by Anne Gracie
“I don’t mind. I can fix it up and clean—” Her big brown eyes were shining.
“No need. I had Bartlett—man of affairs, you know—put some men on the job. A bit of thatching replaced—”
“Thatching?”
He frowned. “You don’t like thatch? I can have it replaced—”
“No, I love the sound of a thatched roof. My mother grew up in a village with thatched cottages. She used to tell me about it when I was a child. They sounded very quaint and pretty.” She refolded the deed and tucked it carefully inside her bodice. Lucky deed, sliding into that soft warmth . . .
He forced his mind back onto the subject of thatch. Of the roofing kind. “Bit old-fashioned, in my opinion, but as long as you don’t mind. . . . Other than that, there’s a bit of plasterwork to refinish, a handful of small repairs, a lick of paint and it’ll be ready.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re having all that done?”
“Well, I’m not going to present you with a hovel, am I? Besides, it’s nothing, a few paltry repairs. Now, let’s—”
She clasped her hands together eagerly. “When can I see it?”
“I’ll take you there after the visit to my parents’ home.” Her expression clouded, and he added, “It won’t be ready before then, so there’d be no point. Now, have you told that fierce little troll at the pottery that you’re leaving?”
She shook her head. “If you mean Mrs. Jenkins, I’ll tell her when I finish up today. And she’s not a troll; she’s very kind.”
He snorted. “To you, maybe. Me, she treats like a rabid dog. But you cannot mean to spend another day in that wretched place, surely.”
She smiled and shook her head. “I have a dinner set to complete, and I’m not going to leave Mrs. Jenkins in the lurch. She’s been very good to me. As have you. A cottage, my very own cottage. Oh, thank you, Mr. Monkton-Coombes, you have no idea what this means to me.” She clasped his hands and gave him such a warm, glowing look he felt quite peculiar. Probably because he’d forgotten to have breakfast.
“Very well, if you must work, I’ll pick you up at—what time? Two?”
“Four,” she said. “There’s no literary society today.”
He nodded. “Make it four, then, and we’ll tell your sisters and Lady Beatrice. I’ve already sent a notice to the Morning Post. It will appear tomorrow.”
She took a deep breath. “So it’s official, then.”
“Yes, it’s official.” He was about to be formally and publicly betrothed. And still he had no sense of the tolling of his doom. Quite the contrary.
Why had he never thought of a false betrothal before? It was the perfect solution.
• • •
It was closer to five than four o’clock by the time Damaris had finished the dinner set, packed up her things and made her last good-byes to all the people at the pottery. She was tired, and a little sad; she’d been happy here, but she’d made a bargain. And as a result she had a cottage all of her very own.
She could hardly believe it. From time to time throughout the day she’d touched her chest, listening for the slight crackle of the deed tucked in her bodice. Her future.
“I’m that sorry to see you go, Damaris.” Mrs. Jenkins had offered her more money to stay on. Damaris’s designs were selling like hotcakes, apparently. It was nice to know. Perhaps, when she got settled in her cottage, she could paint pottery again. If there were any potteries in Devon. She had no idea. The only trip to Devon she’d made was for Abby and Max’s wedding.
“Thank you, Mrs. Jenkins, I’m sad to leave too.” She stepped into the yard and held out her hand to shake Mrs. Jenkins’s hand. “But it’s for the best, I assure you.”
But it seemed Mrs. Jenkins was determined to walk her to the gates. She slipped an arm around Damaris’s waist and steered her across the yard, saying, “You’re a good girl, Damaris. If you change your mind and want to come back, there’ll always be a place for you, you know that?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Jenkins, it’s very kind of you but I don’t expect to be living in London.”
“Where are you goin’—no!” Mrs. Jenkins stopped dead. Her arm dropped away from Damaris’s waist. She glared at the gates, where tall, elegantly clad Freddy Monkton-Coombes stood waiting, then turned to Damaris with an expression of horror. “You’re not goin’ off with ’im, are you?” she exclaimed. “Not with that rake! Tell me it’s not true, Damaris.”
