by Cecilia Gray
* * *
Alice collapsed onto a settee of pink florals in the parlor behind the library. Most everyone else had retired to their rooms, which she intended to do as soon as she checked on the kitchen’s progress on the preparations for tomorrow. She just needed a moment to collect her thoughts.
She could not remember the last time she felt so exhausted. It felt as if she’d spent an eternity harvesting, sewing, shucking, and organizing until her fingers were near blistered. It had seemed wise at the time. She’d had her list of activities to take Sera’s mind off mourning and had not been surprised to find Robert had amassed a similar list. They were often of similar minds.
Unfortunately, the activities now meant her hands were rough and calloused, her cheeks unfashionably sunburned, and she’d spent the better part of the afternoon smelling incredibly unladylike.
Not that Lord Savage had mentioned anything regarding her glowing state. He was far too gentlemanly for that. She imagined him being a perfectly discreet husband. Caring, even, in his own way.
Robert, on the other hand, had the nerve to ask if she’d scheduled a bath.
The brute, she thought with a grin.
She was so tired she could barely scrounge up the energy to finalize the preparations for tomorrow’s birthday party. It was a modest affair by their usual standards and in keeping with their state of mourning, but there were still refreshments, an outdoor archery course, pony rides for the town children, and a string trio they had brought in from London. No fireworks or jugglers or anything too merry, but still, arrangements had been made and someone had to be responsible.
Most importantly, she needed to look her best. She held her hands out in front of her and groaned. She didn’t have time to soften them. A knock at the door sounded, and she glanced up. She began to rise from the settee, but Robert shook his head upon entering.
“No need,” he said. “I feel the way you look.”
“At least your comment is mutually insulting this time,” she said with a groan.
He sprawled on the sofa next to her. His head lolled back, his blond hair hanging over his ears. “I feel as though Christian has been working me over in the ring.”
“Given I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing Christian fight—”
“I wouldn’t call it a pleasure.”
Alice began to laugh but winced as a twinge pinched her shoulders. “Ow, ow, ow.” She rubbed her shoulders and tried not to whine, but another whimper escaped her lips regardless.
Then strong, warm fingers were suddenly massaging her neck.
She froze, unsure what to do. Heat flooded her body, and not just from the mere temperature of his skin. She sat up.
“Robert . . .” It was the first time she’d said his name out loud, and she felt a perverse sense of pleasure as it left her lips. Still, it was too much, too familiar. She pulled away, but his hands stayed her.
“Allow me the impertinence.” His voice was rough. “Please. You’re hurt. Let me help you.” His thumb smoothed over her shoulder, kneading the knot, which melted away beneath his ministrations.
Her eyes fluttered shut. She forced herself to remember who he was. What he was.
“Thank you for your kindness, but I do not require any help.” She wrenched herself to her feet and left the room without turning back. She quickly ascended the stairs and she hurried to her bedroom, shutting the door behind her. She turned and leaned against the heavy door, breathing hard.
It was several minutes before she remembered she was expected in the kitchen.
Chapter Ten
Fourth annual Belle birthday crush
July 2, 1820
Woodbury, England
The sun stole into Alice’s room across her pillow, casting warmth on her face. In a hazy fog of dream, she felt a large, warm palm sliding down her cheek, to her neck, to rest just at the top of her chest where it sent pinpricks of sharp, sweet sensation through her. She turned and buried her face in the pillow, struggling to hold on to the feelings for a moment more.
She fought that space between worlds. She could hear footsteps stampeding down the hall. Doors opening and closing. But in her dream, a puff of breath tickled her cheek. She shivered as lips brushed across her own.
She heard her own sighs and wasn’t sure if they were the dream or real. Her legs twisted in the sheets as she tossed and stretched her languid limbs. She felt the press of a male body against hers and bolted up in bed, breathing heavily.
Her fingers clutched the blanket at her waist and a faint sheen of sweat dotted her forehead. She wiped it with the back of her hand. Exhaling, she let her head fall back against her pillow.
She was a year older today—the eldest and most mature of her sisters, as always—but somehow she felt she knew the least about life.
Who had she been dreaming about? There was a faint memory of scent, musky and dark.
Could it have been Lord Savage? Had her focus on marrying him pressed deep into her subconscious? Yet, even now, when she recalled her memories and put his face to the stranger, the match didn’t seem quite right. The dream man’s hands had been larger, rougher than the long, delicate fingers of Damon Cade.
Another memory returned. This one was not of a dream, but of that night when she had consumed more alcohol than she’d ever had in her entire life. A real memory of hot breath and touching skin.
She shot out of bed and rang for her lady’s maid. She was too warm from the sun already and she’d barely awakened. There was much to be done for the birthday celebration, too.
“A bath, please,” she asked when the woman arrived. After a pause—it was an uncharacteristic request for her so early in the morning—the maid whirled to obey. “A cold one, please,” Alice called after her.
The bath must have done its trick because by the time Alice found herself dressed in black and downstairs in the breakfast room with Lord Savage, her body was functioning normally, no flushing or hot flashes to think of. What a relief, she thought.
