by Esther Hatch
Sally closed her eyes. She had been having such a pleasant day. She never would have guessed it could turn courses so completely.
Miss Duncan, or Sally as he must certainly call her now, had both hands behind her back, and seemed not to understand his silent pleading for her to shut the door. But that was no matter; once he asked her to marry him, all would be settled. They could shut the door then.
If she said yes.
Her eyes were wary, but that was only because she didn’t know what it was he had come to ask her. Victoria felt she liked him, and his father, for all his faults, had always assured Jonathan that any woman would be happy to marry him in his position. Miss Duncan was wealthy, for sure, but even she must see the advantages to marrying a baron.
Besides, there were much worse men who could ask for her hand—old ones, poor ones, men with no hair. He swallowed. Better to just get this over with and move to the part where they got to shut the door and enjoy being engaged.
“Miss Duncan...” What exactly should a man say to a woman in this situation? “From the moment I first saw you, you have surprised me in so many ways.”
“Then why do I feel like you are about to surprise me?”
“Perhaps I am…but I hope...my surprise is as pleasing to you as yours have been to me.”
“Lord Farns—”
“Please, call me Jonathan.”
“I cannot.”
“After today, I hope you will.”
“Stop.”
“Miss Duncan, I want to marry you.”
Her shoulders sagged and she let out a breath of frustration. “I told you to stop.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t wish to marry you, and I hoped to save us both from the embarrassment of your asking. What in heaven’s name were you thinking?”
She didn’t want to marry him? He blinked for a few moments, trying to let her sentence sink in. He stepped forward again, this time with his hand outstretched. She kept both her hands behind her back and raised her chin. What had he expected her to do? Take it? Lord Farnsworth dropped his hand, his brow furrowed. “Why wouldn’t you want to marry me? I’m young, I think I’m pleasant at times, and I’m a baron, even.”
“You’re a blockhead. I’m not even sure I like you.”
“But wouldn’t you like to be a baroness?”
“Not at the price of being a baron’s wife. The things that are important to barons will never be important to me.”
“I don’t know how you could know that.”
“Do you pretend to know what is important to me?”
He floundered. He had just proposed to the woman; he should know what was important to her. After a split second of scrambling he had it. “Victoria. Victoria is important to you.”
Miss Duncan’s shoulders dropped at that. He had guessed correctly. Miss Duncan had turned her life upside down for her sister; she had bought and renovated a manor for her. He would have to be a blockhead indeed to not know that her sister was the most important person in her life.
She rubbed her hand over her face. “If you know me so well, then why didn’t you stop speaking when I asked you to?”
His eyes went to her hair. A pit formed in his stomach as the reality of what she was saying settled deep into his bones. He would not be shutting the door to the drawing room, and he would never again help her with her hair. He had asked too soon. He would be returning to London alone. “I didn’t stop because I want to be engaged to you. I’ve wanted it for some time.”
“See!” She was back to being rigid. “What you wanted. And you never stopped to consider my feelings. I would rather pluck chickens for a living then come home to a man who disregards me. When I marry, if I ever do, it will be to a man who at a bare minimum respects me enough to listen to me.”
She would rather pluck chickens? He squeezed his eyes shut. Had she ever plucked a chicken? Jonathan hadn’t, but he couldn't imagine it was a pleasant experience. But that was her point, wasn’t it? Being married to him would be extremely unpleasant. “You don’t want to marry me?”
“No.” She stepped back, her face stoic. “The thought has never crossed my mind.”
He was losing her, just as he had lost Mother, and now her manor as well. Something deep inside him cracked. He bit down on his lip. He would not mourn Miss Duncan, not like he had Mother. He would not spend his nights crying himself to sleep with no one nearby willing to comfort him. He had come here because he wanted the manor. And, well, he had gambled, and he had lost.
This would not break him. Four weeks was not enough time to fall in love. Love had never even been a part of his equation.
“Well, that is fine, then. We won’t get married. It was a silly idea, one that doesn’t really bear thinking about at all.”
Miss Duncan winced at his words, but he knew better than to think his words had caused her harm. “Then why in the world did you propose marriage to me?”
In a matter of moments, Jonathan had gone from the excitement of finally having a family again to the reality of knowing he was returning to London alone. Those days at Eton before he had learned to adequately express his hurt came back to him. He was alone, he was hurt, and he was about to lash out, not with his fists, but with words. “I wanted the manor.” It was harsh of him, but it was true. If she hadn’t bought Greenwood Manor, he never would have thought to marry her.
Miss Duncan took in a deep breath and sucked in her cheeks as if she were trying to control her tongue. “Well, I want the manor as well, and in this I have the advantage, for it is mine. Now leave before I have Mrs. Hiddleson throw you out.”
He stepped forward, bringing him within arms’ reach of her. And yet, he would never have cause to bridge the gap between them and reach out to her again. “Do you honestly think Mrs. Hiddleson could throw me out?”
