The carriage carrying Lavinia and Jonathan drew up to Viscount Marsham’s majestic castle. A light, misty rain fell from the sky, giving the day a dreary feel.
Jonathan thought back to the first time he came to this place. He had been just as somber then as the weather was now. However, this day, Jonathan’s mood was light, and he had a smile on his face. A smile almost entirely due to the lady cuddled up at his side. His beautiful wife. He leaned down and placed a tender kiss upon her blond curls. She looked up at him and smiled, then gasped when she realized they had reached their destination.
“We’re here!” Lavinia squealed as the carriage drew to a halt.
A footman opened the door with a bow. Lavinia scrambled out and rushed up the stairs to greet Amelia, who was standing in the doorway, with her arms outstretched and a beaming smile on her face.
Jonathan smiled at the joy of the two friends as he emerged from the vehicle with his one-year-old son, George, clasped in his arms. He followed the ladies inside and looked around the entrance hall. It was just as luxurious as he remembered.
“I trust you had a pleasant journey, my Lord, my Lady,” Brooks intoned, bowing to Jonathan and Lavinia.
Jonathan chuckled and said, “Oh, do drop the formalities, man. We’re about to be practically brothers.”
“Indeed. You must call us Jonathan and Lavinia, and no stiff bowing!” Lavinia echoed, moving to Jonathan’s side to take her squirming son into her own arms.
“You’d better listen to them, my love,” Amelia said, coming to Brooks’s side and threading her arm through his.
Brooks smiled down at Amelia and patted her hand as he said, “Of course, Melly. I will endeavor to obey. But it may take some time.”
Amelia smiled lovingly up at her betrothed. She was so luminous, about to be wed, and her dearest friend had returned to stand by her side.
“You both look happy,” Jonathan said as he looked upon his former valet and his once-fiancée.
“And you have you to thank for it, Jonathan,” Amelia replied.
Jonathan smiled at the recollection of Brooks and Amelia’s first meeting. It had occurred when Amelia was helping the Dowager Countess and Lavinia with wedding preparations two years ago. Lavinia had rung for Brooks to ask him what color jacket Jonathan would be wearing for the ceremony so she could have flowers made for his lapel to match.
Brooks had entered the drawing-room and stopped dead when he saw Amelia. She looked up and widened her eyes at the handsome valet. Lavinia was sure that it had been love at first sight and helped Amelia see Brooks in secret.
Jonathan remembered the uproar that had ensued when Amelia announced that she wanted to marry a common valet that was even louder than the commotion that occurred when Amelia told her father that she would not be marrying Jonathan, that the Earl would be marrying her companion instead. The Viscount had raged for days that he would cut Amelia off and never see her again if she persisted in her mad plan. But Amelia would not be swayed. She was in love with Brooks and would accept no one else as her husband. Amelia told her father she didn’t care if she had to work as a housemaid for the rest of her life. As long as she had Brooks with her, she would be happy.
That declaration had struck the Viscount when no other argument did. Lord Marsham would not countenance having his daughter go into service, so he capitulated with conditions. Amelia and Brooks would be given a monthly allowance. It was enough for them to obtain a modest house in a nice neighborhood in London and live comfortably. Amelia had to agree to limit her time in society while the Viscount still lived to keep him from the embarrassment of having a valet for a son-in-law. If she complied, she would gain her entire inheritance upon her father’s death. The Viscount had no idea that his stipulations were more than Amelia could have hoped for and she readily agreed. She’d never had any use for the ton in the first place.
“Well, I owe you my thanks as well, Amelia. Without you, I would never have found Lavinia again,” Jonathan said, smiling fondly at his wife and son.
Amelia laughed and reached for George. “All’s well that ends well, as the bard said.”
The company laughed at Amelia’s quip, and they all walked to the drawing room to greet Lord and Lady Marsham.
Later that afternoon, Jonathan was on the floor of the parlor on his hands and knees, chasing after his toddling, giggling son, and making growling noises.
Lavinia laughed and scooped up her son to save him from the rampaging bear. George giggled, and Jonathan stood to snatch the boy away and hoist him high into the air, eliciting another round of sweet baby laughs.
“You’re growing quite big, my boy,” Jonathan said. “Soon, Papa will not be able to lift you.”
Lavinia smiled and took George to give him to the waiting nursemaid. “Time for your nap, Georgie,” she said, kissing his soft brown hair.
Jonathan flopped down upon a sofa and pulled his wife down into his lap for a kiss of his own. When he had succeeded in making her breathless, he broke away and said, “Is it me, or is George growing more energetic by the day? I vow I won’t be able to keep up with him much longer.”
“Well, then you’d best get your rest, Jon, or you’ll certainly never be able to keep up with George and his little brother or sister,” Lavinia told him, a shy smile on her face.
“Do you mean…”
“Yes. I am again with child, but don’t tell anyone yet. I don’t want to take attention from Amelia and her wedding,” Lavinia said.
“It will be our little secret,” Jonathan whispered as he placed his hand on his beloved’s still flat belly.
Lavinia leaned into him and kissed him sweetly, silently thanking fate. She had been given more than she had ever thought to have, and her happiness was now complete.
You are meant for high society and the Earldom while I…
I am insignificant.
I am the bastard daughter of a baron; of a man I have but scant knowledge.
I cannot bear to bring you low by our association.
Forgive me that I must convey this in a letter.
I fear my resolve might disappear if I were to see you again.
I pray that you stay kind to those both above and below you, as you have always been to me.
Be happy for my sake.
With gratitude for all that we have shared,
Lavinia
For the thousandth time, Jonathan read the last note Lavinia sent him. The paper was thin and creased, the ink fading for all the times he had handled the paper.
Eight years had passed, and he still had not forgotten her, despite her solemn command. He could remember her golden tresses and the way the light danced in her green eyes when she laughed.
Jonathan sighed as he set aside the note and focused on the ledger his steward left for his review. Although Jonathan already had a fair idea of the dire contents, he began to go through the numbers again.
The Earldom was on the brink of bankruptcy. Courtesy of his late father’s love for gambling, lavish and lavish living. Everyone knew of Abingdon’s reckless ways. And Jonathan had last year inherited the title only to see it had been brought to ruin. Jonathan smiled ruefully. His father had sworn that Jonathan would be the downfall of the title, when in fact, Jonathan would have to find a way to be its savior.
After a while, Jonathan closed the ledger and stood up, leaving the desk to walk to the tall open windows. Outside, autumn was just beginning, the turning leaves bare hints of a season on the brink of change. He relished in the warmth of the sun and closed his eyes. Unbidden, another autumn day came to mind, the day that Jonathan had chosen Lavinia over the Earldom.
