A Singular Lady

by Megan Frampton

  Or perhaps not.

  Perhaps if those paragons had money as well, their consequence would get so puffed up they could not do anything save gaze lovingly in the mirror as they muttered bons mots. No, it is good for all that the world is as it is—it is just awkward for a young lady who is hoping for security and a decent conversation over the morning rolls and marmalade.

  A Singular Lady

  Chapter 10

  “Blast!” Titania’s mood plummeted even further when she returned home from her ride. “Are there more?”

  She shuffled again through the pile of bills, which seemed larger than when she had left. She was relieved to see the additional envelopes contained just letters. Titania’s expert eye could discern a bill from across the room.

  She ripped open the first envelope, a single sheet of paper falling into her lap. Picking it up, she scanned its message quickly, then frowned in confusion.

  Look for the knight tomorrow night. He will fulfill your every wish.

  That was all it said.

  It was frustratingly cryptic. Who could have sent it to her?

  Her first thought, of course, was that it was Edwin, who had come as close as any man had to fulfilling her wishes (known or not) the night before. But wouldn’t he be much more likely to wrap her in a passionate embrace without warning rather than send her this mysterious, enigmatic note? It also obviously wasn’t Mr. Fell, who was more poetic in his language. Was it Lord George? No—she smiled as she examined the note more closely—there were no crumbs or stains upon it. Without ever observing it firsthand, she knew that Lord George would require sustenance to pen a note to a young lady, and this bore no signs of such treatment.

  Could it be Lord Gratwick? She tapped the note against her teeth, pondering just what it meant. After a few moments of thought, however, she realized it was a futile exercise. There would be time enough to discover the note’s sender tomorrow night.

  She opened the second letter, squinting a little at the tiny, crabbed handwriting.

  Dear Niece,

  You and your baron brother have less than six months’ time to pay Ravensthorpe’s taxes. You already owe my sister money for sponsoring your presentation. How many more debts will you run up before you fail?

  My offer stands until August 1: if your brother agrees to cede Ravensthorpe to me, you will not have to be thrown onto the streets to fend for yourself. Your mother’s jewelry will only buy so much time. Be careful you do not gamble away your future.

  Mr. Hawthorne knows how to contact my solicitor if you wish to agree to my terms.

  Otherwise, I look forward to taking what is rightfully mine.

  Sincerely,

  Uncle Norbert Stanhope

  Titania leaned back against the chair, her optimism crushed under the weight of her uncle’s letter. She wanted so badly just to give up, to fold her hand, but knew doing so would betray everything her parents had ever taught her. Even if one of her parents had also taught her how duplicitous he could be.

  She straightened her shoulders and marched upstairs, determined to do the right thing.

  Even if it was not the right thing for her.

  “WELCOME, LORD GRATWICK, how lovely to see you.” Titania hurried downstairs as she spoke, twitching the skirts of her blue gown into place. Titania had had just enough time to toss her papers into her desk then hastily scrape her hair into some sort of order as she heard the downstairs door opening. She saw Miss Tynte already scurrying into the drawing room.

  It was the fashionable hour for late callers, and Titania had already cajoled Cook into making gingerbread cakes, the odor of which was wafting through the house, making Titania’s mouth water.

  At least there was one bright spot to receiving visitors.

  “Miss Stanhope,” Lord Gratwick said, holding her hand a bit longer than Titania would have liked, “you look lovely today. Especially since you seemed so out of sorts last evening at Mrs. White’s when I saw you.”

  “Ah, Stillings, there you are.” Titania was grateful for the interruption since his comment left her at a loss as to how to respond.

  “Miss Stanhope, Mr. Farrell is—” he managed to announce, before Alistair strode into the room as if he were being carried on a gust of wind.

  “Miss Stanhope.” As if his height and regal bearing were not enough, his coat, breeches, and cravat were all in varying shades of lavender. The top of his cane was encrusted with a large, asymmetrical globe of gems: sapphires, emeralds, amethysts, and peridots.

