I stepped inside. The laughter quelled immediately. I counted four—no, five—pairs of male eyes affixed in my direction. I cleared my throat.
“I’ve come to take out my father’s phaeton—Lord Valentia.”
The nearest man spit on the floor. I recoiled. How vulgar!
“Proof?” he drawled.
“I beg your pardon?”
“How are we s’pose to know who you are, miss? We don’t give away them rigs to just anyone who asks.”
I hadn’t considered they might want proof. “What sort of proof would you like? I am who I say I am.”
He smiled. Two or more teeth were missing on the right side. He spit through the gap.
The wad landed dangerously near my toe.
“D’you have the barony seal on you?”
I didn’t carry it around like a secret diary. Imagine the ton, each sporting their family seal stitched onto their clothing. Ridiculous. Even my handkerchief didn’t bear the seal.
Crossing my arms, I said, “Yes. I do. It’s on the door of the phaeton.”
A second man chuckled as he stepped forward. “Ready the horses. I know her.”
I blinked. “You…do?” Most men of my peers couldn’t pick me out of a crowd. All except for Julian.
I eradicated him from my thoughts.
The young man shrugged. “Pauline speaks highly of you.”
Pauline? For some reason, I’d never pictured her leaving the townhouse. A silly notion. Clearly, she must have friends and colleagues outside of the Valentia household. How much didn’t I know about her? She’d been with my family for years.
Why hadn’t I considered her life before?
I grappled for what to say to the hostler. While he may have heard of me, Pauline had never mentioned him or anyone else outside of the manse. Maybe because she feared a reprimand.
“Thank you.”
He didn’t pursue the conversation further. Within minutes, he and the other hostler prepared the phaeton for me. He hesitated before handing me the reins. “You have driven one of these before, right?”
“Of course,” I lied.
I climbed into the front-facing seat. I divided the reins between my hands to keep them straight. The hostler slapped one of the twin white horses on the rump. It started forward at a sharp clip.
A tug on the right rein directed the horses onto the street proper. And men pretended this was an exclusive skill. I straightened in my seat, gaining confidence as I guided the horses through another turn. Their pace wasn’t fast enough. I gave both reins a light snap.
The steed to the left flicked one ear at me. “Go faster,” I muttered. I snapped the reins again. No results. I snapped them harder.
The horses jumped as though startled by the feel of the reins on their flanks. The one on the right whickered. They bolted into action. The cityscape passed in a blur. The air whipped my hair free from its braid. Stray strands of hair batted me in the face. More came loose.
My hair whipped behind me. My heart drummed in time to the horses’ hooves, pounding as though attempting to gallop out of my chest. Traffic loomed ahead, slow-moving carts and smart-moving carriages.
“Stop,” I moaned under my breath, over and over. “Please stop.”
I tugged hard on the reins. One of the horses—I couldn’t tell which—screamed. They bucked the reins out of my hands and plummeted into a gallop. A wagon plodded down the center of the road. The horses charged on an unwaveringly straight path. I couldn’t draw in enough air. In a second, we would hit the conveyance. I used the last of my breath to scream.
I shut my eyes, prepared for pain.
A third set of hoofbeats pummeled the cobblestones. The thunder cleared my head. The reins. Where were the reins?
I fumbled at my feet, snatching one but unable to find the other. I tugged on it hard.
The horses veered. With a whinny, they lunged down an alley. Too tight. The spokes of the wheels scraped the walls. The wheels rattled. Dear Lord in Heaven, would we crash?
The alley opened into a full street. Angry workmen shouted as the phaeton breezed past. The horses dragged the phaeton forward. They picked up speed. Tears stabbed my eyes. I would die. No doubt in my mind.
“Let go of the reins,” a man called.
I clutched the one I held to my chest. Who had spoken? I didn’t dare peel my gaze away from the horses’ haunches.
“Damn and blast, Francine, drop the bloody reins! You’re making it worse.”
