THE DEFIANT LADY

by Samantha Garman

  “At least let me escort you,” the groom sputtered.

  She shook her head, causing the red curls to bounce playfully under her dark green riding hat. “I am staying on Cavehill land. Which way is the little stream I saw on my journey here?”

  The groom wanted to protest, but one smile and a shake of Ivy’s pretty head threw him into such confusion that he gave in and pointed the way. After receiving directions, she took off across the hill and drew in deep breaths as she rode. The cold breeze whipped through her hair and flushed her cheeks pink. Her spirits soared. Ivy missed having time to herself. She liked not having to worry about judgmental eyes speculating whether or not she was becoming a ‘perfect lady.’ If anyone saw her now, they would realize it was all a veneer, and she was very much a hoyden.

  Half a mile later, she reached the small stream, and the sound of trickling water was soothing to her ears. She had to admit that though she missed Paris, she was beginning to enjoy the acres of space in the English countryside.

  She dismounted and tied Moonlight to a nearby tree, and then wished she had thought to bring a blanket so she could sit on the grass without soiling her newly made clothes. She made do with standing along the bank, watching the stream carry dead leaves and twigs along its meandering, dribbling path.

  Ivy yearned for spring, and noticed signs all around her that it was on its way. Trees were showing the barest hints of life and animals were poking their heads out of their burrows. She, too, felt like she was shaking off the sleepy, somber winter, her spirit blooming with the coming spring.

  Lost in her own thoughts she did not hear a solitary rider approach. The sound of boots on grass startled her. In annoyance, she turned to see who interrupted her solitude. Her displeasure evaporated and a thrill shot through her when she recognized the handsome face.

  It was the Earl of Stanton.

  His dark brown hair was perfectly cut, yet mussed from riding, his strong jaw cleanly shaven. Garbed in a crisp, white shirt and tan riding breeches that fit him snuggly, she also could not help but notice his tailored riding coat that spanned the wide breadth of his shoulders. She wondered if she could see her reflection is his polished boots; the Earl looked every bit like the titled gentleman he was.

  “Good morning,” he greeted, his warm gray eyes perusing her. “I am sorry if I distressed you.”

  She shook her head, sending her red curls over her shoulder. “I am startled to see anyone else awake this early in the morning.”

  He smiled. “I like early morning rides, too. May I join you?” When she nodded, he came to stand next to her.

  “I thought I was on Cavehill land.”

  “You are. The Cavehills are allowed to ride on Stanton land, and the Stantons are allowed on Cavehill land.”

  “That is an interesting agreement. How did that occur?” She peered at him from beneath heavily fringed eyelashes.

  “Well,” he began, “years and years ago, the Duke of Cavehill and the Earl of Stanton had a land-border dispute. There was a lake that fell in the middle of their properties and neither one of them wanted to give it up to the other.”

  “Where is the lake?” Ivy wondered.

  The Earl grinned down at her. “For a long time no one knew. It just seemed to have disappeared. Each family blamed the other, and it was a source of mystery for the longest time. After years of discord between their families, the Cavehill heir and the Stanton heir joined forces and had the lake filled. Then, each one helped the other build a lake on each sect of land so future generations would have nothing to quibble about. Peace between families has existed ever sense.”

  The Earl picked up a small pebble and threw it in the stream. “I would be glad to show you Stanton Lake one day, if you would like.”

  “That would be lovely,” she answered tentatively. “Is the lake habitable for fish?”

  “It is.”

  “Do you fish?”

  He smiled. “I do.”

  She caught her breath; his smile was doing funny things to her stomach. It was like a swarm of flying insects had taken flight inside of her. She was nervous and desperately wanted to escape his presence for fear of committing a verbal blunder. Ivy turned away from the stream and walked to her tethered horse.

  “Excuse me, My Lord, I must be getting back.”

  He bowed. “A pleasure seeing you again, Miss Sinclair.”

