by Cardon, Sara
Marjorie nodded. “Hmm. Why did your father never hold a ball to welcome you home? Or did he? I cannot remember. I do remember at your brother’s ball, you came outside and stared at the night sky, just as we do now.” She paused, thinking of how she had hidden and watched. Lord Beauchamp had captured her interest when he acted lonely, and she had wondered what burdened him.
A few of the couples joined them on the balcony, dancing the boxed steps of a waltz and twirling.
“Have you been to a ball?” His eyes were dark as they searched hers.
She swallowed. “Yes.”
“And what would you have done, had I seen you hiding in the climbing roses and ivy at Strathford and asked you for a dance?” He moved his hand to cover hers on the balcony.
She savored the warmth of his hand. “Run away, scared.”
He laughed, deep and rich. She smiled, savoring the healing he brought.
“I saw you.” Lord Beauchamp turned her hand over, his Adam’s apple jogged as he entwined his fingers with hers. “Let me do this properly. May I have this dance?”
Her breath hitched. He knew who she had been—who she still was—and he treated her with dignity. He was the essence of dreams, and her regard deepened. “I have always wanted to dance under the stars.” She set her sketchbook on the banister.
Maintaining eye contact, he drew her towards him. His touch sent a thrill through her, igniting her like a shooting star. He stepped forward as she stepped back, her skirt billowing as they danced. She had fallen under his spell. How could she not when he looked at her as if she were the center of his universe? With the awareness came an ache, persistent and searing, because she already knew the ending. But what would it be like to live without fear?
16
Unwelcome Interview
The butler handed Miles a note at breakfast from Lady Du’Breven, inviting him to a visit in her drawing room at nine o’clock. Miles mentally checked his schedule for the day: answering correspondence, meeting with the estate manager, and going into the village of Somerstone with his solicitor at midday, where he would catch up with the rest of the guests. Miles nodded his acceptance of the time to the waiting butler. Lady Du’Breven was a woman one made time for, whether he had time to spare or not. She commanded his respect. He needed to stay in her good graces, not because of what she could do for him with her political and social connections, but because she had proven herself an ally in his efforts with Reginald.
At the appropriate time, he made his way to her study.
“Lord Beauchamp, please take a seat.” Lady Du’Breven smiled at him as she stroked the pug sprawled on her lap. Wellington’s ears perked up as Miles took the brocade-covered armchair nearest the countess. A small fire crackled in the hearth, though the day was warm. “Tell me, how is your brother getting on?”
Miles appreciated how she jumped to the heart of the matter. “I’m keeping a close eye on him. So far I’ve managed to keep him from overindulging in drinking, but I believe he is still gambling.”
“Many men of his class gamble.”
“That is true, but do not make excuses for him. As a second son, he must have a living, even if he will inherit an estate from our uncle. For Reginald, gambling is more than leisure, but not quite compulsion. I have not gotten to the bottom of it yet, but I will.”
Her worn brow puckered, and her lips turned down. “I know the worry of caring for a loved one caught in a dangerous vice.” She sighed. “At least you do not look the other way and leave him to fight this alone.”
Miles leaned forward, drawn to her by their shared circumstances. He couldn’t ask her to volunteer personal information, but perhaps she would guide him if he shared more. “Mr. Webb’s arrival has not helped matters. He should be on his way soon.” As long as Reginald held to his promise.
Lady Du’Breven’s hand stilled a moment on Wellington’s back as she read between the lines. “Yes, Mr. Webb is a charming enough man when he masks his distaste for country life and people he believes are unintellectual. He was not invited here, in case you were wondering. And your brother’s attempts to see Miss Fairchild?”
“His attempts to see Miss Fairchild have come to nothing. I thank you for your help in the matter.”
“Bah. I am happy to manage people’s lives while they are under my roof. Now, what can I help you with?”
Miles opened his palms. “Besides my brother, there is nothing.”
“Surely I can be of use,” she smiled, but the gesture raised his defenses.
He pressed his lips together. Lady Du’Breven had a knack for asking insightful questions, but he had no desire for her to examine his own life. “I can manage my own affairs.”
“And you will rely on no one.”
He inclined his head.
“Let me understand what it is you hope for, in regards to your future. Have you any dreams?”
The absurdity of the question struck him, and one side of his mouth tipped up in a smile. “Dreams? I’m too practical for dreams.” Surely she understood. He could not help thinking of the sketchbook full of dreams Marjorie had left on the balcony last evening. He could only get an inkling of her dreams through her sketches, and he wanted to know more.
“Goals then. What do you want?”
Miles shook thoughts of Marjorie from his mind and shifted on his chair. “You already know. I should like to be free of cleaning up after my brother. He needs to take responsibility.”
“Was there a time when the two of you were friends?”
“We are friends now, though our relationship is strained. Reginald and I enjoyed the normal childhood pursuits—fishing, horseback riding, playing pranks on the butler.”
“That I cannot imagine from you.” Lady Du’Breven narrowed her eyes with a teasing smile. “So he was not so vexing as a child?”
Miles relaxed into the back of the chair and exhaled. “Reginald reminds me of the prodigal son. I keep waiting for him to come back to himself.”
