Sweet Disorder: Lively St. Lemeston, Book 1

by Rose Lerner

  “Yes, but he—” She went silent. He could think of any number of ways that could end. He has his own business. He’s a local man. He’s of my own class. He’s easier to make sense of. “I know exactly what he’s offering.”

  So it was He’s easier to make sense of, then. That hurt even though he knew she was right. “Then I suppose you just have to ask yourself, do you want what he’s offering?”

  She glared at him.

  Nick had put all his cards on the table. Either she wanted in or she didn’t. He waited, refusing to try to charm her into this.

  “You’re right,” she said finally, gruffly. “I accept your very generous offer. Thank you.”

  That wasn’t—what you wanted to hear? he sneered at himself. She had to marry, and he was her best option. To say more would be a lie. “You honor me.” He gave her a small, coaxing smile. “Come here.” He put a hand on her waist and tried to draw her towards him.

  She pulled back with a nervous smile. “Owen will have the proofs for pages two and three ready in a few minutes. We’ll have to start printing soon if the paper’s to be ready on time. We can—later. If you don’t mind?”

  “Just one kiss.”

  She let him pull her in, even responded willingly enough, but it felt different. He’d made it different. Before, she’d kissed him because she wanted to, a free gift. Now she was his future wife and owed him kisses as a matter of course when he asked for them. Her urgency was gone, and her eagerness. So much for showing her the fun of an illicit affair. He let her go. “I’ll send to London for the special license directly. And I’ll write to my mother.”

  Her eyes widened. “She’s going to be angry, isn’t she?”

  “She was so certain I couldn’t have you married to a Whig by election time she bet my father a hundred pounds,” he said lightly, to cover his own trepidation. “She ought to be overjoyed. Not to lose the bet, of course, but the vote—”

  Phoebe’s jaw dropped. “She did what? A hundred pounds? Really? That’s—that’s so much money.” She swallowed. “I suppose it isn’t, to a countess.”

  “Listen. I—we’re to be married. I ought to be honest with you. I made a bet with her too.”

  Phoebe’s face twisted in distaste. “For how much?”

  “Not for money.” He looked away. “I told you she flinches when she looks at me now. I bet her that if I won, she couldn’t do that anymore.”

  “Oh, Nick. And if you lost?”

  “We didn’t set the terms very clearly.” He rubbed at his forehead. “I should warn you my allowance is my only income at present, and she did threaten recently to cut it off. I don’t think she’ll do it if we marry. You’re a prominent Orange-and-Purple and your brother-in-law is the town’s newspaperman—it would be awfully risky to snub you. But it’s not impossible.”

  She took a deep breath. “What about Helen? Is it possible she’d throw Helen to the wolves?”

  “No,” he said with conviction. “She’d do anything to avoid that kind of scandal.”

  Her eyes searched his face. “She’s your mother. She’s got to have some kind of motivation beyond political advancement.”

  Lady Tassell would be Phoebe’s mother-in-law. He ought to encourage harmonious relations. But she’d meet Lady Tassell soon enough. She could judge for herself. Nick smiled in spite of himself; his mother might just have met her match. “She has other feelings, without question. Other motivations for her actions? I haven’t seen much evidence of it.”

  She nodded, hesitated, then gave him a hug so abrupt he almost lost his balance. “Thank you.”

  He waited for her to say more. To say anything. To say, I’ll stand by you, Nick, even if she won’t. Or just, I love you.

  He wanted that desperately, he realized, wanted it so sharply he couldn’t blot it out or ignore it. He tried to remember a poem, any poem, and all he could think was A sweet disorder in the dress / kindles in clothes a wantonness. One of Phoebe’s cuffs was bent back so that it stuck out at an angle, and he wanted her to love him more than he’d ever wanted anything. More than he’d wanted his mother to be proud of him, more than he’d wanted to be warm and dry in Spain, more than he wanted his leg to be whole again. He’d always known he wouldn’t get any of those things.

  Somehow, he seemed to believe he could have this.

  But she didn’t love him. She wasn’t here to make him happy. And she didn’t say anything. Unlike him, her stock of words never seemed to run dry, but he’d silenced her.

