A Lady in Love

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  “Then you think he's like Mr. Atwood?”

  “Nothing like him. I thought I wanted a man I could influence. What am I saying? I wanted a man I could rule. I can never rule Mortimer, though I think I can influence him. He's going to be captain in the house, as well as aboard his ship. I've quite made up my mind about that!”

  Seeing Sarah was about to say something further, Harmonia held up her hand. “Please, Sarah, as you love me, never mention Mr. Harlow Atwood again. That episode is over, most happily over.” Hearing a footstep on the landing, Harmonia stood up, her face alight with the joy of knowing she'd see her beloved in a finger's snap. More than that, for when Mortimer walked into the bedchamber, he stretched out his arms to take her in.

  “We're all going home for the wedding,” Mortimer said. “My mother's writing yours at this very moment, no doubt making the paper very soggy. But the letter will hardly arrive before we do. I want to leave day after tomorrow. What do you think of all this, Sarah? Were you surprised?” Mortimer asked, gazing down into Harmonia's face.

  “Yes,” she lied. “I hadn't the least notion how matters stood until Harmonia told me just now.” She saw Harmonia wink approvingly over Mortimer's broad shoulder. Sarah turned her gaze out toward the blackness beyond the window, doing her best to ignore the tiny sounds from behind her. She sighed. At least Harmonia was happy, secure in the embrace of the man she loved. As happy, no doubt, as Miss Canfield. As happy as Sarah knew she'd never be. Idly, she wrote “Alaric” in the fog left by her breath on the glass, and then rubbed it out.

  “You don't mind spending the day shopping, do you?”

  From beneath the tilted brim of his tall hat, Alaric smiled at his fiancee as her chaise started forward. “For the third time, Lillian, I don't mind in the least. I may purchase something myself. Seals, or fobs, or a shiny new snuffbox.”

  “You don't take snuff, and should you begin, you shall have to find a new fiancee. What a ghastly habit. Almost as bad as the betel nuts the natives chew in the East. I'm not sure I don't prefer that. It makes their teeth such a lovely shade of red.” She grimaced at him comically, showing all her straight, white teeth.

  Alaric laughed. “Charming. I shall recommend it to all the ladies I meet. Tell me honestly. Wouldn't most of your friends look far lovelier with bright red teeth sharpened into points? Shall we begin the fashion?”

  “I'd prefer a new dress—of bright red silk with pointed trimmings. Where do you suggest we go for such things, Kendall?”

  The fortyish maid, sitting with her back to the horse, brightened at hearing something she could understand. “Grafton House, miss. They have everything.”

  “Excellent. Tell Briggs to take us there.”

  As they tooled along in the bright morning sunlight, Alaric allowed his gaze to travel where it would. An organ-grinder, two bucks shaking hands on horseback, an increasing lady and her worried husband circling her like a frantic lapdog, and a friend were all pointed out to Miss Canfield. Then a frown rumpled his forehead and he turned, sitting up from his lazy posture to look over the back of the open chaise.

  “What is it, Alaric?”

  “I thought ... I thought for a moment I recognized someone, but it couldn't be he.” He shook his head and, feeling he'd been remiss, asked about his future father-in-law.

  “He's well.”

  Alaric noticed Lillian's infinitesimal hesitation. “What has he done now?''

  “It's only that you'd think, after the fearful trimming I gave him over his behavior three weeks ago, that he'd have sense enough to stay away from the topic of our marriage.”

  “But he hasn't.”

  “No. He was complaining this morning that ... oh, it's too ridiculous to mention!”

  “Mention it, then, so I may laugh.”

  Lillian let out half an exasperated sigh. “Just so long as you don't imagine this complaint is from me.”

  “I shan't. What is it?”

  “Father, with his usual elephantine tact, wanted to know why you had not, as yet, equipped me with some token of our betrothal.” Her face impassive, Lillian's distaste flavored every syllable.

  “Shall I buy you a ring today?”

  “I don't want a ring. Father thinks I should have something imperial—hen's egg size at the least—to decorate my finger, but I like to lift my hand without using a derrick. Father's behavior has been disgraceful throughout. I could have sunk through the floor at dinner last night when he was going on and on about the arrangements for our wedding. You were so very polite, yet I knew you must have been angry.”

