Courting the Country Miss

by Donna Hatch

  Something in her tone must have revealed her intent, because Mrs. Tallier glanced at Tristan and she nodded with a knowing glint in her eye. “I understand, my dear. You may use the front parlor. I will be in the foyer, arranging the flowers.”

  Leticia greeted Lord Bradbury and, after a nervous glance over her shoulder at Tristan, invited him to join her in the parlor. Standing alone in the breakfast room, Tristan gripped the back of a chair lest he give into the temptation to rush to Leticia’s side. She must do this alone, of course. Moreover, Bradbury deserved to keep his dignity while Leticia rejected him.

  A commotion at the front door interrupted his thoughts. Her aunt’s voice exclaimed, and a male voice replied, to which her aunt let out something akin to a shriek.

  Tristan dashed to the foyer and pulled up short. The footman, Peter, who always accompanied Miss Harper, carried in the young teacher. With her arms wrapped around his neck, she buried her face in his neck cloth. Her shoulders shook and muffled weeping broke the silence.

  “What has happened?” Leticia rushed to her side.

  “She was attacked,” Peter said grimly, oblivious to his own battered, swollen face.

  Primal anger rose up in Tristan. “Who was it?” he demanded.

  Peter said, “The bloke what showed up and dragged off his daughter a while back.” The footman met their stunned stares with the ferocity of a savage.

  “Are you hurt, Mrs. Harper?” Leticia put her hand on the teacher’s back.

  “He hit her,” Peter snarled through clenched teeth. He swallowed, and added, “I think I killed him.”

  “Get the doctor,” Leticia said to the butler. “And fetch a constable.”

  As the butler sent runners, Tristan patted his back pocket where he kept his pistol. It remained secure. “Send the constable to the school. I’ll go there now.”

  Lord Bradbury stared at Tristan. “What are you doing here, Barrett?”

  “I invited him to join us for breakfast,” Mrs. Tallier said.

  “Peter, take Mrs. Harper to her room,” Leticia directed.

  “I’ll show you the way,” Aunt Alice said.

  Still cradling the teacher in his arms, Peter carried Mrs. Harper up the stairs behind Aunt Alice. Leticia put a hand on her head, as the full weight of what happened seemed to have landed on her shoulders. The thought of the gentle teacher suffering an attack left a sick heaviness in Tristan’s stomach. Was Leticia in danger as well?

  “That’s it.” Lord Bradbury drew himself up and addressed Leticia. “The school is closed. This has gone too far.”

  “No!” Leticia said. “We can’t give up now.”

  “It’s too dangerous,” Lord Bradbury said.

  Leticia spread her hands. “If we close the school, everyone who said we shouldn’t do it will win. The children lose.”

  “I won’t let you risk your safety for a bunch of street urchins.” His voice left no room for argument, as if it were his decision alone to make.

  Tristan took a step closer to Leticia, ready to back her up if she needed him. Though he understood the desire to protect her, he couldn’t agree with Bradbury’s solution or his heavy-handed approach. Instead of becoming angry, Leticia looked at Bradbury with beseeching eyes. With quiet determination, she said, “If we won’t, who will?”

  Bradbury opened his mouth then closed it. He glanced at Tristan as if seeking an ally.

  Tristan shook his head. “No one cares for these children. If we don’t help them, they will grow up unloved, unwanted, and unworthy. They will spend all their lives scrabbling for food and never have the self-possession to seek a better life.”

  Leticia had given that to them; she could give that to others. Tristan would help her any way possible.

  Leticia’s eyes shone as she gazed up at him, admiration so clear. His chest swelled in pride. He glanced at Bradbury who studied him.

  Tristan slipped his hand into Leticia’s and faced Bradbury, daring him to contradict. “We will hire more security, and perhaps look for a different neighborhood, but the school remains open.”

  Bradbury addressed Leticia. “I won’t allow you to put yourself at risk.”

  Leticia shook her head. “My lord, this is a conversation for another time.”

  Bradbury went very still and glanced at Tristan warily. To Leticia, he nodded. “Of course.”

