by Jane Goodger
“No, he couldn’t have,” Elizabeth said, immediately going to her friend. “In a letter? That scoundrel.”
“That’s awful,” Amelia said, standing up as if she were ready for fisticuffs with the gentleman. “How dare he? I’ll tell you, it’s a lucky thing he lives across the ocean. Right, Edward?”
Edward, who’d been studying Maggie’s face, and wondering why she appeared more irritated than heartbroken, realized abruptly that his sister was talking to him. “Right what?”
“It’s a good thing Mr. Wright lives across the ocean.”
“I hardly think it is your brother’s concern,” Mrs. Pierce said, and for some reason, Edward found that statement rather distressing, for it meant he had no claim on the Pierces, no right to protect Maggie’s honor. He was merely an acquaintance, someone certainly not expected to call someone out.
“But surely someone must take him to task,” Amelia insisted.
“Mr. Pierce will surely handle things,” Harriet said calmly.
“Mama.”
“What, dear?” Oddly, both mother’s and daughter’s tones held a note of warning, as if they each feared the other would say something she oughtn’t. There was some undercurrent between the two women that Edward could not begin to understand.
“I don’t want Papa involved,” Maggie said. “I don’t want to think about this at all. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so emotional in front of you all.”
If anything, it was the lack of emotion that was so curious, Edward thought. Then again, he knew Maggie tried very hard to not let anyone know her true feelings, and when she beamed them all a rather convincing smile, he knew that he was right. The poor girl was completely heartbroken and trying valiantly not to show it.
“I do believe this is all providence,” Mrs. Pierce said, strangely chipper of a sudden. “Had we been in New York, this would have been far more humiliating. But we are here, and here for months to come.”
“Oh, Miss Pierce,” Amelia gushed. “Now you can have a true season. I shall make it my duty to find you a fine English husband. You can be assured no English gentleman would ever jilt his fiancée so.”
Maggie looked pained, as if the idea of going about looking for a husband was the last thing on her mind. “Amelia, Miss Pierce surely is not thinking about obtaining a second fiancé when she is still recovering from losing her first,” Edward said. Of course, he didn’t mean a word of it, for it was nearly impossible to stop the surge of joy at the realization that Maggie was now free. He had only to wait until she’d recovered a bit before making it clear to her that he intended to court her. A week ought to do it.
“I say when the horse throws you, get right back on it,” Amelia said with a nod.
“Thank you, Amelia, but your brother is right. The last thing I need now is another suitor. I really cannot even think about such things right now.”
Perhaps two weeks, Edward thought begrudgingly. Surely in two weeks she would be over this Arthur person.
“Of course not,” Elizabeth said, drawing Maggie down to sit next to her. “Oh, dear, we planned a supper tonight with some local gentry. Twenty guests in all. Please don’t worry if you cannot dine with us.”
“I’m perfectly fine and I wouldn’t miss the play the children are putting on for the world. It will be a good distraction. I need that right now, I think.”
Three weeks and no more. The girl couldn’t possibly pine for the man for longer than that.
Chapter 10
Apparently, Miss Pierce had recovered far more quickly than the three weeks he’d thought it would take if her ability to flirt with every man in a room was any indication, Edward thought sourly not four hours later. Lord What’s-his-name had been hovering over her all night, as well as Sir William, a very nice person from what he knew, but who was old enough to be her father. She was sparkling and witty and decidedly unmelancholy. For some maddening reason, Her Grace had placed Maggie beside her and between two men in what Edward thought darkly was a ridiculously transparent attempt to get her mind off her fiancé.
He was seated between two young and exceedingly annoying women, another ridiculously transparent attempt by Her Grace to marry him off. One of the women had just said something to him, using a voice so soft he was forced to lean over to hear her, forcing an intimacy he did not want to participate in.
“Did you enjoy America?” she asked, and Edward actually thought he detected a slight tremor in her voice. God, he wasn’t that frightening, was he?
“Very much so. But I found it entirely too sunny.”
The girl looked at him blankly, then gave him a shy smile. “You are teasing.” Then she looked down at her plate as if she’d said something unpardonable.
“Yes,” he said, slightly ashamed to tease a girl who clearly was not used to being teased.
“I don’t think I would like it there. I find Americans rather loud,” she said, and in that instant, Maggie let out a laugh that was filled with abandon. He jerked his head to see if he could determine what was so god-awful funny at her end of the table, and found two men staring at her as if she were some sort of goddess. He frowned, and the twit next to him took his frown as agreement that, indeed, Americans were much too loud.
“Her Grace is rather nice.” For an American, came the silent part of that sentence. “But…”
Edward turned toward the girl, reassessing his earlier opinion. She was not a shy, awkward thing, she was a crafty, miserable thing.
“But her friend is rather unsophisticated.”
“Your brother seems to find her fascinating,” Edward said darkly.
“I know,” she said feelingly. “I’m certain she is a very nice person, but my brother is heir to a barony. And she is…”
“She is what?” Edward asked, and something in his tone must have warned her to be a bit more discreet.
“Well, she is not English.”
