A Reluctant Courtship

by Laurie Alice Eakes

  In that moment, with the chill still on the dower house and the creaks and snaps of a settling building in the chill of the night, she wished for the conflict with America to end. Perhaps on the other side of the ocean she could make a new start.

  But the war was not over. She must manage her life right there in Devonshire. She would begin with finding out who had been using the dower house while it stood empty, and why. It would help her family, especially since the purpose was surely lawless, considering the half a French button having been in the book room.

  So someone on the estate had to have been a part of the wrongdoings in the building. Only someone with access to the grounds had access to the dower house. That left no more than three or four dozen people to consider. And they might even be gone, having given a key to the gate to someone else.

  “Every lawless element in Devonshire,” she grumbled. “Not difficult at all to sort out.”

  “Sarcasm is unbecoming of a lady, Miss Bainbridge.” Miss Morrow sounded prim, but her lips twitched.

  Honore laughed. “Not at all becoming, but far too true.”

  “Let us go to our beds. I believe I hear someone coming. Perhaps they are bringing our personal effects.” Miss Morrow rose and went to the door.

  Mavis entered with a box containing nightclothes and other personal items. “I’m to stay here and do up the fires and the like in the morning.”

  “What about tea or coffee in the morning?” Honore asked.

  “I can do that too, miss, so long as there’s coal enough for the stove.”

  “I hope so. I ordered it.” She headed for the cellar steps. “If not, we shall go to the main house and get enough for fires in the morning. I do not intend any of us to freeze and have to wash with cold water.”

  She yanked open the narrow door. The blackness below seemed to swallow her candle flame while breathing forth the stench of mildew and the sour reek of a long-ago spilled cask of wine. For a moment, she hesitated, one foot on the first tread, the other still in the back passageway. Descending into that cellar looked too much like her future if she did not make something change, if she did not accomplish a feat that would wipe clean her slate of sins.

  Shivering, she stepped back onto the ground floor of the house and closed and locked the cellar door. She had descended into a place named for the netherworld once and nearly lost her life. In no way did she intend to descend into a cellar alone at night when someone had been using the house for illicit purposes.

  She turned, sending smoke and candle flame streaming in an arc around her. “I will look in on the coal in the morning. Tonight we shall ascend to our beds.”

  Miss Honore Bainbridge wasn’t in church Sunday morning. Three strangers occupied the Bainbridge pew—strangers to Meric. He studied them from beneath half-lowered lids. A young man whose fine features, honey-colored hair, and sky-blue eyes marked him as Miss Bainbridge’s brother perched between a plain-faced girl with hair the color of spring wheat and eyes an uncertain shade, and an older, prettier version of the young lady. The fiancée and her mother, most likely.

  “What’s the protocol here?” he murmured to Chilcott after the service. “Do I approach him or does he approach me?”

  “Neither,” Chilcott explained. “You are called peers for a reason.”

  “So not approaching him is snubbing him?”

  “It could be construed as such; however, if you do not wish to speak to him, I think his current preoccupation can excuse you without causing too much difficulty.” Chilcott inclined his head. “The earl of Ashmoor, being the newcomer to the neighborhood, can be expected to think he must wait for the older peerage to approach him first.”

  “Older? Oh, because the barony has been around for several hundred years, and my title is relatively recent.”

  “Exactly. A hundred and fifty-two years, to be exact.” Chilcott nodded like a tutor to a particularly bright student. “You can wait for him here. He will see you and come over quite quickly unless he wishes to cut you.”

  “I do wish to speak with him, but not here.”

  “Then do not look at him without catching his eye, or it may be construed as the cut direct. You may nod to him and move on.”

  Meric did so, then headed down the aisle. Rather hoping he could escape the churchyard altogether before Bainbridge finished talking with the vicar and a handful of parishioners surrounding him and his guests, Meric exited the church to rather watery sunshine, a biting wind off the harbor, and two young ladies who tried to make up for the cold day with the warmth of their smiles and greeting.

  “Good day, Lord Ashmoor,” Carolina Devenish and Penelope Babbage chorused.

  He bowed but said nothing. After the way they had behaved Friday night, they could make the first step toward apology.

  And what about the way you behaved? his conscience prompted him.

  He winced, as he had been for a day and a half of restlessness, guilt, and the sense that someone was using a dull spoon to hollow out his chest.

  What had possessed him to kiss Miss Honore Bainbridge and then compound the error by saying he loved her? He didn’t. He couldn’t. He had been raised with better manners than to treat a lady like that.

  Those manners Mother had drilled into him prompted him to speak. “I trust you ladies are well.”

  “Well enough.” Miss Devenish’s lower lip quivered. “I will do much better if I know you will forgive me for my disgraceful behavior the other night.”

  “It’s quite forgotten.”

  Which is a lie, his conscience jabbed at him.

  Miss Babbage sighed. “If only we could believe that. Such a scold we got when we returned home.” She tapped his arm with her fan. “But you can show us all is forgotten if you come to my house for dinner. Just a small affair with the Devenishes, of course, this being Sunday in the country, but we would so appreciate your presence.”

  “I don’t know right off, ma’am. May I send around a message?”

