A Season To Remember

by Gayle Ava Stone, Jerrica Knight-Catania, Catherine

  His tone held a note of finality, but his words only caused Calista’s curiosity to grow. How had he caused such an insurmountable chasm between himself and his brother? And why? If one doesn’t have family, what does one truly have in the end? No amount of money or possessions could ever replace love.

  She braced herself to push through with her questions no matter how much resistance he put up against her. “Isn’t there someone within your family who could help to ease your way with Mr. Cavendish?”

  His eyes turned near black and glassy, and his lips pressed together in an icy line before he turned away from her to look out the window. “We have no other family.”

  Calista refused to be deterred. “A good friend, then? Someone who cares about you both.”

  “You seek the impossible, Miss Bartlett.”

  “It doesn’t have to be impossible.”

  And then, for what must be the first time in their brief acquaintance, he let out a mirthless laugh. Even that bit of levity felt unnatural coming from him. “I can assure you, it is more impossible than the sun rising in the west and setting in the east.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” Lord Fordingham faced her again. He seemed genuinely perplexed by her question, with a line creasing between his brows where they’d furrowed earlier, and his eyes softening just slightly.

  A strange desire to reach across the empty space between them in the carriage and touch his face pulled at her. It was a near miracle that she resisted. “Why are you so certain no one can help to repair the rift between you and your brother?”

  Then he did laugh, a full and cold sound that left her trembling. When he looked upon her, it was with unfeeling, hardened eyes. “You misunderstand, Miss Bartlett. What is impossible is finding anyone on this earth who cares for me. I’ve run them all off.”

  She’d never heard a man more sure of anything in her life. Calista should pity him—a man so seemingly cold and callous that no one in his life remained. Yet pity was the furthest thing from her mind as she watched him.

  He was not as frigid as he might appear—there wasn’t a doubt in her mind that a living, beating heart resided in his chest. That his chest housed a passion so intense it could scorch.

  Calista had experienced at least some small piece of that passion firsthand.

  So instead of pitying him, she looked him straight in the eye with a challenge. “You’re wrong. There is at least one you’ve not yet succeeded in running off.”

  Disdain dripped from his tongue as surely as rainwater dripped from his boots when he said, “Oh? And who, pray tell, is this paragon of virtue who would suffer me any longer than absolutely necessary?”

  “Me,” she whispered.

  As the word drifted over her lips, the carriage jostled unnaturally. It pitched forward at an angle, tossing Calista forward and to the side.

  Lord Fordingham’s arms shot out, and he caught her. He tugged her to his lap as the carriage careened forward at an anomalous angle. They still hadn’t come to a stop, and it felt as though the carriage might flip over in its entirety. Despite the panic coursing through her veins, and in spite of the great, heaving breaths she was forced to take from her fear, Calista felt utterly and thoroughly safe. Secure, even. His arms held her tight, a resolute determination in his fear-stricken eyes.

  When finally the carriage came to a stop and they had not plunged fully over, he drew the palms of his shaking hands over her hair, her face. “You’re all right? Tell me you’re unharmed.”

  She wasn’t certain she would ever be simply all right again, because she feared she might be falling head over ears in love with this intractable, unfathomable, thoroughly overprotective man.

  Nevertheless, she said, “Yes, I’m all right,” just before his lips moved towards hers with intensity of purpose.

  This time, there wasn’t even so much as a niggling doubt in Fordingham’s mind that fear was the emotion coursing through his body at a seemingly impossible pace.

  He feared that any harm could have come to Miss Bartlett, the one person in this world who would dare make such a bold claim as to care for him, of all people.

  He feared that he would do something to prove what an imbecile he remained, and in the process wedge an impassable chasm between them as he’d already done with his brother and anyone else who had once been part of his life.

  He was desperately afraid that she’d spoken something less than the truth when she’d declared she cared for him.

  There was more than merely fear, however. Fear moved like ice through his veins, slow and infinitely fragile, but there was also something warm. Something grander than the fear, something broader and more all-encompassing. Something that led him to kiss her again as he’d done last night.

