A Season To Remember

by Gayle Ava Stone, Jerrica Knight-Catania, Catherine

  How truly odd.

  Before he had the opportunity to wheedle this realization to death within his mind, the doors to the dining room were thrown open. Fordingham shot to his feet.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish and Miss Bartlett, my lord.” The greying butler—good lord, what was the man’s name?—stood to the side with posture as erect and unyielding as Fordingham’s so often was as they entered.

  Wesley came in first, giving Fordingham a curt nod, his lips twisting downward in an expression that had become altogether too familiar upon his face. When he moved to the side, his wife entered with Miss Bartlett by her side.

  Fordingham tried—truly, he did—to formulate some sort of greeting. But his words were lost on his tongue at the sight of Miss Bartlett before him. Tonight she wore a lovely deep blue gown of velvet, a shade more akin to the sea surrounding England or like a field of irises he’d seen once upon a time. Where had he seen them? He couldn’t quite recall. The shade left her eyes twinkling in the light of the candles, though, making it next to impossible for him to remove his gaze for even the briefest of moments.

  A grumbling sort of sound came from Wesley, and Fordingham finally succeeded in turning his gaze away from Miss Bartlett, despite the lovely blush that had come upon her as her gaze moved shyly to the floor.

  “Welcome to Fordingham House,” he spluttered, fully aghast that anyone could have such an effect upon him. “Please. Come in. Sit.” He let out a thankful breath when his footmen came forward and guided the ladies to their positions at his table, assisting them in gaining their seats.

  “Thank you,” Miss Bartlett murmured as she sat.

  She, too, seemed to be having difficulty in looking away from Fordingham. If he must suffer this affliction, he took some small comfort in the fact that he was not alone in his torment.

  Once they were all seated, his footmen served the first course and filled their glasses with sherry, and then moved to stand against the walls until such time as a glass needed refilling or a plate needed clearing.

  So they ate. Indeed, they ate in near silence, with the only sounds being those of silver clinking against china or chair scraping ever so slightly against Parquet.

  This wasn’t right. Fordingham knew that as the host of the evening he ought to initiate a conversation of sorts. Miss Bartlett would grow bored and never wish to return if he did not provide her with better entertainment than this. And how in God’s name would he convince her to marry him if she could not even enjoy a meal in his presence?

  Surely, at some point in his life, he’d been able to make pleasant conversation with a lady. Hadn’t he? A quick jaunt through his memories yielded no such results, however. Fordingham swallowed his bite of quail, dabbed at his mouth with a pristine linen napkin, and then turned to Miss Bartlett with the first thing that came to mind.

  “Tell me how you have enjoyed the Little Season thus far, Miss Bartlett.” A dull conversation starter, to be sure. But at least it ought to be safe.

  She flushed again, which delighted him to no end. “It’s been quite a surprise, actually.”

  That was something he could readily and easily believe, given the surprise he’d encountered in her. He tried to smile, but the muscles in his face seemed disinclined to cooperate. He really must practice it more often. “Do go on,” he said with a slight wave of his hand.

  “My brother hoped to find husbands for my sisters and me,” she said, with a bit of a wistful grin settling over her features. It lit her eyes remarkably, and somehow darkened them at the same time until they were nearly the shade of the sky at midnight. How utterly fascinating. “I sincerely doubt he intended to secure himself a match before that happened. And my sisters and I have enjoyed being social again, since we were in mourning during the Season and couldn’t come to Town.”

  For whatever reason, the joy that had been in her expression fled with her last statement. Fordingham almost itched for it to return.

  He knew of the previous Marston’s passing, and also the death of the presumed heir just prior to the occurrence. Surely, speaking of her father and eldest brother must still be painful for her. Redirecting Miss Bartlett’s line of thought onto something happier was of paramount importance.

  Settling his wine glass on the table, he again tried to smile at her. “Your brother’s new bride—Lady Marston—tell me about her.”

