by Anne Gracie
“Why?” The question hung in the air.
“Why?” What the devil did he say to that? “For the obvious reasons, of course.”
She pursed her lips. “And they would be . . . ?”
“Private ones.”
Her brows rose. “A wedding is a public affair.”
“Indeed it is.”
Lady Beatrice sipped her Madeira, eyeing Freddy with a beady expression. She wasn’t at all happy about this betrothal. Did she think he’d forced Damaris into it? Ridiculous. The girl couldn’t be forced to do anything she didn’t want—witness his futile attempts to make her give up that job. No, it might be a fine line, but a bribe was not force.
“In some kind of trouble, is she?”
He stiffened. “Not as far as I’m aware. And before you ask, I haven’t laid a finger on her.”
She sniffed. “Then why the deuce has she been working in that dratted pottery, eh?”
Freddy’s jaw dropped. “You know about that?”
She snorted. “Almost from the beginning.”
“But you never said—she has no idea you know.”
She made a dismissive gesture. “A good butler knows what’s going on in his house and Featherby’s an excellent butler. He knows when there are comings and goings at unseasonal hours. As soon as he realized Damaris was slipping out before dawn, he sent William to follow her, see where she was going and ensure her safety. When he found out, he came to me, thinking she must be in some kind of financial trouble.”
“Why did you not say anything to Damaris?”
“Because despite what I said earlier, that girl’s free to make her own decisions. Those gels had a life before they came to me, and it’s not my place to trim her wings, only offer her shelter. I just want to ensure she’s not in trouble. She’s not, is she?”
“No.”
“Do you know what she wants the money for?”
“Yes.”
There was a short silence. “And you don’t intend to tell me what it is. I see.” She pondered that a moment, then sat up and said in a brisk voice, “The other reason I didn’t speak to Damaris about it was because when Featherby came to me, he also brought the interesting intelligence that you were meeting my gel at the kitchen door and escorting her to the pottery.” She raised her lorgnette. “And why would a gentleman of your stamp do that, I wonder?”
His stamp? Her tone was damned offensive. “Because I promised Max I’d keep an eye on you and the girls, that’s why.”
She eyed him for a long moment and then let out a crack of laughter. “The rake playing propriety?”
“Yes, as it happens,” he said stiffly. “Because I promised Max.”
That apparently amused her even more. She pulled out a wisp of lace and dabbed at her eyes, then grinned. “You know, it’s very attractive when you poker up and glare down your nose at me like that. And can I take it that this betrothal will put an end to her employment at the pottery?”
“You can.”
“Good. I notice she’s wearing no betrothal ring.”
A ring! Dammit, he’d forgotten. “I intend to buy one tomorrow,” he said, as if it had been in the plan all along.
“Your mother still wears the Monkton-Coombes betrothal ring. Part of an hereditary set, ain’t it?”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t dream of asking—”
“Asking your mother for it?” She cut him off sharply. “But it’s Damaris’s right to wear it, is it not? As the betrothed of the heir to Breckenridge?”
Oh, she wasn’t pleased with him, not at all. Now he was undervaluing her niece, not giving Damaris her due. And that was plain wrong. He might have forgotten to buy a ring but he was going to do right by the girl, and he wasn’t going to make her wear the Monkton-Coombes set.
“What I was going to say is that I wouldn’t dream of asking Damaris to wear it. Well, you’ve seen it,” he added as her brows rose. “It’s a blasted ugly thing. Wouldn’t suit Damaris at all.”
“It is ugly,” she agreed in a milder tone. “Then if you haven’t bought a ring yet and you don’t intend to wrest the hereditary one off your mother’s hand, perhaps I could solve your problem. Ring that bell for me, will you?”
Freddy rang it, and almost instantly Featherby glided in. Without a word, he bowed, handed Lady Beatrice a small box, then glided out.