  Alaric did not answer. Partly because they'd now arrived at Grafton House, an enormous columned emporium, and partly he kept silent because he was afraid that to speak would reveal much that he wished to hide from Lillian. At dinner, with his host demanding an open discussion of private matters, he'd felt as trapped as a criminal on his way to Tyburn. Already he could feel the coarse fibers of the noose. He'd known a strangling fear and had hoped that a glance across the table at Lillian, so calm and lovely, would ease it. She'd smiled and nodded understandingly, but the fear remained. Perhaps, he thought, handing Lillian down out of the chaise, his had only been the natural reaction of a bachelor facing the dread specter of Matrimony.

  Undoubtedly that was all this feeling was. Turning to follow his fiancee into the dusky interior, he paused to tug gently at the fine cravat about his throat. He couldn't be more delighted, Alaric told himself firmly. Lillian would make a perfect countess. Together, they'd put down deep roots as they followed his plans for the future. With her beside him, the course ahead would be as untroubled as the straightest road, without bend or hill to spoil their easy progress.

  Two passersby stared open-mouthed at the elegantly dressed gentleman clutching at his cravat in Bond Street. Prying loose his fingers, Alaric bowed coolly. During a supercilious glance around to see if anyone else had noticed his bizarre actions, he paused. Coming toward him was the lady in delicate condition that he'd noticed before. Though he'd dismissed the idea before, he now saw clearly that her escort was none other than that notorious lover, Mr. Harlow Atwood.

  “Harlow,” the lady said, tossing up her red head with a boldness that must have been very charming five months ago. “Does that gentleman know you, or is he crazed?” She narrowed bright hazel eyes at Alaric.

  “It's the Earl of Reyne, Lucy. Should we not hurry ... ?”

  “You never told me you were on speaking terms with earls and other quality. Go and speak to him. Go on, I say.”

  Shaking off his amazement, Alaric advanced with his hand held out. Atwood shied backward, clapping his hat over his face. He'd obviously not forgotten that the last time they'd met, Lord Reyne tried to darken his daylights. “How delightful to see you, Atwood,” Alaric said. The hat dropped to reveal a single eye. “This must be your lady wife?''

  “I am, sir. The former Miss Lucy MacKenzie.” Though Alaric hoped they'd been married at least a month longer than the evidence suggested, he noted she still held her left hand so that the shiny golden band caught the light.

  “Charming to meet you, Mrs. Atwood. I've heard so much about you ... from your husband.” The eye of her husband gleamed with gratitude as he replaced his hat on his head.

  Though Mrs. Atwood was loath to let a bona fide earl go, pressing upon him many offers to visit them in their lodgings, Alaric finally tore himself away. Finding Lillian once more in the depths of the shop, he duly admired the bolt of cloth on display for her and then said, “I hope you'll forgive me, Lillian. I have to leave you. An important matter has come to my attention.”

  The shop assistant withdrew to a respectful distance out of earshot. Lillian said, “I understand. Shopping is dull. Shall I see you later? This evening, perhaps? I promise you Father will behave.”

  Guilt heated Alaric's face. Grateful for the murky light, he hastened into extra explanation. “I've misjudged someone, Lillian. Grievously. I must apologize at once. To let it go on any longer wou
ld be adding injury to insult. I can't in good conscience do that.”

  “You misjudged someone? I can't believe that. You are always so confident and clear-sighted.”

  “Thank you for your kind words, Lillian. But I've been a fool, and I've hurt Sarah more than I can ever tell you.”

  “Hurt Sarah? Sarah East? How could anyone misjudge someone so open and honest about herself?”

  “I did, at any rate.”

  “I do see that, yes, you must apologize to her immediately. I like her tremendously, and it won't do to have her feelings wounded by you. Hurry along. Kendall and I shall carry on without you. But promise to tell me all about it later.”

  “I promise.” Alaric kissed her hands and left.

