by Joyce Alec
Charlotte suddenly looked uneasy. It would be detrimental to her social standing to turn down the marquess, so she was forced to oblige him. She stood, squeezing Edward’s shoulder as a fierce warning. Albany took her hand, dragging her onto the dance floor. They lined up for the Allemande, Charlotte’s piercing stare penetrating Edward’s back. The room was again abuzz.
Tembly leaned in toward Edward. “You are playing a dangerous game, my friend. Charlotte Palmer is not to be trusted.”
Edward looked hard at Tembly. “I know.” He sat back, thinking about Chloé. She came back for him. After everything, she made his heart flutter. Perhaps Fry was right. Perhaps he misunderstood what he saw. He knew for sure she was staying in an unacceptable place, but what if that were all? What if? He could not stand it any longer. He rose.
Charlotte’s head jerked toward her new “fiancé,” but Albany held tightly to her waist. “It is insulting to a marquess, dear girl, to not look him in the eye when you dance.”
Society now had a firm grip on Charlotte Palmer, and it might cost her. “Yes, my lord,” she replied with a smile.
Albany twirled Charlotte around and caught eyes with Edward as he headed for the door. A silent thank you parted his lips, and he disappeared through the door.
Chloé sat on the front stoop at Number 8. She had cried all the way there. Her eyes burned like fire, and her tortured heart ached. Her mind could no longer process the distress of the last days, weeks, months. All she could do was cry.
A drunkard in ripped clothing with a dirty face staggered toward her in the darkness, large drops of rain beginning to splash on the ground. She did not notice him until he was upon her.
“Oh, a tart at Number 8 waiting for me?” he said, reaching down and grabbing her by the arm.
“Sir, no,” she struggled. “I am not…”
“Not a bunter? Well, yer lookin’ like one out here.” He pulled her close to him. “And I like the look o’ya.”
He smelled like cheap brandy and cigars. Chloé struggled with the aggressive man, calling out for help. No one was home at Number 8, and all the neighbors stayed to themselves no matter what.
“Let me go!” she screamed.
Once outside, it started to rain. Edward’s carriage was buried amongst hundreds, so he “borrowed” a nearby horse, kicking him into action down the dark street. It was not too far by horse, and Edward needed to see her. He needed to know why she came back, and he needed to know if he could forgive her indiscretions.
He heard the distant cry of someone in distress. “Let me go!” rang through the streets. His horse sped up to Number 8, and he saw it was Chloé. He jumped off the horse and threw his arms around the vagrant attacking her. The man, although drunk, was quite strong. He let go of Chloé and spun to face Edward.
Edward took his opportunity and struck the man hard on the jaw. He barely flinched and lunged at Edward. The men rolled around on the wet ground for what seemed like an eternity before Edward finally got the upper hand and knocked the man unconscious.
Chloé still sat on the ground, her beautiful rain-soaked dress torn and her arm bruised. Without a thought or word, Edward lifted Chloé onto his horse and sped off toward his townhouse. Her arms were wrapped so tightly around him, he could feel her pounding heart. He suddenly did not want to ever let her go again. Ever.
They pulled up to the house and he carried her inside. Fry greeted them at the door, elated to see her, but terribly distressed at her condition.
“I am fine, dearest Fry,” she said, still in Edward’s arms as the older man touched her cheek.
Edward brought her into the drawing room and sat her in front of the blazing fire. “Fry, can you please bring Chloé a warm dressing gown?”
Fry obliged and quickly returned. The two men waited in the hallway for her to change. Fry leaned in to Edward and whispered. “Listen to each other,” was all he said before disappearing into the darkness.
Edward reentered the room after she had changed and sat down next to her in front of the fire. The two young loves stared at each other in silence for what seemed like an eternity before Chloé broke the quiet. “I am sorry.” Her eyes dropped, and a lone tear fell onto her lap. “I should not have gone there, I know. But Mrs. Harper took me in. And she is a very good Christian woman. She just wants to provide a safe place for those girls to lay their heads at night. Some of them are truly in terrible situations.”
Hearing her words, he knew instantly that she was not one of “those girls.” But it still bothered him that he saw a man touching her. “I saw you in there… with a man,” Edward said, almost guiltily.
She looked hard at him. “Edward, I never…” Then it occurred to her that Fry had been there. She did not want to get the man in trouble, but she felt it was honesty time. “It was Fry,” she said softly. “He found me there and tried to convince me to come back.”
“Fry knew you were there?” he asked, hurt that his steward did not tell him.
“Only just…” she answered. “Do not be mad at him. He was there for you. He is the reason I came tonight.”
“I guess it is my time to say I’m sorry,” Edward croaked, his voice trembling. “For so much.”
They talked for hours about everything, including forgiveness. Neither of them wanted any lies or misunderstandings to taint another second of their lives. They shared a warm brandy and fell asleep in each other’s arms.
Charlotte left Almack’s seething. She would not let some French trollop steal her destiny. She would not lose Edward, and she knew exactly how to force his hand. She headed to St. Paul’s Church-Yard where she had a newspaper connection.
