A Reluctant Courtship Page 8

But what about a peer’s brother, who said he had been out fishing all night?

  7

  Honore tossed aside the sheaf of papers before her and stalked to the library window. If she did not find something more exciting in her life, her heroine’s adventures would end up as boring as her creator’s life.

  “Did the cliff scene not come out right?” Miss Morrow asked from the depths of a wingback chair before the fire, where she curled up with a book.

  “Worse than not all right.” Honore glared at her reflection in the glass.

  Every time she tried to write the villain pulling the heroine off the cliff so he could persuade her he was indeed a gentleman, she saw Lord Ashmoor’s face. He was certainly not a villain. He had been kindness itself to her, and she repaid him by suggesting she might pattern her villain after his father.

  She had not seen him since. He had avoided her on Sunday and, after service, walked off with the Devenish party.

  “The soirée must have gone well,” she murmured. “I suppose I am missing other gatherings here in the county?”

  Miss Morrow said nothing.

  “You know, do you not?” Honore pressed.

  Miss Morrow sighed, and her book closed with a dull thud. “You were not invited to the Babbages’ dinner Friday evening either. There was dancing afterward, and some unkind talk about Lord Ashmoor—behind fans, of course—because he claims he cannot dance.”

  Honore could teach him. She was an excellent dancer.

  “It did not advance his suit with Miss Devenish, as that Coleman boy monopolized her time.”

  “They looked close enough on Sunday.”

  The day had been cloudy but not yet raining, so no heroics of carrying maidens over puddles had been necessary.

  Honore shivered at the memory of his arms cradling her the previous Sunday—their closeness, the easy dialogue—until she forgot entirely that he was the son of an accused murderer.

  “Why,” she demanded, beginning to pace around the room, “is he accepted in this county despite his father’s reputation, but I am shunned like a leper?”

  “I need not answer that, Miss Bainbridge. You already know.”

  “Yes, of course.” Honore rested her hand on the latch of one of the long French windows that opened like a door for easy access onto the terrace. “I ruined my reputation all on my own.”

  “And do not have a title and twenty thousand a year.” A cynical note in her companion’s voice snapped Honore’s head around.

  “Miss Morrow?”

  She shrugged and bent her head over her book. “Men fare better in this world, Miss Bainbridge. Were I a male relative of Lord Whittaker’s, I could have asked him for work in one of his mills. I could learn the spinning and weaving trade and perhaps gain my own mills eventually. As it is, I have nothing. No trade, not a great deal of education—not enough to get me work as a governess or teacher—and fewer hopes of marrying with each passing year.”

  “But I thought you and—well, you and Mr. Chilcott appeared rather friendly even this past Sunday.” Honore smiled. “And Mr. Tuckfield finds excuse after excuse to seek us out. Do you think that is for my sake? He needs none of my advice or approval for work on the estate.”

  Miss Morrow blushed. “Perhaps I am too particular, but Mr. Tuckfield is at least twenty years older than I. If I survive what few childbearing years I have left, I could end up a widow with no means of support.”

  “And here I am concerned about not being invited to parties that would have bored me anyway.” Honore flung herself onto a chair across from Miss Morrow. “At least if I never overcome the scandals I have caused, my brother or one of my sisters will always take care of me. I will always have a home.”

  Miss Morrow said nothing, just stared down at her book.

  “And you will always have a home with me,” Honore added. “But a home of your own is far better, is it not?”

  “One can always be relocated even amongst relatives,” Miss Morrow said.

  Despite the fire only a half dozen feet away, gooseflesh rose on Honore’s arms. Her companion was precisely correct. Already in the past nine months, she had been shuffled from Lydia’s to Cassandra’s to Bath, back to Lydia’s, and now to Bainbridge with someone paid to be her companion, her friend—her watchdog, in truth.

  “I never thought of the consequences of what I was doing when I insisted I could go where I pleased, even to those gaming establishments in London . . .” She covered her face with her hands. “No wonder cousin Barbara is so fierce about staying with Mama and no one else. She is getting quite old and has no other prospects or home.”

