“Why are you so interested in the girl, William?” Albert asked.
“No reason.” He didn’t want Albert sniffing around his business. He shrugged and took a sip of his own brandy. Unlike his father and brothers, he was still on his first glass. “Just making idle conversation.”
Oliver sniggered. “Starting to think of your next wife, are you?”
Unfortunately William hadn’t yet swallowed. He choked, and some of the brandy went up his nose.
His momentary speechlessness turned out to be a blessing.
“Just so,” Albert said, clearly taking William’s reaction as derision. “William would never consider marrying a vicar’s daughter, especially one with a questionable reputation.”
If Belle’s reputation is questionable, I’m the one who made it so.
“Oh, I didn’t mean William would wish to marry that girl.” Oliver laughed. “If she’s close to his age, she’s almost forty. Quite a hag, no doubt.”
William took another mouthful of brandy so he wouldn’t make the fatal mistake of defending a woman he’d just indicated he knew nothing about.
“And likely unable to give him children,” Father said. “You mustn’t forget that, William, since neither Albert nor Oliver has seen fit to produce an heir.”
That had the predictable effect of causing both his brothers to glare at the duke. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t tried. Albert had five daughters and Oliver four.
“It is far too soon for me to think of taking another wife. Poor Hortense is not even cold in the ground.”
Oliver snorted. “Don’t try to tell us you are brokenhearted. That would be doing it much too brown.” He chuckled. “Much too brown indeed.”
But it was true. Oh, he wasn’t saddened by Hortense’s passing precisely, but he was unsettled. His life had changed suddenly and profoundly. It would take him a while to sort out his feelings.
And there’s Belle. I must decide what to do about Belle—or, rather, I have to discover what she’s willing to let me do.
“You’ll go up to Town for the Season and inspect the new crop of debutantes, of course.” Father looked at Albert and Oliver. “William shouldn’t have a problem finding some girl to marry, should he?”
“Of course not.” Oliver grinned. “He’s not too ugly yet.”
Albert sniffed. “The marriage-minded mamas don’t care how a man looks. They care about his pedigree and his pocketbook.”
“Well, there’s nothing wrong with his pedigree,” Father said.
“But what about his pocketbook?” Oliver looked at William. “Did Hortense drain you dry?”
“No.” The thought of shopping for a wife among the London debutantes was nauseating. Most of them were young enough to be his daughter.
If Belle and I had made a child all those years ago, the boy—or girl—would be close to twenty now.
“I am not going shopping for a wife in London. I intend to take my full year of mourning.”
His father grunted. “Perhaps the Season would be a bit much. Albert or Oliver—or, more to the point, their wives—can look around for you. Be discreet about it. Then we’ll have a house party here with some likely candidates for you to choose from.”
William put down his empty brandy glass hard enough that it clinked against the table. There was no point in continuing this conversation.
“No, thank you, Father.” He wanted to get back to Loves Bridge and Belle. He needed to see her. “I really am not ready to step into parson’s mousetrap again so quickly.” He stood. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to bed. I’m leaving early in the morning.”
“And where the hell are you leaving to, sir?” Father’s brows met over his nose. “Your brothers say they haven’t seen you in London for months.”
William paused with his hand on the study door. “And I don’t intend to linger in Town now. If you need to reach me, Morton knows how to find me.”
“But—”
“Good-bye, Father.” He nodded at his brothers. “Albert, Oliver.” Then he stepped through the door and closed it firmly behind him.
* * *
Belle sat at her desk in the lending library and stared down at the newspapers. She didn’t see them. Instead she saw William’s face.
Where is he? When will he be back? He’s been gone over a week.
Because she’d been the one to cancel his lessons, everyone had asked her those questions, as well as why he’d left so abruptly. If they’d known his identity, they could have answered the why and where by reading the gossip columns.
The poor man. It was hard to sort the speculation from the facts, but none of it was pretty.
The when of his return, however—that was a mystery.
