by Cardon, Sara
It was a shame Lady Josephine would not have Reginald. Reginald flirted, but his attentions to Lady Josephine had seemed different. Perhaps Reginald’s injured heart would leave him open to matrimony with another eligible woman. Miles was determined to pass off the responsibility of looking after his brother—permanently. Reginald needed a wife. Miss Jane Winters was the woman Miles had in mind.
Reginald winked at a newly arrived woman, and the men guffawed. Miles caught a flash of red hair as she turned away. The overgrown children parading as men slapped Reginald on the back, encouraging him. It was time to intercede.
Miles stepped forward, knocking the men apart like nine pins.
“You said your father was not attending. Who is this old man, Reginald?” a nitwit scoffed.
Miles ignored the man as he would a gnat. He planted himself between Reginald and the new skirt he thought to pursue.
“I need to speak with you.” He pushed Reginald back inside the drawing room. Reginald laughed as if this was a joke.
Miles pulled his brother into a deserted corner, his fist clenching. He wanted to shove Reginald against the wall. “Listen here. You are at this gathering for one woman. A woman who by some miracle thinks you are a catch.”
Reginald dropped his chin casually to his shoulder. His hair covered his eyes when he moved this way. Miles glared. His younger brother always avoided confrontation, but this was one time Miles would not let him escape responsibility.
He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “When Miss Winter arrives, you will fasten your wandering eyes to her, and her alone. Otherwise, I will drag you back to that gaming hell you owe money to and leave your carcass to them. Is that clear?”
“I cannot stomach the idea of being pinned down to a woman I do not love.”
A ruckus near the entryway conveyed that a large group of men had just arrived. How many wretched Eastons would the butler announce? Miles pinched the bridge of his nose.
“You proposed to Lady Josephine with no interest in her dowry?”
“It was not for her money.” Reginald swallowed. “And I’m glad she rejected me. Nothing good comes of love. I escaped the noose before it was too late. Marriage? Lud, away with it. It is not what I need.”
Miles leveled his gaze. Reginald's eyes were red rimmed and his hair in need of a trim. Miss Winters was precisely the change Reginald needed. A woman with substance and drive. “Not marriage to just anyone. Marriage to Miss Winters.”
The Beauchamp and Winters families had been acquainted for over a decade. Miss Winters managed the household for her frail mother and had sought the Earl of Strathford's help to solve her father's financial crisis. She thrived in running her family’s affairs. Miles suspected the family owed their stability to Miss Winters’ logic, confidence, and blunt communication. It was a shame she had so few friends.
Reginald brought out a soft side to Miss Winters. Miles grinned to himself. Even softened, she could order Reginald to get in line.
The butler announced more guests, his voice growing hoarse.
At Reginald’s panicked expression, Miles knew the Winters family had arrived at last.
“Come and greet them. Miss Winters will be eager to see you.” He clasped his brother on the shoulder, a surge of protection replacing his irritation. He softened his voice. “This is for your own good.”
Reginald stepped away, breaking the connection, and gave a barely perceptible nod.
Satisfaction coursed through Miles as he led the way to greet the Winters family. He thrived on fixing problems, and his brother topped his list of challenges.
Miss Winters stood aloof, holding her umbrella like a weapon. The men around her gave her a wide berth. The name Winters became her, he mused. She had a resolute jawline, a pinched nose, and the warmth of a blizzard. She was legend in her own time as an Original. Her mother and her younger sisters trailed her each time she shifted.
Her hawk-like eyes caught sight of him amid the crowd. She marched forward to greet him, swinging the umbrella behind her. “Miles.”
He cringed inwardly at her casual use of his name, but he kept his expression pleasant and bowed. How could a woman of quality use such a familiar and private greeting within earshot of a formal gathering? She was too proud of her family's close connection to the Beauchamps. “So good to see you again, Miss Winters.”
She curtseyed. “And you. Where is that brother of yours?” She scanned the room.
So did Miles.