  “Beelzebub’s breeches,” Wesley muttered more than loud enough for both of the ladies present to hear him.

  Indeed, Miss Bartlett’s eyes widened at the vulgarity while Mrs. Cavendish passed her husband an anxious expression. Fordingham couldn’t blame them, either one. He’d always hated the expression his brother so favored, and it had no place in conversation with ladies.

  Even as his younger brother was tossing his own napkin to the table and pushing his chair back, Fordingham leveled his stare upon him.

  “Sit down, Wesley.”

  But Wesley did not sit down. Instead, he reached down to take his startled wife’s hand and assist her in rising. “Sit down. Tell me what I wish to hear. Come to supper.” His tone rose with each phrase, almost slapping Fordingham in the face with the agitation behind his words. He shoved his chair from behind until it rattled against the edge of the table. “Everything is a damned order from you! I’ve had enough. You insisted we come without telling us why, you didn’t let us know that you’d invited some poor, unsuspecting chit along for us to chaperone, and there seems to be no reason for any of it other than for you to deliver all of us commands. I’ve had enough.”

  And yet again, Wesley was unequivocally correct. There was nothing Fordingham could say to refute the harsh accusations. His arms felt irrationally heavy, like his hands were weighted and causing his shoulders to droop.

  “Send in a maid to act as a chaperone for Miss Bartlett,” Wesley barked at one of the waiting footmen. “We’re leaving.”

  While Wesley and Mrs. Cavendish hastened from the dining room, the demure woman arguing unsuccessfully with her doggedly determined husband, Fordingham felt like the most loathsome creature ever to grace London with his presence.

  Equally as damning as his behavior had been was the fact that Miss Bartlett was now without a proper chaperone. A maid did scurry in and take up a position along the wall only moments after Wesley’s departure, but that wasn’t the same.

  Fordingham turned to her, prepared to issue her the truest apology he had ever uttered in his life. He’d yet to say a single word when she gave him a tentative smile.

  “I see you have some squabbles with your brother.”

  Was she joking with him? It sounded as though she was, but he couldn’t be certain. The art of joking was as unfamiliar to him as happiness.

  He snapped his jaw closed and bit back the retort on his tongue that his family affairs were a private matter.

  The corners of her lips quirked upward and a wicked gleam sparkled in her eyes again, returning the joy that had been present and fled. “My sisters and I have had more than just a few squabbles over the years. And my brothers, as well. It’s only natural to have disagreements with siblings, I should think. One spends far too much time in their company to avoid them.”

  So perhaps she was jesting with him. Good God. No one ever jested with him.

  “Quite so,” he somehow managed to choke out. Then reason returned to his mind, and he signaled one of his footmen over. “Have my carriage readied so I may return my guest to her brother’s home after our meal.” Taking his fork in his hand once again, he attempted to resume eating.

  As the footman inclined his head and turned to do Fordingham’s bidding, Miss Bartlett’s forehead wrinkled. “Oh, is that necessary, my lord? Surely having a maid and your footmen present will be sufficient to prevent any scandal.”

  But there was nothing in the world that would convince him leaving her reputation to chance would be acceptable in the least. “I hope to one day make you the Countess of Fordingham, Miss Bartlett. There can be no hint of shame sur
rounding your name.” There was already too much scandal surrounding the Cavendish family, from the rift between Father and Wesley…and now between Fordingham and Wesley. He couldn’t add to it any more than he already had. When her mouth opened to once again counter him, he set the fork down again with more force than he’d intended. “I am sorry, but I have ruined too many things already in this life. Your reputation will not join the others upon the list.”

  Miss Bartlett pressed her lips tightly together, but she kept her displeasure to herself. Fordingham fought down the bile that rose up in his throat upon realization that he’d yet again decided what was to be done and simply ordered it, without taking into consideration what Miss Bartlett might wish.

  He had a great many things left to learn in this life. The time to begin the learning process had arrived.