She’d told those who asked that she understood he’d had to attend to some family matter and would be back once whatever it was had been resolved. She’d repeated it often enough that it now rolled off her tongue.
When was he coming back? She scanned the papers again, but could find no new mention of him. The last she’d read, he was taking his wife’s body to Benton for burial. That had been several days ago.
Perhaps he isn’t coming back.
She shoved the thought away for the hundredth time.
Happily, the door opened then, and Miss Hutting came in. Belle had completely forgotten it was Wednesday afternoon, the time they usually met to discuss Miss Hutting’s writing.
“Have you had a chance to read my story, Miss Franklin?”
“Yes, I have.” Belle reached into the drawer where she’d stored the manuscript. “I liked it, but I did make a few suggestions.” She handed the pages to Miss Hutting. Belle wasn’t interested in writing herself, but she’d discovered she enjoyed editing.
“Oh.”
Miss Hutting looked quite crestfallen.
Belle leaned forward to examine the papers again. Perhaps there were rather a lot of marks on them.
“Don’t be discouraged. It’s not as bad as it may look.” It really wasn’t. Miss Hutting was only twenty-four. She’d lived her entire life in a large, happy family in a small, happy village. Her characters were a little, er, shallow. But they were getting better, and she definitely had a deft hand with language. “I think it is one of your best efforts, actually. I quite liked your hero. Look it over and see if you agree with my comments.” Belle smiled. “They are only my opinions, of course.”
Miss Hutting sighed and stuffed the pages into her satchel. “Yes, I know, but you are usually correct.”
The girl had also made a lot of progress in accepting constructive criticism over the months—heavens, years now—she’d been sharing her writing with Belle. At first she’d argued over every change Belle suggested, but now she was far more open-minded and willing to work on improving her stories.
And perhaps Belle had become a better editor.
“Have you heard from Mr. Wattles?” Miss Hutting grimaced. “My mother wishes to know when Walter’s music lessons will resume. Walter, of course, hopes the answer is never.”
Pain lanced Belle’s heart. Silly. Hadn’t she just been thinking William might not return? If his purpose in coming to Loves Bridge had been to hide from his wife, that need was gone.
“I’m afraid I really have no idea. I’m not Mr. Wattles’s confidante. I just happened to be at hand when he got the letter calling him away.” She shrugged indifferently, rather proud of how well she’d perfected that movement.
Miss Hutting frowned at her. “You know the Misses Boltwood think you are his confidante.” She blushed. “Well, rather, er, more than that, actually.”
“What?!” Blast these small villages. And blast the Boltwood sisters in particular. Those two elderly spinsters were far too busy about everyone else’s business. She took a deep breath to regain her composure. “Nonsense. On what do they base such a ridiculous notion?”
Miss Hutting looked relieved. “It is ridiculous, isn’t it? I thought so, too. Why would you want to throw your life away for som
e man when you have the Spinster House and your independence?”
“Er, yes.” Oh, God. She’d “throw” her life away in an instant for William. “But I still don’t understand why the Misses Boltwood think I’m friendly with Mr. Wattles. I haven’t exchanged more than a handful of words with the man the entire time he’s been in Loves Bridge.” As far as the villagers know.
“Well, that’s part of it.”
“What’s part of it?” The Boltwood sisters couldn’t know about the time William had spent in her bedroom, could they?
“Miss Gertrude said it’s comical, the lengths to which you both went to avoid each other. She said she was tempted to trick you into being in a room together to see what would happen.” Miss Hutting shifted in her seat, looking vaguely uncomfortable. “Miss Cordelia wagered there’d have been fireworks if she had, and she and her sister giggled in a knowing, very annoying manner.”
Belle was certainly annoyed. And horrified. She’d been so certain she’d hidden her feelings for William successfully. “The idea!”
