by Darcy Burke
So much for the front door flit he was hoping for. Ronan shifted his jaw and knew that, yes, Theodosia liked to control everything, even his visits. She was an odd bird he had long ceased questioning. He collected his money and left her to herself until she wanted to see him for chess, conversation, dinner, wine and dessert. Him being dessert, of course. Despite her quirks and oddities, she was a surprisingly good person. Which was why it had lasted as long as it had. He worried about her and feared that one day her obsession with other people’s lives was going to hang her. And this Ridley business could very well do that. Damn it. He wouldn’t know peace until he talked to her. Then he’d ease into talking to her about ending things, as well. The woman was getting too attached. Which he didn’t need. “Do you know her plans for this week? Did she tell you?”
“She mentioned the Whittle ball this Friday. Why?”
“Do you have an invitation for that?”
“I accepted it a few weeks ago.”
“Good. Ask Whittle to add me to the list, will you? That way, I can go and talk to her. Because God knows when that woman will let me see her with the sort of schedule she keeps. She is never at the house.”
“Of course. I will inform Whittle of it.” Sweeping out the crop, his uncle playfully tapped Ronan’s thigh. Those dark eyes brightened. “How was France?”
“Incroyable. As always.” A part of him yearned to go back. He missed all of his cousins and the thudding of their little boots and slippers as they ran in and out of rooms, shouting for him to follow in French. It made him want the very thing he knew he couldn’t afford: a family. Such things didn’t pay the bills. They only created them. “I spent most of my hours organizing Aunt Beatrice’s ledgers. It was a mess. She never kept records of anything and the incidentals she did keep records of had missing summations and/or debts. Once that was done, I decided to move her into a bigger house. She was living in a one-room flat with eight children. It was…” Ronan’s throat tightened. “She cried when she got her own room.”
His uncle eyed him. “How much did it cost?”
Ronan swiped his face, not wanting to think about it. “Everything I saved for myself these past three years is gone. I owe money.”
The crop hit the side of Ronan’s scuffed riding boot. “Damn you, Ronan! I told you I sent her money. You can’t keep doing this to yourself. I love my sister, God knows I do, but you can’t keep taking responsibility for her life.”
Agitated with his uncle for making him feel as if loyalty to family was a bad thing, Ronan bit out, “If my mother were alive, she would have taken a stick to your head for saying what you just did. You know how close she and my mother were. Aunt Beatrice and those children have no one but us.”
“Then have her and those children move here to London. It’s less expensive than having you travel to France every two years. They can live with me. Unlike your rot of a townhome, my house has enough rooms to host them all comfortably.”
“Her way of life is in Paris. And none of her children speak English.” Ronan also refused to have her move to London and expose her children to the ton for having married an outcast. He also wasn’t about to expose his mother’s own sister to how he truly lived with three servants and a few pieces of furniture that filled a mostly empty house in desperate need of renovation. He had hidden his struggles from his aunt for years because he knew full well she would never accept his assistance if she knew the state of his finances.
His uncle sighed. “I send her money all the time, Ronan. You know that.”
“It isn’t enough. I went through all of her ledgers myself when I was in Paris. She isn’t living senselessly. Quite the opposite. The reality is it costs a small fortune to clothe, feed, entertain and educate eight children. And that doesn’t include what she needs on a regular basis. I cannot and will not stand by to watch my own aunt and her children live in squalor. Hence why I depleted what I saved. Because I can always save again. They are done living in squalor. I’ve ensured it.”
“Oh, I’d say. Given the last letter I received from her, they’re living better than we are. Why would you buy her a fully furnished house on the Seine with a governess and servants? Knowing you can’t afford it? I may have a grand home that I inherited from my father, but it’s the only grand thing about my life and I barely have the means to maintain it. And unless Beatrice moves into said grand home with me, I can’t financially assist her in the way I would like. And neither can you. I think it time you tell her how you have been paying for everything. She has a right to know.”