  She had made Honore’s life in Bath so miserable, Honore had written Lydia and begged her for hospitality. Lydia would never turn Honore down, had not last spring, and her husband was charming and kind. They did not intend to cut Honore out of their lives; they simply did not need her presence. Glances, smiles, a touch on one another’s hands—all conveyed the impression they wished everyone else would go away. And Cassandra and Whittaker! Honore’s ears grew hot at the memory of the way those two looked at one another.

  More than embarrassing, though, the love, the adoration, and—dare she say it—the passion they so obviously felt for one another left Honore feeling hollow inside. Twice she had thought herself in love. Twice she had been wrong—wrong about her future plans, wrong about love, wrong about the man she chose. Next time she would wed for practical reasons—home, children, security. And feel none of the excitement around her spouse that her sisters so obviously experienced around theirs.

  She leaped to her feet again. “Oh, why is it gone so dark already? I want a walk.”

  “Please, do not. With these prisoners escaping, it is surely unsafe outside at night.”

  “It is unsafe outside. It is dull as ditch water inside. I am a pariah in my own neighborhood with persons I have known all my life. If Papa were here . . .”

  “You would be wed to Lord Ashmoor, I am thinking.” Miss Morrow smiled.

  “No, I think not. He would have learned by now that I am a scandalous miss and withdrawn from the agreement.”

  The thought of which served to increase the lump of lead settling around her middle.

  Miss Morrow shook her head. “I think not. He would never dare to defy your father. Nor would he go back on the contract and risk suit for breach of promise.”

  “Married by coercion. Not a good way to start a life together.” Honore took two turns around the library, drew the curtains against the drab evening sky, rearranged books on the shelves so they lined up more precisely, and stared at her own writing on the top sheet of foolscap upon the desk.

  “Help! Help! Help! Someone, please help me! I am going to die!”

  “What twaddle. I did not cry such nonsense.” She snatched up the page and tossed it into the fire. “I think I could barely speak, let alone shout such banal words. I was too occupied trying to figure out if I dared bargain with God to save me.”

  “Yes, bargaining with God . . .” Miss Morrow thumbed the pages of her book. “I do not think that works. I am no longer convinced praying works, if it is not too disgraceful of me to say so.”

  “Not to me it is not.” Honore pushed aside the curtains so she could open one of the windows to a blast of cold but dry air. “Grab your shawl. We can surely walk in the garden. That way we can discuss this topic without one of the servants overhearing us.”

  Miss Morrow went upstairs to do so, returning in a few moments with cloaks instead of shawls. “It is rather windy out there,” she explained.

  Bundled in the heavy cloaks, hoods drawn up to protect their hair, they crossed the terrace to the garden. Most of the plants slept for the winter months. The herbs had gone to seed and lost the pungency of their freshness—thyme and lavender, rosemary and mint.

  Honore plucked a sprig of the latter, still pale green in the shelter of the wall, and rubbed it between her fingers to release its sweet, sharp fragrance. “I thought I was the only one
who felt that way. My sisters are so strong in their faith, and I have tried, but I make so many mistakes I think God no longer listens to me.”

  “I think He has grown tired of me.” Miss Morrow curved her shoulders inward. “I have prayed for a husband since I was fourteen.” She hesitated. “I turned thirty last week.”

  “And you did not tell me? Miss Morrow, why ever not? I would have bought you a gift and had a little celebration.”

  Miss Morrow snorted. “It is nothing to celebrate. When I knew I was old enough to be your companion, I knew myself beyond the pale for matrimony or any hope of a home of my own. But do not mistake me”—she touched Honore’s arm—“I am grateful—no, better than grateful. I am quite happy to be with you here. The house is comfortable, the countryside beautiful. And you do not at all need looking after, as I was warned you would.”

  “Looking after? Like I am a child?”

  “More like you are reckless and headstrong and apt to create scandal.”