It had been warm, and the hues of the season were also abundant the day he left this very same study. Turning his back on his father and his future as an Earl. A young man who was very much in love. He waited for her where they first met; a secluded bench in the park, surrounded by trees shedding their multicolored leaves.
He’d arrived at dawn, and he was still waiting when the sun rose the next day. If not for the rain that began to pour that evening, he would have stayed longer. Indeed, the day started sunny, but Jonathan returned to Abingdon in the dismal rain of evening. His greatcoat was well-drenched, and his boots caked with mud. He walked on in a daze. So lost in his thoughts that the truth came to him only when he reached the massive doors of his father’s manor.
Lavinia had not come.
The thought shocked him. He’d sent word to Lavinia that they would run away to Gretna Green to be wed. But she did not come to meet him.
Jonathan felt the old pang in his heart. He abruptly ended his reminiscence of the past and sealed his eyes shut tighter. He bowed his head and willed the unwanted thoughts and bitter emotions back into the metaphorical box he’d locked them in so many years ago. Then Jonathan heard three knocks on the door.
His mother, Rebecca, Dowager Countess of Abingdon emerged from the door, dressed in a fine silk gown of dove gray that showed that she was still in half-mourning for her late husband.
She paused and asked, “Is everything all right, my son?” A look of worry crossed her face that showed thin signs of aging, but one which still retained the regal beauty of her youth. Jonathan turned and smiled in hopes he could fool his mother, but knowing he tried in vain, as his mother’s intuition was always sound regarding her only son.
She walked to him and took his hand in hers. The soft hazel eyes that were so like his own entreating him to confide in her.
“From the frown on your face, I fear my presumptions are true. Abingdon is as good as bankrupt.” Jonathan’s mother said as she glanced at the ledger on the well-polished desk. He nodded slightly.
“As your mother, I do not want to force anything on you, Jonathan,” The Dowager Countess paused as if she was deeply pondering her next words.
“But think of the people who depend on us, son. Perhaps it is time that you think of marriage.” Rebecca softly said as she placed her hands on both sides of his son’s cheeks.
“I know, Mother,” Jonathan abruptly responded. So abrupt that it slightly startled the Dowager Countess. In an attempt to soften his words, Jonathan smiled, though it was forced.
He had never thought to marry anyone other than Lavinia. Even if it meant never taking a wife. Even after his months and years of searching for her turned up nothing.
As the reckoning of his father’s errors drew near, however, Jonathan knew he had no choice. He was in a bind. His hands tied—locked by his duty and his eyes blindfolded. There was only one thing he could do to save his estate.
By the end of the season, if Jonathan did not marry a woman of sufficient dowry, his estate would be in ruins, and his mother would be forced to live in poverty. She had endured too much from his father, and Jonathan would not drive her into such a state.
He looked at his mother and saw the light sheen of tears that welled in her eyes. The sight pierced him, and Jonathan placed a hand atop hers and squeezed gently as if it was enough reassurance that all will be well.
“Well,” Rebecca croaked before she cleared her throat. She blinked back her tears and took a sharp breath of air as if to cleanse herself of the sadness that threatened to overtake her. Bitterly, she continued, “I will be at your disposal if you need help choosing a bride.” She patted his hand and with the gentle sway of her dress, the Dowager Countess turned and left the room, leaving Jonathan alone with his thoughts once again.
Jonathan turned back to the autumnal scene of his estate. He looked on the gardeners going about their duties. Jonathan had a duty to perform as well. One that would protect his people but take away his last hope of happiness. One thrust upon him by the dissolute ways of his damned father.
For his people and for his mother, Jonathan had no choice. He must lay his heart aside and forget his hopes of finding Lavinia.
Head bowed low and hands clasped behind his back, Jonathan turned back to his desk and heaved a sigh of defeat. Reluctantly, he removed his maternal uncle’s note from a drawer. Lord Winston had found him a wife—a woman to whom he would be sacrificed for the sake of his mother and estate.
Jonathan’s uncle assured him that any of the arrangements he made were not final if Jonathan did not wish to proceed. But Jonathan knew he had little choice.
Lord Winston had arranged a tentative betrothal to a Viscount’s daughter who possessed a large dowry and was in her third season. Included in the note was the letter from Viscount Marsham himself. The Viscount asked Jonathan to visit his estate north of London so that they might meet and his marriage to his daughter Amelia may be finalized. Jonathan knew that his fate would be sealed if he agreed, and he would wed a woman he had never even met. A woman whose considerable dowry had not been enough to tempt anyone else to marry her.
Jonathan sighed. There was naught to be done; he must wed this heiress with all due haste.
His heart heavy but his resolve strong, Jonathan reached for his quill to pen his responses to his uncle and Viscount Marsham. He felt like a veritable scoundrel as he did so, for though Jonathan would wed this woman, he would never love her. His heart would forever belong to another.
But, what could a man do?
Very little, Jonathan grimaced. He had to focus on all that depended on him. His tenants, his servants, and his mother. The estate could not afford to have another failed earl. So Jonathan signed his name and sealed the letters that would change the course of his life.
The Viscount responded promptly, and within a sennight, Jonathan and his mother found themselves in a carriage approaching the estate of his betrothed’s father.
Absent of any genuine curiosity but bored by the journey, Jonathan peered out the carriage windows. The russet foliage of autumn leaves neatly lined the lane, and directly ahead, Jonathan could see Lord Marsham’s castle in all its glory. The castle alone was enough of a signifier of the extent of the Viscount’s wealth. Something Jonathan found peculiar as most Viscounts did not have such a fortune to warrant residence in a castle.
Jonathan wished they could have come in spring when the landscape would be awash in color and the air redolent of fresh-cut grass. The dull browns and yellows of autumn had a funeral air. One that matched the dull ache in Jonathan’s heart.
“Autumn was much more beautiful back home,” Jonathan muttered. He spoke to himself, but somehow, his mother had heard him.
“You think so, dear?” The Dowager inquired as she leaned closer to her window and viewed for herself what Jonathan had been contemplating.
“I believe the colors are quite the same. And the sun is shining for a change,” She sensibly replied, a bit puzzled.
“Perhaps so,” Jonathan answered dryly. Though in his mind, Jonathan rebelled, He had not wanted this. So, despite what his mother thought, he kept himself occupied with his thoughts of how depressingly brown the Viscount’s estate was. Yet, all too well, the sadness in Jonathan showed in his eyes and the Dowager Countess of Abingdon reached for Jonathan’s hand and squeezed gently.