Just like that, he was transported back to Newport. He’d been dancing with Maggie and announced that not only was he not interested in marriage, but he certainly was not interested in marrying an American girl. “I have no intention of marrying for at least another ten years, and certainly not an American,” he’d said, full of arrogant confidence. “My not wanting to marry an American girl is completely snobbishness on my part, I confess. Given the choice, I’d rather marry a girl from my own country.”
Maggie had understood, but wondered aloud what would happen if he met a girl and fell madly in love. He’d scoffed. “I have known some of the most beautiful women on this planet and have not succumbed to that irrational state. I feel sorry for the men that do. And what of you? How can you predict the future?”
Maggie had tilted her head; he could still picture her looking up at him as if deep in thought. “But I’ve already met everyone there is to meet and I have not fallen in love, so I can safely say that I will remain unmarried. And happily so.”
And not two months later, she’d gotten engaged. Fickle woman. Of course, in a shorter time than that, he’d fallen in love, madly so, with Maggie. So who was the bigger fool?
“Not that being English makes someone perfect,” the girl continued.
“Are you one of the perfect ones?” Edward asked, deciding to flirt with the girl after all. It certainly wouldn’t do to sit there seething every time he heard someone on at the opposite end of the table laughing.
The girl blushed and took a breath that could only be described as triumphant, as if she could already picture the two of them marching down the aisle.
“Are you at Bellewood long, Lord Hollings?” a woman across from him asked. He knew instantly he was staring into the hopeful eyes of a Desperate Mama. He’d seen enough of them over the years to recognize them immediately. This one was definitely an older version of the girl sitting next to him. He didn’t remember her name, even though they’d been introduced.
“He’s here until Christmas,” chimed the girl to his left. He did know her name, a Miss Sterling who was a da
ughter of Viscount Sterling.
Until inheriting his uncle’s title, he’d not been a member of the ton, had not attended balls and the London season. He was only recently an earl and forced, because he was his sister’s guardian, to ensure that she found a suitable husband. It had become vital, overnight, that Amelia not only marry, but marry well. She was the sister of an earl, not simply the sister of an officer in the British Light Guards. If not for Amelia, he would have been perfectly content to search for books, attend a few gentlemen clubs, be happily single until…
He’d always pictured a plump, rosy-cheeked English wife. Someone comfortable and comforting. Not in a million years would he ever have admitted to such a thing to his friends, for that was not at all the type of women he’d spent so much time with in his youth. Any of his friends would have described Edward’s perfect woman as someone overtly sexual, beautiful, lithe, and elegant. But what he really, truly wanted, the woman he imagined gathering up his children and putting them to bed, was…
Maggie.
Maggie, with her brown eyes, her lush mouth, her wonderful curves. He’d only kissed her once, barely touched her, really, yet he could imagine what it would be like with her. God had cursed him with a wonderful imagination, and lately it had been driving him insane with its vivid details. Just then, the woman of his vivid imagination laughed again and laid a hand on the older gentleman’s arm in a gesture that could only be seen as flirtation. Unless one was dead. And from the look on Lord William’s face, he was very much alive. And very much interested.
Maggie hadn’t had so much fun in months. Feeling the weight of a lie lifted from her shoulders, she was finally allowing herself to have a little fun. She was surrounded by extremely jolly people, so it was a bit difficult to remain morose given that she hadn’t felt so happy in months. In a tiny corner of her mind, it was frightening, this feeling, as if at any moment her laughter could turn into hysterical tears, as if she were hanging on to this small bit of joy by the very tips of her fingers.
Elizabeth had done well selecting her guests, for they all seemed like pleasant people who were genuinely curious about New York and living in America. The dining table easily fit the company, which had been nicely divided into ten men and ten women. Forgoing the traditional seating according to rank, Elizabeth appeared to have seated her guests according to their interests and state of marriage. Maggie was slightly put out that Lord Hollings had been seated farther down the table between two lovely girls, both blond, both hanging on his every word as if he were the king himself.
Maggie sat near the head of the table where Elizabeth presided next to a baronet and across from a Sir John Somebody who had apparently been recently knighted, whatever that meant. Surely it didn’t mean he was going to don a coat of armor after dinner. Maggie wasn’t at all certain what being knighted entailed, but she’d acted impressed when informed of this development. Sir John was a young man, handsome enough, with a straight fringe of bangs that lent him a strangely medieval air, which she supposed went with his new title.
“You seemed to have recovered nicely,” Elizabeth said, beaming a smile at her friend.
“I have, haven’t I? You know me, Elizabeth, I have never been one to dwell on the past.”
Elizabeth raised one eyebrow. “But you found out only hours ago that your fiancé was calling it off.”
“Yes. That is true,” Maggie said, forcing a frown that didn’t come near to reaching her merry eyes. “And I forgot to thank you for your discretion this afternoon,” she said, lowering her voice. “My mother doesn’t want anyone to know of our situation.”
“So I gathered when she announced that your father would handle Mr. Wright,” Elizabeth whispered.
