by Dawn Brower
“She must have been there all this time,” he said.
“She’s being careful. The crates are purposeful. They create a sheltered spot, one that cannot be seen from the street.”
The girl crept to the bakery door and peeked over the edge of the half door. She was young. Five years? Six? Thin and wearing a dirty smock. She scratched at the door and held something up. It looked like a coin.
The woman in the kitchen came at once. She carried one of the round loaves. It had been hollowed into a bowl and was filled with the stew. She gave it to the girl, who turned and beckoned.
An even smaller child crept out, hurrying to take the bowl. The woman brought another and the pair retreated again, going to their sheltered spot to eat.
“The woman didn’t take the coin.”
“Not a coin. It’s a token.” Lady Hope looked as serious as he’d ever seen her. “It’s a very great secret we trust you with, my lord. A program begun by Hestia Wright, of Half Moon House, several years ago. The children may come at any time the bakery is open. They present their token—it has a swan on it, for Le Cygne—and they are fed. No questions asked.”
Below, another figure had turned into the alley. A boy. A bit older. His feet were bare. He kept to the shadows, presented his token and bolted his bowl right there at the door, his shoulders hunched while he ate. Glancing over at the girls, he exchanged wary nods with the eldest and slunk back the way he’d come.
“The children make the choices and distribute the tokens. They must keep the secret, not rush the bakery or share the information with any who would come to make trouble or harass Madame out of misery or spite.”
“They are given responsibility for the continuation of the program,” he said, understanding.
“They have done very well. Incidents have been few. The Duchess of Aldmere, working with Hestia Wright, expanded the idea, founding another similar spot in Wapping. Gradually, she recruited other like-minded ladies in the ton, so that the program is beginning to spread across the city. The young lady I wished to tell you about today learned of it from her mother. They’ve opened the newest spot, out of a chop house near Lincolns Inn Fields.”
He was mulling it all over. “The tokens are brilliant. And the idea that they must protect the program. It unites them and makes them a part of it. It’s all so . . .” He shook his head. “Vast. So much bigger than my poor efforts. The sheer enormity of it—it boggles the mind.” He shook his head. “Started by a former courtesan and continued by the attention and generosity of Society ladies—and no one has the least notion of it.”
He bowed his head. The turmoil inside of him grew larger and darker and so much more difficult to resist. “I don’t wish for you to continue your campaign,” he said roughly.
“No?” She sounded startled.
“No. You’ve won. You’ve convinced me. There are good and decent women in all levels of Society. People willing to work hard and care for family and others, too.”
His pulse thundered. His temple throbbed. He lifted his head and stared at her. “I am convinced—and I know what I am supposed to do now. I should be asking you to introduce me to one or two or more of these paragons. Because I assume they have the appropriate requirements—single status and a good deal of money. Am I right?”
She exhaled a long breath and said nothing.
“How am I supposed to ask such a thing?” he demanded.
“They are simple words.” Her eyes glittered, sharp and bright. “Just ask.”
“I cannot. And you know why.”
Her cheeks were glowing.
Only the soft, quick sound of their breathing lived in the quiet of the room. Her pulse fluttered at her throat.
He pulled in a ragged breath. His skin had gone too tight. He felt feverish and furious and bursting with anger and thwarted desire. “I don’t want some mythically kind girl with a bulging dowry, Hope. I want you.”
In her face he saw the same sort of hope and pain and need that were tearing him apart inside.
He stepped close. He touched her waist and then allowed his hand to continue on, settling into the beckoning curve of the small of her back.
Her face turned up. She looked fierce and proud and yearning—and he knew she would not be the one to initiate this kiss.
He shouldn’t.
But he did.
And it was glorious and lovely and right. She melted beneath him and they flowed together, two rivers of desire joining into one in a confluence of rough, raw emotion.
It took almost no time to coax her mouth to open to his. Her hands clutched his shoulders, moved behind his neck.
Duty and responsibility be damned. He was just a man, reveling in heat, tasting the velvet sweetness of his woman, fitting his rising cock into her welcoming curves.
He buried his face into the arch of her throat, touched his tongue to the beat of her racing pulse.
He wanted to bare her creamy skin.
He wanted to tug her over to that cot, toss up her skirts and make them both mad with desire.
He wanted to take her home to Greystone and never let her go.
But he could not.
So he lifted his head.
Without words, she protested.
But he slid his hands to her shoulders and kissed her temple. “We should go.”
They held each other up a moment. When he was finally sure he could walk without staggering or snatching her back, he huffed out a breath and stepped away.
Silently, they watched each other over across a stretch of floor that might as well have been an ocean.
At last, she nodded. Neither spoke as they retraced their steps. She waved goodbye to the Madame and her assistant. He helped her into the curricle.
They drove, swaddled inside a thick silence.
“I’m engaged to take dinner with my family and a guest this evening,” she said as they pulled up before her brother’s house. “Later we will be attending the Montbarrow’s party. Several young ladies who might be flattered by your attentions will be there. Miss Nichols will be glad to introduce you to them. But if you find you have . . . something you’d rather say to me . . .” She faltered, took a deep breath, then continued. “I will make sure to be in Lady Montbarrow’s parlor on the second floor, at the top of the stairs, at half past ten.”