  “Mr. Farrell, how delightful to see you today. I mean, quite delightful,” she said again, looking him up and down. She met his eyes, which had a humorous gleam dancing in their brown depths.

  “Your servant, Miss Stanhope,” he said softly. “I see I find you in good health; you look lovely today.”

  “May I introduce Lord Gratwick, Mr. Farrell? Lord Gratwick has just returned from the battlefield also.”

  The two men nodded at each other, Alistair raising a black eyebrow as he surveyed the shorter man. “Where were you stationed, Gratwick?”

  Lord Gratwick looked as uneasy as Titania had ever seen him. He smiled at Titania, then waved his hand in dismissal. “Here and there, Farrell. Miss Stanhope, do you attend the Landons’ masquerade? And you, Mr. Farrell?”

  Titania gestured for both of the men to sit and perched herself on the sofa. Lord Gratwick sat next to her, his leg only inches away from her own. She tried to hitch over surreptitiously, but caught an angry look from Lord Gratwick as he spotted what she was doing.

  “Miss”—Stillings appeared at the door—“your refreshments.” He entered the room, loaded down with tea and gingerbread, and placed them on the table, his butler’s implacability seeming to rattle when he glanced at Alistair’s finery.

  Titania smiled brightly at Lord Gratwick, whose face still wore a scowl, then leaned forward to serve the gingerbread.

  Alistair dragged a delicate Egyptian-style chair toward the center of the room, then draped himself gracefully into it. Titania wondered if the chair could support his weight as well as his presence. “Yes, I will be there, but I cannot tell you who I’ll be dressed as. The best attack is a surprise attack, would you not agree, Lord Gratwick?”

  Lord Gratwick appeared to choke on his food. “Yes, indeed, Mr. Farrell.”

  Alistair beamed. “So glad you agree, my lord. Tell me, were you at Albuera?”

  Before Lord Gratwick could reply, Stillings opened the door. Lord Gratwick looked grateful for the interruption.

  “Mr. Fell, miss,” Stillings announced. Julian glided into the room, his hair falling artfully across his brow. His clothing was just as startling as Alistair’s, delicate hues of blue encasing his slender frame. The effect was ruined by his glower, however, when he saw Alistair’s splendor. He ignored Lord Gratwick entirely until Titania made the introductions.

  “Miss Stanhope, I am so pleased to find you here.”

  “Where else would Miss Stanhope be?” Alistair said with a grin. Julian looked nonplussed. “But speaking of being places,” Alistair continued, “I must take my leave. Lord Gratwick, would you mind dropping me at White’s?”

  He winked slyly at Titania, who covered her mouth as she tried not to laugh. Lord Gratwick took his leave with a peevish air, and Alistair followed in a sweep of purple.

  Julian watched them go, then drew a chair close to Titania so Miss Tynte could not hear.

  “Quick! Tell me what happened last night! I saw this...this behemoth practically haul you from your seat, then the next thing I knew you had disappeared. When I saw you again, you looked very mussed, and the behemoth had a very satisfied smirk on his face. Tell me, were you accosted by the gentleman in question? Should I plan on naming my seconds?” He drew himself up as large as he could, his resulting size still only half that of Lord Worthington.

  “He did nothing that was not welcome. But,” she said, launching the one topic—himself—that she knew would keep him from asking too many prying
questions, “have you been writing poetry long?”

  Julian raised his eyes skyward. “As long as the trees have had roots, as long as the clouds have had rain, as long as—”

  “The Earl of Oakley,” Stillings intoned. Edwin entered, his eyes searching for Titania.

  “The behemoth,” Julian whispered.

  “Lord Worthington, what a pleasure to see you.” Titania rose, walking to take Edwin’s hand. “You met Mr. Julian Fell last evening.” Met him last evening when your hands were not up my skirt.

  “Well, Miss Stanhope,” Julian said briskly, rising from his chair, “I must be off. I will see you at the masquerade—I will be the Cupid with the wings and the arrows.” Titania laughed, then held her hand out to his. “I look forward to it. Thank you for coming.”

