Defying the Earl

by Anabelle Bryant

  At times a spark of despair for what her sister and she would never experience, the glittering ballrooms and opulent gowns, dared to woo her, but she swept it away with the same forceful purpose as one attended a flyaway ember from the fireplace, extinguished and forgotten. Her life was not designed for wishes and fanciful thoughts. Duty and responsibility were more important.

  “Whimsy.”

  Her aunt’s sudden beckon voicing her childhood name banished any remnants of sadness and Wilhelmina rose to greet the elderly woman at the sitting room door, happy for the diversion from her maudlin reflection.

  “Good morning, Aunt Kate. Let me help you with the tea tray. Whysoever are you carrying it instead of the housekeeper?” Wilhelmina spoke in a loud clear voice to compensate for her aunt’s hearing difficulties, a natural progression of advanced age. She strode forward, arms outstretched and ready to assist with the silver, but her feisty aunt outmaneuvered with finesse.

  “Do not fuss over me, dear. I’m fine.” Aunt Kate placed the tea tray on the buffet table before she continued. “Rose’s arthritis was bothersome this morning, so I went upstairs to Livie’s room for a dab of medicinal ointment. Then I insisted on carrying the tea caddy so Rose might apply the cream and rest while her joint pain subsides.” Her aunt paused and carefully filled two cups with tea before adding a spoonful of sugar to each. “While abovestairs, Livie asked if I might fetch you. She had trouble sleeping last night.” A concerned tsking followed the admission. “If only the doctor could ascertain how to permanently relieve the painful cramping in her legs.” Worry creased Aunt Kate’s brow before she raised troubled eyes. “Your sister is tired and hopes the sound of your voice reading one of those lengthy poems you favor will lull her into a peaceful nap.”

  “Of course.” Wilhelmina smiled with delight. “And do not worry about her condition. Livie’s health has improved so much of late.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed as well. The therapy is worth every penny if it restores her strength and mobility. Her legs are becoming more reliable with each passing day and I believe the kneading of her muscles and the nurse’s insistence that she walk the room as exercise is the remedy. Thank heavens.”

  Wilhelmina’s heart pumped a heavy beat. Without her aunt’s unfailing support, who knew what would have become of them? But how would she ever repay her aunt’s generosity and concern? Of late she’d considered ideas to generate income independently, but hadn’t any luck. As a lady, opportunities were limited and if she were to accept funds and the arrangement became revealed, she would shame her aunt more than benefit her obligation. Aunt Kate had shown only kindness and consideration, and as their only blood relation, Wilhelmina was very fond of the endearing woman, as was her sister. She could never bring embarrassment and scandal to her aunt’s doorstep.

  The clink of china revived her attention and Wilhelmina replaced concern with relief. “I would be delighted to read Livie to sleep.” She turned to the bookshelf at her back and with the flick of her wrist tipped a volume into her palm. “Shall I share Byron, Blake, or Shelley?”

  “That sounds like a poem in itself, although I’m sure anything you choose will suit. Livie and I wouldn’t know the difference between the three. We trust your decision.” Aunt Kate nodded with candid assurance.

  “Perhaps I will teach her to recognize the subtle nuances between the poets’ styles.” Wilhelmina struggled to keep laughter from her voice.

  “Then I’m sure she’ll find a restorative nap soon after.”

  Warmed by her aunt’s teasing, Wilhelmina turned to the hallway and began the stairs leading to the second floor intent on seeing her sister well rested. She could never confess she’d memorized most of the poems before she’d sold her father’s book collection in an attempt to add to their meager savings. Sometimes she’d hold an open volume in her hands and turn the pages as she recited the poems of a different poet, giving the appearance of reading directly from the book even though it was the works of another. Livie never questioned why the book cover always looked the same and for that, Wilhelmina was thankful. She already carried the guilty knowledge many of her father’s volumes went to sale with pages torn loose, the same now glued firmly into her keepsake book downstairs.

  She knocked on Livie’s bedchamber door and entered without pause. Her sister sat upright in bed, her hair tied with a bright yellow ribbon, her spectacles perched on the bridge of her nose. Everything was as usual, the bright white of her night rail a stark echo of Livie’s complexion and a constant reminder her sister rarely ventured outside.