The old lady cradled the little box in her bony fingers, opened it, glanced at the contents, then shut it with a snap. “I thought I’d lost my rings during the time when Max was away and I was ill, but as it happened, I’d hidden ’em in a secret hollow in my bedpost. Featherby found them when we were moving to this house. I gave Max the emerald for Abby. I always thought this would suit Damaris. What do you think?”
She tossed the little box in his direction. He caught it reflexively and opened the lid. It was a sapphire ring, the stone square-cut and stunning. The setting was old-fashioned but simple. Elegant. And on Damaris’s slender finger it would look, Freddy thought, perfect. But it wasn’t right.
He shook his head. “I can’t ask you to provide the ring. That’s my privilege as the groom.” Even if he was a false groom.
“You don’t have a ring, and it would please me beyond anything to have her wear it. It would please Damaris too, I think.”
Freddy hesitated, turning the ring over in his hand. The sentiment associated with the piece made him uncomfortable. A ring purchased tomorrow from Rundell and Bridge would be better, more anonymous, more in keeping with a false betrothal.
But this was lovely. And Damaris would like it, he was sure.
“Shall we ask the bride-to-be what she thinks?” Lady Beatrice asked.
He almost winced. The bride-to-be. The bride-never-to-be. “Very well,” he said and went to the door. As expected, Damaris was waiting outside with her sisters. He gestured to her to come in.
“Everything all right?” she murmured as she passed him.
“I’ve given my consent to the match,” Lady Beatrice said. “And the boy has a ring for you.”
Freddy gave her a stern look. “It’s actually Lady Beatrice’s ring,” he told Damaris. “I was going to buy you one tomorrow, but she has offered this, and if you would prefer it . . .” He showed her the ring.
She hesitated, glancing at it briefly with a troubled expression. “Lady Beatrice, it’s very beautiful,” she said in a soft voice, “but I couldn’t possibly accept it. It looks far too valuable.”
“Nonsense,” the old lady snapped. “I’ve had it for years. Can’t wear any rings myself.” She lifted her hands. “Well, you can see how swollen these old joints of mine are. So this one might as well be of use to you, my dear. And don’t look at me like that—I have a ring for each one of you gels that I’ll give at the appropriate time. Decided it long ago, when Featherby first found them. Max and Abby were happy enough to accept the emerald.”
Damaris bit her lip, and the old lady sighed and added in a plaintive voice that didn’t fool Freddy for a moment, “But if you don’t want an old-fashioned piece like that for your betrothal ring, I suppose you can wear it on another hand. Or have it reset.”
“I would never have it reset; it’s perfect just as it is.” Damaris gave Freddy a speaking look. She loved the ring, he could tell, but was torn because she shouldn’t be accepting something like this for a false betrothal.
“Then that’s settled,” he said, making the decision for her. “Thank you, Lady Beatrice.” God, but the old lady was a tricky piece. He felt like he’d gone three rounds in a verbal boxing ring.
Damaris hesitated, then gave him back the little box. Lady Beatrice gave him an expectant look, then cleared her throat meaningfully.
Oh, damn, of course. He opened the box and Damaris held out her hand. She was blushing. He took out the ring and slid it onto her finger. It was a perfect fit.
&nb
sp; “Well, go on, kiss the gel,” the old lady ordered him. “Not like you to hang back, young tomcat.”
This was one part of the charade that Freddy wouldn’t mind at all. He’d wondered for weeks what she’d taste like. He stepped forward.
“Oh, I must show the others.” Damaris broke away and hurried to the door, leaving Freddy standing. Lady Beatrice gave him a narrow look, then watched Damaris showing her sisters the ring. She arched a sardonic brow at him.
The old girl was no fool. She knew something was not quite right. Luckily Featherby, having anticipated the occasion, brought in champagne and glasses and the awkward moment was lost in the excitement.
Freddy toasted his blushing bride-to-be—she blushed beautifully, he noted with interest. They needed to do a little more planning if they were to pull this thing off successfully. He was only too aware of Lady Beatrice’s beady gaze boring into him.
• • •
Damaris lay in bed that night, twisting restlessly under the covers, turning the evening’s conversations over and over again.