  The kiss only served to warm him more. He slid his tongue over her lips, pressing for entry until she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Fordingham lost all semblance of self-control and slid his hands possessively over her torso, his fingers coming to rest just beneath the full swell of her breasts. That only led her to draw closer to him with a sigh floating between her lips. He took advantage of the brief opening and moved his tongue inside, reveling once again in the sweet taste of her. Sherry this time and not orgeat, as that was what he’d served at supper.

  His moment of revelry only lasted so long, regrettably.

  The door of his carriage flew open, allowing the watery deluge inside at an impossible pace because of the dangerous angle at which they were resting. Fordingham immediately pulled himself away from Miss Bartlett’s delightful kisses, only to discover a man’s frame filling the opening.

  “I would ask if everything was all right, but I can see such a query is unnecessary,” a man drawled.

  Fordingham struggled to focus his eyes, and then belatedly recognized the Earl of Montague as the man who’d interrupted them. Why was Montague here? And why had Fordingham lost his control for long enough to be caught with an unmarried lady in a compromising position?

  This was not how he’d wanted any of this to take place.

  Miss Bartlett’s eyes flew open and she tried to remove herself from his lap, but Fordingham put his hands upon her waist and held her still.

  There was no cause for panic. Montague was a reasonable man and an honorable one, to boot. Indeed, he might be the most noble of all the gentlemen of Fordingham’s acquaintance—a consolation, however small.

  Fordingham gripped Miss Bartlett’s waist gently, lifted her free from his person, and moved her back to her bench before acknowledging the earl. “We seem to have a broken wheel, Montague.”

  The younger man lifted a brow in something akin to derision, a wave of brown hair dropping low over his brow until his eyes were nearly obscured from view. “And the broken wheel has caused you to lose your senses and compromise a young lady, Fordingham? But of course it has. Certainly, it all makes sense to me now.”

  “A young lady who happens to be my betrothed,” he countered. “We were on our way to her brother’s home to finalize the marriage contract.” Not that that had been his intention tonight—but it wasn’t an altogether bad plan. He’d already informed Marston of his intentions, after all, and suggested the viscount draw up a marriage contract.

  Fordingham ignored the scandalized widening of Miss Bartlett’s eyes and the sharp intake of her breath. “Do you have your carriage with you? Perhaps you could be so kind as to aid us in returning to her brother’s home.”

  Montague scowled.

  “If you assist us in returning to Marston’s home, you can make certain that Miss Bartlett’s reputation remains as pristine as it ever has been, that her virtue remains intact.”

  That seemed to be enough to earn Montague’s cooperation. He nodded briefly and reached a hand in toward Miss Bartlett. “Come. Lady Montague awaits in my carriage and will wish to coddle you senseless for having a carriage accident in the middle of a deluge.”

  “Is Lord Fordingham terribly romantic with you, Miss Bartlett?”
Lady Montague took a sip from her teacup before settling it back upon its saucer. Her chocolate-tinted eyes fairly sparkled as she leaned close to Calista, her voice dropping to a more conspiratorial tone than she’d previously used.

  There was no reason at all for either of them to keep their voices low. As soon as they’d arrived at Marston House, Louisa had escorted Calista and Lady Montague into the drawing room to join Penny and Miranda. In the same instant, Hibbert had taken both Lord Fordingham and Lord Montague into the study to meet with Devlin.

  Then Louisa, upon recognizing that this visit might not be coming under the most auspicious of circumstances due to the grim expression Lord Montague had borne, had rushed Penny out of the drawing room (no small feat, given Penny’s delighted exclamations over their having been caught alone together in a broken-down carriage—but, thank heavens, at least Miranda had already retired for the evening, claiming a headache) and sent a maid in with tea.

  And there Calista and Lady Montague remained attempting to make small talk, despite the fact that nearly twenty minutes had already passed since their arrival, and the added fact that they’d not yet heard a peep of any sort from Devlin’s study.

