by Darcy Burke
Caroline slid to an abrupt halt as their butler of ten years plucked up a kicking, old woman in a black wig with a flamboyant yellow gown and an oversized bonnet.
It was old Lady Waverly. Again.
The butler stumbled with Lady Waverly toward the front door. “I assure you, his lordship...is not...at home. Nor will I say it…again,” the butler puffed, staggering against the old woman’s full gown and waving appendages.
“Emerson.” Her mother’s stern voice echoed within the domed foyer. “Set Lady Waverly down! Whatever are you doing?”
The butler froze, as did Lady Waverly who dangled in his arms. Emerson plopped the woman back down onto the marble floor and set gloved hands behind his stiff back. “She attempted to get past, my lady,” he demurely responded.
The elderly woman dragged up the cashmere shawl that was slipping from her bony shoulders, her beaded reticule still swaying around her gloved wrist. “I only wanted to place a missive on Lord Hawksford’s desk.”
Ah, yes. Alex and old Lady Waverly. ’Twas a story in and of itself. Sadly, Caroline knew her brother had a deranged misconception that women over a certain age had no interest in men. None. That women over a certain age fell into being sexless grandmothers who poked at nothing but needlework and the sandwiches set before them. Which was why this queer little situation had manifested itself. Alex lavished the old woman with the sort of kind hearted attention that a lonely woman clamored for.
It was quite tragic. Because Lady Waverly was madly in love with her brother, but her brother was too naïve to even see it, let alone address it.
Turning toward them, Lady Waverly’s rouged, wrinkled face brightened. “Dowager Hawksford.” The black sausage curls of her wig quivered within her oval bonnet from the effort she made in poising her thin frame.
“Lady Waverly,” her mother formally announced in a reserved boarding school tone adequate for unruly fifteen-year-olds. “I can assure you my son is not at home. He is out with his solicitor.”
The woman made her way toward them, her full daffodil skirts swaying with brisk, little movements. “Ah, yes, yes. He is forever occupied with managing the estate these days. Bless his heart and bravo to that, I say. My late husband was the same. A quill in one hand and a ledger in the other. And lamentably, I had to bury him with both.” She paused before them, large gray eyes scrolling from Caroline to her mother, as if determining who would best serve her on this particular day.
Lady Waverly loosened the braided cord of her beaded reticule and commenced rummaging through its contents. Finding what she had been looking for, she withdrew a sealed missive between kid-gloved fingers and with the turn of her wrist, held it out. “Please inform Lord Hawksford to call on my home this upcoming Monday. I haven’t had the pleasure of visiting with him in some time and he graciously promised to share in some strawberries with me once they came into season. And ’tis the season. Strawberries are coming in from the fields. I was hoping he could also take me in my barouche for a ride through the park.” Lady Waverly held up her missive.
Love was such an ugly, ugly creature. Only love could make a two and seventy-year-old woman think she could suck on strawberries at her home with a well-muscled, good-looking buck of one and thirty.
Knowing she had to say something regarding the situation, for her brother was stupidly blind to it, Caroline gently offered, “Lady Waverly, whilst my brother may have promised to visit, please know that he is incredibly busy.”
Lady Waverly leaned in close, bringing the overbearing scent of bees wax and fermenting honey. “It would seem you went somewhere last night.” The old woman hesitated. “Does your brother know about it?”
Dread dripped its way through every inch of Caroline’s body. No.
Lady Waverly adjusted her reticule. “I was watching your residence through my bedchamber window for a small while before retiring, when I noticed you had left the house. I was worried, given the hour, and had a footman follow you to ensure your safety.”
Caroline’s eyes widened.
Lady Waverly shook her head, causing her fabricated black curls to sway within her oval bonnet. “I dare not know what a lady such as yourself would be doing alone at night but I vow to be gracious and not breathe a word about your outing to your brother. I was wondering, however, if in return for my silence, I could ask for a quiet moment with your brother?”
Caroline’s lips parted. “Are you blackmailing me?”
