Along Came a Lady

by Christi Caldwell

  Setting her book down hard, she leaned across the arm of her chair. “What of dancing?”

  An image slipped in, of Edwina in his arms, her hands on his sleeves, his at her waist, while he waltzed her about an empty ballroom floor. And he was tempted to lie on this one. Alas, she’d no doubt already had a fine dance tutor lined up. “One might say I am . . . proficient,” he settled for.

  Edwina shoved her seat back so quickly, it scraped harshly over the hardwood floors. Hands upon her hips, the lady stood over him, an impressive dark scowl directed his way. “You . . . you . . . are . . . accomplished,” she hissed. She may as well have called him out as an immoral cad, for all the wounded affront blazing back at him within her revealing eyes.

  He sipped the claret she’d needlessly tutored him on how to properly pour.

  If looks could smite a person, he’d have been laid dead at her feet.

  With a sound of frustration, she stalked off.

  Hurriedly setting aside his glass, he came to his feet and rushed after her, neatly sliding into her path before she could make her exit.

  Edwina ground to a halt, and glared up at him. “What?” she bit out.

  “Why are you so angry, princess?”

  “You lied to me.”

  “It wasn’t a lie. It was . . . merely an omission on my part. You were the one who assumed I was untutored in the ways of Polite Society, because I was raised in a mining town. I merely didn’t bother to correct you.”

  Understanding filled her eyes, as he tossed those like words she’d used to defend her actions back at her. But instead of the fiery challenge he expected, her shoulders dipped slightly, rounding even more. “You are . . . right,” she said softly, and he startled at the readiness with which she’d owned that. “I . . . was wrong in interfering with Mr. Sparrow.”

  No one he’d ever known would have so owned their mistake; it wasn’t the Staffordshire way. It wasn’t the human way. People dug in. And yet, Edwina had not, and it said far more about her character than the “lie of omission” she’d allowed.

  His hand came up almost reflexively, and he ran his knuckles along her cheek. “One would think you’d be more grateful for not having to start at the most basic level of my refinement.”

  “I was grateful for the opportunity to do my work.” Her features were ravaged, and the sight of it hit him harder than the unexpected fist he’d once taken to the gut from one of his miners who’d shown up to his shift drunk. “I did not want to take this assignment if I wasn’t necessary, but so that I could actually do that which I was hired to do and prove myself capable.”

  That was something he could understand. For all the ways in which they were different, the sense of accomplishment and the need to succeed in their endeavors, without the help of anyone’s interference, was a kindred connection shared between them. “It has been years since I had any of those lessons, Edwina,” he said. “I didn’t even think I recalled them until you came along.” Nay, rather he’d shut out all those memories of everything his mother had cared so very much about.

  “How?” she asked softly.

  He glanced briefly over the top of her head; he’d not discussed his mother with anyone. Not even his siblings spoke of her. Cailin hadn’t known her. Wesley had learned not to talk about either of their parents. Hunter had never wanted to speak of her. And it had been easier to let the sad memories of her go. “My mother was an actress. She had dreams of a different life, and that life always included the peerage. She was naïve. Foolish. Believing at first that a duke who’d been captivated by her could marry her. And then she settled . . . for less. She schooled my brothers and I on the ways of the peerage, because it was our”—he managed a wry grin—“birthright.” He made himself look at Edwina, holding her eyes, and at last explained it to her. “So . . . I know the rules of this world. I know their ways. I’ve never lived them, but I know them. Just as I know that I wouldn’t want to be part of Polite Society. I’ve come for my sister and my brother. And so, I’ll go along with what the duke wants and expects, but I’m also going to do that which I want, too . . . and that includes showing my sister something other than Staffordshire. We’re visiting the British Museum tomorrow. You’ll be joining us.”

  She nodded slowly. “I see.” Bowing her head, Edwina turned to go.

  He called out, staying her, “And I’d ask that you accompany us, not to instruct us, but . . . as a guest, Edwina.”

  “I . . .” Edwina eyed him warily, as if she thought there might be more to his request, as if she believed he put some manner of test before her. “I would like that very much,” she finished softly, and this time, as she left, he let her go.

  All the while, wanting her to stay . . .

  His gaze fell to the table; where the notebook she’d given him, lay. Of their own volition, his fingers moved over the cover.

  Footfalls echoed in the hall; and he immediately snatched his hand back lest she see him caressing the little volume. “E-oh,” he blurted out.

  Not Edwina.

  The duke—Rafe’s father—stared back. “Were you waiting for Miss Dalrymple?” he asked, without accusation. “I’d believed you had completed your lessons for the day.”

  “I . . . yes. No, we have. I . . . she’d forgotten her notebook,” he lied. The duke glanced at the table where the notebook Edwina had given him rested, a perfect decoy. “I believed she returned . . .” He went and retrieved the article. “If you’ll excuse me?” he said stiffly, letting the duke have the room.

  “Please, don’t go.” His father lifted his palms, revealing a small leather book Rafe hadn’t noted . . . until now. “I was told you were here.”