  As she rode off, Cy took a long moment to watch her on the mare, so light and elegant but commanding. Only after a long moment of appreciation did he realize she was riding astride without a saddle. Intrigued, he wanted to know where she had acquired such a skill.

  ***

  As Ivy was finishing her breakfast, Simms, the footman, entered the dining room and announced, “You have a visitor, Miss Ivy.”

  “Who is it?” she asked in confusion.

  “The Earl of Stanton. His Lordship is waiting for you in the salon.”

  Ivy stood up slowly. What is he doing here? The handsome man made her nervous, and she was in danger of babbling when in his presence. Hesitantly, she walked towards the salon, paused outside the room and took a deep breath before entering.

  The Earl was standing by the window, watching the rain descend in thick sheets. His shoulders were broad and seemed to hinder the small amount of light that had managed to break through the ominous, dark sky.

  “Good morning,” she greeted softly.

  The Earl turned at the sound of her voice and smiled. “You look lovely. That color brings out your eyes.”

  It was such a simple compliment, and it made Ivy feel like she was wearing the most glamorous ball gown in all of England, instead of a light green day gown. She blushed at the warmth in his voice.

  He took a few steps towards her, grasped her hand in his and kissed it. His breath grazed her skin, causing nearly imperceptible shivers to race up and down her spine.

  “I am sorry for calling without an appointment,” he said in a deep, masculine voice.

  “Not a problem at all,” she replied, striving for calm.

  “I am not bothering you, I take it?”

  “Would it matter if you were?” she teased.

  He laughed. “Absolutely not.”

  “The longer you are here, the shorter my pianoforte lesson will be. Feel free to stay all day if you like.”

  “You really hate the pianoforte?” he asked with a smile.

  She had the grace to look embarrassed. “Perhaps if I was naturally adept at playing the pianoforte, I might enjoy it. The Duchess insists on adding a few feminine accomplishments to my name, and so far I have tried my hand at painting, the pianoforte and flower pressing.”

  “And what is the consensus?”

  “I am the best at flower pressing, for it requires not a bit of talent!”

  He chuckled. “I enjoy your wit, Miss Sinclair. Her Grace wants to ensure you have all the benefits of a genteel lady.”

  Ivy shrugged her shoulders. “It would be much easier if she realized I have no desire to cultivate such skills, but alas, we are forced into a battle of wills, one I fear I am losing.”

  “Do you not think those accomplishments are worthwhile?” he asked.

  She looked at him plainly and said, “My mother never wasted time on such trivial things, and my father never seemed to care.”

  “Your mother was not a lady of the gentry,” the Earl remarked baldly.

  Her green eyes narrowed. “How do you know about my mother?” Ivy’s usually unguarded face formed into a disinterested, closed mask, shutting him out.

  “Ah,” he admitted sheepishly. “Your grandmother confided in me.”

  Ivy was quiet for a long moment. “I gather she also told you my mother was my father’s mistress?”

  He nodded sharply, his jaw clenching.

  “If you will excuse me, My Lord, my instructor is waiting for me.” She turned to leave.

  “Miss Sinclair,” he called out. “I apologize for my candidness. It was not my intention to insu
lt you.”

  She nodded her head in acceptance of apology, but she remained cautious. Ivy would never forget the choices her mother made; it seemed society would not either.

  “I suppose I should appreciate your honestly.”

  “I do not wish to cause you distress, Miss Sinclair, nor would I want you to be surprised if you encounter any censure from any future encounters with men and women of my circle.”

  She smiled though it held no warmth. “Men will not see me as anything more than the pitiful offspring of a French courtesan. Women will laugh behind my back and call me a gauche pretender. I am not so naïve, My Lord.”

  “Perhaps some of them will surprise you.”

  “Like you, sir? Au revoir.” She left in a rage.

  Insufferable cad! Ivy thought angrily as she stomped to her bedroom. How dare he make me feel less than what I am? How dare I let him!

