by Stacy Reid
By the by, have you found your wife?
A Curious Lady.
…
Dear Curious Lady,
I confess I am not certain if that kind of love is real, having never experienced it myself. I’ve heard many poets, giggling young ladies, and blushing gentlemen describe it as something akin to heart palpitations, sweaty palms, restless nights, and nameless hunger. I have no desire to endure such unpleasantness, symptomatic of a wasting sickness and a collective delusion.
That being said, I love my family. But when I think of them, my father, brother, and sister, my heart does not race, nor do my palms sweat. I simply know they are of important and I will sacrifice much to make them happy. And perhaps that is the way to measure if love is real.
I hope my reply will bring some measure of relief to the heaviness in your heart.
By the by, I’ve not selected a wife as yet.
Sincerely, A Gentleman of Distinction and Wealth.
“She did not write to me because she is interested in being my wife, Father,” Hugh signed.
The old earl huffed. “I read her audacious letters to you. This is not a young woman who observes the proprieties…or would be faithful to them.”
Ah…faith. Loyalty. Characteristics very important to his father after the storm that had presented in his life in the form of his young countess. After she had wrecked them, she had departed their life without any hesitation. Though he had been ten when she left, he still recalled the tears that had coursed down his father’s cheeks as he had sat on Hugh’s bed to tell him she was truly never coming back.
Of course, he should never marry a woman like his mother…not one who was bright, vivacious, beautiful, nor one who would thumb her nose at society…nor one who was a nonconformist.
At his lack of reply, his father frowned and gripped his cane. “She is a blithe spirit, and that will never do in any lady who is to be your wife.”
Hugh moved his fingers. “I can admire her without being covetous.”
His father scoffed. “You think her improper spirit admirable?”
Hugh hadn’t thought of her as a candidate despite the way she had arrested his attention. He was fully aware the woman who was to be his future countess was simply the embodiment of a wish from someone who commanded his filial love and respect. The expectations and heartfelt hopes from the old earl were that Hugh would marry a genteel, privileged lady without a hint of scandal to her name—a proper lady who would be the very opposite of his fickle and flamboyant mother.
“Let us return to the main house. It grows cold.”
His father knew he avoided speaking of his mysterious lady writer. With an irritable grunt, his father walked ahead to the waiting carriage, every step communicating his anger and perhaps anxiety.
He picked up a stone and tossed it so it landed a few feet in front of his father.
The old earl stopped and slowly turned around.
“I assure you there is nothing to worry about.”
His father nodded then plodded on with more vigor, as if a burden had been lifted from his bony shoulders. It pained Hugh to see him like that, a shadow of his former self, who valiantly clung to life with the ferocity of a lion.
It took several minutes before he reached the main house. His father went to his favorite gardens while Hugh made his way down the long hallway to the library.
“Milord,” Mrs. Bateman, his housekeeper said, hurrying toward him, a large set of keys jangling in her hands. “This letter arrived for you earlier.”
Hugh was unsure why his heart had started pounding. A part of him had still expected to receive a letter from her, though she had promised the last one to be her final correspondence. He took the letter and went to the library, where he lowered himself into the sofa closest to the fire.
Dear A Gentleman of Distinction and Wealth,
Will you marry me?
Hugh’s breath wheezed from his body as if he had been drowning and had just been let up for air. It shocked him to see the paper shaking in his grip. You made me tremble…with four little words. Good God, what was this?
Taking a deep, steadying breath, he read the rest of her letter.
I must have shocked you with those words, and I know, because I have alarmed even myself. Upon my honor, I must tell you I have been compromised, and I am considered irrevocably ruined, and only a marriage will render me respectable.
In my darkest moments of despair, my thoughts turned to you, and I’ve been re-reading the letters we exchanged. You are in need of a wife, and I am in need of a husband. This to me now seems like a most suitable match.
I dare to hope that since you’ve not taken a wife as yet, those who have responded to your advert have not appealed to your plans. I dare to hope this because I would like to offer my hand to you in marriage.
I have the distinction of being a lady who has been well schooled in the etiquettes of society. I am nineteen years of age and the daughter of a duke with a dowry of fifty thousand pounds. I cannot own to my complete identity or the full of my situation until a bargain has been struck. If you are amiable to our union, please respond immediately.
A Curious Lady.
Hugh read her letter three times before he made his way over to his desk and withdrew a sheaf of paper. He lowered himself into the wingback chair, picked up the quill, and dipped into the ink.
Dear A Curious Lady,
Hugh glanced through the windows to the garden where his father sat, his face tilted to the skyline as he watched the receding sun. His father suddenly appeared alerted, and he surged to his feet, staring toward the wide gravel line driveway leading to their stately home.
His father would hate for him to take a wife such as A Curious Lady. The very fact she was compromised spoke to the wild, passionate nature his father feared. Was it that she had been caught kissing another? Or had she driven out with a gentleman alone? Was she caught up in gossip not of her own choosing?