“He’s just escorting me home,” Damaris said soothingly, but she felt her cheeks warming.
Mrs. Jenkins gasped. “Oh, Gawd, you ’ave! You’ve fallen for his Evil Wiles!” She clutched Damaris’s arm. “Don’t do it, my girl. Don’t go with him. He’ll lead you down the Road to Roon!”
Damaris gently disengaged herself from the woman’s grip. “It’s all right, we’re betrothed,” she said, seeing no other way to reassure her. Her first lie of many more to come, she thought.
“Betrothed? I don’t believe it!” Mrs. Jenkins glared through the gates at Mr. Monkton-Coombes, who made her an elegant bow in response. Rather a cheeky elegant bow.
Mrs. Jenkins bristled visibly. She pulled Damaris close and said in her ear, “Don’t let ’im touch you until you’ve stood before a parson—with witnesses—and you’ve got a proper legal paper with your marriage lines writ on it. And he’s put a proper gold ring on your finger. Otherwise he’ll roon you as soon as look at you—I know ’is type.”
Damaris gave her a quick hug. “It’ll be all right, I promise you. Good-bye, Mrs. Jenkins.”
The little woman shook her head sorrowfully. “You’re headin’ down the Road to Roon, my dear, I feel it in my waters.”
Damaris let herself out the gate and took Mr. Monkton-Coombes’s arm.
Mrs. Jenkins shouted after her, “And watch out if he starts with the poetry. They got no shame, them rakes.”
“Poetry?” Freddy Monkton-Coombes said as he led Damaris down the lane toward a waiting cab. “What does she imagine I’m going to do with poetry? I never touch the stuff.”
“Seduce me, I think.” She added thoughtfully, “I suspect she’s not without some experience of rakes herself.”
He snorted. “Can’t see it myself. What was she whispering in your ear about?”
“Oh, nothing. She’s just worried about me, that’s all.”
“Worried?” He gave her a sharp look. “About what?”
Damaris smiled. “Your intentions toward me.”
“Oh, is that all?” He helped her into the cab. “I thought it might be something serious.” He rapped on the roof and the cab lurched off. “Now, how would you like to handle telling your sisters and Lady Beatrice? Do you want to do it in private, or would you prefer us to do it together?”
She’d been thinking about it all day, trying to decide. The trouble was, after her statement that the very idea of marriage was abhorrent to her, there were bound to be some uncomfortable and penetrating questions. She sighed. “I hate the idea of lying to them.”
He turned abruptly and grasped her by the upper arms. “Get that nonsense out of your head for a start. It’s not a lie. We are betrothed. We have made an agreement, I’ve written to inform my parents and the formal announcement will appear in the Morning Post tomorrow.”
“Yes, but it doesn’t make it any less dishonest. The truth is, we have no intention of going through with it.”
He frowned. “Stop thinking about the future, then. Right now you and I are betrothed, and that’s all that counts. People get betrothed all the time and never marry. People change their minds. And at some time in the future, you will change your mind and we won’t be betrothed any longer. But at this moment, we are. So it’s not a lie.”
She considered it. “You think I should just be in the moment? And not think about the future?”
“Exactly.”
“It’
s quite Chinese.”
“What is?”
“Living in the moment. Buddhists advocate that.” Papa would have been scandalized that she even knew about what he called arrant heathenism.
“Excellent. Be a Buddhist, then, if it makes things easier for you.”
She laughed. “You’re not very religious, are you?”
He shrugged. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all.” She’d had a surfeit of Papa’s brand of religion. It was a relief not to have anyone else’s beliefs shoved down her throat.
The cab turned into Berkeley Square. The moment of truth. “Let’s do it together,” she said. The coward’s way out.
Chapter Ten
“Human nature is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting situations, that a young person, who either marries or dies, is sure of being kindly spoken of.”
—JANE AUSTEN, EMMA
Freddy told the cabdriver to pull up on the corner so that Damaris could slip in by the side entrance, as usual. She didn’t want to be caught wearing Abby’s old clothes. She would slip upstairs by the servants’ stairs, change and then come down again.
