A Lady Unrivaled

by Roseanna M. White

  Ella feathered her fingers over Addie’s back. “Of course I have. I am as wise as I am witty, you know.”

  Another hum, this one brighter. He glanced her way with a smile in his eyes. And made it rather difficult to dislike him merely on principle. “I don’t know if we can call it wisdom, Lady Ella, until you admit that the fiercest hope cannot change some things. You can believe it all you want, but your hair is not, and will never be, auburn.”

  Or maybe not so difficult. Her laugh bounced back at her, making her feet come to a halt. They were behind an outbuilding, but she wasn’t sure which one. Or how exactly she had led them to so unlikely a place.

  Cayton’s gaze took note of their surroundings, too, and his amusement gleamed all the brighter. “Do you always take your promenade to the gardener’s shed?”

  She bit her lip, though it did nothing to hold back her smile. “I don’t believe in traveling the beaten path. One never knows what one might discover when one strays from it.”

  “Mm, well.” He bent down, plucked two dandelions from the higher grass that grew against the wall of the shed, and handed one to Addie, who fisted it with a thankful squeal. The other he held out to Ella. “This seems to be all that’s around to be discovered today.”

  Just a weed, most would say, common and soon to go to seed. So why did it look more beautiful than any of the hothouse flowers she had been sent in London? Ella took it with a smile, telling herself that being a wee bit charmed was no great thing in the grand scheme of keeping one’s distance from a man. “A bit of sunshine. You learn quickly, Lord Cayton.”

  “These days, I hope.” Appearing as though the brush of their fingers hadn’t sent tingles up his arm as it had hers, he reached for his daughter.

  Addie went without complaint this time, a yawn hinting at the approach of nap time. Ella’s arms felt dreadfully empty with her gone, but her heart beat so full it nearly hurt as she watched the girl snuggle contentedly against her father’s chest. It was terribly cliché to be attracted to a man just because he was a good father . . . and handsome . . . and clever . . . and charming. And Ella hated to be a cliché. She must get ahold of herself.

  His daughter settled, Cayton looked up again at Ella. He didn’t smile, not with his lips. But his eyes shone green and bright. “I suppose I shall see you tomorrow, Lady Ella. At the ball. Perhaps . . . you will save me a dance?”

  She ought to refuse. Politely of course. Somehow. “Perhaps I shall—if you promise to stop calling my hair red.”

  He laughed, full and deep, and it sent a thrumming all through her. “I will not lie, my lady. But you’ll dance with me anyway.”

  “Will I?” She twirled the bright flower between her fingers.

  “Well.” He backed away, still smiling, his daughter still happy in his arms. “I hope so. Is that enough to make it become reality?”

  She shouldn’t like him. It couldn’t possibly bode well. “We shall see, Lord Cayton.”

  He chuckled as he turned, as he made his way back to the garden. Ella watched him go, leaning onto the wall of the gardener’s shed with a sigh. She shouldn’t like him, and couldn’t trust the fact that she wanted to—not given her poor history with judging a person’s character.

  And, besides, Lady Melissa would arrive tomorrow, and they’d be engaged before the night was out.

  All well and good. And to show herself she wouldn’t care a bit, Ella would do her best to turn a few heads of her own. She’d wear the new ivory evening gown that she had just commissioned for the Season, the one with the overlay sprigged with flowers of red and yellow. The pendant that drew attention to the intricate bodice of the dress. Her hair up, with her mother-of-pearl combs. And she’d top it all off with the earrings she kept “forgetting” to return to her sister-in-law, the ones dripping Nottingham rubies from a cluster of gold and diamonds.

  Pushing off from the shed, Ella brushed grass and dirt from her dress. She’d brush him aside just as easily. No investment, no disappointment.

  Still, her fingers clutched the dandelion stem as she headed back for the house.

  Five

  Cayton cast yet another glance to the envelope sitting on the top of his chest of drawers. Though it was closed, the letter folded neatly inside, the words kept scrolling before his eyes. Paris has not done my sister the good I hoped, so we will be back in England soon. I may need your help, Cayton. I will say no more now, but I look forward to seeing you in Yorkshire.