“This is for the best, Jonathan.” She smiled in an attempt to soothe him, but Jonathan did not answer. The carriage came to a halt then. They had arrived.
Chapter 2
Lavinia watched Amelia wince as the maid pulled the corset strings tighter. “Forgive me, miss,” The maid said as she tugged even harder. “But the master did say he wanted your figure to show to the best advantage today.”
When the maid finished with the corset, she helped her mistress into her gown and bowed out when she was dismissed.
“Are you in much discomfort, Amelia?” Lavinia asked with concern.
“This will be the least discomfort I derive from this day,” Amelia responded with a small smile to her former governess, who was now her paid companion.
Lavinia returned the rueful smile. She knew that this was Amelia’s last chance for a match. After two failed seasons, if she did not marry soon, Amelia would be deemed unmarriageable in the eyes of society. Lavinia remembered all the times she dried Amelia’s tear after yet another disastrous ball where the girl had sat at the edge of the room, her shoulders hunched, as she watched others dance and laugh.
The memories wrenched Lavinia’s heart. Not one of those noble snobs deserved the tears that Amelia had shed every time she was snubbed. But Lavinia could not voice this out loud for fear of being dismissed for speaking ill of her betters.
“Do you think I can finally succeed in turning a man’s head?” Amelia asked in a whisper. “I fear my limp will yet again be the cause of my failure. Why would this gentleman be any different from all the others that father has tried to buy for me?”
“Perhaps this one will be the right man for you, Amelia. Mayhap he will be kind and gentle,” Lavinia smiled as she reached up and tucked a brown curl behind Amelia’s ear.
“So, think not of what society deems a success. Rather, listen to your heart,” Lavinia said, laying her hand upon her own breast. She saw Amelia smile slightly, but there was no joy on her face.
“I fear the men of the ton do not listen to their hearts, nor are they kind.” Amelia replied bitterly. “I do not think the man you speak of will ever come or even exists.” Lavinia could feel Amelia’s sadness as small tears formed in her friend’s her eyes.
What Amelia said echoed through the deep recesses of Lavinia’s memories. She remembered when she once had the love of a kind gentleman, and in an instant, her thoughts wandered to Jonathan. She wondered if he had ever married, for if he did, his wife would surely be the object of envy. Knowing such a wonderful man existed gave her hope that Amelia would find one for herself.
“He will come.” Lavinia coaxed as she stared right through Amelia’s eyes. “The right one will love all of you, limp and all,” Lavinia said warmly with a smile that said she was sure of what she spoke.
“I hope so, one cannot wait for an eternity.”” Amelia said in a serious tone, knowing that the chances were slim.
“Or. . . Maybe I can, for it already feels like I have waited at least that long.” Amelia scoffed, and her eyes crinkled
Lavinia giggled and jokingly mocked, “Forever? You are still but a child.” She now saw laughter reach Amelia’s eyes and was pleased. Lavinia wanted nothing so much as to see Amelia happy.
After breakfast, Lavinia and Amelia and enjoyed themselves outdoors. They were in the middle of discussing a book in the library after luncheon when Amelia’s father, Viscount Marsham, approached them with swift steps.
“I come with good news.” Lord Marsham said to Amelia. He was a bit breathless, having trotted upstairs to find his daughter.
“Your betrothed’s carriage is approaching and will be at the door at any moment. Everything will soon be arranged for you.” Lord Marsham kept his gaze trained on Amelia as she slowly rose from her seat.
Amelia’s body shook, and she placed her palms flat on the table in front of her to steady herself.
“But what of my limp, Father? I am afraid he will take himself off as soon as he lays eyes on me,” Amelia said in a voice so loud and anxious that Lavinia softly reached for her hand to comfort Amelia. With a warm look at her, Lavinia gently smiled with eyes that conveyed all would be fine.
“There is no need for you to worry. I have everything arranged. This marriage is a business deal meant for the benefit of our two families. The Earl of Abingdon is in a bind, and he cannot take back his word. He will marry you, of that I am certain.”
The Viscount’s pronouncement struck Lavinia to her core. She sucked in a sharp breath as her mind reeled. Jonathan.
His name ran through her head over and over as her fingers became nerveless, and the book she held fell to the floor with a thud. The loud sound jolted Lavinia out of her careening thoughts.
Fearing that Amelia and her father might see the stricken look on her face, Lavinia apologized for her clumsiness and crouched down under the table to retrieve the book and gather her wits. She tried to slow her breathing and still her shaking hands.
How could fate be so cruel to bring her love back into her life only for him to wed her dearest friend and employer?
At that moment, the butler came into the room to inform Viscount Marsham that the Earl of Abingdon and his mother, the Dowager Countess of Abingdon, had arrived. The declaration was all too abrupt, and Lavinia jolted in surprise, catching her head on the underside of the table as she got to her feet.
Both Amelia and the Viscount looked at her quizzically before the Viscount said, “Capital. See that they are settled in the drawing room and given refreshments. I will be down directly.” To Amelia, he said, “Make haste to freshen yourself, Amelia. The Earl and his mother will be here for a few days, but I want you to make a good impression on them now.”
Amelia nodded, and the Earl departed on the heels of his butler. Lavinia searched her mind for any way she could keep from having to see the man she had jilted but still loved, but nothing plausible presented itself. When she saw that Amelia was still shaking with anxiety, she put aside her own worries and drew Amelia into a warm embrace.
“All will be well, Amelia. Just be your sweet self, and do not worry; all will be as it should be,” Lavinia said as she stepped back from her mistress.
Amelia nodded and straightened her spine. Just as she was going to ask Lavinia to escort her to the drawing room, Lavinia said, “Do forgive me, but I’m afraid there is a pressing matter I must attend to at once.” Before Amelia could utter a reply, Lavinia had fled the room.
As Lavinia walked to her room, she tried to compose herself and again attempted to think of a way, short of packing her things and fleeing the castle, to keep from seeing Jonathan. How could she meet him again as he was about to wed another?
Audrey gazed out of the window across rolling fields that ended with thick woodland. Soon, Hugh would emerge from that woodland and would make his way back to the modest home they possessed—though considerably less humble than the first home he had purchased for them.
The country—that was where she longed to be; in a place where she could taste the sweetness on the breeze, where she could wander for hours across the land that surrounded their home and not meet another human being. When they first moved in, she had gloried in its isolation, though things had changed in recent months, and she would return to their London home soon.
The bundle in the crib beside her bed, the reason for the change in circumstances, thrashed and gave a small cry.
“Oh, my love,” Audrey murmured, the stone floor cold under her feet as she swung her feet out of bed and cradled her daughter in her arms. “My Rosemary.”
