by Cecilia Gray
He looked down briefly at the tips of his boots, and when he lifted his head, he shared a grateful smile. “One is not needed. I’m not ashamed to admit I have taken credit for your selection of the sea-blue ribbon that my niece loves so much that her parents had matching slippers made.”
For someone who generally preferred to take credit for her own actions, she was surprisingly not bothered by this. “Ah, but how might you hope to continue to live up to these high expectations that now exist?”
“I cannot!” He leaned toward her. He smelled like spice and musk. “Might I call on you if I am ever in need of other gifts?” he whispered conspiratorially.
Her nose was nearly nestled in his neck, and she yearned to be closer still, to press her lips to the warmth of his skin. Her voice strained in her throat. “Of course. I always look after my indentured servants.”
They sprung apart at Sera’s return, for which Alice was grateful. She had been moments away from embarrassing both herself and poor Mr. Crawford.
* * *
Robert had assumed Keep the Crown was a friendly game, but that was before he’d played it with the Belle sisters, particularly when Dinah was involved. Her keen mind, small stature, and pixie-like innocence hid a deadly sense of strategy. He had assumed one would not call upon military or cricket experience in the throes of a childhood game, but he had been wrong. Particularly once Alice took charge and recruited the footmen to her cause.
“Thank goodness you’re here,” Benjamin said with a grimace as the two of them finally matched points with the children under the Belles’ care. “I don’t think we’ve managed to hold our own in the past few years without you.”
“I’ve never played with a blindfold, four teams, and eight balls before,” Robert mused as the game finally disbanded.
“Just be grateful the Belles were toning it down for the children.”
“I daresay I need a bath,” Robert said, noting the sweat that had developed on his forehead.
Laughter from across the room caught his attention, and he found himself staring at Alice, who had thrown back her head in delight at something Sera was saying. He felt Benjamin at his side and quickly looked away from Alice. Savage had already been quick to remind him how unsuitable he was for the Belle. He didn’t need to hear it again from someone who considered himself a brother to the girls.
Benjamin, however, was quite astute. “I suppose now that you’ve retired from military service, you are turning your eye toward a family of your own? You said as much when we were in the trenches.”
“As any man in my position might,” he said.
Benjamin lowered his voice. “I think you’re the best of men, Robert. I wouldn’t have wanted to follow anyone else into the field or into battle. But the best of men don’t always marry heiresses.”
He snapped his head sharply to the side. “Is that all she is?”
“It’s all that matters to her father.”
Robert stared grimly after Benjamin as his friend walked away, then turned his gaze to Dominic Belle. The man stood in the corner, bathed in shadow, watching his daughters behind the glint of his eyeglasses. Robert could see him matching his daughters with the gentlemen in attendance—barons, viscounts, and earls. There were plenty of marriageable age present tonight.
But even if Dominic Belle were to release one of his progeny to the likes of Robert, it wouldn’t be the eldest.
Robert cursed his luck, not for the first time, that he had the bad sense to find himself fascinated by the Bossy Belle. If only he could find a reason to like Bridget, the Bookish Belle, who was always on the lookout for a reason to fall in love and might even consent to elope with a poor man.
Or Charlotte, the Benevolent Belle—whom everyone actually called the Bovine Belle, not that he would ever utter the nickname even upon threat of death—which would have been a conquest so free of competitors that her father might be willing to let her marry for affection.
Dinah, the Blasé Belle, would have been preferable even if she spent the rest of their lives explaining why they couldn’t possibly love each other because love did not exist, as he had heard her opining earlier to someone.
Only an idiot couldn’t feel something for Sera, the Belle Belle—clearly someone had tired of conjuring clever yet descriptive alliterative nicknames—but alas, she was married. Even if she were not, while she was nice, she was quite young, and Robert’s view of her beauty approximated his appreciation of a bouquet of flowers—a daily viewing spruced up a room but was nothing to go on about.
No. Not him, he thought with a well-wrung sigh. He had the rotten luck to be drawn to Alice Belle. Unfashionably tall, unaccountably authoritative, and determined to obey her father’s wishes.
It was always Alice. He was drawn to her immediately, and he frequently noticed the smallest of things about her. Even now, when the servants approached Sera for instruction, Alice’s body strained to leap into the matter and her arms crossed over her chest as if holding herself at bay. And when cake was brought out and slices were passed, she assisted in putting a plate in the hands of every guest, yet she kept none for herself.
* * *
A.,
I have recently employed your strategic skills of Keep the Crown on my own home with my nieces and nephews. Leeds has never seen such an epic battle.
Your faithful soldier,
R.
* * *
R.,
I suppose I will need to take responsibility for any potential consequences in the community. I hope you will keep in mind the lessons conferred upon you by your much superior match.
Your eminently more experienced leader,
A.
Chapter Four
Second annual Belle birthday crush
July 2, 1818
Woodbury, England
The inaugural Belle birthday celebration at Woodbury following Sera’s wedding had been considered a stunning success, so much so that it had been declared several times, and not without the assistance of wine and drink, that they should celebrate the second of July at Woodbury for all the rest of time.
As far as compliments went, the Belles had felt inclined to accept, so here they were again, a year later.