Freddy rang the bell and was admitted to the house by the butler. “Lady Beatrice is in the green salon with the other young ladies,” Featherby informed him. “I will announce you.”
Damn, it was later than he’d thought. It was Lady Beatrice’s habit to gather before dinner for a glass of sherry with the young ladies and any other dinner guests. He entered and was promptly invited for dinner. He accepted and stood sipping sherry by the fire, making polite conversation with the young ladies as he waited for Damaris to appear. Luckily there were no other guests tonight.
In a surprisingly short time, she hurried in, luminous in a gown of rose pink with her hair twisted in a simple knot, and breathlessly apologizing for her lateness. “I completely lost track of time.” She glanced at Freddy and the faint pink of her cheeks deepened.
Lady Beatrice waved her excuses away. She raised her lorgnette, directing it at Freddy. “Now that we’re all gathered, is there any particular reason you’ve graced us with your presence, young Monkton-Coombes, delightful though it is? You’ve been twitching like a cat at a mouse hole ever since you arrived.”
Damaris put down her untouched sherry glass and went to stand beside Freddy. “I asked him here.” Her voice trembled a little. “I—we—have an announcement to make.” She swallowed convulsively and looked at Freddy.
He drained his glass, set it on the mantelpiece, took a deep breath and said, “I have asked Damaris to marry me and she has accepted.” Not bad for a man saying what he’d sworn he’d never say.
There was a short, stunned silence, then a babble of female excitement broke out.
“Damaris, oh, oh, oh! I don’t believe it!” Jane squeaked, hugging her and jumping up and down at the same time. “How exciting. You sly thing, you—I never suspected a thing!”
“But I thought you weren’t never—” Daisy broke off, shaking her head and grinning. “Well, never say never, is that it? I’m very happy for you, lovey.” She too hugged Damaris, though with a little less exuberance than Jane. “Told you he had his eye on you, din’t I?” she whispered in Damaris’s ear and laughed.
Both girls hugged Freddy, much to his surprise. “Oh, but you’re going to be our brother now,” Jane said happily. “We can’t possibly behave formally with a brother. Oh, when’s the wedding going to be? Can we be bridesmaids? And where will it be? In London or in the country like Abby and Max’s? That little chapel at Davenham was so pretty. You could be married there too! Oh, I do love weddings.”
The flurry of questions was appalling. Women and weddings. Freddy had no idea where to begin.
“We haven’t decided yet,” Damaris said quietly. “We’ve only just got betrothed. We haven’t had time to make plans.” Something in her voice seemed to calm the excitement. The girls stopped jumping around and followed her gaze to where an old lady was scrutinizing them both through her lorgnette. There was a sudden hush.
She continued to examine them through that damned glass. Freddy felt like an insect on a pin.
“Lady Beatrice, you haven’t said anything,” Damaris said at last. “Don’t you approve?”
The old lady sniffed. “Seems to me you haven’t even bothered to seek my approval.” She gave Freddy a withering look. “In my day when a young man wished to propose to a young lady, he would speak first to her father.”
Freddy frowned. “But Damaris’s father is dead.”
“She does, however, have an aunt.”
Ah. Freddy glanced at Damaris, who looked thoroughly miserable. Lady Davenham might not be a real aunt, but clearly the old lady’s nose was right out of joint and it was up to him to retrieve the situation. “My apologies. Jumped the gun. Excitement of the moment and all that.” He assumed his most penitent and earnest expression. “Lady Beatrice, do I have your permission—”
“I will speak to Damaris first. In private, if you would all be so good.” For a moment nobody moved. She rapped her stick on the floor. “Now!”
Two young ladies, a cat and a butler vanished. Freddy hesitated, not liking to leave Damaris alone with an annoyed dowager, but she made little waving motions with her fingers and gave him a nod as if to say it would be all right.
“I will wait in the hall,” he said with dignity. “If you need me, Damaris, just call.”
Lady Beatrice’s well-plucked eyebrows almost disappeared into her vivid red coiffure, but she said nothing, just raised her lorgnette. If he’d been a bug he would have sizzled.
