He wished now that he’d rehearsed what he might say if she spotted him. His mind searched frantically for anything that might calm her, that might not push her to hate him even more than she already did. With nothing else in mind, he decided on the truth.
Taking a deep breath, he began, “I wanted to come and talk with you, but not like this. I simply wanted to see you… I needed to see you. But each time I thought to approach your dandy was in tow. When you were alone today, I followed you from your House.”
Her eyes widened in horror. “Dandy?” She raised a hand to her mouth. “You have been watching me? For how long?”
“Please, Princesse, listen to me.” He stepped forward and sure enough, as a broken moan tore from her lips, she lurched to escape past him. He couldn’t help himself, he grabbed hold of her shoulders. He’d wanted to touch her but not like this. Not to physically restrain her.
“Don’t call me that!” Wounded, she cried. “You promised me that you wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye! You promised me. And then after… After… Let go of me!” But she didn’t have a whole lot of strength to push him away. Chance hated that she trembled beneath his touch.
But he couldn’t release her yet. “Please. Please, just listen to me.” And then he couldn’t help himself as he stared into eyes. “You’re as beautiful as ever. Please, Aubrey, just let me explain.”
“After two years?” she choked on another sob—a harsh, indelicate sob. “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think? You have to let me go. If I ever meant anything to you, please just let me go now!”
What in the hell was he doing? He squeezed her shoulders in an effort to convey… what? If only he could make her understand with a touch.
“I will let you go—for now. But hear me out. I will be near. I just need to… see you. So much has happened. I couldn’t tell you before but everything has changed now.” He blinked as he realized the truth in his words. “I had reasons. And I need to tell them to you. And once I’ve done that, Princesse, I’ll leave you alone forever if that’s what you want. I promise.”
By now she had jerked free of him and suddenly looked wild-eyed and even a little frightened. “It’s too late! Stay away from me!”
“I will stay in town until we talk. I’ll never be far away. When you’re ready, I will be waiting.” He would take up residence at Chauncey House. It was only a few blocks away. Now that his presence in town was known, there was no reason for him to remain at Hyde Park Place.
“A duke!” she practically spat the word.
“Aubrey.” But she was not about to wait around a second longer. Lifting Lancelot into her arms, she turned and bolted back toward the street. He was certain she’d go home this time.
Chance ran a hand through his hair in frustration, only then realizing the mistake he’d made by not going after his damn hat.
At least her dog still liked him. That had to account for something. And then he smiled at the thought. She’d named him Lancelot.
Chapter 17
Chance
Chance lay in bed that night, replaying everything she’d said to him. Hollis had been right in the fact that she most definitely had not forgotten him. One did not run off and burst into tears if they felt nothing for the person they were running from. He encouraged himself by remembering that love and hate were two sides of the same coin.
Chance simply needed to flip the coin back over. And he could only do that by… that was the question.
She needed to become familiar with him again. She needed to trust that he wasn’t going to disappear for no reason.
The next morning, the same as he had the day before, he dressed and strolled through Mayfair until he took his place across from her townhouse again. When she exited, she turned her head around, located him, and promptly looked right past him and strode off in the opposite direction, a maid trailing her this time.
His initial thought was to follow her but reconsidered in order to allow her time to work through her temper. The street was oddly quiet after she’d gone, causing an emptiness to linger with the knowledge that she wasn’t nearby. Chance frowned as he contemplated a path and iron gate set neatly to the right of the house. The locking mechanism posed no problem for him, he’d have to speak with her about that later on. If he could break in, anyone could.
Careful not to make an abundance of noise, he slipped through the iron gates and followed the stone path leading around back. Although a few trees grew between her house and her neighbors, the garden was mostly dirt with some sparse patches of grass and randomly placed unkept shrubs. Two years ago, she had told him that she would plant a flower garden. Ah, yes, Old Harry Bloomington had considered flowers to be a waste.
Chance studied the space for a bit before removing a pencil and paper from his pocket and making a small drawing.
“Your Grace!” Mr. Carrington had emerged from inside and was standing on the back step. “Would you care to come inside for some…tea?” At that same time Lancelot came rushing out to greet him, tongue lolling out the left side of his mouth, eyes wide, however, and excited.
“Don’t mind if I do.” Chance brushed at his trousers, gave Lancelot a moment of attention and then made his way inside, the short-legged dog close on his heels. “I’m rather curious to see how matters have been progressing,” he added. Mr. Carrington had initially been his father’s butler, and after the previous duke passed away, become a loyal employee to Chance. Chance had given the experienced butler a healthy raise when he’d asked him to go to work for Aubrey Bloomington. He’d known that Mr. Carrington, a consummate professional, would watch out for her. Assure not only her safety but her standing.
“My condolences on the passing of Her Grace,” Carrington offered as he led Chance into his own personal office. The brandy he poured for both of them would be from his own supply.
Chance had not given the older man a very detailed explanation when he’d arrived in London two years ago, after sneaking out on Aubrey. He’d simply told him that Mrs. Bloomington would need to believe all of the improvements were a part of her inheritance and to be certain she was not taken advantage of by any cheats, nor that she was left to her own devices for overly long.
