How to Please a Lady

by Jane Goodger

  Granton had gone quite still. “What do you mean? How do you know?”

  “I was working with Moonshine in the stable and Lady Rose had been out walking with Weston—”

  “His Grace,” Granton snapped.

  Avery gave Granton a hard look but continued. “His Grace. When Lady Rose returned, she was clearly upset. I thought they’d had some sort of spat. But I didn’t have a good feeling about it, so the next day, I followed them.” Mr. Avery stood and looked Granton in the eye. “When I came upon them, Weston was unbuttoning his trousers.”

  Granton reared back as if Avery had thrown a blow. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “I’ll kill him,” Granton said in a tone that left no doubt that Weston’s life was, indeed, in danger.

  “She had bruises on her neck. He’d forced her . . .” Mr. Avery shook his head, unable to complete his thought.

  “Fellatio, I believe,” Daniel supplied. Granton whipped his head around, his eyes so filled with rage, Daniel took a step back.

  “Lady Rose was upset. She knew I was coming to America and she begged me to help her. I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t very well let her marry Weston. She was very frightened of him.”

  Granton bowed his head, his anger deflated. “My God, why did she not say something?”

  “I cannot say, but I know she did try to tell your mother.” He stood, looking at Granton a bit warily.

  “You could have come to me, Charlie.”

  “Lady Rose was ashamed and she begged me not to say a word. And she didn’t come out and tell me what happened; I guessed. And then there were the bruises around her neck and what I saw. I did what I thought was right at the time, my lord.”

  “I suppose America seemed like a safe place for her,” Daniel said. “And she knew me, where I lived, knew you trusted me. I suppose it seemed like a safe alternative. She wants us to be married, and given that she’s been under my roof without a chaperone for two nights, I think that is likely the best option.”

  From the corner of his eye, Daniel saw Mr. Avery flinch, but he kept his eyes on the other man. The viscount’s brows furrowed over his unusual golden-brown eyes, which seemed to look into his soul. “Is that what you want?”

  Daniel nodded. “It is. I think we will get on quite well. I find Lady Rose charming and I need a wife who can move well in society. New York and Washington will adore her.”

  “You know this from one conversation you had with her more than a month ago,” Granton said with skepticism.

  “Yes, my lord, I do.”

  Then Mr. Avery said something Daniel would never forget.

  “Then she is safe.”

  Granton looked at the head groom, then held out his hand. “I’m sorry about that punch, Mr. Avery.”

  Mr. Avery took his hand and the two men shook, staring directly into one another’s eyes.

  “I appreciate that you’ve tried to keep my sister safe, Charlie, but I don’t agree with the manner in which you accomplished the task. Even if she does marry Mr. Cartwright, her reputation will be ruined in England, though I can’t say that it will matter much. Thank you, Charlie. You may leave and carry on with your life here. I wish you well.”

  Mr. Avery looked taken aback, as if he hadn’t thought that one day he would have to leave Lady Rose behind. “I would like to say good-bye to Lady Rose if I might,” Mr. Avery said, and Daniel had to give the man credit; he sounded as if he didn’t care one way or the other, but Daniel suspected if he left without saying good-bye, a small bit of his heart just might die.

  “Of course,” Granton said. When Mr. Avery didn’t immediately move, the viscount said, “Now, if you please.”

  So this was it. Charlie would say good-bye and never see her again. Never hold her hand, never hear her voice. Never hold her or kiss her or make love to her. It felt a bit like a death, he thought, walking up to where she lay sleeping. She would never know she held his heart. Harry had been right—if Rose knew how he felt about her, it would no doubt embarrass her. She would pity him.

  The room was still dimly lit by the lamp, the heavy velvet curtain blocking nearly all the daylight. It was cold and damp outside, so there wasn’t much light at any rate. He didn’t want this vision of her to be his last. She was still so pale, still ill, though he knew she would recover when she opened her eyes at his approach and smiled.

  “Your brother is here, Marcus,” he said, and hurried to add, “He understands and is not angry. I’ll let him explain himself.”

  “How did he find me so quickly?” Rose asked.