“He is around here somewhere.” Miles tugged on his cuffs. He should have dragged Reginald along with him. “You must be tired from your journey. Would you like to take a seat? The drawing room is but a pace away.”
“I am no wilting flower.” She abruptly turned towards her mother. Miles bowed and exchanged pleasantries. Miss Winters saw her mother and two sisters settled. “Please rest, Mother. Miles and I will search for Regi.”
Miles pressed his lips together. He admired her drive, even as he wished for his independence. He intended to find Reginald, only not with her in tow. He could guess where his brother was, or rather with whom.
“I will lead the way,” Miss Winters said.
Miles grimaced, recoiling from her forwardness, but rearranged his face to a slight smile. He followed in her wake, past the entryway and into another drawing room. He glanced over her head and spotted his brother.
With a quick glance, he judged Miss Winters was still searching and made his way to a recessed window near the fireplace. His brother and the red-haired woman occupied the window seat.
Reginald was sweetening up this unsuspecting girl. He sat close and leaned towards her, his jaded eyes alight with the interest of a grey wolf. “I am convinced I never laid eyes on your angelic beauty before. How can you know me?” His voice dipped low. “You must tell me your name.”
Miles’ heart dropped. He recognized the girl, now a woman. He could picture the younger version of her skipping through the stables of his home. She sang the stable workers’ drinking songs and made them sound whimsical. It was a wonder his brother did not recognize her, but she had been away from Strathford for at least three years. Her features had changed—the softness in her heart-shaped face had given way to defined cheekbones. But her ethereal glow and fragile frame, along with doe-like eyes, were the same. Her copper hair still cascaded in soft curls, though smoothed and tucked. He glanced between Reginald and Marjorie. Had she outgrown her fascination with his brother, or was she still susceptible?
Miles’ stomach turned in on itself at the thought of his brother trifling with any woman, let alone a girl once under their protection. One who possibly still craved his brother’s attention. Miles wrestled his way through the upholstered chairs.
“Hello, Marjorie. Pardon me, I mean Miss Fairchild.” Miles bowed as if this was an everyday occurrence. Reginald jumped.
Her mouth parted. “Hello, Lord Beauchamp,” she whispered, all merriment gone.
Miles’ chest pinched, but he ignored the sensation.
“Marjorie?” Reginald pulled his head back. “Marjorie.” His tone held awe.
She fingered her skirt as the brothers scrutinized her.
Chairs scraped, and a skirt swished, stirring a draft of cold air. Miss Winters affected a wide smile, but Miles was sure she did not miss a detail of the scene now before her: Reginald and Marjorie framed in the picture window, the ambience of the falling rain outside, Reginald’s proximity to Marjorie, and the flush on Marjorie’s face.
“Regi, dear. Please introduce me to this sweet girl. Perhaps she can take my youngest sister with her to the nursery when she returns.”
Miles tilted his head to the ceiling and closed his eyes. Two weeks. He could do this for two weeks.
“Come with me.” He did not wait to see if Marjorie agreed, he simply took her hand and hauled her to her feet. He lacked his brother’s smooth charisma, but he needed to save the stable master’s daughter from this highly dangerous situation.
3
Marjorie trailed a hand along the wainscoting to slow herself down. Her arm was threaded with Lord Beauchamp’s as he led her into an unremarkable hallway.
“What is the matter?” Her labored breathing was loud and embarrassing.
He turned his head left and right. Two footmen carrying trays looked their way.
She planted her feet. “My lord, tell me what this is about.”
“We cannot speak here.” He removed her hand from his elbow.
What could Lord Beauchamp possibly have to say to her in private? Just moments before, she sat in a safe corner. And, wonder of wonders, Reginald had found her. The moment was worth savoring, staring into his emerald eyes, focused entirely on her, and listening to his low voice. She had quieted the part of her mind that worried he would reject her once he recognized her. Then Lord Beauchamp had interrupted, before she could form a new opinion of Reginald. And what had Reginald meant by repeating her name?
