Along Came a Lady

by Christi Caldwell

  Stop it.

  “What was that?” Rafe asked, and she blushed at having been caught speaking to herself.

  “Starting,” she amended, working through the misery of last night’s overindulgence. “I thought starting your lessons would be a beneficial use of our travel time.” As she collected her bag, she withdrew a small pink leather notebook and held it out.

  Rafe stared blankly at it. “What the hell is that?”

  She frowned. “Language, Mr. Audley. And I think it should be fairly clear . . . it is a notebook.” When he still made no attempt to take it, she forced it into his hand, until he curled his fingers around the book. Edwina brandished a small, perfectly sharp charcoal pencil. “And your pencil!”

  “My pencil.”

  Beside him, Cailin’s shoulders shook with amusement, and the young woman made a poor show of staring out at the passing Staffordshire landscape.

  “And just what am I to do with your pencil and notebook?” Rafe asked.

  “They aren’t mine. Well, they were. Not ones I’ve used, that is. They are for you. They are . . . gifts. To help you so that you might fill the pages with the most important details you learn in our time together.”

  There was a moment of silence and then—

  He laughed.

  Big, robust, and full, and in any other moment, that mirth would have been contagious . . . if it weren’t very clearly directed at her.

  “You want me to take notes, princess?”

  “Do you find that very shocking?”

  “Annoying. Ridiculous. A waste of time. Should I keep going?”

  Edwina’s frowned deepened. He’s just trying to get a rise out of you. “Much can be learned from recording our thoughts, Rafe. And the more you come to do it, the more you will find it a rather impossible task to quit.” Not allowing him a chance to get a word in, Edwina proceeded to withdraw her own writing materials, and began. “Now, the first detail I might mention is that you needn’t thank servants.” In fact, among the peerage, that familiarity was quite disdained.

  With a scowl, Rafe set his book down hard on his knee. “That’s utter shite. Why not?”

  He sounded so genuinely outraged that she studied him a moment, confirming he wasn’t making light of her. “And there’s no swearing, Mr. Audley,” she chided, as she set her bag down on the bench beside her. “You might wish to put that into your—” He’d already opened his notebook, and proceeded to write. “Oh, good, you’re already recording it.”

  “No, I’m not,” he said, hurriedly dashing off his notes.

  She arched her head, but he angled the book away, finished whatever it was he’d been writing, and then snapped it shut, a smug, taunting grin that indicated he knew that she wanted to know what he’d written there instead. Though, if she were truly being honest, she rather thought it was best she not find out just what he’d put there.

  Edwina tried a different approach. “Do you thank the miners at your coalfields for completing their work? It is no different.”

  He scoffed. “It’s entirely different. Those people aren’t at my beck and call. They’re working on their own tasks, for the man who owns those fields. A servant catering to my whims and pleasures is expected to serve me, which I’m also not comfortable with,” he added.

  Cailin lifted her hand in agreement. “Neither am I.”

  Edwina glanced back and forth between the siblings. Her mouth moved, as she tried to form a counterargument to Rafe’s position, only to struggle with a proper defense that challenged his viewpoint. “It is . . . just the way it is.”

  “It isn’t my way.”

  “It has to be.”

  His expression darkened, and he leaned across the carriage, shrinking the space even more. “I agreed to go. I agreed to listen to what you have to say. But I’ll be damned if I blindly follow along with things simply because it is,” he flicked her notebook, “the way it is.”

  His eyes pierced hers, burning through her, the intensity of it robbing her of breath and any ability to form a response. And within those cobalt depths, there was that flash of disdain and annoyance that had been there from the beginning, and she hated it.

  Cailin cleared her throat, and Edwina jerked her attention from the snarling man before her. “I must also say I believe being rude to people who are helping you is snobbery, and I’ll not be part of it.”

  Yet again, her assignment proved it was going to be even more difficult than she’d anticipated.

