The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh: The Cavanaughs Volume 3

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Hmm.” Mary was frowning into her teacup. After a moment, she looked up and met Stacie’s eyes. “Is there any chance of you and Frederick converting the sham into a reality?”

  Stacie couldn’t stop herself from exclaiming, “Good God, no!”

  Sylvia tipped her head and regarded her assessingly. “Why not? You both seem to get along well with each other. You could do a lot worse.”

  “Does he have a preference for someone else?” Felicia asked.

  “Or do you?” Mary put in.

  Stacie frowned. “We haven’t discussed it, but I suspect he doesn’t—and I certainly don’t.”

  “Well, then,” Mary said. “There’s no reason to dismiss the notion out of hand.” When Stacie opened her mouth to disagree, Mary held up a staying hand. “You have to admit that he’s eligible—well, beyond eligible given the potential bride we’re discussing is you. He’s not only of suitable rank but possessed of wealth, standing, and charm, is as handsome as they come, and he’s a renowned pianist.” She arched her brows. “If I was constructing a gentleman to suit you, I doubt I could do better.”

  This was what Stacie had feared. She was going to have to put her foot down without actually explaining. “Whether we suit or not isn’t the point.”

  Mary looked faintly stunned. “It isn’t?”

  “No. In my case, the most important point is that I have no interest in marrying at all—not Frederick or anyone else.” She paused, seeing a lack of comprehension in the eyes of all three of her sisters-in-law, and reached for the one argument that might hold them off. “I understand that all three of you have found untold happiness with my brothers, and I’m happy for you—happy for that. How could I not be? But I hope that, in return, you can accept that marriage wouldn’t suit me—it’s not something I want, it’s not something I need.”

  She paused for several seconds, then less stridently, went on, “So the arrangement between Frederick and me will not be progressing, as most will suppose, to the altar.”

  Mary’s gaze hadn’t left Stacie’s face. Although plainly puzzled, Mary slowly nodded. “Very well. If that’s your decision, then, quite obviously”—she glanced at Felicia and Sylvia, and then at Ernestine, then returned her gaze to Stacie—“we’ll support you in whatever way we can.”

  Stacie knew a moment of utter relief. In such a situation, the support of her sisters-in-law would count for a great deal. She tipped her head to them. “Thank you.”

  Mary straightened. “So have you and Frederick any idea of how to bring your engagement to an acceptable end?”

  Stacie nodded. “We discussed it last night, after everyone else had left. His suggestion is that we behave exactly as the ton would expect of an engaged couple of our rank and that we keep up that façade until July. Then, while the ton is busy in the country, we’ll quietly let it be known that, sadly, we’ve decided we don’t suit.” She studied Mary’s face. “Do you think that will do?”

  Mary arched her brows. “That’s…really quite ingenious.” A second later, she met Stacie’s eyes. “It’s simple, yet effective. And yes, that will work. It’s hardly an unheard-of progression of events—engagements announced early in the Season have occasionally been rescinded come summer.”

  It was Felicia who asked, “As part of the charade, as it were, do you want Mary and Ryder to host an engagement ball?”

  “Good heavens, no!” Stacie couldn’t think of anything worse. She looked again at Mary. “Surely we can say that, given my age, Frederick and I would rather simply go on quietly?”

  Mary grimaced. “We can try that line. If he can restrain his family from pushing too hard, we might even be able to hold to it.”

  “I’ll speak with him, but he’s as much an unwilling captive to this situation as I am,” Stacie said. “Neither of us intended this situation to come to be—it was an unforeseeable accident that landed us in a compromising position just as others happened upon us.” She shrugged. “Announcing our engagement was the only viable way to avoid a scandal, but neither of us actually wishes to marry the other.”

  Mary considered her for several moments, then nodded. “Very well.” She glanced at the clock, then rose. “If you need support or help, send for us, and we’ll come running. But for now, I think we three should hie home and break the news to our other halves—before they get too carried away with the idea of your upcoming wedding.”