A rider pulled up alongside. He crouched low to his horse’s neck, urging him for speed. The horse took three more paces as the rider tied his reins to the saddle. He kicked his feet from the stirrups.
“Move over,” he said.
“Julian?” My mouth formed around the name, but I didn’t hear myself speak. I scurried as much to one side as possible.
He leaped from his horse to the phaeton. The floor rocked with his added weight. I bit my tongue to keep from screaming at the sudden lurch. I clutched the side, praying not to be dislodged. His horse drew back, into the phaeton’s wake instead of alongside.
“Give me the reins, Francine,” Julian ordered. “Quickly.”
I threw the one I clutched into the air. He grappled for it. He found and snagged the other within a second.
“Hold on to me!” he yelled.
I latched onto his arm as I had the reins. My throbbing heart nearly ripped out of my chest to beat alongside his. I buried my face in the crook of his arm.
He smelled like horse. I whimpered into his jacket.
Miraculously, the phaeton slowed. First to a canter, then a trot. It veered around traffic. I didn’t budge from Julian’s arm. Not even when the vehicle stopped altogether.
He shifted beneath my cheek. “Francine?”
He tried to pry his shoulder free, but I clutched him tight. “Give me a moment. I think I left my skin at the livery.”
He chuckled. “You haven’t lost your wit.”
After several deep breaths, my heartbeat slowed. I pulled away.
Julian disembarked from the phaeton to lead the horses to the side. He barked at a dirty, barefoot boy, promising a reward if the boy held the horses. He lifted his fingers to his lips and released an ear-splitting whistle. I winced.
His horse trotted up to him with the obedience of a dog. He tied the horse’s reins to the back of the phaeton, whispering soft, indecipherable words. The sight pierced my unruly heart.
He cared more for his horse than he did for me.
Steadying my trembling legs, I disembarked from the phaeton. I would find a hack, return home, and lock myself in the hothouse for the rest of eternity.
“Francine—” Julian uttered my name in a strangled voice. He crossed the cobblestones in big, ground-eating strides, and clasped my elbow. He dragged me closer to the phaeton.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Tears threatened. I turned my face away before they fell. “I’m going home, Julian. I never should have left.”
“You’re bloody well right about that.” Using his tight grip on my arm, he turned me to face him. I stared at the buttons of his waistcoat, showing behind the unbuttoned jacket. He shook me. “Look at me, Francine. You’re in no frame of mind to wander the city alone right now. You’re still shaken.”
Twisting my arm, I broke his grip. I shoved him away for good measure. “I’m not some weak-willed woman to need looking after. I can look after myself perfectly well, thank you.”
He thrust his hand violently in the direction of the phaeton. “Like you did just now?”
I flinched. That had been a poor decision on my part.
He shook his head. His heavy, disappointed frown weighed on me. “Get in the phaeton, Francine.”
When I balked, he spanned his hands over my waist and lifted me bodily into the conveyance. I froze, my fingers digging into the seat. Was it safe? While stopped, the carriage seemed to wobble and jostle like we careened out of control. The harness creak
ed. My heart jumped into my throat.
Julian gave the wheels a cursory inspection. He tossed a shilling to the boy, climbed onto the seat beside me, and accepted the reins. When he glanced at me, he swore under his breath. “You’re as white as milk.”
“Spec-speckled milk.” My voice emerged as a whimper. What thin tendril of humor I managed to eject into it dissipated as Julian directed the horses onto the street.
My heart stopped pounding for a full second. My vision swam.
Julian swore again. He urged the horses to a faster pace. That only made it worse.
The twists and turns he navigated with ease girdled my stomach as if I were perched atop a writhing sea serpent. At any moment, I’d be dislodged. I held onto the lip of the phaeton so hard my knuckles cracked with the strain.
