by Martha Keyes
But even once Clara had recounted all, they had no way of knowing where Kate might be found. Too much time had passed since Clara had last seen her. Sir Richard had sent out two servants to search for Kate, but Lindley hadn’t slept a wink for worry. She herself had been very near going out to search when she had received the missive from Lord Ashworth.
When Lindley spoke of the note and of his behavior to her on her arrival at Ashworth Place, she always referred to him as “that angel of a man” or “your guardian angel.” She became noticeably calmer as she spoke of her conversation with him and did it with such a light in her eyes that Kate was made to wonder if her own maid hadn’t fallen victim to his charms as well.
Lindley had much to say when the subject of Clara and the Crofte family arose. “Saving Sir Richard, if you please, Miss, for a more decent man I’ve never met, even if he was dreadfully oblivious to what was happening under his own roof, which I do believe he was. When he discovered what his children and wife were about, there was such a fire in his eyes as you never should wish to encounter.”
Once Lindley had exhausted her stream of talk, she insisted on attending to Kate’s mutilated wrists, all the while detailing the events of the preceding day.
Kate listened patiently but was relieved when Lindley pushed her out of the bedroom door to go see to her hosts. She was met in the hallway by Mary, the maid from the previous evening, who informed her that the ladies were partaking of a luncheon outdoors.
Kate thanked her and breathed deeply, wondering what to expect from her hosts. The circumstances of her stay were so peculiar, after all.
But Lady Anne and Lady Purbeck were all consideration, expressing surprise that Kate should already be awake and dressed after such an evening as she had passed.
Lady Purbeck’s eyes fell on Kate’s cheek and then her bandaged wrists.
“Good heavens!” she said, her eyes wide and horrified. “William mentioned that you had been injured, my dear, but—.” She let out a gush of air, and her mouth drew into a tight line. “I should very much like to box his ears!”
Kate smiled appreciatively, aware of the way her heart felt light at Lady Purbeck’s concern for her. “I hope you will not,” she said, “for I assure you that I feel nothing but gratitude to your son. Bruised wrists would have been the least of my worries, had he not come to my rescue.”
Lady Purbeck seemed gratified by Kate’s professions of appreciation, though she continued to glance at Kate’s injuries and shake her head in mute disapproval.
Kate couldn’t help thinking that Lady Purbeck was everything one could hope for in a mother. Her genuine concern for someone she knew as little as Kate was a clear manifestation of her nurturing nature.
Kate partook as politely as she could manage given the ravenous hunger she felt. As the three of them were finishing the luncheon, Lord Ashworth approached from the house.
Inhaling a deep breath to stabilize her nerves, Kate focused on the sandwiches. She wasn’t at all sure how to act in front of Lord Ashworth, given the events of the night before.
He greeted them, kissing his mother on the forehead and commenting on how well she looked before asking if he might have a word with Kate regarding a few items of business.
Kate thanked Lady Anne and Lady Purbeck before excusing herself to join Lord Ashworth.
They walked slowly toward the small pond on the east side of Ashworth Place, Kate admiring her first views of the grounds. They came upon a small pond, covered in large lily pads whose white flowers were open and soaking in the early afternoon sun.
Lord Ashworth inquired after Kate’s rest, wondering if she had been able to sleep after such a disturbing evening. She allayed his fears on that score and thanked him for his thoughtfulness in sending word to Lindley. He brushed her thanks aside, insisting it had been no trouble.
“Miss Matcham,” he said. “The timing of all this has obviously been less than ideal in that your visit to the Croftes has coincided with this entire affair. I think that it will be best if you remain here at Ashworth Place for the present. The Croftes will be much occupied for some time with the mess they are in. I don’t think—and your capable maid agrees with me—that it is a suitable situation for you. I am exercising the small influence I have to soften the blow to the Croftes, but I’m afraid it will take time for everything to be ironed out.” He watched for her reaction as they strolled.
Kate inhaled and nodded her understanding. “Thank you for your kindness and trouble.” She smiled up at him, hoping he would understand that she meant it. “I appreciate your willingness to entertain a visitor who has been as good as thrust upon you. But I shan’t impose upon you. I am sure my Uncle John would be happy to welcome me at Coombe Park until I go to Brighton.”
The words were said in a confident tone, but Kate thought it just as likely that her uncle would shut the door in her face. She would take the mail coach to Fanny in Brighton if she had to, but she would not oblige Lord Ashworth’s family to host her indefinitely, however awkward her situation might be.
Lord Ashworth’s eyebrows knit together, and he stopped walking, pushing down an errant patch of grass with his boot toe before looking at Kate and quoting,
“But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body’s work’s expir’d:
For then my thoughts—from far where I abide—
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide.”
Kate felt her cheeks redden in embarrassment, but she attempted an air of nonchalance when she spoke. “Ah, you have remembered the lines,” she said, seeking out the small ripples in the pond to avoid looking him in the eye.
He smiled wryly. “I’m afraid that memory played no part in it. I was far too curious, though, to leave it to memory, and I sought Shakespeare out before I did haste me to my bed, as the sonnet says.”