  Ivy was angry with herself for falling into the handsome man’s trap. She would not be so foolish again. She would keep her distance, remind herself that he was a snooty aristocrat and not entertain any ridiculous ideas that they could be friends. Stanton was a good example of what she would face in London, and she best be prepared for it.

  ***

  “I am engaged,” Cy announced without preamble as he swirled his brandy around in a crystal snifter. He was sitting in his best friend’s library enjoying the roaring fire and his drink.

  “Congratulations, I suppose, although you do know how I feel about Miss Fitzgerald,” Marcus Fielding, the Count of Langley replied.

  Langley and Cy had been close friends since their school days, and Langley was privy to Cy’s need for a wealthy wife to cover the debt left by his father. Like his friend, Langley had been heir to a prominent title. Unlike Cy, however, he never had to worry about a dissolving inheritance. He was wealthy and at one time offered to help Cy out of his predicament. Due to Cy’s enormous pride, he rejected his friend’s assistance. He would not have been able to look Langley in the eye; this was his wrong to right.

  “No, not Miss Fitzgerald.”

  Langley raised his eyebrows. “I am overjoyed. She is beautiful, but she is incredibly banal. Who is the lucky young lady that will become the next Countess of Stanton?”

  “Did you want to get married?” Cy asked, ignoring the question.

  “No man wants to get married,” Langley deflected.

  “Your wife is lovely. A woman of substance, intelligence and humor.”

  “I did not know you held Elizabeth in such high esteem,” Langley joked. “She also has remarkable candor. She is a wonderful wife and an incredible mother.” The love he felt for his wife and two-year-old son, Malcolm, was evident in his tone of voice.

  Cy threw a look at his friend. “Ivy is the same type of woman as your wife.”

  “Ivy? Intriguing name. I do not recall a woman named Ivy in society.”

  “She has not been presented.” Cy went on to tell Langley about Ivy’s background and the proposition the Duchess of Cavehill had presented to him.

  Cy raised his glass for a toast. “To Ivy Sinclair, my future wife, who has no knowledge whatsoever of our coming betrothal.”

  “This will make for an interesting courtship,” Langley remarked as he threw back his entire glass of brandy.

  “Indeed. And at the moment I have angered the woman and seek to alter it.”

  Langley raised his eyebrows. “Why is she angry?”

  Cy looked chagrined. “I thoughtlessly insulted her and her mother in one fell swoop.”

  “Might I suggest jewels? They do wonders when my wife is cross with me,” Langley said with sardonic amusement.

  “I doubt Ivy will ever accept bribes.”

  “Is she so very different then?”

  Cy nodded. “She is. There is something about her, Langley. At first, I only noticed her physical beauty, but she has wit and spirit. She is graceful, in a way that I have never seen before. It is as if she understands her own body’s movements.”

  Langley raised an eyebrow. “Careful, man, you sound like you are about to spout a sonnet.”

  “Do not be an ass.” Cy snorted.

  “I cannot wait to meet this woman who has you running towards the altar,” Langley quipped.

  Chapter V

  Hampshire, England

  After the painting instructor departed, Ivy was granted a few spare moments of reprieve. She sat in the corner of the library with her legs curled underneath her, a crackling fire keeping her warm. She had just begun reading a compilation of Molière’s greatest plays when the door opened. She looked up. The Earl of Stanton materialized in the doorway.

  She had to stop her hands from flying to her untamable curls. Her stocking clad feet were devoid of slippers, and she hated that she looked less than perfect. Quickly putting on her slippers, she forced her features to remain impassive. He was a snob and she should not care what he thought of her appearance. Their last encounter had ended in verbal sparring, leaving her angry.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Sinclair. I always seem to be interrupting you.” His tone was pleasant and his gaze warm.

  She shut her book. “Good afternoon,” she said, rising.

  “What are you reading?”