Everybody—from Lady Beatrice, Jane, and Daisy to Featherby and William, the butler and footman whom they’d brought with them to Lady Beatrice’s house, right down to the smallest scullery maid—they were all so pleased for her. Too pleased.
Accepting their well-wishes and happy speculations was like . . . like being flayed. The happier they were for her, the worse she felt.
Jane had never understood why Damaris hadn’t wanted to get married in the first place; she’d come to her senses, as far as Jane was concerned. Freddy Monkton-Coombes was handsome, rich, wellborn—and nice! Naturally Damaris would prefer to marry him rather than live alone and lonely in some moldy old cottage in the country!
Jane imagined Damaris’s situation was the same as her own—of course she did; Damaris had never told her anything to make her think otherwise.
Daisy, having had a great deal more life experience than Jane, if no more years, saw things differently. She could see that Damaris wasn’t securing herself a prosperous and comfortable future with a wealthy man. What Daisy thought was, to Damaris’s mind, much worse.
Daisy thought Damaris was in love with Freddy Monkton-Coombes. And he with her.
Daisy knew no more than Jane, but somehow she’d sensed the darkness in Damaris that Damaris had tried so hard to hide. Daisy had been raised in a brothel—she had an instinctive understanding of such things. She ought to understand why it just wasn’t possible.
But Daisy, like all of them except Damaris, was a girl full of hopes and dreams; she thought love could make the darkness go away.
Damaris knew differently; she didn’t believe in fairy tales.
Rain spattered against her window in spiteful bursts. She shivered, though she was not really cold. Was it always so in England? She hadn’t been here a year yet, but it always seemed to be wet, dark, damp, gray. Cold.
She missed the sun, even missed the burning, relentless heat of it during the Chinese summer, when it sucked the moisture out of everything, shriveling the plants, cracking the soil and leaving only the driest of dust. Even the shadows were crisp and brittle and sharp, making everything clear.
In England the shadows were soft edged, blurry, insubstantial. Deceptive.
Chapter Eleven
“A young woman in love always looks ‘like Patience on a monument / Smiling at Grief.’”
—JANE AUSTEN, NORTHANGER ABBEY
“I can’t bear it. Everyone’s so happy for me, and it’s just . . . wrong.”
“You’re not going to crack, are you?” Freddy steered her around a puddle. “You promised.”
It was a cold, bleak day, but they were taking a stroll around the square. She’d been so desperate to escape the house, she’d practically dragged Freddy out the moment he’d arrived. And of course everyone smiled understandingly; young love needed to be alone.
“I know, and I’m trying not to, but it’s so hard. It’s bad enough accepting the congratulations of relative strangers, the people in the literary society or those we meet in the park, but Jane and Daisy and Lady Beatrice—they’re the people in the world I most care about, and to go on deceiving them like this makes me feel just dreadful.”
“Is it really so bad?”
She gave him a despairing look. “Jane and Daisy are already planning the wedding, the invitations, the decorations, and Daisy has come up with a design for the most beautiful wedding dress. Featherby and William keep giving me fatherly smiles, thinking us Love’s Young Dream—well, you saw the way Featherby saw us off just now—even Cook is planning a very special wedding cake, not to mention the wedding feast. Everyone is being so nice, and I don’t deserve any of it.”
Seemingly at a loss for what to say he patted her hand and resumed their stroll. After a moment he said, “Had a letter from my mother this morning. She’s canceled the house party.”
“Oh, good.” That was the main reason for their betrothal, after all. For a fleeting second it occurred to her she could call off the betrothal now and have the whole horrid thing over with. But she’d promised to go with him to his parents’ home, and there was no way she could reasonably wriggle out of it. Besides, he’d bought her a cottage.
That cottage was the summit of all her dreams—her reasonable dreams. It was her future, her security. And if the deception she had to perpetrate on her loved ones was difficult, well, that was only fair. Cottages had to be earned.
