by Rose Pearson
“I still have to sign and return the papers,” he reminded Lord Dryden, who made a noise in the back of his throat before shrugging. “You do not think there will be any difficulty there, I presume?”
“Of course there will not be any difficulty,” Lord Dryden retorted with a roll of his eyes. “Lady Augusta is very pleasing, indeed. I am sure you will have no particular difficulty with her.”
Stephen opened his mouth to respond, only to see someone begin to approach him. His heart quickened in his chest as he looked at them a little more carefully, seeing Lord Elmsworth approaching and, with him, a young lady wearing a primrose yellow gown. She had an elegant and slender figure and was walking in a most demure fashion, with eyes that lingered somewhere near his knees rather than looking up into people’s faces. Her dark brown hair was pulled away from her face, with one or two small ringlets tumbling down near her temples, so as to soften the severity of it. When she dared a glance at him, he was certain he caught a hint of emerald green in her eyes. Almost immediately, her gaze returned to the floor as she dropped into a curtsy, Lord Elmsworth only a step or two in front of her.
“Lord Pendleton!” Lord Elmsworth exclaimed, shaking Stephen’s hand with great enthusiasm. “Might I present my daughter, Lady Augusta.” He beamed at his daughter, who was only just rising from what had been a perfect curtsy.
“Good evening, Lady Augusta,” Stephen said, bowing before her. “I presume your father has already made quite plain who I am?” He looked keenly into her face, and when she lifted her eyes to his, he felt something strike at his heart.
It was not warmth, however, nor a joy that she was quietly beautiful. It did not chime with happiness or contentment but rather with a warning. A warning that Lady Augusta was not as pleased with this arrangement as he. A warning that he might come to trouble if he continued as had been decided. She was looking at him with a hardness in her gaze that hit him hard. There was a coldness, a reserve in her expression, that he could not escape. Clearly, Lady Augusta was not at all contented with the arrangement her father had made for her, which, in turn, did not bode well for him.
“Yes,” Lady Augusta said after a moment or two, her voice just as icy as her expression. “Yes, my father has informed of who you are, Lord Pendleton.” She looked away, her chin lifted, clearly finding there to be no desire otherwise to say anything more.
Stephen cleared his throat, glancing towards Lord Dryden, who was, to his surprise, not watching Lady Augusta as he had expected, but rather had his attention focused solely on Lord Elmsworth. There was a dark frown on his face; his eyes narrowed just a little and a clear dislike began to ripple across his expression. What was it that Lord Dryden could see that Stephen himself could not?
“Might I introduce Viscount Dryden?” he said quickly, before he could fail in his duties. “Viscount Dryden, this is the Earl of Elmsworth and his daughter—”
“We are already acquainted,” Lord Dryden interrupted, bowing low before lifting his head, looking nowhere but at Lady Augusta. “It is very pleasant to see you again, Lady Augusta. I hope you are enjoying the start of the little Season.”
Something in her expression softened, and Stephen saw Lady Augusta’s mouth curve into a gentle smile. She answered Lord Dryden politely and Stephen soon found himself growing a little embarrassed at the easy flow of conversation between his friend and his betrothed. There was not that ease of manner within himself, he realized, dropping his head just a little so as to regain his sense of composure.
“Perhaps I might excuse myself for a short time,” Lord Elmsworth interrupted before Lord Dryden could ask Lady Augusta another question. “Lady Elmsworth is standing but a short distance away and will be watching my daughter closely.”
Stephen glanced to his right and saw an older lady looking directly at him, her sense of haughtiness rushing towards him like a gust of wind. There was no contentment in her eyes, but equally, there was no dislike either. Rather, there was the simple expectation that this was how things were to be done and that they ought to continue without delay.
“But of course, Lord Elmsworth,” Stephen said quickly, bowing slightly. “I should like to sign your daughter’s dance card, if I may?”