  Ordinarily, he would have walked, though Mrs. Whitsun's house was far from Bond Street. But a sense of urgency, welling up from somewhere inside, propelled him into waving down an unoccupied hackney. Restless on the seat, he leaned forward as though willing the horse to greater speed. Hopping down in the street, he had already fished up a sovereign. The driver eyed it suspiciously. A quick bite later, he drove off, grinning. Alaric crossed the street to stand outside the narrow house.

  Shutters linked hands across the windows, a sure sign that the house was now unoccupied. He stood beside the very one he'd leapt lightly from on a night three weeks ago. It was as if he could still feel the jar that had met his feet when he'd struck pavement, no less startling than the jolt his heart had received when he'd believed Sarah East to be false. What a fool he'd been.

  Alaric rapped on the door. The echo, searching empty rooms, seemed to resonate in his chest. He knocked once more, solely because a ragged, shivering hope still lived in his heart. But when the second echo faded, his hope died. “They've gorn, sir,” said a sweet voice.

  Looking from side to side, Alaric finally espied a small maid in a mobcap and apron, wielding a broom on the steps next door. She bobbed a curtsy, finding she had his attention. “They've gorn. Yesterday morning as ever was. Gave the staff a holiday ‘cause of the young lady's wedding.”

  “Wedding? What young lady?” Good God, how had Sarah found herself a bridegroom so quickly? Not that there weren't plenty of men who'd snatch up such a beauty before a star could twinkle.

  “I dunno, sir,” the maid said.

  “Was she a blonde?”

  “I dunno, sir, but he was ever so handsome in his uniform.”

  “Uniform? Of which service?”

  “Navy, of course.” She looked at him as if he were quite mad to think of any other. Her expression grew even more ludicrous when he handed her a half-crown for her information. She reached out for it twice before mustering her nerve to take it, then she disappeared inside with her broom before the madman had a chance to change an already unbalanced mind.

  Alaric did not trouble to search for a second hackney. He walked slowly up the street, his hands clasped behind his back. Remembering all the cads and fribbles that had clustered about her until that unfortunate business at the Duchess of Parester's party, he felt distinctly grateful that Sarah had found herself a respectable naval officer to marry.

  His frown deepening, he chastised himself for never having apologized to Sarah for having involved her in such a brangle. Nor had he taken the time to clear her reputation, though he knew Lillian had made an attempt to invite the Whitsun party to dine. He'd thought the entire silly business would blow over, and perhaps it would have, with Lillian's support, but it didn't matter now. Alaric walked along, wondering why nothing seemed to matter anymore. A sudden fog seemed to have moved in on London, and he wandered in it, darkly.

  Sighing, he looked up. There was no fog. If anything, the day was as clear and sunny as any he'd known. The street looked familiar. Studying the houses, he realized this was the street where the Canfields made their London home. His sense of direction, invaluable in the smoke and battle of war, had brought him here without conscious thought, even as he'd once walked in similar turmoil of mind to Sarah. He shied away from the thought of her, as he'd winced from the surgeon's touch.

  Feeling for his watch, he discovered that it was half-past four. Lillian would certainly have returned from her shopping expedition by now. She might even be pouring out tea. Good old Lillian, Alaric thought. At least I still have her. With this lover-like thought, he mounted the steps and tugged on the bellpull.

  Ascertaining that Lillian was alone, Alaric entered the blue and white drawing room without waiting to be announced. With a pleased smile, Lillian rose from her chair to greet him. Silently and swiftly, Alaric crossed the room, put his arms about her, and kissed her smiling lips. He felt her hesitate and then try to draw away. Assuming she was only surprised by the suddenness of his kiss, Alaric pursued her, but she put the heels of her hands against his shoulders and pushed. “Stop, please.”

  “Why? Mayn't a man kiss his fiancee? And I've decided your father is entirely in the right. We shouldn't wait any longer to be married. June is the perfect month.” He smiled down on her, hoping she'd reassure him.

  Lillian pushed him again with a new strength. He opened his arms to let her go. “Alaric, I ...” She grasped a chair back for support and then, shaking her head a trifle, stood on her own. “Very well. Come here and kiss me, then.”