“Where are you staying in town?” she asked as they stood side by side at the buffet. She took a healthy serving of sausage—who knew whether she’d eat again, with the bustle of the birthday—and in contrast, Lord Savage selected a lone pastry.
“I chose to stay at the Inn.”
“But that’s quite a long ride away.”
They sat not quite across from each other. It was as if he’d chosen a deliberate angle to allow her the most advantageous study of his profile. Sunlight glinted off the chandelier, highlighting his green eyes. The perfect shape of his mouth as he chewed was enough to make her forget the course of their discussion.
He shrugged. “I don’t mind riding.”
“I’m sure the family wouldn’t mind making accommodations for you here.”
“I’m sure they wouldn’t.” He gulped down his tea.
She leaned over the table to pour him another cup. Conversation with Lord Savage had always been a game of chance. At times, he was devilishly charming, and at others, he was as reticent as a monk who’d taken a vow of silence. Perhaps if she had more time to be coy. . . But she did not. Dinah was always early to breakfast and the rest of the family would soon follow, as would Robert. It would be too awkward to make her intentions known with them present.
“You are practically family,” she said. “I’m sure if you were to become family, officially, there would be no remarkable difference.”
His gaze leaped to hers, hot and questioning.
She flinched but fought to hold it with a steady gaze of her own.
Lord Savage took another cautious sip of tea. “What kind of family could I possibly be? I haven’t yet wished you felicitations on your birthday.”
“I’m sure there will be more opportunities. If you recall previous years’ events, we are rather relentless in feting ourselves.”
His lips quirked above the rim of his cup. “You’re relentless in most things, Miss Belle.”
A blush stole into her cheeks. “
I can’t decide if you mean that as a compliment.”
“Every characteristic may draw a compliment under some circumstance.”
“Then I suppose all my characteristics are, in some degree, desirable.”
He set down the cup, as if signaling an end to their banter. Were her words too much? Had she taken it too far? Even after all these years, it was too easy for her to offend and cross that invisible line of propriety. She’d crossed it enough with Robert but had never felt the censure she did now. How was it that everything with Robert felt effortless whereas with Lord Savage, even with his kindness, she felt off-kilter and always slightly misunderstood?
“I apologize, Lord Savage, if I said anything—”
“One should never have to apologize on one’s birthday.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin, although there was nothing there.
“Oh, is it someone’s birthday today?” Dinah said as she entered the parlor in a smart black morning gown.
“I thought you’d made a remark last week that the art of sarcasm was beneath you,” Alice said.
“I was just informed my birthday is an opportunity to sin without penalty. And by a peer of the realm, no less.” Dinah took a seat. “It may as well be penned in the Bible.”
“Let’s not blaspheme,” Alice said.
Bridget entered a moment later, and upon seeing Lord Savage, made a desperate attempt to fix her hair. Soon, Alice could barely keep up with the zip of conversation that cut across the table and around dining partners. The Abernathys made their way in next, although Robert proved elusive.
When Sera entered, the conversation hushed and the silence was palpable. Sera’s white-blond hair had been twisted atop her head, and her black dress cast pallor on her already pearly skin. She gazed over the breakfast table.
“Let me make you a plate,” Benjamin said, rising and offering his seat.
Sera tentatively sat, and Dinah remarked upon the unseasonal warmth of the weather. Bridget hoped for it to cool before archery so they wouldn’t be forced to sweat.
Benjamin returned with a full plate of sausage and eggs and set it before Sera. When she picked up her fork and took a bite, it was as if the entire table heaved a collective sigh of relief.
Alice raised her cup. “A birthday toast. Just between us, before the guests arrive.”
“A toast! Hear, hear,” Dinah chimed in.
Today would be about celebrating her sisters.
She wouldn’t think about Lord Savage or having to marry. As usual, she would be happy and smile at her guests, and when the time was right, she would have cake.
Until then, she had guests to entertain.
She fled from the table, making haste to meet the workers who were setting up a canopy by the lake. She was instructing them where to set up the tables when her aunt arrived.
“Happy birthday, my dearest,” Aunt Margaret said. She held out a small box that Alice knew to be the latest scent from Paris that had captured her fancy. She had given each of them a small vial of expensive perfume every year since they’d turned sixteen—the better to catch a husband, she’d say.
“Thank you. I can’t wait to try it.” She handed the box to one of the coachmen who had been wrangled into assisting with the party’s setup, and asked him to leave her gift box on the small table of presents. They had requested none, but some arrived nonetheless.
“And Sera?” her aunt asked as she wrung her gloves.
“Improving. She came to breakfast and ate several bites of egg not to mention an entire scone. Not a tear throughout. She didn’t speak much but she did laugh at the Abernathys’ jokes. I think they’ve taken it upon themselves to see her merry again, although they suffered as much loss, if not more.”
“Those two boys always were the best of the Abernathys.”
It was the closest her aunt had ever come to speaking ill of the dead. “Any news of Father?”
“I’m unsure. We had been hoping he’d arrive yesterday but he has been delayed by the worker strikes. I’m sure he will employ whatever means necessary to be here for your birthday, though.”
Delay meant respite. Enough time for her to facilitate a solution.