9
Early the next morning, Fry knocked lightly on the drawing room door. Edward was awake, just staring at his perfect wife. He still could not believe they were husband and wife. It seemed like a dream. He eased out of Chloé’s warm embrace and opened the door to a flustered Fry.
“Fry, what is it?” he asked the trembling man.
“It’s not good, Your Grace,” Fry answered, handing him the newspaper.
The London Chronicle front page headline read “EDWARD CAYLEY, DUKE OF DORCHESTER, AND CHARLOTTE PALMER ENGAGED!”
Edward was suddenly jolted back to reality. He knew she was horrid, but he did not expect this. He was already married to someone else, and he was going to make sure everyone knew it. He crumpled up the paper and dashed up the stairs, returning moments later in full dress.
“Fry, please let my wife know that I shall return,” he said to Fry with a wink.
“Yes, sir,” Fry answered happily. He could tell Edward had a plan and it must be a good one.
Edward returned hours later with another newspaper. The London Chronicle, which only circulated its papers three times a week released a second edition on the same day. Edward was assured it would be delivered to every person who received the paper that morning.
The front page now read:
THE LONDON CHRONICLE APOLOGIZES FOR GRIEVOUS ERROR IN THIS MORNING’S PAPER HEADLINE SHOULD HAVE READ AS BELOW:
EDWARD CAYLEY, DUKE OF DORCHESTER, TO MARRY Chloé DALTON TONIGHT
He tossed the paper on the table in front of Fry as he sat across from Chloé, laughing and sharing a pot of tea.
“By Jove, Edward!” he exclaimed. “You are a mastermind!”
“What are you talking about?” a confused Chloé asked. Fry pushed the newspaper toward her, and her eyes lit up with tears reading it aloud. “So, it’s official,” she said, looking up to Edward.
“It’s official,” he echoed, bending to kiss her lightly on sweet pink lips.
Edward and Chloé stood under an arbor of red poppies. Chloé’s wedding gown trailed behind her as she stood next to her love, holding his hand tightly as the preacher read from the Bible. The small park across from Edward’s townhome was brimming with the most elegant guests, happily celebrating their favorite couple.
Charlotte Palmer steamed at the back of the crowd. She had
spent most of the evening laughing off the “ridiculous” headline in that morning’s paper. Her new patron, the Marquess of Albany, made certain she would never again try to interfere in the happiness of his friend.
The words of the preacher resounded across the candle-lit park, bringing tears of joy, especially to those who knew Edward and Chloé’s entire story.
“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.”
“Always,” echoed Chloé.
“Always,” purred Edward, placing a gentle kiss upon his wife’s hand.
THE END
Part V
Conflicted Heart - Book Three
Edgefield Dukedom: Book Three
By Caroline Johnson
1
The Envy of Many
Few women could compare to the beauty of Lady Jane Stone. She was blessed with hair the color of summer sunlight, warm and golden, and eyes that were as blue as the sky at midafternoon. Her complexion was soft and pale, and not a blemish marred her almost perfect features. Slender and tall, mysterious and poised, her mother often told her that she was the model of womanhood, something for all young ladies to strive for, even her own sisters.
She was the envy of many, the equal to few, and what was perhaps the most devastating thing of the whole matter was that she was well aware of it. Of all of it.
Now, she was not as conceited as some might think. At least, she herself did not think that. She was the daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Edgefield, who were well-respected and important in society. While Jane’s siblings were humbled by it, and acted in such a way, Lady Jane took it as a source of pride. She would never admit that she was better than anyone else, but she did believe it, in a sense. It was not her fault that she was who she was, was it? She was the product of her parents’ lineage, and their parents before them.
She was also now the oldest siblings to still live in the Edgefield estate, her two eldest brothers having been married and in their own homes. Her eldest brother, Lord Bridgewater, and his lovely wife lived in the large manor at the edge of her father’s land. Her next oldest brother was now a vicar, who gave up living a life of luxury to enter the church and marry a woman who was not of noble birth. Jane did see something romantic in it, but she could still not understand her brother’s desire to make the choices that he made. It was no matter though, since she was aware that his concerns lay elsewhere, and he never thought the workings of society of much importance.
Their poor father was now at his wit’s end with a house full of women and often found any excuse to go on long walks or to have friends over far more often than Jane remembered. She and her sisters found it quite amusing, and they would often discuss it and tease their father.
Their mother had now shifted her own focus. “Now, this ball this weekend is sure to be beneficial to you all,” she said one afternoon as the family enjoyed tea together in the garden.
Summer had come to the estate, and in the lazy, late days, Jane noticed the trees beginning to change. “Fall has come early this year,” Jane said, almost wistfully as she gazed up into the trees.
“Well, this Saturday is the first of September, dear,” her mother continued, as if she had not been interrupted. “Have you all tried on the new dresses that I had made?”
Jane’s sisters were both younger than she was by nearly three years. She was just one and twenty, which surprised many people, but she always told them that she had not felt as if she wished to marry earlier than that. She believed she was not old enough or wise enough to make any such decisions.