  “You’re sure,” he said.

  She nodded. She didn’t look sure.

  “Let’s put a notice in the paper,” he suggested.

  She hesitated. “We’d have to put your article in smaller type to fit it. Next week will be time enough.”

  Was that the truth or an evasion? He didn’t dare press her. “I’ll be back in an hour. The vicar has to send for the license today to be sure it will arrive in time for the polls.”

  “I think I must have misheard you,” Tony said.

  Nick shook his head. “I’m marrying Mrs. Sparks.”

  Tony rubbed the bridge of his nose, laughing incredulously. “That’s insane. I don’t need the vote that badly.”

  “Give me some credit, little brother. I’m not marrying her for the vote. Although of course I’ll plump for you.”

  “Then why?” Tony’s eyes searched his face, but Nick didn’t get the impression he was really seeing anything. “Nick,” he said in a low voice, “just because she’s seduced you, you’re not obliged to marry her. You’re a man, and you’ve been lonely. A moment of weakness doesn’t condemn you—”

  Nick blinked, a little appalled. “She didn’t entrap me into this. Don’t talk about her that way.”

  “Then what?” Tony bit his lip and gave Nick an anxious sidelong look. “What did she tell you?”

  Nick was touched by his concern. “I want to marry her.”

  Tony threw up his hands. “You want to marry her.” Doubt dripped from every syllable. “A fat little widow without the least bit of breeding—”

  “Stop it!” It came out in his officer’s voice; Tony drew back, shocked. Nick softened his tone. “Tony, please, just apologize and let’s—”

  Tony’s jaw dropped. “Apologize for what, my natural brotherly concern at seeing you tie yourself for life to a—?”

  “Tony.” Nick didn’t try to keep the steel from his voice this time. “I’m going to marry her. If you’re my brother, then you’re her brother. Don’t say what neither of us can forget. Say you’re sorry and let’s be done with it.”

  Tony shook his head, disbelieving. “You’ve known her for a fortnight, and you’ll set her above me, above our mother, above— You really don’t give a damn about this family, do you?” He turned and kicked at the log in the fire, setting off a shower of sparks.

  Nick’s temper rose. For once, he let it. “Don’t tell me how I feel.”

  “Fine! I’m sorry. I’m sorry for trying to save you from yourself. God-damned officer and a gentleman.” Tony laughed, angrily. “You’ve never been married. In six months you’ll be wishing like hell you’d listened to me. At least I tried to talk you out of it.”

  Nick’s temper fled, leaving a hollow gnawing in his chest. He had thought Tony shouldn’t marry Ada when he’d got his mother’s letter announcing their betrothal. He’d thought about saying something to Tony, even drafted a few letters, but in the end he’d thrown Lady Tassell’s letter and the drafts on the fire together and thought, No one cares what I think anyway.

  Maybe Tony would have cared. “Tony, about Ada—I’m sorry. I should have written to you. I should have—”

  Tony laughed again. “Too bad you were busy not giving a damn at the time.”

  “I’m here now. I’m sorry, and I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere. If you want to talk—”

  “I think I’d rather have a drink.” Tony headed for the door, then stopped. “Don’t write to Mama until after the election,
all right? She’s sure to come down here and try to stop you, and I don’t—” He actually looked a little green about the gills thinking about it.

  Nick felt lower than ever. “I have to. I can’t antagonize her right from the start.”

  “Nick, please. She’ll find out—”

  “Find out what?”

  Tony hesitated and quite clearly decided there was no point in talking to his brother further. “That I’m a failure,” he snapped. “I wish you joy.” He slammed the door behind him.

  Nick started after him and ran right into Ada in the hallway. “Mrs. Dymond. Pardon me.” He bowed and tried to move around her.

  “It’s no use speaking to him when he’s like this.” Ada went past him into the room. “Try again tomorrow, when he’s calmer.” Was that true? It felt all wrong, but the awful truth was that she knew his brother better than he did.

  “What’s got him in a temper now?” she asked, sitting down in front of the dressing table. She regarded her reflection with a discontented sigh.