Maggie smiled, but her mother’s mercurial moods and apparent love of deception were wearing on her. It was becoming more and more difficult to know which lie was still out there, who knew which lie, and who knew the truth. At least she no longer had to perpetuate her engagement to Arthur. As far as she knew, Elizabeth was the only one who knew her father was in prison, her mother was the only one who knew she’d lost her virginity, and she was the only one who knew Arthur hadn’t taken it.
If it wasn’t all so horrid, Maggie might laugh. In fact, she felt like laughing and so found herself staring at her wonderfully tender roast beef with intensity in an effort not to dissolve into hysterics.
“Is there something wrong with your beef?” Sir William inquired.
Maggie gave the gentleman next to her a startled look. “Oh, no. I was merely thinking about something amusing and was trying to stop myself from bubbling up with laughter. I’m afraid you all would have had me committed to Bedlam.”
Sir William Matthews, a baronet and the duke’s neighbor, had been charming all evening, regaling her with tales of trying to raise five sons on his own. The sons were all grown up now, all married but one, which surprised Maggie because he didn’t seem all that old to her. She’d thought when they’d met he was in his forties, perhaps even younger than her father. But he had sons in their thirties, so he certainly must have been closer to fifty.
“Would you care to share? I do appreciate a good chuckle.”
“I’m afraid you would not find this particularly amusing. Sir William, I wonder how it’s possible that you have a grandchild. Did you perhaps marry when you were ten?”
He gave her a smile somewhere between disbelief and appreciation, which was really quite charming. “Are you trying to ascertain my age, Miss Pierce?”
Maggie flushed slightly. “It’s only that my father appears older than you, but I’ve determined that you must be older than he.”
Sir William, putting on a wounded look, said, “Now you have crushed me. Shall I produce a cane and prove my age? Here I was, thinking I was impressing a young lady, thinking my skills of flirtation weren’t as rusty as I’d thought, and the girl compares me to her father.”
“Favorably,” Maggie said, laughing.
“I think I shall turn the tables, Miss Pierce, and, at the risk of making me feel even more ancient, ask you how old you are.”
“I’ve just turned twenty-one this past September,” she said. “Ready to be put on the shelf.”
Sir William muttered something under his breath.
“Sir?”
“You are younger than my youngest child and hardly ready for any shelf.” He was acting disappointed, as if he’d actually been contemplating courting Maggie. For now, that wasn’t entirely too horrifying, for the chances were he was simply flirting with her.
“Nearly all my friends are married, many with children,” she said, with a nod to Elizabeth, who was completely embracing the latest fad in England to appear in public enceinte. And then, because she knew Sir William had been flirting with her all night, she stated with a straight face, “Are you trying to play matchmaker with your son?”
Sir William, who had just taken a sip of wine, nearly choked. Maggie kept her look of innocence as long as possible before smiling.
“You have put me firmly in my rocking chair,” he said.
“Don’t be silly,” she said lightly. “I have no interest in your son. I should tell you that I was recently jilted by an extremely immature young man, who refused to marry me because his parents were not completely in accord with the idea. He did not stand up to his mama and so our engagement was ended. Frankly, the idea of ever being courted again by someone who has to answer to his mama or papa is distasteful in the extreme.”
“You are a remarkable young woman,” Sir William said, then turned back toward his own meal, as if he was embarrassed to have been so forthcoming.
“I don’t feel so very young, sir. And by the way, you very effectively changed the subject from you to me and never assuaged my curiosity.”
“So you admit it.”
“Yes, I admit I am curious about your age. I would have guessed forty,” she said, looking over his still-full head of hair, which was only slightly salted with a bit a gray at his temples.
Sir William smiled. “You are a very dangerous young woman, I think,” he said.
Maggie laughed aloud. “No one has ever called me dangerous. I can’t even frighten mice away.” At his look of disbelief, she said, “It’s true. We had mice roaming around our house when I was a child and they seemed to find my room particularly welcoming. Most likely it was because I hid all the traps Nanny put about the room and they somehow knew it was a safe haven.”
“I am afraid of mice,” said the knighted young man across from her with enough charming self-deprecation to force another grin from Maggie. She was surrounded by charming men this evening. Without thinking, she looked down the table toward Lord Hollings and found him scowling fiercely. Well, she thought, most of the men were charming. Lord Hollings, whom she had found so delightfully refreshing when he’d visited Newport last summer, had been decidedly less so since her arrival in England. She wondered idly if he’d requested that she not be seated next to him now that she was an eligible woman.
“I find all rodents rather frightening, actually,” the young man admitted.
“Surely not rabbits, sir,” Maggie said, teasing him.
He shuddered dramatically.
“I can’t stand snakes,” Sir William said, inserting himself back into the conversation.
“You know,” Maggie said thoughtfully, “there isn’t a creature on earth that I’m frightened by now that I think of it. My brothers used to call me to dispense of the spiders in their room. I already told you about the mice. Bats, perhaps. I wouldn’t want one flying into my hair, I suppose. But I’ve never really been around enough bats to know if I’m frightened by them or not. They can’t kill you, can they? They could make a nightmare of my coiffure, I suppose. No, not even bats frighten me.”
“So you are one of those fearless American girls, riding astride bareback fighting Indians,” Sir William said. “Like Annie Oakley.”
