Secret Desires of a Gentleman

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  “What?” Lawrence turned and looked at him, astonished, whether by the question or the abruptness of it, he didn’t know. But an answer suddenly seemed important.

  “Do you?” he persisted. “You said a minute ago that Father was a snob. Do you think I’m like him? Snobbish and condescending? That I’m haughty?”

  “Well…” His brother considered the question, tilting his head to one side. “Yes, I suppose you are. Sorry, old chap,” he added at Phillip’s sound of consternation, “But you are such a stickler for the proprieties. And whenever you disapprove of something, you have a way of conveying that disapproval without even saying a word. It’s rather intimidating, really. And, yes, a bit haughty.”

  “I see.”

  “There’s the way you walk, too, of course.”

  “What’s wrong with the way I walk, in heaven’s name?”

  “You move through a crowd as if you fully expect people to make way for you. Which they do, of course,” he added. “I mean, you are the marquess, so it’s to be expected they would. But watching it’s rather amazing. A bit like the Red Sea parting, you know. And everyone bows.” He took off his hat and put the hand holding it behind his back, then flattened his other hand across his abdomen and bent deeply from the waist. “Make way, make way for Lord Kayne, master of all he surveys.”

  “Now you’re being absurd.”

  Lawrence straightened, laughing as he shook back his hair. “Perhaps I am, but—” He broke off, his attention diverted to something beyond Phillip’s shoulder. “Here’s Squire Bramley coming up the street. I say, that must be his new mare he’s got with him.”

  Phillip turned and saw that the squire was indeed leading a pretty chestnut mare up the street toward them.

  “He came by the day before you arrived, wanting to know when you would be joining us at Kayne Hall, for he wanted to show you a new mare he’d brought over from the States. I forgot to tell you about it. Terribly absentminded of me.”

  “Rather,” he agreed with a glance of good-natured exasperation before he removed his hat and turned his attention to the portly old gentleman and his horse. “Good afternoon, Mr. Bramley.”

  “Lord Kayne.” The squire led the mare to the side of the road where Phillip and Lawrence joined him. “Mr. Hawthorne.”

  “Squire,” Lawrence said, and gestured to the Duttons, who had left off studying the fashions in Mrs. Woodhouse’s window and were approaching them from the other direction. “You remember my fiancée, Miss Dutton? And her parents?”

  “Yes, of course.” The squire bowed to them. “How do you do? But Mr. Hawthorne, I also seem to remember you said your brother wasn’t coming up from town any time soon.”

  “Don’t blame Lawrence, Mr. Bramley,” Phillip said. “My trip home was unplanned, and the greatest surprise to my brother.” He gestured to the horse. “So, you’ve a new mare, I see.”

  “Yes, bought her in Kentucky. Saw some fine horses when I was there, I did, indeed.”

  “Yes, they do breed excellent horseflesh in that part of the world.” He smoothed the mare’s cheek, chuckling as she nudged his hand with a soft nicker. “Sorry, pet,” he told her and opened his palm. “I’ve no sugar to give you.”

  The mare seemed quite put out about that. She flung her head back, tossing her mane with an indignant snort and making all of them laugh.

  Phillip patted her nose while making a soothing sound, and ran a hand along her withers. “She’s a fine animal,” he said after several minutes of examination. “Would you sell her? I’m needing some quality broodmares for my stables.”

  The old man shook his head. “I didn’t bring her all the way from Kentucky to sell her, Lord Kayne. I’ll be breeding this one myself.”

  “I’m always willing to pay generously for quality horseflesh, Mr. Bramley,” he reminded, but as the squire continued to shake his head, Phillip knew additional persuasion might be required. “I would, of course, give you her first foal out of Alexander.”

  The mention of a foal sired by his best stallion made the older man hesitate. “That sweetens the pot a bit,” he murmured. “I’m off to London shortly, and while I’m there, I shall consider your offer.”

  “Excellent. Let me give you my London address.” He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket. “I am not residing at my house in Park Lane,” he explained as he pulled out his card case, “so let me give you my current address.”

