He drew a deep breath. “Lucy, this is—”
“And my name is not Lucy!” She glared. “I have told you that over and over again. I do realize you think it’s a sign of affection to call me by an abbreviated version of my own name but I do not like it. It’s Lucille, not Lucy. Lucy is the name for a scullery maid. Or a spaniel!”
“My apologies,” he said slowly. “I didn’t realize it was that important.”
“Neither did I. In truth, I found it rather sweet the first time you called me Lucy. And perhaps the second. But by the third . . .” She huffed and tucked a strand of hair that had had the temerity to escape, under her hat. “It’s silly perhaps, I do realize that, but honestly, Winfield, it drives me quite mad. And it’s only one of many things I have noticed since our arrival.”
“Do tell, Lucy.” He crossed his arms over his chest and glared. “Where else have I fallen short this week?”
“Well . . .” She stared at him for a long moment, then drew a deep breath. “You’re entirely too witty for me. There, I’ve said it. I know it sounds odd, but it’s true.” She shook her head. “Sometimes you say things that you, and other people, think are most amusing and I just think they’re silly.”
“I gather your late husband was not especially witty.”
“Absolutely not. Charles was never amusing.” Indignation sounded in her voice. “Charles was serious and somber, steadfast and stalwart. He was concise and intelligent. He was eminently proper and had never been touched by so much as a breath of scandal—”
“He sounds fascinating,” Win said under his breath.
She ignored him. “Charles had no need for reformation as he did not have a past to live down.”
“And I do.”
“You say you have reformed and I have no reason to believe otherwise, although . . .”
He raised a brow. “Go on?”
“Well, one does have to wonder, given all the other flaws in your character, if your reformation is truly permanent.”
“Good Lord, Lucy—Lucille!” He stared. “Just because a man doesn’t always wear a coat in the privacy of his own home or is more witty than you think proper doesn’t mean he will take up with every tart that passes by.”
“No, I suppose not,” she said without so much as an iota of conviction. Her firm gaze met his. “I did think you and I were perfectly suited, but it is now obvious to me that I was mistaken.”
As much as he did so hate to lose another fiancée, she was right. All things considered, it was for the best that she had reached this conclusion, even if he had begun to realize much the same thing himself.
“Very well then.” He studied her for a moment. “I am curious though, given that I have these numerous flaws that have driven you mad, what was the final straw?”
“You mean aside from dragging me out to the middle of an insect-infested nowhere to see a crumbling ruin?”
“It’s scarcely crumbling, but yes.”
“It was the story, I suppose.” She heaved a long-suffering sigh. “That endless story. You fancy yourself a fine storyteller, indeed you have a great deal of dramatic enthusiasm, but I find your stories only passably interesting.”
“It was a great story,” he muttered.
“As you droned on and on I simply realized I could not spend the rest of my life listening to you tell stories.” She shook her head. “And I realized as well, while I do have a great deal of affection for you, should I be told your ship had been lost at sea, I would certainly mourn the appropriate amount of time, but I would go on. Without any problem at all, really.”
“I see.”
“We have never discussed love between us and I am under no illusion on that score. Indeed, we share a certain affection and I thought a certain sensibility as well, but it’s really not enough to overcome the differences between us.” She thought for a moment. “It does seem to me that when one is madly in love one forgives all those little flaws—”
“Like being overly amusing.”
“I didn’t say you were overly amusing; I said that you think you’re amusing. It’s not at all the same.”
“My mistake.”
“As I was saying, if we were head over heels for one another, those qualities that I find so annoying wouldn’t bother me at all. I might well find them endearing.”
He smiled in a wry manner. “I would hate to spend the rest of my life annoying you.”
“I don’t doubt that I might possibly annoy you in return.”
He shrugged.
“Winfield, I agreed to marry you because I thought you were an excellent, indeed a sensible, match. I thought you were a man I could spend the rest of my days with. Now I see I was wrong.” She laid her hand on his arm and stared into his eyes. “Isn’t it better that we face this now rather than after we married?”
“You do have a point.” He sighed. He was not at all pleased about cancelling another wedding. At least this one was small. Still, she was right. Better to part now than spend the rest of their days annoying one another. “Shall we be friends then?”
“Good Lord no!” She snatched her hand away from his arm as if he were on fire. “Acquaintances perhaps, but nothing more than that.”
He stifled a grin. “Lucille, in many ways you are a delight. I believe I shall miss you.”
“There is a possibility I shall miss you as well.” She moved to her horse and waited for him to assist her. He helped her on to the saddle and stepped back. She gazed down at him, a slow smile creasing her lovely lips. “But every time I hear an endless story told by someone who thinks he is most amusing I shall certainly think of you.”
Win laughed.
“I will admit it was a most romantic story. Even the ridiculous part about the ghosts.” She raised a shoulder in a casual shrug. “Perhaps when you next consider asking a woman to marry you, you should tell her the story and show her your folly first.”
“Perhaps I shall.”