Miss Duncan’s breath was coming fast, her hands fisted to her sides. At any moment she was going to use what few lessons he had taught her about how to pummel a man. Would she be so angry if he hadn’t made at least some impact on her?
He leaned forward. His world had shifted so drastically in the past three minutes, he struggled to comprehend it. He would ask one last time, and then he would never see Miss Duncan again. “You don’t like me at all?”
She bent at the waist and brought her face closer to his. “You have been nothing but a nuisance. What in the way I have treated you in these past few weeks makes you believe I have cared for you in the slightest?”
Victoria’s admission that Miss Duncan looked at him differently than any other man came to his mind. “You look at me in a way…” How did Victoria phrase it? He had believed her. But Miss Duncan’s eyes were sparking now not with interest, and definitely not with love. He couldn’t rightly tell her she looked at him in a way that had spurred him on when she was shooting daggers at him now. “I have caught you staring at my chest.”
“You asked me to marry you because you want my home and I look at your chest sometimes.” She threw her hands up in exasperation and stepped away from him. He missed her nearness already. What the devil was wrong with him? “I admire your tailor, then. He is skilled at constructing waistcoats and jackets that fit your form well. I would like his name and address, actually. I might hire him for some work.”
Jonathan’s shoulders fell. His chest was the final arrow in his quiver. He had nothing else to recommend him. She didn’t care that he was a baron, her interest in his physique was more business than pleasure, and she would rather pluck chickens than share a home with him. The only thing she wanted from him was the name of his tailor.
He stomped over to the small writing desk and threw down the present he had bought for her in London and pulled out a sheet of paper from a drawer. He grabbed a pen and dipped it in the inkwell, ink splattered on the page, but he hardly cared. Hands shaking—from rage or disappointment, he hardly knew—he scratched out his tailor’s name and address. Setting down the pen, he grabbed the paper and marched back ove
r to her, holding it out. “I will give it to you now, for no doubt we will never have cause to see each other again.”
Her chin lifted high and she took the paper from his hand. Her finger grazed his thumb as she took it. That would be the last time they touched. There would be no more boxing lessons. She would never again demand he leave her pond. This was their last transaction, and it was done with pride and anger. “No doubt,” she replied.
There was nothing more to do but leave and never come back. His thumb tingled in a way that begged for him to reach out and grasp her hand fully, ask if he could start again, not with a proposal, but with questions and gifts and hopes of courting her slowly. But it was too late. As usual, something he loved was being ripped from him, and there was nothing he could do about it.
One last time he let his eyes wander over her face. He would never graze a thumb along her jawline before pulling her to him.
He cleared his throat and spun on his heel. He couldn't be in this room another moment, not with Miss Duncan looking so lovely and yet so unattainable. He strode to the door but then stopped. He put his hand on the doorframe and took a deep breath. The library. He wanted just a few moments in the library.
He needed a chance to say goodbye to the memory of his mother and the stories she had told him there. The library had been the brightest spot in his childhood, the one time he was together with both his mother and his father, even if his father was simply a painting on the mantel.
He didn’t turn to look at Miss Duncan; he couldn’t. “There is one thing I would ask even though I have asked far too much of you already.”
“I will hear what it is.” Her voice was quiet but firm. He swallowed, for if she didn’t allow him this one pleasure, he knew it would break him.
“May I have just a few moments in the library?”
Lord Farnsworth's head was bent and his voice low. He wanted to see the library, but why?
She couldn’t see his face, but everything about the way he was standing in the doorway felt vulnerable. His hand slowly slid down the inside of the door frame as he waited for her answer.
It would be no trouble to let him spend a few minutes in her library, except then she would know he was still here in her home—the home he had wanted badly enough to propose to a woman he openly admitted to not loving.
She hated that his admission of wanting her for what she had and not for who she was hurt her pride, but it did. And she couldn't help but want to hurt him in return. In this moment, he had given her just that chance.
“No,” she said.
His reaction was immediate. He didn’t rage or swear, or spin around and demand to know why. His hand simply dropped from the door frame and his shoulders slumped. He didn’t act surprised, though. It was as though he was expecting her answer.
Immediately her stomach hardened. She was going to be sick. She needed him to leave so she could lie down and give her body a moment’s rest. Sally was a businesswoman; she knew how to be hard. But this was different. She didn’t know how, exactly, but she was being cruel, and a small part of her hated herself for it. How much had it cost Lord Farnsworth to ask to see the library after all she had said to him? Still, she would not change her mind. Everything would go back to as it should be as soon as Lord Farnsworth was out of her life. She could go back to her plans. She and Victoria would be happy here, on their own. Why had he shown up today and put a sour note on this home that should have only brought her and her sister happiness?
“Why did you choose today, of all days, to ask me?”