  “Very well. Starting with a different topic . . .” Snapping her notebook open, she shifted course. “Shall we begin?”

  Chapter 16

  Agreeing to accompany Edwina had been a mistake. There could be no doubt of it.

  Him visiting London and attempting to mingle with Polite Society had all the makings of a disaster.

  Rafe, however, had resolved to have some fun along the way.

  Two days into the journey, with his sister sleeping soundly on the carriage bench and Edwina delivering a lesson to Rafe on propriety, it had proven even easier than he’d anticipated.

  “No. No,” Edwina was saying. “It is ‘Your Grace’ by inferiors, ‘Duke’ only by social equals, the first time in conversation, to then be followed by ‘Sir,’ and announced informally as ‘the Duke of Bentley.’ ”

  Furrowing his brow in feigned confusion, Rafe looked up from the ridiculously dainty notebook she’d given him. “So, all dukes are the Duke of Bentley, then?”

  “No. No. No.” Yes, it was entirely too easy. Rafe added several more items to his book, which, despite his original horror upon receiving it, he found himself to be enjoying rather more than he should.

  “That is not at all—” Edwina stopped mid-lecture, and from over the top of her notes, narrowed her eyes on Rafe. “You are teasing.” A little frown puckered the place between her eyebrows.

  “Aye.” And she was becoming more adept at identifying those instances. Finally.

  “Hmph.” She gave a little toss of her head. “Where were we?” she murmured, dropping her focus back to the book on her lap, and running her finger over the page written in her elegant scrawl.

  Rafe propped an ankle across his opposite knee, and angled his writing away from her direct line of vision. “Finishing for the day?” he drawled. It wasn’t entirely a jest. Since they’d departed the latest inn and boarded the duke’s carriage some eight hours earlier, Edwina had been nonstop with her instructions.

  She pursed her lips. “Of course we were not, Rafe. You know that is not possible. There is much to be done,” she repeated that oft-uttered phrase aloud.

  “Ah, there it is. You’re predictable in your lessons, princess.” He snapped his book shut.

  Edwina followed suit, and rested hers upon her lap. “This is serious, Rafe.”

  “Oh, undoubtedly,” he said with a mock seriousness that days ago would have likely flown up and over her very head. Now, however, she favored him with a frown. “Edwina, we’ve covered titles. We’ve gone over proper forms of address and appropriate topics of discussion between gentlemen and those between men and women.”

  “You are correct.”

  Well, that was not the admission he’d been expecting. “I—”

  “It was a lot.” She flipped her book back open, and sifted through the pages. “Perhaps we should go back and speak again about additional topics that are suitable in terms of discourse.”

  “We’re not really speaking, though, are we?” He infused a drollness into that query and waited until Edwina, at last, lifted her attention from her materials. A question furrowed her brow. “You’re more lecturing and I’m more listening.”

  Edwina narrowed her eyes. “You are making jests again.”

  “Aye.” He who’d never been the jest-making type couldn’t seem to help himself where Edwina Dalrymple was concerned.


  Sighing, Edwina snapped her book closed. “We do not have time for games.”

  She sounded endearingly close to stomping her foot on the carriage floor, and he found himself preferring this unrestrained side of her. In fact, he found himself very much missing the woman who had thrown herself so fully into living during her brief time in Staffordshire. Rafe resumed his writing. “I preferred you drinking ale,” he said.

  “Shh.” She slapped a finger to her lips, and stole a frantic look over at his still soundly sleeping sister.

  He chuckled and winked at her.

  “Rafe, I have not only your education to see to, but now . . .” Her gaze slid once more over to the slumbering Cailin, curled up against the side of the conveyance. “Your sister’s, as well. She must be prepared for her introduction to Polite Society.”

  And all his previous enjoyment at their exchange abruptly died. “My sister isn’t taking part in the London Season,” he said curtly, with a directness intended to end any discussion of it.

  “She isn’t?”