  “You should be resting.” Wilhelmina’s admonishing tone was ruined by her grin. “I’m sorry you were unable to sleep. Did the cramping hurt terribly?” When she reached the bedside, she resisted the urge to stroke her sister’s blanket-encased legs. Livie had made significant progress the last few weeks and it was distressing to hear she’d suffered through the night. What if they’d reached a barrier in the treatment and the daily massages would no longer relieve Livie’s pain? What if their greatest fear, that the atrophy would become permanent, proved a reality? How would anyone prevent the vicious leg spasms that began directly after the carriage accident and tortured Livie each night until the recent treatments? They’d consulted every reputable doctor in London to no avail until they’d discovered the massage technique practiced by Dr. Morris and his nurse. Wilhelmina’s chest grew tight at the threat of Livie’s painful episodes returning. She’d reassured Aunt Kate downstairs, but in truth, the same fear lurked in her heart.

  “What is it?” Livie’s soft voice drew her immediate attention. “Why do you look so sad all of a sudden?”

  Her mind reeled for a suitable answer; anything to reassure Livie and sustain the pretense she harbored no worry, yet lying was a skill she’d never perfected. One glance in her direction and Livie would know whatever she said was untrue. Wilhelmina dropped her eyes to the poetry book clenched so tightly in her hands her knuckles faded white. “Nothing. Now should we get started?”

  “Not yet.” Livie clasped her arm. “I’m worried about my treatments.”

  Sister kinship. Only a year separated them and they knew each other’s thoughts, emotions and ambitions without effort. “You needn’t worry. I’m sure last night was a minor setback. I believe your condition is temporary and your strength will return.” It was difficult for Wilhelmina to say more when her own concern dared surface.

  “No, not that.” Livie released a thorough breath. “These treatments are expensive and the cost of a full-time nurse and the various liniments must be devastating to Aunt Kate’s bank account. I overheard the doctor speaking to her about payment.” She splayed a hand toward the bedside table where bottles, lotions, and ointments littered the glass.

  “Are you sure you heard correctly? Was the doctor complaining?”

  “Oh, I am sure of the conversation. Dr. Morris needed to repeat it twice so Aunt could hear him clearly. I assume they thought I was asleep even though they’d moved to the hallway.” Livie sighed, her hands wringing the blanket in her lap. “How will Aunt Kate afford my continued care? What if these costly treatments are so financially straining it creates hardship? I couldn’t live with myself if Aunt Kate compromised her lifestyle to accommodate my disability.” Livie’s voice trailed off as she continued. “The chair is not so awful.”

  “What are you saying?” Wilhelmina’s eyes settled on the wheelchair abandoned near the window and she shook her head as if to refuse the notion, her heart aching at the thought.

  “I’m worried I will bankrupt Aunt Kate, when in fact she has been our saving grace. I could never live with myself if that occurred.” Livie’s voice dropped to a whisper and desperation tinged the words. “Oh Whimsy, what are we to do?”

  “Sisters think alike.” Wilhelmina settled on the corner of the bed and in consternation ran a finger along the coverlet’s lace edging. “I’ve had the very same thought for a fortnight, but for the life of me I can’t find a solution.” She set the
book of poems down and wove her fingers in her lap before unfolding them to smooth her skirts. “Don’t worry. It’s going to be all right.”

  “Is it? We’ve sold everything we own that holds any value, the house, the land, Father’s books. I know we’ve discussed this before, but maybe we should sell Mother’s charm bracelet.”

  Wilhelmina’s attention shot to her sister. “What? No. I could never part with it. I’m sorry.” She searched the room for a distraction. Anywhere to rest her eyes besides her sister’s entreating face. “Mother believed it to be special and wore it always. It’s all we have of her now.” She fought against the lump of emotion in her throat. Why did everything have to be so difficult? “I could never sell it.”