  He knew the script. Knew the tone. Knew too well that Rushworth thought he could appeal to him for help because he had never once stood up for what was right in the past. Had been—regardless of what Stafford said—all but complicit in crimes by doing nothing to stop them.

  And he hated himself for it.

  A light tap on his bedroom door and it opened enough to admit Evans, Cayton’s evening jacket in hand. His valet took one look at the direction Cayton faced and sighed. “Shall I tack it to the wall for you, my lord, so you might glower at it every time you look up?”

  “You are, as always, infinitely amusing.” He frowned at the choice of jacket Evans laid out on the bed. “Why did you have that one pressed?” He hadn’t worn it since Adelaide’s funeral—it being his best and that event being the last he’d attended that demanded such.

  Evans’s blink was all innocence. And didn’t fool Cayton for a moment. “It was my understanding there’s a young lady you might wish to impress tonight, my lord.”

  Cayton picked up the snow-white shirt already set out for him and jammed his arms through the sleeves. “You’ve been talking with Tabby.” Who had been babbling incessantly about the saintly Lady Ella for the past twenty-four hours.

  A small snort was all the laugh Evans permitted himself. “She is my sister, my lord.”

  After making quick work of the buttons, Cayton held out his wrists for Evans to insert the cuff links. “Blasted bother to employ so many people who are related to one another. I don’t know when I’ll learn my lesson.”

  Evans put in the diamond-studded links with a few expert motions. “Shall I go and tell Mrs. Higgins to toss her niece to the drive, then?”

  “I’ll toss you to the drive, if you don’t learn to mind your tongue.” It was about as likely as Troubadour reciting a sonnet, which Evans well knew.

  His valet reached for the tie that had been waiting beside the shirt. “Did you show His Grace the letter?”

  “Mm.”

  “And?”

  Cayton had heard stories of people whose servants minded their own business—or at least pretended to. Fantastic, glistening tales of valets who went about their work stoically, silently. Such was not, it seemed, his lot. “He thought it must have something to do with the diamonds, though he had no better guess than we did as to why Rush would need my assistance.”

  Evans’s brows knit as he knotted the tie. “Was he concerned?”

  “Only for me, not about the situation. I received yet another lecture on letting go of the guilt, since I’d accepted forgiveness for the actions.”

  “Perhaps you would stop receiving said lecture, my lord, were you to follow the advice.” Evans made a quick adjustment to the tie and then spun for the jacket, held it up.

  Cayton sighed. “Really?”

  Evans didn’t so much as twitch. “You would prefer the one with the ink stain that wouldn’t come out? Or perhaps the one with the fraying cuff that I have been begging you for a year to have replaced? Which of those shall I fetch for you?”

  Blast it. He turned his back to Evans so he could slip his arms into the sleeves and the man could smooth the fabric over the shoulders.

  Evans did so chuckling. “She must be as pretty as Tabs said.”

  “I have no interest in Lady Ella Myerston.” Why, then, why had he asked for a dance? Stupid. Foolish. Dangerous. “But if I show up looking like a vagabond, Stafford will probably drag me upstairs and force me into one of his jackets.” He’d done it once before, when Cayton had forgotten that
he was coming for a dinner party and had happened by more by accident than design just in time to be snapped at.

  “Tabs said Addie took right to her. Didn’t mind having grass thrown all over her or her hair pulled out of its style. Can’t say as I’ve met too many ladies like that.”

  Cayton looked to the mirror across from them, lifting his brows at his valet’s reflection. “Rubbing elbows with the ladies when I’m not looking?”

  “Always keeping an ear out for which other houses would suit me, you know. So that when you kick me to the drive, I know where to go.” He tugged Cayton’s sleeves down over his cuffs.

  “With the recommendation I’ll give, you’ll only be accepted as a scullery maid.”

  A laugh slipped out before Evans pressed his lips against it. “Yes, milord,” he squeaked in a high-pitched imitation of the young girl usually hired in that beginner’s position. “Sorry, milord.”