  But at least there had been no shouts. She said a small prayer of thanks for little blessings.

  “He’s always seemed a bit…well, perhaps a bit standoffish to me before,” the very pretty young countess continued when Calista did not immediately respond. “But I must admit I do not know the earl very well. Certainly not as well as you do.”

  But Calista didn’t know Lord Fordingham very well at all, and romantic was hardly a term she would use for any of their prior interactions. Scandalous might be more apt, or even wickedly delicious, not that she’d admit as much to Miranda. But scandalous and romantic were not necessarily synonymous, as anyone with two twigs to rub together between their ears would know.

  She looked around her brother’s drawing room, wishing that an appropriate response would come to her but knowing that such a thing was extraordinarily unlikely. But then, Lady Montague was hardly older than Penny. Perhaps the countess was as flighty as Calista’s youngest sister, and so any answer at all would suffice for her question.

  Deciding to hope that such was the case, Calista tried to make it appear as though she were stifling a smile and fighting not to blush. “He is romantic, yes. Very much so.”

  Lady Montague gave a delighted smile and brushed a stray tendril of blonde hair back behind her ear, then leaned in again. “Do tell. What sort of grand gestures has he made? How did he ask you to marry him? I want to know absolutely everything. You mustn’t leave out a single detail.”

  Blast, she shouldn’t have lied. Now she would either have to continue the lie, digging herself a deeper hole than she already had, or she’d have to admit that she’d stretched the truth. She’s stretched it quite considerably, actually.

  It didn’t help in the least that Lord Fordingham hadn’t done any such thing as ask her to marry him, either.

  He’d informed Devlin that he would ask…and then he’d told Lord Montague that they were betrothed. But Calista’s wishes on the matter hadn’t been requested. Not even in the slightest.

  Right this moment, they were probably in Devlin’s study drawing up the marriage contract and settling all of the details it would contain. Her brother and a man she’d only met last night were now deciding her future, without even the tiniest bit of her input…but with that of an earl she’d only met an hour ago, and who couldn’t possibly know what she would want out of life.

  How had this happened? And more importantly, why wasn’t she more upset about it than she was? Now was not the most opportune time to debate all of these details within her head, however. Lady Montague deserved an answer to her questions.

  Calista opened her mouth, prepared to deliver a grand, romantic tale, one like she wished she had experienced with Fordingham…only to blurt out, “Actually, Lord Fordingham hasn’t asked me to marry him at all.” She then proceeded to bite down upon her tongue, as literally as such a thing were possible. She bit it so hard, in fact, that it began to bleed. The sharp taste spread throughout her mouth so fast, she dared not open it again for a few moments lest blood spill out and stain her gown.

  “He hasn’t asked you?” Lady Montague’s voice rose in pitch, filling the small drawing room with her dismay. “But he told my husband that you were betrothed!”

  Calista wanted to say something to calm the young countess, but tears were filling her eyes from the pain she’d imposed upon herself, and she couldn’t do a thing but sit there in equal dismay for long moments.

  Lady Montague stood and paced to the window. “Whatever were you doing alone with him in a carriage, Miss Bartlett? Oh, good heavens. And here I thought London was finished with these sorts of scandals for a bit, after…well. After.” Her hands waved through the air, as though the action explained the words. “But it seems not, I’m afraid.”

  After what? No matter how Calista tried to interpret Lady Montague’s befuddling statement within her mind, there was nothing for it. “I must apologize,” she said a moment later when the countess neglected to clarify what she meant, thankful that the bleeding seemed to have stopped, “but I don’t quite understand what you mean by after.”

  The countess turned, her eyes once again sparkling. “Oh, but of course you wouldn’t. You were in mourning last Season. I suppose there is nothing for it, then, but to tell you.” She returned to the silk brocade sofa, flounced down upon it beside Calista like Penny would so often do, and proceeded to divulge scandalous and sordid tales of herself and her three dearest friends who had each found themselves named in White’s betting book in their debut Season.