Lady Waverly lowered her chin. “At my age, one cannot sit upon one’s petticoats hoping. One must attempt to negotiate for one’s happiness. Don’t you agree? Despite my age, Lady Caroline, I love him. And to further my misery, I haven’t had an opportunity to be alone with him to say it.” The woman smiled brokenly and still held out the missive.
Caroline was too astounded to even blink. It wasn’t really a threat the woman was delivering with that declaration of love, but it also wasn’t comforting to know that one of London’s greatest gossips had a footman follow her to last night’s champagne party.
The dowager leaned in and took the missive with a flick of her wrist. “Your footman must have misinformed you, Lady Waverly. I was the only to leave the house last night.”
Lady Waverly eyed them. “I know what I saw but I will speak to my footman again.” The elderly woman ambled toward the entrance.
Caroline felt the foyer sway. If the old woman knew, it was only a matter of time before everyone did.
Emerson wordlessly strode past the old woman and yanked the door wide open. When Lady Waverly departed, he dutifully shut the door, cleared his throat, and with eyes downcast, veered past, toward the direction of the servants’ quarters.
It was a blessed thing they paid their servants well above normal wages or this would be sweeping across London in twenty-two minutes.
Caroline glanced toward her mother in disbelief. “She knows.” Caroline couldn’t breathe. “What am I going to do?”
The dowager tapped the edge of the missive for a long moment against the open palm of her hand. “We will ensure she is too occupied to talk to anyone about it. I will take her on a few shopping outings and arrange a quiet evening between her and your brother here at the house. He doesn’t need to know about it until it happens, after which, we will already have everything put into place. It will give us time to ensure we cover the gossip before it slaps London.”
Caroline dropped her hand back to her side and gawked. “You cannot put Alex in harm’s way merely to protect my name. It’s wrong.”
The dowager rolled her eyes. “Alexander is fully capable of handling love-enamored women. You, on the other hand, are not. In my opinion, Alexander has earned this by allowing that poor woman’s affections to fester. So we’ll let him deal with it whilst giving us the time we need to ensure we don’t have a mess.” The dowager sighed. “I will write Hughes a letter and ask for his assistance to ensure this doesn’t turn into more. We will also visit Caldwell within the hour. I think we need a better understanding as to whether you and he are truly at an end before we move on to Lord Gifford.”
Caroline closed her eyes, trying not to panic at the thought of seeing Ronan again. “You are merely trying to get me to see him.”
“Exactly. There were many times I thought I was at an end with your father, but we always rose above it. That is what people who love each other do. They rise above whatever life throws their way.”
Caroline opened her eyes and lowered her gaze to the marble floor at her feet. “He doesn’t love me.”
“How do you know? Did you ask him?”
No. She didn’t. Caroline snapped toward her defensively. “Are you expecting me to forgive him? After what he did to me?”
Her mother expelled a breath. “No. I am asking you to talk to him.”
“No. I’m not talking to him.”
“You’re being childish and letting your pride get in the way of common sense. If, after you talk to him, you recognize there is nothing to salvage, then you may
opt to ignore him for the rest of his life. Until then…” Her mother swept past. “Go upstairs, call for your lady’s maid and wear your best. I expect you and Lord Caldwell to resolve this by the end of this afternoon. And if you can’t, you will inform Lord Gifford of your situation and pray to whatever God there is he still gives you an offer before London hears of your tryst from Lady Waverly. Do you understand? Because you will need the protection of a man against the wrath of society. And something tells me that wrath, right along with your brother’s, is very close at hand.”
Caroline plastered trembling hands against her cheeks. It would seem her blind faith in Ronan all these years was about to destroy not only her but her brother.
Lesson Thirteen
The moment you find yourself stranded within a deep, muddy trench known as staunch male pride, gentlemen, I suggest you set aside your little shovels and cease digging. Or I guarantee, you and that shovel will never crawl back out.
