by Cardon, Sara
Mrs. Jones nodded and set off to the west.
Miles’ heart raced as he strode past hedges and trees, looking around corners and listening. The thought of Webb alone with Marjorie made his blood boil. Miles remembered the bet Webb had proposed during billiards. The man was a snake. If he found them and Webb had so much as touched Marjorie . . . Miles shook the exploding anger from his head and focused on the present.
A lake shaped like a winding river was up ahead. He could follow the lake or cross it. A cold sweat slid down his back. What if he was going the wrong way? What if he was too late? Mr. Julius Easton and Mr. Tauney Easton stepped off the stone bridge. Miles exchanged pleasantries and crossed the bridge, turning his head in each direction.
He resisted the urge to call out Marjorie’s name. Perhaps Mrs. Jones had already found her. But if not . . . He quickened his steps, searching each enclosure, ready to turn around and try a new direction. The ruins of a castle front came into view.
Marjorie’s voice floated from somewhere beyond a bank of earth. A hawk circled overhead and leaves rustled. “Sir, we must find our companions.”
A man chuckled. Webb. Miles jogged towards the voices, skidding on gravel before taking the grass up an incline. “How fortuitous to find ourselves alone,” Webb said.
“Stop. This is untoward,” Marjorie replied.
Miles crested the top of the ravine. He searched the edges of the surrounding dense shrubs, following Webb’s voice, now pitched low.
Pale yellow fabric caught his attention. Marjorie broke past dead branches, but Webb caught her by the arm and turned her around—planting a kiss on her mouth.
Miles froze, horrified and sickened. He almost missed Marjorie’s quick intake of air, how she hauled back and—
Crack.
“You hit me.” Webb staggered from the decaying shrubs, a hand to his jaw. “How dare you,” he hollered.
Miles ran towards them.
Marjorie stumbled back a few paces but regained her footing. “How dare you!”
Webb paced towards her. “Make no mistake, I will be sure the others know you are only a sorry bit of muslin.”
Webb pivoted away and choked on surprise as he came face to face with Miles.
“How dare you talk to a lady that way,” Miles growled. He twisted Webb’s cravat, hauling him close. “You foul-mouthed lecher. If you speak one word against Miss Fairchild, I will make sure you pay. She has allies.” He wanted to pummel Webb’s splotchy face.
“Easy now.” Webb looked as if he had swallowed his spleen. He raised his hands. “She is unharmed. Ask her yourself.”
Miles shoved him away. “I will.”
Webb seemed to recover from his initial shock. He shook his head in feigned sorrow. “I heard you are a bloodhound to Miss Fairchild’s scent.”
Miles clenched his jaw, envisioning teaching the rake a lesson. But Marjorie, his soft, tender Marjorie, might need him. “I will deal with you later.”
“Better luck to you, my lord. She is not very grateful. Or cognizant of her superiors.” Webb tugged his waistcoat and left.
It took Miles a few more minutes, but he found Marjorie in the ruins of the castle. She sat on a window seat in a dusty alcove. He breathed a sigh of relief and approached slowly, taking in the sight of her. She held her hands to her chest. The breeze from the open window casing blew her dress against her form.
He did not wish to alarm her, especially after her difficult encounter with that cad. “Miss Fairchild.”
She started, her face pale and drawn, and then something unfathomable crossed her features—surprise, recognition, and relief. Miles wanted to wrap his arms around her and pull her close. He settled for soaking her in with his eyes.
“Are you well?” He held his breath.
Her face contorted in anger. “He is a dreadful man.”
Miles nodded. “A scoundrel.”
“That fool kissed me. How dare he?” She stood and paced. “He actually thought I should be flattered. He and his foul mouth—I wish I could punch him three more times. I wish I had broken his nose!”
She was going to be alright. “Gentleman Jack would be proud of you.”
Marjorie stopped. She stared at him, gave a faint laugh, and then blinked away tears. “That is an amusing thought.”
He wanted to see her calm before they found her aunt. “Your father would be gratified too. He taught you to defend yourself, did he not?” he asked.