“Miss Cordelia even maintained that whenever you thought you weren’t being observed, you’d stare at Mr. Wattles”—Miss Hutting flushed—“as if you wanted to gobble him up.” Her nose wrinkled. “Disgusting. And she said he’d look at you in the same way when he thought no one was watching him.”
Had William really done that?
“I’ve never heard such baseless tittle-tattle. Those sisters could build bridges out of fairy dust.”
“Yes.” Miss Hutting took a sudden interest in the fabric of her skirt. “But as to the baselessness, er, well . . .” She looked back up at Belle. “Apparently Miss Gertrude saw Mr. Wattles go into the Spinster House one evening shortly after he arrived in Loves Bridge. She watched for an hour or so—she and Miss Cordelia were visiting their papa’s grave in the churchyard—and she didn’t see him come out again.” Miss Hutting frowned. “I asked her why she hadn’t raised an alarm, but she said she thought you wished to have him, ah, visit.”
Oh, God!
It was always best not to lie if one could avoid it.
She forced herself to laugh. “Heavens, how silly! Miss Gertrude must have seen Mr. Wattles the day he tried to help me discover how Poppy got into the house. Of course he left, likely shortly after Miss Gertrude stopped spying on me.” That was the curse of village living—nothing went unnoticed or unremarked upon.
Miss Hutting did not drop the matter—she could be bloody tenacious—but at least now she sounded merely puzzled rather than accusatory. “But why did Mr. Wattles do that, Miss Franklin? It’s not proper for an unmarried man to be alone with an unmarried woman. Is Mr. Wattles an acquaintance or relation of some sort?”
Of some sort.
“Mr. Wattles was merely being a gentleman, Miss Hutting.” Keep the story as close to the truth as possible. “He was concerned for my safety.”
“But Miss Cordelia said she’d seen him embracing you on the street earlier that day.”
What was this? Oh, right ...
“He wasn’t embracing me, Miss Hutting. He was catching me. I’d tripped over Poppy and would have fallen if Mr. Wattles hadn’t happened upon me at just that moment.”
Miss Hutting grinned, looking much relieved. “I’m surprised he didn’t topple over with you. He’s rather on in years, isn’t he? And not especially robust.” She snorted. “But then, I can’t imagine teaching music requires much muscle, unless it’s to pound some knowledge into skulls as thick as my brother Walter’s.”
How could Miss Hutting say such things? William wasn’t at all old. And as for muscles—
She bit her lip. She wasn’t supposed to know about William’s muscles and—a spurt of what could only be possessiveness shot through her—she definitely didn’t want Miss Hutting knowing about them.
“And you are far too old for such foolishness yourself, of course, which you may be sure I told the Misses Boltwood.”
Blast it, her jaw hadn’t dropped, had it? Her fingers itched to wrap themselves around Miss Hutting’s neck. She’d show the girl old.
Miss Hutting flushed. “But they just laughed and said you were in your prime and likely desperate to—” Her flush deepened.
And she’d strangle the Boltwood sisters as well.
“But then Miss Gertrude shushed Miss Cordelia and said she shouldn’t sully my virginal ears.” Miss Hutting scowled. “I hate it when people say that.”
“I’m sure you do.” And she was equally sure she wished to bring this conversation to an end. She made a great show of consulting her watch. Thank God! “Why, look at the time. It’s already past five o’clock. I must close up.”
Miss Hutting stood. “Yes. And Mama will be looking for me. She’ll want help with the children.”
Miss Hutting waited while Belle locked the library door. Then they started walking toward the Spinster House and vicarage.
“Thank you again for reading my pages,” Miss Hutting said.
“I do hope you’ll find my comments helpful.” Impulsively, Belle laid her hand on the girl’s arm. “You must not get discouraged. You have a great deal of talent.”
Miss Hutting’s face suddenly glowed, as if someone had just lit a candle inside her. “Thank you, Miss Franklin. I’m determined to improve.” She sighed. “I only wish I had the solitude you have. The vicarage is so crowded, and Mama is always saddling me with the younger children. It must be so peaceful in the Spinster House.”