  Cayton’s gaze shifted to that blamed letter again. “I don’t like it. I’ve a bad feeling.”

  “As my mum would say, don’t go borrowing tomorrow’s troubles, my lord, when today’s are troubling enough. Hands.”

  Cayton turned, held out his hands, but let his gaze go unfocused. “If I hadn’t acted as I’d done with Pratt—if I’d just said something . . .”

  “You were distracted with your new fiancée—you’ve a bit of cadmium on your right index finger.”

  “It’s no excuse, and Adelaide would have been the first to say so. I let my friend kidnap Brook, when a simple word from me could have stopped it all.”

  “You made a mistake, you shrugged off what you shouldn’t have. You’ve admitted it to Their Graces, and they’ve forgiven you. Let it go—you’ve a bit of ochre on your left ring finger too.”

  Cayton, sighing, lifted his hands before his eyes until he spotted the small specks of paint he’d missed. A few scratches chipped off the sneaky remnants of his afternoon’s activities. “It isn’t so easy.”

  “The worthwhile things never are. Like subduing your habit of rubbing at your neck when you’ve paint on your fingers—you’ve a great smear of blue right under your collar.”

  He strode to the mirror and leaned in close. How had he missed that when he was bathing? He picked at the flakes.

  Evans moved to the satchel sitting on Cayton’s bed, put a comb and a change of shoes into it. “I found it very interesting when Tabs mentioned Lady Ella was a redhead.”

  Cayton paused, scowled, turned. “You were snooping in my garret again.”

  And hadn’t the grace to look abashed about it as he fastened the bag closed. “Curious what book those sketches were in, if you only just met her. I could have sworn that was the one you filled up four months ago.”

  Cayton leveled a finger at the man’s nose. “Stay out of my garret or I really will sack you.”

  Evans grinned. “You know, my mum would adore a portrait of Tabs and me for Christmas.”

  Of all the . . . “I’m not a portrait painter, and I certainly don’t make a habit of taking commissions from my staff.” And before his mind could go to good ways to position the siblings down by the pond in the morning light, he stomped from the room. He was, as usual, running late—he’d already sent Addie to Ralin with Tabby, so that the children could play tonight and in the morning. And to give himself an excuse to slip away from the ball and check on her. He’d granted Evans the evening off.

  Soon he was settled behind the wheel of his Renault. Someone—likely Gregory—had already cranked it for him, so he had merely to switch on the magneto and set off down the drive.

  Evening light was doing amazing things to the clouds drifting across the sky, making him wonder what colors he would mix to achieve just that shade of rose-gold. And how it might set Lady Ella’s hair ablaze if he happened to stroll through the garden with her before the sun went down.

  No. He shook his head to clear it of such thoughts.

  It had only been two years ago—while Stafford, so newly the duke, had been traveling in India or Africa or wherever in blazes he’d been at that point—that Cayton had played the host at the Cotswolds Ball at Ralin Castle. It had been Cayton who had greeted each nobleman, gentleman, and merchant who had crowded the ballroom. Cayton who had bowed to Miss Adelaide Rosten and remembered that she was, aside from Stafford himself, the wealthiest individual in Gloucestershire . . . and that she looked at him with the exact same shade of adoration as she had when they were children.

  He had realized only a couple months before, when his steward had passed away, that his estates were in a precarious position. The answer—after gambling had failed him—had seemed obvious. He’d kept Adelaide at his side all that night. And a week later, he had proposed to her.

  Last year had been her first and only Cotswolds Ball as a countess. Lady Cayton. A title she’d held such a short time.

  His fingers tightened on the wheel. He had tried. Perhaps his reasons for wedding her had been self-serving, but he had tried to be a good husband. He had tried to make her happy. Tried to deserve the affection she gave him so readily. Tried, even, to love her in return.

  If only they’d had more time, maybe he would have succeeded. He’d managed to get over Lady Melissa—surely falling in love with his wife would have been the next step.