-The School of Gallantry
That afternoon
Caroline,
With a lit cigar in one hand and a quill in the other, Ronan stared at the only thing he had been able to write on the parchment before him. The rolling nausea and headache from last night’s drinking was making it difficult for him to forge words.
Not that he had any.
He brought the cigar to his lips, took in a long, searing aromatic puff and blew it out. The smoke descended upon the parchment and dissipated into the air around him. In that moment, he realized something disgustingly pathetic. He had never once attempted to court a woman in his life.
He had only fucked them.
And now it was coming back to fuck him.
He tossed his quill in the direction of the ink well and the lone burning candle dripping wax down onto its silver holder. Shoving the cigar between his teeth, he crushed the parchment into a small ball and threw it hard over his writing desk.
In the distance, the calling bell rang.
Ronan ignored it and dragged in another breath of his cigar before yanking it out from between his teeth with his left hand. He hissed out the smoke he held in his mouth. What if she burned his missive without even reading it?
The doors to the small parlor fanned open. “Are you at home, my lord?”
He tapped the build-up ash at the end of his cigar into the small pan beside him, leaned back into his chair and eyed the maid who he had yet to pay. “It depends. Who is it?”
“Dowager Hawksford and her daughter, Lady Caroline.”
His lips parted. God’s light. Caroline had told her mother. Why else would the two be calling barely a day after he and she…
It was an opportunity he was damn well seizing.
Shoving the cigar into the ash pan, he stood and swiped his fingers against his stubbled chin, wishing he had shaven. He paused and glanced down at himself. His linen cravat hadn’t been ironed. He looked like he had just rolled out of bed. Which he had. Damn it. He couldn’t let her see him this way.
He attempted to re-tie his lopsided cravat.
This was not how he envisioned trying to win Caroline back.
“My lord?” the maid inquired.
Ronan straightened, numbly dropping his hands to his sides. There was nothing he could do about his appearance now. Christ. “Lead them in. Thank you.”
The maid curtsied and departed.
He took up his still burning cigar from the pan knowing he had to put it out. He glanced around the half-furnished room decorated with fading red velvet wallpaper his father had plastered up twelve years before he died.Velvet wallpaper that had large indentations in certain parts of the wall. Ronan cringed. It was not a house meant to receive women. He had long ceased putting money into it and had actually been using the empty space of the house throughout the years for parties too wild to host at his uncle’s pristine, estate home. He’d also used the empty spaces in the house to play tournament-style, indoor cricket with Hawksford, his uncle and any large group of men that wanted to join.
Taking one last quick puff in an effort to calm himself, he dashed out the burning end of the cigar and yanked open the top right drawer of the desk. Shoving the ash pan and cigar inside, he slammed it shut, swept back his hair from his eyes several times and repositioned his chair so that it angled toward the open doorway.
He sat, knowing he was about to face the wrath of not just one angry woman but two. Adjusting his morning coat over his embroidered waistcoat, he edged back in his chair.
The clicking of heeled slippers soon filled the corridor beyond and within moments, Dowager Hawksford whisked in, garbed in elegant carriage attire, shawl and a matching bonnet.
He rose from his chair, recognizing that her pinched features indicated she was anything but pleased. He didn’t blame her. At all. “Dowager.”
The rustling of lilac skirts breezed through as Caroline made her way into the study. She paused, gloved hands gripping the sides of her full skirts.
Their gazes collided.
Ronan’s breath hitched. It was like seeing her for the first time.
Caroline’s pleated bonnet was fitted over golden chestnut coiled curls that spilled from beneath its rim, encasing her pale face, which was beginning to flush the delicate curve of her exposed throat. Her throat was the only bit of flesh her lilac gown and shawl revealed. Unlike last night.
Random flashes of her warm, satiny body against his, the feel of her soft, muslin gown against his hands as he slid it up smooth thighs, female cries of ecstasy he could only hear, but not see, fingertips digging into his flesh. It consumed his thoughts. Knowing it had been Caroline’s body against his own had made him raggedly think about it all of last night. And all of this morning. And all of this afternoon.