  “Thank you.” Stacie hadn’t been looking forward to telling Ryder, Rand, and Kit that her supposed engagement was a sham. “And you will make it clear to them that this is not in any way Frederick’s fault—that, in fact, it was the only way he could protect my reputation?”

  Mary grinned. “We will—I suspect that will be the most interesting part of our discussions.”

  Felicia and Sylvia rose as well, and with Ernestine, Stacie accompanied her sisters-in-law to the door, beyond which the larger Raventhorne town carriage sat waiting.

  When the horses clopped away, Stacie shut the door and turned.

  Ernestine was waiting to catch her eyes. “Are you sure you don’t blame me for bringing the ladies in and”—she gestured with both hands—“instigating this dreadful situation?”

  Stacie smiled, and for the first time that day, the gesture felt genuine. She grasped Ernestine’s hand and pressed her fingers. “It wasn’t your fault—it wasn’t you who made me fall, and you didn’t make Frederick try to catch me.” When Ernestine continued to look uncertain, Stacie added, “Neither I, nor Frederick, nor you, nor Lady Hernshaw, nor Mrs. Meethe intended any of this to happen. It was just…” She gestured.

  Ernestine nodded. “Fate. It was Fate. Yes, I see.” She paused, then added, “I believe I’ll lie down for a short nap before luncheon.”

  Stacie tipped her head. “I’ll see you at the table.”

  Leaving Ernestine climbing the stairs, Stacie made her way down the corridor to her private parlor. She paused on the threshold, eyeing the chaise, then closed the door, crossed the room, and dropped into one of the armchairs.

  She felt significantly more confident than she had earlier that morning.

  Her gaze shifted to the armchair Frederick had occupied. It didn’t take much imagination to conjure the image of him sitting there. The longer she studied the mental image, the more her resolution—her resolve never to marry and especially not him—hardened.

  Having come to know something of the man behind the mask—the pianist, the scholar, the nobleman prepared to arrange clothing for three young musicians not of his class—the very last thing she would ever wish to do was to set the stage for him to be harmed. Hurt. Emotionally tortured.

  Because no matter the situation, regardless of whatever happened, at base, nothing had changed—and nothing ever would. She was her mother’s daughter, after all.

  Chapter 7

  That afternoon at precisely three o’clock, Frederick halted his curricle with its team of matched bays outside Stacie’s house.

  He tossed the reins to his tiger, Timson, leapt down to the pavement, strode up the steps, and plied the knocker. He suspected he was in for a fight, but he was well-armed with arguments and felt confident he would prevail.

  The parlormaid recognized him and showed him into the drawing room. Too restless to sit, he stood by the window, watching his horses and the passing traffic.

  Stacie joined him moments later. “What is it?” she asked.

  He glanced at the door she’d left open, then walked across and shut it. He turned back to her and caught her eye. “Engaged, remember?”

  She pulled a face. “That will take some getting used to.”

  He nodded. “I’m aware. Apropos of that, I’m here so we can go driving in the park, that being one of those things that affianced couples are expected to do.”

  She looked pained. “Must we? We had twenty and more ladies call here this morning—we’ve only just caught our breaths.”

  He spread his hands in a what-would-you gesture. “You know the rop
es better than I, and we need to keep in mind that in order to make our eventual crying-off believable—meaning unremarkable and, therefore, unscandalous—we need to do everything required to signal to the ton that we are, indeed, happily engaged. We can’t afford to miss a beat and raise eyebrows and, ultimately, suspicions.”

  She pulled a face and sighed. “I know you’re right, but this seems an awfully steep price for both you and I to pay, all because of an innocent fall.”

  The result of which hadn’t been quite so innocent. He held back that observation and waited, his eyes on her.

  Eventually, she sighed even more deeply and turned toward the door. “Let me fetch my bonnet and cape.”

  He nodded and swung back to the window; he didn’t allow his lips to curve until she’d left the room.