* * *
Alice found Sera curled up in the parlor window seat with a cup of tea, as she did most mornings after breakfast. Sera had never been much of a morning person. Not that she was testy or ill-mannered, but she preferred quiet solitude. She presented a pretty picture sitting there. Her hair was unbound and fell in waves down her back to pool against the cushions.
“Good morning,” Sera said as Alice approached and took a seat across from her.
A brief morning chill from the window crept in past her clothes. “I should fetch a blanket for you.”
“No need,” Sera said. “The tea is warm enough. Would you like some?”
Alice shook her head. “I had thought to ask Lord Savage accompany us into town tomorrow to arrange delivery of meals to the poor.”
“Are you begging Lord Savage to accompany us so the poor may gaze upon his face?” Sera teased. “He has been very attentive to our family of late.”
“He loves His Grace very much . . . I mean . . . Lord . . . Benjamin. Oh, Sera.”
“No, it is all right. Benjamin is now His Grace. You cannot mean to rob him of his title just because I’ve been deprived of a husband.”
Alice’s heart quivered at Sera’s matter-of-fact shrug. At the cold in her voice. “You will find love again.”
Sera’s gaze shot up. “What if I have, Alice?”
She sat up. “You have? When? With whom?”
“It doesn’t matter. And I need not marry a man I do not love a second time, so I am content to remain single.”
“Sera, you cannot make these revelations and expect me to idly accept them,” Alice said. “I know that your marriage to Tom was not a love match initially, but the way you’ve been behaving . . . we all assumed you had fallen in love with him.”
“Oh . . . No. Though, I suppose it would appear that way . . .”
Sera was not typically flippant with her words the way Bridget was, but Alice had difficulty reconciling her picture of Sera with the one her sister now presented. “Have I been blind to the realities of your marriage? Have I failed you?”
“No, not at all!” Sera leaned forward and ran her fingers comfortingly through Alice’s hair. Alice sighed against her sister’s touch, realizing she had never been the one to be comforted since her mother died. She had never been the one to be treated like a child, and for now, that was all she wanted. To be taken care of. “I married for duty and to make Father happy, but you mustn’t believe I was unhappy. Tom and I shared an amicable companionship. One understood by few. After his brother jilted me, Father was so anxious. So were all of you. When Tom came to my side and offered marriage, I realized I had an opportunity to look after you the way you had looked after me.”
Alice pulled back and brushed Sera’s hair from her face. “You didn’t need to.”
“I wanted to, and my marriage was no burden. Did you know I never had a wedding night? Tom couldn’t. He confessed to me that he’d proposed in a moment of folly and weakness. As you know, he lost his wife to illness. He loved her so much and was hoping to recapture that love. He said that although he felt tenderness for me, it wasn’t the same. And he knew that if he couldn’t love someone like me, then he couldn’t love anyone. The point is . . . love is rare and fleeting, Alice. You must hold on to it when you can. But I have it now. No, don’t ask me his name. I believe we love each other, but we cannot be together.”
“Because of Father?”
“No, it isn’t that. I beg you, don’t ask more of me.”
“I have failed you,” Alice said. “If I had stood up to Father earlier, if I hadn’t indulged him, hadn’t encouraged him . . .”
“We all did,” Sera said.
The front door blustered open and their father’s booming voice echoed through the halls. “Alice? Alice!”
Ali
ce pursed her lips, determined, and steeled herself. “Well, it is not too late.”
“Alice! Alice!!!”
She cast a glance at Sera who ducked her head. “I’m not ready for him yet. Would you mind distracting him while I return to bed?”
Alice went to him, as she always did. “Here, Father.” Alice scooped up the pile of papers he thrust in her direction. No doubt the pages were tasks she should see accomplished. With a flick of her wrist, she righted the jagged odds and bits sticking out into a single pile and tucked it under her arm. “How were your travels?”
“Slow.” He said the word like a curse, which in his line of work, it was. “Everything that could have gone wrong did go wrong. Weather. Worker strikes. Illness. And at a time like this . . .” He stopped at the foot of the stairs, his face red and weather-beaten, as if he’d toiled in the sun like a common deckhand on his own ship. “Our Sera?”
“Resting.”
He nodded and began up the staircase without another word.
“Father, wait.” She followed him up to the second floor, lengthening her stride to keep up. “She is tired, overly so.”
“I know what’s best for my own child.”
A streak of anger ran through her, and she spun in front of him and held out both hands. “No, you do not.”
With a raised brow, he asked, “What are we discussing here, precisely?”
“Love. Marriage.” She swallowed. “Me.”
His gaze moved from her hands to her face, his expression aghast.
Her hands fell to her side, but she did not move from her spot. “You want what is best for us, but it is not the same as knowing. You did your best with us. We know you did. Losing mother . . . No one understands your loss better than we do as her children, but you do not know what is best for us, even if you wish us the best.”
He glanced down at the tips of his shoes. When he met her eyes a second time, he was shaking his head. “Have I not always done what is best for you? The best tutors?”
“Yes,” she agreed.
“Food? Accommodations.”
She kept nodding. “Of course.”
“Why should the best husbands be any different?”
