The Brunette Who Stole His Heart

by Tabetha Waite

  Torn between her confidence to Mercy and her guilt over her deception, the lady’s direct glare made the decision for her. “She’s in Brighton.”

  “I see. And you are…?”

  “Miss Faith Albright.” She winced. “Her ladies’ maid.”

  To her surprise, the duchess chuckled. “Mercy always did enjoy going her own way. She was a rather stubborn and terribly spoiled child, but I suppose that’s what happens when one has no siblings.” She shook her head. “The problem now is fixing this predicament that you’ve embroiled yourselves in. While I admit you carry a certain resemblance to each other, you’re not twins.”

  “That’s what I tried to tell her,” Faith mumbled. “But she was insistent on repairing things with the viscount upon her return. She imagined that he would think it was a grand lark and would laugh about the switch.”

  “Of course she did,” the duchess said dryly. “The problem is the growing attachment that Westbrook is developing for you.” She looked at Faith knowingly. “And the one you have for him.”

  Faith stilled, but decided it wasn’t any use to conceal how she felt. The lady was more astute than either she or Mercy had given her credit for. “Is it so obvious?”

  “Only to a woman who has discovered love for herself. That is Mercy’s problem. She is so intent on running from this match that the viscount could very well pass her by. When do you expect her to return?”

  “In four more days.” Faith had it narrowed down to hours, but she decided that the lady probably didn’t want her to go into that much detail. She lowered her head into her hands and said miserably, “I don’t know what to do.”

  “The same as you have been. Keep the secret to yourself and let Mercy repair the damage upon her return.”

  Faith looked at her curiously. “You would let me continue to stay here and pretend to be her? But why?”

  Her cane struck the floor. “The gel needs to be taught a lesson, and what better way than to reap what she sows? She will learn nothing until she is faced with making tough decisions and this is one she must live with for the rest of her life.”

  ***

  Faith wasn’t sure if she felt better, or more aggrieved after her chat with the duchess. She should have known that the lady wouldn’t allow the wool to be pulled over her eyes so easily, and at least now Faith didn’t have to bear this burden alone. She might continue to regret that the viscount would be further deceived, but she vowed that she would see this deception out until its final conclusion, thus fulfilling both Mercy and the duchess’ wishes that she do so.

  When Westbrook arrived for tea that afternoon in charcoal gray and white attire, she greeted him with a warm smile and a courteous demeanor. After a brief greeting, the duchess left them alone in the parlor. Conversation was mild for a while, the subject focusing around trivial matters.

  Suddenly, the viscount set down his cup with a slight clink. He got to his feet. “Shall we take a walk in the gardens?”

  “Of course.” She took his arm and they walked outside. The air was damp after the rain the day before, and they were careful to remain on the pebbled walkway that wound through the array of flowers that the duchess kept faithfully groomed. She had a personal gardener for just that reason. Faith didn’t see him around at the moment, so there was no one to disturb her and Freddie but the birds in the trees.

  “Faith, I need to tell you something.”

  She paused to look at him, a warm thrill shooting through her that he’d actually called her by name instead of the dreaded Lady Mercy. “Yes?”

  He moved away from her slightly and his movements seemed agitated, as if what he had to say was particularly difficult. She froze.

  Was he about to propose?

  “I don’t even know where to begin…” he mumbled more to himself than to her. Finally, he squared his shoulders, as if shoring up his courage and looked her square in the eyes. “I have a confession to make. I—”

  Faith decided to take pity on him. She laid a gentle hand on his arm. “It’s all right, Freddie. You don’t have to make a grand declaration. I accept.”

  He blinked. “You… what?”

  She smiled with a slight tilt to her head. He really was adorable when he was flustered. “I accept your proposal.”

  He blinked a second time. “My… what?”

  “Freddie, really, you don’t have to play coy with me. We both knew this was in the cards for us. We’re expected to be wed and I’m telling you that I will marry you.” It was his sudden change in expression, making him look slightly ill, that made her question herself. “That was what you were trying to say, wasn’t it?”

  ***

  Freddie wanted to snort at the irony of it all. After a night where he’d replayed that kiss in the rain over and over in his mind, he realized that, no matter how loyal he was to Westbrook, he couldn’t lie to Lady Mercy — Faith, he corrected — any longer. So he had intended on telling her the truth, but when the words were being difficult to say, she must have come to her own conclusion, that he was merely trying to contrive the best way to propose properly.

  He would have laughed aloud if he weren’t such a miserable wreck.

  And now, with such a hopeful glint in her gaze, it wasn’t as though he could break her heart and deny that was what he wanted. For he did, only a union would never truly come to pass — at least, not with him.

  He pasted on his best smile. “Of course.” He cleared his throat and then bent down on one knee, ignoring it when the pebbles dug into his leg. He grasped her hand and said evenly, “Lady Mercy, will you do me the great honor of being my wife?”

  “I already said yes.”

  “Er… yes. Of course.” He got up and wiped off his trousers, feeling slightly foolish.

  She lifted a brow. “Didn’t you bring a ring?”