Mr. Carrington had not once asked him why but had instead suggested a few Mayfair ladies of whom Chance might turn to for help in order to prevent the latter. Chance had barely had time to make a visit to his mother’s acquaintances before he’d had to depart for Margate.
“She is doing well?” Chance dropped into the wooden chair that sat across from the butler’s desk. It was not a question, really. But Chance wanted to hear some of the details of her life now that he’d seen her again.
The butler furrowed his brows. “She is, Your Grace.”
At the butler’s sudden reticence, Chance realized he was putting the gentleman between a rock and a hard place. Of course, the man would not wish to divulge too much information about his current employer, about Aubrey, but at the same time, it was Chance who paid the greater portion of his salary.
“I won’t ask you to reveal anything I cannot discover for myself, by asking around town. Is she… attached to anyone?” Chance needed to know this. Perhaps if she was, then he could walk away. Forget all that they shared.
“She hosts monthly salons. Political discussions, poetry readings, musicales on occasion. Last year she met Mister Richard Cline. He was—is—a poet. She has come to depend upon him greatly. She seems quite comfortable with the gentleman and I believe they will make an announcement soon.”
Chance’s heart skipped a beat.
“Is he worthy of her?” The thought of this dandy… Richard Cline… Dandy Dick, touching her…
His gut churned. It was not too late. It could not be. Gesturing toward a stack of foolscap, a pen and inkwell, he asked. “May I?”
Carrington nodded and after a few minutes Chance was blowing on the paper and then folding it in half. “You will place this in her room?”
Carrington
pinched his lips together, but then nodded. “I will make sure she gets it, Your Grace.”
All Chance could do was nod to himself. He needed her to trust him. She needed to accept that his intentions were honorable this time. He was here for her and only her.
You’re going to have to talk with me if you ever want to get rid of me, he’d written, and then he’d signed it Chance, and given her his house number and street. It would not be overly exceptional for her to make a visit to Chauncey House. She was a widow, and he a widower now. But would she?
At least she could find him now. When she was ready.
He knew her. She was not one to play games. In all the time they’d been together, she’d not once presented herself falsely or pretended ennui. She’d been up front as to her feelings. She’d given herself to him expecting nothing in return, and she’d believed she could live with such a bargain.
Chance had known even then that she needed more. He’d also recognized love in her eyes, a love that had matched his own, a love he’d ultimately been unable to deny himself.
She was a woman who would not give herself easily but when she did, she’d done so wholeheartedly.
That had been the problem for him all along. He’d not want to accept her love knowing he would not be free to care for her, to cherish her, to love her, as she deserved.
But that was no longer the case.
And if she had once loved him, she would eventually talk with him. She had to.
“And Carrington?” Chance rose, feeling resigned to patience he did not feel.
“Yes?”
“If you believe she is… happy… with this poetry fellow, this dandy. You will let me know?”
The dignified retainer nodded solemnly. “Of course, Your Grace.”
Chance exhaled a deep breath. He supposed he was going to have to make his presence in London official now. Now that she knew he was here, now that she knew who he was, he no longer had any reason to hide.
“Are you the new gardener, sir?” A woman’s voice called to him from across the street as he exited to the sidewalk. Chance squinted his eyes as he could mostly only see her silhouette. Even wearing a loose fitting, high waisted gown, her silhouette revealed a voluptuous hourglass shape
“Just a friend.” He answered, dismissing her and wondering if Aubrey might even consider him a friend at this point.
His life would be so much easier if another woman could capture his interest, sexually, intellectually—anything.
Unfortunately, Aubrey, his Princesse, was his everything.
He doubted that would be changing anytime soon.
* * *
Chance’s household had apparently gotten wind of his arrival, for when he stepped inside, everything was freshly shined and servants who had not once met Hannah, the recently deceased duchess, had covered the windows with black crepe. The male servants wore black armbands while the maids had black ribbons attached to their caps.
Chance would have to send for Mr. Edwards, his valet, who had been fuming silently at Hyde Park Place. Since arriving in London, Chance had disallowed his man’s attentions in lieu of wearing working class garb.
The Season, however, was about to commence and Chance could expect the salver in the hallway to pile up with invitations soon enough. Mr. Edwards could have his way then.
The thought gave him pause. It was possible that he could discover which invitations Aubrey accepted and be certain to attend those as well. Under such circumstances, he would appear as a respectable gentleman of the ton. He would insert himself into her life again.
“Welcome home, Your Grace,” It took Chance a moment to recognize the young man who’d taken over for Carrington. “Drake?” He asked.
“Indeed sir. We’ve been expecting you.”
Chance shook his head. He’d obviously not been as surreptitious as he’d thought he’d been. It seemed all the world had been aware of his whereabouts while he’d been slinking about Mayfair in disguise. He shrugged and climbed the staircase to his chamber. Hollis had kept him awake most nights and suddenly Chance felt as though he hadn’t slept in ages.
He’d been desperate to convince her.
But for now, he must be patient.