  “Molière,” she answered, setting the book aside.

  “In French?”

  She nodded. “Of course. I did grow up in Paris, after all. Besides, in English some of the quips are lost. The translation simply will not do.”

  The Earl shook his head. “Poor Molière. I wonder if he rolls over in his grave thinking of the English ruining all his plays.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  He chuckled. “I brought you a small present.”

  “A present for me?” she asked quizzically.

  “I wanted to make amends for the other day,” he explained as he handed her a small package wrapped in nondescript brown paper. “I am sorry for my behavior.”

  She reached out to take it, wondering what it would cost her. “I can no more change the color of my hair than I can the circumstances of my birth. I will not apologize for it,” she said quietly.

  “I appreciate your honesty, Miss Sinclair.” His tone was sincere.

  She looked into his eyes. “You do?”

  “Absolutely. It is refreshing to hear someone speak so candidly.”

  “I grew up in a world where speaking openly was revered, not reviled, My Lord. I am simply too old to curtail my unusual character.”

  “How old would that be, Miss Sinclair?” He smiled.

  She did not answer his question directly when she said, “I have seen much in my short life. More than most young women my age and certainly more than the other young ladies who will become my acquaintances.”

  “Acquaintances? Not friends?”

  “I will not hold out hope that the ladies I encounter will accept me. They, too, will judge me.”

  He winced. “Can we be friends? I would like to put everything behind us so that we may start anew.”

  Her breath caught as she looked up into his inscrutable gray eyes. After a long moment, she nodded. “It is forgotten,” she said softly, and then turned her attention back to the wrapped package. She ripped it open like an excited child.

  “A Gentleman’s Guide to Fishing?” she breathed with pleasure. “Wonderful! I have been wanting to read it!”

  “I had a feeling you might.”

  “How did you know I would enjoy this?” she asked, her face lit with delight as she turned over the book and lovingly examined its cover.

  “Your grandmother mentioned your love of fishing briefly in conversation.”

  A worried look crossed her face. “You do not find it unfeminine?”

  “I find it enthralling that we share the same hobby.”

  She looked at him intently. When she detected no fabrication, she allowed a glow of warmth and comfort to spread through her. Did all gentleman of quality pay attention to such details?

  “Thank you,” she r
eplied. “I will devour it at my earliest opportunity.”

  “May I ask you a question?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  “The day by the stream, I noticed you did not ride with a saddle. How did you acquire such a skill?”

  Her cheeks flamed. “I learned to ride from the owner of a traveling circus. Years ago, Maman took us to see the performances, and I vowed to learn to ride without a saddle like the women in the show. They stood on top of a moving mount, of course, but they also rode astride without a saddle.”

  “Can you stand on top of a moving mount?” the Earl asked in surprise.

  Ivy shook her head. “No. I was training to be a ballerina, you see, and I could not risk injuring myself. I settled for learning how to ride without a saddle.”

  He opened his mouth to reply but then shut it again.

  “You think I am a hoyden without hope of becoming a lady,” Ivy accused. “I suppose I can hardly blame you.”

  “No, you misunderstand my silence, Miss Sinclair. Your incredible spirit delights me. You are an outrageous, irreverent little imp.”

  It was her turn to be speechless as his gaze turned warm and assessing. Ivy’s smile wavered at his boldly intimate look. He took a step closer to her, and Ivy instantly darted around him.

  “Thank you for the book!” she squeaked and then scurried out the door wishing to put space between herself and the Earl and the desire she felt for him.

  ***

  Two days later, while the Duchess and her granddaughters were eating breakfast, Simms entered the dining room.

  “A package has arrived for Miss Ivy,” he announced.

  “What can it be? Madame LaRue has sent over the last of our wardrobes already,” Ivy murmured even as she rose and excused herself.

  The Duchess attempted not to show any curiosity, but Willow could not contain her eagerness to discover what Ivy had received, and more importantly, who had sent it to her.