  “No.” The last place he wanted his sister mingling was in ballrooms where she’d be prey for men who had no honorable intentions were she was concerned.

  “What? But she is also His Grace’s child. A daughter of marriageable age. As such, she should also have the privilege of taking part—”

  “Privilege?” he spat. That was what she would call it? “Privilege?” His voice rose a fraction, and on the bench beside him, Cailin stirred but then quieted, settling into a soft snore once more. Rafe waited, verifying she still slept, and when he’d done so, he again spoke to Edwina in a quieter, more controlled voice. “What privilege is it you speak of, Edwina?” Leaning across the bench, he shoved his face close to hers, but she remained there, facing him down squarely. “Finding herself at the heart of Polite Society’s gossip? Or is it so that she can find herself a victim of their unkindness and prey to some bloody scoundrels? Or likely, a combination of the two?” And despite how well he and Edwina had gotten on these recent days, this gulf in their opinions served as a reminder that they were of two different worlds, two people at odds, and he’d never, ever see eye to eye with her on this.

  “But . . . I thought you saw the benefits of bringing her to London and away from Staffordshire,” she said quietly, sounding so thoroughly befuddled, he almost took pity upon her.

  Almost.

  “Changing her scenery and forcing her to try and fit herself into a world she has no part of or place in are different things, Edwina. Entirely.”

  Edwina shifted on the bench, matching his body’s posturing, leaning more closely toward him. “But she could,” she said in entreating tones. “She could fit in. And she can be happy there. And find respectability and a good, honorable gentleman who will see her for who she is.”

  God, she was tenacious. Fearless. And he wanted to resent her and not admire her for it, but for whatever reason he was weak in ways where this woman was concerned.

  “Your lives can only be improved by accepting what your father has offered, Rafe.”

  “She’s a bastard,” he said bluntly, unapologetically. “People will shun her and shame her for it. Do you find that an improvement?”

  Edwina winced.

  Aye, because lofty as she was, talk of bastards would be anathema to her ladylike proprieties. He latched on to that truth, using it to hammer home his point.

  “By whose standards, Edwina? Hmm?” Rafe didn’t allow her a word in edgewise. “Do you truly believe she’ll be treated with respect? As some fancy lady, simply because a duke acknowledged her as his child?”

  He saw the indecision flash in her eyes. Because she knew, as well as he did, that illegitimate daughters were welcomed even less than bastard sons. “Yes,” she said tentatively. “I . . . do believe it is possible.”

  “You’re either a liar or as damned naïve and foolish”—and innocent—“as I took you for at our first meeting.”

  “The Duke of Clarence has ten bastard children. Ten of them,” Edwina said with her usual enthusiasm when she spoke. “And they are treated well socially because it matters if one’s parent rejects or accepts a child.”

  He clenched his jaw tight. God, she did not quit. “And what happens to those children who’ve been rejected for thirty-one years?” he asked bluntly. “Do you think the peerage is simply going to welcome strangers, found unworthy by our sire all the years prior to this, into their folds?”

  As close as he was to her, Rafe caught the glimmer within her eyes that indicated she’d at last acknowledged his point . . . to herself, anyway.

  “Let me ask you this.” He shifted the topic. “Why does it matter so much to you whether or not I claim my, as you call it, ‘rightful place’?” Rafe moved his eyes over her face, hating that his focus dipped to her mouth. “Why should it matter if Cailin does?”

  She darted her tongue out, that delicate pink flesh, running a path over the seam of her lips, tempting him all the more, and tormenting him with this wanting of her. “It . . . just does. Because not everyone has the opportunity you are being presented with. And you deserve that.” His lashes dipped, even as hers fluttered, and he angled his head. Edwina shifted hers, lifting her mouth a fraction. She spoke on a whisper. “I want . . .”

  The carriage rocked to a halt, and the passion lifted from her gaze. “I want that for you, Rafe,” she said, her voice now steadied. “And perhaps you respect Cailin enough to let her decide what she wants.”

