by Emily Larkin
Lady Marchbank was listening with fierce attention, her lips pursed in approval. Arthur Strickland was watching his niece, nodding as she spoke, agreeing with Fordyce.
“Will she that is always looking into her glass, be much disposed to look into her character?”
Mrs. Dunn, blonde and pretty, was also listening intently, her eyes fixed on Miss Chapple’s face, but . . .
Edward narrowed his eyes. Mrs. Dunn’s lips moved silently, as if she was counting under her breath. He glanced at her hands. Her fingers tapped against her knee as she listened—tiny, almost indiscernible movements.
Was she counting something?
Edward returned his gaze to Miss Chapple. He scanned her from head to toe. She was extremely plain, her brown hair pulled back severely from her face and her mannishly tall figure garbed in an unflattering gray gown.
Edward’s gaze lingered on her breasts for a fleeting moment before he wrenched them away. She’s reading a sermon, he admonished himself. And she was Toby’s cousin. His favorite cousin.
Edward observed Miss Chapple more thoughtfully. Toby had spoken highly of her. There must be something more to her than was visible at first glance.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment. When he opened them again, the clock hands had advanced another fifteen minutes.
Edward sat up straight, blinking. He uncrossed his legs and crossed them the other way. The armchair uttered a creaking groan.
“The less vanity you betray,” Miss Chapple read, “the more merit we shall always be disposed to allow you.”
He focused his attention on her, trying to guess her age. She was well past girlhood. Somewhere in her twenties, but precisely where was hard to determine; her skin was as smooth as that of a girl in her teens.
Edward studied her, trying to see a resemblance to Toby and finding none. Miss Chapple’s hair was an indifferent mid-brown, her nose unremarkable and quite unlike Toby’s jutting beak. An ordinary face, although he thought she might have dimples when she smiled. The only feature of note was her mouth, which was too large for beauty. But a lush mouth could never be a fault in a woman.
Miss Chapple’s figure was as generous as her mouth; she had none of Toby’s leanness. The gray gown was overlarge, as if attempting to hide her abundant curves; it only succeeded in making her look heavier than she was. Edward found himself glancing at her breasts again, and looked abruptly away, fastening his gaze on Mrs. Dunn. Her lips moved infinitesimally as her fingers tapped lightly against her knee. What was she counting?
He watched Mrs. Dunn’s fingers and listened to Miss Chapple. “. . . has been thought the most common—”
Mrs. Dunn’s forefinger tapped once on her knee.
“. . . the rankest—”
Another tap.
“. . . and the most noxious—”
Another tap.
“. . . weed that grows in the heart of a female—”
Another tap.
Edward suppressed a grin. She was counting the thes. He settled back more comfortably in the armchair, ignoring the creak it made, and turned his attention to Miss Chapple again. How much longer could the wretched sermon be? Miss Chapple’s voice was as soporific as a lullaby . . .
The jerk of his head dropping forward woke him. The clock told him he’d lost another five minutes. Edward glanced around. No one had noticed. He swallowed a yawn and managed not to rub his eyes.
“. . . that leads the world,” Miss Chapple said, a note of finality in her voice. She closed the book and glanced at Mrs. Dunn. Her eyebrows quirked a silent question, her lips twitched fractionally, a dimple showed briefly in her right cheek, and then all expression smoothed from her face and she was dull and drab and nondescript again.
“Excellent,” Strickland said, in his dry, cracked voice. “Excellent. Don’t you agree, Mr. Kane?”
“Yes,” Edward said, his tone heartfelt. It was indeed excellent that the sermon was over.
Mattie wrote by the light of one sputtering tallow candle, huddled in her blanket. He removed my garters and my stockings swiftly, and then his hands skimmed higher.
And then what?
She laid down the quill and flicked through the pages of the countess’s diary, searching for a description of a similar moment. Ah, here was one that would work. Heat flushed beneath my skin and a wild eagerness began to rise in me.