“And you are the resentful older brother, hmm?”
He did not like the comparison and raised his brows, unwilling to comment. Reginald’s irresponsibility left a bitter taste, and the more Miles compensated for him, the more the aggravation burned.
“Currently, you seem to have Reginald under perfect control.”
Miles crossed an ankle over his knee. “I confess, I cannot control Reginald. His finances are bleeding, creditors hunt him down, and I fear he will ruin his connections in society. Connections which could be of help to him for friendship and business.”
She remained quiet a moment as she petted Wellington’s sleeping form. “But you believe Miss Winters can manage him?”
“Lately, I’m questioning that assessment.”
“Due to her behavior?” she asked.
He nodded. “She is adored by her family at home, so censure is a new experience for her. But it is Reginald’s behavior which galls me. I do not wish to pass Reginald off onto her if he is determined to be a burden. Miss Winters deserves better.”
“Ah. And speaking of marriage, what do you look for in a wife?”
He stilled. “Lady Du’Breven, I am not looking for a wife. Do not interfere in matters concerning me.”
“Bumble broth. I simply wish to know who you would consider your equal? What qualities do you look for? You have given this some thought, have you not? Come now and answer, or I shall consult your brother on the matter.”
Miles frowned. He hadn’t considered matrimony for some time, since women of his acquaintance usually put on a persona to attract his attention. He hadn’t found a woman he could talk with for any length of time without exhausting his repertoire of niceties. Until Marjorie. Which was unfortunate. He shifted in his seat and answered as honestly as he could. “ ‘Equal’ is a fitting word. I wish for an equal in mind, manners, and social standing.”
“There is more, I can sense it. Go on.”
He titled his face to the ceiling and sighed. What would it hu
rt to be more open with this grandmotherly figure? “She must be free from artifice. You know I have little patience for people, so she must be a woman who will not expect to always take from me, but will give as well.”
“A friend, then?”
He paused, weighing her suggestion, and finding it true. Her accuracy made him uncomfortable, since he had not put into words this essential element. “Yes.”
“Wealthy?”
Ah, now he knew where she was going. “I will not discuss the matter. I have said she must be my social equal.”
Lady Du’Breven quirked her brow. But Miles kept his mouth shut. This interview was to discuss his brother, not him.
“Lord Beauchamp, you are an attractive man and turn many heads, though your demeanor makes you unapproachable. Why are you not already married?”
Why indeed? Miles felt like a schoolboy ready to squirm. He should bid her adieu before she read more into him. “If I was married to the wrong woman, it would be worse than being alone. I must be sure of the woman I marry. But enough with these matters.” He shifted to the edge of his seat. “I must go soon. I have an appointment with your estate manager before the visit into Somerstone Village.”
Lady Du’Breven inclined her head in acknowledgement. “I have one last question.”
“Yes?”
“What do you know of Miss Fairchild? I heard she is nothing more than the daughter of a stable master.”
Anger roiled in his chest at the harm such words could cause Marjorie. He gripped his knees. “ ‘Nothing more?’ Who is spreading such gossip? I demand to know.” His irritation mounted as her eyes seemed to take on a twinkling look, as if she knew something he did not.
“I cannot say for certain,” she said slowly, like a cat with a mouse. “I thought perhaps you knew, since you have spent more time with her than any gentleman here.”
Miles pressed his lips together. It pained him that she held back the source of the gossip, especially after he had been so forthcoming. She needed to know what he expected from her as hostess. “I can tell you this: Miss Fairchild deserves our utmost respect. If I hear of that rumor being spread, I will take action.”
“Yes, of course.” The countess did not appear moved by his warning.
“My lady, I hope I have satiated your curiosity. I must go. I wish you good day.”
Miles did not wait for the usual pleasantries, and she seemed happy to dispense with them as well. He strode out of the room, unsettled. He had heard Lady Du’Breven sometimes meddled where she ought not, and he had let his guard down. It was no matter. She would not meddle in his life. He was here for Reginald’s sake only.
17
Village Trip
A smile on her lips and the waltz’s tune in her heart, Marjorie gathered her reticule for the day trip to Somerstone Village that Miss Greystock had organized. Marjorie anticipated another adventure to document. She knew exactly which drawing she needed to add to her sketchbook: a picture of the night sky with her hand reaching out to take the North Star like a jewel.
Her sketchbook was not on the desk, table, or anywhere in sight. She spun in a circle as she tried to recall where she had placed it. Her shoulders tightened when she remembered setting it down to take Lord Beauchamp’s hand for the dance.
She set off with Aunt Harriet to search the balcony and drawing room, but did not recover her sketchbook.
“Perhaps someone has found it. I am sure it will be returned to you immediately,” Aunt Harriet soothed.
Marjorie spoke to the housekeeper and Miss Greystock. Neither knew anything about it, but each assured her that as soon as it was recovered, she would be notified. Marjorie blinked rapidly in disappointment.
“There is nothing else we can do at present,” Aunt Harriet said. “It will turn up. Do not worry, dearest. This day trip to Somerstone Village is fortuitous.”