“Yes.” A watery smile flitted across her face.
“I can call Webb out, if needed.” He meant it in earnest, but also wished to put her at ease. “Pistols would do, but I prefer swords. He is destined for an early demise.”
Marjorie stared at him, and then a smile bloomed across her face. Slowly, her features sobered. “You will not tell anyone . . .?” She bit her lips. Her soft pink lips.
Miles closed his eyes. “I would not dream of telling anyone. Though I wish I could.” He leveled her a glance. “You have some steel in you. I am glad.”
Her blue eyes turned to liquid again. “I cannot help but worry. What will Mr. Webb say? What will he do?”
He wanted to groan for the pull she had on him.
“Mr. Webb could ruin me. Or expose my background in the worst possible light.” Marjorie chaffed her gloved hand.
“I had some words with him. And I will never allow that.” He leaned closer, the space between them warming.
She seemed to consider his promise. He was gratified when she relaxed once more. His heart swelled with the realization—she believed him. Trusted him.
A dragonfly darted past. “The day was so full of promise,” Marjorie said, glancing around at the castle walls and out the open window casing. She cupped her right hand in her left as if it pained her.
“May I?” he asked. She nodded. Miles took her slender hands in his own, and she winced. He carefully removed her gloves. Her hands were soft. The two middle fingers on her right hand were purple. A tremor ran through him. “This injury will need some looking after.”
He cradled her hand to his chest. Marjorie’s lips parted slightly. With effort, he looked away. He pressed a kiss to her fingertips and helped her slip her gloves on.
“We should go." But he did not want to leave.
She did not remove her hands, soft as a whisper, from his own. Time stood still. There was a depth to her blue eyes he longed to explore. He wanted to enjoy her company and this peace settling between them. But he could not risk her reputation. Mrs. Jones was sick with worry, and Marjorie was recovered enough to not cause alarm. And he needed space before he did something foolish. Like kiss her thoroughly.
14
Gentleman’s Agreement
Miles needed to talk with his brother without Webb getting in the way. He went to Reginald’s room, relieved to find his brother getting ready for dinner.
“Send your valet away. We have something to discuss,” Miles said.
Reginald took his time to shoo the man out. When the door clicked shut, Reginald folded his arms. “My gut tells me this is about Marjorie. You never take your eyes off her."
Miles paused, frowning. “Someone needs to keep an eye on her. I am astounded at Webb’s behavior towards her yesterday.” He waited for a reaction, but Reginald just shrugged. “Need I rehearse the matter to you?”
“What is there to know? Webb escorted her to Wentworth Castle and was in a foul mood afterwards. She does not care for him, does she?” Reginald looked hopeful.
So he does not know. Miles spoke slowly and deliberately. “Webb took her into the gardens unchaperoned, putting her reputation at risk. And he kissed her without permission.”
Reginald rocked back. “That is absurd. How would you know?”
“I found them and saw it.” He clenched his teeth, his stomach sinking at the memory. “Miss Fairchild hit him square in the jaw.” The woman was remarkable.
Reginald stared. Then he laughed. “I should like to have seen that.”
&n
bsp; “Yes, well, her bruised hand is proof enough that she does not care for him. She was shaken.”
“I had no idea. Poor Marjorie. No woman should have to ward off advances repugnant to her.” Reginald sobered and ran his hands through his hair. “Marjorie deserves better treatment, even if she is just the stable master’s daughter.”
Miles stepped close to his brother, a searing fire building in his chest. “Miss Fairchild is more than just the stable master’s daughter. She is a woman of quality, sincerity, and strength.”
Reginald took a step back and fell into a chair. “Hmm. She is more beautiful than her rank allows her.”
Miles ground his teeth. His brother was a dimwitted fool.
“I do not trust Webb,” Miles said. “Is there any chance he will do something rash? Would he share his knowledge of her social standing with the other guests? He seems a hotheaded fellow.”