* * *
The next morning Chance made a few stops before going to Aubrey’s, and rather than wait outside, he went right around back. When the deliveries he’d ordered began arriving, he was already hard at work turning soil and chopping down the shrubs that had died. She wanted a flower garden, he’d give her the best damned flower garden money could buy.
The man who regularly tended his own grounds at Chauncey House had been most helpful, noting that Chance could prune the garden’s there and at the same time use many of the cuttings to populate Mrs. Bloomington’s. He’d sent over Lilacs, Gooseberry bushes and Quickset Hedges first. Tomorrow chance would plant flowers around the larger plants. Chance couldn’t remember all the names but had insisted on lots of cornflowers and daisies.
They reminded him of her.
He’d also ordered a fair bit of building supplies, remembering that she’d mentioned a hothouse. He’d have it outfitted with a workbench and every tool she could possibly need to propagate cuttings and cultivate bulbs. Orchids, he’d heard, required a great deal of attention and a controlled environment.
She wanted flowers; he’d damn well provide them for her.
Four weeks later, however, both his enthusiasm and his patience were waning.
Despite turning the grounds behind her house into the beginnings of a botanical paradise, she had yet to even acknowledge him. But she had seen him. He knew this because on more than one instance he’d caught her peeking out a window.
Of course, she never acknowledged him on these occasions. She’d avert her gaze and quickly drop the drapes.
And although he found a certain comfort being close to her, it was becoming quite apparent that he was going to have to take more proactive measures. While trying to come up with a plan, he most fortuitously found himself presented with the perfect opportunity one evening while sitting in Whites.
Chance initially did not recognize the man sitting across from him writing fervently in a small leather journal. But upon taking a second glance, there was no mistake. Dressed more conservatively on this occasion, the man most definitely was the one who had access to the woman that by all rights, ought to be Chance’s.
“Cline, is it?” Chance leaned forward, arms draped across his knees.
When the blighter glanced up Chance was able to get an even better look at him. Sure enough, weak chin, dull brown hair that was already receding and would be gone entirely within three years, and fake padding obviously sewn into his coat atop his shoulders and likely into the calves of his breeches as well.
What on earth was his princesse thinking?
“Aubrey, Aubrey, Aubrey,” he whispered beneath his breath.
“Excuse me?” The dandy stared at him questioningly.
Chance leaned forward. “Chauncey,” he offered a hand.
Dandy Dick sat down his writings and licked his lips. “Your Grace? My pleasure, my pleasure. Richard Cline at your service, Literary Expert and patron of the arts. How did you know my name, do you mind my asking?”
Chance smiled to himself. “You write Poetry, don’t you? I believe I heard talk of your work over cards last week.”
The man who’d managed to insert himself into Aubrey’s life smiled, easily accepting that such talk could only be of a flattering nature. “Have you read any of it? Several of my published works are displayed at a few of the local booksellers.”
Chance would jump on just such an opportunity. “Ah, but it’s always better to hear poetry read by the author, himself.”
The man frowned but after a moment lit up. “Have you heard of Mrs. Ambrosia Bloomington? I host readings at her residence monthly. They are quite the thing these days and your presence would be most welcome, I’m sure.”
Why did Richard Cline not host his
readings at his own residence? Was he not flush enough to keep one in Mayfair? Last Chance knew, poetry wasn’t an especially lucrative undertaking.
Chance frowned. “Mrs. Bloomington, you say? I make it a point to avoid socializing with old crones, if you take my meaning.” Chance waggled his eyebrows.
“Oh, but Ambrosia, Mrs. Bloomington, that is, is nothing of the sort. Lovely young widow. In fact, she and I have an unofficial agreement. We’re to wed at season’s end, after she’s acquired my mother’s approval, of course. I understand, Your Grace, that you’ve been absent from London as of late. A salon hosted by Ambrosia Bloomington is considered to be incomparable.”
“Lovely, you say? And might this patroness of the arts be wealthy, as well?” Chance could not believe Aubrey had allowed herself to become involved with such a dandified fraud.
Mr. Cline frowned and then shook his head most emphatically. More emphatic, Chance surmised, than necessary. “Oh, but I wouldn’t know about that.”
Chance had had quite enough. “I’d be more than happy to take you up on your invitation. Where is this most incomparable lady’s home and when is the next reading?”
“You’re in luck, Your Grace. Tomorrow night. Set to begin at nine in the evening. We’d be honored for you to join us.”
Chance chuckled softly. An invite from Dandy Dick, himself.
He was done waiting. She’d have to speak with him tomorrow night. She wouldn’t make a scene. Chance knew her too well. She would be gracious, even if she did not feel graciously toward him.
Chapter 18
Chance
Mr. Edwards was at last allowed the opportunity to dress his most difficult employer to the nines.
Chance stared at himself in the mirror and scowled.
Exquisitely pressed with his cravat expertly tied, Chance stared at the Gold embroidered waistcoat, tightly fitted black jacket and turned to inspect the tight fitting but somehow elegant trousers. Although Chance’s linen shirt had a flounce where it buttoned, he drew the line at lace about his wrists.
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