  He pulled out one of his cards, but when he did, more cards came spilling out, and Maria’s hair ribbon tumbled out with them. Cards and ribbon fluttered toward the ground, and he bent down at once to retrieve the ribbon, but his brother was quicker.

  “What’s this?” Lawrence cried, scooping up the strip of pink silk. The moment he glanced at what was in his fingers, he froze and looked at his brother in astonishment. Phillip stared back in mute agony.

  “What is it?” Cynthia asked, coming closer.

  Lawrence balled the ribbon up in his fist. “Nothing, darling,” he said, opening his hand over his brother’s outstretched one and dropping the ribbon into his palm. Then he bent and began to gather Phillip’s scattered cards.

  With a sigh of relief, Phillip shoved the ribbon into his pocket and returned his attention to Squire Bramley. “Let me know if you wish to discuss selling the mare, Mr. Bramley,” he said, handing the card to the older gentleman.

  “I’m making no promises to sell her, mind, but I shall consider it.”

  Phillip forced himself to smile back. “Fair enough.”

  The squire and his horse went on, and Phillip accepted the stack of calling cards from his brother. He returned them to his case and put the case back in his pocket. They continued along the High Street, but if Phillip had any hope Maria Martingale’s hair ribbon was forgotten, that hope was soon dashed. Lawrence fell in step beside him as they walked along the sidewalk. “I say, about that ribbon—” he began, but Phillip cut him off at once.

  “We will not discuss it, Lawrence,” he said in a savage whisper. “Not now, not ever.”

  Wide-eyed, his brother nodded, and any conversation on the subject was ended before it began, much to Phillip’s relief. When they reached home, he went straight up to his study and pulled her ribbon out of his pocket, thinking to rid himself of this stupid stolen reminder of her, but as he held the bit of embroidered silk over the wastepaper basket, he could not seem to make his fingers drop it.

  It wasn’t his to throw away. The right thing to do was return it to her.

  He didn’t know how long he stood there. It felt like hours.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, he raised the ribbon and pressed it to his lips, savoring a scent of vanilla and cinnamon that he knew was only imaginary.

  After a moment, he returned the ribbon to his card case and left the study, and he knew he would only be over Maria Martingale the day he could give the ribbon back to her.

  The weeks of May went by. Phillip discussed the building of ocean liners with Colonel Dutton. He went about estate business, careful to avoid the willow tree, the kitchens, and any other places that reminded him most strongly of her. He called on his neighbors, toured the farms, visited the auctions, and participated in the local affairs of Combeacre, and the fulfillment of those duties served as constant reminders of his position and the responsibilities that came with it.

  By the time a month had passed, her scathing words had stopped echoing through his mind, and he began to regain the sense of equilibrium he’d possessed before her reappearance in his life. So, when Lawrence suggested they return to town for the remainder of the season, he decided to go as well. Having left so abruptly, there were many business matters awaiting him in London, including the drawing up of the contracts with Colonel Dutton and the delegation of additional duties within Hawthorne Shipping to his brother.

  The evening before they were to leave, Phillip rode back to the millpond. He stood under the willow and stared at the splintered end of the limb that had held that rope swing so long ago.
He felt nothing.

  Upon his return to the house, he sent word to the kitchens that he wanted a chocolate tart; when it was ready, he went to the kitchens, and ignoring the furtive, curious stares of his kitchen staff, he sat at the table by the door into the buttery and ate every single bite.

  That night, he slept without dreaming of her, and when he woke the next morning, he felt more like himself than he had in months. When he pulled the ribbon out of his card case, he could not conjure the scent of her hair. The madness had passed.

  Chapter 14

  They are at the end of the gallery; retired to their tea and scandal, according to their ancient custom.

  William Congreve

  She missed him.

  It was a nauseating admission to make, for she hadn’t felt this way about Phillip since he’d snubbed her when she was fifteen. And every time she thought of his proposal, a myriad of conflicting emotions engulfed her—outrage, pleasure, excitement, pain—and by the time four weeks had passed, she felt so muddled and mixed up, she didn’t know if she was on her head or her heels.