  “I shouldn’t have made the suggestion. I’m sorry. It was a poor idea and a temporary one at best. The bracelet holds fond memories for me as well. I remember as a child counting the five charms as each dangled from the delicate chain on Mother’s wrist. I’m just at a loss for a solution to the dire situation we face.” She dropped her gaze to the coverlet and picked at a small bit of thread. Silence consumed the room for several ticks of the long case clock near the door.

  “Well, there must be some way I can generate income to assist Aunt Kate and pay for your treatments. Remember the evening Father gifted Mother with the bracelet? It was during their surprise anniversary party. The evening was such a success, everyone declared me the most delightful hostess. It was a joyous gathering.” She managed a slight smile with the reminiscent memory. “Perhaps there is some way I can arrange events to fit society’s needs.”

  “Mother and Father’s party was a small country gathering. However would you keep an undertaking as grand as a ton social from Aunt Kate? She may not mix with the most elite dowagers but somehow despite her hearing impairment, she manages to acquire every word of gossip at her weekly tea; every courtship, betrothal, and wedding. She lives for news of the latest liaisons.”

  Wilhelmina rose and paced the length of the bed before she spun, the quick juxtaposition causing her muslin skirts to wrap around her ankles. “That gives me an idea. Back home, friends were forever asking my advice. What if I served as a matchmaker of sorts? I could obtain the most pertinent information about suitors and present it to a young lady wishing to marry. It would be a useful service, but also one the lady would want to keep secret, securing my anonymity.” She paused, but impatient ideas forced her words out in a flurry. “The exchange of funds would never need to be revealed to anyone beside the two of us, thus eliminating any real chance Aunt Kate would discover my involvement. Once I collected a tidy sum, I could pay Dr. Morris in advance for your treatments relieving the strain on Aunt Kate’s savings.” Her voice rang with determination and newfound enthusiasm as rigorous as her momentum.

  “The idea has worth, although to truly earn money you would need to advise the most affluent members of the ton. How would you manage it? We’ve barely left the house since we’ve arrived in London. Not to mention, whenever you get exceedingly nervous you become snippy and unreasonable. Some might label it argumentative.”

  Wilhelmina threw Livie an exaggerated glare and then punctuated the action with a tolerant smile. “Stated with great diplomacy, dear sister. My nerves will need realignment and popularity does present a challenge, but not being well known will work to our benefit. This idea has merit. I distress at keeping anything from Aunt Kate after she’s shown only generosity and kindness, but if it means we’ll ultimately be able to pay the doctor, the end must justify the means.” She would strive to do anything in her power to help Livie and provide security for more treatments no matter how farfetched the idea or quickly formulated, it did hold promise. “Perhaps this plan can work.”

  “As long as you don’t bite anyone’s head off. I’m accustomed to your quick wit and know you merely mean to deflect your agitation, but men prefer docile women.” This time it was Livie who wore the smile. “Men want females who are obedient, agreeable, and ornamental.”

  “Spoken by someone who’s never been courted formally.”

  Livie’s eyes slid to the lap desk resting on a chair beside the bed. Her expression contradicted Wilhelmina’s words and a flash of curiosity lit anew.

  “Stuff and nonsense, Livie, what have you been reading while housebound? I can’t fathom where you gather your ideas. Aunt Kate hasn’t a single gothic novel in her home and I know as I’ve searched thoroughly. I can only suspect your friends are writing you with sordid romantic tales. A woman should never disguise her true self to please a gentleman, whether it be intellect, wit, or beauty. What is the value of a relationship built on falsity?”1

  “Of course, you are correct, Whimsy. I place my complete faith in you. It’s high time you’ve overcome your tendency to stay at home just because I’m confined to my bed. There is no reason both of us should suffer because my legs are disagreeable. You’re three and twenty and more than lovely. You should be dancing in ballrooms and flirting with handsome gentlemen.” One couldn’t ignore the wistful yearning in Livie’s final sentence.