• • •
The door closed behind him. Damaris turned to Lady Beatrice penitently. “Lady Beatrice, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I—”
“Pish-tush, you didn’t at all, foolish gel. I’m just concerned that that young rattle might have pushed you into something you told me—several times—that you didn’t want. Never wanted.” She gave Damaris a shrewd look. “Had an abhorrence of, in fact.”
“Oh.” Damaris felt her cheeks heating.
“Yes, oh. You’re not in trouble, are you?”
“Oh!” She looked up, startled. “No.”
“Because if you are, you know I’ll take care of you, don’t you? No matter what you’ve done. You don’t have to do anything drastic, like marry, if you don’t want to.”
Damaris’s eyes filled. She embraced the old lady. “Oh, Lady Beatrice, you’re so kind, I don’t deserve—but it’s nothing like that, I promise.”
“You’re sure you’re not in some kind of trouble? No debt or anything?”
“No, there’s nothing like that. I’m not in any trouble at all.”
“And this marriage isn’t being forced on you?”
“No, not in the least.”
“So you’re happy with the arrangement?”
“Yes, very.” Damaris smiled, trying to look like a happy bride-to-be. She hated this charade. It was much harder than she’d imagined. This darling old lady was worrying about her and Damaris just wanted to throw herself into her arms and confess that it was all a hoax. But she’d promised him she wouldn’t.
Lady Beatrice pursed her lips. “You don’t look very happy.”
“Oh, well, it’s just . . .” She trailed off. She couldn’t explain.
“Mixed feelings?”
Damaris nodded. “It’s a big step. I just feel a little . . . overwhelmed.”
The old lady eyed her thoughtfully. “If you say so, my dear.” She was silent a moment, then gave a brisk nod. “Well, then, send in young Monkton-Coombes, but before you do, ask Featherby to step in for a moment, will you?”
“You’ll give your consent?”
“I’ll talk to him first. Oh, don’t look like that, gel, you know very well I can’t stop you if you want to go ahead with this thin
g. But it’s no bad thing to put a young man on the spot.”
“I wish you wouldn’t—”
“Oh, pish-tush, don’t fret, I’m not going to eat him. He’s not a bad lad, young Monkton-Coombes. Just . . . mishandled. His mother is a friend of mine but she’s always been blind where Freddy is concerned. Lavished all her love and attention on her firstborn and barely even noticed she had a second son, even after she lost George.
“And then, suddenly, she thought she could badger the boy into marrying, and of course, the more she pushed, the more he resisted.” She shook her head. “Some men can be pushed, and others can only be led, and take my word for it, my dear, Freddy Monkton-Coombes is the type you can only lead—if you’re careful not to get his back up.”
“I don’t intend to lead him at all,” Damaris told her.
Lady Beatrice chuckled. “Oh, my dear, I’m counting on you to lead him a right merry dance. It’s exactly what that boy needs.”
Damaris didn’t bother to argue. Whatever Freddy Monkton-Coombes needed, it wasn’t herself, except as a pretext. “So you will give your consent?”
“Yes, of course. I’m not against the match, but he’s lived for years as a fribble and a rake, swearing he’d never get married, and I’m dashed if I’m going to make it easy for him. You’re a splendid gel and he’d demned well better prove to me that he deserves you! Now, send the rascal in—after I’ve spoken to Featherby.”
• • •
“So, young Monkton-Coombes, what have you got to say for yourself?”
“I apologize for neglecting to ask your permission, Lady Beatrice, but—”
“Piffle! You don’t give a hang for my permission.”
So the gloves were off. Fine. He shrugged. “Not really. But I don’t want to upset Damaris, so—”
“You telling me you care what the gel thinks?”
“Of course I do,” he snapped, annoyed by her obvious disbelief. “I’m going to marry her, aren’t I?”
“Are you indeed?”
Freddy looked at her warily. What was that supposed to mean? Had Damaris confessed the ruse? He decided to brazen it out. “I am. Whether you like it or not.”