Only a few days old, Rosemary was aware of few things except the most critical bodily functions. She had blue eyes that would likely fade to gray in time—at least, that’s what Bridget had said. Bridget had happily given up her life in London to care for Audrey and everything that being with child had meant.
In the distance, through the mist that swirled around him like a cloak, Hugh galloped toward the house on his horse.
“That’s your papa,” she whispered. “He will care for you and love you above all things.”
There could be no doubt of that, at least. Two years had passed since their wedding day—one she still held fondly in her memory—and Hugh showed no signs of regretting his youthful marriage or loving his wife any less than he ever had.
“Audrey,” Bridget said as she poked her head in through the door. “I thought I heard our little angel cry. What did I say about not straining yourself?”
Audrey turned and smiled. “I hardly think holding my daughter is straining myself.”
“And this early, too. You’ll catch your death by that window, girl. Come away.” With quick, imperious motions, she beckoned Audrey away and into the warmth of the room. “Why the maid hasn’t built the fire higher, I don’t know. Anyone would think she was trying to freeze you both to death.”
Knowing as she did that Bridget’s primary way of showing affection was to worry—at times unceasingly—Audrey merely smiled and allowed her mother-in-law to take Rosemary from her.
“I had not thought anyone could have such delicate hands and feet,” she remarked as she sat. Although she wouldn’t have admitted it, she was weak and tired, and taking the weight off her feet was a relief. “She’s so tiny.”
Bridget cooed into the bundle. “That she is, and she takes after her mama.”
“She may do so with the hair—it is fair, as you see, but time may change that.”
“Hugh was fair when he was a boy,” Bridget said with a fond glance at the window, though Hugh was nowhere to be seen now. “Of course, then it darkened.”
“I wouldn’t mind if she had Hugh’s hair—it’s such a lovely shade.”
Rosemary’s fretful cries threatened to turn into wails, and Bridget touched the tiny face with her fingertips. “I think she needs feeding, my love.”
“I’ll feed her.” Audrey held out her arms, and the weight of her baby was lowered into them—weight that seemed so slight as to be non-existent, though she already knew from experience that carrying Rosemary for any length of time grew to be wearying.
Rosemary’s eyes opened as she suckled, and Audrey stroked a finger along the baby’s silken hair. “I feel as though I could look at her forever.”
“The days feel long now, but they’ll pass sooner than you know it.”
Rosemary had been long enough in coming; there had been a time when, after an honest conversation with her mama, she’d wondered if something was wrong with her. Most women conceived within the first year, at least, and their marriage wasn’t barren of affection and physical intimacy—there could be no problem there.
But finally, God had bestowed them with a miracle that she could hardly look away from. Objectively, she knew Rosemary’s face was frequently red, her nose scrunched with alarming regularity, and her head was soft to the touch. When it came to her baby daughter, though, nothing could be objective; Rosemary was the sweetest angel that had ever walked this earth, and no matter how tired Audrey may be, she would always look at her child with the same overwhelming awe she’d felt the first time she beheld her.
Rosemary’s eyes closed, and Audrey handed her back to Bridget as Hugh’s quick step sounded up the stairs.
“I’ll leave you both to it,” Bridget said.
“Leave Rosemary here please, Mama.”
“Mind you don’t wake her,” her mother-in-law warned as she replaced the sleeping child in her crib and left the room just as Hugh entered it.
*****
When he had returned from war those two and a half years ago, Hugh could never have dreamed that before he was four-and-twenty, he would be a husband and father. A father. Even the thought sounded odd to him, an unfinished rhyme, a half-sung melody. Though he knew it to be true, he hadn’t yet accustomed himself to the idea.
And yet… it was the most wonderful concept. Fatherhood.
No—the concept was not the most wonderful: his daughter was. Rosemary Everett.
Audrey, in beauty that no amount of pain or sleeplessness could deprive her of, though shadows bloomed under her eyes and her face was pale, held out her arms to him.
“Is it as delightful outside as it looks?” she asked, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Your mother has warned me not to venture outside yet on pain of death, but I’m so sick of this room.”
“It’s my favorite room of the house.”
“You,” she said with a pointed look at the crib, “aren’t trapped here.”
He approached the crib with the same breathless reverence he used to approach the altar when a child, a hushed sense that he was in the presence of someone greater and more powerful than he. Rosemary lay tightly swaddled, her smooth cheek resting against the pillow. In that position, her tiny bottom lip curled in an adorable way.
“Isn’t she marvelous?” Audrey asked. “I keep pinching myself to convince myself I’m not dreaming.”
He glanced up at her with a smile. “Remember all the times she cries through the night? You aren’t dreaming that, my darling.”
“Oh, but when she looks at me with those perfect blue eyes—I hope they never change, though your mama thinks they will—all injuries are forgotten. I could forgive her anything when she looks at me as though I’m her whole world.”
“What about me?” he teased, returning to the bed where she sat. “Would you forgive me anything if I looked at you as though I’m your whole world?”
“I suppose it depends.” She tilted her head back and gave him a wicked smile. “Is that the way you look at me? Since our new arrival, I would hazard a guess that your affection has been split.”
“A new girl has caught my eye,” he said, very seriously. “She’s fair, like you, though she may darken in time. Demanding, too—I can think of few moments when she is content to be left. And I confess, sometimes all I wish is that I can hold her in my arms and never let go.”
“I suspected something of the sort.”
“And yet, despite her hold on my heart, I can never forget the woman who has resided there for the entirety of my life.”
Audrey smiled, a long, slow, sweet smile that made his heart, never content to merely sit in his chest, bound. “Could you imagine being this happy?”
“When I thought you would marry the Duke, I believed I could never be happy again. The same for when I was to marry Olivia—but worse, because it was through my folly that we would be parted, and not your affection for a gentleman.”
“Hardly your folly,” she said. “I received a letter yesterday, by the way.”
Jolted by the sudden turn in the conversation, he frowned. “A letter? From whom?”
“I wish you to read it.”
“Let me,” he said as she tried to rise. “Where is it?”
“The top drawer.”
He opened the drawer as commanded and found a letter there, folded with a broken wax seal. The handwriting was not familiar, but he had a sense of the past opening up and swooping into the present as he saw the signature.
“It’s from Olivia.”
“Yes,” she said. “Read it, Hugh, please. Tell me what I should think.”
My dearest Audrey,
Your mama informed me that you are expecting and are soon; perhaps you already have delivered as I sit to write this. Please allow me to offer my most sincere congratulations. I know a child will give you the final blessing you need to make your happiness complete, and I wish nothing more than your total happiness, though you may not believe me when you read it.
