"And in many ways you still are. Only a child would not consider every facet of this proposal."
"I know I have to marry but isn't there someone else, someone—"
"Someone who will bore you to death? Someone who will gamble away your father's money or beat you into submission?"
Keely's cheeks colored. "No," she said quietly. "Just someone who lives in London. Someone who will let me continue my life as it was with my friends, people of my own class. I expected to marry an educated gentleman, a man with some couth."
"We all grow up, Keely. Brock is a good man who could make you very happy."
"I could never be happy here in the colonies. Besides, he's arrogant."
Gwen nodded, nibbling on a slice of peach. "He probably is, but what man isn't?" She paused for a moment. "Lloyd is in a hurry to have this done, be it Brock or someone else. Your uncle won't force you, but there will be a wedding shortly and you may not like his next choice any better."
"So what you're saying is that I really have no choice." Keely's eyes grew moist and she brushed at them.
Gwen lowered her lashes. "No. Not much. The only other suitable man would be Lord Calvin in Essex."
"Lord Calvin!" Keely uttered in amazement. "The man is sixty-two years old!"
"He's a cousin by marriage to your Uncle Lloyd, a wealthy man in his own right."
"He's deaf! I can't marry him!"
Gwenevere shrugged. "Then you'll marry my son."
Keely covered her mouth with her palm, muffling her words. "I can't believe you're doing this to me . . ."
"It's not to hurt you, dear. You have to believe me when I tell you that I honestly think you will be happy here with Brock. He's half in love with you already. Your love for him will come in time."
"Love?" Keely laughed bitterly. "Me? I think not."
"Then you're a fool." Gwenevere returned her attention to her peach.
For several minutes Keely was silent. She listened to the buzz of the bees in the garden and the sound of laughter in the summer kitchen. The sun was hot on her face. She turned into the cool breeze, away from her aunt. Tears dried on her face. "He said he wouldn't marry me."
Gwenevere looked up. "He'll reconsider."
"Because of my money?" Keely asked numbly. She couldn't believe they were forcing her to marry that heathen savage!
"Yes, partly, but also because he likes you. The two of you have so much in common. You said yourself he plays chess as well as you do."
"Better," she admitted with defeat. "He ignores me mostly and when he does speak he calls me little English cousin." She sat down on the bench beside her aunt dejectedly. "He's a traitor to the Crown."
Gwenevere nodded. "That is my greatest concern. If the union is to take place, you must keep yourself out of this conflict. No matter what happens, you must remain neutral."
"What if they hang him? He could drown at sea. What then?"
Gwenevere shrugged good-naturedly. "Then as a widowed woman you may return to London to live with me."
"I want to go home with you now. I don't want to live here." Nervously, she jingled the household keys she wore attached to a narrow cloth belt around her waist. "If I must marry, couldn't you find me a younger English husband?" she pleaded desperately.
"This was your home first. Have you no recollections of this house?"
Keely frowned, looking off into the distance. "Oh, some. I remember Papa, I remember a cat who had a litter of kittens in the garden. I remember the parties at Christmastide."
Gwenevere looked up. "They say that if you're colonial born, it runs in your blood. They say you can be happy nowhere else. It's true enough with Lloyd and Brock."
"Well, it's not true with me. I don't belong here, not with him. I miss my friends and I miss my home in England."
"When you're older, Keely, you'll realize you've made the right choice." Gwenevere took Keely's hand. "Tell your uncle you'll agree to the match."
Keely sighed. "Maybe I'll get lucky and they'll hang him . . ."
Chapter Five
Keely stood at a window that looked out over the gardens, laughing at Gwenevere and Blackie's mock tennis game. Gwenevere cursed, stomping her feet as she waited for Blackie to toss her another ball. She was dressed outrageously this morning in Turkish pantaloons and a wide-brimmed straw bonnet.
One of Aunt Gwen's passions was tennis. She said she refused to let her game go to hell while she was in these godforsaken Colonies, so each morning she went out into the garden, a servant in tow, and had balls tossed to her so that she might practice her swing. It was a comical sight, with Aunt Gwen racing back and forth in her silk pantaloons over a bed of mint and Blackie running to retrieve the leather balls.