  “Oh, and Miss Stanhope,” he said as he walked out the door, “please remember to bring your behemoth tomorrow. Although I believe the point of such a party is to disguise yourself, and you are clearly not able to do so—I believe I can read your mind even now.” With that parting shot, Julian slid out the door, his chuckle rumbling down the hall.

  Titania did not dare to even look at Miss Tynte, who she was sure was glaring at her. She darted a quick glance from under her lashes and was not very happy to find she was right. Miss Tynte was giving her an icy look that used to stop her bad behavior immediately, at least until she had started behaving so impulsively.

  “Please sit, Lord Worthington.” He did. But no one spoke.

  Titania cleared her throat a few times but wasn’t sure just what to say: How do you get your chest so broad? When can we finish what we started? and Why does it feel like that when you touch me there? didn’t seem like good conversation starters. At least not with Miss Tynte in the room.

  The ensuing silence was agonizing. Edwin stared hungrily at Titania, Miss Tynte stabbed at her embroidery as if it were, Titania imagined, a picture of her on the frame, and she herself did not know where to look.

  “Cousin,” Titania said finally, her voice a little squeak, “what are you working on now?”

  Miss Tynte gave her a sharp look, then turned her eyes back down. “It is a sampler I am doing for my niece. It details Dante’s Nine Circles of Hell.”

  “Which one is this, then?” Edwin asked softly. Titania stifled a giggle, while Miss Tynte gave him one of her governessy glares. Titania tried again.

  “My lord,” she chirped, “is it not a lovely day? I do not think I have seen a more lovely day in all my years, which, I have been informed, are many. I believe the trees are extra green today, and as for the sky, it is as blue as, well, as something that is remarkably blue. If I were a poet, I would have to compose a sonnet about today. It is that grand.”

  “Your poetry could not possibly be any worse than Mr. Fell’s,” he said with a grin. “And, yes, the day is lovely.” Miss Tynte, who had been following their conversation with all the avidity and head turning of a spectator at a tennis match, got distracted by a raveled thread and looked down as she began to tug.

  Edwin leaned in closer so his mouth—his warm, soft, passionate mouth—was just inches away from Titania’s ear. His breath made the hairs on her arm stand up, and she couldn’t even describe what it was doing to the rest of her body. Or she could, but it would take a vocabulary she could not use without turning a profound shade of red.

  “Miss Stanhope, I will not apologize for what happened last evening. I cannot regret it, even for a moment. In fact—” He paused. “I want to do it again and again and again until we’re both breathless.” Titania darted a quick look at Miss Tynte; thankfully, the yellow thread was still tangled.

  “My lord,” Titania said slowly, speaking as softly as he was, “we must understand each other. I believe...” She said with a hesitant tone, “I believe we are in a similar position. There are reasons why we should not be friends.”

  Edwin frowned, and Titania watched as his gorgeous lips pulled down at the corners. “What reasons? Is it because of my past? Titania,” he said, his voice a low thrum of passion, “I wish I could change the past, but I cannot.” Titania cleared her throat, her whole body humming with tension. She cleared it again, then spoke slowly.

  “My lord, it is not your past. How could I judge you? I did not come to London with a spotless reputation. My father made certain of that. Neither of us can...afford”—she stressed the word—“to do anything to upset Society. Although there are certain rumors regarding my own state of affairs, that is,” she said, blushing as she realized how what she had said might be construed, “my own financial state is not what it might seem. Like you, my future lies in my own hands, and it is up to me to decide it. Developing a friendship must be handled discreetly.”

  Edwin shifted slightly, a confused look in his eye. “Disc—” he started to ask, but Miss Tynte raised her head, a satisfied look on her face.

  “That troublesome thread! I showed it. Now, to start on the sixth circle. I think a bright blue would be nice, do you agree, Titania?”

  “Mmm, yes, cousin, that looks lovely. My lord,” Titania said as she moved her chair a few inches away from Edwin’s, “do you attend the Landons’ masquerade?” Edwin’s look of confusion was replaced with a devilish smirk, that elusive dimple appearing as he spoke.