“I think,” came Lady Augusta’s voice, sharp and brittle, “then if that is the case, you ought to be asking the lady herself whether or not she has any space remaining on her card for you to do such a thing, Lord Pendleton.”
There came an immediate flush of embarrassment onto Stephen’s face, and he cleared his throat whilst Lord Elmsworth sent a hard glance towards his daughter, which she ignored completely. Only Lord Dryden chuckled, the sound breaking the tension and shattering it into a thousand pieces as Stephen looked away.
“You are quite correct to state such a thing, Lady Augusta,” Lord Dryden said, easily. “You must forgive my friend. I believe he was a little apprehensive about this meeting and perhaps has forgotten quite how things are done.”
Stephen’s smile was taut, but he forced it to his lips regardless. “But of course, Lady Augusta,” he said tightly. “Might you inform me whether or not you have any spaces on your dance card that I might then be able to take from you?” He bowed his head and waited for her to respond, seeing Lord Elmsworth move away from them all without waiting to see what his daughter would say.
“I thank you for your kind consideration in requesting such a thing from me,” Lady Augusta answered, a little too saucily for his liking. “Yes, I believe I do have a few spaces, Lord Pendleton. Please, choose whichever you like.” She handed him her dance card and then pulled her hand back, the ribbon sliding from her wrist as he looked down at it. She turned her head away as if she did not want to see where he wrote his name, and this, in itself, sent a flurry of anger down Stephen’s spine. What was wrong with this young lady? Was she not glad that she was now betrothed, that she would soon have a husband and become mistress of his estate?
For a moment, he wondered if he had made a mistake in agreeing to this betrothal, feeling a swell of relief in his chest that he had not yet signed the agreement, only for Lord Dryden to give him a tiny nudge, making him realize he had not yet written his name down on the dance card but was, in fact, simply staring at it as though it might provide him with all the answers he required.
“The country dance, mayhap,” he said, a little more loudly than he had intended. “Would that satisfy you, Lady Augusta?”
She turned her head and gave him a cool look, no smile gracing her lips. “But of course,” she said with more sweetness than he had expected. “I would be glad to dance with you, Lord Pendleton. The country dance sounds quite wonderful.”
He frowned, holding her gaze for a moment longer before dropping his eyes back to her dance card again and writing his name there. Handing it back to her, he waited for her to smile, to acknowledge what he had given her, only for her to sniff, bob a curtsy and turn away. Stephen’s jaw worked furiously, but he remained standing steadfastly watching after her, refusing to allow himself to chase after her and demand to know what she meant by such behavior. Instead, he kept his head lifted and his eyes fixed, thinking to himself that he had, most likely, made a mistake.
“I would ascertain from her behavior that this betrothal has come as something of a shock,” Lord Dryden murmured, coming closer to Stephen and looking after Lady Augusta with interest. “She was less than pleased to be introduced to you, that is for certain!”
Stephen blew out his frustration in a long breath, turning his eyes away from Lady Augusta and looking at his friend. “I think I have made a mistake,” he said gruffly. “That young lady will not do at all! She is—”
“She is overcome,” Lord Dryden interrupted, holding up one hand to stem the protest from Stephen’s lips. “As I have said, I think this has been something of a shock to her. You may recall that I said I am acquainted with Lady Augusta already and I know that how she presented herself this evening is not her usual character.”
Stephen shook
his head, his lips twisting as he considered what he was to do. “I am not certain that I have made the wisest decision,” he said softly. “Obviously, I require a wife and that does mean that I shall have to select someone from amongst the ton, but—”
“Lady Augusta is quite suitable,” Lord Dryden interrupted firmly. “And, if you were quite honest with yourself, Lord Pendleton, I think you would find that such an arrangement suits you very well. After all—” He gestured to the other guests around him. “You are not at all inclined to go out amongst the ton and find a lady of your choosing, are you?”