  Tristan squeezed her hand. “I’m going to the school to see what became of the attacker.”

  Leticia handed him a key. “Be careful.”

  Though tempted to kiss Leticia in front of Bradbury and thus stake his claim, Tristan nodded and left, vowing to do all he could to protect the school, its teacher, and most of all his beloved Leticia.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  From the foyer of her aunt’s house, Leticia watched Tristan leave and offered a wordless prayer for his safety as he returned to the scene of the violence.

  “Miss Wentworth.” Lord Bradbury’s voice drew her attention. She’d almost forgotten his presence. “It appears I have come at an inconvenient time.”

  She steadied herself. “No. No, this is as good a time as any.”

  After exchanging a glance with her aunt, who moved to the flower arrangement on the table, Leticia led the way to the front parlor and left the double doors wide open.

  Lord Bradbury approached and stood so close that his clothing brushed against her arm. “I have a matter I wish to discuss with you.” He hesitated. “Perhaps I should have asked for an appointment. You are preoccupied, and seem to have returned moments ago from a ride?”

  She glanced down at her riding habit. “Yes, Trista—er, Mr. Barrett and I went riding and he stayed for breakfast.”

  “I see.” He paused.

  She faced him. “There is something I should discuss with you without delay.”

  He gestured. “Very well. Perhaps you should speak your mind first.”

  “I…” Oh dear. How does one tell a kind gentleman—a lord—that one’s feelings have changed without sounding like a fickle chit or a jilt? She sank down on the nearest chair. “Won’t you please sit, my lord?”

  He perched at the edge of the closest chair, his knees almost brushing hers. “My Christian name is Blake—I’d like very much if you would call me that.”

  Oh, no. This was serious. Leticia held herself in check lest she shoot out of the chair and force the gentleman to stand. She clasped her hands together. Drew a breath. Swallowed. “My lord, I find it difficult to tell you this, but it appears that I did not know my heart—have not been aware of my heart for quite some time now.” A trickle of perspiration wandered down the back of her neck. “I implied…something that you might have understood as a promise. Indeed, that is how I meant it at the time, or at least, I thought I did.”

  He took her hand. “Miss Wentworth. I urge you to re-consider what you are about to say.”

  “Please…”

  He rushed on, his expression urgent. “I know you and Mr. Barrett are lifelong friends, and you have understandably tender feelings for him. I am also aware of his appeal to ladies.” His grip tightened. “Please consider the life I offer you. I offer you my title and my wealth, as well as my heart and my complete fidelity. I seldom drink or gamble and have always treated the fair sex with the dignity and respect they deserve—even those who do not respect themselves. I am not a rake—have never been a rake—and have always valued honor and fidelity.”

  Leticia’s eyes burned. This was more difficult than she had feared. “I admire that, and so much more, about you. But Tristan has changed. And he loves me.”

  He stepped closer, a breath away from an embrace. “I love you.”

  He was so handsome, so sincere. Oh, why had she not been more open to her heart regarding Tristan before engaging Lord Bradbury’s affections? Her vision blurred and she focused on their clasped hands, his so warm and strong over hers. She blinked back her tears and returned her gaze to his face.

  “My lord, I am honored, but—”
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  “Do not let yourself to be persuaded by the practiced flirtations of a rake. Allow me the chance to show you how I ardently love you.”

  Sorrowful but firm, she shook her head.

  He arose and pulled her to a stand next to him. “Kiss me—once—and listen to your heart. If you feel nothing at all, then I will be a gentleman and step back.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  The imploring in his eyes smote her straight to her heart. “I know I am asking much, but for once, let your heart rule your head. My words are inadequate; allow me to show you.”

  He lowered his head and kissed her, tender and soft. It was all for naught. His kiss awakened none of the love or passion that kissing Tristan had. None of the wholeness encompassed her the way it had when Tristan kissed her. Her heart remained unmoved except for a yearning for Tristan’s touch.

  Lord Bradbury drew back, his eyes sad. With almost desperate entreating, he said, “I’m willing to wait until your feelings…”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I love Tristan and will only have him.”