  It would have been easier to forego the ball this year. That had been his plan when Mother had expressed concern about traveling with Aunt Caro and thereby missing it. She would have stayed just to support him through it, had he asked. But he would have felt like a child, admitting he didn’t want to face a ballroom full of neighbors without his mother nearby. No, he’d just sworn off going. Planned to avoid the probing, condoling gazes of the friends and neighbors Adelaide had grown up with. A pox upon Brook for making him abandon his perfectly sound plan.

  The moment he turned up Ralin’s drive, he hissed out a breath at the number of carriages already there, along with a slew of automobiles. Most would be staying at inns and hotels, or traveling back to their own homes after the ball, but Cayton knew a few of the more prominent families would likely be staying overnight.

  Why in blazes had he agreed to do so when he had such a short drive to his own bed? He ought to tell Tabby to take Addie home after her visit with her cousin, that he would be back by midnight. But the moment he parked and switched off the magneto, a rotund gentleman descended upon him, all wide smiles and energy.

  “Lord Cayton! Bully to see you. I feared you wouldn’t make it this year, but Mrs. Ipswich assured me your cousin would see you came, and here you are.”

  Cayton’s hand was being pumped up and down even before he managed to shut his door behind him. “Mr. Ipswich, good evening. And how is your wife?”

  “Hmm?” His focus had gone to the car, but the jolly gent grinned his way again. “Oh, fine, fine. Thought I’d better intercept you and warn you that all the mothers are lying in wait, ready to introduce you to the young ladies inside. No one has forgotten that you made a countess of one of them, and they’re all eager to be next.”

  A small groan slipped out before he could stop it. “I thank you for the warning, sir. I shall just—”

  “Face it like a man—that’s what.” Ipswich slapped a meaty hand to Cayton’s back, propelling him forward, away from his car. “Everyone appreciates that you’re still grieving for Lady Cayton, my lord, but your girl needs a mother, and you yet need an heir. Adelaide would have been the first to tell you to move on.”

  No. Adelaide would have been the first to tell him never to marry for the wrong reasons again. Never even to consider it unless he could find a wife who fulfilled a daunting list of criteria. If there were a next Lady Cayton, she must be someone he loved, whom Addie loved, marriage to whom would not damage his daughter’s position in any way—which ruled out many of the girls no doubt in there dreaming of being made a countess, at whom society would scoff. Someone who could speak to his soul as well as his heart and mind. Which ruled out Melissa. Someone who would accept all he
was, failures and successes both. Which ruled out . . . pretty much every other young lady in England.

  Cayton merely grunted his response to Ipswich.

  Others spotted him too, hampering all those thoughts still running through his head of slipping back to the car. And while tempted to glower about it, Lady Ella’s words from yesterday floated through his mind, reminding him that he cheapened life by not living it fully.

  Reminding him that somewhere inside, she no doubt beamed sunshine into the evening.

  A footman opened the door for them and the other couples meandering that direction, and the butler greeted them with a bow. Ipswich had apparently already been announced along with his wife, and Mr. Norton hardly required a card from Cayton, though he collected one from the others to follow him in. He trailed the old butler toward the ballroom door, though people spilled from every room on the ground floor.

  The Cotswolds Ball was aptly named—it seemed the whole region turned out to enjoy the duke’s hospitality. Every blasted gentleman and shopkeeper, and all their unmarried daughters besides. It was enough to put a man into an apoplexy.

  They paused in the doorway, Cayton a step behind Mr. Norton. His gaze drifted of its own will over the sea of gaily clad people. He spotted Brook in one corner, glistening and gleaming and playing the hostess to perfection. Last year, her first time doing so, she had left the region in a blissful dither over their new duchess. He had heard whispers for months afterward about how the young duke had chosen a veritable princess for himself, and proud they all were to call her their own.

  They had obviously none of them felt the lash of Brook’s tongue.

  “Are you ready, my lord?” Norton asked under his breath.

  The concern in the butler’s tone relaxed Cayton’s shoulders. Some people, at least, understood how difficult this was. His gaze tracked to the corner of the room opposite Brook, where a flame of red hair drew him like a moth. “I suppose so.”