Marjorie nodded, trying to shake her unease. “Yes. Can we pick up more paper?”
“Of course. Now, let’s set your mind on something else.”
During the coach ride, Marjorie flipped through the missing sketches in her mind. There was no telling what someone would think about the images and impressions—they were too personal. She released a sigh of gratitude she had at least removed the ones of Reginald. She shuddered at what he would think had he seen himself on the pages. Still, she had captured many of the guests in one light or another. The water fairy was clearly Miss Easton. The one of Sir James watching Miss Greystock would be embarrassing. And the drawing of Mr. Webb . . . she winced and placed a hand to her forehead. Good gracious, why had she not removed the drawing? His profile was pleasant, but his shadow was an ogre on fire. If he saw the image, it might come to life.
These thoughts plagued her as she and Aunt Harriet perused the shops in Somerstone Village. Aunt Harriet looked for a trinket to bring back to her husband. Marjorie had her eye out for more paper.
They entered the stationers’ shop, where the smell of paper and ink greeted them pleasantly. Marjorie approached the clerk, an elderly man with bushy eyebrows. A proper new sketchbook would have to wait until they returned to London. “I would like a quire of paper, please.”
He nodded, showed her the selection, and began counting out her choice. She could cut the overlarge sheets down to her preferred size, and twenty four would be more than enough. The price of paper was dear. Or at least it had been a dear price, when compared to the salary of those who worked at Strathford. Marjorie sighed in relief when the clerk handed her the wrapped parcel. Her father had never understood her longing for supplies like paper and charcoals, pencils and watercolors. But Aunt Harriet did. And Marjorie loved her aunt for the many lessons she provided. Language, elocution, history. But most importantly, art. Aunt Harriet paid the shopkeeper, and he wished them good day.
They exited the shop near the green, a park situated on the corner where Main Street intersected Hague Lane. Children in prim clothing were playing a game of hoops.
“Dearest, I need to run into the shop again. I believe Mr. Jones would like one of the fine pen knives I spied within. I will be but a moment.” Aunt Harriet slipped back inside while Marjorie waited, watching the children.
She smiled at the line of little girls and boys waiting their turn to race two metal hoops. It seemed to be a relay of sorts. One boy with a scowl on his face stepped forward for his turn, but two girls skipped past him, calling, “Ladies first,” and took the hoop. The boy turned to watch a man on the edge of the park, and his shoulders slumped. Marjorie followed his gaze to a middle-aged gentleman near her. His mouth and eyes sloped down, making him look displeased. He wore a double-breasted day coat in midnight blue.
The children cheered for the winners. When the boy had waited for everyone to have another turn, he took the hoop, only to have the same little girls grab it. This time he did not let go, and both sides tugged like a game of French and English. “Ladies first,” the older girl bit out.
Marjorie’s mouth opened in astonishment. “Ladies, indeed.” Those girls were using the boy abominably.
Her feet hit the soft clover as she approached. The girls took in her dress and then her face with wide eyes, but none relinquished their hold on the hoop.
Marjorie curtseyed. “Good afternoon. I believe this gentleman was before you.” She indicated the boy.
The taller girl spoke up. “Oh, Thomas is new. Papa said he doesn’t know his place.”
His place? Perhaps they misunderstood their father.
The girls glanced beyond Marjorie at the frowning man who stalked towards her. The girls’ father, perhaps?
“What in heaven’s name are you saying to my children?” he asked, crossing his arms. “Are you this lad’s mother?”
The question caught Marjorie off guard. She drew back. How could she be a mother to a boy of perhaps eight years of age? “Oh, you misunderstand, I—”
His sloping mouth drew down further, and he pointed at her. “You need to teach him better conduct.”
“You did not just command me,” he said indignantly, shaking his head. “You are no lady.”
Marjorie’s eyes opened wide. Too many gentlemen of late had scoffed at her, and it stung. This man did not know she was not a lady, strictly speaking, since her father was not a gentleman. Still, she had gone about this all wrong. “I apologize. I should not have spoken in such a way—”
“Humbug. It was bird-witted,” he scolded.
Marjorie felt as if she had been slapped. Heat pooled in her face, a fire burned in her chest, and she stood her ground. The sight of his disapproving eyes and mouth infuriated her. “You interrupted me. Again.”
“Let me give you some advice. You need to teach your boy manners,” he said, invading her space. He positioned himself to intimidate her. She shivered, hating that the movement worked. She noticed that Thomas stayed by her side.
She lifted her chin and spoke quickly, to hide her trembling, “I watched while Thomas waited in line and your girls took the hoop from him at least twice. And as dear a boy as Thomas seems, he is not mine.” She snapped her mouth shut, shaky from fear and smoldering anger.
The man rocked back on his heels. “I . . . I just assumed he was yours.”
She should not say more, but . . . “Thank you for your officious advice on manners. I bow to your ability to teach by precept and example.”
He narrowed his eyes.
Something compelled her to say more to this dimwitted oaf, something she had been working through in her heart of late. “Ladies do not use a gentleman simply to get their way. And a gentleman is more than good manners.”