  Thick, splattering raindrops pelted to the ground just outside the door of Fordingham House—a heavy enough rain that Lord Fordingham placed a hand on Calista’s elbow, effectively stopping her from delving outside into the deluge.

  The simple touch sent a flurry of awareness racing through her body. She turned to him and found the same impassive expression he so often bore. What a complicated man he was turning out to be. True, he was everything that she’d thought he would be, everything she’d hoped he would be…but there were a great many facets to Lord Fordingham she suspected she’d hardly come close to discovering.

  A footman stood just outside the door, waiting to escort her beneath an umbrella to the crested Fordingham carriage which was to return her to Marston House on Curzon Street, but Lord Fordingham was not looking at his footman or the umbrella. His gaze was instead focused entirely upon the street.

  Calista followed the path of his eyes to the near river racing along the side of Hanover Square and wending a rapid path toward Oxford Street. The two of them remained inside his home, but the depth of the water could not be in doubt. It would easily reach halfway to her knees. In order to board the carriage, she would have no choice but to make a mad dash through the flooding waters.

  “I cannot allow your gown to be ruined by the rain.”

  That was all the warning Calista was granted before Lord Fordingham lifted her high into his arms. She let out a squeak of surprise, but then quickly put her arms around his shoulders and neck so she could steady herself. In the darkness, she still couldn’t make out the shade of his eyes—only the steely intent behind them. He was as determined in his decision as she’d ever seen a man.

  But surely since they weren’t yet betrothed, and since they were all alone with only servants around them, this could hardly be considered proper. “My lord, I—”

  “Umbrellas,” he commanded, cutting her off. And then he carried her out into the weather, his strong arms like steel bands around her.

  Somehow, despite the corded strength in his arms, he was so gentle with her. His firm grip left her feeling safe and protected, like a crystal vase in steady hands…and at the same time rather disconcerted at his nearness.

  The footman who’d been waiting angled his umbrella to cover Calista’s head, and another footman appeared seemingly out of nowhere to protect the rest of her body with a second umbrella. They matched Lord Fordingham’s stride. Coursing water splashed around their booted feet, and the earl lifted her higher in his arms to keep her from getting wet from below. By the time he had her tucked away in his carriage, scarcely a drop had touched her.

  Once she was settled, Lord Fordingham boarded and took up the opposite bench. “Shall we?” he asked.

  Calista nodded.

  But he hesitated, the corners of his mouth turning downward ever so slightly and his brow furrowing ever so slightly. “I ought to bring a maid along for your protection, but in this weather…”

  “I’m certain it isn’t necessary,” Calista assured him. It was bad enough that he had insisted upon bringing her home himself, instead of sending her with his servants to handle the task. His lower half was drenched all the way through. “My brother’s home is only on Curzon Street. It’s not all that far. I’m sure this will be fine for such a brief amount of time.” She gave him a shy smile, hoping he would respond favorably to it.

  Lord Fordingham nodded curtly, dashing her hopes that he might soften a bit. He rapped a hand on the roof, and the conveyance lurched into motion as the steady rhythm of rain beat down overhead.

  For a few moments, the two of them sat together in silence. For that matter, much of their supper had been spent in silence, aside from those tense moments between Lord Fordingham and his brother. She’d tried, after Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish left, to bring a bit of levity into the room, but she wasn’t entirely certain the earl had found her remarks even remotely humorous.

  Lord Fordingham was proving to be a very difficult man to understand. His expression rarely changed, he did not seem to find amusement in anything, and she never had the slightest inkling as to what he was thinking.

  It was bewildering, all things considered, to be in his presence. Not quite unpleasant—but she never knew what to expect. Despite his thoroughly predictable demeanor, she thought he might very well be the most unpredictable man she’d ever known.

  A constant stream of water dripped from his Hessians onto the floor of the carriage, the soft sound of it in direct counterpoint to the barrage overhead. After a moment, he looked down. “Your slippers will be ruined. Lift your feet and rest them on my bench.” Even as he said it, he shifted to the side to make room for her to do so.

