The Rake’s Hesitant Bride: Historical Regency Romance (Ladybirds of Birdwell Book 2)

by Ella Edon

  She knew that she ought to say something and make a little conversation, but for the moment, all she could see, or hear, or think of, was James. Beside her, Sally was equally silent and unresponsive, for her own reasons.

  At last Lady Albany spoke up, in hopes of establishing some form of verbal communication. "Good morning, young ladies," she said. "I trust you slept well?"

  "Very well," Merope replied, and was able to lead Sally to their chairs. She dropped Sally's arm as the two of them slowly sat down. James and his father then sat down again as well.

  "Good morning, Miss Robbins. Miss Henson," said James. He was as polite as ever, but – but it was no different from any other time he might have greeted her.

  "Good morning," the two women said faintly, and then quickly began serving themselves cups of tea in an effort to keep occupied. Merope succeeded in getting tea and sugar and cream prepared for both herself and Sally, but her hopeful outlook of the morning was fading fast and she was feeling distinctly uncomfortable. She tried to smile at James but felt a sudden chill when he only glanced at Sally and then turned to speak to his father about something else instead.

  Sally made a real effort and drank down her cup of tea, and then poured herself another. "Sugar, please, Merope," she whispered, and Merope spooned more of the loose sugar into the tea. Then she finished her own sweet tea. Sally perked up a bit, but Merope did not feel any better.

  "Please, ladies," said Lady Albany again. "You may enjoy some toasted bread and butter, and some of these sausages. They are the best I have had in some time. I'm sure you must be hungry after all the exertions of last night."

  Merope nearly dropped her teacup, but got it set into the saucer just in time. She smiled tightly and glanced up at James's mother. "Thank you, Lady Albany. I believe I will. I am sure Sally will at least try a little toast, as well."

  She nudged Sally below the table, who looked up and nodded, while plainly having no idea what she was agreeing to. "Toasted bread," whispered Merope, and Sally finally agreed to accept a slice . . . although she did not touch it.

  Merope knew that the two of them were an awful sight this morning and she wondered whether James's parents would suspect anything, as far as what they might have been up to last night. They knew about the fight, of course, and knew that their son had slept out in the millhouse . . . but Merope could only pray that her own guilty conscience and nervousness at their breakfast table would not give her away to them.

  Yet James only talked quietly with his parents, and the three of them went on for a time about the best way to set the house to rights again and what to do with the leftover food. They all laughed a little over something, and neither his mother nor his father seemed distressed by last night's dramatic events.

  "Miss Robbins," said James, "I do hope you enjoyed the ball last night? Is that why you seem fatigued this morning? Perhaps you and Miss Henson were both up late enjoying yourselves – and I shall count myself a successful host if that was indeed the case."

  Merope's eyes widened. "Oh, why yes," she said, trying to think fast. " I do remember it all, as well as my foolish glass of champagne. I am still quite tired from all of the – all of the dancing that I did last night. The Dunrobin, the Love and Whiskey!"

  "The Nobody Coming to Marry Me," muttered Sally, leaving her bread on the plate without eating it.

  "All of the dances were wonderful," Merope said, making a supreme effort to seem happy and light-hearted in spite of her rising confusion – and Sally's melancholy. She took a piece of sausage from the serving plate and offered to serve one to Sally, who only shook her head and went back to her tea.

  Again, silence fell over the table. Merope tried to catch James's eye, but he gave her only the briefest of glances. "Miss Henson," he said, turning to Sally instead. "I am sure you would like to know that when Mr. Bird decided to walk home last night, his friends left shortly thereafter in his wagon and went in search of him. So, it is virtually certain that he did not have to walk all six miles home last night, even if it was a fine night with a good moon."

  Sally pressed her napkin to her lips and for a moment looked as though she would burst into tears. Then she nodded her head and smiled gratefully at James. "Thank you, Mr. Brookford," she whispered. "Thank you for telling me."

  After that, James spoke again to his father – something about the cattle – but Merope only felt more crushed and humiliated by the minute. He had barely even looked at her, here at his own table and under his own roof after she had gone to him and offered him everything, she had because of her love for him.

  Now it was as though that had meant nothing at all.

  Then James finished eating and stood up. "I am sorry to leave a bit early, but I must go and check on a couple of head of new cows this morning. I will be back before long. Perhaps the young ladies and I can have tea when I return, we can discuss the ball then. Good morning to you all."

  With that, James left the room.

  Merope began to feel cold and hot all at once. The room seemed to be spinning and for the first time in her life, she thought she might faint.

  What was happening? What had she done, by going to him last night? But all she could do was try to politely sip her tea with shaking hands while her shock and panic grew, and all the while the bread and sausage went cold on her beautiful china plate.