  “I imagine when an earl demands information from a telegraph operator, that the information is given posthaste. I wondered the same thing, but then remembered you’d sent Mr. Cartwright a telegram right before we departed. I’ve no doubt your brother found this information out and knew precisely where you’d gone. Or at least had an idea of who you would be visiting.”

  Rose looked at his lips, now slightly swollen and still bleeding a bit. “I take it he was happy to see you?”

  Charlie chuckled. “It’s fine now. I let him know you are safe and I was doing what I could to help you.”

  “Did you tell him about Weston?”

  “Only that he hurt you. I think he understands.”

  Rose held out her hand and Charlie took it, willing himself to remember what it felt like in his. “Thank you, Charlie. You saved me twice.”

  “I would do so again, if need be,” Charlie said, realizing that was more than he should say, more than he needed to. But he wanted her to know, just a bit, how he felt. “But now, I am here to say good-bye, my lady.”

  She immediately frowned and tried to sit up, as if she, weak as a kitten still, could physically prevent him from leaving. “Can you not stay a bit longer? Until I am up and about? No doubt Marcus is here to bring me home, but it will be a few more days before I am well enough for such a trip.”

  “I’m sorry, my lady, but I must go. I have stayed here longer than I should have already. I am due to begin my job tomorrow and haven’t even seen my uncle’s home, nor found a place to live.”

  She looked downright crestfallen. “Then I shall never see you again?” she asked, her voice small, and damn it to hell, her eyes filled with tears. “What shall I do if I need someone to save me?” She tried for a tremulous smile.

  Charlie swallowed, refusing to allow his own tears to show. It wasn’t his place to tell Lady Rose she would not be returning home with her brother. She would find out soon enough. The truth was, he didn’t want to see her again; it would hurt too damn much, knowing she was marrying another, better, man. She would insist he visit if she knew they would be living in the same city. It was better to cut it clean. “I daresay one of your brothers will readily volunteer to come to your aid.”

  “Write to me and give me your address. Promise me you will write, Charlie.”

  He looked at her, knowing it was a promise he could not make. What husband would allow his wife to receive correspondence from a single man who was not her relation? A man who had readily admitted he was in love with that man’s future wife. “I’m not much of a letter writer, my lady.”

  She nodded, the motion causing a tear to slip down her cheek. “I shall miss you.”

  “The same.” Charlie tried for a smile that didn’t quite work. His throat hurt as if something hard and sharp were lodged there, and he knew if he didn’t leave immediately, he might not be able to hold back his emotions any longer.

  He stood, then bent and kissed her on her cheek, lingering far longer than he had a right to. Then he bowed and said, “Good-bye, my lady, and God speed.”

  Rose watched as Charlie left the room, fighting the urge to call him back, to beg him to . . . what? Return to England with her? Marry her? The daughter of an earl marrying a head groom? They would both be ridiculed by aristocrat and commoner alike. Besides, Charlie would never think of her as anything other than Lady Rose, and she couldn’t bear it if he fel
t he was less than she. And he would, right or wrong.

  He was at most a friend, and even that was unfitting of her station. Then why did her heart feel as though it was being wrenched from her body? Why didn’t the tears stop?

  “Rose, what’s wrong? Why are you weeping?”

  It was Marcus, looking worried and stern. He never had been able to take her tears, even when she was a little girl. He would do just about anything to stop them.

  “Are you feeling so ill then?”

  Rose managed to shake her head. She struggled to sit up and held out her arms, and her big brother readily embraced her. “Oh, sweetling, please don’t cry.” Rose couldn’t remember the last time she’d given Marcus a hug, for the two of them had not been particularly close. He was ten years her senior and he’d always seemed like a giant to her, apart from the rest of them, because of his position as heir.

  “Charlie just left,” she said, attempting to explain her tears.

  Marcus pulled back, his face etched with confusion. “You call our head groom by his given name, Rose?”

  “Goodness, you sound like Mother. I’ve always called him Charlie, ever since I was a little girl.”

  Marcus, ever proper, pressed his lips together. “I think it is entirely too familiar to call a male servant by his given name, Rose. And why would a servant’s departure produce tears at any rate?”

