A Little Thing Called Love

by Cathy Maxwell

  In contrast, Lord Stowe appeared a rooster in his sea-­green jacket and neckcloth of overflowing lace. He preferred a wig that added height to his frame, but Jenny thought its shape reminded her of nothing less than a coxcomb.

  Her father yanked her back behind him. “Don’t let Morris see Jenny,” he ordered his family. “The man is bent on ruining me.”

  Ruin? A thousand questions leaped to Jenny’s mind.

  “Who is he?” her mother asked.

  “A bastard through and through and an unmitigated liar. I knew him in India. Come, let us go as far away from him as possible.”

  “But Lord Stowe—­” her mother started to protest.

  “Will find Jenny,” the colonel finished. He had taken Jenny’s arm and directed her away from Mr. Morris—­but she glanced back.

  He was looking at her. He pretended to listen to Lord Stowe, but his gaze was on her, and she knew that he was here for her. She knew it.

  She wanted to wave. More than that, she had the urge to run to him, to throw herself in his arms and tell him about what had happened to Sir David’s book. But she didn’t. Instead, she let her father lead her away to the room set aside for refreshments.

  Nor would her father say anything else about Fyclan Morris in answer to the questions her mother did try to ask.

  Jenny was silent on the matter. Several gentlemen admirers gathered around her so that she could hide her interest in this enemy of her father’s behind light teasing and easy banter, but she knew the moment Mr. Morris entered the refreshment room.

  He stood in a corner talking to several gentlemen, yet he was aware of her. Just as aware as she was of him.

  Stowe approached. He reminded her of nothing less than a huge, burly ram, one foot placed in front of the other and his head heavy from his own consequence. He brushed aside her younger admirers and bowed over her hand. “You appear radiant this evening, Miss Morris, as always.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” she murmured, as her parents beamed their approval.

  Stowe looked to the colonel and her mother. “You will allow me the honor of escorting your lovely daughter into the music room?”

  “Of course, of course,” her father said. “She was hoping you would ask.”

  Stowe offered Jenny his arm, and she felt she had no other option than to take it, conscious that Mr. Morris was a witness to it all.

  They joined the flow of ­people moving into the music room. Her parents were behind them, then they seemed to melt back into the crowd. Lord Stowe escorted her to seats in the first rows. He preened and glanced around as if to see if everyone noticed him. Of course, they did. There was a bet on the books at Brooks’s to ensure they would.

  However, she had a disquieting sense that Lord Stowe wasn’t interested in her at all. Not truly. He didn’t bother to make small talk. Instead, he led her to his seats in the section reserved for the Very Important as if she were a mute prize.

  While the musicians were warming up, she dared to lean toward His Lordship. “I saw you speaking to Mr. Morris earlier.”

  “You know him?” Stowe did not sound surprised.

  “He recommended a book to me. How do you know him?”

  “The East India Company wants me to invest in a venture Morris oversees. They say he can turn lead into gold, but I have my doubts. After all, he’s Irish.”

  “Is that your only objection?” Jenny dared to ask.

  Lord Stowe’s gaze drifted over her, from her lips down to bodice, where he lingered. He smiled, the expression smugly complacent, as if he knew something no one else did.

  “Morris is successful,” he said, “but why are we talking about some grubby money manager? Especially when I find myself fortunate enough to be sitting beside London’s current beauty. I’d rather talk about you.”

  Heat warmed her cheeks over the supposed compliment. Still, it didn’t ring right in her ears. Instead, she was embarrassed by it. Nor was she surprised when a gentleman in the row of chairs in front of them leaned back to say something to Lord Stowe, and the marquess immediately forgot her. She was a bauble. A plaything. He wanted to be seen with her, but he wasn’t attentive of her.

  Was he trying to make other men jealous? Or, since as her father’s daughter she’d learned a bit about the vagaries of gambling, was he interested in upsetting the betting book at Brooks’s? What would he gain from such an endeavor?

  With startling insight, Jenny knew right then that Stowe had no intention of offering for her. He just enjoyed showing her off. After all, the man was wealthy. What was the cost of a bet for his vanity?

  Jenny abhorred the hypocrisy. Is this what her father desired for her? To be treated as if she had no value?

  Without even thinking, she stood.

  Heads turned. The German singer had opened his mouth to release the first note. He now shut it, as if affronted that she had moved. His accompanists stopped, and Lord Stowe gaped up at her.

  Jenny pressed her hand to abdomen as if she had taken ill. “Excuse me, my lord, I need a moment of privacy.” She didn’t wait for permission but shuffled past the line of ­people sitting beside her. She reached the aisle and hurried with as much dignity as she could muster for the door.

  Her mother caught up with her in the hall. “What is the matter?”

  “Where is Father?”

  Her mother’s expression grew rueful. “He has disappeared into the gaming room. He said he doesn’t wish to listen to foreign caterwauling.”

  The gaming room. Of course. There was one at every ball, every rout, every affair. He was probably gambling on the prospect of her marrying Stowe, and Jenny wondered if there would ever be an end it?

