A Lady Unrivaled

by Roseanna M. White

  Felicity smiled and closed her eyes. “I’m glad you’ve come.”

  She couldn’t bring herself to answer, didn’t know what she could say. Was she glad to be here? No. She was glad to have met Felicity, but otherwise . . . no. Silently, she let herself out, eased the door shut behind her. Silently, she slipped up into the kitchen and out its door into the cool March evening. Silently, she made her way through the clear, damp night and to the looming shape of the carriage house.

  Dorsey waited in the moonlight, leaning against the side of the building with his face turned toward the heavens. Wondering, perhaps, what the moon would look like from the African plains. Or how many more times it would wax and wane before he saw it there.

  He turned when her heel crunched on the gravel of the drive, the pearly light catching on his even white teeth. “You came.”

  “I should not have. But yes.” Because it was her birthday and no one knew her name and Felicity wasn’t well and her knee didn’t hurt but her dreams were still on the other side of an ocean, with some other woman’s name on her posters.

  She walked directly up to him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pressed her lips to his.

  He was taller than Andrei, by an inch or so. Leaner. He smelled of crisp English nights instead of heavy Parisian colognes. His arms came about her with every bit as much confidence—that borne of knowing he was handsome, knowing he was charming, rather than knowing he was rich enough to buy anything, anyone he wanted.

  And she wanted to weep and to find one of those boys from her village who would have been happy to make her his wife, one who had never had the boldness to steal a kiss and would have fumbled it if he had. One who spoke her language and shouted her name across fields ripe for harvest and waved to her when she walked by with her grandmother.

  No. She just wanted her grandmother. Her father. Her brothers. To sit around the old, scarred kitchen table and anticipate the plate of honey-soaked chak-chak Babushka made for each birthday.

  Dorsey pulled away and rested his forehead on hers. Distemper colored his tone, staining the evening still more. “Let me guess—you left someone behind in Paris.”

  Worse. She’d left them behind in Russia, and now too much of her life had passed without them. “It was over.”

  “But there was someone—of course there was someone. No one as beautiful as you goes through twenty-one years without a someone. Husband?”

  She shook her head. Her eyes were going blurry, and she had no long-lettered ailment to blame it on.

  “Well then.” He kissed her again, quickly but determined. Like his tone still sounded to her ears. “I’ve a chance.”

  “As much as anyone. Perhaps more than most.” She shouldn’t encourage him. But it was her birthday, and his arms were pleasant, his lips confident. It was familiar.

  Babushka’s eyes would be blurry too, at how familiar it was when she had never had a husband.

  Dorsey kissed her once more and then stepped away. “Happy birthday, Sophie.”

  Her eyes slid shut as he walked away. Kira.

  Twenty-One

  Ella stepped out of the post office and into a bank of fog that hadn’t been there ten minutes prior, when she’d made her stop in the telegraph office before coming here to post a letter home. The morning had dawned cool, so she’d slipped her favorite pea-green kimono jacket on, the matching toque over her hair. Just now she wished she’d worn something heavier. Or perhaps, as Stafford had advised from behind his newspaper at the breakfast table, she ought to have stayed in.

  Brook had told her husband not to stifle Ella’s adventurous spirit—then had moaned her way back to her “prison of a chaise,” as she called it, calling out yet another suggestion that she carry a gun.

  She shivered at the thought. Or perhaps at the fog. The library was sounding rather nice at the moment. She’d have a fire lit in the grate. Perhaps another cup of tea. And her chair was calling to her.

  “Lady Ella!”

  The chair was louder than she’d thought it could be, what with stuffing all down its throat. And sounded suspiciously like Lord Rushworth.

  He emerged from the fog—making her wonder how he’d spotted her ten seconds earlier—with that smile he always wore. The one that promised all was well, the world was grand, and he was perfect, when she knew it was nothing but a lie.

  She smiled right back. “Foggy morning to you, Lord Rushworth. You’re out and about early today.”