  Rose ducked her head and fiddled with her covers, not wanting her brother to see the blush that stained her pale cheeks. It wouldn’t do for Marcus to know how close she and Charlie had become these past few weeks. “I’m ill and upset and tired. I cry easily when all those factors combine,” she said, lying back down and turning her head away from her brother.

  “Very well,” he said, but she could hear the hesitation in his voice. He was no doubt appalled that she would shed tears over a mere servant and she wondered what he would say if she admitted how deep her feelings actually were for Charlie. She suspected she might love him; why else would she feel so bereft at the thought of never seeing him again?

  “I have some good news, Rose. I feared that once you ran away, you would be ruined should anyone discover your absence. Weston doesn’t know you went missing, but he is no longer in the picture. You’re to marry Cartwright.”

  Rose turned her head, too shocked to respond. Even though this was what she wanted, it still came as a surprise that Cartwright had already approached Marcus.

  “He has asked and I, as the only male family member present, have granted him permission.” Marcus looked at her, his eyes unwavering. “Is this what you want?”

  Suddenly, it seemed all wrong. Marry Mr. Cartwright when she was in love . . .

  Fresh tears fell from her eyes. “Yes, it is,” she said.

  “I cannot begin to know what you’ve been through, Rose. Weston will pay for hurting you.” When Rose’s eyes widened, Marcus hastened to say, “Mr. Avery told us why you ran away. Do not worry that he spoke out of turn. I requested that he report to me what he knew.”

  “Before or after you struck him?”

  Marcus smiled grimly. “After. I did apologize, but at the time I needed to strike the person I believed was responsible for harming my little sister.” He looked at her until she became uncomfortable under his scrutiny. “You don’t have . . . feelings for Mr. Avery. Do you?”

  “He is a good man and he has kept me safe. Other than that, I do not,” Rose said, feeling the lie like a pressure on her chest. How could she admit to any feelings toward Charlie when it was clear Marcus disapproved?

  “Good.” He looked troubled, as if he wanted to say something but was debating whether he should or not. Finally, he said, “Mr. Cartwright.” Just two words, filled with so much meaning.

  “I do believe he is the perfect husband for me,” Rose said. “I enjoy his company and I believe he enjoys mine. We shall get on nicely. You like him, don’t you, Marcus?”

  Marcus smiled. “I do. He’s an intelligent man with fine principles. But . . . I was a bit surprised when he asked for your hand. I’d heard he was a dedicated bachelor.”

  “I suppose I have charmed him away from bachelorhood,” Rose said. “Was Mother very upset?”

  “She was in hysterics when she read your telegram,” he said dryly. “I think she will be heartbroken not to have a duchess daughter, but I daresay she’ll get over it. It’s probably best that you stay here for a while after you marry Mr. Cartwright.”

  “I was thinking much the same,” Rose said. “I’m glad you came and not Father. I dislike it when he’s angry.”

  “As do I. I’ll stay until your wedding. If you’ll permit it, I can walk you down the aisle if Mother and Father decide not to make the trip. I’ll wire them with the news as soon as I can.” He shook his head. “Who would have thought it would be you who would create such a scandal. I always thought it would be Stephen.”

  Rose let out a small laugh. “I never thought I would do more than create a ripple of anger.”

  “I will let you rest, shall I?” He bent and kissed her forehead. “Mr. Cartwright said the doctor did not expect you to live. I am very glad he was mistaken.”

  Rose smiled, but her heart wrenched. Charlie had not given up on her. As sick as she’d been, she was aware of his constant presence, his stubborn attempts to get her to drink water, the cool cloths he would put on her forehead as she slept. Her throat closed painfully once her brother had left the room, and she allowed herself to cry a bit more. The only thought that made her feel a bit better was the realization that she was living in the same city as Charlie. Surely she would see him again.

  Chapter 13

  To really merit the name of a polite, finished gentleman, you must be polite at all times and under all circumstances.