  Lord Bradbury released her hands and stepped back. He drew a long breath. “I hope he deserves you.” He sketched a proper, if somewhat hasty bow, and left.

  She had hurt a good man. Remorse stung her eyes. She hugged herself and bit her lip.

  Nothing changed the fact that she loved Tristan, and she trusted him. Nothing would ever make her question Tristan’s heart or devotion.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Shocked and numb, Tristan stood watching Leticia and Lord Bradbury kissing. Kissing!

  He’d returned for his gloves, but instead found the unthinkable—Leticia betraying him. Leticia and Lord Bradbury stood, bodies pressed together, sharing a long, lingering kiss of lovers.

  Tristan froze, alternating between rage and hurt. His first impulse hit like a blast of wind; to spin Bradbury around and punch him in the face. Then challenge him to a duel. But Leticia…

  Leticia had made her choice. Tristan was a fool to believe he would be worthy of love—the kind of love promised by poets and songwriters and dreamers.

  He stumbled backward and felt his way to the street. Somehow, he trudged through the fog around his vision and wound up in a hackney.

  “Where to, guv’na?” sang out the cheerful jarvey.

  Tristan rubbed a hand over his face and managed to croak out the school’s location. He fell against the seat and sank into his hands.

  It was like watching his mother drive away all over again. A familiar, aching hollowness swallowed him—the reminder that if he were a better person and not such a blatant disappointment, she would have loved him enough to stay with him. He had wanted to run after Mama, beg her to stay, vow to be good enough. In the end, it was not enough. He would never be enough.

  He barely registered the jarvey’s cheer as he paid the man and got out. The searing pain in his heart blinded him to all else but one horrifying truth; Leticia had kissed Lord Bradbury.

  As he stood on the street, rain pattered him, waking him up to his surroundings. He rubbed his hand over his face to wipe off the rain dripping down his cheeks mingling with tears. The charity school stood in front of him. Darkened windows stared at him like the sightless gaze of a blind beggar hoping for a few meager scraps before he gave up and died. The front door hung crookedly and blew back and forth in a breeze. Broken. Abandoned. Forgotten.

  Tristan let out his breath in disgust at his maudlin thoughts and pulled himself together. In case the assailant, should he be alive, was hale enough to put up a fight if he were reckless enough to have lingered, Tristan palmed his gun. He pushed the door open, squinting in the semi-darkness for any sign of threat. His ears strained for moans or breathing. All remained silent. He prowled the main floor and then went down to the ground level. Inside the kitchen, he found an overturned table, a broken chair, along with few drops of blood, but no signs of the intruder.

  “Who’s there?” An unfamiliar male voice echoed from the front of the school.

  Tristan tensed, but chided himself. The attacker would not announce himself. More likely, the constable had arrived.

  “I’m Barrett!” Tristan called, retracing his steps. “I’m here to help.”

  A lean young man wearing the distinctive scarlet waistcoat of a Bow Street Runner stood framed by the doorway. “Ah, Barrett. Mrs. Tallier said to expect you.”

  “I didn’t realize this was Bow Street’s jurisdiction,” Tristan said.

  “Your friend is a most insistent old—er, lady.” The Runner, who spoke with an accent that placed him as educated, if not of noble birth, grinned at him. A day’s growth sprouted on his chin and hair black as coal curled around a hatless head. The man didn’t look much older than Tristan but his world-weary eyes suggested he’d seen his share of hardship.

  “Old lady?” Tristan asked.

  The Runner clarified, “Mrs. Tallier sent a message to the magistrate demanding his assistance. Only Bow Street would do for her. It seems the magistrate, Lord Birnie, and Mrs. Tallier go way back.”

  Tristan said, “I’m here on behalf of Mrs. Tallier’s niece. She’s a…friend.” No need to get into the details of what Leticia was, or was not, to him.

  The Runner stuck out a hand. “Conner Jackson, at your service.”

  “Tristan Barrett.” Tristan shook his hand and jabbed a thumb behind him. “The kitchen shows signs of a fight and there is a little blood but no body in the main floor or lower level.”