Mattie dipped the quill in ink and copied the sentence. The hour was approaching midnight, everyone long asleep, but the house was far from silent. Hail battered against the windowpanes, the shutters rattled and banged, and wind whistled down the chimney, stirring the ashes in the grate and making the candle flame flicker.
She closed the diary and continued with her story: His hands roamed across my body, and there was such strength in his touch, such gentleness, that I couldn’t help trusting him. That I, a courtesan, should trust a man, seemed incredible, and that it should be this man, with his fierce pockmarked face and his brutal reputation, seemed even more incredible. But trust him I did, and I yielded eagerly to his passion.
Mattie wrote for another hour, until the candle was in danger of guttering, before finally laying down her quill. She looked at the pile of pages with satisfaction. One final chapter and Chérie’s Memoir would be finished. A whole book—the history of Chérie’s time as a courtesan—for which her publisher would pay a lot more than he did for each confession.
And when she was paid, she could leave Creed Hall.
Mattie hugged the blanket tightly around herself, shivering, building the dream again: a boarding house beside the sea. There would be no dark paneling, no fires that were too small for their grates. The boarding house would be bright and cheerful and warm.
She yawned and stretched, catching the blanket as it slithered from her shoulders. “Freedom,” she said aloud, to the rattling, banging, whistling accompaniment of the storm.
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The Earl’s Dilemma
Kate Honeycourt was sitting on the floor of the priest’s hole when he arrived. The library door opened and she heard his voice, and her brother’s. She started, spattering ink over the page of her diary. James was here!
Her gaze jerked down to the diary in her lap. I shall, of course, treat James as if my feelings go no deeper than friendship. That goes without saying. But why does it grow no easier? One would think, after all these years, that— The sentence ended in a splotch of ink.
The voices became louder. Her secret hiding place had become a trap.
Kate dropped the quill and hastily snuffed the candle. The hot wick stung her fingertips. She blinked and for a moment could see nothing. Then her eyes adjusted to the gloom. The darkness wasn’t absolute. A tiny streak of light came from the peephole.
“—can’t offer you any entertainment,” her brother said.
Kate rose to her knees in the near-darkness. The diary slid off her lap with a quiet, rustling thump that made her catch her breath.
“I don’t expect to be entertained!” James sounded affronted. “Honestly, Harry, what do you take me for? You didn’t invite me. I invited myself!”
Kate leaned forward until her eyes were level with the peephole. She saw her brother, Harry, the Viscount Honeycourt.
“Don’t cut up stiff,” Harry said, grinning. “You’re always welcome. You know that.” He walked across the room to where the decanters stood. “Sherry? Scotch? Brandy?”
“Brandy,” James said. He came into Kate’s line of sight and her pulse gave a jerky little skip. His back was towards her, but his tallness and the strong lines of his body were unmistakable. He ran a hand through his black hair and turned. Kate’s pulse jerked again at the sight of his face, with its wide, well-shaped mouth and slanting black eyebrows. His features were strong and balanced, handsome, but some quirk of their arrangement gave him an appearance of sternness. The planes of his cheek and angle of his jaw were austere. When lost in thought or fro
wning, his expression became quite intimidating. She’d seen footmen back away rather than disturb him. The sternness was misleading; anyone who knew James well knew that his face was made for laughter.
Had been, Kate corrected herself. James hadn’t laughed during the past months and today his face was unsmiling. He looked tired, and as always when not smiling, stern.
Kate clasped her hands together and wished she knew how to make him laugh again. She watched as he walked over to one of the deep, leather armchairs beside the fire and sat. He stretched his long legs out and leaned his head back and closed his eyes, his weariness almost tangible.
“Your timing is excellent,” Harry said, a brandy glass in each hand. Late afternoon sunlight fell into the room. The crystal gleamed and the brandy was a deep, glowing amber. “My cousin Augusta has gone to Bath for two months.”
James opened his eyes. “I count myself very fortunate,” he said, as he accepted a glass.
