A Season To Remember

by Gayle Ava Stone, Jerrica Knight-Catania, Catherine

  More than anything else, he wanted to be the husband to her which she deserved to have. At present, he sincerely doubted he met such a requirement. Fordingham resolved to learn to become that man, though, no matter what it took. The Countess of Fordingham would be the best cared-for lady in all of England, or he would die in trying to make her so.

  He’d almost arrived at Marston House when a Danby carriage passed by him on the road, and slowed. That could mean only one thing, at least to Fordingham’s mind: Wesley. He had half a mind to catch the driver’s attention and stop the vehicle so that he could yet again confront his brother, but then he thought better of it. A meeting with Wesley, were it anything like their supper two nights ago, would prove to be a highly unpleasant way to spend his day, and Fordingham had every intention of making today as enjoyable as possible.

  The carriage came to a stop at the intersection, however, and the door opened. Then Fordingham nearly fell over where he stood, because it was not Wesley who stepped down from the conveyance, but Danby himself.

  Seeing the old duke in Town was more than enough to give Fordingham pause. He doubted the man ever left his castle unless it was of dire necessity.

  The fact that the older man scowled over at him, and then crossed the brief distance separating them in little more than the time required to blink an eye despite the use of his cane, was enough to leave Fordingham blinking both his eyes in confusion.

  “Did you know about this, too?” the duke barked.

  Fordingham shook his head, as though that could possibly clear away the fog clouding his mind enough to make sense of Danby’s question. “I apologize, Duke. Did I know about what?”

  Danby lifted his cane and cracked it back down upon the ground. “Marston! What else would I be upset about?”

  This response, of course, clarified absolutely nothing for Fordingham.

  “Clearly, you knew. Why else would you play dumb now?” Danby leered, or perhaps sneered would be more precise. “Although, you might not be playacting. Nevertheless, there is no more need to pretend. Rumors reached me in Yorkshire all the way from that blasted house party. When I returned to Town, I heard the whole of the truth as soon as I stepped foot in White’s. Marston stole my granddaughter, and he did it without so much as a by-your-leave to me! Good thing I arrived when I did, with a special license in tow.”

  Were he not standing in the middle of a London street, Fordingham would be tempted to quite literally scratch his head over Danby’s tirade. After all, hadn’t the man been attempting to force as many of his grandchildren as he could into marriage only last Christmastide? Why would he be so upset that another of them had secured a match—particularly if it didn’t require his involvement? It made no sense, but this did not seem an opportune time to point out the duke’s contradictory behaviors.

  “I did hear that they’d married,” he finally hedged. “I assumed you were aware of their budding relationship.” Not that he would have ever thought to tell Danby anything about anything. Why would he need to? The old codger knew everything there was to know, it seemed. He had to have spies throughout all of England and likely half the Continent as well.

  “You assumed, did you? Of course you did. Imbecile.” Danby spun on his heel and marched back to his carriage. When he was halfway up the steps, he called out over his shoulder, “Well? Why are you still standing there looking like the numbskull you apparently are? Get in.”

  In all his life, Fordingham could not recall anyone ever referring to him as dumb, let alone as an imbecile or a numbskull, let alone all of those in one conversation—certainly not doing so and then living to tell the tale. And yet, instead of continuing on his way alone, his feet followed in the same path that Danby had just taken, and he climbed inside the carriage with the cantankerous duke.

  Once inside, he immediately wished he’d done as he ought. Wesley sat on the bench across from Danby, with his wife at his side and a glare heated enough it should have been able to melt holes through Fordingham’s person.

  “Sit!” Danby barked.

  Fordingham sat.

  What in God’s name had come over him?

  Blessedly, they were not confined to the duke’s carriage for long, as apparently they were likewise on their way to Marston House. When they arrived, the four of them descended and Danby led the way inside, with Wesley and Mrs. Cavendish following behind him and Fordingham taking up the rear.