Reginald slumped forward, his elbows on his knees. “He noticed her beauty for himself, but I should not have said anything about her parentage. She is a decent girl. He should not risk her reputation.”
“It is not any different than how you treat women, is it?” Miles asked.
Reginald bowed his head and spoke to the floor. “I am not sure. I do not like being compared to Webb. I would hope my attentions would be accepted—acceptable.”
Miles sat in the chair opposite his brother’s. “What are we to do now? I cannot predict Webb. You know him.”
Reginald sighed and leaned on the chair’s armrests. “Provoking Webb will have consequences. He has an inflated sense of self-importance and despises rejection, especially by someone he considers inferior. He may slander her. He can cut people apart with words.” He shook his head. “In the worst case, she will need the protection of a strong name.”
“Such as?” Miles asked.
“A husband’s good name.” Reginald touched his chin, and his eyes squinted. “I could marry her.”
Miles froze with the image of any man married to Marjorie.
“Of course, I have no reputation to offer, and she has no fortune or family. So that man is certainly not me.” Reginald turned his face towards the window.
“It should not come to that,” Miles said. “Webb needs to leave.”
Reginald shrugged. “I agree. Besides, he was never invited.”
“You send Webb away, or I will. What has he come for? He certainly does not socialize with anyone here besides you.”
Reginald did not answer right away. Finally, he turned to face his brother, his expression earnest. “I will send him packing. Straightaway.”
15
The North Star
Marjorie had avoided Mr. Webb and his cool stares all day. After dinner, the drawing room brought them too close for comfort. Though, the faint mark on his jaw brought her mild satisfaction. Mr. Webb had been the one in the wrong. She wanted to scrub her mouth and clutch her sick stomach each time she saw him. But she kept her chin high, determined not to be cowed.
She would, however, avoid her aunt. Ever since Marjorie had confided each painful detail of yesterday’s ordeal, Aunt Harriet fretted nonstop. She spoke confidentially with Lady Du’Breven, posted a letter informing her husband, and exchanged words with Mr. Webb. Marjorie was grateful, but she no longer wished to think about Mr. Webb. She needed a distraction.
A “Hurrah” drew her to a game of cards. The winners of the round congratulated themselves. Around her, people began whispering in animated tones as the players bantered back and forth. A wager was set, and her stomach dropped.
The whispering, the gambling, the ladies in the midst of it, dislodged a memory. It struck sharp as a window shard, and she sucked in a breath.
Miss Anne turned to reassure her. “Do not worry. It is all in fun.”
Marjorie covered her stomach, unable to explain. “I am only . . .” Startled? Sickened? Reliving an awful bet once placed on me? “I am surprised to see a lady gamble.”
“Come now, Miss Fairchild,” a patronizing voice said behind her. She gripped her sketchbook like a weapon, her right hand throbbing, but made no move to turn towards Mr. Webb. He continued speaking to her back. “Gambling cannot shock you, considering your—”
She whirled around. “Yes?”
Mr. Webb’s dimple deepened when he smiled, but his gaze was like steel. “Your family’s hobbies.”
Marjorie’s stomach roiled. Mr. Webb had not revealed her social rank, but he wanted her to know he could. He could disgrace her. She plastered on a smile for Miss Anne’s sake. “Of course, the card game is all in fun. Excuse me.” She did not wait for Mr. Webb or Miss Anne to reply.
She walked on weak knees past ladies and gentlemen, all seeming to enjoy themselves. The conversation in the room buzzed like the rumors Mr. Webb seemed willing to spread. She shuddered at the memory of her two pretend suitors during that last rainy summer.
Those men had not cared a fig about her. She had not recognized it at the time, but her father had sensed their objective. She overheard him telling a trusted groom, “They’re like two stallions after the same broodmare. Except my Marjorie's a thoroughbred.” When her father discovered the danger—that they had set a wager and placed bets on which man could seduce her—he had sent her to live with her aunt.