Kate was silent, so unsure what he had inferred from their interaction the night before and from his reading of the sonnet that she could think of nothing to say that would not give her feelings away entirely.
“Kate,” he said, stepping closer to her and causing her heart to thud with such force that she was sure he could hear it. “I must ask you. When you smiled in such a way while thinking on those words last night, were you thinking of Mr. Hartley?”
Kate looked up at him, the surprise visible on her face. “Simon Hartley?” The nerves she had been feeling, the relief she felt to know he had cared enough to seek out the sonnet even before sleep, and the hope she felt at his question collided, eliciting a shaky laugh from her. She looked up to his eyes where she thought she recognized the same doubtful hope she herself had been feeling for an age. Was that what he was feeling?
“I had no thought of Simon Hartley,” she said, looking back to the pond. She couldn’t bear to see his reaction. She felt his eyes trained on her, as if he were waiting for her to finish.
Quiet reigned, and she turned to meet his eyes, willing him to break the silence; to take her meaning without requiring her to speak the words. But he would not. She laughed again, “You will insist that I say it, won’t you?”
His half-smile appeared, and the accompanying twinkle replaced the doubt which had been so apparent before.
She looked down, smiling, as she gathered the courage to speak. She could lie or try to conceal the truth, but then, she might always wonder what he would have said had she been completely honest.
But lying and telling all were two ends of a spectrum, with an infinite number of choices between. And he had not asked her to tell all. He had asked a simple question, and only a simple answer was required of her. When she looked up, her expression was sincere and devoid of its customary humor. “I thought only of you.”
He took in a slow breath, never losing eye contact with her, and placed a hand on her uninjured cheek, smoothing her cheekbone with his thumb as he looked in her eyes. She found it hard to breathe. Was there enough air for two t
o breathe in such proximity?
He lowered his head so that their foreheads touched, and she closed her eyes, bringing her hand up to rest on his cheek.
“I can’t tell you,” he said in a voice so soft she had to strain to hear it, “what hope I felt as I read those words last night. Or of the doubt which accompanied it.”
She swallowed, all too familiar with the sentiments he was expressing. Then she smiled softly as another verse of Shakespeare came into her thoughts.
“Doubt thou the stars are fire,” she quoted, “Doubt that the sun doth move...”
“Now that one,” he interrupted her, “I am familiar with.”
He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her toward him, and guided her chin up with a finger. Their lips met, and there was a pause before he pressed his to hers, kissing her gently. Her skin tingled, and she wrapped her hands behind his neck. His hand moved from under her chin, and his fingers slid into her hair, cradling her head from behind.
After several minutes, Kate broke away with a sigh, leaning her nose up against his. “You know,” she said, “I believe the blow would have been quite fatal if my own very admirable hesitation at the last moment had not weakened it pitifully.”
Lord Ashworth threw back his head in a mix of amusement and aggravation. “Persistent Kate! Still fixed on that, are you? Do you wish it had been a fatal blow?”
“Well, of course not. But I do think it important that you are aware of my extraordinary strength.” She ran a hand softly through his hair, finding the small bump she was searching for. She raised her brows at him and clucked her tongue. “What a blow!”
He grabbed at her hand playfully, pulling it away from his head and holding it between his own hands. “Despite what you believe, love, I am rather glad to know that my wife will not be capable of killing me with her bare hands, even if she should wish to do so.”
Kate considered his words for a moment with a furrowed brow but ended by shaking her head. “But I’m convinced it could be quite an asset.”
“If you insist upon speaking such nonsense,” he said, pulling her closer, “I have no choice but to put a stop to it in the only way available to me.” He kissed her again through laughing lips.
“Well,” she said, smiling back at him until the skin around her eyes wrinkled, “That is hardly an inducement for me to stop speaking nonsense, is it?”
* * *
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Isabel : A Regency Romance
Chapter One
London, England 1813
Isabel Cosgrove fanned herself rapidly, lending only half an ear to the gossip being relayed by her friend Mary, who stood at her side.
A long queue of people stood in the entry hall of the Rodwell’s London town home, waiting to be announced—waiting to intensify the oppressive heat which made Isabel’s gloves cling to her arms.
Her younger sister Cecilia stood at her other side, listening intently to each morsel of hearsay transmitted by Mary.
Whatever her own indifference to ton gossip, Isabel could never have avoided it, surrounded as she was by people who thrived on it. She forgave Mary the weakness, as she knew she had acquired the habit from her mother.
Cecilia had less excuse for indulging.
“So, he did follow her to town,” Mary Holledge said with a self-satisfied smile. “I expected as much.”
“Who?” Cecilia said, turning and craning her neck to follow Mary’s gaze.
Mary shot a sideways glance at Cecilia and pursed her lips. She clearly hadn’t been speaking to Cecilia. But as Isabel rarely paid her gossip any attention, it was unclear to whom she had been addressing herself.
Isabel smiled at her friend’s reluctance to enlighten Cecilia. In another world, Cecilia and Mary might have gotten along quite well.