  Both young ladies’ faces fell. Miss Devenish positively pouted, not nearly as prettily as did Miss Bainbridge. But then, few females could look as pretty as Miss Bainbridge.

  “Yes, of course,” Miss Babbage said. “But not in too long a time. We keep country hours.”

  “And must be on our way.” Miss Devenish dropped a curtsy and spun away, her lips pursed.

  Miss Babbage did the same, her lips curved into a satisfied smile.

  Lord Beau Bainbridge replaced the ladies before him with a slight bow and no female companions. “Good day, Ashmoor. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

  “Thank you.” Meric looked down on the younger man from more than a head’s advantage. “I trust you had an uneventful journey here. And where is your sister this morning?” The question burst from him unbidden, the most important thing he had said all day.

  Bainbridge started. “Honore? I cannot have my sister coming to church with my fiancée and her mother. She is not . . .”

  “Fit for the Lord’s house?”

  Chilcott’s touch on the back of his shoulder alerted Meric to how he had fisted his hands against his thighs. He uncurled his fingers and sought for a more congenial tone. “I would like to call on you later, Bainbridge, at your convenience.”

  “Anytime in the afternoon is acceptable.” Bainbridge also grew more affable. “Unless you wish to join me on my morning rides?”

  “No, thank you. I shall call in the afternoon.”

  “So long as it is me on whom you call and not my sister. She has enough trouble without . . .” Bainbridge trailed off, perhaps realizing that what he had been about to say could get him slapped across the face and invited to meet Meric, were he so inclined.

  If ever a practice was stupid, it was dueling, but Bainbridge didn’t know that about him.

  Meric pretended he hadn’t noticed the near insult and bowed. “I will be calling at some time. Your father was a great friend to me.” He strode out of the churchyard and along the lane to the main street, C
hilcott trailing in his wake.

  “Do you plan on going to the Babbages’ today?” the steward asked.

  “No. I’m not.”

  “Bainbridge, then?”

  Oh yes, he intended to go to Bainbridge, but not to call on the baron, who hadn’t allowed his sister to come to church with him. Isolating her from worship with the congregation was beyond acceptable behavior, and he would not himself continue to join the likes of the baron in hypocrisy.

  20

  Honore stared at the pages of her Bible. She had just turned all the pages in the book of James, but she doubted she had actually read anything. She certainly recalled nothing of the words, at least not from this reading, though her eyes ached as though she had read the entire New Testament in one sitting.

  Beau had not allowed her to go to church. No, that was not quite right. He had informed her that the carriages would not be available. She could have walked the five miles into Clovelly. But then she could not have joined them in the family pew.

  “Why is he being so awful?” Honore covered her face with her hands. Her Bible slid off her lap and onto the floor with a thud. “He did not seem to mind my escapades with Frobisher last year.”

  But that was before Major Crawford came on the scene and nearly killed Cassandra. Not that Honore had helped Crawford’s murderous attempts. All she had known of the man was that he was a guest in the same home as she and was devastatingly handsome.

  As Frobisher had been.

  Not like Ashmoor. Oh, he was beautiful in his inelegant brawn, but his hair was dark, and his eyes . . . too compelling to be anything but disturbing.

  But none of this had anything to do with how Beau had begun to treat her as though she had taken to the streets to earn her pin money.

  “Why, Miss Morrow?” she demanded of her companion.

  Miss Morrow looked up from the little book she was writing in. “I wish I knew, Miss Bainbridge. It seems a bit too much. If Miss Dunbar were of the middle class and bore a large dowry your brother needed, I might understand. The middle classes are terribly high in the instep and concerned about their reputations, especially when buying their way into the nobility.” She sounded bitter.

  “You seem to disapprove of the practice.”

  “It is acceptable if the parties are amenable.” Despite her words, her lips had formed a thin line.

  Curiosity aroused, Honore leaned forward. “Miss Morrow, did this come out badly for someone you know?”

  “You might say that.” She bent her head over her book but did not dip the pen in the ink to resume writing.

  Honore waited in the silence broken by a gust of wind battering the side of the house and rattling loose windowpanes. A cold draft defied the heat of the fire and swirled around her ankles. She shivered.

  A dozen feet away, Miss Morrow tucked her gray skirts more tightly around her legs and sighed. “I was betrothed when I was nineteen. I had a bit of a dowry then. Not much at all, but it was acceptable. And the gentleman had a title. I thought he loved me. But apparently he had a bit of a gaming habit.” She delivered the story without expression on her face or in her voice. “And when he lost nearly everything at the tables, he found a rich city merchant’s daughter to wed him in exchange for his title.”

  “I would say you came out the fortunate one,” Honore said.

  “I would tend to agree, except life with a gamester is preferable to life as a spinster.”

  “Reduced to earning your bread being companion to the likes of me.”

  “Oh no, Miss Bainbridge, you are the kindest of employers. I count myself blessed for being able to stay with you in your exile.”

  “Like all those people who were imprisoned with Mary, Queen of Scots?”

  Miss Morrow laughed. “Something of the kind.” She sobered. “But you are delightful company and not at all demanding and—well, I have two suitors here, where before I haven’t had one since I was jilted for a cit ten years ago.”