Lord Beauchamp searched the rooms along the hallway, a restless energy about him. What did he intend to discuss privately? She frowned and wrapped her arms around herself. Would he remind her of her station? Her parents' marriage was long remembered in London circles. Would he make their small party aware of her connections? It was within his power to do so, if he chose. Her heart pounded. She focused on getting her breathing back to normal.
He found a door that was unlocked. “Come.” He gestured she go first.
She took a step back. Lord Beauchamp had always acted as a gentleman, but it seemed a strange request to enter a room alone with him. If this was his father’s study at Strathford, she would obey without question. But Lord Beauchamp was not in charge here.
A servant walked past them, ducking her capped head.
“Please,” he added. “It will take but a moment.”
If he meant to chastise her in some way, then she would rather keep it confidential than have an audience.
Marjorie gripped her hands at her waist and entered. Shadows shrouded the musty room. The arched windows showed the rain falling in muddy hues. Marjorie glanced around the dim room, trying to decipher where they were. Friezes on the wall were carved with people kneeling in prayer. A monument like a sarcophagus rested under the windows. This was quite some chapel.
“So.” Lord Beauchamp’s voice cut through the silence.
Marjorie faced him, then glanced over his shoulder. The door was slightly open, which was a small comfort. He appeared every inch the refined gentleman, from his thick head of mahogany hair and side burns, to his conservative cravat, crisp jacket, and polished boots. Not a blemish in his face or on his person. His presence unnerved her, and she stood straighter, waiting for him to continue.
“I am surprised to see you. What are you doing at Lady Du’Breven’s house party?” He tilted his head, seeming to take her measure. So he meant to offer pleasantries before coming to the point, did he?
“I am a guest here. The same as you.” Her cheeks burned. She was not the same. She dropped her gaze like a servant. “My aunt's family is closely acquainted with Lady Du’Breven.”
“You have been away from home.” It was not a question.
Marjorie swallowed. Home. As much as she loved her aunt, a pang of longing shot through her chest. “How is my father? Is he in good health?”
Lord Beauchamp’s forehead creased and his mouth turned up. “As a rule, I believe that is a question I should ask you.” A smile tugged at his lips.
“I do not receive letters from him as often as I would like.” She smiled as well. She missed her father and his comfortable cottage on the Beauchamp’s grand estate.
“He is in excellent health."
She nodded her thanks. Her breathing was still erratic, but trying to slow it only muddled her thoughts. “I have been living in London with my aunt and uncle.”
“And attempting to secure an advantageous match.”
She glanced up, her lips parting to argue, but instead of forming words she pulled in air. He assumed she would—what? Marry above herself? Did he believe she had sought Reginald out? She need not discuss her prospects for matrimony with him. “I daresay every woman here wishes to marry well. Will you pull each into the chapel to scold?”
His face was inscrutable. “My brother will not marry you.”
She stiffened at his coldness. At the truth of his words. How well she knew Reginald would not marry her, though she might wish for it. She simply wanted to enjoy his attention. The moment with him by the window was dreamlike—woven with magic and possibilities. Now she was awake, facing Lord Beauchamp, hellfire, and damnation. He had ruined everything.
“You believe that is my intention?”
“I know that my brother carries on with a great many ladies. But he intends to marry none of them.”
“Why do you care if he pays attention to me?”
Lord Beauchamp studied her, his thick eyebrows low, his mouth flat. He gave nothing away.
“Do you consider yourself such an expert to counsel me on courting? I have no shocking scheme planned. You interrupted a pleasant conversation between . . .” What? Friends? Acquaintances? A man and a woman? Not knowing how Reginald thought of her further shamed her. “You unceremoniously greeted me by my Christian name. Then you escorted me out as if I needed discipline.” She was no longer a defenseless child; she could stand up for herself. Perhaps she would share some of her own counsel. “You may be an earl one day, but you should not lord over your brother, nor may you lord over me. I am not your servant.” The threat of tears stung her nose as she whispered the words, “And if you speak thus, then you are no gentleman.”