  “I take it you wish to discuss my progress?” he drawled. A large part of him wanted to tell the duke to shove off with that question, and taunt him, let him believe Rafe was the uncouth bastard the world took him for. To do so, however, would only have implications for Edwina and her future. “I assure you Miss Dalrymple is quite accomplished—”

  “No,” the duke interrupted. “No. That isn’t what I intend to inquire after. I am confident in the young lady’s capabilities . . . and yours, as well.” His father paused, his eyes lingering on Rafe’s face, and then he dropped his gaze to the book clenched tightly in his hand. “I . . . had the honor of accompanying Cailin to Hatchard’s.”

  Of anything the duke might have said, that had certainly not been what Rafe had expected. “What?” he blurted out.

  “I asked and she allowed me to join her.”

  Rafe drew back, incredulously. “She allowed you?”

  “Yes. Imagine my surprise,” the duke said dryly. A wistful smile stole over the duke’s face, and when he again spoke, he did so as if he’d become lost in his own memory. “She is a clever young woman.” She was, and yet for the duke to have ascertained as much, father and daughter would have had to engage in discussions in which Cailin had revealed as much to him. “Very self-possessed and unapologetic and proud. She has . . .” Their noble sire gave his head a rueful shake. “. . . a sharp sense of humor.” The man’s mouth pulled in a telling grimace.

  Rafe tried to call forth an image of what that outing would have been like . . . between the father they’d spent their life speaking ill of and Cailin who thought nothing of telling a person precisely what she thought of him. “I trust you were a victim of that biting wit.”

  “Whew,” the duke chuckled. “Like a masterful sword wielder she is.”

  And wonder of wonders, Rafe and the duke shared a smile.

  “But,” his father said softly, “Cailin was so good as to share her outing with me and we discussed some of her interests and beliefs, and I am grateful for that.” The duke paused. “She was also good enough to make mention of . . . some of yours.”

  Rafe stiffened. “Oh.” Bloody hell. Cailin had never been a prattler, and yet she’d chosen this time to beg
in speaking? What in blazes had she—?

  “You . . . enjoy the kitchen,” the duke murmured.

  Bloody, bloody hell. Rafe fought the urge to wrestle with his cravat. So that was what this was about? Because, of course, a duke’s son, even a bastard-born one, wasn’t one to spend his time baking or cooking or overseeing any tasks set for servants. Neither, however, would he apologize for who he was. Rafe drew his lip back in a sneer meant to taunt. “I take it you’ve come here to lecture me.”

  Confusion creased the duke’s face. “What?” he asked dumbly. “No . . . I . . . here,” he blurted, holding out that small tome.

  Rafe glanced down.

  The Cooks and Confectioners Dictionary by John Nott.

  Dumbstruck, he tried to speak, and failed. All words eluded him. That was what the duke had sought him out for this day? To give him this book . . . about cooking?

  “Based on what Cailin shared, I thought you might enjoy it,” the duke said into the silence. And when Rafe still made no move to accept the unexpected gift, his father let his arm fall to his side. “It is silly. Forgive me.”

  “No!” Rafe exclaimed, and at last reached for the cookbook. “I . . . thank you. I . . . thank you,” he repeated, studying the etched gold lettering upon the cover, because it was easier to focus on those details than the man staring at him with a depth of emotion that bespoke far more than the indifference he’d believed the duke had held for Rafe and his siblings. Throughout his childhood, his mother would return with baubles and fineries from her time in London with the duke. While Rafe had been left behind to raise his siblings, looking after them. Being both parents the Audleys had never had. There’d been no gifts. Certainly not personal ones, such as this. And that didn’t matter. Not truly. What did, however, what he’d never considered until this moment, was the burden that had been placed upon him as a boy. But that burden? It had come from his mother’s refusal to share their existence with the duke, and his resentment hadn’t been reserved just for the duke, but also for her, as well. He saw that now.

  His father cleared his throat, bringing Rafe’s gaze up from the book he’d been staring at.

  Smoothing his hands along the front of his jacket, the duke shifted forward on his feet. “Yes, well, I am happy to know you do not hate it.” A twinkle lit the older man’s eyes. “Though, if I’m being fair and ascribing credit where credit is due, your sister may have encouraged me to choose this volume.”

  Unnerved by this new harmony between them, Rafe opened his mouth to again make his excuses, when his father spoke.

  “I know it is early still, and that you are . . . angry with me. With reasons for it,” his father rushed to add. “But I am also hoping in time you might come to find you could consider carving out a life here. That, perhaps, you might find a reason to stay.”

  Unlikely. Rafe opened his mouth to deliver that retort. But something held him back.

  Unbidden, Rafe’s gaze went first to the cookbook and then over to the notebook in hand . . . that gift from Edwina. “Perhaps,” he allowed, and when he took leave of his father a short while later, he found himself thinking of Edwina here in London, and foolish as it was, the duke’s words whispered around in Rafe’s head long after he’d gone.

  Chapter 20

  All of her assignments and all of her roles had required Edwina to always be working.

  Always be working had even come to be one of the mottos that drove her, and one that she used in interviews to sell her services to prospective clients.

  Every moment of every day was to be filled.

  This, however, proved to be the first time that her day was filled . . . in a different way. In a way that wasn’t work.