  She took her mother by the arms. “You must stop him. You must pull him away before he loses more money.”

  “My dear, you know I can’t do that to the colonel—­”

  Jenny gave her mother a shake. “Stowe is not going to offer for me. I sat next to the man. He wanted me there, but he barely even looked at me.”

  “Well, husbands can be that way—­” her mother started, but Jenny wasn’t hearing it.

  “That is not the husband I want, Mother.”

  Jenny didn’t know who was more astounded by her words—­her mother, or herself. But the truth of her stand resonated in every fiber of her being.

  “You must take him,” her mother soberly. “Do you truly believe that I don’t want what is best for you? You can escape this treacherous channel I’ve navigated all my life. If I had been wiser, if I’d had more direction from my parents, I would have married better, and that is my hope for you.”

  Jenny heard the love in her voice, the regret, and she wanted to scream. To rebel.

  Her mother continued “Stowe and his sort may be boors, but they can afford to take proper care of you.”

  “And Father’s debts?”

  “No, I am talking about your life. What? Do you believe Mr. Higley is as knowledgeable as London doctors? You’d be wrong. Do you believe I don’t notice those times when you are fatigued? You seem strong now, but there are moments you are very pale. If you marry well, you can have the very best of care. The most comfortable life. To be blunt: A fat purse might save you, Jenny. And we do not have that kind of money.”

  “But what value is there to life if I find myself strapped to a man who barely acknowledges me as little more than a possession? My life may be short, Mother, but I want it to count.”

  Her mother’s lips parted as if she would protest, but then she closed them. She placed her hand against the side of Jenny’s cheek, a tender gesture, then she stepped back. “I will see if I can remove your father from the gaming room. However, you must stay until the end of this evening so as not to give insult to Lord Stowe. You understand?”

  “I understand. Thank you, Mother.”

  Her mother left the hall.


  Jenny knew she should return to the musicale. Instead, she moved along to the hall to a door leading out into the garden. The fresh night air felt good on her heated skin. It felt honest, something she didn’t feel inside.

  If he’d been here, the good doctor Higley would have reprimanded her about the dangers of an excess of emotion. He’d always been warning her.

  But she didn’t care. In fact, it had felt good to act on her impulses. Good to speak her mind to her mother. The days when her skin was tinged were long behind her, and the last thing she wanted to think about was death.

  Her hosts had not planned on anyone’s visiting the garden. There were no lights other than from the windows. Otherwise, there was just blessed darkness and peace.

  The door opened.

  She could see a man’s silhouette as he stepped out in the garden. He shut the door behind him. She recognized him immediately.

  “My father wants me to marry for money, Mr. Morris.”

  “I have money,” he answered.

  “Yes,” she agreed sadly. “But he considers you an enemy.”

  “I know.”

  And then she ran to him.

  Chapter Six

  SHE WAS COMING to him.

  Fyclan opened his arms, unbelieving at his good luck.

  He had not been able to take his eyes off Jennifer Tarleton from the moment she had stepped into Lord and Lady Nestor’s house. She was grace personified even though he had sensed an air of turmoil around her.

  Yes, he was that attuned to her spirit.

  Tillbury had expected him to impress the Marquess of Stowe and assure him that Stowe’s money could be placed in Fyclan’s trust. Fyclan didn’t give a damn for Stowe or his money. He’d come here to see her. He wanted to believe the connection he felt for her was mutual, and now here was proof.

  And then, right before she could step into his arms, she pulled up short. She stood poised, as alert and fragile as a newborn foal trying to make sense of the world. She held her hands up, palms facing him. “Mustn’t.”

  Such an ugly word.

  “You can trust me,” he answered, his voice barely a whisper lest he startle her and she run off.

  “This is madness,” she replied, half to herself.

  “It is, but it is a good madness. In fact, it is the sort of madness that makes the world seem right.”

  She shifted her weight back. “Did you know who my father was when I met you today?”

  He was tempted to lie. He didn’t. “Yes.”

  “Do you wish to destroy him?”

  “No.”

  “But you understand he is set against you.”

  “Yes.”

  Miss Tarleton took a moment to digest this. He could feel her doubts. Trust was a fragile, and valuable, commodity.

  He knew.

  Fyclan also knew he could not let her go.

  “Father has taken Sir David’s book from me.”

  Here was an acceptance, an opening, and yet he understood he must treat this small gift with the respect it deserved. “Does he know of our meeting today?”

  “No. I lied about where I’d borrowed the book. I told him a neighbor woman lent it to me. I only learned of his dislike of you when he saw you talking to Lord Stowe.” There was a beat of silence, then she said, “Father says he’ll return the book once I accept His Lordship’s marriage offer.” Her gaze slid to a point on the ground only she could see as she admitted “Lord Stowe is not going to offer marriage. That is not his game. I realized that tonight.”

  Fyclan nodded. After a few minutes of listening to Stowe carry on about himself, he had reached the same conclusion. Her astuteness impressed him. “He enjoys the chase, the game. I made him every promise the East India Company expects me to make, and I had a sense I was wasting my breath.”