  “I thought we could choose one together.” He had no idea if Westbrook intended on giving her a family heirloom or not, but it was too late now.

  “How lovely!” She clasped her hands together. She started to head back to the house.

  “Where are you going?”

  She paused and looked over her shoulder. “Aren’t we going now?”

  Apparently so. “Indeed.” He strode forward and kept pace with her as the phaeton was brought around.

  He flicked the reins and headed for Rundell and Bridge, the most affluent jewelers and goldsmiths in London. Located at 32 Ludgate Hill, they designed pieces for the royal household, and since Westbrook had given him free rein to charge whatever he wished to entertain Lady Mercy, he decided that only the best would do for his “future bride.”

  His spirits brightening a bit, he escorted her inside the shop and was instantly greeted by a gentleman in fashionable attire. “Good afternoon. How may I be of service?”

  “We are in need of a betrothal ring.” He smiled down at Lady Mercy for effect.

  “Indeed? Then allow me to be one of the first to offer my heartfelt congratulations upon your upcoming nuptials. We have a large array of rings, or if the lady wishes, we can craft something extra special.” The man smiled broadly as he led them over to a glass display case.

  Freddie watched as she inspected the fine array of gemstones set in gold settings on display. The light from the gas lamps caught the brilliance of each one, causing them to shine with a particular majesty. He could certainly understand how they had gained such notoriety for being the best craftsmen in London. He was quite awestruck himself.

  “May I see that one?” Freddie looked where to where Lady Mercy was pointing.

  “Excellent choice, my lady,” the seller said with a nod of approval. He held out the rose-cut diamond to her and she slipped it on her finger.

  It was a perfect fit.

  The shopkeeper smiled. “It appears as if it was meant to be.”

  “I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Freddie murmured. With his gaze on her, he said, “We’ll take it.”

  Faith gasped. “Are you sure? It’s
quite expensive…”

  He grinned, getting into the spirit of spending the viscount’s money since he’d put him in this difficult position. “There is no object when it comes to my intended.”

  “Capital,” the shopkeeper said with a broad smile on his face, likely pleased that he’d made such an impressive sale.

  ***

  Faith stared at the glittering gemstone on her finger as Freddie drove her home. What she wouldn’t give to have a true engagement ring and the love of a man who put it there. Sadly, in a few days, she would have to remove the item and hand it over to the rightful owner, that is, if the viscount still wanted to marry Mercy. Otherwise, the shopkeeper might not be quite so thrilled when the ring was returned.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” Westbrook’s voice broke through her reverie. “You’re looking rather pensive. Are you unhappy with your choice?”

  Faith shook her head. “Not at all. It’s quite beautiful.”

  “Then it suits the wearer.”

  Instead of being flattered, Faith sighed. “Why do you have to be so nice?”

  He laughed. “I never thought that was a bad attribute.”

  “It’s not,” she concurred. “It’s just that…” She paused, trying to decide the best way to explain things without actually telling him everything. “What if I’m not the person you think I am? What if I don’t deserve something so lovely?”

  He glanced at her but didn’t reply as they passed Trafalgar Square. Instead, he guided the carriage off the side of the road and set the brake near St. James’ Park. There he turned to her fully and said quietly, “Is there something you need to tell me, Faith?”

  When he used her true name, it made her wish with all of her being that he saw her as she really was, and yet, at the same time terrified that he would turn away from her. Either way, since she had given her word to the duchess that morning, she refused to break it.

  “I was merely speaking metaphorically,” she hedged.

  “In that case…” He reached out and ran his fingertips lightly down her cheek. “You have nothing to worry about. I’ve never met any other woman as wonderful as you are. I’m sure that even your worse faults are better than my best strengths.”

  She winced. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” she muttered.

  His wonderful green eyes searched hers. “If words won’t work, then how about I convince you another way?”

  He bent toward her and Faith’s eyes slid closed. She was nearly trembling as she anticipated his kiss. When his mouth touched hers, she sighed in contentment. She waited for him to deepen the embrace, but he withdrew and murmured, “If only you were my betrothed.”

  Her lashes fluttered open in confusion. “What do you mean? I am.”

  He smiled almost sadly. “Of course you are.”

  Chapter Seven

  Faith pondered Westbrook’s rather cryptic remark all the way home. Why would he ever say such a thing? He spoke as if he hadn’t just made her an offer of marriage. He was the viscount and—

  She froze and slid her gaze to the companion at her side. Could it be?

  It was a rather farfetched idea that he would be impersonating Westbrook, but then, wasn’t she doing the same for Lady Mercy?

  Her heart began to pound in her chest. It was something she hadn’t considered before now, but if Mercy had convinced her to take on this absurd role, then who was to say the viscount hadn’t done the same?

  She considered asking him outright if it was true, but if he were as loyal to Westbrook as she was to her mistress, then he would surely deny her claim. There had to be a way to find out for sure. And she knew the best way.

  “Westbrook?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I was just thinking that I’ve never seen where you live. Might we visit your townhouse?”