  Somehow, Merope managed to excuse herself from the breakfast table. Sally left with her. At first, Merope feared the other girl might try to follow her, but Sally merely went upstairs, saying she had slept little the night before and would try to sleep again this morning if she could.

  Merope ignored her and left the house. Though she knew she should not do it, she could not stop herself from seeking him out. As he had said he would be, he was out walking in the pasture past the many red-and-white cows and was getting close to the low sheds at the far end. Merope went striding out after him, not caring who might see her following him or who knew she was talking to him alone.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  They were nearly out of sight of the house when James turned around and saw her. He looked very surprised and a little apprehensive, but gave her a quick bow nonetheless. "Merope," he said, and walked to her and took her by the hand. "I am so glad to see you this morning."

  Quietly, she withdrew her hand. "It did not seem so when we were at table."

  He still just smiled at her. "Of course, I was glad to see you. I am always glad whenever I see you. I am only out here now because one of the herdsmen said there was a late calf born last night and I wanted to check on it. Look – there he is!"

  As he had said, one of the cows did have a very small and wobbly white-frosted red calf at her side. The little creature stayed close to his mother and her warm milk but seemed to get stronger by the moment as it hurried along to keep up. She could not help but smile. "Indeed. There it is. Small creatures are always very cute. But, James – "

  "It is somewhat unusual to have a calf born at this time of year. Most often, they arrive in the spring or in the fall, not in late summer," he went on. "This cow was a new one and was actually meant for one of the Worthington bulls, as are the others. But apparently she had other plans!"

  He laughed a little, walking a few steps after the calf as it tottered and played up. "But I have learned that life does not always happen according to what we would like, or what we might find convenient. Sometimes it simply – happens. Much like this calf, who is strong and doing well, and might make a fine bull for the Albany House herds in due course."

  Merope stood and stared at him, not knowing what to think or what on earth he thought of her now . . . and realized that she was beginning to feel insulted by what he was saying . . . insulted, and very, very low, as the reality of last night in the millhouse truly began to sink in to her.

  When she remained silent, he finally turned and looked directly at her. "What is it, Merope?' he asked, as though they were mere acquaintances and they were discussing the weather. "I kn
ow you did not really come out here to see the cows. You look as though you have something to tell me."

  She started to speak, and then caught her breath. The little calf hopped around some more and followed his mother as she wandered out among the rest of the herd. Closing her eyes, she tried to gather her thoughts.

  Merope knew that she may not get the chance to do this again.

  "I should have – I should have known better. Far better."

  "What are you talking about?" he asked, stepping close to her. "I can see that you are angry, but I am at a loss as to why."

  "Why?" She looked at him, astonished, as her shock and anger grew. "Last night may have meant nothing to you, James, but unfortunately it meant a great deal to me."

  He took her hand, holding it in both of his own. "Last night meant everything to me," he said quietly.

  She pulled her hand away. "You cannot possibly expect me to believe that. I have behaved no better than one of your London women. No better than this cow right here. Now I seem to be someone you hardly want to know at all."

  "You must listen to me," he told her, his voice low and urgent. "If I behaved indifferently towards you this morning, it is solely because I mean to protect your reputation and your privacy."

  She raised her chin and turned away from him, but he moved to stand in front of her. "What would you have me do, Merope? I wish to protect you! Treating you as I normally would seemed to be the best course."

  "You hardly spoke to me, or looked at me, at all, when I came downstairs this morning," she whispered. "Is that normal?"

  He smiled a little. "Perhaps not. Perhaps I am trying a little too hard. I wish to protect you, Merope, and again . . . I am not sure what else you would have me do."

  You could marry me! she wanted to cry to him, but instead just closed her eyes and tried to force her racing heart and wild emotions under control.

  "I suppose . . . I suppose that I expected . . . a proposal, Mr. Brookford."

  "Oh – oh, I see – "

  "But I do not want that to simply be the price of what happened last night. And it is becoming clear to me that that is all that it would be." Her voice was bitter and cold. "You have spent years in London. I should have known that you would be well accustomed to women who all have their price and would expect as much. Aren't you?"

  Now it was his turn to look shocked. "It was nothing like that, Merope. I wanted to tell you that – "

  She cut him off before he could say anything more. "Tell me what? I will tell you that I was so foolish that I thought – I expected – to get a proposal. I expected it last night. That is how foolish I am."

  "Please – listen to me – "

  "And I am even more foolish than that, for I thought that since there was no proposal forthcoming last night there would surely be one at breakfast today. How I must amuse you, Mr. Brookford, even among all the many women you have known."

  She started to stalk off towards the house, but he caught her arm and turned her around. "Marry me, then! I would love nothing better." He promptly dropped to one knee, still holding her hand. "I am quite serious. Marry me. Just as soon as we can."

  For the space of a few heartbeats, she almost gave in and said yes. This was what she had longed to hear for some time now, whether she wanted to admit it to herself or not, and it was what she had been desperate to hear after the events of last night.