Marjorie’s thoughts flew rapidly. She did not feel like a thoroughbred among the elite. Many dismissed her due to her lack of fortune and family. Some of the women spoke as if she were invisible, and perhaps she was. Could one’s worth be simplified to no more than parentage? Did character, from the decisions made day in and day out, count at all? Which mattered more, circumstances or choices? Did she have inherent value regardless?
Marjorie pressed a hand to her forehead as she passed servants, the countess’ pampered pug, and titled men and women. She had almost reached the French doors that led to the balcony, but someone stopped her.
“Miss Fairchild,” Reginald said, shifting his weight, “are you well?”
“Yes.” A tremor passed through her. She clutched her sketchbook, remembering how Reginald had taken it and waved it about, despite her protests.
Reginald stepped close and looked directly into her eyes. “Did Mr. Webb trouble you?”
She wanted to answer, but his sincere concern choked her words. She swallowed, and a tear escaped, tickling her cheek. Reginald tugged his cravat and took a step back, as if afraid she was contagious. She could not help but laugh at his distress, even as another tear broke free. “Forgive me. I cannot account for the sudden waterworks.”
He smiled, a little sheepish. “I am not well versed in emotions. But, I do know a thing or two about avoiding them.” Reginald gestured to the doors. “The night is not too cool. Shall we?”
Marjorie considered spending time with Reginald. Her heart did not flutter when he was near. Somewhere during the last few days, her infatuation had faded, but perhaps friendship remained. She could use a friend. She nodded, needing to push the unwelcome memory away.
Reginald opened the doors and stepped aside. The balcony stretched as wide as the drawing room, with citrus trees in pots and rambling roses climbing the outer wall. She walked straight to the balustrade and leaned against the stone banister.
“How different the world looks from a higher elevation and in moonlight,” she said.
When Reginald did not reply, she turned. He had not joined her but stood exchanging words with Lord Beauchamp. A breeze blew, and she shivered in anticipation of Lord Beauchamp’s glance.
Their two dark heads leaned together, equally somber expressions shared between them. How odd. Reginald grimaced, but nodded and slipped inside. Lord Beauchamp watched his brother, his chest rising in a look of pride.
Lord Beauchamp glanced at her. In the moonlight, his blue eyes appeared dark, his hair black. Only his stature was highlighted by the candles and lanterns from inside. “Do you mind if I join you?” he asked.
She had no words, just a smile in welcome.
“The stars are
out.” He leaned against the balustrade.
The cool night air tangled her skirts and tugged at strands of her hair. Her soul expanded at the endless stars in a vast universe. “Beautiful,” she said.
“Yes.” His mouth tipped into one of his small smiles, and she wished she knew what it meant.
They stood side by side, shoulders touching. The silence rested comfortably between them; the darkness enveloped her in serenity. Marjorie tilted her head, her imagination stirred by the endless stars. Even though she stood in one of the grandest homes, she shrank in consequence under the heavens.
“Do you have a favorite star or constellation?” Lord Beauchamp asked.
She breathed out. “No. I enjoy them as a whole. I could never see the shapes of the constellations as easily as others,” she confided.
“Really?” he sounded intrigued.
She blushed, knowing her education was lacking. The more she learned, the more she realized she did not know.
“Even with your artistic skill, you cannot see the shapes?” he asked. The breeze teased his hair, softening his strong features.
“Constellations are rudimentary shapes,” she said, shrugging. “But what of you? Do you have a favorite star or constellation?”
“The North Star,” he said.
Of course, she thought. Constant, true, reliable. All qualities Lord Beauchamp valued.
Music from a pianoforte started, drifting through the open doors. Beyond the glass windows, solitary men and women formed couples to dance. Another memory surfaced, this one gentle and pleasant. And perhaps because of the comfort of the darkness, or the trust she placed in Lord Beauchamp, she shared it.
“I remember a summer ball held at Strathford. It was but a month before I left to live with my aunt. It seemed a beautiful event. The music was lovely.” She had harbored the hope to one day dance in such an elegant fashion.
Lord Beauchamp made a noise of acknowledgment in the back of his throat. “That must have been when Reginald returned from Cambridge.”