  “And after all of that, I was hoping that no more young ladies would find themselves in the same sort of trouble as we did, you see,” she finished quite some time later.

  For lack of anything better to say, while her head was filled with tales more delectably sordid than Lord Ellis taking Valetta Norton to Gretna Green while Calista and her family were in mourning, she murmured, “Yes, I see.” But Lady Montague seemed to be a very proper young lady, and Lord Montague appeared to be the very soul of honor. “A gas balloon? You truly flew in one?”

  “I did,” Lady Montague gushed. “And it was the most delightful thing I’ve ever done. Monty has promised me that he’ll arrange for me to do it again sometime, you know. Not with Lord Haworth, of course, but in a balloon he intends to commission himself. He’s going to teach me to fly it! Perhaps you could join us.”

  “But if it caused you to be named in the book at White’s…”

  A tinkling laughter escaped the countess. “Oh, gracious, no! Monty has assured me many times over that I was already named well before I went up in the balloon. And I would be with you to chaperone, so you wouldn’t be alone with a gentleman of indeterminate reputation, as I was.”

  Calista flushed then, thinking back to what seemed to happen every time she was alone with Lord Fordingham.

  Lady Montague took one of her hands and squeezed. “Enough talk of scandal. We’ll ignore all of that for now and think of happier things. And you must call me Georgie. All of my friends do, and now that you know all of my deepest, most embarrassing secrets, you must agree to be counted amongst them.”

  “Then you should call me Calista.”

  “Excellent.” Georgie somehow tightened her grip on Calista’s hand, pulling her closer. “Now, back to Lord Fordingham and your betrothal that isn’t quite a betrothal.”

  “Betrothal?”

  Louisa’s voice entered the drawing room well before her person did. Apparently, she’d satisfied herself that Penny and Miranda would not dare disturb them again, at least not tonight. How anyone could be satisfied that Miranda would do as she was told was more than Calista could fathom, since her sister had been slipping beneath the notice of anyone and everyone for years. It would seem Louisa was not yet aware of all of Miranda’s schemes.

  Louisa rushed t
o Calista’s side and promptly flounced down beside her. She took her hand and squeezed. “You’re betrothed to Lord Fordingham? Oh, Calista.”

  She didn’t know how to respond. Not even the tiniest little bit. All she knew was that a furious blush was taking over her features, heating her cheeks and neck to an unsightly degree.

  Georgie clucked her tongue, and her lips turned downward ever-so-slightly. “Do you want to marry him, Calista?”

  And that was perhaps the most pertinent question of all.

  The three days since Fordingham had first made his way through a crowd and sought out an introduction to Miss Bartlett had been perhaps the most stressful, and equally the most enjoyable, of his life.

  It was a rather strange sensation, truth be told. He had great difficulty remembering anything in his life in which he’d actually looked forward to something, or anything which he’d delighted in remembering afterward. But nearly every moment he’d spent in Miss Bartlett’s presence produced just such an effect.

  The result of it all was that he had an ever-present desire to be in her company.

  As such, complying with Marston’s requirement that Fordingham and Miss Bartlett spend time with one another in order to each better know and understand the other wasn’t even the slightest bit uncomfortable for him.

  The rain from two nights ago had cleared, and the weather which replaced it was far more agreeable than was normal for this time of year, and so Fordingham was presently on his way to Marston House to escort his betrothed on a promenade. He only hoped Miss Bartlett enjoyed exercise. He didn’t know if she did or not, and he hadn’t thought to ask her about such a thing in advance. The idea had simply struck him, and so he dressed and left Fordingham House afoot on his way to fetch her.

  At some point, he truly ought to try to plan ahead for those things in which she would be involved. Then he could ask her instead of inform her of them. That would be the gentlemanly way of going about all of this—wouldn’t it? Surely it was. And therefore, it was what Miss Bartlett deserved.