A hint of desperation, of sorrow perhaps, had resounded in her words, and instinct warned him it could be more serious. However, given the capricious and fickle nature of the ton, the chit could be ruined for something as simple as a rake asking her to dance.
But you are brave, aren’t you? Instead of caving to their demands, here you are being wilful and intrepid, taking your future into your own keeping. Reckless. Yet powerful. A thing denied to young ladies who were nineteen.
A never-felt hunger crawled through his heart.
What did you do…or what has been done to you?
For his father’s sake…he must deny her. A fierce swell of an intangible feeling swept through Hugh. Everything inside rebelled at the notion, yet he could not dishonour or bring pain to his father in his last days. He dipped the quill once more in the inkwell and set the point onto the paper.
I am truly sorry circumstances have forced you to ask me this question. I must regrettably—
A sharp rap on the door had him pausing. He rang the bell on his desk once, and the sharp tinkling sound pealed through the room. Their butler, a man as old as his father, shuffled inside.
“There is a carriage coming up the driveway, master Hugh.”
He lowered the quill. “At this hour?”
No one called at the castle this late, unless they had been invited to stay overnight. “Is it William?” His brother had been away for almost three years and should return home at any moment to see the old earl.
“I do not recognize the crest. I believe it was deliberately covered.”
Considerably curious, Hugh pushed back his chair and made his way from the study down the prodigious hallway to the front door. He was not surprised to see his father there, leaning on his cane, a scowl on his face.
“If it is that Lady widow, you will turn her away. I’ll not tolerate her antics,” the old earl muttered crossly.
To the old earl’s frustration, the widowed viscountess, a most recent neighbour, seemed to have taken a liking to him. She had paid calls upon them at odd hours and had sent several invitations for them to dine at her manor despite all of them being refused. She had caused his father to mutter most aggrievedly at her lack of propriety and disregard for the rules of etiquette and basic manners. She had been firmly categorized as one of those improper sorts who should be avoided. At all cost.
Allowing his father to precede him, they went outside as the carriage drew up in the forecourt. Loaded to the carriage was several valises, hat boxes, and portmanteaus.
The single coachman hopped from his high seat and knocked the carriage steps down. A plump girl in a dark blue serviceable dress came out, turned around, and lifted her hand to assist someone else.
Another young lady stepped from the carriage to the first rung of the knocked-down steps. She wore red. A vibrant coat with the hood pulled over her head cast her face in shadows. He could not discern her shape through the bulk of the coat, nor could he see her features. She glanced around the forecourt, the rolling lawns, and then to one of the most modern castles in this area. Then she glanced at where he stood with his father. She took a few steps to him and then faltered into remarkable stillness. The manner in which she held herself marked her as a lady of refinement and quality. Yet he saw no husband with her or chaperone. The lady beside her was evidently a maidservant, and the carriage only had the one coachman and a tiger.
“I do not believe this to be the widow. She is without her damned cats,” the old earl groused. “Who is that young lady?”
Her. Something indefinable darted through Hugh’s heart. Somehow, he knew it without ever having seen his Curious Lady. The very idea seemed improbable, yet he took a step forward before ruthlessly willing himself to stop.
His father shot him an alarmed glance then back at the lady in red. She lifted her hand to the coat and removed the hood. A flash of heat seared through Hugh’s entire body, and it took immense will to master his reaction. His visceral response was a warning shot across the bow, one that he would heed. Never in all his twenty-five years had his heart jerked at the pretty sight of a lady’s face.
He shook his head, yet his heart pounded an alarming beat.
“You do know,” the earl said accusingly.
Hugh lifted a hand. “Father—”
“No! No! You must send her back, my boy. She will not do!”
His father turned away and used his cane to hobble down the path leading him back to the side garden he had faithfully tended over the years.
The young lady who had taken a few more steps halted, staring at his father’s retreating figure. Her gaze swung back to his, and Hugh felt a rush of confusion at the rapid warmth spreading through his entire body. Her expression held a fierce mix of vulnerability, hope, and pride. And her eyes were the largest and prettiest he’d ever seen. “Brown,” such a bland and uninspiring word did not give her fine eyes the grace they deserved.
Her lovely golden-brown eyes were set under delicately arched brows, and her generous mouth seemed to be made for smiling and perhaps kissing. The set of her chin hinted at her stubborn streak and unique strength. Her hair, a light brown with beautiful golden streaks, was piled atop her head. She took a couple more halting steps, and the quill unfurled in his mind and scrawled across the paper as he composed the reply everything in him had wanted to say.
Dear My Curious Lady,
I cannot explain my reasoning or feelings, for I do not understand them. In truth they flow through my fingers with the intangibility of grasping water or forcing it to flow upstream. Yes…I will marry you. Please, come to me.
By the by, I, too, have the most alarming secret. In truth…we shall make that three little secrets.
Sincerely, Hugh Winthrop.