Truly, she had not found the ideal match yet, and that was why she had refused as many offers of marriage as she had. She was not like other women who should jump at any offer made to them. No, because of her father’s place as a wealthy duke, she could choose a man that suited her. She didn’t need to marry for money.
Her ideal husband was out there. Someone who was also well respected in society, and someone who would be worthy of her name.
“Yes, mother, and frankly, it was not to my taste,” Margaret said, crossing her arms across her chest.
Jane rolled her eyes and glared at her youngest sister, a small, frail little girl with mousy brown hair that curled in every direction. Margaret was quite plain in comparison to her siblings. She was still very much a young girl, who enjoyed running outdoors and chasing her cats down the long halls of the manor. And yet, the woman she was becoming was almost as concerned about her future as Jane. This fact both pleased and troubled Jane. She cared deeply for her youngest sister, but wished that she would grow into her wisdom sooner than later.
“Not to your taste?” Beatrice asked, her dark blonde hair tied loose in a low chignon at the nape of her neck. Her green eyes studied her youngest sister. “Honestly, it is as if you expect the Queen’s seamstress herself to design a dress just for you.”
Jane smirked. Beatrice the clever one. Jane appreciated her middle sister’s wit, and she was also quite charming. Most men were intimidated by Beatrice’s character, but Jane was fiercely proud of it.
Beatrice turned and looked at her mother. “I think the dresses were exquisite, Mother. And Margaret’s dress was perfectly lovely on her.”
“Wonderful,” their mother said, a wide smile on her face.
Jane smirked at the aghast look on Margaret’s face. Beatrice merely shrugged her shoulders.
“Now, we will be arriving at the duke’s estate at dusk, at which point we will be greeted by the duke, duchess, and their eldest son.”
At this point, their mother looked over at Jane.
“What?” Jane asked.
“He will be looking for you,” Beatrice answered for her. “I’m sure of it.”
Their mother smiled and nodded her head in agreement. “Indeed, he will be.”
Margaret rolled her eyes. “They’re always looking at Jane,” she said, the bitterness more than obvious.
“Margaret Katherine Stone,” their mother said, her brow furrowed, her lips pursed. “Could you perhaps be more thoughtful when choosing your words?”
“No man will ever look at you with that sort of attitude,” Jane added, folding her own arms over her chest and sitting back in her chair.
Margaret glared at her sister.
“Mother, will Robert and Alice be coming to this ball?” Beatrice cut in quickly, preventing Margaret from saying anything that she might regret.
Their mother shook her head. “No, not this time, unfortunately. Your brother is conducting quite a few weddings this time of year, and it is not wise for them to take time off now. They will be visiting for a week at the end of November.”
Beatrice sighed.
“And what of John and Agnes?”
Margaret brightened at the mention of their eldest brother. “Oh, I do hope they will join us. Although if I were them, I don’t know if could leave a baby as precious at William home with the nanny.”
Jane felt a swelling of pride at thinking of how their family had already begun to grow. William was the most perfect baby that she had ever seen, and she was elated to be able to call him her nephew.
“No, I am afraid they will not be joining us either. I called on Agnes yesterday. William is teething and has been almost insufferable because he is not on a proper sleep schedule.”
Margaret sat back in her chair, looking dejected.
“He is only six months old,” Jane reassured her.
“I suppose,” Margaret said.
“This ball will be an important one for you girls. Everyone knows that we now have only girls in our household, and that our focus will be on ensuring that you all make good matches as well.”
Beatrice and Margaret both nodded, and Jane looked out over the gardens. Her mother’s idea of a good
match and her idea were often not the same. Her mother had scolded her the first three times she had turned men down for asking for her hand in marriage. She had plainly told her that none of them were what she wanted. When her mother asked what she wanted, she replied simply that she would know when she met him.
“Pardon me, Your Grace, but some letters have arrived.”
A tall, thin man with a thick, grey moustache appeared, carrying a silver tray with several letters perched on it. He bent down low enough for her mother to pull them from the tray.
“Thank you, Mr. Barnes,” she said, beginning to look through them. “Has there been word from my husband yet?”
Mr. Barnes smiled and nodded his head. “Yes, he just arrived home, Your Grace.”
Their mother smiled in reply to the man. “Wonderful. When you see him, please let him know that we are out here, and that he may join us if he wishes it.”
Mr. Barnes smirked. “Does Your Grace insist that he would wish to join you?”
She grinned at him in reply. “That would be most delightful, Mr. Barnes. Thank you.”
“I shall inform him right away.”
Jane noticed a letter that had her own name on the front. Her mother noticed it at the same time.
“Not one, but two letters for you, Jane,” she said and passed them to her.
No one reacted, aside from Margaret, who scowled when her mother didn’t hand her any letters.
Jane was used to getting letters. Quite a few of her friends lived throughout England, most of them married already. On top of that, many men sent her letters as well, filled with poems and sonnets and stories written about her and her beauty.
She was surprised, however, to discover that the two letters were neither of these things. They were from men, indeed, and most likely were men who were interested in marrying her.