Alice was ecstatic for Sera’s social success but couldn’t help but feel her own accomplishments dimming in comparison. Sera had married the first son of a duke and had become one of the most sought-after hostesses in London. Whereas Alice was still ... well, Alice. Unmarried. Unattached. Except for a stubborn groove at the bridge of her nose between her brows, it would have been impossible to tell the Alice of last year apart from this one.
The same could not be said of the birthday party, which had swelled to twice the size of the previous year’s fete. There was barely room under the refreshment tent for those seeking relief from the midday sun. Large numbers of guests still chose to picnic upon the multicolored blankets strewn around the perimeter of the lake, but Alice was not one of them.
“Absurd, isn’t it?” Charlotte said as she sought relief from the heat. After a quick glance to ensure no one was the wiser, she scooped a handful of half-melted ice meant to chill the bouquets of cut flowers and rested it on the nape of her neck. “Why couldn’t we have been born in December?”
“Can you imagine what father would make of that?” Alice was jealous she had not considered the ice trick herself. Unfortunately, tall as she was, her unladylike behavior would have been noticed. “He would build ice towers to dwarf St. Paul’s Cathedral.”
“Snowball fights led by Wellington.”
“Snow flurries by request.”
“An ice rink of sugared candy.”
Alice snorted. “Even that is too far for Father.”
“Nothing is too far for Father.”
The laughter died on Alice’s lips. “I suppose that is what makes him a great man.” Even if it did not make him the most understanding of fathers.
“Great men have been wrong before.” Charlotte dried her we
t hands on the material of her dress, and Alice squashed the urge to scold her. “I take great comfort in your example.”
“My example?” Alice raised a brow. “My example of what?”
“Refusing Father’s wishes. If you don’t wish to marry—”
“Charlotte, no!”
Her sister startled at the forceful command of Alice’s voice.
“I’m sorry, dear, I did not mean to frighten you. But you cannot think that I willfully choose not to marry.”
Beads of sweat slid down Charlotte’s brow and streaked her cheeks. “Father has presented you with many potential husbands and you do not want any of them. Is that not a choice?”
“You almost sound like Dinah.”
“She is the one of us with the most sense,” Charlotte offered.
“And do you think Sera had a choice? Is it a choice when you’ve been told your entire life that you will do something, that you must do something?”
“It isn’t as if Father engaged Sera to Tom,” Charlotte defended.
That was true. While Sera had been the one beautiful enough, perfect enough, to bid entry into London’s highest family circle, she had never been slated to marry the heir, Tom Abernathy. She’d been engaged to Gray, the youngest brother, who had found marriage to a child of her age distasteful enough that he’d abdicated from the family entirely. It had been a desperate day for both families until Tom had offered, making Sera a future duchess and forever clinching her father’s happiness.
“Just because I have denied Father doesn’t mean it is a choice,” Alice said.
“If that is so, then why haven’t you married?”
“Because I am not marrying to please Father.”
Laughter filled the tent, as did the clinking of glassware and plates, the whiz of arrows from the nearby archery field, the rhythmic clapping of hands from the reel being danced in the neighboring tent, and the whinnies and neighs of horses from the hunt. Still, somehow, Charlotte’s silence managed to cut through all that. Alice could hear the rise and fall of her own breath in her chest. It was the first time she’d confessed her true intentions.
“You’re not marrying to please Father . . . You’re marrying for mother,” Charlotte realized aloud. “That is why you haven’t accepted any of his selections.”
“They aren’t the men mother would have chosen. Don’t ask me how I know. I just do.”
“So you do wish to marry at all?”
“Don’t you?” Alice asked, remembering the impetus for the conversation. “Charlotte, does my delay in entering an engagement have an ill effect on you?”
Her sister scooped another handful of ice onto her neck and sighed into the sweltering heat. “It is hard enough for someone like me to attract a suitor.”
“Someone like you?”
“Please, let’s not pretend. I am wealthy but not a beauty the likes of you and our sisters. With all of you to choose from, why would anyone cast his attention to me?”
Alice could never see the faults that Charlotte or Society saw in her redheaded sister. Her skin was fair, her lips generous. Her hips were a tad wide, always bumping into tables. Her bosom abundant, always shaking with giggles.
“I have always felt the same, you know?” Alice admitted. “Why would anyone choose me? I’m too tall, too masculine, too—”
“Bossy,” Charlotte finished. “We’re a pair, aren’t we? So does this man exist? One of whom mother would have approved?”
Alice conjured his image easily enough. It was always at the back of her mind, ready to come to the forefront.
“Ah, I see.” Charlotte nodded in the silence. “And I suppose Father would not approve.”
Their gazes shifted to the dancing tent, where Sera and Tom were engaged in a reel. He seemed a beefy ogre next to her but led her through the dance with a goofy smile and gentle hands. They twined elbows and shared grins as their fathers looked on from outside the tent.
Dominic Belle and the Duke of Rivington cast long, misshapen shadows over the grass that seemed to dwarf the tent itself, although that effect was from the boughs of a tree in the distance.