Stephen sighed heavily and shot Lord Dryden a wry look. “That is true enough, I suppose.”
“Then trust me when I say that Lady Augusta is more than suitable for you,” Lord Dryden said again, with such fervor that Stephen felt as though he had no other choice to believe him. “Sign the betrothal agreement and know that Lady Augusta will not be as cold towards you in your marriage as she has been this evening.” He chuckled and slapped Stephen on the shoulder. “May I be the first to offer you my congratulations.”
Smiling a little wryly, Stephen found himself nodding. “Very well,” he told Lord Dryden. “I accept your congratulations with every intention of signing the betrothal agreement when I return home this evening.”
“Capital!” Lord Dryden boomed, looking quite satisfied with himself. “Then I look forward to attending your wedding in the knowledge that it was I who brought it about.” He chuckled and then, spotting a young lady coming towards him quickly excused himself. Stephen smiled as he saw Lord Dryden offer his arm to the young lady and then step out on to the floor. His friend was correct. Lady Augusta was, perhaps, a little overwhelmed with all that had occurred and simply was not yet open to the fact that she would soon be his wife. In time, she would come to be quite happy with him and their life together; he was sure of it. He had to thrust his worries aside and accept his decisions for what they were.
“I shall sign it the moment I return home,” he said aloud to himself as though confirming this was precisely what he intended to do. With a small sigh of relief at his decision, he lifted his chin and set his shoulders. Within the week, everyone would know of his betrothal to Lady Augusta and that, he decided, brought him a good deal of satisfaction.
His quill hovered over the line for just a moment but, with a clenching of his jaw, Stephen signed his name on the agreement. His breath shot out of him with great fury, leaving him swallowing hard, realizing what he had done. It was now finalized. He would marry Lady Augusta, and the banns would have to be called very soon, given her father wanted her wed before the end of the little Season. Letting out his breath slowly, he rolled up the papers and began to prepare his seal, only for there to come a hurried knock at the door. He did not even manage to call out for his servant to enter, for the butler rushed in before he could open his mouth.
“Do forgive me, my lord,” the butler exclaimed, breathing hard from his clear eagerness to reach Stephen in time. “This came from your brother’s estate with a most urgent request that you read it at once.”
Startled, his stomach twisting one way and then the other, Stephen took the note from the butler’s hand and opened it, noting that there was no print on the seal. His heart began to pound as he read the news held within.
“My brother is dead,” he whispered, one hand gripping onto the edge of his desk for support. “He...he was shot in a duel and died on the field.” Closing his eyes, Stephen let the news wash over him, feeling all manner of strong emotions as he fought to understand what had occurred. His brother had passed away, then, lost to the grave, and out of nothing more than his foolishness. To have been fighting in a duel meant that Leicestershire had done something of the most grievous nature—whether it had been stealing another man’s wife or taking affections from some unfortunate young lady without any intention of pursuing the matter further.
Running one hand over his face, Stephen felt the weight of his grief come to settle on his heart, his whole body seeming to ache with a pain he had only experienced once before when their dear father had passed away. His throat constricted as he thought of his mother. He would have to go to her at once, to comfort her in the midst of her sorrow. Yes, his brother had packed her off to the Dower House long before she was due to reside there, and yes, there had been some difficulties between them, but Stephen knew that she had loved her eldest son and would mourn the loss of him greatly.
A groan came from his lips as he lifted his head and tried to focus on his butler. His vision was blurry, his head feeling heavy and painful.
“Ready my carriage at once,” he rasped, “and have my things sent after me. I must return to my brother’s estate.”
The butler bowed. “At once,” he said, his concern clear in his wide-eyed expression. “I beg your pardon for my intrusion, my lord, but is Lord Leicestershire quite well?”
Stephen looked at his faithful butler, knowing that the man had worked for the family for many years in keeping the townhouse in London readied for them and understood that his concern was genuine. “My brother is dead,” he said hoarsely as the butler gasped in horror. “I have lost him. He is gone, and I shall never see him again.”