  As such, the following morn, just arrived at the British Museum with Rafe and his sister, it was still nigh impossible for Edwina to separate herself from her assignment.

  “The building is known as Montagu House,” she said as she followed close behind Rafe, Cailin, and the young woman’s maid up the wide marble stairs that led to the main floor. “There are three main floors. The first and lower floor is where you might find the library of printed books. Then there is the Gallery.” That had forever been her favorite, and yet, not a single one of her charges had ever wished to explore, and as such, she’d never had the opportunity to do so herself. “It features Greek and Roman sculptures. Egyptian antiquities, as well as Sir William Hamilton’s collection, which features both engravings and drawings.”

  While she spoke, Cailin chatted excitedly up at her brother. And Edwina briefly paused in her recitation and simply watched the pair. They chatted amicably, with Rafe periodically saying something that brought Cailin to laughter. Never, in all the households Edwina had worked within, had there been any brother who’d even acknowledged his sister in a conversation, let alone taken her on outings to museums. Those were chores left to maids and governesses and companions.

  And . . . here was this man. Forsaking a vow to subvert his father’s will and never journey to London . . . for his sister. Despite his resentment of the duke, and his hatred of everything London and Polite Society represented, he’d been willing to immerse himself in that which he abhorred because of his siblings.

  And at the realization of that loving devotion, a piece of her heart was forever lost to Rafe Audley.

  Her breath caught on a quick intake.

  What was she thinking? Thoughts of . . . losing her heart to him?

  She wasn’t. It had been merely rhetorical. An appreciation—

  Rafe reached the top landing, and looked back to where Edwina still stood. “Is everything all right, Miss Dalrymple?”

  Is everything all right? No, everything was absolutely wrong. Completely upside down. Particularly where her nonsensical musings were concerned. “Everything is fine,” she called up, her voice inordinately loud, carrying through the soaring museum. Gathering up her skirts, she rushed on ahead. Remembering what Cailin had shared when they’d been baking in Staffordshire, Edwina told them, “This floor, I believe, will be of particular interest to you. It features fossils, minerals, snakes, lizards, herbals.”

  “Oh, that sounds splendid!” Cailin exclaimed, resting a hand on her brother’s shoulder. “We are going there first, brother.” Before he could respond, the younger woman looked at Edwina. “You, Edwina, are free to have some time for yourself. Isn’t that right, Rafe?”

  Did Edwina merely imagine the regret in his eyes, because she wished to see that emotion there?

  “Of course,” he said, so fluidly, she likely had. “Miss Dalrymple is deserving of time of her own.”

  “Thank you,” she said softly. It was the first time she’d been permitted time of her own. Time being a gift that she didn’t even know what to do with, when it existed outside of her work. As such, she should be more grateful than . . . downhearted.

  He lingered a moment before following after his sister.

  When the brother-sister pair had gone, Edwina found her way back to the Gallery. As she went, she trailed a leisurely path around, winding her way through the Greek statues, glorious masterpieces carved of white marble, so very real and lifelike.

  All around her, lords and ladies strolled past exhibits, barely pausing to look at the ancient artifacts around them, more engrossed in discussions with their companions than in the art they’d come to observe.

  And yet, in this moment, she found herself not unlike those unappreciative patrons . . . because she should only be focusing on the fact that she was at last granted time for herself to take in the works of the ancient Greeks and Romans. Instead, she found herself . . . regretting that.

  It was silly.

  It had been kind and considerate. Far more so than any previous employer who’d barely seen her, beyond the work she did for their daughters.

  Rafe had given her the gift of her own time here.

  And all she could foc
us on was the fact that he’d sent her away, and how desperately she wished to be with—

  “Oh, bloody hellll, Miss Dalrymple, not again.”

  She froze at that familiar voice from behind her, his tones a study in beleaguerment and annoyance. Edwina briefly closed her eyes, all the while cringing inside.

  I’ve done nothing wrong.

  Not this time. Not the last either.

  Even as she reminded herself of that over and over, as she squared her shoulders and made herself face the gentleman, shame knotted at her insides. It had been years since she had seen him. He who’d stood in for her—their—father, and made it clear in no uncertain terms that she was not to pay their household another visit.

  But this was different. She was no longer the bereft young woman whose mother had just died, and who’d gone in search of her father. Not as proud as her mother in asking to be part of his life. Not as smart as her mother in having failed to realize he didn’t want her in it.

  “My lord,” she murmured, dropping the requisite curtsy, because damn him. Because he thought her less than him. Because he likely thought she didn’t know better. But she had as much of their father’s blood in her veins, and she’d not be shamed for being here.

  “I told you not to return,” he said quietly, in those gentle, pitying tones more grating than any hateful, hurtful words he could have hurled at her.

  “And I didn’t.” Edwina prided herself on her calm reply, when inside her heart was knocking sickeningly against her ribcage. This was horrid. She hated it. Still, she’d not back down. “I haven’t returned to you or your household. Surely you weren’t thinking to bar me from all of London?”

  A flush splotched his cheeks. “Am I to believe your being here doesn’t in some way have something to do with my father?”

  “Our father?” she corrected on a question, winging a brow high.