Spotting Keely in the window, Aunt Gwenevere waved her racket, then swung hard. The leather ball hit the catgut with a resounding crack and Keely ducked as the ball came flying in the open window and hit the plastered wall. It bounced aimlessly down the hall as Lloyd stuck his head out of his office.
"Is she at it again?" he asked, feigning irritation.
Keely bit back a chuckle. "She tells me her game is improving, but I'm not so sure."
"Well, come in here, kitten, before you're beheaded. I want to talk to you anyway."
Keely stiffened. "If it's about Brock, I don't want to hear it. You know what I think of your proposal."
"Well, you're going to hear it, so get your tail in here," Lloyd chided.
Keely's eyes grew wide with surprise and Lloyd softened. "Amuse an old dying man and hear me out. I give you my word this will be the last I'll say on the subject."
Keely came slowly down the hall. She didn't want to talk about Brock with Uncle Lloyd or anyone else, but she couldn't deny her uncle's request. He was too dear to her; he reminded her too much of her own father.
Closing Lloyd's door, she leaned against the polished wood, her hands tucked behind her back. "Well, speak if you must. Everyone in this entire household thinks we should marry—everyone but Brock and I. There are no secrets in this house," she scolded. "First it was Lucy telling me what a catch he is and then last night Ruth asked me what I wanted served at the wedding party."
Lloyd sat down in a chair near the small fireplace. "We just want what's best for you. We want you to be happy."
"If you think marrying that man will make me happy, you're wrong."
Lloyd leaned back in the chair, folding his hands neatly in his lap. "I didn't think you to be a woman of prejudices. Perhaps my wife did not bring you up to be the young lady I had hoped."
Keely lowered her head, shaking it. "It's not just that, it's everything." She looked up. "I'm a loyal English subject, Uncle, and England is where I belong. I want to go home."
"Why are you so opposed to this union?"
"He doesn't even like me! We could never get along. He's a traitor," she spit.
"If it's wooing you want, rose petals and silly poems scribbled on sheets of perfumed paper, you'll not get them from Brock."
"I'm not that naive," Keely flared. "But I want to marry a man I can respect. I've no respect for someone who has betrayed his King!"
"Does that mean you have no respect for me?"
Keely looked up. "No, of course not."
Lloyd forced his face to harden. "Then out of respect for me and your aunt you will marry Brock."
"That's it? My unwillingness means nothing?"
"Keely, Keely, dear, don't be so serious! You've been reading too many of your aunt's romantic novels." He felt for his pipe in his waistcoat. "Oh, granted, there are men who will play those games, men in England with nothing better to do with their time, but you'll not get that here. What you'll get here in these United States is honesty, hard work, and undying loyalty. Brock is no powdered, wigged gentleman, but he would come to love you with all of his heart."
"Yours was an arranged marriage. The two of you were never happy."
"We were young and foolish. I take full responsibility for the failure of tha
t marriage. I was too busy with my work to make Gwen feel welcome." His eyes grew misty and he looked away. "I was too occupied with the shipping business to help ease the pain of the loss of the man she had loved."
"But 'tis done now," Keely said softly.
Lloyd turned back to her. "Yes, it's all in the past now, but I'll tell you, if I had it to do over again, I'd never have let her go. I'd have made her stay here. I'd have made her love me."
"But she loves you now, Uncle Lloyd."
He shook his head, glancing on the table. "Have you seen my pipe? No, now I'm an old man. It's not the same love, not the love we could have had. Nothing can change those years of loneliness."
Spotting the pipe on Lloyd's desk, Keely crossed the room to retrieve it. "Here 'tis."
Lloyd took Keely's hand in his. "Please, kitten, say you'll marry him. You'll not regret it in the years to come."
Keely studied her uncle's wrinkled face. "The decision has already been made," she said with defeat. "Why do you need my consent?"
"I want no tears on your wedding day. I want you to accept what we think is best." He squeezed her hand then suddenly released it, wincing with pain.
Keely's face became a mask of concern. "What's the matter, aren't you feeling well?"
"No, no." He waved a hand. "I'm quite fine. I just want this matter to be done with. I want your permission to cry the banns."