  Denying him was the furthest thing from Calista’s mind. She lifted her head to meet his gaze as she brought her feet up like he’d instructed. He stared at her so intently, so resolutely, it left her breathless. When at last his gaze broke, her eyes dropped to the hands resting beside him. They clenched and released, clenched and released.

  Much as her lungs seemed to be doing within the limited confines of her chest.

  But still, he said nothing. It seemed that if he wasn’t issuing her an order—as Mr. Cavendish had pointed out at supper—he didn’t know what to do or say. For whatever reason, Calista couldn’t force herself to mind about his heavy-handed manner. When he told her to do something, there seemed to be great care behind it. He wanted to protect her. He wanted to care for her. Perhaps, in time, he could learn to do so without taking on such a despotic air.

  In the meanwhile, she supposed it would be her responsibility to engender conversation.

  Discussing his family ought to be a good starting point, since he’d thought to introduce her to his brother straightaway. “Have you always been close with your brother, my lord?”

  Lord Fordingham gave her the most curious look then, some queer combination of confusion and abject horror. Perhaps asking him about his family was not the best tack she could have taken.

  She fought not to blush yet found it exceedingly difficult, as his gaze never so much as wavered.

  “I do not believe I am…close, as you say…with him even now,” he said at great length. Then he fell silent again.

  “Oh,” Calista murmured when he didn’t go on. It was difficult for her to fathom two siblings not being close. Certainly there were always times when one sibling might wish to cosh another over the head with a wooden post, but those moments were the minority. Weren’t they?

  “I’d hoped to remedy that situation tonight,” he said, straightening his spine even more than it normally was, until he looked painfully erect. His shoulders moved back, and the muscles beneath his coat tensed to the point she could see them bunching but not releasing, similar to what his fists had done moments before.

  He wanted to repair his relationship with his brother, and yet he’d invited Calista along as well? That didn’t really make much sense.

  “Perhaps it might be best for you to attempt to make amends with Mr. Cavendish when you two are alone,” she suggested. “It might be easier to discuss your differences without Mrs. Cavendish and me listening in.”

  Lord Fordingham cocked his head to the s
ide in a manner that reminded her very much of a curious pup, as though he was trying to examine her from a different angle. “I do believe it is safer for all parties involved if my brother and I are not alone together—at least not at this juncture.”

  Good heavens! Calista had, on numerous occasions throughout her two-and-twenty years, wished very much to cosh her siblings, each of them in turn, over the head with a wooden post—but she never would have actually done so. Would Lord Fordingham? Or perhaps the more pertinent question in this situation was would Mr. Cavendish? Either way, this was beginning to sound as though they had more than just a minor sibling squabble separating them.

  She snapped her jaw closed and forced her eyes to stop bulging from her head at his pronouncement. Had he brought her to his home as a means to prevent a physical altercation with his brother?

  Just as she was preparing to ask him what, specifically, had come between him and his brother, the wheels of the carriage ran over a rut in the road. The force of it knocked her backward slightly. It jostled Lord Fordingham in a similar manner, and he reached out his hands to prevent himself from falling into her—but in the process, one of his hands landed upon her ankle.

  His hand was warm in the chilled air—almost hot, even—in direct contrast to the demeanor he presented to the world. And it was rather large. It rested upon her far longer than either of them required in order to resituate themselves upon their respective benches. Lord Fordingham looked down at where his hand lay over her ankle, and his breathing increased to the point that she could see his chest rising and falling. And then, in painstaking fashion, he lifted his hand away.

  The simple touch had been enough to send her heartbeat fluttering, much as his kiss last night had done. Calista took a moment to calm herself, trying to slow her breathing and settle her thoughts. “Is there any way I might assist you? Perhaps I could speak with Mr. Cavendish—”

  “My brother is not the cause of our problems,” Lord Fordingham interrupted forcefully. “Far from it, actually. I am the problem.”