  “Perhaps I should look for a city merchant for a suitor,” Honore mused. “Except they are probably as much high sticklers as is Ashmoor.” She could not stop the break in her voice when saying his name.

  “Is he a stickler or simply protecting his family?” Miss Morrow’s soft eyes held speculation. “I would think a high stickler would not kiss you in the moonlight.”

  “Yes, he is protecting his family and himself. I cannot fault him for that.”

  Nor for kissing her. She had done nothing to stop him.

  She picked up her Bible and carried it to a shelf in the book room. “But I can blame my brother for his treatment. Surely my sisters would not approve of him marrying a female who would treat me so.”

  Yet had her sisters not treated her so? Were their imminent confinements mere excuses to be rid of their troublesome younger sister?

  “But if I want Ashmoor to be free to court me,” she said with haste, “I will have to clear his name for him.”

  “How will you do that?” Miss Morrow was gripping her pen so hard the quill bowed between her fingers.

  “Begin with this room and search the rest of the house. Someone was using it secretly, which means for no good pur—”

  The door knocker sounded.

  Honore headed toward the door. “Who could that be?”

  “Sit down and let Mavis get it.” Miss Morrow stretched out a hand as though she could draw Honore to a seat.

  “But perhaps it is news from my sisters or my brother or—”

  “A courier would not arrive on Sunday, and neither would the mail. As for your brother . . .” Miss Morrow grimaced.

  “No, no, I suppose it would not be him.” Unable to force her legs to carry her to sit primly in a chair, Honore fairly bounded across the room to the window. It looked out on one of the walls that surrounded three sides of the dower house and its garden. The faded sun of the morning was rapidly disappearing behind cloud banks that promised rain within the hour. She would get no walk today. Once their caller departed, she would begin her search of the house, Sabbath or not. It was not work if she was helping a fellow man. She could no longer sit still with her future growing as bleak as the day.

  Behind her, Mavis scratched on the door. Honore braced herself for her brother’s arrival, for more condemnations and restrictions on her movements.

  “Come in.” Weariness with the whole matter lent an edge of annoyance to her tone.

  The door opened. “His lordship, miss,” Mavis fairly squeaked.

  “What do you want?” Honore snapped.

  The door closed with a gentle but decisive click. “I suppose I deserve that,” Lord Ashmoor said.

  “My lord.” Honore spun on the flat heel of her slipper, sending the flounce on the bottom of her gown swirling out in a cloud of creamy muslin. “What—what are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come to call.” He closed the distance in two long strides and bowed. As he straightened, he met and held her gaze. “I . . . owe you an apology.”

  “Oh no. No, no, no, not that.” She would break down in tears if he went on about what a mistake the kiss had been. “I was as complicit as you.”

  “I took advantage of you, of the situation, and said and did things—”

  “Stop.” She clapped her hands to her ears.

  His lips kept moving, those lips that had moved on hers and nearly driven her to her knees with a longing that shredded her heart.

  Gently he drew her hands away from her ears and held them in his. His hands so broad and strong and tough, with calluses along the base of his fingers even after a year as a gentleman. Perhaps he still chopped wood.

  Or rowed a boat?

  She should pull away, command him to leave if he did not intend to pay court to her. If he stayed, she was uncertain of her power to resist his nearness. If she did not resist him, if he had changed his mind and said he did intend to court her in spite of everything, she knew he was not innocent of crimes against the Crown. That was simply how the men in her life fel
l, the ones she cared about and those who pretended to care about her.

  She yanked her hands free and tucked them beneath her elbows. “You have spoken your apology.” She made her voice drip with icicles. “You may go now.”

  “Miss Bainbridge,” Miss Morrow admonished.

  Ashmoor grinned. “I think your eyes are even bluer when you’re angry.”

  Her palm itched. If she could have stepped back, she would have. Never in her life had she wanted to slap anyone—except perhaps her brother Friday night. It was not an impulse she was proud of.

  She made herself speak with exaggerated calm. “My lord, I have been a fool for pretty compliments in the past, but no more. My behavior has been above reproach for nearly a year except . . . except . . . Perhaps I am at fault. If so, I am sorry. Now leave.”

  “I cannot.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I need your help.”

  Why did he have to say that with his voice soft and his eyes softer?

  Honore’s arms dropped to her sides. “How?”

  “This house. This room.” He stepped back at last and swept an arm out. “There’s something key here.”

  “Of course there is. I will look and keep you informed if I find it.” She managed to step around him and place half a room’s worth of distance between them. “Now you may go court your respectable young lady.”

  “I realized I can’t court any lady until I have a completely clear name, and that means my father’s name too.”

  “No one?” She staggered against a table, sending a precarious pile of books sliding to the floor with a series of thuds like heavy footfalls. She stooped to pick up the books.

  Ashmoor stooped to pick up the books.

  Their heads collided. They rocked back on their heels, hands to the tops of their skulls. Their eyes met and they started to laugh.

  “You two.” Laughing too, Miss Morrow rose from the desk and crossed the room. “Do you need help up, or perhaps a physician?”