I have nothing to say about my past behavior except it was wrong, and there is no excusing it. I have known it and been ashamed of it for months now—perhaps even years—but until now never dared to approach you; your forgiveness, if offered, would be a balm to my wounded soul; your derision would be a torment, though more deserved. As you can imagine, these past two years have not been the easiest, although Henry and I also have the blessing of a child: a girl.
Please accept my most sincere apologies for the way I behaved. We can never be close again after my betrayal, and I accept that, but I hope we can at least be civil.
Yours,
Olivia Jones
Hugh reached the end of the page, written with a remarkably steady hand, and frowned. At the beginning of their marriage, he and Audrey had discussed Olivia until every tiny piece of her behavior had been unpacked, analyzed and put aside. They could have no explanation for her actions, and none was offered here, but they had also resigned themselves to never receiving an apology.
“What do you think?” Audrey asked anxiously. “When I first read it, I thought— I thought how she could have the gall to send me such a letter after she tried to destroy my happiness in every way? But can you think she means it? I swing from one thought to the next. Henry seemed a good man, in his way—could he have inspired these reflections? Could she genuinely have repented? And she has a child.” Since both pregnancy and birth, Audrey had been increasingly susceptible to tears, and they flooded her eyes now. “She has a child, Hugh, and I don’t know how to feel about that.”
“It’s hardly surprising that she has a child, as she was already expecting when she married,” he said.
“Of course not—and I know that truly I do—but see where she says that my mother told her I was expecting. Don’t you think it odd that she corresponds with my mother when Mama never told me anything about it?”
“After your past with Olivia, your mother likely didn’t want to bring anything up that might upset you.”
“She hurt us both, Hugh, in her relentless crusade to marry better than her Henry.”
“I know.”
“She hurt me, and she knew perfectly well what she was doing.”
“I know.”
“And now she asks for my forgiveness. Do I have it in my heart to forgive her?”
Hugh took both her hands in his, smoothing his thumbs over the back of her knuckles, until the trembling in her limbs eased. “Once, my father told me something, and I’m going to tell it to you now. When we forgive, it is not always for the sake of those who have wronged us.” At his words, she turned her gaze up to him, and he smiled. “Resentment and anger impede happiness,” he said. “You deserve to be happy, my darling. Don’t let Olivia or anyone else take that from you. Besides, whether she’s truly changed or not hardly matters—you can reply with charity and let the matter rest.”
“She was right about one thing—we can never be close now.”
“I should not want you to be.”
Audrey, his Audrey, reached out a hand to brush his face, and it was an effort not to lean into her touch. “Every day I marvel at you,” she murmured. “Thank you.”
A thin wail split the air, and she smiled ruefully at him.
“I suppose this is our reality from now on,” she said as she rose with a slight wince and lifted the child from her crib. Rosemary Everett, his daughter.
Hugh smiled at the charming picture Audrey made in the early morning sunlight streaming into the room. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
*****
Dear Olivia,
I received your letter hardly knowing how to respond—but let me begin at the beginning. Our daughter, Rosemary Everett, arrived into the world this Friday past, and we are exceedingly grateful to have her in our lives. I’m sure you must know the love that comes from children now if you also have a daughter, and it is with sincerity that I wish you and your family the best as you navigate motherhood.
Now for the more difficult part of the letter, the part I’m struggling to put words to. You offer me a sincere apology for your behavior and admit to fearing whether I choose to forgive you or not. The power now falls to me in deciding which route to take—and there was a time when I wondered if I could ever forgive.
But that time has passed, and although the bonds of friendship were severed by your actions, we are still cousins, and I will claim that relationship if you are ready to. For your sake and mine, I choose to let the past, with all its old hurts and grievances, die. So I free you from your worry of having incurred my wrath for all time; all is forgiven, and I am at peace.
Captain Hugh Everett startled awake by a distant shout. The gentle motion of the ship that rocked him to sleep had morphed into a violent sway that almost threw him from his bed. Immediately alert, the last vestiges of sleep banished by the adrenaline that sparked through his veins, he hurried to the window. The rounded glass was splattered with sea spray, the salt rendering details slightly more difficult to make out but in no way minimizing the roiling sky. Pillars of rain reached down to the thrashing waves, and Hugh was almost thrown back as the ship lurched.
Cursing, he stumbled out of his room and up onto the deck, where water sloshed across the weathered wood.
“Sailor,” he shouted, grabbing the closest man to him. Wilson, he remembered dimly—the man’s name was Wilson. “What’s the situation?”
“The Captain fears the ship will be capsized,” Wilson yelled back, straining to be heard of the roaring wind. His eyes, wide and filled with fear, darted to the crashing waves. The ship, large in the ordinary way of things, was tossed from wave to wave as a child might throw a toy—with utter carelessness. Hugh had never seen such waves before; they dwarfed the ship. “All passengers are to remain belowdecks, sir.”
Hugh knew he ought to return to his cabin, but every part of him yearned to stay on deck, though the risk of being swept away was significant if he remained. Another insistent wave grabbed at his legs as the ship tipped, and he seized a nearby rope for support.
“Captain Everett.” The ship’s mate, his face rugged from years in the sun and salt, glared at Hugh. “Get back to your cabin. Cap’n’s orders.”
Hugh’s feet skidded across the soaked wood as he staggered down the steps back towards his room. His belongings bounced from one wall to the other. If the bed hadn’t been fastened to the floor, that too would be flung across the room.
He sat on the edge of his bed and felt in his pocket for a now grimy blue ribbon. Once, it had been the pale blue of the morning sky, and he still remembered the way his youthful hands had closed around it for the first time.
Now, his hands were rougher and less youthful, though only a handful of years had passed since then. The ribbon had at first been a symbol of everything he couldn’t have; now, it was his good luck charm. One he needed today more than ever before. This was a storm of Biblical proportions, and though he’d never anticipated the sea being the thing to take his life, perhaps this was how he was meant to die.
Let me live, he prayed, holding the ribbon to his mouth—though to whom the prayer was directed, he couldn’t be sure. Let me survive this storm.
The ribbon still pressed against his lips, he closed his eyes and waited for the morning.
*****
Viscountess Arendale’s rose garden was exceedingly lavish. Audrey rarely considered herself fond of flowers, but one would have to be particularly hard-hearted—or perhaps blind—not to appreciate the beauty of these lush blooms. With a single gloved hand, she cupped the petals of the nearest rose and peered into its center. Blushing pink faded to a deeper, duskier shade that reminded her of the sky at sunrise.