Lord Beauchamp clenched his jaw and turned his chin. He took a step closer. Marjorie stepped back, running into the sarcophagus. Dust swirled in the air and she coughed. She lifted her trembling chin and tried to match his fortitude. She would not look away this time.
“I tell you these things, because as a gentleman, I cannot countenance my brother’s behavior. I should not like to see you injured, especially because of our connection." His voice hushed. "Your father is a man I respect a great deal. And as for my brother, what I do is my affair. Do not assume you know him simply because you caught glimpses of him from your tree as you grew up.” He raised a knowing eyebrow.
Marjorie curled her hands around her middle. He knows I watched Reginald. Perhaps knows that I have always loved him. Unable to meet his gaze, she fixated on a frieze of a woman kneeling in prayer.
“You must get over your fascination and devotion. He is here to propose to Miss Winters.”
Marjorie’s chest caved in and her breath began to burn. She placed a hand to her chest. Not now. Not in front of him. She shook her head, not believing. “No. Reginald could not treat me the way he did if he meant to marry another. We shared a connection.” Her gaze flew to Lord Beauchamp, horrified by what she had just revealed. She must leave this suffocating room at once.
The door was open, and she moved towards it. Lord Beauchamp was in the way. She searched for an escape. An outer door loomed near the sarcophagus, and she stumbled towards the exit. A rushing sound filled her ears.
“Miss Fairchild, you are ill. Please, sit down,” Lord Beauchamp said through the wool in her hearing.
He reached out, but she jerked her arm away. The movement caused her to tip sideways. Her vision pulsed. She fumbled with the door, trying to wrench it open. Larger, healthier hands unlocked the door, setting her free, but she was too tired to go, too tired to do anything but sit and breathe. Lord Beauchamp eased her down as she slid against the doorframe.
“Aunt Harriet,” she wheezed, begging for help.
She rested her forehead on the open doorframe and closed her eyes. She hated when this happened. It was like breathing with the weight of a boulder pressing down. Her chest burned, her heart thumped painfully. She tugged at the fabric near her neckline.
Nature calmed her. The rush of the rain spraying in her heated face, the
smell of soil and leaves, the cold stone beneath her told her she was alive. Time became meaningless as she focused on the next breath. 'Tis the last rose of summer. Breath in. Left blooming alone. Breath out. All her lovely companions. In. Are faded and gone. Out.
Footsteps vibrated the floor a moment before someone sat beside her, bringing a faint cinnamon scent. “Dearest, you are doing very well,” Aunt Harriet soothed. Marjorie nodded. It was not so very bad. “That is it. Listen to the rain. The moisture is good for your lungs.” Her gentle hand rubbed circles on Marjorie’s back. Aunt Harriet began singing for her.
The rain blew, Aunt Harriet soothed, and Marjorie breathed. It had been a long time since she had suffered from an acute contraction of the lungs.
With fuzzy thoughts, Marjorie contemplated what she had learned. Lord Beauchamp could not have spoken the truth. Reginald did not intend to propose to this Miss Winters, not if he lavished his attention on Marjorie in a tête-à-tête. She would not step out of the way just to please Lord Beauchamp.
Marjorie curled into Aunt Harriet and let her aunt hold her. She was heartsick. Reginald had sought her out, and those were not the actions of a man about to propose to another. She needed to discover Reginald’s intentions and character, despite the risk of heartbreak or humiliation. Otherwise, she would always wonder what might have been.
4
Vulnerability
Miles stood in the hallway outside the chapel to greet the formidable Countess Du’Breven, who was breathing heavily from her swift walk through her home. Her ever present companion kept pace with her. He needed to calm Lady Du’Breven and let her know he had everything in hand. Two ladies with trouble breathing may be more than even he could handle.
“Miss Fairchild?” she huffed.