  Jackson nodded. “Show me.” The Runner showed no deference to Tristan’s higher rank, which suited Tristan just fine.

  He led the constable to the kitchen and then showed Jackson around the school. They checked the upper floor, finding no intruder in any of the attic rooms, one of which they had set up for the teacher’s bedchamber before she moved into Mrs. Tallier’s house.

  “There should be a caretaker,” Tristan said. “Perhaps he went out.”

  Jackson pursed his lips. “I need to question the two people involved. A teacher and a footman, I hear?”

  Tristan nodded. “They are at Mrs. Tallier’s house. Share a hackney back?”

  Jackson agreed and went to hail a hackney while Tristan locked the doors.

  “Sir?” a child’s voice called timidly from behind him.

  Tristan located a girl of perhaps twelve standing in the street as if she were too frightened to draw near but couldn’t make herself leave.

  He peered at her. “You’re one of the students here, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.” Her mouth quirked in a shy smile. “You ’elped me learn ’ow to dance.”

  He nodded.

  She sobered. “Is Mrs. ’arper…? Is she ’urt?”

  “Do you know what happened?” Tristan knelt to get eye level with the child.

  The girl shook her head. “I only ’eard someone say that there was screamin’ an’ a fight and that the man wot loves Mrs. ’arper carried her out b’cause she were ’urt.”

  “Do you know who hurt her?”

  She stared at the ground. “I think I ’eard tell it were Molly’s father.”

  “I see. Do you happen to know where they live?”

  She shook her head. “No, sir.”

  Tristan fished a shilling out of his pocket. “Thank you.”

  She took the coin and studied it as if she had never seen anything of its kind. Looking up, she turned beseeching eyes on him. “Are they goin’ to close the school?”

  “Not a chance.”

  Fisting her hand around the shilling, she nodded. “I sure ’ope not.” She looked up at him, gave him a quick smile, and disappeared around the building.

  A hackney pulled up and Jackson spoke to the jarvey. Tristan joined him as they both climbed in the carriage. At Mrs. Tallier’s house, Jackson got out, but Tristan bade him farewell and took the hackney home. The last thing he wanted to do was see Leticia right now.

  What would he say to her? Demand to know her intentions?

/>   Had he been wrong about her all along and she was as faithless as he feared all women were, or had he only thought she’d pledged herself to him because that’s what he wanted to hear, while instead, she was trying to tell him that she wanted Lord Bradbury instead?

  He stood at a junction. He could step back and let her have the better man, a lord of unimpeachable character, a man she liked well enough to kiss. If Tristan loved her, that’s what he should do.

  He could give in to his selfish desire to fight for her, win her over, convince her they belonged together. But if she had already made her choice, could he do anything to change her mind?

  He passed a sleepless night, revisiting the sight of Leticia in Bradbury’s arms, trying to piece together what it all meant, agonizing over his choices and which path to take, and watching through a child’s eyes as his mother left him over and over.

  By morning, he could stand it no longer. He dressed in his most sober clothing and went to Mrs. Tallier’s house, only to be informed that Leticia had left for the school.

  Alarm quickened his pulse. “Did she go alone?”

  “No, sir,” the butler replied, “She went with Lady Averston, Mrs. Harper, and Peter. I sent along another footman for added security.”

  At least they’d taken that precaution. After thanking the servant, Tristan went to the school, no longer as concerned with getting answers from Leticia as much as to ensure her safety.

  Inside the school doors, Peter stood as immovable and grim as the King’s guard. Tristan exchanged a nod with Peter, and peered into the schoolroom. Children filled the desks. Mrs. Harper, who appeared unharmed except for a bruise under her eye and a reddened cheek, stood teaching with her usual calm efficiency. Her return to work only a day after suffering a frightening attack spoke volumes about her commitment. Tristan stole past the room and headed to the office where he’d found Leticia in the past. A footman the size of a pugilist stood with arms folded, leaning against the wall, his eyes alert. Tristan nodded to him and received an answering nod.

  Inside the office, Leticia bent over the desk gathering together several papers and tucking them into a satchel. Elizabeth sat near a window, studying a ledger.