  Her eyes lifted to his. “I don’t know if my father will see matters the way we do.”

  To the devil with Russell Tarleton. Fyclan had her to himself, and he didn’t want to waste the time discussing old feuds or lost books.

  And so he spoke of what he’d never shared with anyone before.

  “My Gran was a gypsy. She married an Irish soldier and said she had no regrets although there were those who shunned her. She held no grudges. She said there was not enough time in life to waste on little minds.”

  “She is right,” Miss Tarleton murmured.

  “When I asked her why she had been willing to leave her ­people for my grandfather, even understanding how she would be treated in his world, she said it was because he had been her destiny.”

  Miss Tarleton’s head tilted as if she was listening but held reservations.

  “Gran told me that someday I, too, would meet my destiny. She said when I saw her, I would know—­immediately.” He let his words sink before saying, “Today, you walked past me on the street, and I knew.”

  Her chin lifted in doubt.

  “I know you’ve heard pretty words like this before,” he said. “You’ve been flattered and feted and given every accolade a man can offer to earn your attention, but I want you to understand, that even as lovely as you are—­and you are beautiful, Jennifer—­” He used her given name. It sounded right. It was right. “—­What I noticed was the determination in your step. And then to discover your intelligence, your sense of independence . . . you are the one.”

  She shifted her weight away from him. “You flatter me with your attention, sir—­”

  With an angry swipe of his hand through the air, Fyclan cut her off. “I’m not speaking platitudes.

  “You would be beautiful to me even if you were as ugly as a crone and wobbled like a duck.”

  He had to make her understand. He might not have another opportunity.

  “My Gran had the gift of sight. She told me that I would be an important man. She had seen my fate in her dreams. She said that when I found ‘the one,’ I would love her for life, the same way she had loved my grandfather. She said I would willingly give up everything I own for her, that I would surrender my soul to her because we were meant to be together.”

  He took a step toward. “She also said I should not be afraid. All would be good for us. Our children’s children would be dukes. They would create a new world, one that reflected the love we had for each other. She said I must trust this woman to take me into a new life.”

  Was she listening? Did he sound mad? He couldn’t tell. He felt mad, crazed even. If she didn’t understand, if she thought he was spouting foolishness, he didn’t know what he would do.

  She had gone still, her face pale in the moon’s silvery light.

  “When I saw you today, I believed. I followed you to Sir David’s, and within moments of talking to you, I knew I’d found you.”

  The world beyond the two of them had receded. He heard no sound of German singing or the presence of others. There was only the night air and the beating of their hearts.

  And then a tear rolled her cheek.

  One tear, and Fyclan felt gutted. He did not know what it meant. He feared her answer.

  She raised a hand, placing her fingers to her lips as if needing to steady herself before saying, “I am not the one.”

  Before he could deny her claim, she said, “I will not have children, Mr. Fyclan Morris. With me, you would have no descendants, let alone ducal ones. The truth is, I was never meant to live long. My heart is not strong. Mr. Higley, my family’s physic, has warned I might not survive childbirth.” The tears were falling freely now. “That is one of the reasons I feel I’m an imposter. My family expects me to marry to rescue them from the debts Father has run up with his gaming. We are completely desperate. I play a charade of being an eligible wife for these titled men, but I’m not, except for perhaps someone like Stowe who already has his heirs and is now looking for a beautiful second wife, an ornament to s
how off at balls. I’m a fraud.”

  Her torrent of words caught him off guard. Her confession scrambled everything he had believed, and yet, he knew he wasn’t wrong in what he felt for her.

  But before he could form the words to calm both their fears, she took his silence for rejection. Lowering her head in shame, she ran for the door.

  Her hand was on the door handle when he hooked his hand around her arm and swung her to him. He grabbed her arms, holding her so that he could look into her eyes. “Believe,” he said. One word. One important word. “You must believe.”

  “In what?” The words came out in tears. She was breaking into pieces, and he was in danger of losing her.

  “In me. In us. In love. ”

  Her lips parted. She appeared ready to throw his plea back in his face. Her eyes, full of hurt, searched his, then whispered. “Can it be that simple?”

  “Yes,” Fyclan said, relief flooding him. “Yes.”

  And then, because it was right, because it was the most honest action he’d ever taken, he kissed her.

  Her lips tasted of salt. They were wet and still trembled, but she did not pull away.

  He breathed into her all his strength, all of his certainty. His arms threaded through hers. Her shaking stopped. Her lips softened, and the kiss deepened.

  Had he ever kissed before? He thought not. She was the moonlight and the blood thundering through his veins. She filled his arms and his heart, and he knew it would take a lifetime to understand her, a lifetime well spent.

  She was the one.

  A sound behind him was the only warning before the door was thrown open, and Colonel Tarleton said, “What the devil?”

  “Colonel, please, don’t make a scene,” an anxious woman’s voice said.

  The kiss broke. Fyclan swiftly faced Tarleton, protecting Jennifer with his body.

  Her mother hovered in the doorway behind her angry husband. There were two young women there as well. They must be her sisters.