for a long minute.

  “But, my dear,” Lessington continued, rising and placing Puss on her throne of silk patchwork that Amy had made from scraps. He crossed to Amy and knelt at her knee, taking her hands in his and caressing them. “That does not explain why Lord Pierson—he is a very handsome young man, by the way—why he grasped you in such a terribly romantic way and kissed you so fiercely.”

  A tapping at the door interrupted them. Amy rose and opened the door, then backed away from it when the Marquess of Bainbridge, hat in hand, presented himself at the door.

  Twenty-three

  “Miss Corbett, I—” He stopped when he saw that she had company.

  Lessington rose from being down on one knee and, when he saw the expression on the marquess’s face, said, with a comical lift to his left eyebrow, “As much as I care for Miss Corbett, I was not, just now, asking for her hand in marriage. You are . . .” He paused and looked the other man over. “Yes, I believe you are the Marquess of Bainbridge. My lord, as much as I value Miss Corbett as a friend, I fear she and I should not suit. And I believe her heart is already claimed by another.”

  Amy glanced at him swiftly and felt her cheeks burn again. She had not thought she revealed so much, but then Mr. Lessington was a very perceptive man. Her employer bowed and left the room, saying, before he left, “Amy, dear, I will hear the rest later. Or perhaps . . .” He looked sad for a moment. “Why do I have the feeling you will be leaving us before the Little Season starts?”

  “I won’t, sir, I promise!”

  “Don’t promise, dear girl. You must do what is best for yourself and your heart. I care too much not to want the best for you.” He exited.

  As the door closed Amy tried to still her thumping heart. It had been an upsetting day but she took a deep breath and gazed up at Lord Bainbridge. “Congratulations, sir, I wish you and Rowena all the best. I just wish I had been prepared for your flight.” She tried to keep the edge of resentment from her voice, but it was there just the same. She had thought she and the marquess were friends, but in the end he had not given her any inkling of his plans. In the normal course of things perhaps he didn’t owe her that, but when his plans involved eloping with her charge . . . well, it seemed the least he could have done.

  “I suppose I should apologize to you for my precipitate action in taking Rowena away.”

  Her chin up, Amy said, “Yes, you should. You both placed me in a most awkward position.”

  Bainbridge stiffened slightly, but then relaxed. “I really am sorry, Miss Corbett. I . . . I was never the impulsive one, never one to do the impetuous deed. But . . . well, I knew His Grace would look favorably upon me as a husband for his daughter—”

  “And that caused you to run away with her? Because her father would favor you? That’s ludicrous.” All the anger and turmoil she had been suppressing for months boiled up in Amy. “I cannot believe that while I thought Rowena and Lord Pierson were making a match of it, you were . . . were sneaking in and stealing her from him! Wasn’t that your true reason for eloping? To evade the just indignation of your friend?”

  He sighed heavily and sat down in a chair. “I can see my task is going to be much more difficult than I had anticipated.”

  “I did not ask you to seat yourself, my lord.” Amy found that once the anger spilled out it would not be stuffed back down like a gown into a box. “The poor viscount must have been devastated.”

  Bainbridge laughed, then put his head back and roared. “You idiotic girl! Pierson told me he kissed you. Was that the action of a heartbroken swain still eating his heart out for Rowena?”

  “Well, I—”

  “He never loved her! He became infatuated with some idealized version of her, some fantasy he had cooked up in his own addled brain. He wanted a lady to mold into the perfect wife, for God’s sake. You know Rowena better than that! They would have been miserable. I did you all a favor.” He set his hat aside and crossed one leg over the other, much more at his ease.

  Puss glared at him and stayed on her silken pillow.

  “You did me no favor, my lord. I was cast out onto the street and—”

  “I know! I know,” he said. He jumped up and took her trembling hands in his, guiding her to her seat opposite him. He sighed as he sat down again. “Miss Corbett, if we had only known . . . but Rowena left a message for her father to treat you well. She had no idea of what happened. The wretched duke told her you had gone back to Ireland to work for the Donegals.”

  “She mentioned me in a letter to him? I saw it in her note to me, but I didn’t know she had written one to her father. He never said.”

  “He wouldn’t,” the marquess said dryly. “He has a resentful temper. But she did. She pleaded with him not to take out his anger on you; she told him that she and she alone was responsible for her elopement.”

  “But why did you elope?” Amy came back to the part of his story that made no sense to her. “If you knew the duke would favor you—”

  “I have heard how commanding the duke is. I didn’t want him forcing Rowena to marry me. I love her. I wanted her to come to me, to dare for me, to upset all of her social reputation . . . for me!”

  “That is mad,” Amy whispered.

  “I think I was in the clutch of a kind of insanity. My mother still has not forgiven me.”

  “And your sister? She visited me and was very angry.”

  “She has retreated now to her usual cynicism. There’s another suitor in the offing, I understand, a gentleman just out of the army who is looking for a wife. Mother is not quite enamored of him, for he is merely a baron, but she’s desperate. Harriet’s opinion is unreadable, as always.”