  “Bah.” Honore dropped her sprig of mint onto the path and ground it into the crushed stone with the toe of her slipper. “There is my sister Cassandra, happily a countess when she and Whittaker . . . The least said about their behavior, the better. And Lydia a wife and soon a mother and gotten up to all sorts of things she will not talk about. Whereas all I did was fall for the wrong men.”

  “A traitor and a murderer, my dear.”

  Two stings of truth all the worse for being spoken in Miss Morrow’s soft voice.

  Weep or run shouting through the orchard to the cliffs—anything would do to release the knot twisting up her insides like a clockwork doll’s spring. Another turn of the key and she might explode into a thousand pieces.

  “That is why his lordship will not wed me, is it not?” she said in an admirably calm voice. At least she admired her own calm. “He could happily do so when I had my father’s support behind me, but my brother will not do the same, so Ashmoor needs someone sweet and insipid and honorable like Miss Devenish.”

  “That is what your maid reports to me.”

  “My maid reports to you, not to me? Does no loyalty remain?” Honore increased her pace, welcoming the power of the wind trying to push her backward. “Then it will serve him right if I persuade him he cannot live without me. And you can then have Mr. Chilcott, as I will take you with me, of course.”

  “You are too kind. But when I made the suggestion, I did not realize his lordship was set on Miss Devenish.”

  “They are not engaged yet.” Honore stopped in the center of the path and held out her arms so her cloak sailed around her like the wings of an enormous bat. “If God is going to ignore our prayers for husbands and homes of our own, I will take matters into my own hands and find them myself—for both of us.”

  “As much as I like your notion and encourage it . . .” Miss Morrow hugged her arms across her middle. “Is that not tempting fate?”

  “Do you want to live in genteel poverty the rest of your life?”

  “No, but—” She turned with Honore at the sound of a shout from the house.

  Soames, the butler, stood on the terrace waving a letter. “Special messenger.”

  “One of the babies has come!” Honore broke into a run.

  “Miss Bainbridge, dignity,” Miss Morrow admonished.

  Honore bounded up the steps and snatched the letter from Soames. “I shall read it here. No, not enough light.” She retraced her steps to the library, slitting the wax seal with a thumbnail before she stepped through the French window.

  But it was not from one of her sisters announcing the safe delivery of a baby.

  “It is from Lord Bainbridge.” Her throat tightened so badly she could scarcely tell the two people who entered the house behind her. “He is engaged and bringing his fiancée here to the house with her mother for a few weeks.”

  “That is wonderful,” Miss Morrow said with a little too much enthusiasm. “We can give our own parties, and no one will dare refuse despite your presence.”

  “No, they will not need to concern themselves with my scandalous presence.” Honore raised her head to look at her companion but could not see her face for a blur of tears. “He has asked me to vacate the house during their visit.”

  8

  Considering what had happened less than a fortnight earlier, standing on the edge of the cliff was not the wisest action Honore had taken of late. Considering she did so near midnight was even more foolish. Considering the contents of her brother’s letter, first sleeping had proven impossible, then remaining inside the house, then pacing around the grounds where any servant glancing out a window could see her. They could see her from the upper floors, but none would guess a lone figure perched on the north edge of Devonshire was Miss Bainbridge. She could be foolish—she had been foolish—but going to the cliff in the middle of the night exceeded many of her other exploits.

  Her brother had told her to vacate the house.

  Just for Deborah’s visit. Once we are gone, you may return and stay as long as you like. Deborah has no interest in living in the country. She simply wishes to see my principal seat and meet the local people.

  Namely Lord Ashmoor?

  “What sort of baroness doesn’t want to live in the country at least part of the year?” Honore had demanded. “A cit?”

  Miss Morrow had hunted up Debrett’s Peerage and found the lady’s ancestry. Her father was Lord John Dunbar, second son of the marquess of Gilderoy. It was impeccable lineage. It was financially lucrative. She was the only child of a man who had done well for himself despite being a younger son.