“So do we!” Harry sat so that Kate could only see the back of his head, his hair as bright red as her own. “Well? Your letter didn’t explain a thing. What’s this matter of urgency?”
Kate drew back slightly from the peephole. Should she cover her ears? Whatever Harry and James were about to discuss was none of her business. She raised her hands. To eavesdrop would be—
“Marriage,” James said.
Kate flinched. Her heart seemed to shrink in her chest. She’d known this moment must come one day, but that didn’t stop it hurting. James is getting married. She lowered her hands and leaned closer for a better view of the library.
“Ah.” Harry settled back in his chair. “You’ve found a suitable wife?”
James’s laugh was short and without humor. “No,” he said, and swallowed some of his brandy.
“You want me to help you? Is that it?”
James frowned at his glass. “My birthday’s soon,” he said. “You know I must marry before then.”
Kate wrinkled her brow. What?
“You could let Elvy Park and the fortune go,” Harry said in an offhand tone. “I’m sure your cousin would appreciate them.”
James transferred his frown from the brandy to Harry. “Would you?”
Her brother, possessor of an extensive estate and a comfortable fortune, shook his head. “No.”
“Of course not. And neither will I. I’ll marry before my thirtieth birthday, but . . .” James rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “I wanted— Oh, God, I know it sounds stupid, Harry, but I wanted what my brother had.”
He didn’t need to explain what that was. Harry knew as well as she did: a love match.
Her brother didn’t scoff. “It doesn’t sound stupid,” he said quietly. “It’s what I want.”
It was what Kate wanted, too, but she’d given up hope of it years ago.
James acknowledged Harry’s reply with a brief, bitter movement of his lips. He said nothing, but drank deeply from his glass.
“Are you certain the will is legal?” Harry asked.
“It’s legal.” James’s smile was humorless. “Edward tried to find a way around it, but the lawyers said there wasn’t one. And then he met Cordelia and it didn’t matter.” His face twisted. “Oh, God! If only he—”
For a moment Kate thought that James might cry. The notion shocked her. Even after the tragedy last year, when a carriage accident had taken the lives of his father and brother and sister-in-law, she’d not seen James lose control of his emotions. His face and manner had been composed, but his eyes . . . She’d wept in the privacy of her bedchamber for the silent grief in his eyes.
James shook his head, his expression bleak, and swallowed the last of the brandy. “I never expected to inherit Elvy Park and—and everything else. Never wanted to! But damn it, Harry, I’m not going to give it all away now that I’ve got it.”
“No.” Harry sighed and got to his feet. He walked over to the brandy decanter. “More?”
James nodded.
Kate’s knees began to ache from kneeling on the hard floor. She shifted slightly and wished she’d brought a cushion in with her.
“You’ve got two months to find a bride,” her brother said, as he refilled James’s glass.
“Yes.”
“So what the devil are you doing in Yorkshire?” Leather creaked as Harry sat down again. “The Season has started. You should be in London.”
“Débutantes.” An expression of distaste crossed James’s face.
“What’s wrong with débutantes?”
James swallowed a mouthful of brandy. “You don’t get mobbed by them—and their mamas.”
Harry laughed. “Of course not! I’m not half so well-favored as you.”
Much as Kate loved her brother, she had to admit he was correct. Poor Harry had the Honeycourt red hair and freckles. James had no such flaws, unless the stern cast of his features could be called one. He’d always been handsome, but in his uniform, with his grin and his slanting black eyebrows, he’d been astonishingly so. She had heard—with no surprise—that he’d cut a swath through ballrooms in England and abroad, despite being a younger son with no title or fortune.
That status was a thing of the past, as was his military career. James no longer wore a hussar’s colorful uniform. His riding-dress was somber-hued, the breeches dun-colored and the coat a dark brown. The clothes were elegant and expensive, as befitted an earl, but not dashing. Even so, he looked finer than any gentleman Kate had ever seen.