A knock at the door interrupted them, and Lloyd nodded for Keely to open it.
"Mistress Keely"—Lucy bobbed her head—"there's a gentleman here to see you."
"Me?" Keely looked to her uncle. "Who would be here to see me?"
Lloyd chuckled, lighting his pipe. "Go and see why don't you."
"It's Master Micah Lawrence from Fortune's Find, mistress." A sassy smile played on Lucy's lips.
"Fortune's Find?"
Lloyd sucked on his pipe. "A large plantation east of here. He's a friend of Brock's."
Keely rolled her eyes, turning back to Lucy. "Very well, tell Master Lawrence I'll be pleased to receive him in the parlor."
"Yes, ma'am." The serving girl dipped a curtsy and turned to go.
"And Lucy . . ."
"Yes, mistress?"
"Try to keep your hands off my guest, will you?"
Lucy grinned, shaking her head. "Oh, no, I'd not lay a finger on him." She winked at Lloyd. "But you wouldn't mind if I ogled him a bit, would you?"
"Out with you!" Keely ordered.
"Yes, mistress."
Keely shook her head as Lucy went down the hall. "You really are too lax with them, Uncle. That one's going to find trouble with her loose ways."
"She's harmless enough. Now go on and attend to your guest. I want to have these legal papers drawn up immediately." He looked up at her. "Now I want no vapors and no fits. You go to your bridegroom with dignity."
"Do what you must," Keely conceded. "I'll not embarrass you." She stared at her uncle for a moment, her face frozen in unhappiness, and then she let herself out of the office, closing the door behind her.
Smoothing her dimity skirts, Keely's hands went to the knot of hair at the nape of her neck. Patting her unruly auburn tresses, she glided into the parlor. She wouldn't let herself think about Brock right now, because if she did, she knew she'd go mad. "Master Lawrence?"
Micah rose up out of his seat, coming forward to take Keely's hand. "Mistress Bartholomew, please excuse me for coming without being invited"—his lips brushed the back of her hand —"but Brock has spoken so fondly of you that I had to come see you for myself."
Keely smiled, looking up at the handsome stranger as he released her hand. This was the first friendly face she'd encountered since her arrival. "Oh really, that surprises me. My cousin, you say? Please sit down." She indicated with a hand. "I've called for tea—good English tea."
Micah lifted the tails of his finely tailored coat and sat down. "English tea? I'm surprised you could find such an amenity in this household. It's illegal here in Delaware to trade for English goods, you know."
She sat down in a high-back upholstered chair just opposite Micah. "Oh, there wasn't a leaf to be had before we got here, but it was one of the first things my aunt insisted on when we arrived—good English tea. She told Uncle Lloyd that she didn't care what he had to pay for it or who he had to pay, she wanted tea. Brock was furious."
"So my dear friend is drinking English tea now, is he?" Micah grinned. "I should think his acquaintances at the King's Head tavern would like to hear that."
"Oh, no. Brock won't drink it himself. When he has tea with us, he's brought a separate pot of herbal stuff." She studied her guest's well-featured face, taking notice of shining blond hair tied neatly in a queue.
Micah nodded smiling. "He's right, you know . . ."
"About the tea?" She liked this Micah; he was charming. He made her forget her troubles.
"No, about how beautiful you were. His words don't do you justice."
"I think you're a liar, Master Lawrence, though a flattering one. But I can hardly believe my cousin would say anything so pleasant."
"He says you play chess as well as he does and that is a compliment, coming from Brock Bartholomew."
"He said that?" Keely asked with surprise.
"I'm also told he's asked you to marry him," Micah dared.
"That's what he told you, did he?" She lifted a sooty eyebrow.
"No. He didn't. In fact, I haven't seen him in several days."
"Business to the north, I'm told," Keely said tartly.
He nodded. "Actually, it was your maid who spoke of your pending betrothal; Lucy, I think she said the name was."
"Lucy has a loose tongue. He didn't actually ask for my hand," she said, looking away.
"I see," Micah responded kindly. "Marrying you off, are they?"
"Yes, I'm afraid so." She wondered vaguely why she was disclosing all of this to a near-stranger, but she couldn't help herself. Besides, he'd have known soon enough, wouldn't he? It would certainly only be a matter of time before Brock would have everyone in town knowing the story.