The world slowly stopped spinning when he pulled to a stop. Branches wove overhead in a leafy canopy. Greenery bunched around us. We were in a park. Hyde Park? He jumped down to tie the reins around a sturdy tree branch. He tugged at them, ensuring they wouldn’t come loose. Moments later, he reappeared at my side. He pried my fingers free of the phaeton with difficulty.
“Francine, are you unwell?”
I certainly wasn’t at my best.
Although I tried to respond, I couldn’t convince my throat to work properly.
Julian lifted me out of the phaeton. He drew me away from the horses, apparently recalling my dislike for them. When we reached a tree trunk, he tucked me behind it, out of sight should anyone pass the phaeton. He sat next to me and took my clammy hands in his. His big palms dwarfed my hands as he stripped off my gloves.
“Your hands are like ice.”
“An exaggeration,” I said.
“Maybe, but that doesn’t diminish my concern.” He rubbed his bare hands over mine.
The spark of his touch warmed me, like it had when we were nestled together in his bed, skin to skin. I tugged my hands away.
“Don’t pretend you care for me.” A different kind of warmth spread through my chest, one born of rage and indignation.
He flinched but didn’t retreat. He raised his hands to bracket my face. Holding me steady, forcing me to look into his eyes. “The devil take me, Francine. You almost died! If I had been a second later…”
He trailed off. That mad moment on the street flashed into my mind’s eye, paralyzing me.
“I almost lost you. I can’t—” His voice broke. “I can’t lose you. Anything else, but not you.”
He pressed his lips to mine, feverish. I pushed him away.
“Alyssa?”
His expression turned to stone. “After you moved to London, things…changed.”
I’d expected they might, but…not this much. He would have mentioned in one of his letters if he and Alyssa were…
I couldn’t even think it.
Julian swallowed hard. He groped for my hand and squeezed it as he leaned his head back against the tree trunk. He stared at the branches overhead, but tears gathered in his eyes. “Joe is…Joe is dead, Francine.”
What? My stomach dropped. We hadn’t met or spoken in years, but he was still the brother to my best friend… “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” How could he not have told me?
His eyes shining with unshed tears, he met my gaze. “It happened around the time I received your last letters. I didn’t—I couldn’t bring myself to answer them.”
How could he not have turned to me in his time of grief? I understood that speaking of his brother must be difficult—after all, he’d avoided the topic of his family ever since we’d reunited—but I would have wanted to know. To help. If he’d told me, I would have traveled to Leicestershire, to Hell with what Papa had to say on the matter.
But he hadn’t told me. He’d shut me out.
Now, he looked like he was going to crumble in front of my eyes. When he embraced me, nestling his face into the crook of my neck, I didn’t push him away. I held him as his shoulders shook.
“After my sister married, Joe and I became closer, thick as thieves.”
I tightened my hold on him, not saying a word.
“He told me everything about him and Alyssa. They were deeply in love.”
That sounded more like what I expected. Alyssa had been forever trailing after Joseph, trying to tease his attention. She’d been in love with him even when we were children. It seemed, once she grew up, Joe had come to return her affections.
“He was a third son. No real income and he dreamed of glory, not a little plot of land that he could farm. He went into the army, like Jeremy. Unlike Jeremy, he never came home.”
His trembling stopped. He seemed numb, speaking in a near monotone.
“I’m sorry.” My voice was raspy. I didn’t know what else to say.
What must Alyssa be feeling? If Julian had gone to war and died…
It didn’t matter. I didn’t get to keep him, either way. “Tell me about the engagement.” I braced myself for his answer, but I had to know.
Julian pulled away. His eyes were red, his face ashen. He met my gaze for a scant second before he focused on a dozen other aspects of the scenery. His eyes didn’t stay still for long.
“When Joe left, he made me promise if he didn’t come back that I would marry Alyssa. Provide for her, give her the happy life she deserved. I thought it was just a silly promise to ease his mind.” His eyes slid shut, but a tear snaked out and slithered down his cheek.