Her mother, the Countess of Burdane, cleared her throat, attracting Audrey’s attention. “What do you think of Lord Talbot, my dear?” she asked, with a pointed glance at her daughter.
Audrey folded her hands in her lap. “Is he not a little young?”
Viscountess Arendale, who had been the one to put forward Talbot’s name as a potential bachelor in the upcoming Season, considered. “You may be right. He’s a fresh-faced boy, though you can’t deny he’s got a bit of his father about him—and his father was a popular man when he was in his prime.”
“I agree,” Audrey’s mother said, “but at his age, I hardly think he’ll be looking for a wife.”
“I’m looking forward to meeting the Duke of Dudlington,” someone else said. “I heard he’s on the marriage mart this season.”
The marriage mart. Audrey always hated that term, as though gentlemen and ladies were merely items on display to be chosen and purchased.
Her mother raised an eyebrow. “The Duke has expressed a wish to marry?”
“Did you not know?” Another young lady, with curls that looked altogether too uniform to be natural, leaned forward around the table. Her blue eyes danced from face to face until she was sure she had everyone’s attention. “I heard his mother tell Lady Sinclair that since his late father’s death, he believes it is time he sought a wife.”
Although Audrey’s mother was not so uncouth as to nudge Audrey, or indeed show any sign that she held anything more than polite interest for this particular piece of news, Audrey knew herself to be under scrutiny. She allowed herself a polite smile but nothing more. The Duke had been present at several events she’d attended, and she’d noticed his smoothness of address and dark eyes even before she’d noticed his title—although then she hadn’t known he was looking for a wife.
And now, in this exclusive group of ladies in which she was privileged enough to have a place, he had been deemed the most eligible bachelor of the Season. It was enough to make her heart flutter in her chest.
“Just imagine being courted by the Duke of Dudlington,” Lady Wraxall said, with a slightly mournful look. She’d married a somewhat older gentleman, last year. Although the match was said to be a happy one, and it had conferred greater status, there was no denying the Earl of Wraxall, in his forty-second year, was in no way as dashing as the Duke of Dudlington. “I rather think I’d swoon.”
Knowing her opinion was better kept private, Audrey merely kept her eyes down on her gloves, where the roses had left a smear of pollen. If she were given the opportunity to speak with the Duke, she rather suspected she wouldn’t swoon. Not that he was not as likely a candidate as any, but rather she had never been induced to faint and thought it unlikely that any man, no matter how handsome, could bring her to do so now. Swooning was reserved for ladies with weaker constitutions, and Audrey hardly felt herself to be a woman so overwhelmed by a man’s presence that she would faint at the mere sight of him.
*****
In the carriage on the way home, Audrey let out a sigh and leaned her head against the velvet seats. “It was such a shame Olivia couldn’t be here,” she said. “Her migraine came at an unfortunate time. She would have loved to hear all about the dashing Duke of Dudlington.”
“Yes,” her mother agreed absently. Audrey knew that look; it meant she was thinking of things beyond them in this carriage. “Although this information will hardly benefit her—after her first Season, I don’t think it’s likely she’ll attract the attention of the Duke, my love.”
Olivia Jennings, Audrey’s cousin, and her parents’ ward, had made an unsuccessful debut last season and her prospects looked unpromising this year. Audrey couldn’t give a reason for this lack of success. It was true Olivia’s complexion was not as smooth as she’d have liked—she did have a great many freckles—and her red hair was too brassy to be considered a more refined auburn. But neither of these things was such a great problem to Audrey’s mind. However, physical features and a rather unfortunate fashion sense aside, Olivia had a small dowry to her name and was sponsored by Audrey’s parents, the Earl and Countess of Burdale. Audrey would have expected Olivia to have at least found one suitor.
She glanced at Lucy, her lady’s maid, who gave a small, repressed smile. Later, she would confide everything she had learned about the Duke of Dudlington to Lucy, but now was not the moment.
Suddenly, carriage lurched forward, and Audrey was almost thrown from her seat. “What the—” her mother began, but with another sickening lurch, the carriage tipped.
Audrey braced her hands against the wall of the carriage as it tilted. Panic, red-hot and piercing, lanced through her, and she screamed as she slid down her seat into Lucy.
With a metallic groan, the carriage fell onto its side. With a thud that knocked the breath from her lungs, Audrey landed against the door. Her leg ached where the handle dug into her thigh. Partially underneath her, Lucy moaned weakly.
Dazed, Audrey looked at the door above her and tried to reassemble her world. Outside, a horse snickered, and male voices shouted.
She shifted off Lucy and turned to face the girl. Lucy’s face was unnaturally pale, and her eyelids fluttered.
“Are you all right?” Audrey struggled to keep her voice calm. “Lucy, are you hurt?”
“Only my leg, m’lady.”
“Can anybody hear me?” a voice called from outside the carriage. Low yet authoritative, it was the voice of a man who was accustomed to being obeyed.
“Hello?” Audrey’s voice was faint, and she pressed a hand to her throat. He had to hear her. He had to. “Hello? Can you hear me?”
“I can hear you,” the voice said. “Stay calm. Are you hurt?”
She glanced at her mother, who appeared shaken but unhurt. “I am unharmed, but my maid has injured her leg.”
“You there, help me right this carriage. There are ladies inside,” there are ladies inside.
Once again, Audrey braced herself as best she could. Her mother, a little more in possession of her faculties, took hold of the seat, and after an alarming creak, the carriage heaved back upright.
The door opened, and Audrey did her best to control her expression at the familiar dark eyes that faced her. The man who had saved them was none other than the Duke of Dudlington.
“Your Grace,” she said, scrambling her thoughts together. “That is to say—”
“My lady.” He bowed and offered her mother his hand. “Please, allow me.”
In nervous anticipation, Audrey waited as he handed her mother from the carriage and returned for her. His hand was warm and solid, wrapping tightly around hers as he helped her out onto the street. Their horses, two high-stepping bays that her father had personally purchased, had been freed from the crumpled remains of their carriage. They stood on the cobbles, snorting and tossing their heads.
“Thank you,” she managed as the Duke helped Lucy from the carriage.
“Yes, thank you, Your Grace.” Her mother, pale but finally in possession of her faculties, sank into a curtsy. “We’re most grateful for your assistance.”
“Oh—please excuse my manners,” the Duke said. “We have not been properly introduced. I’m the Duke of Dudlington at your service.”
“The Countess of Burdale,” her mother said. “This is my daughter, Lady Audrey Burton.”
Audrey curtsied, wishing she were anywhere but on a dusty street, her hair in disarray and with an imperfect hold on her composure.
The Duke bowed again to each of them. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Countess, Lady Audrey.”