"And let me guess. Brock is your guardian's first choice."
Keely's hazel eyes met Micah's with uncertainty. "There's nothing particularly wrong with him, we just don't get along," she said hedgingly. "The truth is that he's just a little too . . . too . . ." She cut herself off for lack of the right word.
"Arrogant, sarcastic, unrefined?"
"He's your friend. I shouldn't have said anything."
"Yes, he is my friend. But who knows a person better than their friend? Brock would be my first choice to be the man at my side in a fight; he's the man I would trust with my life above all others, but no, I wouldn't want to marry him either."
Keely smiled, then laughed. "You have a good sense of humor, Master Lawrence. I like that."
"Please, call me Micah."
She nodded. "Micah, then."
He adjusted his pristine white stock at his neck. "It's easy for me to be humorous though, isn't it. I mean it's not me that's in the predicament. A pity, but it happens to all women of your age, doesn't it?"
"So I'm told."
"You could always marry me . . ."
Keely lifted her dark lashes. "Excuse me?"
"I said you could always marry me."
"Is that a proposal?" She couldn't help smiling.
He chuckled. "Yes, I suppose it is, although I certainly didn't come for that purpose."
She clasped her hands, leaning forward. "You're not serious?"
"Oh, but I am. My father has a large plantation not far from Dover. I don't need your money and I'm not nearly as free with my finances for the cause as Brock is. I think I'd make a rather good husband. Don't you?"
A blush crept across Keely's cheeks. "I . . . I don't know what to say."
He shrugged. "Say yes then."
"But I don't know you."
"How well do you know Brock? Your uncle can attest to my good character. I can go and ask for your hand r
ight now if you like." He got to his feet.
Flabbergasted, Keely stood up. "You're not serious." She looked into his clear blue eyes. "You are serious, aren't you?"
He caught her hand. "I am indeed. Tell me you'll marry me, Mistress Keely Bartholomew."
"I couldn't accept." She knew she was mad to even contemplate marrying this man, but she couldn't help thinking this would be a way out of this trap. "But . . . I will consider it." Wouldn't it be wonderful to choose a man for herself, she thought slyly. Wouldn't she like to see the look on Brock's face when he discovered he'd lost the chance to have her inheritance?
"I'm honored." He kissed her hand gently. "Now how about that tea you offered?"
"Oh, yes." She stepped back clumsily. "Lucy must have gotten lost. I'll fetch it myself."
An hour later Keely was seeing Micah out the door. "Thank you so much for coming."
"You're most welcome." He accepted his cocked hat from Lucy. "And thank you for seeing me." He glanced at the servant, who had obviously been listening in, and lowered his voice. "You will consider my proposal, won't you."
She laughed, crossing her arms over her chest. "I'm tempted. But I'll have to think about it. My uncle has his mind set."
Micah Lawrence winked and let himself out the front door.
"God a'mercy!" Lucy breathed the moment he was gone. "You've got the two best-lookin' men in Dover after you!"
"Lucy! Were you eavesdropping on my conversation with Master Lawrence?"
"Eavesdroppin'? Certainly not!" Lucy said indignantly. "I was just polishin' the chair railin' in the front hall; I couldn't help but hear a word or two."
"Well, let me warn you." Keely held a fist up to the dirty blonde. "If I hear that one word of my conversation has been repeated by you, I'll have my uncle dismiss you. Do you understand?"
Lucy's smile fell from her face. "God's teeth, mistress. I didn't murder no one! But my mouth is stitched." She ran a finger over her rosy lips. "I swear it!"
Long after everyone had retired for the night, Keely paced her bedchamber restlessly. She knew she was foolish to have led Micah on like that, to have made him think she would consider his proposal. Uncle Lloyd had already started the paperwork necessary to make her and Brock's betrothal official. It had been wrong not to tell Micah, but it had felt so good, if only for a few hours, to pretend she had a choice. Micah was so kind, so unintimidating. He was the kind of man she would have liked to have married. Now she would have to contact Micah and apologize, turning down his offer.
The Ruffian and the Rose Page 5