James’s appearance wasn’t the only reason débutantes and their mamas sought him out, but Harry didn’t mention the earldom or the fortune. “What’s wrong with débutantes?” he asked again.
“I could have my pick of a dozen of them,” James said, frowning at his brandy.
“Only a dozen?”
James looked up. His mouth curved into a reluctant smile. “All right, I could have almost any débutante I wanted.” The smile faded. “But I don’t want one.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want a chit straight out of the schoolroom.”
“Why not?”
James shrugged. “They giggle too much.”
“Nonsense!” Harry said. “A young and pretty miss would be just the thing.”
“I can get young and pretty from an opera dancer,” James said, exasperation in his voice. “We’re talking about a wife.”
“So?”
“So, I want a wife whose company I can tolerate. Damn it, Harry, I’ll be spending the rest of my life with the woman. I want her to be someone I like!”
“And you can’t like a débutante? Come on, James, that’s a bit steep.”
“Remember Maria Brougham?” James asked, swirling the brandy in his glass.
Kate had heard the name before, but she couldn’t recall the context. Harry clearly did. He nodded. “Those eyes,” he said. “That mouth. And her breasts!”
“Yes,” James said. “Exactly. And look at her now. She’s become a regular Devil’s daughter. Poor Edgeton lives in terror of her tongue.”
“She’s still beautiful,” Harry protested, while Kate realized who Maria Brougham was: the Duke of Edgeton’s wife. A woman with the figure of a Venus and face of an angel—and the sharp tongue and uncertain temper of a shrew.
“Certainly,” James agreed. “But would you want to be married to her?”
“No,” Harry said. He tapped his fingers on his knee. “I offered for her, you know.”
Kate’s eyes widened. Her brother had offered for the waspish Duchess of Edgeton?
James grunted as he looked at his brandy. “So did I.”
Kate blinked, astonished. She wasn’t sure what surprised her most; that James had proposed, or that Maria Brougham had refused him. How could anyone refuse an offer of marriage from James?
“She held out for a duke,” Harry said, his tone faintly resentful.
James glanced up. A hint of a smile touched his mouth. “For which we should both be thankful.”
Harry made a brief
sound of agreement.
James eyed him, and Kate watched as his smile widened. “I remember you fought a duel over her.”
Harry cleared his throat. “Mmm.”
“Some slur on her appearance. What was it? Her lips?”
“Her eyelashes,” Harry said, shifting uncomfortably in his armchair. Kate stared at the back of his head. Her brother had fought a duel over the Duchess of Edgeton’s eyelashes?
James grinned, and Kate’s breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t seen him look like that in a long time. “Her eyelashes.”
“You fought a duel over a pair of boots.”
James’s grin faded to a reminiscent smile. “So I did. I’d forgotten. Lord, what a young fool I was.”
“And you broke Camden’s jaw over that opera dancer.”
The amusement left James’s face. His features became stern once more. “Bella,” he said. “Yes, I did.” He looked at his brandy and swirled it gently in the glass. “He hit her, you know.”
Harry nodded.
“I liked Bella,” James said. “She was . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Expensive.”
James shrugged a shoulder. “Worth it.”
“If you say so.”
James looked up. His brown eyes seemed very dark and his mouth was almost smirking. “I do,” he said, and something in his voice made Kate’s cheeks flush hot.
The library was silent for a moment, apart from logs shifting in the fire. Harry cleared his throat again. “So, not a débutante?”
James’s face became blank. “No,” he said. “A woman whose character is formed. I want to know what I’m getting. I have no wish for a wife whose company will grow irksome.”
“And you want my help. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
James looked at Harry. It seemed to Kate that he didn’t wish to speak. “No,” he said finally. “It’s not.”
“Not?” Harry sat up straighter, his tone baffled. “What then?”
James frowned past Harry at the wall. It was as if he stared directly at Kate. She shrank back in the priest’s hole.
“I’m here because I want to marry your sister,” James said.