“Delighted,” her mother repeated.
Audrey took in the surrounding devastation—her father’s carriage would not be fit to be driven again—and gasped at the sight of their coachman sat on the pavement, his head covered in blood. A man she did not know tended him.
“Not to worry,” the Duke said, following her glance. “Your coachman took a nasty blow to the head, but we were extremely fortunate to have Mr. Foster, a physician, passing by at the moment of the accident.”
“He will make a full recovery,” Mr. Foster said. Like her father, he had a full head of gray hair, and there was something so calmly reassuring about his demeanor that Audrey couldn’t help but relax. “If you ladies would wait just a moment, I would like to take the liberty of examining you as well.”
“Of course,” Audrey’s mother murmured.
The Duke removed his jacket and spread it across the pavement. “Please, sit.”
Audrey privately thought that a bit of street dust would hardly be a problem after being in a carriage accident. Still, Lucy was leaning increasingly heavily on her arm, and she helped lower the girl to the ground. Once sat, she realized her vision was spinning.
“As soon as Mr. Foster has finished examining you all; you must allow my carriage to take you home,” the Duke was saying, and her mother thanked him in enthusiastic tones.
Audrey swallowed. If the young ladies at Viscountess Arendale’s garden party could have seen her now, they would have been wildly jealous—and here she was, too dazed to truly appreciate the moment.
Mr. Foster approached and examined them each in turn. Audrey and her mother, as she suspected, merely had a few scrapes and bruises, but Lucy had sprained her ankle. Mr. Foster recommended she keep the weight from her leg for two weeks.
Once the examination was complete, the Duke politely led them to his waiting carriage. The Countess offered effusive thanks, and before they knew it, they were in the carriage he’d called for especially for them. He instructed his coachmen to drive exceedingly cautiously, bid them farewell, and they were off.
Audrey’s mother, her composure quite restored by the attentions the Duke, gave Audrey a significant look. “Well, my dear, that was a piece of good fortune.”
“The carriage overturning and Lucy hurting her leg?” Audrey said, her tone sharp. “I hardly think so.”
“Of course, it’s unfortunate poor Lucy was hurt. But I was referring to meeting the Duke in this way.”
“He was very kind,” Audrey admitted, “although I feel meeting him in a more conventional way might have been preferable.”
“Do you think so?” Her mother’s smile was enigmatic. “I think, my love, you have a little to learn about men.”
“Do you think him more disposed to like me now?”
“I shall be astonished if he doesn’t seek you out. Mark my words, Audrey—you have captured his attention. Now see if you can capture his mind.”
“And his heart?”
Her mother’s smile broadened. “If you have his attention and his mind, his heart will follow.”
Chapter Two
When Hugh opened his eyes, he was reassured to find the roof of his cabin intact above him. To his left, the window showed a clear blue sky and a calm sea—and in the distance, the London docks.
He had survived.
The blue ribbon was still clutched in his hand. Once again, it had brought him luck. For a moment, he sat on the bed staring at its familiar sheen, dimmed now from its years spent in his pocket.
“Here,” she said, laughing as she pulled the ribbon from her hair and handed it to him. “For luck.”
And luck it had brought him, though he hadn’t seen her in many years—and doubted he ever would again. Hugh certainly had no intention of reviving that particular friendship—his actions had destroyed it forever. Though he still believed his intentions had been honorable and correct, he would never forget the look in her eyes as he scorned her.
But now was not the time to be thinking of such things. Hugh rose and tucked the ribbon away, out of sight by his heart. For now, he would think of happier things: soon, he would be home and would see his mother again. That meant more to him than the murky memories of his past.
And they had won the war. Now was a time for celebration.
Fully dressed, he joined the other soldiers on deck as they pulled into London’s docks, and he embraced the sound of it—the sound of his home. After bidding goodbye to the men he’d considered his brothers during his three years at war, he made his way on foot back to his mother’s home. In his letters, he’d been deliberately vague to keep the precise date of his return a secret. He couldn’t wait to see the look on her face when she saw him again after all these years. At eighteen, when he’d left, he’d been a boy. Now, at one-and-twenty, with everything he’d seen behind him, he was a man.
His mother, Bridget Everett, lived in a modest townhouse in Cheapside. His late father had been a successful merchant, and although they hadn’t lived in a fashionable part of town, it was comfortable enough and provided for his mother’s needs. Since Hugh had achieved the title of Captain a year ago for saving the Duke of Dudlington’s younger brother—a feat he had considered in the ordinary line of duty and in no way worthy of acclaim—he’d been able to pay off the mortgage.
“Hugh?” his mother whispered as she opened the door to find him on the front step. At her face, creased with a smile even as tears sprung to her eyes, he grinned. “Oh, my Hugh—I didn’t know you’d be back so soon.”
He embraced her and rubbed her back with a rueful grin as she wept on his shoulder. “I must say I expected this to be a pleasant surprise.”
“Of course, it’s a pleasant surprise, you rascally boy. Come in, come in. I’ll ask Cook what we’ve got to eat, though heaven knows it’ll just be something plain. I live modestly, you know when there’s just me.” She pressed her hands to her face and sighed. “I wish your father could be here to see you now.”
Hugh’s smile tightened. His father had passed away while he was away at sea a year previously; his mother still wore her widow’s weeds. Although he’d decided not to embark on an official period of mourning now he’d returned, his father’s absence still grieved him.
Dinner was a small affair, marked most notably by the outflowing of his mother’s love towards him. “Few things have changed around here,” she said. “My biggest question is what you intend to do now you’re back.”
“Intend to do?” Hugh laughed. “Mama, I’ve spent the past three years fighting for our king and country. Haven’t I earned the right to a bit of rest?”
Her brows pulled together, and she glanced away. In the light of the flickering lamps, she looked older than she had when he’d left. The orange light highlighted the lines that framed her face and the cut of sorrow around her mouth that didn’t fade even when she smiled.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“There’s something you need to know. I’d hoped—but then that would be foolish. You’re so young. Wait here. I have something for you.”
Puzzled, Hugh remained in his chair as his mother hurried from the room and returned shortly with a sealed letter in her hand.
“As you couldn’t be there when your father—when he… He wrote you a letter.”
Hugh swallowed as he broke the seal. When his mother’s letter had arrived informing him his father had perished from typhus, he hadn’t thought he’d have another opportunity to hear from his father again.
How many nights he’d wondered what he would say if he had just a few minutes by his father’s bedside. How many conversations had he played through in his head?
How many times had he wished for a letter such as this to be in his hands now?