Startled, Ronan rasped, “God, no. She is a woman who believes in virtue, love and God. If I told her I was playing whore to a widow, she would never speak to me again.”
“She sees you as a son, Ronan. She would forgive you if you told her.”
A suffocating sensation overtook him. “No. She wouldn’t.”
“She would.”
Ronan glared. “I’m not telling her. And I’ll be damned if you try to wedge yourself into this by giving me advice. You, a whip-obsessed man who was supposed to watch over my house but instead, spent his days dragging his mud and his women through my door doing things he shouldn’t be doing in my bed.”
His uncle gripped the crop with both hands, flexing it. “I thought I had wiped my boots.”
“Was that all you got out of what I just said?” Ronan echoed, angling toward him.
Both hands went up. “So be it. Tell her nothing.”
“Damn right I won’t. Let her live in peace. It’s just money. She doesn’t need to know where it’s coming from.”
His uncle lowered his hands, fingering the crop. After a pulsing moment, he blurted, “I thought you should know something before you hear it from anyone else.”
Oh, no. “What?”
“I’m getting married.”
Ronan pulled in his chin. By God. He never thought the bastard would crack after his first wife had died giving birth to a bastard that wasn’t his. “I’m without words.”
“As well you should be. It’s taken a few years for her to even acknowledge me. Years. She kept putting off the inevitable, given all of her responsibilities. She has a feisty young granddaughter, Miss Maybelle, who, amusingly, has lofty dreams of heading to Egypt as opposed to getting married. Women these days, eh? Sadly, the two only have each other. So I promised Thérèse I would financially assist her and her granddaughter if she agreed to marry me.”
Ronan closed his eyes, feeling the world crushing in on him. Why was it everyone in his family always fell in love with people who were outcasts or had nothing? First his mother, then his aunt and now his uncle. No wonder they were financially and morally ruined. “Why would you romantically involve yourself with a woman? You can hardly support the upkeep of your own estate.”
“Forgive me for wanting to be happy!” his uncle boomed, letting his voice echo around them and down the corridor like a cannon. “Does that mean I should be a prick like you and only associate with women for money?”
Opening his eyes, Ronan hissed out a breath in an effort to remain calm. “Keep your voice down.”
“What? All of a sudden you fucking women for money is a secret?”
Ronan glared. “Enough. You made your point. Who is it? Who are you getting married to?”
Those brown eyes brightened. His uncle’s voice softened. “You met her several times at some of my parties. Madame de Maitenon. My beloved Thérèse.”
Ronan squinted. “You mean that retired French courtesan?”
“Yes. She and I have been visiting with each other quite a bit. She let me kiss her a few weeks ago, and it was like pure ejaculation. I haven’t been the same since. Mind you, she hasn’t formally accepted my proposal, but I know she will, given my title.”
Ronan groaned. “Are you mad? The ton already hates us.”
His uncle cracked the whip against a nearby wall, his features hardening. “Sod the ton and what they hate. After my first wife, I’m done pleasing those bastard
s. I may be too warped and too old for love, but I’m not opposed to having a little poetry in my life.”
Ronan wasn’t about to question his uncle’s mind. “I take it you’re entertaining her right now?”
He sighed. “No. I was forced into entertaining Sophie.”
Ronan snorted. “I can see you are genuinely devoted.”
“I am devoted.” The man gnashed his teeth and hit his hand with the crop. “The trouble is, the French vixen is still seeing other men and won’t give me an answer as to whether she will have me or not.”
Jesus. “This sounds promising already. I hope it works out.” Ronan lowered his voice. “Whatever you do, don’t have eight children. We can’t afford them.”
His uncle gave him a withered look. “She is beyond childrearing days.”
“Good. I like her already.” Ronan elbowed him. “In the meantime, don’t ever bring women into my house again. Servants talk. And I don’t pay them enough to keep them from talking or walking.”
“Yes, yes, I know, I know. Sophie’s husband left to the country for a few weeks, which is why she even called on me. You know what her husband is like. He never touches her, let alone talks to her. So I do. I take it you want me to tell Sophie to get dressed and go?”
