Secrets of a Spinster

by Rebecca Connolly

  He glanced at the diaries once more.

  He would not read any more.

  He would not.

  He gnawed at his lip, for a moment, then groaned and pulled the entire stack into his lap.

  He would need a diary at least one year after the one he had just read. He looked through a few, and finally found one from the summer she was fifteen. Fifteen was significantly more mature than thirteen. With a nod of satisfaction, he opened it up.

  I found my diary from when I was thirteen as I was going through my trunk. What a laugh! I cannot believe that I was in love with Geoffrey Harris! Oh, he would positively expire with laughter if he knew! I will not tell him, of course, it would be mortifying to admit to such silly feelings. To be in love with my best friend? Ha!

  Oddly, Geoff felt a significant twinge of disappointment at her words. He snorted as he closed the diary and set it aside. He was disappointed that her fifteen-year-old self had only thought of him as her best friend? Wasn’t that what he wanted to be? Knowing that she had been in love with him once meant it might be possible for her to love him again, but there was no reason why being her best friend would not also give him an advantage.

  It would be enough.

  He nodded and sighed, sitting back.

  She had loved him, she had not loved him.

  She could love him again.

  His brow furrowed. If she could love him again… perhaps she had…

  He glanced down at the diaries and before he could stop himself with thoughts of what he should or shouldn’t do, he was opening the rest of them to find the most recent one.

  Ah ha! Eighteen years old. She had had her first season and had been exposed to some other men besides him and his brothers. This would tell him the truth.

  The Thorntons had their ball last evening. Phoebe Thornton made an absolute fool of herself trying so desperately to get the attention of Robert Forsham. Geoffrey and I were beside ourselves with laughter. I thought we would make quite the spectacle of ourselves with our behavior, but Geoff assures me that nobody pays attention to anything but bad behavior and Colin Gerrard.

  He had to pause for laughter at the memory. As it turned out, Phoebe Thornton had married Thomas Forsham, older brother of Robert, and nobody had spoken of either of them since. But he remembered that ball and laughing hysterically with Mary about it.

  So they were merely friends at eighteen as well. He could live with that.

  Then he saw the next lines.

  I love laughing with Geoffrey. He makes me feel as if I am someone special. It does not matter if my first season had no success, I still have him. If only he could see how I really feel about him. There is nobody to compare to him in looks, in manner, in temperament… He is the perfect man, and he is perfect for me. Can he not see how I adore him? Is my love for him not plain for all to see in my eyes? I cannot bear to tell him. If he does not feel the same, it would ruin our friendship. I dare not risk it. My heart will have to be patient, to see if he ever figures it out. If he does not, all will be well. I need not be loved by him if we may always be friends.

  Geoff closed the diary firmly and put it in the stack with the others, then stared at them for a long while. His chest ached, so much so that he had to rub it. She had loved him. She had loved him again. She had gone from loving him to not loving him to loving him again. Eighteen was no flighty age. Many young women were married at eighteen these days.

  Had she really loved him? How long had it gone on? How deep had it been? Were there times he wondered? Had he ever given her a reason to stop?

  His breath caught in his throat. Did she love him still?

  He sat back heavily against the chair as his mind spun that idea. Eighteen was still a good distance from twenty-seven. Why, when he was twenty he had courted Lydia Fawcett, and he had no feelings for her that remained.

  He winced as he considered that Mary might still have loved him at twenty. Had she been pained by the attentions he had given Lydia? He had spoken with Mary about Lydia! Not in depth, for he was not that foolish, but still. If she had loved him during that time, knowing he was courting someone else…

  But here was proof. By her own hand, Mary had admitted her love for him. Repeatedly and over time.

  His heart began to pound, and he glanced back up at the shelves. Were there more diaries? More recent diaries? Ones that might give him more reason to hope?

  He shoved off of the chair and rushed back to the shelf, immediately checking the place the other diaries had been. No such luck. He frowned and began checking behind the books on the shelf below. He would tear apart this entire library if he must in order to find further proof that the woman he loved might love him in return.

  “What have you found?”

  He stopped, a book in each hand, and turned towards the door of the library. Mary stood there, simply dressed, but no less lovely in his opinion. He frantically searched for a response when he noticed that she was not looking at him.

  She was looking at the diaries.

  His mouth twisted slightly with interest. “You tell me,” he said slowly, setting down the books he held. He picked up the stack of diaries and brought them closer. He hadn’t moved three steps when her eyes widened and she froze like a statue. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought she’d be near to fainting.

  She swallowed hard and forced a smile that was more a grimace than a smile. Then she laughed that false, high-pitched laugh that had so grated on his nerves. “Oh, those are nothing,” she said, closing the distance and taking them from him quickly. “Nonsensical scribblings of a silly girl. I could burn the lot and not miss a page.”

  She spun from the room so fast her hair bounced with the force. “Lunch will be ready soon, Geoff, if you are hungry,” she called behind her, her voice still too high.

  “All right,” he said after her, knowing she wouldn’t hear it, nor would she care.