And perhaps, the next time he headed toward the altar, he would choose a lady who was interested in more than his title and his fortune. And a woman who enjoyed the more amusing and frivolous aspects of his nature. Perhaps he should make a list of those items as well, lest he forget.
And then perhaps the next time he headed toward the altar, he might actually make it.
October 1881
Dear Gray,
Once again I take pen in hand to inform you that yet another wedding of mine has not taken place. This time, however, I write with an abiding sense of relief and the firm conviction that I have escaped a fate far worse than death.
Lady Eustice decided we did not suit after all, a conclusion, I confess, I was reluctantly coming to myself. A conclusion, I suspect as well, Father had already come to, although, in his infinite wisdom, he refrained from interfering in my decision. For once, I rather wish he had.
I do so hate making mistakes of this sort, as I have done twice now. One would think, given the many mistakes I made in my younger days, I would be accustomed to making unwise decisions. So it is as surprising to me as it may well be to you that choosing the wrong bride yet again bothers me.
I have come to think of myself as being more than moderately intelligent and yet, in one of the biggest decisions I shall ever make, I have been in error twice now. One can only hope I have learned my lesson. Although I did think the lesson was Miss Whitingdon, and Lady Eustice was the result of what I had learned. Apparently not.
In some respects, I blame you for my misfortune. In a most superstitious manner, I have begun to think that fate, or some higher power, will not allow me to be wed if I have invited you to the wedding and you have failed to appear. Therefore, as I suspect your presence can never be assured, I shall simply not tell you of my impending nuptials in the future. You will receive an announcement of my wedding only after it is an accomplished fact.
And, yes, Gray, I will attempt this again. It is my duty after all to provide an heir and as you have failed to assure the continuan
ce of the family name, that too falls to me. The burdens of responsibility are great, but I do attempt to bear them without complaint. Do try not to laugh.
There is a beneficial side to all this. While dreadfully disappointed, Mother has already thrown herself into attempts to find a perfect bride for me. She has begun discussing the current offering of debutantes in a most casual manner, as if I will not notice what she is doing. She is never so happy as when she, and her friends, are attempting to make a match. Although, my latest failure at matrimonial bliss has oddly enough made her question her own judgment in this arena. She did believe Lady Eustice was a perfect match for me.
Father now claims he never liked her....
Part Three: Carolline
Sir Williamand Lady Hibbit
request the honor of your presence
at the marriage of their daughter
Miss Caroline Gwendolyn Hibbitt
to
The Right Honorable
The Viscount Stillwell
on Wednesday, May twento-first
eighteen hundred and eigthy-four
at half-past ten o’clock
Chapter 5
April 1884
My dear Gray,
Is there a more optimistic time of year than spring? I think not. Why, the very air itself is imbued with the promise of better days ahead. Days of warmth and light and frolic. Do not scoff at the poetic nature of my words, Gray, as I am certain is your inclination. Perhaps you have forgotten, but I can be quite lyrical when the appropriate mood strikes. Regardless, my humble words can only approach the delight of this season of new beginnings.
Would that the glory of budding primroses and blooming violets work their magic and lure you home. While there is no lack of pride in your accomplishments, it has been nearly nine years since you have last set foot on England’s shores. Your family and friends agree that is entirely too long. Do consider returning, if only for a short time. Mother fears she will no longer recognize you or worse, with the passage of time, you will not recognize her.
Until then, I should acquaint you with some of the more interesting bits of news that I have happened upon of late. You may recall, my first engagement came to an end when Miss Whitingdon decided she preferred marriage to Mr. Hedges-Smythe over marriage to me. As Mr. Hedges-Smythe was the sole heir to the elderly Duke of Monmount, Miss Whitingdon looked forward to one day becoming the Duchess of Monmount. What is it they say about even the best laid plans?
Forgive me, Gray, if I seem decidedly snide or smug or even wicked in the telling of this tale, but I cannot seem to help myself. Indeed, since I heard the news I have had the most disgraceful tendency to grin like a lunatic. Last year, much to everyone’s surprise, the duke wed a lady some forty years younger than himself. A few weeks ago, the duchess gave birth to twin boys, thus ending Mrs. Hedges-Smythe’s ambitions.
I suspect you too are now grinning like a lunatic....
Win strode down the walkway on the west side of the broad stretch of lawn that ran the length of the Fairborough Hall formal gardens. The breeze whispered through the twelve-foot-tall beech hedges that effectively boxed in outdoor rooms on either side of the lawn.
There were six such rooms, each concealing a different purpose or landscape. One sheltered the rose garden; a large fountain and pool filled another; two more were devoted to tennis and croquet courts respectively; and the remainders were dedicated to whimsical, some might say confusing, gardens with a profusion of blossoming plants, arbors, statuary and whatever else struck his mother’s fancy in any given season. She had long ago surrendered the planning and design of the rose garden to the gardener, but these two areas she retained to rule over and do with as she pleased.