  She watched his response rather carefully. His hands had tightened slightly on the reins, but otherwise, his tone was measured when he said, “I’m not sure that it’s appropriate for you to do so without a chaperone present. Perhaps later you could join the duchess—”

  “Oh, come now, Westbrook.” She reached for his arm and snuggled closer. “We’re practically husband and wife. What could the harm be?”

  “Indeed.” He actually looked rather ill, and she certainly wasn’t about to ignore the possibility that she was right in her assumptions. A quick glance about the viscount’s townhouse should tell her enough about the man at her side.

  And if her suspicions should prove correct…

  She supposed that was a bridge she would cross if the time came.

  He set the brake on his phaeton in front of a rather impressive whitewashed structure and waited for him to help her down. As they walked up the steps together, the door was opened with a flourish by the butler. “Braxton, this is Lady Mercy Granville, my future viscountess.”

  The servant bowed respectfully. “My lady.”

  “She wished to see what her future residence looked like, and I couldn’t very well deny her.”

  Something meaningful must have passed between the master and servant, for the butler inclined his head. “Of course. Perhaps I could give the lady a tour?”

  Faith noticed that her companion appeared a bit more relieved than he should have been, but he was careful to keep a light smile on his face and his hands clasped behind his back as he walked alongside her and the butler.

  It didn’t take Faith long to realize that Braxton certainly seemed to know quite a bit about the Westbrook line, for he took pride in extolling the virtues of all of the ancestors that had preceded the viscount. When Faith glanced at Freddie from time to time to confirm what the butler was saying, he merely smiled and said nothing. As they entered the portrait gallery, and the servant continued droning on, she finally turned to Westbrook and said, “Surely, my lord, you might have something to add when it comes to your family tree?”

  “Why would I?” he returned evenly. “Braxton is a much better storyteller.”

  Faith wanted to clench her fists, but then she turned and saw a particular painting. “Are these your parents?” she asked.

  He cleared his throat. “Yes.”

  She walked forward to look at the small boy standing before them in the portrait. “And this is you?”

  “Indeed.”

  She took a step forward and squinted her eyes. “Then why is it that the artist drew you with brown eyes when yours are quite obviously green?”

  As she directed her gaze back on him, he murmured, “Poor lighting, I’m afraid.”

  She glanced at the butler who remained silent, but even so, she had the thought that something was very wrong here.

  ***

  Freddie found it rather difficult to blatantly lie to the lady when the proof of his false identity was there like a waving enemy flag.

  Four more days. He chanted it to himself like it was a benediction, the prayer that would put him back on the road to redemption. That’s when Westbrook would return and deliver him out of his personal hell he’d fallen into. He’d had no business allowing his emotions to become engaged where Lady Mercy was concerned, and yet, it wasn’t as if he’d had a choice in the matter, for the heart was a rather fickle organ.

  As they moved on from the portrait gallery, Braxton shot him a look which told him in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t pleased by this sudden turn of events. But it wasn’t as though Freddie had invited her over for tea without any warning.

  He resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. Frankly, he was ready for it all to be over, so that he could continue his duties as valet and return to some semblance of normalcy while he nursed his broken heart. Parading about as a member of the aristocracy was starting to get exhausting, especially when the woman on his arm wasn’t meant for him.

  As they made their way back downstairs, Freddie thought that he might just survive this visit, but then a footman came rushing toward them with a harried expression. “Braxton, I should tell you that—”

 
“I’m more than capable of speaking for myself.” As a woman came walking along the expanse toward them, Freddie abruptly stilled. If things hadn’t just gone from bad to worse…

  “Lady Westbrook.” The butler bowed. “What an unexpected surprise.”

  “Braxton, thank God, maybe you can be the voice of reason.” She gestured toward the footman. “I was nearly barred entrance from my own son’s residence.”

  “I do apologize for that, my lady,” the butler intoned. “Perhaps if you go into the parlor I will see that a teacart is sent in right away and—”

  She waved a hand. “I’m afraid that I can’t stay long. Now, if you’ll just tell me where Malcolm is—”

  “Of course.” Braxton stepped forward to try and salvage what was left of this tense situation. If only the butler could get the viscountess behind closed doors, then Lady Mercy might not have to learn that Freddie wasn’t really Westbrook. At least, not right at this moment.

  “Lady Westbrook?” Mercy stepped forward and Freddie nearly groaned aloud. “You are the viscount’s mother?”

  She eyed her shrewdly. “I am. Although I don’t believe I recall making your acquaintance.”

  “That’s because we haven’t yet,” she returned directly. “But I suspect that we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other, for I’m your son’s betrothed.” She walked over to Freddie and slipped her arm through his. “And there is no need to look for your son, because he’s right here.”

  The elder lady snorted. “I’m not sure what false perception you’ve been under, but I can assure you that is not Malcolm.”

  Freddie felt Faith stiffen by his side. “Then who is it?”

  He closed his eyes, for the revelation that was coming wasn’t good at all. “His name is Frederick Bartholomew, and he’s my son’s valet.”

  ***

  There was a slight buzzing that began to ring in Faith’s ears, although it quickly turned into a swarm that threatened to drown out everything else. “What did you say?” she could hardly even form the words as she slowly moved away from the viscount.