He turned to her then, his eyes full of anguish, but he forced a corner of his mouth into a smile. “Victoria told me you were happy today. And I foolishly thought that might have been because of me. I’ve left your present on the writing table. It looks as though it has turned out to be a parting gift after all.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry if I have ruined your mood. I shall be gone from the hunting lodge by tomorrow morning. Will you tell Victoria goodbye for me?”
And then he left.
Chapter 18
Sally sat alone in the drawing room and stared at Lord Farnsworth’s present for a long time before she dared to stand up and approach it.
She ripped open the paper and a note fell to the ground. In her hand she held something made from a delicate fabric: Vermillion fabric. She recognized the weave and the pale yellow design as soon as she saw it. It was one of the first she had helped her grandfather sell before she had taken over the company. It was a strong, sturdy cotton, not like the silks her company produced now.
She lifted the fabric and shook it out to see what exactly he had sent.
It was a dress.
But not one for her.
With shaking hands she picked up the note from the floor and flopped back down on the sofa.
Lord Farnsworth had gifted her with a beautiful, well-made dress meant for a three- or four-year-old girl. He had to have known what fabric this was. If she were to search all of London, there couldn’t be a single item of clothing she would want more than this dress.
It was something to dress her daughter in, a garment that would carry with it stories of Grandfather and his trust in her. It was a dress that would hold power, and it was meant for a little girl.
Tears clouded her eyes as she forced herself to unfold and read Lord Farnsworth’s note.
For a little girl with dark curls and a smile for everyone. For our daughter.
How could he have left her with this? Didn’t he remember what he had written inside? Sally was suddenly sick. Her stomach ached and her limbs couldn’t manage to stay still. Her arms tried to rest at her sides, but then they were behind her head or pressing against her stomach.
What had she done?
Lord Farnsworth had never, not once, spoken of heirs. She had tried him and found him guilty without ever consulting him on the subject. And then he writes her a note and mentions a child they could have together, and it is a daughter?
A daughter with hair like hers.
What had she done?
Perhaps he hadn’t left yet. Perhaps she should run and find him and tell him to give her more time. Perhaps she had finally found a man who would see life as her grandfather had—where all their children would be cherished, no matter if they were daughters or sons. Why hadn’t he given her more time?
She stood and wiped her eyes and went to a mirror that hung next to the door to check the condition of her hair.
After the day she’d had, it was a disaster. But it was dark and curly, just as Lord Farnsworth had written. She blinked rapidly. What would be happening right now if she had said yes?
First of all, he would have kissed her. She hadn’t missed the way his eyes had gone to the door. He had wanted it closed. He may want the manor, but despite what he had said about not wanting her, some part of him did.
And some part of her had known it. Why else would she have used her hair as a distraction for him during their boxing lesson?
But marriage?
They hardly knew each other. It was ridiculous. And Lord Farnsworth was ridiculous and she was right to reject him outright, even if that meant that she had spent the last hour in a trance looking at a package she hadn’t dared to open instead of…
Well, instead of kissing Lord Farnsworth.
The truth of the matter was, no matter how enjoyable it would have been to be engaged to the man, even if he was someone who would love and appreciate their daughters, she would have always wondered why he was so smitten with her. And because she had told him no, he had admitted he wasn’t. He was smitten with her house. And for some reason he was smitten with her library.
She strode from the room, then nearly ran down the hallway. She needed to find Mrs. Hiddleson and learn what exactly it was about the library that held so much sway over him.
She found Mrs. Hiddleson in the kitchen speaking to Cook about food orders. Not wanting to interrupt, she waited just outside the open door. Cook caught her eye and sto
pped talking. Mrs. Hiddleson turned her head to find Sally there. With a nod to Cook that seemed to say we will continue this later, Mrs. Hiddleson came to Sally’s side.
“What can I help you with, Miss?”
Sally couldn't talk about it in the kitchen. She turned and started walking away, and Mrs. Hiddleson followed her.
“May I ask what Lord Farnsworth was after?” Mrs. Hiddleson asked. “He didn’t seem himself today. He couldn’t sit still. He acted just like that every time he and his mother celebrated his half-birthday. He was always bouncing about wondering which flavor of cake Cook had made for him.”
Lord Farnsworth had grown up celebrating his half-birthday? How very different the two of them were. Even though her mother had enjoyed celebrating her children’s birthdays, Sally had plenty of friends who never took much note of what day their birthday was, let alone their half-birthdays.
Still, she needed to answer Mrs. Hiddleson’s question. But how? “He wanted to see the library.”
Mrs. Hiddleson was walking slightly behind her, so Sally turned her head to see the older woman nodding as if that made perfect sense. “Ah, that would explain it.”
Why? What was so special about the library? “Why would he be so excited about visiting the library?”
“Well, I suppose it isn’t my place to say.”
“I didn’t let him in the library, Mrs. Hiddleson. And I could tell he was hurt by it. I’ve half a mind to allow him to, next time he asks, but I would like to know why.”