The center lawn was bounded and crossed at right angles by crushed stone walkways. As a child, Win had always thought it was a pity that those long past designers of Fairborough’s gardens had decided to train hedging for rooms rather than mazes like those at Millworth Manor. Although at the moment, Win was grateful that he was trying to find his fiancée in easily navigated boxes rather than a puzzle of a maze.
Caroline’s maid said she had gone for a walk in the gardens but had no idea which one. As the day was so delightful, Win thought he would join her. He had checked the first two rooms on this side of the lawn and was headed toward the third. The spring in his step matched the lightheartedness of his mood. He was about to be married to the woman who was surely his perfect match. This time, he had nothing to worry about. Not that he had worried before, an annoying voice in the back of his head noted. He ignored it.
Winfield Elliott was not the sort of man given to introspection. He was not prone to melancholy, brooding or the writing of dark poetry late in the night. Nor was he the type given to searching his soul even if, on occasion, his conscience might bear further examination. No, on the contrary, he considered himself quite a jovial, friendly sort. He hid no deep secrets, no skeletons in his closet as it were. Indeed, he was very much an open book sort of person.
Life, he firmly believed, was a pleasant adventure.
Certainly, in his younger days he had often come perilously close to full-fledged scandal, but in nearly every instance he had escaped relatively unscathed. And because he had far more intelligence than most usually credited him with, he had learned a lesson from every misadventure. He had never known real tragedy or true heartbreak. But with Caroline, while he knew he wasn’t truly in love with her, he suspected he was very, very close to it. He suspected as well that he had resisted giving her his heart as something of a precaution. After all, he had already experienced two failed engagements.
There was nothing about Miss Caroline Hibbitt not to love. She was much younger than he, which struck him as beneficial, as his previous fiancées had been close to his own age. She was lovely, of course, with hair a shade of red so pale it seemed more like gold, creamy flawless complexion and eyes the color of summer skies that sparkled when she laughed. And she laughed a great deal, finding amusement in much the same things he did. She was clever and funny and at ease with her place in the world. She was not overly outspoken, but she was not especially quiet as well. Win considered himself fortunate to have found her. Caroline was surely his destiny. The woman he had been waiting for, even if he hadn’t known it, and well worth waiting for. This was a woman he could gladly spend the rest of his days with. A woman he could—he would—easily love. And in a scant four days, she would be his wife.
The faint murmur of voices sounded on the breeze, apparently coming from the last garden room on this side of the lawn, the one sheltering the croquet court. It appeared someone had already joined Caroline in the gardens.
The rooms did not open directly onto the lawn. Indeed, from the lawn one would have no idea of the hidden gardens behind the hedges. One had to follow the walkways between the hedges to find the arched openings on the north and south sides of each separate room.
Win turned and approached the opening. In spite of continued trimming, the hedges had grown thicker through the years and were now nearly ten feet in width. He started through the archway. That was indeed Caroline’s voice. He didn’t recognize the second voice, but it was definitely male.
“What are you doing here?” Caroline’s voice rose. Win slowed. What on earth was going on? “You shouldn’t be here.”
“You can’t marry him, Caro.”
Win stopped short. Caro? That was rather affectionate. Who was this man?
“Oh, but I can,” Caroline said firmly. “And I fully intend to.”
The right thing to do at this point would be to make his presence known. But right would not answer the questions that immediately came to mind. Win stepped back, moved to one side, found a small break in the leaves and bent to peer through the hedge.
“But you don’t love him.” The young man addressing Caroline appeared to be perhaps a year or two older than she. He was smartly dressed and entirely too handsome to suit Win.
“I am, however, extreme
ly fond of him.”
Excellent. Win was extremely fond of her as well. Why, he was practically in love with her.
“I know any number of couples who have married with far less affection between them,” Caroline said.
The young man gazed at her with an intensity Win could almost feel. “But you love me.”
For a long moment she didn’t say a word. Win held his breath. At last she heaved a resigned sigh. Her voice was so soft Win could barely hear it.
“Yes, well, I always have.”
“I knew it.” The young man pulled her into his arms. “Then you can’t marry him.”
“Stop that, Lawrence.” She pushed out of his arms. “I can’t not marry him. I have given my word after all, as has my father. Besides, Lord Stillwell is a very nice man—”
Win bit back a groan. Didn’t all men hope their fiancée considered them very nice?
“And quite dashing as well,” she added.
Much better.
“I suppose,” Lawrence said. “For an old man.”
Old? Win’s brow rose. Why, he had just passed his thirtieth birthday. One could scarcely consider that old.
“I would not call him old,” Caroline said staunchly. That was something at any rate. “Older perhaps but not old.”
“He’s ten years older than you.”
“Which is insignificant.” She shrugged. “There’s a greater difference in age between my parents and between yours as well.”
“I know.” Lawrence blew a long breath. “I am simply trying to think of reasons why you shouldn’t marry him. Although. . .” He paused and considered her. “One would think the fact that you love me would be reason enough.”
She shook her head. “It’s not that simple. Indeed, it’s all rather complicated.”
What did she mean by complicated?
The Importance of Being Wicked (Millworth Manor) Page 36