My heart broke, for them and for us. I laid my head on Julian’s shoulder and wept with him as he circled me in his arms. He said nothing more, but he didn’t have to. I already knew what he would say.
He wouldn’t break the last promise he had made to his brother, and I wouldn’t ask him to. There was no hope for our future at all.
Chapter Seventeen
I expected being a fallen woman to feel different—titillating, even.
Instead, it felt…much the same as before I’d dragged my reputation through the mud. I still worked with Mother in the hothouse, wordlessly hunched over our plants on separate sides of the workbench. Papa still regarded me with an air of disapproval for spending more time with plants than with people. The only difference was that I didn’t have to suffer visitors. I didn’t have to exhaust myself at an endless parade of social engagements.
If I hadn’t felt as though my heart had been ripped out of my chest and trampled upon, it might have been peaceful.
I didn’t hear from Julian the next day. No doubt if he presented himself at the townhouse, Papa would challenge him to a duel again. Perhaps it was for the best. I didn’t know what to say to him, even if I’d seen him. We had no future. Although I’d known as much from the start, the finality of having it confirmed left me gasping for breath.
I focused on my work and studies. My ankle didn’t thank me for standing on it all day. That evening, after a strained and silent supper, I found a book in the library and retreated to bed early. When I arrived, I found Mary sitting on my bed, swinging her legs. A lit candle rested on the nightstand, casting a glow over her bored expression.
“There you are,” she exclaimed as I stepped into the room.
I braced myself for her sharp tongue. Why was she here? I thought she wasn’t speaking to me.
She stood, propping her hands on her hips. “I hear you’ve been cast out of polite Society.”
Did she come here simply to gloat that her plan seemed to have worked for the moment? Since our invitations had been rescinded, Papa hadn’t spoken a word about sending me to a convent. Actually, he hadn’t said much to me at all.
I stepped past her to sit on the bed and toe off my slippers. “Why are you here?”
Mary snorted. “Since when have I ever been considered polite company?”
She flounced on top of the bed next to me, for all the world like we’d never fought at all. She couldn’t have forgiven me that easily, could she have? She’d been spitting mad. Not to mention, I hadn’t so much as apologized. I opened my mouth to do just that,
then shut it again. Did I have anything to apologize for?
She patted my shoulder. “I must have been cast out from Society three or four times by now. It blows over. Someone else does something scandalous and then everyone will recall that your father is a baron and you’ll start receiving invitations again.”
Was that supposed to make me feel better? It would only encourage Papa. And after disgracing the family name in such a way, he would never relent on the matter. I would have to act the demure, composed baron’s daughter. Speak with whom he told me to, marry whom he chose. I didn’t want to receive any more invitations. In fact, I would be perfectly happy if Papa decided to move us back to the country until the scandal died down. Even if that would relocate me closer to Julian…and his soon-to-be wife.
Not wanting to consider watching him with his new wife, I turned to my friend. “Aren’t you angry with me?”
She shrugged. “Sure I am, but you need a friend right now. I can be angry at you again after this is done.”
I shook my head. Just like that, we were friends again? She was acting that way. “I don’t think spats are supposed to work this way. Neither of us has apologized.”
“Are you going to apologize?”
Perhaps I should. I nibbled my lower lip, still guilty over turning her down, even if she had asked too much of me. Our association would go easier if I apologized. But I always apologized, and she always dragged me along on increasingly wild escapades. Most of the time, I would prefer to be left alone with my plants. After a long moment, I answered, “No.”
I held my breath, wondering if she would call me wretched names and storm out.
She shrugged. “Then I’ll still be angry with you later.”
“But not now.”
She shook her head. “Not now. You need a friend now. A friend who understands that your reputation doesn’t define you, since you seem to have forgotten that fact. What is your reputation but the perceived personification of a select few aspects?”
How to Ruin Your Reputation in 10 Days (Ladies of Passion) Page 19