Peaceful? Lonely was a better description.
“Yes, I do have hours and hours to myself, don’t I?”
Miss Hutting’s brows shot up. “Don’t you like living in the Spinster House?”
“Of course I like it.” The Spinster House had saved her life. She had no idea what she would have done if it hadn’t been available when she’d needed it. “As you say, it’s very peaceful. And it gives me my independence.”
“Precisely. You’re at no man’s beck and call. I can’t tell you how much I envy you that.” Miss Hutting grimaced. “Mama is still trying to marry me off to Mr. Barker.”
Mr. Barker was a very staid, very prosperous local farmer with a very dreadful mother.
“Your mother means well. I’m sure she only wants the best for you.”
Miss Hutting wrinkled her nose. “But Mr. Barker?”
Belle laughed. “Perhaps not Mr. Barker.”
They reached the Spinster House, where their ways parted, and Belle touched Miss Hutting lightly on the arm again. “Your mother can’t force you up the church aisle, you know, especially with your father at the other end of it. He would never consent to witness your marriage to a man you cannot like.”
“I know. I just wish Mama would stop trying to marry me off at all.” Miss Hutting smiled. “Well, what I really wish is to be the Spinster House spinster. However, that position is already taken.”
“Indeed it is.” Though if William—
No. She was not going to begin building bridges from fairy dust. “Good day, Miss Hutting.”
“Good day, Miss Franklin.”
Belle turned up the walk to the Spinster House. Miss Hutting was blessed with so much—parents who loved her, sisters and brothers to share life with—yet she didn’t begin to appreciate her good fortune. It was very sad.
But it wasn’t any of her concern.
She opened the door to find Poppy sitting just inside. At least there was one living creature to welcome her home. She bent to rub Poppy’s ears.
“Did you miss me, then?”
“Yes. Dreadfully.”
Oh! Her heart almost leaped out of her chest. That wasn’t Poppy talking.
Chapter Six
May 15, 1797—My lip is bleeding and one of my eyes is swollen shut, but I shall never tell them the name of my baby’s father. In the morning they are packing me off to a disreputable cousin. A whore to a whore, Father said.
—from Belle Frost’s diary
“William!” His name came out as a croak. He was her
e. He was actually here. “H-how did you get in?”
“The back door.” His brows slanted down. “It was unlocked. That’s not safe.”
“Oh. Yes. That’s right. For some reason Poppy insisted on going out that way this morning. I must have forgotten to lock up when she came back in.”
She wanted to run to him, to throw herself into his arms.
She didn’t move.
“I thought she had her own means of coming and going.”
Poppy had gone over to rub herself against William’s leg. He bent to stroke her.
“When it suits her. Today she wanted to use the door.”
Good God. They were conversing like two polite strangers. She should go to him.
She couldn’t. It was as if there were a great chasm between them. If she stood here on her side, her life would remain as it had been these last twenty years. If she crossed over and touched him, everything would change.
It was far safer to stay where she was.
When I was young I didn’t consider safety. I let passion—and love—rule me, no matter what the risks.
She was no longer young.
“I saw that your wife died. I’m very sorry.”
He kept looking down, stroking Poppy. “I thought you didn’t read the gossip columns.”
“I didn’t used to.” She bit her lip. She didn’t want to pry, but it felt rude to ignore the topic. “I hope she didn’t suffer.”
“I don’t think she did. I don’t know.”
She heard the pain in his voice, and her heart ached for him.
He straightened up. “God, Belle. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but it was still a shock.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I suppose one thinks life will go on as it always has until it doesn’t.”
“Yes.” That was a good thing. Surprise hurt too much. Now that William’s wife had died, he’d return to London . . .
Except he’s here in Loves Bridge.
Did she really want her life to go on as it had been, day after day, always the same?
Always alone.
How to Manage a Marquess Page 34