Chapter Two
Six months later
Augusta rolled her eyes as her mother brought out the primrose yellow dress that she had worn at the start of the little Season some six months ago. She sighed as her mother spread it out with one hand, a look in her eye that told Augusta she was not about to escape this easily.
“That gown was for the winter, Mama,” she said, calmly. “I cannot wear it again now that the sun is shining and the air is so very warm.” She gestured to it with a look of what she hoped was sadness on her face. “Besides, it is not quite up to the fashion for this current Season.”
Her mother tutted. “Nonsense, Augusta,” she said briskly. “There is very little need for you to purchase new gowns when you are to have a trousseau. Your betrothed has, as you know, recently lost his brother and as such, will need to find some happiness in all that he does. I must hope that your presence will bring him a little joy in his sorrow and, in wearing the very same gown as you were first introduced to him in, I am certain that Lord Pendleton—I mean, Lord Leicestershire—will be very happy to see you again.”
Augusta said nothing, silently disagreeing with her mother and having no desire whatsoever to greet her betrothed again, whether in her primrose yellow gown or another gown entirely. She had felt compassion and sympathy for his loss, yes, but she had silently reveled in her newfound freedom. Indeed, given their betrothal had not yet been confirmed and given the ton knew nothing of it, Augusta had spent the rest of the little Season enjoying herself, silently ignoring the knowledge that within the next few months, she would have to let everyone in the ton know of her engagement.
But not yet, it seemed. She had spoken to her father, and he had confirmed that the papers had not been returned by Lord Leicestershire but had urged her not to lose hope, stating that he had every reason to expect the gentleman to do just as he had promised but that he was permitting him to have some time to work through his grief before pressing him about the arrangement.
And when news had been brought that the new Marquess of Leicestershire had come to London for the Season, her father had taken it as confirmation that all was just as it ought to be. He was quite contented with the situation as things stood, silently certain that when Lord Leicestershire was ready, he would approach the Earl himself or speak directly to Augusta.
“I will not wear that gown, Mama,” Augusta said frostily. “I am well aware of what you hope for but I cannot agree. That gown is not at all suitable for Lord Stonington’s ball! I must find something that is quite beautiful, Mama.” She saw her mother frown and tried quickly to come up with some reason for her to agree to such a change. “I know your intentions are good,” she continued, swiftly, “but Lord Leicestershire will be glad to see me again no matter what I am wearing; I am sure of
it. And, Mama, if I wear the primrose yellow gown, might it not remind him of the night that he was told of his brother’s death?” She let her voice drop low, her eyes lowering dramatically. “The night when he had no other choice but to run from London so that he might comfort his mother and tidy up the ruin his brother left behind.”
“Augusta!” Lady Elmsworth’s voice was sharp. “Do not speak in such a callous manner!”
Augusta, who was nothing if not practical, looked at her mother askance. “I do not consider speaking the truth plainly to be callous, Mama,” she said quite calmly. “After all, it is not as though Lord Leicestershire’s brother was anything other than a scoundrel.” She shrugged, turning away from her mother and ignoring the horrified look on her face. “Everyone in London is well aware what occurred.”
She herself had been unable to escape the gossip and, to her shame, had listened to it eagerly at times. The late Lord Leicestershire had lost his life in a duel that had not gone well for him. He had taken a young lady of quality and attempted to steal kisses—and perhaps more—from her, only to be discovered by the young lady’s brother, who was a viscount of some description. Despite the fact that such duels were frowned upon, one had taken place and the gentleman who had done such a dreadful thing to a young lady of society had paid the ultimate price for his actions. A part of her did feel very sorry indeed for the newly titled Lord Leicestershire, knowing that he must have had to endure a good deal of struggle, difficulty and pain in realizing not only what his brother had done but in taking on all the responsibilities that now came with his new title.