Chapter Three
Dearest Richard,
By the time you’ve received this letter, I will be long gone. I’ve entrusted my maid Sarah to see it reaches you only after I’ve safely crossed the border into the Highlands. I cannot tell you to where I’ve traveled, only know I did it to spare you and Mother my shame and to spare myself Father’s disappointment and wrath. I fear I am with child, and the scandal of it is too much for me to remain in London. I know Mama would insist I flee to the country and give birth to my child in secret, only to give her up, and I could not bear the thought of that. There is a man…an earl, who is in need of a wife, who has gone about it in the most unorthodox fashion of advertising for her. It seems his reputation may even be more disreputable than yours, but I’ve informed him of my sorry plight, and he is willing to take me as his wife. I find such an action to be honorable. Perhaps two wounded souls may find succor together, so I’ve taken steps to decide my own future. When I’ve settled, I will write to you with news.
Faithfully,
Phoebe.
Phoebe had run away from England, her parents, and everything that should have been safe, familiar, and comforting as if the devil had chased her with a pitchfork. Worse, she had rushed headlong into a situation hoping to marry a man with whom she’d only exchanged a few letters and who had lingered in the shadows as her deepest secret.
The gravel below her boots crunched, the sound alarming in the stillness of the forecourt. The man she’d initially assumed to be the butler or a footman did not speak or appear as if he would invite her inside the manor. The overly bold and piercing way in which he assessed her shouted that this man was not a servant of the mansion. Phoebe’s stomach knotted in horrid anxiety.
A shadow of a beard accentuated the harsh sensuality of his cheekbones and the hard lines of his jaw. The gentleman was clad in black trousers and a jacket that fitted to his frame so perfectly, it left no doubt about his masculinity. His hair was a bit messy and in need of taming. He was unquestionably handsome, a man of wealth and elegance, yet it was his eyes that commanded her complete attention.
Phoebe had never seen eyes so blue yet so dark. The pit of her stomach felt strange, fluttery, and her heart raced as if she had encountered a dreaded spider. His innate arrogance proclaimed him the lord of the manor. His mien became even more remote, his eyes pinning her in place that of a hawk. It was decidedly uncomfortable.
His regard held her in place with unblinking intensity. Sleek, elegant, beautiful, intelligent, and cunning. All of that was gleaned from his eyes. She had never encountered a face so devoid of expression, yet his eyes communicated curiosity and something so remote and unfathomable, an unexpected dart of fear went through her.
She hoped…prayed this was not the man she had fled England with reckless impetuosity toward. Her brother had always told her to believe in the first impression she got of a gentleman; it would serve her well in maneuvering through life. Being here, in this country, on the stranger’s doorstep, running from a mother who had been determined to lock her away in the country and then take her child from her by force and give it away, felt terrifying.
She stopped a few feet from him. “Are you…are you the gentleman of distinction and wealth?”
The breath seemed to shudder from his body, then whatever he felt seemed to be quickly mastered.
He made no reply but dipped into a short bow. She waited for him to say something, and when he remained silent, the tension in her grew heavier. There was a decided glint in his eyes, as if he were not sure what to make of her. “You must be wondering who I am.” His silence was very nerve-wracking, and it pushed her into speaking a bit faster than she intended. “I…I am A Curious Lady.”
Another nod, but the intensity of his stare had increased a hundred-fold. His eyes…they skipped over her face as if he imprinted every curve and slant of it onto his memory. It was astoundingly rude…and how it made her heart pound.
She felt an uncomfortable and unfamiliar rush of physical awareness and tried her very best to appear indiff
erent and self-assured, as any young lady of rank and decorum should.
She clasped the fingers of her glove together tightly. I showed up at his home uninvited. He will never believe I am a lady of good sense!
She glanced at the massive door behind him. It was not the mark of a gentleman that he would have her stand here without bidding her welcome inside, even if she had shown up unannounced. She pushed back the desire to clasp her rounded stomach, a protective gesture that seemed to come upon her whenever she thought about the life within her, a precious life that depended on everything that she would do or say—a life her mother had plotted to give away to suffer cruel indignities.
It had been fear, anger, and a raw determination to protect her baby that had pushed her with such impetuosity from her home. But staring at the silent man before her, unable to read his expression, all the fears she had suppressed during the journey surged to life.
This man will never agree to marry me…not while I carry a child. What reason would he have?
The door swung open, an aging man came out, and from his mode of dress she presumed him to be the butler.
“My lord,” he said after a careful shuffling of his feet.
“My lord?” Phoebe murmured, her heart a beating mess. “You are titled?”
The butler drew himself up stiffly as if she had affronted his master.
“May I present Viscount Huxley, the future Earl of Albury.”
Shock blossomed through her in a chilly wave. Along with sorrow and fear.
An Earl.
Albury was a title spoken in hushed whispers in her father’s study whenever he met with his political cronies and fellow business investors. It was a title long held by the Winthrops. She had never met the family out in society nor heard their names mentioned anywhere else. Supposedly, they found the frivolity of the seasons beneath their notice.