  He stared at the door, unmoving. Mary knew exactly what those diaries had contained. She’d been terrified that he would know. She had not asked if he had read them. She had no reason to suspect he would, as he was always the perfect gentleman and never did anything even remotely ungentlemanly.

  His reputation had saved him from having to answer for his actions. Her diaries had saved him from doubt.

  She had loved him. He could make her love him again. He could be everything she wanted, everything he had ever been to her and more. He was a man now, not a foolish boy who had unwittingly made a girl fall in love with him and hadn’t even seen. He could treat her the way he always should have treated her, the way a man in love should treat the woman of his dreams.

  She had loved him once.

  And by God, she would love him again.

  Chapter Twenty

  “You have received another bouquet of flowers, Miss Hamilton.”

  Mary rolled her eyes, then held her head as the motion pained her. “From whom this time?” she moaned, rubbing her brow.

  “Mr. Timmons, I believe,” Mrs. Evansdale said with a bob of her head as she fidgeted with the tray in her grasp. She brought it to Mary and frowned, her round face bunching up with the expression.

  Mary sighed patiently and held her arms out. “Here, I will take it in my lap.”

  Mrs. Evansdale nodded and handed it to her.

  “And what did Mr. Timmons have to say?” Mary asked as she began the awkward attempt to eat properly whilst still abed.

  Sweet Mrs. Evansdale had to think for a moment, though it could not have been more than ten minutes since the gentleman had come.

  “Was it perhaps well wishes for my recovery?” Mary prodded, doing her level best to avoid smiling.

  “I believe it was, yes it was,” Mrs. Evansdale said with a fervent nod, as if she’d just had the recollection herself. “He said he was dreadfully sorry you were unable to attend the theater last night, and said they all missed you, and he was your devoted servant if you should need him.”

  It spoke as to ho
w ill Mary felt that she did not roll her eyes at this. Mr. Timmons did not seem to understand when a lady was politely trying to refuse his suit. She would have to be more blatant upon her return to society. Subtlety was useless.

  And he was not the only slow-witted one.

  She had been unwell for two days now, and the attention she received for a simple cold that kept her in bed made her more keen to recover than any ill-tasting tonic she’d ever endured. It was absolutely ridiculous. Why, she was receiving more attention from being ill than she had in the last two weeks combined. Geoffrey had been true to his word and had been her permanent escort once again, but it had not changed anything. Her behavior had gone back to more of her natural self, and that had somehow only increased their sincerity.

  She had lost track of who had brought her flowers and who had not. It made her head ache trying to remember, which was not much different from the headache she suffered from on a continual basis of late. The doctor had been by, thanks to Mrs. Evansdale’s tendency to overreaction and fear of illness, and had given her strict orders to stay in bed until she was feeling her old self. It was maddening.

  There was so much work to be done around the house as yet for their move to the country, and she could not very well accomplish any of it while she was confined to bed. Geoffrey promised he would do as much as he could, but he had not been able to come since she had taken ill. Some matter of business that he would not discuss with her, which was not unusual, and so she did not ask any questions.

  But the admirers had come, and she had never been more grateful for the excuse to avoid them. She was done with this whole charade, and good riddance to the madness. She would not have minded a few admirers who were fervent, had some sense, and who happened to share interests and tastes she herself had. If she could have enjoyed a bit of that, she might have continued to be the debutante.

  But alas, all she had were silly men with sillier attentions.

  The sensible men that had come around had been kind enough, and she had the opportunity to see quite honestly that they would not suit, and no feelings were injured and no good feelings lost.

  A knock at her door broke through her thoughts and startled her so she nearly upended her tray, which she had completely forgotten about.

  “Come,” she called, her voice still hoarse and her nose stuffed to such an extent her words were affected.

  “Pardon me, Miss Hamilton,” Mrs. Evansdale said softly, entering timidly.

  Mary smiled at her with kindness and patience. “Yes, Mrs. Evansdale?”

  “Mr. Harris is here, Miss,” she replied with a quick bob. “I know you are not receiving in your condition, but as it is Mr. Harris…”

  Mary could not help the grin that nearly exploded across her face. “No, you’re right. I cannot come down, but you may send him up.”

  Mrs. Evansdale nearly fell over. “What, to your bedchamber?”

  A snort escaped Mary, even with her illness, and she rolled her eyes. “Well, yes, Mrs. Evansdale. It’s not as though I am naked, is it?”

  The poor lady looked near to swooning, but somehow she managed a nod and left.

  Entertainment at last! She sat up a little and made sure her dressing gown was properly tied. She was not entirely without decorum, after all.

  There came another knock and she hid her smile. “Come.”

  Her door creaked open and she saw Geoff before he saw her. He was dressed as finely as he ever was, which never failed to make Mary wonder why any man ever dressed less finely, considering how splendid he always looked. His color was robust and healthy, and it was possible he looked even more handsome than when she had seen him last. Which was a silly thing, considering how handsome he always was, and had always been.

  He took in her appearance and state and there was a flash of something hot, like fire in both heat and intensity, and it made her breath catch in her chest. But then it was gone, without the barest hint that anything had ever occurred. He grinned her very favorite grin at her, and he kept one arm behind his back.