  The realization caused Wilhelmina’s tentative determination to take root. True, she’d grown comfortable in a quiet existence despite they lived in the city. Their countryside childhood provided no real exposure to the ton and the thought of mingling with strangers, making clever conversation and securing relationships, presented a terrifying proposition. Her sister had always proved the light in the room. Wilhelmina enjoyed the comfortable security of shadow. Yet, she had to be strong, for Livie’s sake. “I fear you misunderstand. I have no intention of flirting with any gentlemen, and the only dancing I will do is for the cause.” She took a breath, settling into the idea and wondering if it truly could solve their financial woes.

  Her heart weighed heavy with the thought of experiencing society without her sister by her side, but their plan could ultimately bring about that end, launching Lavinia into a glamorous ballroom as a surefooted debutante. She took a long breath and focused on the purpose of their plan before matching eyes with Livie who leaned forward with eagerness awaiting her answer. “I don’t know if I share your unfailing confidence, but you’ll always have my loyalty.”

  “Excellent!” Livie reclined against the pillows propped near the headboard. “We are not so worse for the wear. If you polished up a bit, I’m sure you’d fit in with all the jewels boasting extensive wardrobes and silk slippers. You’ll need to purchase a new gown and assume a mysterious hauteur; then you’ll have clients in no time, whether it be anxious mothers or impatient daughters.”

  “You make it sound terribly simple and I hope you’re right, because I haven’t an alternate plan.” Wilhelmina glanced down to the skirts of her simple day gown, a pale shade of a former pattern with twice turned cuffs and hems. She mentally cataloged the serviceable gowns in her wardrobe, which took all of two minutes, and then settled at her sister’s elbow. She wrapped their hands together, palm to palm as if in prayer.

  Livie moved their hands to her chest, Wilhelmina’s charm bracelet jingling softly with the motion and Livie smiled, her blue eyes twinkling with delight. “You’ll succeed, Whimsy, I feel it in my heart.”

  Chapter Three

  Two weeks later

  Valerian St. David, disgruntled Earl of Dashwood, muttered under his breath for the umpteenth time, questioning his brother’s sanity and cursing the words used to agree to Jasper’s outlandish scheme. Ensconced in Lord Rigby’s study, trapped in a borrowed velvet waistcoat that strained the breadth of his shoulders and pinched the waist, he slid a finger beneath his too tightly tied cravat and wondered how much longer the marquess would keep him waiting. According to Jasper, the man was rabid to disentangle his son from a certain path of destruction, a betrothal to Lady Fiona, Lord Nobles’ eldest daughter.

  Having been out of society for a number of years and possessing not a shilling to shine on his sleeve, Dash didn’t care a fig for the complicated liaisons created by the ton. He sought relief from the debtors. He ne
eded funds. Period.

  He exhaled a deep breath of frustration and took survey of the dark-paneled room in which he waited with impatience. The study smelled of worn leather and old money. His eyes settled on a large glass case hanging on the adjacent wall where a display of brightly coloured butterflies, their wings tacked firmly to the felt backboard, epitomized his situation. He was trapped. Pinned. Owned.

  “Dashwood, there you are.”

  “Rigby.” Valerian swung his attention to the stout, ruddy-faced gentleman who rushed into the room and neatly closed the doors behind him. Of course, he was here. It was where the butler had advised him to wait.

  During the carriage ride Val had decided to allow Rigby the majority of the talking. It was vital his purpose remain disclosed to no one beside the marquess. Once Rigby explained the circumstances, and the fee was settled, Valerian would agree to the absurd arrangement. He had little choice. If only he knew the means by which Jasper discovered Rigby’s desire to disentangle his son. Perhaps then he would feel more prepared for the sham he stood poised to perpetuate and the indecent matchbreaking that would ensue.

  But that was not to be. Jasper had arranged the clandestine meeting, neatly explained the barest circumstances, and rode off on One-Eyed Jack without further conversation. Val had not seen him in two days and that did not bode well for London or the Dashwood bank account.

  “Let’s get right to it. My wife is at the shops and while she enjoys spending my money, one never knows. It’s wise to take care of this situation with expedience.” Rigby approached with a confident air.

  “True.” Val strove to maintain monosyllabic retorts. The less he contributed to the conversation, the better. Besides if the marquess wanted the matter to be done with due haste, minimal small talk served a dual purpose.