  “I had a letter to post and a hat to pick up from the haberdasher.” He was indeed holding a derby in his hands, which he put on now with more flair than she thought he had in him. “What think you?”

  “Dashing.” It did, in fact, suit him better than the fedora she’d seen him in before, but she didn’t really want to say that. It might sound insulting. Or too complimentary. Or make him think, “Oh, she’s noting my hats—next stop, the altar.”

  He adjusted its position and stepped nearer. “Are you headed home? Did you drive, or may I walk you?”

  She ought to have accepted Stafford’s offer of a chauffeur. Or Brook’s insistence of a weapon. “I walked.”

  “Well then.” He offered his elbow.

  She had little choice but to set her hand on his arm, though she kept it light.

  If he noticed, he gave no hint of it. “And what brings you into this foggy morn?”

  “Oh, just posting a letter to my brother and his wife.” She wouldn’t mention the telegrams to the museums in India, not on her life. “I haven’t got one from them in ages, and I require information regarding how Rowena is doing—she could have the babe any day now.” The road out of the village had never seemed so long. Though that was likely because it vanished a few yards in front of them. For all her eyes told her, the world simply stopped there at the end of the sidewalk.

  “Will you be leaving us when she does? Seeing how you are with little Lady Adelaide, I think you must be eager for a niece or nephew.”

  “Most eager, yes. And I daresay I shall hurry home when the news arrives, though I am happy to give them some time to themselves for now.”

  “You are close? You and the duchess?”

  She smiled into the cloud misting her face. “We are. We were friends as children. I never dreamed she would someday marry my brother, could scarcely believe it when it happened so quickly—and now can’t imagine how Brice ever got on without her. They complement well. They’re nothing alike, so you might not expect it—but there we have it. Foils to each other, I suppose.”

  “I have always thought that the best sort of marriage. One where a couple balances each other. The quiet with the exuberant. The steady with the bold.” He, too, looked straight ahead, to where the road should be. Yet somehow made it clear his attention was completely on her.

  Had it been Cayton, it would have been thrilling. With Rushworth, it sent a chill up her spine. “I suppose there’s something to that, to be sure. I’m still not certain what would best balance me, but luckily I am in no hurry to discover it. I will patiently await my handsome prince.” Hopefully he would read between those lines and deduce that it wasn’t him.

  His grin bordered on cynical. “Someone moody, perhaps? Surly? I ask because you seem rather fond of Lord Cayton.”

  She had been expecting the observation for ages—she didn’t know how it could fit in his plan to pretend he was unaware of the court he’d forced Cayton to pay her. But still, it took her aback to hear him mention it now, and in the voice of a typical jealous suitor. Or what she imagined the voice of a typical jealous suitor would sound like. She’d never really had one, to know firsthand.

  She tilted her head from side to side in what she hoped looked like indecision. “Well, he can be charming when he tries. Not that I forget how surly he is, as you put it, when he isn’t charming. And I certainly can’t forget how he behaved with Brook’s cousin Melissa.”

  “Mm. He does have a bit of a history. We have long been friends, Cayton and I, but I cannot say as I ap
proved of his . . . shall we say, previous exploits.”

  Breathing calm. Fingers relaxed. She mustn’t show him his words bothered her. He was playing a game—that was all—trying to win her trust. “Nor do I, as I have made quite clear to him. Perhaps you noticed the mood he returned in the other day?”

  “No, I can’t say as I did.” But he looked amused. More, he looked pleased. “Did you berate him for his indiscretions? I confess, I wish I had heard that.”

  She chuckled. “I daresay he wishes he hadn’t. I wouldn’t be surprised if he failed to call one of these days.”

  “Oh, I doubt that.” Now he turned his head her way, that unnervingly steady gaze of his fixed upon her. “I doubt any man could really keep his distance from you if you welcomed him, Lady Ella. Certainly I can’t fathom why he would want to do. You . . . you’re perfection, clothed in beauty.”