  There was silence for a minute, but then Lord Bainbridge squeezed her hands and released them. “Amy, I didn’t come to talk about my sister or my mother nor even Rowena and myself, though we hope you will forgive us and be friends with us again. I always did like you. No, what I have come for,” he said, holding up one hand against her reply, “is to talk to you about Pierson.”

  “He’s infuriating! What did he mean by coming here and . . . and kissing me like that, in front of everyone?”

  “Silly girl. He loves you.”

  Amy felt her heart thud in her breast and then stop; it just seemed to stop, and she could not breathe. It was as if she had received a blow to the chest. “L-loves me?” she gasped. “No, that is quite impossible.”

  “But he does.”

  “No! It’s just . . . I know him, his gallantry.” She rose and paced. “He saw me in the theater, found out I was a lowly seamstress and wanted to rescue me. But I don’t need any knight on a white c
harger, and especially not after three months! I was desperate. I was afraid. I was friendless, alone and destitute.” Her chin went up. “But I’m perfectly fine now, head wardrobe mistress. I’m quite able to look after myself.”

  “I can see that. I always knew you were a strong lady. But I think he was truly in love with you all along, he just refused to see it.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. Amy, he has been to see us and he poured his heart out to me. He has been working steadily on his estate and is making progress; that’s what he has been doing for three months. I’m so proud of him. And he credits you with showing him the way, and with teaching him that he had it within himself all along. What is love, if not the ability to believe in another person against all odds? I think you love him. And I know he loves you. He’s heartsick. I fear what he will do, that he may go back to his old ways if you don’t—”

  “No!” Amy held up her hands. “If you put that on me, I will shake you. Lord Pierson must stand on his own, or not stand at all.”

  “You’re right, Amy. I shouldn’t have put that burden on you; I was being quite unfair. Honestly, I don’t truly believe he’ll ever return to his old ways. He was ready to change, you just showed him that he didn’t need anyone else to make him do it.”

  “Thank you. Give him more credit than that, Lord Bainbridge.”

  “But I still say he loves you. Look in your heart. Doesn’t it feel like love to you?”

  Amy stopped and sat back down. Did it feel like love? She knew she could stand on her own now. But still, a part of her longed for him and had for months. She had learned that she could survive on her own and be happy, but there was a part of her heart that felt empty and ached for him.

  “He’s told me so, that he loves you, and you know he wouldn’t lie about something like that,” Bainbridge said, his voice gentle. “And do you really mean you would rather labor on in the theater, making your eyes weak and tired, than give your hand in marriage—”

  “In marriage?”

  The door burst open just then and Lord Pierson strode in. “I can’t stand this anymore. Bain, get out; you’re not saying this right. And I need no one to plead my case nor to propose for me.”

  Lord Bainbridge, with a mocking bow, exited and closed the door behind him. Amy stood facing the viscount. His brown eyes glittered in the increasingly dim light of late afternoon.

  “Amy, I . . .” He surged forward to take her hands in his.

  “No!” She backed away and clutched her hands behind her. “Stay back. Make your case, if you have one to make.”

  Pierson took a deep shuddering breath. “Do you mean I have a chance?”

  “You may,” she said, cautious in the face of his presence. Her own feelings were no mystery to her. Seeing him again, she had known her love was no passing fancy. But it didn’t mean she would desert everything she had worked so hard to build, even though marriage— Her thoughts halted. Marriage, to Lord Pierson? How deliriously happy she would be! But only if he loved her too, and she wasn’t convinced his love this time was any more real than that he had professed for Rowena. How could she believe him? And even if she were to trust him in this, why had it taken him three months to realize it?

  • • •

  Pierson knew, could tell from her tight lips and doubtful expression, that he only had one shot at telling her how he felt. He had better make it good. He had been such an idiot for so long; now he must mend his ways in this most important of all conversations.

  “You know, I told Bain once that I thought that the perfect young lady was rather like a blank slate upon which a man wrote what he wanted, forming his wife into his perfect mate.”

  “And you thought Rowena was that blank slate?”

  “I did. I thought all she needed to bring to marriage was her own virtuous, pristine, amiable, mild-mannered self and I would do the rest, writing upon the slate of her personality what I wanted. I thought it was her moral guidance I needed, rather than anything else.”

  She was silent; that wasn’t encouraging. He wished he could reach out to her, take her into his arms. But he mustn’t, not yet. “I didn’t realize that I should be whole, myself, before even thinking of a wife. I wanted a lady to fill in all the blanks in my character, to make me better by her example.”

  “And what do you think now?”

  Now was his chance, his one opportunity. He took in a deep breath and let it out. It echoed in the highest reaches of the room, tall shelves to the ceiling piled with bolts of dimly glowing silks and satins. The cat, sitting in queenly peace on a silken cushion, regarded him with unblinking solemnity. “I have been working, at Delacorte, on bringing back my family’s legacy. And Amy, I’m good at it! I never thought I could be, but I am. So I don’t need a wife, nor her moral guidance. This is what I want to do now, for the rest of my life. And whether I ever marry or not, it’s my life’s work.”