  “My dear Mary, what have you been telling poor Mrs. Evansdale?” he scolded as he neared. “She looks as though a ghost has been roaming your halls.”

  She giggled and held out a hand to him. “I merely told her to have you come up, since I cannot go down, and you would have thought that I had asked her to catch a snail and eat it raw.”

  He tsked as he took her hand in his. “Bringing a man up to your bedchamber. Mary, you are quite shocking.” He offered a half smile as he placed a very light kiss upon her hand.

  It burned as if he had branded her with a hot iron. Somehow, she managed to smile. “You already knew that.”

  “I did,” he agreed, sitting and giving her a singularly wicked look. “And it is quite possibly my favorite part of you.”

  She looked at him for a long moment, waiting for his composure to break. When it didn’t, she burst out laughing, in spite of the ache in her head.

  He laughed himself as he sat in the chair, and smiled as he looked at her. “It is good to hear you laugh, Mary.”

  She tilted her head at him with a smile of her own. “It feels good to laugh. Well, not at the moment, it feels quite horrid to do anything, but in my heart, it feels good to laugh.”

  “Yes, I wondered how the rest of you would be feeling at the moment,” he said, looking at her a bit sadly. “And I’m not entirely sure you will feel up this now, but perhaps later…”

  He reached behind his back, and Mary sat up a little, feeling as curious as a kitten.

  To her surprise, he brought forth a book. He smiled and held it out for her to see. “I thought you might prefer this to more dying flowers.”

  She grinned and took it. “And you would be quite right!” She looked at the spine for the title, then looked back at him, still grinning. “Fairy tales.”

  He nodded, his own smile becoming quite smug. “Yes, in my cataloguing of your rather immense library, I discovered that you didn’t have a collection of fairy tales, which seemed quite a shame, considering how fond you always were of fairy tales and how many hours I spent playing all the roles from the wicked witch to the dragons.”

  She giggled, which made her cough a bit. “Only because you were so good at it,” she insisted. She set the book down beside her. “Thank you, Geoff, it was very sweet and considerate of you. I’ll read them when I can.”

  “Yes, don’t strain your eyes,” he said, his voice growing concerned. “I would hate to think that I brought something else ill upon you.”

  She gave him a disbelieving look. “Please, you could never bring anything ill upon me.”

  That seemed to surprise him, and he gave her a look that might have heated her from the inside out.

  Then, unexpectedly, it was gone. “I never did hear, you know,” he mused, folding his arms, “how was your meeting with the dashing Viscount Riverton? Two whole weeks with no report? I hope it is good.”

  Mary smirked a little. “Quite good. We danced twice, I think. I was very impressed with him, and shall retain a high opinion of his character. He has my good wishes and I hope we shall meet again on other occasions.”

  “But…?” Geoff prodded, keen eyes fixed on Mary.

  She shrugged. “But we wouldn’t suit. He is very pleasant, and dances very well, but he is not looking to settle yet, and he made that very plain.”

  “Did he, indeed?” he replied with a laugh. “And just how did that come about?”

  “Oh, when we were dancing I mentioned that he danced well, and he replied, ‘What, only well? Not like an angel or with the grace of a swan?’, to which I replied, ‘I know nothing of swans or angels, my lord, but I know enough about dancing, I am sure.’”

  Geoff laughed loudly, grinning at her. “Nicely put. Then what?”

  “Well,” Mary continued, thinking back, “then he informed me that he had it on good authority from no less than three young ladies that he did, in fact, dance like an angel, and I said he could not argue wi
th so many witnesses, but I would stand by what I had said. He seemed surprised by it, and asked me if I had any intention of flattering him at all.”

  Geoff’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What did you say to that?” he asked her.

  Now Mary smiled in earnest, still rather impressed with her daring from that night. “That I only flattered when there was something to flatter, and never falsely at that.”

  Now it seemed Geoff was fighting laughter, but it was there in his eyes.

  “And after that,” Mary said with a sigh, “the viscount laughed and stated that I had no intention of trying to marry him, did I, which, naturally, I had not.”

  “You told him that?” he asked, his smile turning crooked.

  Mary nodded. “In no uncertain terms.”

  “And how did the dear viscount take the news?”

  “Rather well. He laughed again and said he appreciated that, as he was not looking for a wife despite his mother’s best attempts, and he would be glad to dance with me again later for a reprieve.”

  “And he did,” he stated, looking oddly pleased.

  Mary nodded. “And he did.”

  He paused for a long moment, staring at her. “Seems a good match to me,” he said carefully.

  Mary smiled and shrugged a shoulder. “Perhaps, but he would only be pursuing me to please his mother, as so many others have tried this season. I require more than that, I fear.”

  Geoff shifted a little in his seat, his eyes intense. “Do you?”

  A knock on the door came and she rolled her eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Come!”

  “Busy day?” he asked in a low voice.

  She sniffled into her handkerchief. “I find I am more popular when I am sick than when I am well. It is most distressing.”