  Nonetheless, after spending night after night lying in bed with his confession of desire ringing in her ears, after spending endless hours remembering those hot, fevered moments in his carriage and listening for his step outside her kitchen door, after many discreet enquiries of his servants as to when he would be back in town, Maria was forced to admit the appalling truth. She missed him.

  Feeling the need to shake off this strange conflux of emotions, Maria decided what she needed was a day off. Sunday afternoon, she left Miss Simms in charge of the shop and went to her former lodgings in Little Russell Street to have Sunday tea with her friends.

  Sunday-afternoon tea was a ritual that had been a part of life for the girl-bachelors of Little Russell Street since long before Maria had come there to share a flat with Prudence eleven years earlier. Most of the ladies worked at jobs—they were typists or shop assistants who labored through the week until Saturday noon, and were then free until Monday. Though Maria’s schedule had always been more erratic than that of her fellow girl-bachelors, she had always insisted on carving out a few hours after church on Sunday for tea with her friends. But in the three months since she had opened her pâtisserie, she had simply not been able to manage even those few precious hours.

  Now, looking at the red brick building that had been her home for so long, with its dark green shutters, potted geraniums, and bobbin-lace curtains, Maria felt a pang of homesickness. When she’d embarked on owning her own shop, she hadn’t bargained for how lonely it would be and how little time she would have for her friends.

  Even though she no longer lived in the lodging house, she didn’t stand on ceremony. She walked right in. “Hullo, everyone!” she called, pausing in the foyer to remove her hat.

  Exclamations of delight followed her greeting, and she’d barely hung her bonnet on the coat rack before Mrs. Morris was emerging from the parlor to greet her. “Maria, my dear! How lovely to see you.”

  Maria hung her handbag on another hook, then turned to accept a kiss on the cheek from her former landlady.

  “This is certainly the day for unexpected guests,” Mrs. Morris said, ushering her toward the parlor.

  “Unexpected guests?” she echoed, but when she saw Prudence and Emma, there was no need for explanations. Like Maria, the Duchess of St. Cyres and Viscountess Marlowe had lives far removed from their former lodgings in Little Russell Street and were not always able to come to Sunday tea.

  The sight of her other friends, however, was not so surprising. Lucy and Daisy Merrick still lived here, and so did Miranda Dickinson. Dear little Mrs. Inkberry hadn’t lived at Little Russell Street for many years, but she was here today as well. Since she was Mrs. Morris’s oldest friend, Mrs. Inkberry always came for Sunday tea.

  Maria smiled at all her dear friends, and opened her arms to hug each one of them. After the greetings had been said, Mrs. Morris settled her beside Daisy on the horsehair settee, and as she took off her gloves, the landlady poured her a cup of tea.

  “You look tired, my dear child,” Mrs. Morris said, handing her the cup of fragrant Earl Grey. “You’ll want a scone and clotted cream, of course?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Maria placed her filled plate on her lap, then accepted her cup of tea and leaned back against the settee with a sigh.

  That sound had Mrs. Inkberry leaning closer to study her face. “She does look peaked, Abigail,” she said with a glance at Mrs. Morris before returning her attention to Maria. “I hope you aren’t working too hard at that shop of yours.”

  “I am a bit tired,” she confessed, but she did not explain that the reason for her tiredness was a lack of sleep brought on by the most infuriating man in all of Britain. “The bakery has been very busy,” she offered as her excuse, and decided to change the subject before the two older ladies could lecture her on that score. “What is the news here?”

  “We’ve be discussing what to do with Daisy, now that Ledbetter and Ghent have given her the sack,” Lucy said, her blonde brows knitting in a frown as she glared at her younger sister.

  “What?” Maria turned to the girl beside her, who was twisting a loose curl of her fiery red hair and looking guilty as sin. “You lost another post?”

  Daisy bit her lip, looking sheepish. She gave a little nod. “Yesterday.”

  “Really, Daisy,” her sister said in aggravation, “if you keep on this way, I’ll soon not be able to place you anywhere. Even now, I’m not sure I can gloss over the loss of seven jobs of work in a period of fourteen months, and only one letter of character to show for it all.”