  —From The Gentlemen’s Book of Etiquette, and Manual of Politeness

  Five years later

  Charlie Avery adjusted his sleeve, brushing a bit of lint from the fine light worsted wool, then checked the time on his new pocket watch, a costly affair of eighteen-karat gold with diamonds in place of the numerals three and nine. It was the kind of timepiece that had a man checking if he was running late even when he knew he was not. From the top of his well-groomed head to the tips of his brilliantly shined custom-made shoes, he reeked of money. A lot of money. His carriage, manufactured by the Studebaker Brothers, was created of the finest materials—silk curtains, glove-soft leather, and springs that made it seem as though the carriage were gliding down the streets. Charlie was a man of discerning tastes, so when it had come time to select a home in New York, he wanted it situated where men of wealth and power lived—Fifth Avenue.

  It hadn’t been intentional, his buying the house next to his former employer, but when his agent contacted him about a home that had recently become available, he decided to take a look even though he recognized the address. His home had been constructed in the Italianate style, with a white marble front, gleaming tall windows, and an entryway that bespoke the wealth of the people who lived within. It wasn’t gaudy, for Charlie was always careful not to appear too eager, but it was lovely and grand and everything a man who aspired to be respected wanted in a home.

  For two months, workers had renovated the inside, installing all the latest innovations in plumbing and lighting and heat. His home would not be warmed by individual fires but rather by a central heating system that used a large boiler in the basement. When winter arrived, his house would be the warmest in the city, and when he wanted a warm bath all he need do was turn a faucet.

  It was the home of a successful man, and Charlie felt a deep sense of satisfaction with all he had accomplished in the past five years.

  It had all started with a can of beets. Delmonico’s kitchen was well equipped, but its method of opening cans was frustratingly slow and difficult. And it had been Charlie’s job to open them. The restaurant’s clientele had come to expect peaches in December and peas in February. If their chef decided on peach cobbler for dessert that evening, it mea
nt opening dozens of cans. Can after can, until Charlie’s hands ached and he started longing for the days of shoveling horse manure.

  He had one day off a week, and on that day he started fiddling with an idea for an easier and more efficient design, and had a blacksmith friend create the prototype. The chef, Charles Ranhofer, back from a brief retirement, watched a demonstration and then kissed Charlie on both cheeks. The opener was mounted on a counter and a series of gears moved the can around as a blade opened it.

  Two years later, Charlie quit his job to work at the small manufacturing plant he’d built. He had four employees and was starting to accumulate more money than he had ever dreamed of having. And his brain kept working, kept creating, kept making money. He hired smart men who knew more about business than he did and he learned from them while they offered advice and dreamed bigger than he ever would have allowed himself to.

  Now, five years after he’d stepped ashore, here he was, wearing a suit that cost more than he used to make in a year, living in a house that rivaled anything the aristocracy had in England. Charlie Avery was Mr. Charles Avery and people called him sir. It was heady stuff.

  As the carriage moved along Broadway toward Fifth Avenue, Charlie allowed himself to think about his neighbor and the coincidence that the house next door to hers happened to go on sale when he was looking for a home. He wasn’t blind to the reasons why that particular bit of real estate seemed more appealing than every other home he’d looked at. Of course he still thought about her and he knew no matter what happened, a part of him would always love her. He knew it wouldn’t matter if he were the richest man in New York (which he was not). To her he was still Charlie Avery, head groom. And to him she would always be Lady Rose, unattainable and so far beyond his reach it was humiliating just remembering how he’d pined for her.

  And God above only knew just how much he’d pined for her. When he’d left her that day, still ill, he’d left a big piece of his heart behind. He’d been miserable and driven. All that mattered was trying to forget that she was marrying another, that she had chosen another. He tortured himself with that thought. She could have chosen him, and as preposterous as such a notion was, he couldn’t help but think they might have been happy. In all those years, he’d only seen her once, on her wedding day. The marriage had drawn quite a bit of attention, what with the bride being an English lady, the daughter of an earl, and the groom being uncommonly handsome, wealthy, and politically well connected. Charlie had simply been one of the crowd, a man whose eyes burned into her, who willed her to see him, to know how much he loved her. He’d told himself, if she saw him, she would realize how much she loved him and she would run down the steps of the church and throw herself into his arms. That didn’t happen, of course. She’d gone up those steps, looking so damned beautiful it hurt to look at her, and disappeared into the church.