  “I’m marrying Mrs. Sparks,” Nick said.

  “Who?”

  It was amazing. All his mother’s machinations, and she’d paired Tony with someone who cared about politics even less than Nick. “Mrs. Sparks. The widow with the votes.”

  She turned to look at him. “Oh, God. The one with that awful mother? Don’t do it. Just for one vote? Tony wouldn’t do it for you.”

  Nick sighed. “I’m not doing it for the vote. I want to marry her.”

  Ada turned back to the mirror, angling her head one way and then the other. She didn’t seem happy with what she saw. She shot Nick a surprisingly wry glance. “Are you going to tell her ladyship before or after the ceremony?”

  It was so tempting to wait. He didn’t want her here any more than Tony did, and more than that he didn’t want Tony to be angry with him. But Miss Knight needed Lady Tassell’s help. “I’m writing to her directly.”

  Ada made a face as if to say, Suit yourself, but I wouldn’t be in your shoes for anything.

  “Ada, do you have a key to the campaign strong box?”

  She nodded, looking more interested than she had through their whole conversation. “Why, do you want to steal some of the money?”

  He shook his head and gave her an innocent smile. “Mother gave me fifty pounds for the license when I came down, but I need fifty more for election expenses. Do we have that much?”

  Ada wandered down to the campaign office with him and handed him fifty pounds out of the cashbox. Nick hoped Tony didn’t inquire too closely about it.

  Dearest Mother,

  I hope you are well.

  I have asked Mrs. Sparks to marry me, and she has agreed.

  Before you ask, I’m not just doing it for the vote. But I spoke with the vicar, and as I was baptized and confirmed here, I can be counted a resident. Of course I will cast my vote for Tony.

  Please give my regards to Stephen. I know he’ll win the county.

  All my love,

  Nicholas Dymond

  Nick read the letter over with a deep-rooted sense of dissatisfaction. It wasn’t the letter one ought to write one’s mother on the eve of one’s wedding. But he didn’t know what else to say, so he sealed and addressed it and took it down the road to the postmaster in time for the mail coach to Chichester.

  The vicar had already sent to London for the special license; his certification that both parties were legally eligible to marry should expedite the process. Maybe they could be married before his mother arrived. Nick crossed his fingers and prayed as he headed back to the printing office.

  Phoebe woke early, her stomach a mass of nerves. For a moment she couldn’t remember why, and then the previous day’s events came rushing back.

  She liked Nick. She liked him far better than either Mr. Moon or Mr. Fairclough. She thought she might even want to marry him.

  No, she knew she wanted to marry him. But she wanted to do it because she wanted to, not because she had to. She wanted a choice.

  Sighing, she heaved herself out of bed. It was chilly in her nightdress. She eyed Helen, still sleeping. She couldn’t wake her sister just to tie her corset laces, and Sukey wouldn’t be by for another hour at least. She ought to work on poor Ann’s story.

  She pulled on a fresh pair of stockings, checking them for darns, and imagined Nick taking them off again. Wrapping her night-rail around herself, she took some paper and a pen and went into the other room to light the fire.

  Would she have a maid when she was married to Nick? Probably. That would be nice. She’d never had to light her own fires growing up.

  The blank page stared up at her. It wasn’t that she didn’t know what happened next. She simply didn’t want to write it. It felt like drudgery. But this was a job, not some fine lady’s hobby. She dipped her pen in the inkwell and began.

  In time, the virtue of Ann’s sister gained her a worthy and prosperous husband, who aided Ann in setting herself up in a quiet sort of business…

  An hour later she had finished the story. It was drivel, but with a little work she could turn it into something passable and get a few shillings from the Girl’s Companion. It couldn’t be any worse than the story she’d written in June about a chimney sweep’s boy and the magical bird he found nesting in a flue, when Miss Starling’s sister had a feverish baby and no money for the doctor.

  Helen still hadn’t stirred when Sukey came up the stairs with a kettle full of water for tea. “No tea, thanks,” Phoebe said softly, feeling stifled suddenly by the low ceiling. “Help me into my dress.” Helen had already been abed when Phoebe had finished at the Intelligencer last night; she was bound to be up soon, and then Phoebe would have to tell her about her engagement to Nick.