With his heart heavy, he read through the contents of the letter, which had been written by an increasingly shaky hand. Its contents were short and to the point.
My dear boy, The physician has informed me I have little time left, and so I take pen to paper—though you know I despise the process—to write to you. When I’m gone, your mother will be alone. When the war ends, and it will end soon, I ask you to consider the future carefully. Find a wife who will carry on the family name and bear you sons. Make your mother happy—it is her lifelong wish to see you settled, and I know you value her happiness beyond all things. It is my wish, too. War can bring you grief and pain; marriage will bring you healing. Trust me on this, son: marriage settles a man, and it’s the best way—nah, the only way to move past the devastation of war. Let it bring you and your mother stability, and let it, as I deeply hope it will, bring you the same joy my marriage brought me. I must go. By the time you receive this, I will be gone. Reflect on my words. I know you will make the right choice. Your loving father, Jacob Everett
Hugh lay the paper across the table and stared blankly at the opposite wall. He was one-and-twenty—hardly an age to be settling down.
Marriage had been so far from the question that he barely knew how to respond to his mother’s anxious inquiry about the contents of the letter.
“Read it,” he said briefly, pushing the missive and rising. “Father says I must reflect.”
“Oh, Hugh, you know your father—”
“And then,” he said, striding from the room, “I must prepare to marry.”
*****
Audrey toyed with her curls as she sat beside Olivia at dinner. Burdale Manor was filled with the most prominent members of the ton to celebrate her debut ball, many of whom she’d had occasion to meet at prior engagements. The Duke of Dudlington sat opposite her but one, engaged in conversation with Lord Rutledge, who spoke of little but foxes.
“… The best method of engaging in the hunt is to commit….”
The Duke glanced up and met her gaze before glancing away again, a small smile on his lips. Audrey’s entire evening had been consumed with those glances—they were never improperly long but frequent enough to assure her she dominated his thoughts.
And she had taken great care in ensuring she would. Lucy had practiced with the curling tongs until they had perfected the ringlets that framed her face, and her gown was of the finest silk. Just the color of the blushing roses in Viscountess Arendale’s garden, she had insisted a delicate pink would bring out the gold in her hair and highlight the color that so often suffused her cheeks. Once, Audrey had been embarrassed by how easily she blushed. Now, especially with the Duke looking at her so frequently, she embraced her propensity to blush. After all, a little color was becoming, was it not?
She turned to Olivia on her right. Unfortunately, her cousin had chosen a garish puce dress that, although exquisitely made, did little for her complexion or the ruddy hue of her hair.
“You’ve barely touched your food this evening, Livvie,” Audrey said. “Are you quite well?”
Olivia returned her concern with a sniff of disdain. “You worry too much.”
“You ought to eat something. The glazed apples are delightful. Would you not try some?”
“I told you—I’m fine.”
Audrey leaned back to her seat and glanced up in time to encounter the Duke looking across at her once again. Not for the first time, she had ample opportunity to appreciate the strong line of his nose and a rather fine chin one usually found on Greek statues. He really was beautiful, if beautiful were ever an epithet to be bestowed on a man.
After dinner, during which Audrey had been careful not to overeat, dancing could begin. Audrey’s dance card was nearly filled by nameless young men she had no genuine interest in. Still, to be popular was flattering, and she forced a smile at every infatuated head that came her way.
Until the infatuated head belonged to none other than the Duke of Dudlington.
As young ladies were wont to do, she’d been perfectly aware of everyone he’d spoken to, making a graceful loop around the room until he finally encountered her and Olivia. Olivia, perhaps knowing that the Duke would never approach her, moved a little to one side and gazed at the far wall with apparent rapt interest.
“Lady Audrey,” the Duke said, bowing over her hand. “What a pleasure to see you here looking so well.”
“Indeed, this is a rather less dramatic mode of meeting.”
“I cannot be sorry it was I who came across you that day, not another gentleman.”
Oh my.
Audrey’s heart fluttered in her chest, and her wretched cheeks bloomed with color again. “You flatter me, Your Grace.”
“Only as far as you deserve to be flattered. Would you do me the honor of this next dance?”
For a split second, Audrey glanced across to where Olivia lingered, her dance card resolutely empty. Not one gentleman had asked her to dance in the entire evening, and guilt rose in her stomach as the Duke took her gloved hand and led her out onto the dance floor.
“The Earl of Burdale has an estate in Yorkshire, does he not?” The Duke placed his hand, very correctly, on her waist. “It’s a beautiful part of the country. Did you enjoy living there?”
Audrey smiled at the recollection of diving across the estate with her spaniel, Peggy, in a very tomboyish fashion. “Very much so.”
“Aside from partaking in occasional carriage accidents, do you have any interests?”
“I love watercolor painting,” she said with perhaps more enthusiasm than was proper. “There was a lake on my father’s estate, and I used to paint there. Sometimes, flocks of geese would swim across, but in particular, there was a willow tree that… Oh, it was beautiful. I painted it at least twenty times.” She allowed herself a wry smile. “No doubt there’s a drawer somewhere at home stuffed with all my attempts.”
“Were there any you were pleased with?”
“The last, I believe, is accomplished enough I would not be ashamed of it.”
He smiled, and a shiver ran down her back to her toes. “If it should ever find its way to London, I should be glad to see it. While my artistic skills do not rate very highly, I collect paintings, and I have a keen interest in art. Watercolor, in particular.”
“If you expect me to believe—” she began, but a shriek interrupted her. The orchestra halted, the notes jarring, and Audrey turned to find Olivia lying on the floor surrounded by guests. Her stomach twisted into knots.
“Allow me through,” a gentleman said, breaking through the circle that had formed around Olivia. Audrey recognized him as Mr. Foster, the man who had happened upon them after the carriage accident. Her father called upon Mr. Foster after their mishap to thank the man for his assistance, and finding him to be quite the pleasant gentleman, had invited him to this evening’s ball.
“Padron me,” Audrey said, pushing through the guests until she was at Olivia’s side. Mr. Foster kneeled beside the fallen girl and waved smelling salts under her nose.
“Ah, there we go,” he said as Olivia’s eyes fluttered open. “May I have some assistance in carrying this unfortunate young lady to the parlor?”
“Of course.” Audrey’s father, the Earl of Burdale, turned to face the guests. “My ward has just become a trifle overheated,” he said, commanding attention in that effortless way of his. “She is well now. Please, let us continue with the dancing.”
Murmuring swept through the ballroom, but Audrey could barely hear it as her father lifted Olivia and carried her through into the parlor. So consumed by her cousin’s welfare, she didn’t even think to look for the Duke of Dudlington until it was too late.