Ronan inclined his head, holding her gaze. “Caroline.”
“My lord,” she obliged, avoiding eye contact.
His stomach dropped. No more Ronan. Not even Caldwell. And even worse? She wouldn’t look at him.
Caroline glanced around the mostly empty room, her gaze pausing on one of the large indentations that had been caused when one of the wooden bats had flown astray during cricket.
He tried to pretend it didn’t affect him to know she was seeing his home for the first time and that it was sorely, sorely wanting. “I can have chairs brought in from upstairs.”
The dowager’s flower-patterned gown stepped into his line of view of Caroline before him. She arranged herself before the desk. “That won’t be necessary. Everything can be said standing.” The dowager tartly stared him down, those sharp eyes pinning him into place. She lowered her chin, causing the yellow lace ribbons and artificial blue flowers atop her bonnet to quiver. “Apparently, there was a massive misunderstanding between you and my daughter. And while I have many words to impart to not only you but your uncle, I hardly think they are going to be useful to any of us. Are they?”
Ronan rose to his feet and, just as he had rehearsed in his mind when he woke up this morning, he announced, “Dowager. I am asking for the honor of applying for a special license tomorrow so that Caroline and I may be wed in two weeks. With your permission, and with Hawksford’s permission, I would like to contact the archbishop.”
Caroline marched straight for him. “Her permission? Hawksford’s permission? I beg your pardon, but the only permission you need is mine. And guess what? I’m not giving it.”
Ronan set both hands behind his back, trying to keep his voice calm knowing she hated him. “I understand your anger.”
Caroline stared. “Do you?”
He shifted his jaw. “Just call me a bastard. I’m fine with it. I deserve it.”
Caroline angled toward him. “Oh, no. That would be too easy. I’m asking that you provide a much longer list of words for me to choose from aside from ‘bastard.’ How about we start with ‘prick’? Are you familiar with that word?”
Ronan winced.
The dowager choked and swung toward her daughter. “Not to divert this oh-so intelligent and sti
mulating conversation,” she huffed, “but it’s important we not burn the ashes left in the grate, Caroline. For heaven’s sake, girl, enough. And Lord Caldwell, I am asking that you refrain from agitating her because we have a much bigger problem than what happened between you and Caroline.”
Ronan paused. Really? “I find that very difficult to believe.”
“Well, you had best believe it. Because Lady Waverly had been watching our house through her window last night, saw her leave, and even had a footman follow her to the champagne party.”
Dread scraped him. Why did he have this feeling the old woman was going to use this situation to finally wrangle in Hawksford? “Did she threaten Caroline?”
“It wasn’t really a threat, but given the sort of gossipmonger she is, I consider it one. I plan on keeping her well-occupied this next week to ensure she doesn’t visit with anyone she shouldn’t. I will also be arranging a private meeting between her and Alexander. I think it time Alexander face her. Better a broken heart than delusion, I say.”
His eyes widened. “You intend to push her toward Hawksford?”
Caroline leaned in toward her mother and chimed in, “My reaction exactly.”
The dowager glared at her daughter and then at him. “I’m only cleaning up the mess you two dunces made. It’s up to you and Caroline to resolve everything prior to Alexander’s meeting with Lady Waverly. Because if you don’t, rest assured, there is another gentleman of better means and character who will gladly take your place and protect her from gossip when it hits.”
Flexing his hands and feeling his ability to remain calm waning, knowing she was probably referring to Lord Gifford, Ronan rasped, “There is no need to threaten me with talk of others, Dowager. I can assure you I will to do everything within my means to settle this.”
The dowager set her chin. “Good. Now that I have openly stated what I came to say, I will leave you both to resolve this. I will be patiently waiting for the outcome on the other side of your bachelor den in the hopes of being far enough away so I don’t have to listen to all the shouts. Take your time.” She gathered her skirts, turned and breezed her way toward the door.