  Sukey’s eyebrows went up. Phoebe flushed. The maid knew she was a tea-guzzling slug-abed in the mornings unless something was wrong. “Getting cold feet, are you?” Sukey said. “Come along, we’ll pack you a cloak-bag and you can be on the stagecoach before your sister opens her pretty eyes. No one would blame you.”

  “Thank you,” Phoebe said sarcastically, “but no thank you. I’m going for a walk.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Nick woke early and couldn’t fall back asleep. That was unusual for him. But after tossing, turning, and reciting the entire first scene of Addison’s Cato to himself with no effect, he heaved himself out of bed. Moving stiffly, he dressed without his sleeping valet and went out, hoping a brisk walk would ease the soreness in his leg. Yesterday’s exertions hadn’t helped.

  He smiled, trying to decide how early he could justifiably call on Phoebe. Not for hours yet, probably. He stopped to look in the window of the bookshop—and there she was, her back to him, poring over a tiny volume.

  At the sound of his cane on the stairs, she started and turned, trying to push the book back on the shelf. She didn’t look happy to see him, although she did look eager to pretend she was. He affected not to notice. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning. You’re up early.”

  “I couldn’t sleep.” He realized too late that that might seem an insult.

  “Neither could I,” she admitted. Yes, it definitely felt like an insult.

  “What were you looking at?” The question didn’t sound quite as casual as he’d meant it to. Why was he even striving to sound casual? There was nothing out-of-the-way in being curious.

  She took the book back off the shelf reluctantly, her hands careful, almost reverent. “Will bought me this,” she said. “When he took ill—I felt so guilty I sold my favorite books first, and this was the first of all of them. I can never believe no one’s bought it in all this time. I know Mr. Blake has a strikingly original mind, but surely even in Sleepy St. Lemeston there ought to be someone to appreciate him.” Her indignation seemed to conquer her self-consciousness. “Look how lovely it is.” She hesitated for a moment in handing it to him. He set down his walking stick and took it with a show of gentleness.

  The book was
bound with plain covers—Will Sparks, unlike Nick, hadn’t had the money to give his library matching calf-skin bindings. Nick opened it, expecting printed words, and blinked at the delicate wash of color.

  “Mr. Blake is an engraver,” Phoebe said eagerly. “Will sold—that is, Jack sells some of his prints in the shop. The decorous ones. Mr. Blake gave us this copy for only a guinea because Will told him it would be a sample for customers, and we kept it in the shop but it was mine.” She sighed. “Luckily very few people ever really looked at it. My mother thought it quite shocking.”

  Nick listened with half an ear. The book was beautiful—a collection of watercolored engravings, the colors brilliant and impossibly delicate by turns, the shapes and figures soft and twining. Stopped by a bright wash of red on a fantastical flower, he read a poem entitled “Infant Joy”.

  I have no name

  I am but two days old—

  What shall I call thee?

  I happy am

  Joy is my name—

  Sweet joy befall thee!

  The style of the poetry, too, was like nothing Nick had ever seen. The whole book seemed composed of pure feeling. He looked up to see Phoebe’s eyes brimming with tears. “I loved that one.”

  “We’ll have children,” he said in her ear, low enough the shopkeeper couldn’t hear him. “I promise.”

  When he pulled back, she was looking at him, eyes wide and dark. “Do you think so?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  She smiled tremulously. “Would you like to be a father?”

  He imagined Phoebe cradling his child. She’d watch its tiny face with all the wonder and intensity she possessed, tearing her eyes away only to give him a look that said, Can you believe we did this? “Yes. I think I would.”

  She looked happy for the first time that morning.

  “Would you like me to buy you the book?” he asked.

  There was a pause. Her mouth twisted with frustrated longing. “I—I’d like it very much,” she said finally. “But a guinea meant something to Will. He scraped to buy that for me, and to you it’s pocket change. I’d feel like a traitor, taking the same gift from you and being just as grateful.”