Ronan sighed, knowing full well that women, be they married or not, secretly came to his uncle for sex, yes, but the man always offered them something far more invaluable: the lifting of spirits and company. Which was why he was going to let this one go. “No. There is no need. Let her stay. I’ll just…I’ll go sleep in the guest quarters tonight. I need to get some sleep. I’m planning to see Baxendale tomorrow in the afternoon.”
His uncle was quiet for a moment. “He isn’t a Baxendale anymore. He took the name of Hawksford. His father died when you were in France. Didn’t he write to tell you?”
“He did. Yes.” And Ronan still felt guilty as hell knowing he hadn’t been around for the death of the old earl. Annoyingly, he hadn’t even known of the earl’s death until almost eleven months after it had happened. Baxendale – or rather Hawksford – damn him, didn’t tell him. And neither did Caroline.
It worried him as to what was really happening with the Hawksford family. Especially after Caroline had opted to remain in Bath with her sisters these past three years, as opposed to returning to London. She had never told him why.
And although he had repeatedly written to Caroline, and she always wrote back, she only ever replied superficially. She mentioned the books she read and the meals she ate and the walks she took with her grandfather and her sisters, but little else. He didn’t like it. It meant she was struggling.
He had considered going to Bath to see her many, many times prior to leaving for Paris. But after she had professed her love for him that day in her parlor, and made him realize she actually meant it, he knew some distance was in order.
Except she had to go bloody send the earl to call on him with money that had kept him out of prison. He owed everything to Caroline. And he hated knowing it. For although he had already paid the old earl back, he would never be able to pay back the gratitude he would forever feel. “How is Caroline?”
“She and the rest of the family are no longer in mourning and have long since returned to London from Bath. So you won’t have to worry about formalities.”
“Good. I will call on them tomorrow afternoon.”
“You do that.” His uncle cleared his throat. “Now if you will excuse me…I shouldn’t keep Sophie waiting. I will see you at breakfast, yes? It will be like those jolly years gone by.” With a turn of his bare feet, his uncle whirled the crop, opened the door and disappeared inside. The door slammed, formally announcing he was not coming out until morning.
“I hope you’re getting paid for it,” Ronan called out tauntingly through the closed door. “Because you’re buying me a new bed!”
“To hell with that,” his uncle called back tauntingly, in turn. “I didn’t fucking squirt all over the linen or the wood, you know. You’ll be fine.”
A female giggle resounded.
Ronan rolled his eyes, yanked on his linen cravat, unraveling it and veered in the opposite direction. He sometimes wondered if his life would ever get any better.
Because it sure as hell couldn’t get much worse.
Lesson Three
When roses bloom, they merely wilt, fade away and die.
But when a woman blooms? Oh dear and oh my!
-The School of Gallantry
The following afternoon
London: The Hawksford residence
Lady Caroline Arabella Starling had become incredibly well-known in both Bath and London for one thing: trouble. Of course, that was only in the exaggerated opinion of her older brother who had been wrangled into the role of earl after the death of their father. It had left her brother, Alex, in a constant agitated state. Mostly because it had created too many responsibilities that the man wasn’t used to.
Despite her brother’s exaggerated opinion of dubbing her as wild, Caroline thought herself rather tame. Yes, she occasionally got into trouble with her mother for doing things she oughtn’t — like sneaking out to the Thames river late at night without a footman — but what restless soul didn’t? When compared to her brother, Alex, who had been dubbed the Lord of Pleasure by the ton for reasons she really didn’t want to go into, she was a nun with both hands set into prayer at all hours.
Except for today.
Her sisters, bless them, were stalling her brother upstairs so she could get a smidge of time alone with Caldwell. It had been a little over three years since she had seen him. And needless to say, those had been the longest three years of her life. But the wait was finally over.