  “Lord Rushworth.” Just now, her fair complexion aided her well, letting her flush so easily. “You flatter me.”

  “It is hardly flattery.”

  “Well.” She laughed, light and a bit hesitant. “You hardly know me.”

  “I am remedying that, am I not? I have so enjoyed the chance to converse with you each afternoon—and do appreciate that you’ve been kind enough to visit. She may never admit it, but it has been doing Kitty good.” His face went solemn, caring. “She is finally emerging a bit from her grief. I had feared she never would.”

  Truth, or just another part of his deception? She prayed it was truth, had been praying morning, noon, and night that it was truth. That the differences she noted each day in Catherine were God-given progress and not just a show, or a reverting back to her previous self. But Ella didn’t really know her well enough to say. She had only faith that she was doing what she ought. “I have been praying for her.”

  It struck her only then—she hadn’t been praying for him. Why, how had she overlooked that? She would remedy it the moment she got back to the castle.

  His eyes softened. “You are so very good.”

  The soft gaze was as terrifying as the intent one. She looked back into the fog. “I believe that’s your sister’s greatest complaint about me. That, and that I’m generally happy.”

  “What does she know? They are your finest qualities. Lady Ella, I . . .” He paused and drew in a long breath, looking out into the fog again too. “I realize no one would approve. But I am earnest in my intentions toward you. Would you . . . ? May I court you? Without the excuse of my sister—just . . . me and you?”

  The fog wrapped around her throat and squeezed. “My lord . . . I don’t know how to answer. You should speak with my brother.”

  Rushworth sighed. “We both know what he’d say.”

  They did. Unless she warned him first, but . . . what would she say? She didn’t want Rushworth to court her. But she didn’t want him angry, either. “He is a fair man, my lord. And one well able to see beyond prejudice or past judgments. If he was wrong about you before, he will admit it.”

  He halted, just a step off the sidewalk, and looked down at her. “Do you think he was? Wrong before? Do you think . . . What do you think of me?”

  Lord God, put your words in my mouth. Give me your judgment, for we all know mine isn’t worth much. She met his gaze. Held it. Didn’t look away even when she wanted to. Within his eyes she saw everything and nothing, emptiness and fullness.

  She drew in a deep breath and let it carefully back out. “I think . . . I think you have unlimited potential within you, Lord Rushworth. I think you have made yourself into a man who can be remarkable, or who can go without notice. I think that takes depth of character and determination and study beyond what most people would ever do—attention to yourself, your mind, your soul, and that boggles my mind. What I can’t be sure of is what you’ve done with it. What is the truth and what is the mask.”

  He lowered his eyes to the hand she still rested on his arm. “What if the mask is the truth? What am I to do then? How can I reassure you?”

  She lifted her hand and rested it on his cheek, gloves to flesh. He tensed, his breath catching, though it couldn’t have surprised him any more than it did her. “A mask is never the truth, my lord. Or else it would not be a mask, simply a face.”

  “Then, perhaps I simply don’t know which of my faces is most true.” His lips tilted up, faded back down. “Tell me which you prefer. I’ll make it my only one.”

  How many times had she wished she could just imagine her perfect prince into existence? How many times had she fashioned one in her daydreams, piece by piece? Wished she could just wish a man into her idea of perfection?

  But to have one offer to remake himself to fit her desires . . . That left her shaking. No person ought to have that power over another. And even if she told him what never to do, what always to do, it wouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t be real. And he would likely do it only when she was watching. She withdrew her hand. “I want you to be who the Lord wants you to be, to fit yourself into His plan for your life. Not mine. It is the only way you’ll ever be happy. The only way you’ll ever know yourself. To first know Him.”

  He turned them toward the hidden road again, his stride slow and the tilt of his head contemplative. “I will think on that. And in the meantime . . . you will come for tea?”

  “I will come for tea.” Not sure if she’d dodged a bullet or taken one directly in the stomach, she waited for familiar spires and roof peaks to emerge from the fog.

  “You want I should take her in, milord?”