  Cailin popped up on her bench and blinked back the sleep from her eyes. “We are here!” she exclaimed, yanking back the gold-velvet-trimmed curtains. His sister had her face pressed against the window.

  They had . . . arrived.

  With his sister chattering away as he’d never heard her do before, Rafe stared over the top of her head. There could be no doubting which of the townhouses belonged to the Duke of Bentley. The limestone soared above its neighboring counterparts, four times as wide with an ornate detail around the windows and trim that lent an extravagance to the point of garishness. The abode stood in stark contrast to the shorter, pink-and-brown stucco structures that had the distinction of anchoring the residence.

  Why, even the bright afternoon sun cast a light upon the townhouse, the rays glistening off a gleaming golden lion’s head knocker and all the other ornamental metal fixtures adorning the windows.

  So this was the duke’s household.

  . . . oh, Rafe. I have heard it is ever so grand . . . someday, you shall see it. Someday we shall both see it . . .

  His mother’s words of long ago came whispering back, the same longing and wistfulness as clear as if she were still alive, speaking in his ear this day. For she had never seen it. She had never been good enough to marry. Not to the duke. She had been a shameful secret to hide away, left longing for more than she’d had with Bentley. Which hadn’t been much. Which hadn’t really been anything at all.

  Outside, elegantly clad women, with their parasols perched upon their shoulders, went strolling past. Nursemaids and maids following at their heels, walking their equally fancy dogs and holding the hands of their children.

  Disgust soured his mouth.

  This was the world he was joining.

  Temporarily. That was the only reminder that kept him sane as the driver drew the door open, and let the sunlight and stench of London’s heavy air filter into the carriage.

  The young man reached out, and helped Cailin down first.

  As she made her descent, Rafe remained there, stone-faced. What in hell had he agreed to? And why?

  And then, as if she had followed his silent thoughts, Edwina moved closer to him. “I saw your kerchief.”

  He stiffened, knowing what she was speaking about. Of course, a woman as clever as she was would have detected a detail such as that, the embroidered initials, the age of the fabric, the quality of it.
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br />   “You could have thrown it away. You could have burned it.”

  “And I should have,” he rasped. He should have tossed it into a flame, and gleefully watched the fire consume it.

  “Yes,” she said gently. “But you did not. You kept it for a reason, Rafe. And I have to believe that reason also plays some part in why you are here with me now. I believe you truly want to have a relationship with your father.”

  “I’m here because you forced it,” he said sharply.

  A little smile danced on her lips. “No one can force you to do anything you do not want, Rafe Audley.”

  A servant appeared, and Rafe was saved from answering anything else, and presented squarely instead with the reality that waited for him outside these carriage walls.

  All his muscles tensed. Sweat slicked his palms. What had he done?

  “Just a moment,” Edwina said to the footman, perfectly in control and able to issue directives. And calm in ways Rafe was unsteady.

  Stop it. You are a damned foreman. You’ve climbed twenty feet underground and survived fires and cave-ins. This was nothing. Why, it was even less than nothing. Why then, even with all those assurances, did he struggle to believe it? Why didn’t it lessen the growing panic threatening to drag him under and suffocate him in those ways the coalfields had failed.

  The moment the servant stepped away, a light hand brushed against his knee, lingering longer than was an accident. His gaze went to Edwina’s.

  “It is going to be fine,” she said softly. “You are going to do well, and I truly believe you are going to be happy.”

  Rafe grunted. “That remains to be seen,” he said gruffly.

  She smiled, that beatific, cheerful one that had grown so very much on him. “I told you, I am invariably right. Trust me.”

  Trust her.

  And interestingly, it was just that which accounted for his being here even now. For some unexplainable reason, he’d connected with her, the unlikeliest person for him to connect with. Knowing she would be here through this whole hellish experience made him somehow feel less alone.