  The duke did not slow at the door once the butler opened it, but instead barreled straight through and to the sitting room as though he owned the house. When Fordingham entered, the bedraggled butler looked at him as though for answers.

  “Inform Lord Marston that the Duke of Danby wishes an audience,” he finally said. “And inform Miss Bartlett that I will be taking her on a promenade.”

  Wesley turned around sharply upon hearing that last bit with a heated glare, and so Fordingham quickly remembered himself.

  “I’m sorry. Revise that last bit to enquire if Miss Bartlett would wish to accompany me for a promenade.”

  “No one is going anywhere,” Danby shouted from inside the drawing room. “Tell Marston and my granddaughter that their presence is required, and do the same for this Miss Bartlett as well. There is much to be settled.”

  The butler appeared more confused than ever, but he quickly bowed his head and scurried away.

  Was this the way Fordingham treated people? Did he make them feel as small and inconsequential as Danby was making him feel at the moment? He’d always issued orders, because that was what his father had taught him to do. The Earl of Fordingham does not make requests, and so on and so forth, ad infinitum. Was this how Wesley had felt all these years in Fordingham’s presence?

  With such thoughts running rampant through his mind, Fordingham followed Danby, Wesley, and Mrs. Cavendish into the drawing room. He’d only been there for a moment when Lady Marston rushed inside.

  “Grandfather,” she exclaimed. “We weren’t expecting you today.” She smoothed a hand over her skirts and prepared to greet her other guests, but Danby spoke before she could do so.

  “Yes, I noticed your husband has not invited me to see you since your wedding. I decided to rectify that myself, since he seems disinclined to do so for me.” He squinted at her. “You do realize this does not leave me predisposed to like him, do you not?”

  Lady Marston wasn’t granted an opportunity to answer him. Marston came in after his wife, and then Miss Bartlett followed.

  Her blue eyes caught Fordingham’s and held briefly before she looked away with a blush. It took every ounce of restraint he possessed not to cross the room to her and whisk her away from the palpable tension present in the room. He wanted to take her somewhere they could be alone, and kiss her blushes away, then kiss her some more to cause her to blush even more furiously. And yet somehow he refrained.

  “I apologize,” Marston said, returning Fordingham’s attention to the others in the room. “I’ve been—”

  “Otherwise occupied with trying to marry off your sisters,” Danby interrupted. “I’m well aware of that fact, Marston.” The duke settled onto a settee, and then he thumped his cane on the floor again as he’d done earlier. “How soon is Fordingham to wed the eldest?” He waved in the direction of Miss Bartlett, who blushed again and averted her gaze.

  Once more, Fordingham could do nothing but blink in confusion. How did Danby know that they were betrothed? There hadn’t been any formal announcement yet. It had only just been agreed upon two evenings ago. The banns had not been called, there’d not been an advertisement run in the Times. Nothing.

  And yet Danby knew.

  “The banns will be called for the first time on Sunday,” Marston said, his tone revealing him to be far less flummoxed than Fordingham was at present. “They’ll marry as soon as possible afterward.”

  “I could arrange for a special license, you know. I did so for you, and for many of Louisa’s cousins.”

  Including Wesley and Mrs. Caven
dish. Fordingham had not forgotten that.

  But he had been the one to insist there was to be no rush for the nuptials. Marston and Montague had both argued for a special license, considering the events in the carriage and the rapidity with which gossip had a tendency to spread throughout Town. Fordingham would hear nothing of it, however. He didn’t want anyone to think there was a reason for a hasty marriage, even if there had been such cause.

  And no one but Montague had witnessed any of those events. The earl was hardly a man to reveal such a thing if it should potentially damage a young lady’s reputation.

  “That will hardly be necessary, Duke,” Fordingham said at length, keeping his voice calm and distant as he so often did. “It is far better for her reputation if no one thinks she’s been compromised.”