She just hoped her sisters and Lady Beatrice wouldn’t be too hurt when they learned the truth.
As for unreasonable dreams . . . She glanced at the tall, elegant man strolling beside her, listening patiently to her complaints and protecting her from muddy puddles. Anyone who allowed herself to dream unreasonable dreams was a fool.
A man was roasting some kind of nuts over a small brazier. Freddy stopped. “Do you like chestnuts?”
The hot nuts smelled delicious, but Damaris was in no mood for food. “I’ve never eaten them, but I’m not hungry, thank you.”
“Nonsense, you don’t have to be hungry to eat hot roast chestnuts.” He bought some in a twisted cone of paper and offered it to her. “Try one.”
They looked a little greasy, but she pulled off her gloves and took one just to be polite. The outside shell was scorched in places and had been cut in a cross. The ends were curled up, ready to peel. She peeled back the shell and nibbled the exposed yellowish nut. It was a little floury and soft, rather than crisp, as she’d expected, but it was very tasty—sweetness with a tang of salt. She smiled at him. “They’re good.”
“They’re better with a bit of butter. Cook used to make them for me when I was a boy.” Freddy passed the cone to her again. She took another.
Freddy was pleased, seeing her enjoy the nuts. He hadn’t thought much beyond getting his mother and the muffins off his back, ruining George’s memorial. He hadn’t imagined it would be difficult for her. And now he could see it did, he had no idea what to do to help her.
“Miss Chance! Mr. Monkton-Coombes!” Freddy turned and saw three ladies approaching, two young—sisters, by the look of them, and muffins for sure—and an older one, presumably their mother, with a liveried footman in attendance. “Congratulations on your betrothal, Miss Chance, Mr. Monkton-Coombes—Mama saw the notice in the Morning Post. How very exciting.”
Damaris murmured her thanks, wiping her hands on a handkerchief before shaking hands with the ladies. Freddy bowed and tried to look interested as he received their congratulations. He had no idea who they were, hadn’t caught their names when Damaris had greeted them, but the older one asked to be remembered to his mother in a familiar manner, so he supposed he must know her.
The two muffins chatted animatedly, quizzing Damaris about their plans and punctuating each utterance with girlish giggles and coy glances at Freddy. “All the young ladies in London will be ready to
slay you, Miss Chance—”
“Yes, so many have been setting their caps at our dear Mr. Monkton-Coombes—”
“Who until now seemed quite oblivious to feminine charms—”
“When all along—”
“He secretly had his eye on you!” More girlish giggles all around, though not, he noted, from Damaris. She bore the nonsense with grace and dignity.
“Have you set a date yet?” the older one asked.
“Not yet,” Freddy said. “We’re going down to Breckenridge first. Delightful to talk, ladies, and thank you for your good wishes, but it’s chilly and we must keep moving—don’t want to let my bride-to-be get cold feet.” This witticism produced even more gales of laughter as Freddy and Damaris departed.
“Now do you see what I mean?” Damaris murmured. “Unbearable.”
Freddy didn’t know what to say. Of course he’d found the women irritating, but no other female of his acquaintance would complain of receiving such a flattering degree of attention and frank female envy. But then, Damaris was not like any other female of his acquaintance. And he could see it would get wearing.
He’d been on the receiving end of a little teasing, particularly from his male cronies, but he’d expected that after his oft-repeated prejudices against marriage, and in any case, he didn’t care what most of them thought.
“How’s the old lady taking it?” He tossed the now-cold chestnuts under a tree for the squirrels and brushed off his fingers.
“She’s about the only one who’s not behaving all midsummer-moony, but in a way it’s worse.”
“Worse?”
“Yes, she’s almost unbearably kind—always asking me if I’m sure. And if there is anything I want to tell her, it would make no difference; she will always love me and take care of me.” Damaris sighed. “So I feel like a worm.”
“I wish I could help, but I don’t see that there’s anything I can do.” Apart from calling off the betrothal, which he was not prepared to do. His head was still reeling from the speed with which his mother had called off the house party.