If her father would disapprove of a match between herself nd Mr. Robert Crawford, it was guaranteed that the Duke of Rivington would be even more soured by it. Never mind that he allowed Robert’s friendship with his sons, as they were college friends and military comrades. A marriage would make Robert a member of the Duke’s extended family, which was something else entirely.
* * *
All had gone perfectly at the soiree, other than poor Bridget taking ill and retiring early to her room. Now the townsfolk, friends, and guests had retired to their homes, to the nearby inn, or to the guest rooms. There were a fair number of attendees staying in the east wing, including Viscount Savage, who had set tongues wagging all night; Mr. Christian Hughes, who had treated the children to boxing lessons; and, of course, Mr. Robert Crawford.
After speaking to Charlotte, Alice had found herself avoiding him during the party in much the same manner as she had attempted to avoid reminders of him all year. She had stopped wearing blue ribbons, she had removed all the lilacs from Aunt Margaret’s floral arrangements, and her hatbox had been relegated to long-term storage in another room. In fact, avoiding him had been, and continued to be, quite exhausting.
Her tight and achy shoulders pinched together at the nape of her neck. Her feet, which were squeezed into slim and fashionable slippers, ached to be set free so she could stretch her toes. She knew she should retire for the night, but she could not without performing one last birthday ritual.
Alice swept through the ballroom toward the kitchen, all dark and quiet except for the howling wind, the rustle of leaves, and the occasional whine of a bough as it flapped and scratched against a nearby window. She pulled her shawl tightly around her gown.
Given the number of people currently occupying Woodbury, Alice was nervous someone might see her sneak in, but she entered the kitchen and walked around the wood preparation table, past the fire, and to the larder, undetected.
As she stepped inside, she shivered, goose bumps rising on her arms. She found the remains of the three-layer lemon-blueberry cake on the bottom shelf. The cook had sliced it into manageable pieces, enough to serve five or six people. She slid one onto her palm and turned toward the exit, stopping short when she saw Mr. Robert Crawford studying her quietly from the doorway.
She gave a yelp and stepped back, the cake toppling from her hands.
In a quick, effortless move, he was in front of her, catching the cake in his hand. “My apologies, Miss Belle. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Thank goodness,” she said, breathing heavily. “I shudder to think of the result if you’d actually put your mind to it.”
He smiled and walked with her to the kitchen, where he set the cake slice on a napkin. “I should go. My apologies again.”
“Wait!”
Oh dear. Why had she told him to wait? He was right. He should go. It was improper for him to be here. It also hadn’t escaped her notice that, while he still wore the resplendent jacket and breeches he’d worn to the ball, his cravat was missing and the top button of his starched white shirt was undone so she could easily see the column of his throat and the rough bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. She had spent so much energy and effort avoiding him, and yet, here he was.
“I should go,” he repeated.
“You must have come down here for a reason.” She waved a hand, indicating the room. “No one will speak of this momentary indiscretion.”
“Cake, as well,” he admitted with a boyish grin. “I limited myself to one piece during the celebrations and have regretted it ever since.”
“Then cake you shall have to take with you to your room.” She found two plates with green-and-gold-leaf trim, set them side by side, and pulled a knife from the butcher’s block with a clean whistle.
“May I help you?” he asked. “It is my role as your indentured servant.”
Her hand stilled at the question, the knife hovering over the yellow frosting. He really did seem to have taken the role as her servant quite seriously. Earlier today, he’d found her maneuvering a rather heavy vase to create more room on the dance floor, and he had stepped in when she’d been too stubborn to wait for a footman or attendant to assist her.
In all the years she’d been organizing family events, she’d never had someone offer to help so often.
“No, thank you,” she said with a sweet smile. “I’m able to wield a knife quite well.”
He gave a tip of his head. “I’ll remember that.”
She quickly split her slice to form two pieces, his larger and hers smaller, and slipped the flat blade of the knife beneath each piece to lift it from the whole and set it on a plate. By the time she put the knife in the sink, he had rummaged through the cupboards and drawers to find two forks.
“Bon appétit,” he said, handing them to her.
She took them, set one on the plate with the larger slice, and passed him his dessert. He nodded his thanks and turned to leave. When he reached the door, however, his shoulders tensed. He spun back around. His brow was furrowed, his mouth pursed in a frown. “You don’t like lemon desserts.”
Her lips parted on a breath.
“I remember now. It is Charlotte’s favorite, and she likes cake best. But I recall you saying at Sera’s wedding feast that fruits and cake should never mix.”
“I did say that,” she admitted.
“So you are not here for a piece of cake.”
“But I am.” She lifted her plate from where it sat.
“And yet you never take a bite.”
She worried her lip. “Well, the cake is not for my consumption.” She held on to her composure with a deep breath. This was her secret birthday ritual, one she had never even shared with her sisters. She wanted their birthday to be a happy occasion, filled only with good memories.
“I don’t understand.” He crossed back to her and set down his cake. “I want to understand.”
How to explain without seeming melancholy and depressing? Or possibly even crazy? “There is a story . . . ‘the Tale of the Bayswater Belles,’ they call it. Most remember the story because it talks about me and my sisters—how we each have different colored hair, how our names are alphabetical.”