  Confused, Alaric did as he was bid. He'd kissed many girls before, at his expense usually. He was used to the yielding sigh that went through them all, sooner or later. He put his arms around Lillian and touched her lips lightly with his own. There was a moment of cold hesitation. Perhaps she simply needed to get used to the idea. After all, he'd never made the slightest attempt to kiss her before.

  But when the moment lengthened, Alaric began to feel ridiculous, and moreover, bored. It was exactly as though he were kissing a girl during amateur theatricals—less interesting, if anything. Lillian did not giggle or blush. She simply stood there, enduring his embrace in patience. Alaric lifted his head. “This isn't going to work, is it?”

  Now she smiled as she slowly shook her head. “I knew, somehow, that it would not. I respect you, Alaric, and love you, but exactly as if you were my brother. I realized it, I think, three weeks ago, when Father made such a fool of himself, and of me and you. Standing in front of all those people, I did not feel pleased or excited, only tremendously embarrassed.”

  “Then you are much cleverer than I. I came here with every intention of encouraging you to marry me immediately.”

  “I thought you might. I meant to free you as soon as you suggested it, but you didn't grant me the opportunity. I'm happy you kissed me, as it makes explanations so much easier.” Alaric sat down, rather heavily, as Lillian returned to the desk in the corner of the room. She picked up a piece of paper and stood turning it in her fingers. “Alaric,” she said, as if bringing up a delicate subject, “I also know why you wanted to marry me at once all of a sudden.”

  “You know? Pray explain that to me, for I am not certain why myself.”

  “It wouldn't have anything to do with a young lady's departure for her home, would it?'’ She came and put the paper in his hand. Squeezing his shoulder, Lillian said, “I found this waiting in the post when I returned this afternoon. When you came in just now, I put one and one together, as you should do.” Leaving the note for him to read, Lillian crossed the room to ring for their tea.

  Alaric frowned at the neat writing that covered the page. Though at times verging on incoherence, Sarah's regret for any pain she might have caused Miss Canfield came through clearly enough. The letter closed on a note of thanks for all Lillian had done for her. “This bracelet,” Lillian said, holding up the glittering strand, “was enclosed. I gave it to her at Hollytrees for nursing you so well. Please take it back to her.”

  “Take it back? I'm not going anywhere.”

  “Now you're being very stubborn. Listen to me a moment. When you offered your kind proposal to me, I knew you did not love me, although I was prepared to love you. I didn't understand then that love cannot be prepared
for and cannot be arranged. It enters your heart like a king to command or it doesn't come in at all.”

  “Are you in love with someone else?”

  “No. I don't believe I ever shall be in love. I am not one who accepts commands of any sort.” Lillian appeared to be gazing inward, and she smiled sadly. Then she looked at him, and he saw laughter sparkling in the depths of her brown eyes. “To tell the truth, Alaric, I'd not marry you if the Archbishop of Canterbury were to perform the ceremony and the Prince Regent were to give you away. When you think about my father, you'll see how positive I am that I could never be brought to marry you.”

  “What about your father? He'll kick up a deuce of a fuss. I'll see him before I go.”

  “Never mind. He's not your difficulty now. I give you your freedom. Please take it. There's a young lady waiting for you that you've made rather unhappy by being engaged to me. The sooner you clear that up, the sooner you'll be happy.”

  “Happy? Do you think I'll enjoy delivering Sarah from one scrape only to see her fall into another?”

  “Enormously. Are you going?”

  “May I have tea first?”

  “No, you may not.”

  They laughed together, companionable as old friends. Lillian made him promise that he'd bring Sarah to dinner as soon as their honeymoon at his house in Essex was over. Alaric left, whistling. Lillian drank her tea, fortifying herself with several cups, then knocked on her father's door. No doubt he'd be noisy, yet she felt certain she'd bring him around in time. Despite his ambitions, she felt he'd never force her into a marriage that would make her unhappy, even if that meant no marriage at all.

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  * * *

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Yellow iris and white roses to match Harmonia's ribbons!” Lady Phelps said, with the air of a conjurer bringing a three-foot sword out of a six-inch handkerchief.