  She returned several minutes later. By then, he was waiting in the front hall, the better to admire the teal carriage gown she’d donned; he wasn’t so enamored of her fashionable bonnet, the brim of which would interrupt his view of her face.

  She was carrying a military-style cape in a slightly darker shade of teal. When she stepped down to the hall tiles, he reached for the cape and held it for her. “Did you have any trouble with the ladies this morning?”

  “In truth, it was a trifle overwhelming—their curiosity was boundless. Indeed, I don’t know that Ernestine and I would have coped if it hadn’t been for Mary, Felicia, and Sylvia—they arrived and rescued us.” After tying the cape’s gold cords at her throat, she met his eyes and arched her brows. “Shall we?”

  He gave her his arm and escorted her out to his curricle.

  She took his hand and gathered her skirts, ready to climb in, then met his eyes. “Incidentally, as I intimated I would, I’ve told Ernestine, Mary, Felicia, and Sylvia the truth, and while we can be sure they won’t spread the news to all and sundry, I suspect my brothers will have heard by now.”

  “Duly noted.” He helped her into the curricle, then rounded the horses’ heads and took the reins from Timson. “Wait here until we return.”

  Timson saluted. “Yes, m’lord.”

  Frederick climbed to the seat, flicked the reins, and set the bays trotting.

  Stacie sat beside Frederick, and as they rattled along the cobbles toward the park, which lay beyond the end of the street, she complimented him on his horses and the comfort of the carriage, which even she recognized as being of the latest design.

  “I do like good horses and carriages,” he admitted with a half smile.

  She’d noted that little, private smile before; it was oddly endearing, imparting a hint of wistfulness to a face otherwise reminiscent of chiseled stone.

  They turned in to Park Lane and entered the park via the Grosvenor Gate.

  If she’d had a choice, she would have happily hidden away for the rest of the Season until summer rolled around and they could end their sham engagement, but he’d been right; they had to be seen doing the expected things, and if he could make the sacrifice, then she could do no less. It was, after all, her reputation he was seeking to protect with the fiction of their engagement.

  He set his horses trotting along the avenue and glanced her way. “I thought the evening went well. Our three protégés performed brilliantly—my peers were even more impressed than I had hoped they would be. I believe Protheroe will find himself dealing with inquiries of all sorts in the coming weeks.”

  Amid all the personal drama, the musical side of the evening had all but slipped from her mind. She recalled Felicia’s report and told Frederick about Rand and his investors intending to offer musical scholarships via the school.

  He nodded. “An excellent idea. I’ll speak to Rand when next I see him.”

  A hail reached them. A group of ladies and several gentlemen were standing by the verge; one of the gentlemen flagged them down.

  “And so it begins,” Frederick murmured and angled his horses to halt beside the group.

  Unsurprisingly, they were the principal cynosure of attention in the park that afternoon. They remained in the carriage, which Frederick moved along every now and then, and consequently, the crowd ebbed and flowed around them, with older ladies drawing up alongside in their landaus and barouches, while the younger crowd walked up to stand on the verge and chat.

  Having been born and raised within the ton, Stacie had no real difficulty dealing with the congratulations, comments—even the arch ones—and the many leading inquiries, primarily as to when the wedding would take place. To her relief, she realized that, despite what she’d interpreted as his liking for country solitude, Frederick, too, could hold his own in this sphere; she didn’t need to monitor his conversations with a view to rescuing him from some grande dame’s inquisition.

  What surprised her far more was that, after the predictable questions relating to their unexpected engagement, many—young, old, male, and female—moved on to comment on the musical aspect of the evening. Indeed, although many had not been present, their names not having been on the highly select guest list, with their eagerness to engage on the subject, they blatantly signaled a wish that they might be invited to attend her next musical evening.

  Despite the distraction of their shock engagement—or perhaps because of it—her musical evening had raised awareness of the existence of highly talented local musicians far more effectively than she’d thought possible.

  When Frederick steered his horses on to the next knot of well-wishers, she mused, “Given the many angling for invitations to my next musical evening, I might have to stage it at Raventhorne House—the reception rooms are much larger there.”