  “Yes, I will be attending, although I have not yet decided as whom. Which obscure goddess will you be garbed as? Miss Tynte, do you not think that Miss Titania should be Sekhmet, the Egyptian goddess of war?” He gazed at Titania and she felt a warmth steal over her as she saw the admiration in his eyes. “Or maybe you should be Joan of Arc or Queen Elizabeth; I believe either would measure up to your resolute nature.”

  Oh, if he only knew how irresolute she was. At one time, all she wanted was to have her Season, meet some interesting people, and see a world beyond Northamptonshire. Now she was pondering doing something so contrary to her nature, to her Society, it shocked her.

  She surfaced from her fantasy to see two pairs of eyes—one green, one brown—staring at her, waiting for her to respond. “More cake?” she asked, holding the plate out to Edwin. He stretched his fingers out and barely brushed against hers. She felt as if she were on fire.

  “Yes, thank you, Miss Stanhope. I find I am famished for something, and my appetite has barely been whetted. I cannot wait for dessert,” he finished with a smirk.

  “TITANIA!” MISS TYNTE thundered. Lord Worthington had just left, leaving a dreamy-eyed Titania in his wake. “You know as well as I do that that man—no matter how charming, intelligent, handsome, and enamored of you he might be—is not a candidate for marriage. And since his green eyes and strapping build will not pay Thibault’s school fees, I advise you to forget about him.” Titania sat down with a sudden thump, nervously pulling strands of hair out of her coiffure.

  “My dear,” Miss Tynte continued, her voice breaking, “you know I would like nothing more than to have you marry someone who is truly your equal, and Lord Worthington certainly appears to be that. But unfortunately our circumstances—your circumstances—insist that you put your head ahead of your heart. Unless you wish to tell Thibault everything, and turn off the servants, you cannot encourage his attentions. I am truly sorry, dear,” she finished, patting Titania’s sleeve softly.

  Titania looked down at the worn, wrinkled hand on her sleeve. The blue veins were darker than the shade of Titania’s gown, the thin fingers still bearing the calluses of pens wielded long ago. Miss Tynte was wise, as always. How could Titania even think of jeopardizing her family’s future, much less her own, by indulging her own longings?

  This is what it felt like, love, that emotion that propelled her mother into her father’s arms, that caused great countries to fall, to make Titania Stanhope change from a decisive, capable woman to a vacillating, blushing girl.

  She shook her head, drew out her vellum and pen, and tried to concentrate. She could not control her heart, but she had to keep enough control of her head to be able to have a valid choice at the end of
the Season.

  Unless the woman who was heir to her father’s estate suddenly appeared and handed over all of her father’s money, she was going to have to find a tenable solution. As she mulled it over, she knew that marrying a wealthy man just for the sake of his funds was looking less and less tenable. So she bent to her task, rolled up her sleeves, and scribbled frantically away in the hours before dinner.

  Chapter 11

  Edwin hummed a little tune as he descended the stairs from Titania’s house. For the first time in years he was happy, and as soon as he and Titania were safely betrothed, he would be content at last. Contentment was an emotion he thought never to experience again.

  As he bounded into his carriage and settled into the soft, plush padding, his mind wandered to when Titania would be his wife. She could assist him with his writing and aid him in setting the estate to rights. When he woke up in the morning, her hair would be lying poker straight on the pillow. When he needed to figure out the right word for an article, he could discuss it with her.

  As he strode up the stairs to his house, and saw Henri’s beaming face (almost completely obscured by the mountainous pile of boxes from Bond Street), he smiled, feeling like home was only a broken nose away.

  Henri immediately began to jabber at him, but Edwin waved him away, treading softly upstairs to his room. Although he honestly would have liked nothing better than to sit and grin stupidly at Henri as he chattered about his various purchases, he had promised to write an editorial on the British attitude on the war they were waging against America. His firsthand opinions and access to people in powerful positions would put his work into the spotlight as it had never been.

  He sighed, knowing until he made his deadline he should not even be thinking about his personal affairs. He pulled out a fresh piece of paper, undaunted by its blankness, and immediately started to write, his small, jagged handwriting quickly filling the page.