  Danby’s head whipped around, as though he’d just remembered that Fordingham was present in the room. “So kind of you to insinuate yourself into our conversation, Fordingham. I believe it is for Miss Bartlett’s brother who, as you well know, is her guardian to determine what is best for her future, however.”

  The thin veneer of control he’d been maintaining began to slip, and he felt his back bowing up as a cornered animal might do. How very odd. Fordingham could never recall such an experience in his life. He’d never allowed his anger to gain such control over him before. “As her future husband, I should think it would be for me to determine what is best for her.”

  “Is that so?” Danby stood again, slamming the bottom of his cane onto the floor with decisive impunity. “Well, as the man who is essentially her grandfather, and as the Duke of Danby, I think it perhaps is for me to determine—”

  “Enough!”

  Fordingham’s jaw dropped when Miss Bartlett’s sister, Miss Miranda, pushed forward into the middle of the room. What on earth did she think she was doing?

  “I might remind you all,” she said softly, but firmly, “that Calista has reached her majority. Perhaps it would be wise for you—all of you—to remember that she can make decisions for herself. And instead of telling her what is best for her, it might behoove you to ask what she wants.” This last bit, she delivered whilst looking decidedly at Fordingham and no one else.

  But he had asked Miss Bartlett what she wanted, hadn’t he? Or even if he hadn’t, she’d been quite vocal in telling him. She wanted him to seek an introduction. She wanted him to court her. Surely, she must want to marry him.

  Yet as he looked over to where she stood alone by the hearth, and as he stared into those eyes that were the same shade as the Greek sea—eyes filling with heavy tears—he knew without a doubt.

  He hadn’t asked her to marry him.

  He’d told her she would, and then he’d finalized the details with her brother…and expected that she would simply do as she was told. Because he was the Earl of Fordingham, after all. Everyone did what he told them to do.

  Didn’t they?

  Despite searching her memory, Calista couldn’t recall ever having experienced a day quite like this one before in her life.

  After Miranda had effectively chastised Devlin, Fordingham, and the Duke of Danby, the duke had moved on from the subject of Calista and Fordingham, and whether their marriage would best be conducted by special license or through more traditional means, to discuss the earl’s rather testy relationship with his brother.

  She’d only thought there was a great deal of tension in the room while they’d been discussing her impending marriage. Once the topic of conversation switched to the rift between Fordingham and Mr. Cavendish, she’d wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole.

  Indeed, their conversation quickly became so heated (Calista wouldn’t have been surprised in the least if Mr. Cavendish had planted the earl a facer) that Louisa had interrupted her grandfather’s diatribe in order to excuse both Calista and Miranda from the room. Then she had shooed the two girls on their way when they didn’t exit fast enough for her liking.

  Once the two sisters were in the corridor, Miranda looked over at her with a pained expression. She started to say something but stopped, and then tried again twice more before shaking her head and dashing up the stairs.

  Calista followed her sister with her eyes, only to discover Penny looking down at her over the railing. When, yet again, the voices inside the drawing room rose in a heated exchange, Penny’s eyes widened and she darted away like a frightened rabbit…well, a frightened rabbit with a gleam in her eyes and a wicked grin upon her lips, that was.

  Which left Calista alone. Thoroughly, inexplicably alone.

  She wandered through the halls of Marston House, though she had no real purpose for her wanderings. All the while, she debated within her mind what she truly wanted. Despite her conversation with Georgie two nights ago, and despite Miranda, of all people, arguing for Calista to have a voice in determining her future, she still didn’t know what she wanted.

  What good would it do to be allowed to voice her opinion, if she didn’t even know what her opinion might be?

  She’d thought she wanted Lord Fordingham. Indeed, she’d been quite sure of it that night they first met. But was it really him that she wanted, or did she just not want a man who was like Lord Ellis? And if it was the latter and not the former, was marrying Lord Fordingham the best means of securing the future she wanted? Perhaps she could have looked for a gentleman who was unlike Lord Ellis in some ways, but not in every way.