But Mary was not fond of Cecilia, despite their shared love of gossip. She tolerated her for Isabel’s sake, but Isabel stood in little doubt of her true feelings. Mary often referred to Cecilia as “the minx” when she was not around.
“Charles Galbraith,” Mary finally answered in a reluctant tone.
Isabel stilled and her pulse quickened, her eyes moving about the room. They landed on a dark-haired gentleman with an ethereal beauty on his arm.
She hadn't seen him in years, but she had no trouble at all recognizing the brooding countenance—it was more rather than less pronounced than it had been during his childhood. And yet somehow it enhanced his attraction.
She had wondered time and again over the years what it would be like to finally be introduced to Charles Galbraith during her Season; what it would be like to encounter the gentleman rather than the callow youth who had been an infrequent visitor to her family’s home in Dorset years ago.
True, Isabel had not then anticipated that he would be absent from every gathering she attended, or that her own Season would be delayed a year in order to bring out Cecilia at the same time. As it was, Isabel had been introduced to the ton in the shadow of her sister’s unrivaled beauty and charm. And Charles Galbraith was nowhere to be found.
Until now.
“Julia Darling is a vision, isn't she?” Mary sighed. “Effortlessly reminding us all that we stand no chance at all against her in the struggle for Galbraith’s hand.” She raised her brows and inclined her head. “Not that there ever was any chance for the rest of us.”
Cecilia made a noncommittal sound. “Mr. Houghton only said the other night that I am the better favored between Miss Darling and myself.”
Mary sent a forbearing look at Isabel. “Your humility is affecting, as always, Cecilia.”
Cecilia’s head whipped around, an affronted look on her face. “Surely it is not prideful to simply relay someone’s stated opinion.”
“Oh,” Mary said with a look of faux-interest, “do you also relay opinions that are less than complimentary? I could enlighten you if you stand in any need.”
“Please don’t, you two,” Isabel said, feeling unaccountably irritable.
Cecilia’s chin came up, and her eyes went back to Galbraith. “He is very handsome, isn’t he?”
Isabel felt her jaw tighten. Cecilia often spoke of the gentlemen she admired, and she always managed to contrive an introduction not long after. It had never bothered Isabel much. Until now.
What was this silly possessiveness she felt for Charles Galbraith?
“I am determined that he shall ask me to dance tonight,” said Cecilia, the self-extended challenge sparkling in her blue eyes. She sent a sideways glance at Mary. “If only to prove you wrong, Mary.”
Isabel gripped her lips together. If it was what Cecilia wished for, she would likely find success.
A gentleman approached the three of them, bowing and then requesting a dance with Cecilia.
Mary let out an annoyed sigh once she was gone. “Is it wrong that I very much hope Mr. Houghton treads on her dress during the set?”
Isabel suppressed a smile. “I think it is wrong, Mary.”
“She is maddening, though, you must admit.”
Isabel said nothing, but the way her body felt tight was a testament to Mary’s statement.
She had watched Cecilia gain the attention and affection of countless men during the Season. But to think that she might succeed in doing so with the one man Isabel had been watching for in vain at each and every social event …it provoked uncharitable thoughts within her that she thought she had succeeded in ridding herself of.
It was all silly, anyway, and she knew it well. To spend years reflecting on a simple interaction that happened when she had been six years old?
Of course, it hadn’t felt simple at the time.
Izzy sat on the stairwell
, her arms folded on top of her bent knees, hot tears streaming down her face.
It wasn’t fair, of course. The doll was hers, not Cecy’s. It even had brown hair and white lace around the neckline to match Izzy’s.
But Cecy’s tantrum had been effective—they always were—and Papa had insisted that Izzy give her the doll to play with.
Cecy would likely set the doll down and forget about it within five minutes in favor of some other shiny toy.
But Papa had wanted Cecy’s whining to stop, whatever it took. He was busy transacting business with Mr. Galbraith and wanted no further disruptions.
Energetic footsteps sounded on the stone steps behind Izzy, slowing as they came closer and finally stopping altogether.
“What’s the matter?” It was Mr. Galbraith’s son, Charles, who had accompanied his father on his business at Portsgrove House.
Izzy brushed at the tears on her cheeks with the back of her hand. She didn’t want him to see her crying like a silly little girl—no different than Cecy, really.
He was older, after all. At least nine.
“Nothing,” she said, trying not to sniff.
He sat down beside her. “I don’t believe you.”
She looked at him with a sidelong glance. He didn’t look very agreeable, with his dark features and caterpillar brows.
“You’ll only laugh at me,” she said resentfully as another tear escaped.
He put his hand over his heart. “I won’t. I swear it.”
Her mouth twisted to the side as she regarded him suspiciously. There was no hint of a smile on his face, though.
She related the events of the morning, annoyed to find that she had begun crying again by the end of the tale.
She avoided his eye as she sniffed, wondering when he would begin giggling at her silly reason for weeping.
He scooted closer to her and put his arm around her.
“Well,” he said prosaically, “if you can’t have your special doll, we shall have to find something else to do, shan’t we? Something to make your sister mad with jealousy.”