  Cayton took the pebble from Addie’s fist before she could stick it in her mouth—everything was tasty these days, it seemed—and looked up to see why Tabby would say such a thing only five minutes after they’d settled in by the fish pool.

  Catherine was meandering their way, Lareau trailing a step behind her. Neither looked particularly happy with the other, which made him wonder why they were out here together. At least until a few of their words drifted to him on the breeze. “Midwife” and “doctor” from the maid—“Felicity” and “fine” from Catherine.

  Cayton looked to Tabby. “Is Felicity doing worse? No one has said anything to me.”

  “Nor to me, milord. Addie?”

  “She’s fine. No sense in rushing in.” And he did agree with Ella that Catherine wouldn’t hurt his daughter—as for the rest of Ella’s ridiculous suggestion, his blood still simmered if he considered it too long. How could she suggest that he and Catherine . . .

  It needled him even when he pushed it from his mind. He didn’t want Ella to like him beyond friendship. Didn’t want the faux courtship to be real. But apparently he also didn’t want her suggesting he would be the perfect match for some other woman. Much like he gritted the enamel from his teeth every time he paused to consider that she was with Rushworth every afternoon in his drawing room. He kept nearly going down to join them and then stopping himself.

  He’d probably just do something stupid to put the whole situation in jeopardy. It was what he was best at.

  “Dadada.” Addie, apparently deciding he wanted all the pebbles to be found, offered him another.

  He smiled and took it. “Thank you, precious. This one is white. The other was grey. Do you see the difference? Can you point to the white one?”

  For a moment he thought she might. She studied them, looking from one to the other where he held them in his palm. Then she simply reached for a third and plopped it down along with its friends. “Eedle um.”

  Cayton chuckled. “Never neglect the third option—how wise you are.” And now he was talking to her as Ella did. When had he begun doing that?

  “Leave it, Lareau.” Catherine stepped onto the stone of the terrace. “If she needs a doctor, she will call one. I’m certain Mrs. Higgins would see to that, regardless of whether Felicity was being stubborn or not.”

  Addie scooted closer to Cayton’s side. She no longer screamed when Catherine got close, but she certainly didn’t ever go near her of her own volition. Cayton frowned
. “Is everything all right?”

  Catherine huffed and waved a hand. “Fine. May I join you?”

  He nodded toward the bench under the lattice by way of permission. He’d glanced out the window and seen her sitting here a few times. She had been all about his gardens, it seemed, with her maid or Ella or Felicity. She had color in her cheeks again. She’d lost that hollow look.

  Which of them, he wondered, deserved the credit for that? Her maid or Ella or Felicity?

  Catherine settled onto the stone bench. “Did you talk to Cris this morning? After his walk, before you left for Ralin?”

  Cayton accepted another pebble from Addie and raised his brows. “I haven’t seen him today, actually. Why?”

  She shook her head. “He’s been acting strangely. I think he must have bumped into Ella, though I haven’t a clue what she said to him. Did she mention anything? Never mind. She wouldn’t mention him to you—and for the record, I find it quite strange that you’re both courting her, sharing a roof as you are right now.”

  “Well, we can agree on that.” He shifted the rocks around his palm. Ella hadn’t, as a matter of fact, said anything about bumping into Rushworth that morning. Perhaps Catherine was mistaken.

  Or perhaps Ella hadn’t wanted to share whatever it was she said to him.

  It was concern burning a hole through his chest. Not jealousy. He knew well he had no reason to be jealous. Because Ella wasn’t interested in Rush. And Cayton wasn’t interested in Ella. And this was the most absurd situation. . . .

  He shook it off and cleared his throat. “You’re looking better, Kitty. More your old self.”

  “Am I?” She toyed with a ribbon that dangled from her dress, watching as Addie reached as far as she could for one particular little rock, nearly tumbling over rather than scooting closer to it.

  Cayton steadied her. “Well, you are looking more like your old self—though I suppose you will never be quite the same person again. Such losses change us forever.”