  “The impeccable heiress,” Honore dubbed the young lady.

  She doubted she would like her. She definitely did not like her brother, though they had always gotten on well. He was more Cassandra’s peer with them only a year apart, but he was only two years Honore’s senior, and they had seemed to have a comfortable relationship. He had been happy for her to take over Bainbridge, relieving him of the duties of the estate so he could pursue other matters in town.

  “You said you were concerned about the wars!” Honore shouted the words into the wind trying to push her back from the edge of the cliff. “You lied. You were wife hunting.”

  He was young, but he needed a wife and heir. Marrying now was a wise choice. But he did not have to abandon his sister, send her out of the house as though she carried a terrible disease.

  Tears stung her eyes. She wished she could blame the wind. She had already wept far too much since receiving Beau’s letter. Abandoned, pushed aside, just like she and Miss Morrow discussed.

  More proof that God was not listening to her prayers for . . . well, whatever she was praying for—a husband, a family, a home of her own. She did not want to live in a cottage on the land, a house small enough even Lord Ashmoor would consider it a hovel, writing her Gothic novels, raising cats, and waiting for the next quarter’s allowance to restock her larder if she miscalculated and ran short.

  “Miss Morrow is right—I need a husband.”

  She began to pace along the cliff, watching her feet as far as she could see them by starlight. Lord Ashmoor would never come along to rescue her from dangling off a cliff in the middle of the night. No one in his right mind was around in the middle of the night. Even fishermen were either tucked up in harbor or well out to sea. On a night with this kind of a gale, they would tuck themselves up in harbor.

  Except a boat did struggle out to sea.

  Honore caught a flash of light from the corner of her eye. She paused and looked toward the sea. The light flashed again, a lantern winking on and off, on and off, like a blinking yellow eye.

  She paused, one hand raised to shield her eyes from the wind. If she squinted, she could see the craft, no more than a silhouette against the phosphorescent glow of the waves. It appeared to be what was typical locally—a single-mast fishing smack. Either it was taking on water or the vessel was in such poor trim the whole rigging listed to one side.

  It w
ould be taking on water in the kind of seas rolling down the Bristol Channel.

  Honore was running toward the only path to the shore before she realized her intentions. Slipping, sliding, clinging to the striated rock wall beside the path, she did not stop until she was halfway to the water, close enough for spray to reach her, to brush her face like icy, ghostly fingers. Where the path turned, she hesitated. She could do little to help. Though Bainbridge possessed a boat, she was not capable of taking it out herself in such weather to effect a rescue. The closest thing she could do there on the beach was pull any survivors out of the water. She was better off running back to the house for help. By the time she reached Bainbridge, though, the smack would have already sunk and the sailors drowned.

  A tiny cove sheltered the boat no Bainbridge had taken out for over a year, probably not since Honore’s last foray onto the sea for a clandestine early morning fishing excursion with the daughter and son of the Bainbridge head groom. One of the gamekeepers sailed it to keep it in trim and for some fishing, so it bobbed and swayed at its mooring behind an arm of rock sheltering it from the worst of the wind-tossed waves. Figuring it would carry ropes at the least, Honore grasped the mooring line and tried to draw the craft close enough to the land for her to climb aboard. She did not possess enough strength. The water tugged the craft in one direction, and she tugged it in another. Her feet slipped on the wet planks of the dock, one foot going far enough for the toe of her slipper to peek over the edge. With a cry, she released the line, stepped back, and ran into something not solid enough to be the cliff side, surely too solid for a human.

  An arm closed around her waist, steadying her. Definitely a human, warm and strong and . . . Her nostrils flared. She recognized the scent of something like a sun-drenched forest now mixed with the tang of salt spray.

  “What are you doing down here?” she demanded.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” Lord Ashmoor responded. “Doesn’t seem the kind of place for a lady at any hour, let alone this one.”

  “This is Bainbridge land.” She tried to inject a note of haughtiness into her voice.