  Daisy left off twisting her hair and folded her arms, her face taking on a mutinous expression. “But this time it wasn’t my fault.”

  Maria could sense the words It’s never your fault hovering on Lucy’s tongue. So could Emma, evidently, for she spoke up at once. “Perhaps my husband could find Daisy a place at Marlowe Publishing,” she suggested. “They always need typists.”

  “You might end up typing out my husband’s manuscripts,” Prudence put in, laughing. “That could be fun. Although, perhaps not,” she amended. “The duke’s handwriting is atrocious.”

  “What I really want is to be a writer,” Daisy said. “Like the duke, with his travel guides. Or like you, Emma, with your shopping manuals and etiquette books.”

  “My sister writing etiquette books?” Lucy rolled her eyes. “Can you imagine? London society would never be the same.”

  Daisy wrinkled her freckled nose at her sister. “All right, then, I shall become an actress.” She pressed the back of her hand against her forehead, gave a dramatic sigh, and fell against the settee. “‘Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father—’”

  “Acting is out of the question,” Lucy interrupted. “It’s an immoral profession.”

  Heavens, Maria thought in amusement, that’s just the sort of disapproving thing Phillip would say. And on the heels of that thought, a sense of aggravation. Couldn’t she put that man out of her mind for one afternoon? She forced herself back to the conversation at hand.

  “I know being an actress isn’t really possible,” Daisy was saying. “But it would be such an exciting profession. Like Sarah Bernhardt, you know. Remember, ladies, when we all went to see her at Covent Garden a few years ago in Pauline Blanchard? She was divine.”

  “What about writing plays?” Prudence suggested. “Then Daisy could satisfy both her literary and her histrionic talents.”

  “But that would still bring her in contact with quite the wrong sort of people,” Mrs. Morris said.

  “Actors,” added Mrs. Inkberry darkly, with a warning glance at the redhead on the settee.

  “And everyone knows actors are notorious,” Miranda said. “Why, our dear Daisy might receive an illicit proposal!”

  “Do you think so?” Daisy cried. “Oh, how exiting that would be. I should love to receive an illicit proposal!”

  “I received
a proposal,” Maria blurted out, then immediately grimaced. Damn it, she was trying to forget about him. Telling her friends about his proposal would hardly help her in that regard.

  Exclamations of surprise followed her news, for proposals, illicit or honorable, always engendered a great deal of excitement in Little Russell Street. A series of questions and comments began bombarding Maria from all sides.

  “Who is he? Is he handsome?” Miranda wanted to know. “Does he have a horrible reputation?”

  “Was it a very wicked offer? Did he offer you a house? Jewels? A carriage?”

  “Daisy!” Lucy’s shocked reproof followed her sister’s eager and wholly inappropriate questions.

  “Maria, dear,” Mrs. Morris said, “we had no idea you had any…um…followers of that sort. I hope…no, I am certain,” she corrected herself at once, “you sent the despicable fellow off with a flea in his ear.”

  Maria blushed as she realized what they were all thinking. “Oh, but it wasn’t—”

  “Of course she sent him off, Abigail,” Mrs. Inkberry said, overriding Maria’s attempt at clarification. “Our Maria is a most respectable young woman.” She leaned closer to Maria and patted her knee. “You poor dear, to be subjected to such evils. But one can hardly be surprised, I fear,” she went on and settled back in her chair. “We know what men can be, and our Maria is an unmarried woman in trade. These things happen.”

  “It’s foul!” Prudence cried. “Foul for a man to assume that because an unmarried woman is in trade she must be a woman of easy virtue.” She looked at Maria in dismay. “Oh, I knew I should have insisted upon giving you a dowry instead of a loan. Emma and I could have introduced you into society. As pretty as you are, you’d have received dozens of honorable offers by now. But it’s not too late, is it?” She set aside her cup with a clatter and turned to Emma. “What is your opinion?”

  “We could introduce Maria into society, of course,” Emma answered. “Her dowry would have to be quite substantial, for she has no connections, and as you said, she has been engaged in trade, but—”