Drawing in a strategic breath, she paused before the hall mirror just outside the receiving room and leaned toward it. She frantically dabbed her gathered auburn curls away from her smooth, unpowdered skin and rearranged her pale blue gown one last time, ensuring her appearance was perfect. In her heart, she knew the moment she stepped into that room in her newfound glory of no pimples and being almost twenty, he would wordlessly gaze into her eyes in awe, gather her into muscled arms and kiss her until her toes tingled and went numb.
Gathering her morning skirts, Caroline slowly walked into the vast room illuminated by the afternoon sun that was streaming in through the windows. She stilled upon seeing the broad backside of a tall gentleman lingering before the hearth with a lit cigar in his ungloved hand.
Raising the cigar to his lips and dragging in the smoke of the tobacco, he blew out a white cloud toward the marble mantelpiece his shoulder was leaning against. With the casual tilt of his head, he reached toward the ash pan set on the mantel and deposited some of the building ash.
Since when did he smoke?
She eyed his attire, which was always the best and the latest in fashion. A charcoal-gray morning coat showcased his broad back, whilst matching well-fitted wool trousers displayed long, muscled legs that had been tucked into a pair of knee-high, black leather riding boots. Though his physique had grown notably more muscled in appearance, the glinting blond of that wavy hair which brushed the back of his high collar remained the same.
He was a man of one and thirty now. And still unwed. Thank God.
Sensing her presence, he turned, his cigar still in hand, and paused.
She let out a shaky breath in disbelief. That square, shaven jaw and rugged face were still so gut-wrenchingly handsome.
Fully facing her, his dark eyes scanned the entire length of her body through tendrils of white smoke drifting up from the end of his cigar. He stared. “Caroline?”
An unexpected fluttering overtook not only her stomach but her soul. He’d never looked at her like that or spoke to her with a huskiness that hinted at attraction. Whatever was happening in that moment felt different. He was different. And a part of her panicked knowing it. Because she didn’t know what it meant. Was this finally it?
He turned away, dashing out his cigar
into the ash pan set on the mantle of the hearth. “Forgive the cigar. I was expecting your brother.” Tossing the extinguished cigar into the unlit coals of the hearth with the flick of his wrist, he swung back. He captured her gaze. “By God. I hardly recognized you.”
She pushed away a misplaced curl from the side of her face and clasped her hands together in a desperate effort to keep them steady. Knowing she had to poke at him in French given he had just returned from France, she cheekily offered in well-practiced French, “Bonjour, monsieur. Cela fait trois ans que je ne vous ai pas vu. Mais je practique mon français.”
He held her gaze. “Trés bien. C’est un plaisir de te voir.”
His husky, deep voice was even more risqué in French. She almost fanned herself, but instead of making an idiot out of herself by doing so, she merely smiled. “I trust you are well.”
Still holding her gaze, he nodded. “Oui. Je vais incroyablement bien.”
She wanted to melt all over him. “I still love hearing you speak French. I always have.”
“Your French has remarkably improved. I’m astounded.”
God keep her from grabbing the lapels of his coat and kissing him in the way he deserved. “Are you?”
“Yes.” He hesitated then asked, “How are you?”
It was like he was trying to come up with conversation. That was new. “I’m very well, thank you.”
“Glad to hear it.” He hesitated again. “I just returned from Paris last night.”
“I know,” she gushed. “Hence my bad rendition of a greeting in French. I really enjoyed all of the letters you wrote out of Paris. Learning more about your cousins and the way they all click their spoons in unison at the table before eating made me laugh. I don’t know how you or your aunt manage to remember all of their names given there are eight of them. Do you think I will ever get a chance to go to Paris and meet them?”
He eyed her. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
She smiled. “Simply know that I would bounce out of my shoes for a chance at it.” She knew that day was coming. Soon. Because when she and he married, she would instantly become an aunt and those eight children would all be hers to tackle and roll around with on the floor. Christmases would never be the same and her sisters and her brother would stagger around with their ears covered against the noise. “How is your aunt?”