  "James," she whispered. "James, I – "

  She pulled her hand away and walked several steps across the field. "What has happened to the pact we made?"

  "The – pact?"

  She laughed. "You see? You have forgotten even that. I mean our pact to use cool decision-making to find our way in this relationship, instead of being carried away on wild waves of emotion as most men and women do. We promised each other that we would do so, and it seemed to work well for us – "

  "Until it was simply not possible to disregard that emotion any longer," he said, taking a few steps towards her. "I meant what I said, Merope. I do want you to marry me. I was just waiting for the right moment to – "

  "The right moment? You mean, after – after the millhouse – was not the right moment? But I should not be speaking of that now. I, too, am just as guilty of seeing my careful detachment thrown to the winds and wrecked."

  "You are still a woman, Merope," he said quietly. "I believe you are a woman in love. It is entirely understandable that you should – "

  "No! We must use sense and intellect to make such important decisions and not be carried off in a rush of passion and feeling! I won't marry anyone like this! Our passions are controlling us, instead of us controlling our passions! Look at – look at what happened when I did, when even just once, I gave in to passion and feeling!"

  James walked up behind her and placed both hands on her trembling shoulders. "I have used sense and intellect, as well as passion and feeling, and all tell me that I want nothing more than to marry you."

  Again, he turned her so that she faced him. "The moment I am back in Birdwell," James whispered, "which will be as soon as I can arrange it – I will come to the inn and speak to – I will speak –”

  She stepped back from him and raised her head. Her face was streaked with tears, but she did not care. "Speak to whom, Mr. Brookford? To my father? But you cannot, for he died long ago. And I have no other men in my family. I have only my mother and there is no one for you to speak to, save her."

  He closed his eyes and shook his head, as though he had not thought of that until now.

  "Perhaps that is another reason why you would think – you would think that – that I would go to a place like the millhouse and stay alone with you. There is no other man protecting me. So why should you worry?"

  James grabbed her arm, angry at hearing this. "That is not why I wanted you there! I have never been drawn to any woman the way I am drawn to you. I am drawn to you at all times . . . no matter what we are doing, no matter who else might be present. I do love you, Merope. I do want to marry you."

  She closed her eyes, drawing her arm away from his grasp. He did not resist. "And yet . . . perhaps it is I who should not have reached so high as this. I have virtually nothing to offer you, Mr. Brookford. I am the daughter of a widowed mother who has worked with her hands as hard as any farm wife.”

  She gave him another hard glare. "This is hardly the sort of proposal that I ever hoped to receive. If a man should propose merely as an afterthought, after – after an encounter such as the one we had last evening – then that is no proposal at all."

  Again, he reached for her arm. "Merope! I told you – I am entirely sincere! I do very much wish to marry you!"

  She pulled away from him. "I forgot myself last night, Mr. Brookford. I forgot that I am no one who is worthy of being the lady of a place like Albany House. All I did last night was prove that beyond any doubt."

  With the last shred of her pride, Merope raised her chin and started towards the house. "Please have someone drive me back to Birdwell this very afternoon," she said to him, "just as soon as they can be ready. It matters not to me either way whether Sally goes or not. That is entirely her affair – and yours. I thank you for – for – "

  But her voice broke and she could speak no more. Merope picked up the hems of her skirts and ran back to the house as fast as she could go.

  Within just a couple of hours, Merope was headed back to Birdwell in the rear of the dark green barouche. She kept her eyes closed and her bonnet pulled down to shield her eyes. She tried to do nothing except listen to the hoofbeats of the Connemara pair as they trotted steadily along.

  Fionn drove the vehicle, of course, and Sally rode pushed up into the other corner of the rear seat with a handkerchief clasped in hand.

  But that was all. Except for Sally's many trunks and cases, and Merope's few things, there was nothing else – and no one else – in the carriage. Merope had quietly asked that she and Sally be sent back to Birdwell alone and there had been no protest from anyone.
r />   Now the barouche rolled along in the soft grey day, the only sound outside of the hoofbeats and the jingling harness was Sally's sniffling and occasional sobbing. Merope could not decide which was worse: listening to Sally's bragging when they had first ridden up to Albany House, or hearing her cry and whimper all the way home now.

  But as they began to get closer to the town – and, Merope realized, were passing by Daniel Bird's farm – Sally finally lifted her head to speak.

  "Oh, there it is," she whispered, looking over the Bird family hog farm. "I am sure I will never see him again. He will stay and work on his farm, and if ever he must go into town, he will simply avoid me if he so much as catches a glimpse of my skirts."

  Merope felt some small amount of pity for her. Sally's voice was no longer bragging, and most of the girlish silliness was gone. She had learned a very hard lesson over the last few days . . . as have we all.