  The more she paced the corridors, the more questions she seemed to have…and the fewer answers. She made her way through the library and out into the garden behind the house. The sun shone down upon the rose trellis, lending the air a false sense of warmth. She sat upon a stone bench, wishing she could find an answer. Any answer.

  Fordingham was a man with more facets to his character than any man she’d ever known, and she doubted she would ever discover them all. Particularly not if he kept himself as closed as he seemed to be so often—why, she didn’t even know his Christian name. For all she knew, he didn’t have one, however preposterous such a notion may be.

  Did she love him?

  She didn’t know him well enough to love him. He was far from the gregarious, enigmatic man Lord Ellis was, but that didn’t mean he would treat her more kindly than her former suitor had done. Now that the marriage contract had already been signed by both Lord Fordingham and Devlin—only now was she starting to learn more about him.

  He did have a tendency to tell everyone around him what to do all the time, but when he told Calista what to do, it was always with her best interests at heart. He wanted to protect her, not to hurt her. Yet she wasn’t certain he realized that by making every decision for her, he was hurting her. His decisions limited, or completely eliminated, her ability to make her own choices.

  And yet, despite his authoritarian tendencies, she was drawn to him. More so than she could ever recall being drawn to another human. More often than she cared to admit, she thought about his kisses and the possessive way he held her. She thought about the fire burning within him which he kept so well guarded and revealed to no one but her.

  And she wanted more of it.

  Shouldn’t that weigh into her decision as much as everything else?

  Calista lost track of time while she sat out on the bench, debating what she wanted until her head felt ready to explode. When the door opened and Lord Fordingham came out to sit beside her, the breeze brushed over her and she shivered.

  Without saying a word, he removed his coat and placed it over her shoulders.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, looking up to meet his eyes.

  Still today, she wasn’t certain of their hue. The brim of his beaver hat sat low over them, casting them in a shadow which prevented her from seeing them fully.

  His lip twitched at the corner under her scrutiny. “Would you care to go inside? It is considerably warmer in the house.” After the words left his lips, he fidgeted beside her, his hands fisting and releasing by his sides.

  If she were not
so aware of everything about him, in an effort to sort out just precisely who this man was, she doubted she would have even noticed such a thing. As a matter of fact if she did not know Lord Fordingham as well as she did, even if she’d noticed such a thing she would not have thought it to indicate discomfort.

  But if it were not a sign of his obvious distress, she would eat her left foot.

  “No,” she replied at length.

  Then she laughed a bit, an action which surprised even her, so she attempted to stifle it. Despite having only known him for a few days, and regardless of the fact that she did not know his Christian name, Calista knew him far better than she’d ever realized.

  “My lord, was it so difficult to ask me even that simple question? You seem uncomfortable.”

  “I…” He blinked, then looked away to stare at a white rose in full bloom. “Yes. Yes, I am uncomfortable. I am nervous when I’m with you, because I’m afraid that I’ll do the wrong thing or say the wrong thing, and then you will leave me like everyone else in my life has always left.”

  Then he stood and paced before her, his hands locked firmly behind his back and his stride one that could put a lifelong soldier to shame. “I’ve had very little good in my life, Miss Bartlett—”

  “Calista.”

  Lord Fordingham stopped so suddenly, she thought him liable to fall over. “I beg your pardon?”

  “My name is Calista. If we are to be married, I think it only right for us to be less formal.”

  He appeared so stricken by her suggestion, she was tempted to go to him and caress his cheek. She doubted such a thing would ease his shock, however, so she refrained.

  Fighting back a smile, she asked, “And what might I call you?”

  His jaw fell slack in a delightfully comedic manner. “I am Fordingham.”

  “I am well aware of that, my lord.” This time, Calista couldn’t possibly hold back her laughter. “But your Christian name? You do have one, don’t you?”