He nodded.
A footman emerged to help her down. She stood on the pavement, watching him gravely. “Will you come? I hope you will come.”
“Then I will,” he said roughly.
She turned and preceded the servant into the house.
Tensford drove away, knowing that she’d taken the best part of him with her.
Chapter 8
We are a civilized lot, ladies and gentlemen, and when we make a mistake, we must be prepared to admit the truth of it, and to make amends . . .
—Whispers from Lady X
Sterne had already dressed for the evening, so his valet was free to attend to Tensford. He might have enjoyed the process, having forgotten what a luxury it was to allow someone else to press his clothes, shave him and tie him into an elegant, complicated cravat, but he was far too distracted.
It was an impossible decision.
How could he choose his own happiness over the duty he owed to his estate, his people? It was not the way a gentleman behaved.
Feeling like a fraud, he walked stiff-legged down the stairs. It felt wrong, somehow, that his shining outside did not reflect the bleak, bleeding despair he felt on the inside.
Laughter drifted from the parlor. It was to be a dinner party, the valet had told him. Tensford wished fervently that he hadn’t agreed to attend. He was torn, and too, he was troubled by a nagging feeling, a thought that he’d forgotten something, or missed something important. He wanted only to hide and brood, and somehow decide if he could make that appointment with Lady Hope at Montbarrow’s tonight.
How could he?
How could he not?
With a shake of his he
ad, he bade the footman not to open the parlor doors. Not just yet. He stood a moment, looking around, letting the peace of the place sink in.
Barrett’s uncle’s house was small, but quite . . . splendid. The colors were warm and the lighting soft and inviting. The rug appeared worn, but everything looked scrubbed and polished and well cared for. Lady Hope’s earlier words echoed in his head. We are fortunate, all of us who know the comfort of good smells, a warm welcome and a full belly.
He nodded and the footman opened the door. Tensford stepped into the parlor, and relaxed a little. It was that sort of atmosphere. The swish of silk and satin was the same, the gleam of jewels and smiles were as one would find at a ton gathering. But the crowd was small, and seemed intimate. Conversations flowed with familiar ease. There was nothing frantic or artificial about the feeling in the room.
“There you are.” Sterne handed him a drink. “Let me show you around and introduce you to a few people.”
In normal circumstances Tensford would have been thrilled to be there. More than a few people there had interest in the sciences, naturally. Lady Hargrove was there. She was kind, as was most everyone else. Yet Tensford could scarcely concentrate. He could not think past the ache in his chest and that niggle in his brain.
Then Barrett was back. “Come,” he said. “Let’s go pay respects to my aunt and uncle.”
Mr. John Sterne was friendly, as always, and his wife welcoming.
“Barrett says you intend to sell that fossilized sea urchin of yours, the one embedded in the round stone.”
“I am considering it, sir.”
“A fine piece. Unique. I’d be interested, of course. Give you a fair price, too. But you have a fine mind for the science yourself, Tensford. Why not keep the piece and let it be the start of your own collection?”
“I would like to. I’ll think about your advice, sir.”
“I know what you are thinking,” Barrett said after his aunt and uncle moved on. “You’re thinking you’ll keep that piece if you marry the Irish merchant’s daughter.”
“I might as well get something above the forty thousand, for that will all go to Greystone.”
“She’s the worst prospect yet.”
“She’s the only prospect so far.”
“Still, you cannot marry her.” He shuddered. “I met her last night, out with your mother. She’s glittery, I give you, but hard underneath.”
“I have more than just myself to consider,” he said irritably. “But perhaps Lady Hope will come up with a suitable candidate.”
“That’s just it. I think you should consider Lady Hope.”
Tensford closed his eyes.
“It’s why I invited you here tonight. I wanted to tell you more about my uncle.”
“What about him?”
“He was never meant to marry my aunt, you know. The family had picked out his bride.”
“Who?”
“My mother.”
“Your mother?” Tensford said, shocked. “No offense meant, Sterne, but your mother is nothing like your aunt. She’s so . . . formal.”
“And cold. You can say it. And I’ll add dull to the stack. But she had the money the family wished to use to ease Uncle John’s fate as a second son.”
“What happened?”
“They were not suited. She was happier with my father, as heir to the title and as a man closer to her in disposition. Uncle John loved another. And my aunt loved him. The family wasn’t happy, but they married in spite of the objections. Their road has not always been easy. They don’t have the funds my parents do, but they’ve done well for themselves.”
“Yes,” he agreed, looking around.
“They’ve created a home. A place of warmth and caring.”
“And I know they’ve been generous in sharing it with you, my friend.”
“Thank God, they have. It wins hands down over the sterile atmosphere of my own home, as you know. So you see, their marriage affected more than just their own lives. They’ve touched so many. Created a community,” he said, gesturing around.
Understanding began to dawn as Sterne continued.