  Or you could hold it at Albury House, which has the best and largest music room in Mayfair. Frederick bit back the words; for her to stage an event in his house…even given her age and their now established partnership, even given their engagement, that could only happen if she was formally his hostess—ergo, his wife.

  As he drew the curricle up to the verge, he couldn’t resist asking, “Is the Raventhorne House music room up to scratch?”

  “Hmm. For most, I would say yes, but you…? You’ll have to play the piano there and see.”

  Another bevy of well-wishers converged on the carriage, and with appropriately bright smiles on their faces, he and she gave themselves over to accepting the breathless or hearty congratulations—he’d noticed congratulations seemed to come primarily in those two styles—and answering the usual questions.

  Because he was seated on the avenue side of the curricle, conversing with the older ladies who drew up alongside in their open carriages largely fell to him.

  Of course, many of those ladies, after grilling him, insisted on commanding Stacie’s attention as well. Several of those exchanges, conducted across him, contained what he now recognized as repeating refrains—of how much like her mother Stacie was, how her mother would have crowed at her success, how her mother must surely be spinning in her grave over not being present to exploit such a triumph.

  As the triumph referred to was Stacie having successfully—in ton terms—snared him, and the comments were, of necessity, exchanged across him, when he and Stacie allowed their eyes to meet, they were hard-pressed not to laugh.

  After one such blithely delivered comment, Frederick was forced to look down to hide his desperately compressed lips; he disguised the movement by drawing out his fob watch and checking the time.

  When Lady Foster finally instructed her coachman to drive on, Frederick met Stacie’s laughing eyes. “This outing has gone far better than I’d hoped, and we’ve been here for forty minutes—I suggest we cut and run while we’re ahead.”

  Her smile reached her lips and curved them, and she nodded. “Yes. Let’s call this a success, too, and leave.”

  He flicked the reins and steered the curricle on and out of the fashionable stretch.

  His compulsion to learn what lay behind her resistance to marriage grew stronger with every hour he spent in her company. He waited until they’d reached the straight section
of carriageway running parallel to the Oxford road, then, with his gaze on his horses’ heads, quietly asked, “Purely for my edification, is it marriage in general or specifically marriage to me that you’re so adamantly set against?”

  He’d intended the query to be light, almost flippant, yet even to his ears, a hint of uncertainty—a vulnerability he hadn’t until that moment known he possessed—shone through.

  She turned her bonneted head to look at him; he felt her gaze briefly search his face. Then she said, “My stance has nothing to do with you,” and he was shocked by the relief that slid through his veins.

  What have I got myself into?

  She drew breath and faced forward. “I’ve been set against marriage since before I left the schoolroom, so to answer your question, it’s marriage in general, the institution, that I’ve decided is not for me.”

  He debated the wisdom of probing, but eventually said, “Can I ask why?” A swift glance at her face showed her chin firming, and in an even, unthreatening tone, he went on, “It would help to ensure that I don’t tread on your toes during the coming months.”

  A frown formed on her face, and she didn’t immediately reply.

  He didn’t press but steered his horses out of the Cumberland Gate and around into Park Lane. She would answer, or she wouldn’t.

  They’d just made the turn into Green Street when she glanced at his face. “My reasons are…wretchedly complicated and highly personal and not readily explainable to others. However, I can assure you that I won’t change my mind.”

  He drew his horses to a halt outside her house and met her eyes.

  The expression in those stunning eyes was serious, even somber, but she put out a hand and lightly gripped his arm, and her lips curved up in an easy smile. “I appreciate that you are quite the catch, but you don’t need to worry that I’ll suddenly be seized by a desire to be a marchioness and press to make our engagement a real one.”

  I wasn’t worried about that.

  The words burned his tongue, yet as much as she couldn’t explain her stance, he couldn’t explain his, either—indeed, in that moment, he wasn’t even sure what his ultimate goal was.