  There was a long silence. “But?” she finally said.

  He met her eyes, the blue-gray changing to deeper blue in the dimming light. “I’ve learned that women are not fragile, weak and defenseless creatures. Nor dull-witted. And you taught me all that even while I stupidly insisted on thinking I was in love with Rowena. All that time, all spring, I was falling in love. With you, Amy. With you.”

  Fear trembled in his stomach. Would she believe him? He couldn’t tell by her expression, which was carefully blank.

  “But three months!” she whispered. “Why did it take so long?”

  How could he explain? “When I returned to Delacorte,” he said, “I was hurt by Bain and Rowena’s elopement, I suppose, but not like I thought I would be, or should be. It puzzled me, but I thought I must be numb. But more and more, as the months went by, I realized that I was glad. It freed me. Then I realized that I was often thinking of you, wishing you could see Delacorte, wondering if you would be proud of me. Wishing I could tell you everything I was doing, and asking what you thought of this improvement or that.

  “And I realized that I was lonely, but not just for any company, for yours. For the talks we had, and the way your beautiful eyes would light up when we talked. Did they light up just for me? I wondered. Or was I imagining things? I was so afraid of being wrong again that for a long time I didn’t admit it; I don’t think I even recognized it for what it was. But it’s true. I love you.”

  “You love me?”

  “I do,” he said urgently, hoping that what he heard in her voice was longing. “I did all along. Amy, I love you so much. I see you everywhere, and I’ve held countless conversations with you as I walk at Delacorte. I want to show you everything. I want to see everything through your eyes. I . . .” He swallowed and took her hands, pulling her up to stand with him. “I want to touch you, to love you, and to show you how much I love you.”

  He wrapped her in his arms and pulled her against him, gazing down into her eyes. “Can you ever love me, Amy?” But instead of giving her time to answer, he kissed her, gently, thoroughly, deeply. Then he leaned his forehead against hers.

  “I do,” she whispered. “I love you, and I think I have from the first moment I saw you in that mud puddle, splashed with filth from the duke’s carriage.”

  He gasped and drew back. “You saw me? You knew it was me? When? How?”

  “That one evening . . . remember getting caught outside in the rain with Rowena? You came in and your hair was soaked and straggling down on your forehead. I saw you and I remembered that man, and knew why you seemed so familiar to me.”

  “Oh, Amy, you’ve seen me at my worst. Will you still marry me so I can show you myself at my best? Marry me and come to Delacorte with me. Please.”

  “I will,” she whispered. “I will. And I’ll love you forever.”

  “This is the part of the play when the romantic hero is reformed of his wicked ways and the heroine and he pledge their troth,” he said with a deep chuckle. “I guess we have fulfilled the play, and now we need only live happily ever after. Kiss me once mor
e,” he said, pulling her down onto a thick pile of materials. “Before we find a vicar to marry us.”

  Amy sank into the material and heard a squawk erupt. Puss squirmed out of the cloth pile and then sat, elaborately performing her toilette as if she had never been almost squished. Pierson laughed gustily, and Amy laughed too, only stopping when his mouth closed over hers once more and all thought was lost. But it did seem to her that Lord Pierson was perhaps not quite so reformed, for he still kissed deliciously like a rogue and a rake, a ruinously handsome cad.

  And that was perfectly fine with her.

  Books by Donna Lea Simpson

  See all of Donna Lea Simpson’s

  books at Smashwords!

  Classic Regency Romances

  The Viscount’s Valentine

  A Rogue’s Rescue

  A Scandalous Plan

  Reforming the Rogue

  Lord St. Claire’s Angel

  Noël’s Wish

  The Earl of Hearts

  Romancing the Rogue

  Married to a Rogue

  Taming the Rogue

  The Rogue’s Folly

  A Matchmaker’s Christmas

  Miss Truelove Beckons

  Courting Scandal

  A Rake’s Redemption

  Lord Haven’s Deception

  The Debutante’s Dilemma

  A Lady’s Choice

  An Eccentric Engagement

  The Chaperone’s Secret

  Lady Anne Mysteries

  Lady Anne and the Howl in the Dark

  Revenge of the Barbary Ghost

  Curse of the Gypsy

  About the Author

  Donna Lea Simpson is a nationally bestselling romance and mystery novelist with dozens of titles to her credit. An early love for the novels of Jane Austen and Agatha Christie was a portent of things to come; Donna believes that a dash of mystery adds piquancy to a romantic tale, and a hint of romance adds humanity to a mystery story. Besides writing romance and mystery novels and reading the same, Donna has a long list of passions: cats and tea, cooking and vintage cookware, cross-stitching and watercolor painting among them. Karaoke offers her the chance to warble Dionne Warwick tunes, and nature is a constant source of comfort and inspiration. A long walk is her favorite exercise, and a fruity merlot is her drink of choice when the tea is all gone. Donna lives in Canada.