“In my mind, your Greystone has been like my parent’s house. Grand, but cold. No heart to the place. Empty of joy and warmth and welcome and the things that truly make a home. And I know you want a home, Tensford, not just a restored house. God knows, you deserve to finally have one.”
He shook his head.
“It’s one thing if you marry Miss McNamara knowing that she does not care for you. But remember, too, that when you choose a bride, you must bring her home to Greystone. She will be in charge of the house and your servants and in constant contact with the people on your land. She will raise your children.” Sterne frowned at him. “Will she have a care for any of that?”
Tensford stared.
“One more thing. I think you need to remember that your people care for you, just as you care for them. Do you think they would ask you to make this sacrifice? To resign yourself to a lifetime of misery married to the wrong woman, for their sake?”
He didn’t know the answer.
“Dinner is ready,” the butler intoned at the doorway.
Woodenly, Tensford followed the party to the dining room. He took his seat—and proceeded to act as history’s worst dinner guest.
He ate nothing. He spoke to neither of the ladies on either side of him. He merely stared into his wine and contemplated the largest decision of his life.
Was his heart agreeing with Barrett because it was what he wished to hear? Because he did want Lady Hope Brightley with a passion bordering madness. He wanted her wit and her charm and her kisses. Her wanted her mornings and her nights and every hour from here to eternity. He went a little mad every time he thought of her choosing, marrying, someone else.
His heart kept whispering that Barrett was right, so he let his brain do as it wished and compare the choices that lay before him.
A union made for money. Greystone Park with a new roof, restored outbuildings, a set future, but no soul. A loveless marriage at the center of it. This would be their fate if he took Miss McNamara as his bride, or even some yet-to-be-met candidate that Lady Hope brought to him.
But Lady Hope. His head couldn’t keep up with the images he finally allowed himself to conjure. Her laughter ringing through the house. Her compassion a balm to his people. It would be a life of hard work, but she would be there by his side. It was so easy to imagine his servants loving her as he did, to picture her listening to their woes, carrying baskets to the sick, attending the fairs, becoming a part of their community.
Laughter at Greystone. Hope. Hard work.
Love.
Abruptly, he stood. What time was it? He didn’t care. He had to find her and tell her. Ask her to share his life. “Please excuse me,” he said to the staring tableful of guests. “I suddenly realized . . . recalled . . . something extremely urgent.”
Mrs. Sterne’s eyes softened. “Of course, dear boy.”
“Go on, then.” Mr. Sterne shooed him.
Tensford raced out. He waited impatiently for his cloak, trying to recall where the nearest hack stand would be. He raced down the front steps—and skidded to a halt when a boy stepped out of the shadows into his path.
Lady X’s messenger boy.
“My mistress says she’ll meet you—if you promise not to unmask her to the world.”
Tensford shook his head.
The boy looked upset. “She says as she feels like she owes it to you to talk, but if you won’t promise, then I cannot tell you where to meet her.”
“No, that isn’t it.” Lord, he was a lovesick fool, but he couldn’t summon any further desire for revenge or confrontation. “Tell your employer . . .” He thought of Lady Hope’s defense of him, her desire to repay him for reviving Lady X’s interest. He thought of the empathy that she’d shown the anonymous lady. “Tell your mistress that if ever she needs a champion, or help of any kind, then she may call on Lord Tender.”<
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He left the surprised boy behind and ran forward to hail a hack.
Chapter 9
I hear from several sources that Lord Tender has been running amuck again, acting oddly at Mr. Sterne’s dinner party and assorted other gatherings. But as he’s held up so well under my interference and appears to perhaps be thriving under the influence of certain others . . . we must forgive him.
—Whispers from Lady X
“Lord Bardham,” Hope said with a sigh. “I am just on my way to speak with Miss Nichols.”
“Where is your gallant suitor, Lady Hope?” Bardham asked with a sneer. “I hear he has a bigger fish on his line these days. Has he deserted you?”
“If you speak of Lord Tensford, I have not seen him this evening.” A wicked idea occurred to her. “But if you speak of Miss McNamara, I could hardly be angry if he has decided to pursue her. Who could compete?”
“With a merchant’s daughter?” he scoffed.
“A pretty merchant’s daughter who brings forty thousand pounds. I could hardly begrudge him for being interested.”
“Forty . . . thousand?” he whispered.
“Yes. I heard Lady Tensford say so, to one of her friends. I daresay they hope it doesn’t get around right away or the girl will be swamped.”
“That’s her, is it not?” Bardham asked. “By the French doors?”
She looked. “I believe so.”
“Tensford is not there,” he reflected.
“No doubt he’ll be here soon enough. Lord Bardham?”
But the coarse, predictable man was already drifting away. Hope moved on, shaking her head, until she reached Miss Nichols.
“How do I look?” she asked her friend, nervously smoothing her skirts.
“Stunning. And frightened half to death.” Miss Nichols patted her arm. “Calm down. All will go well.”
“I hope so. But I cannot be sure.”
“I can. I’ve seen how he looks at you.”
“He might be angry.” It was just one of the risks she’d taken.
“He might. But would you change anything you’ve done?”