Love For The Spinster (Women 0f Worth Book 2)

by Kasey Stockton

  Rich smells wafted into the drawing room. Thick, beefy broths or perhaps a platter of pork must have been carried upstairs. My stomach rumbled accordingly.

  “What shall you write about if not your exotic adventures?” I asked.

  A small knowing smile graced her lips. “Perhaps we shall take a break from writing. Or perchance we will surprise everyone with a dull story based in London.”

  Disbelief lined my forehead. “You could not write dull.”

  “I don’t write at all,” she countered. “Cameron has that duty. I merely form the stories.”

  Laughing, I shook my head. “There is no ‘merely’ anything here. You have talent; accept it.”

  “And what have you been doing to fill your time?” She neatly changed the subject, tilting her head in avid interest. “I was so sorry we could not come to you when Aunt Georgina passed.”

  “We’ve managed. I thank you for your generosity in letting me stay on in the house. Oh!” I had a sudden thought, ignoring my rumbling stomach once again. “Would you like me to vacate it now that you are back?”

  Her brows pulled together as she reclaimed her hand and set it in her lap. “Do not speak nonsense. I was hoping we could all stay there together. It is your home, though, Freya. Do not hesitate to tell me your true feelings on the matter.”

  There, speaking with Elsie, was the first time in years I’d held a conversation without the least bit of anxiety or alarm. I missed the comfort and warmth she exuded, and I found the prospect of spending time with her equal parts pleasant and relaxing. Besides, regardless of her sweet proclamations, the house was in fact hers and I could never pretend otherwise. “I should like it above all things.”

  * * *

  I speared Rosalynn with a glare. She sat regally at the foot of the table, a fork perched in her fingers as she smiled beatifically around the intimate dinner table. She either did not feel my vexation or chose to ignore it, but I was not going to let this go so easily. She had seated Mr. Kimble beside me, and if I was not much mistaken, she had done so as some sort of foolish matchmaking attempt.

  “I do not feel it necessary to employ more than one housemaid,” he said, his round nose twitching slightly. “And she has a sufficient amount of time to waste between her duties. I cannot fathom the expenditure for more than one.” He took a swallow of his wine and shot me a triumphant grin. “She’s got no one to chat with either, making her work efficient.” He tapped his temple to indicate his superior line of thought.

  I decided to test that superior brain in my own manner. “You are causing me panic, sir,” I said with as much timidity as I could gather. “I’ve got three housemaids, you see, and I can only just imagine how often they must sit around chatting while there’s work to be done.”

  He took a bite of his food and nodded. “They all do that.”

  “Maids?”

  “Women.”

  I stiffened, my fork coming to a halt squarely above my boiled greens. Baring my teeth in the semblance of a smile, I kept my eyes on my plate. “Naturally.”

  “Natural, perhaps, but no less bothersome. This is what you need to do.” He turned and his eyes locked on mine, revealing just how intensely he felt what he was saying. “You must release two of them.”

  His jowls were really quivering now.

  “Oh, but I can’t,” I said with some surprise. “It is not my house. I am merely a guest.”

  “Then speak to the housekeeper. Ensure that the maids are all occupied in different areas of the house at all times. Avoid their crossing paths, too.”

  It was all I could do not to spray my bite of boiled greens all over the lovely table arrangement before me. I coughed down the food, chasing it with a drink. The flickering candlelight highlighted Rosalynn’s arched eyebrow and I smiled at her. So now she was interested.

  “You have given me much to think on.” I thanked Mr. Kimble gravely. The conversation had done nothing but prove that he was, in fact, a pompous toad and he did not have the ability, as he had previously claimed, to tell when a person was not being truthful. Not only did I feign interest, but my household did not have three housemaids. We had five. It was excessive by anyone’s standards, but ours were not necessarily typical housemaids. One had sole responsibility over Aunt Georgina’s animals, and another was in charge of the numerous plants.

  Mr. Kimble spoke, pulling me from my musings. “Will you be attending the Fleming’s ball on Friday next?”

  “I don’t believe so,” I answered, wiping my mouth with a napkin.

  “Drat, I had hoped to reserve a dance.”

  Dancing: one thing I sorely missed in recent years. Though, even if I were to attend the social Season, surely I was too old to dance with young, eligible males—I was off the market. Did Mr. Kimble not realize I had just turned three and twenty? I was a spinster, practically on the shelf. Not only had I obtained self-proclaimed independence, but my father had nailed the coffin closed on any chance of a reputable match when his marriage to my mother was revealed to be invalid, as he had already been married to a woman in France a few years prior. The secret family in his life turned out to be mine, and my mother and I had born the brunt of his poor choices ever since. Gossip had cooled in the years since, in large part thanks to Aunt Georgina’s patronage and the support of the regal Nichols family.

  Still, none of Society’s basic acceptance of the cruel turn life had dealt me extended to the idea of matrimony, and I had reveled in the freedom from the marriage mart ever since. Not counting the odd man who didn’t know of the gossip, Mr. Kimble among them.

  He was simply going to have to be let down—and Rosalynn was going to have to be properly set down. I caught her gaze as she laughed at something and she quirked a brow. My face was undoubtedly unpleasant, and she was going to learn she was the cause. It was unacceptable to try and matchmake me. I simply had to find a way to force her to see reason.

  I rode home in Elsie’s carriage that evening. The cab was quiet as we smoothly rumbled along. “How have you held up this year?” Lord Cameron inquired. His gaze was thoughtful. His arm rested around his wife, her head lolling on his shoulder.

  “I have been well enough,” I answered honestly. “I miss Aunt Georgina, of course.”

  “Naturally,” he agreed. I couldn't help but think of Mr. Kimble and analyzed the differences between him and the kind man sitting across from me. How could Rosalynn possibly think that a man who complained of women talking too much would be an ideal fit for me? Four years ago, she would not have put up with any of that sort of talk in her presence, let alone at her own dinner table.

  Though, to give her the benefit of the doubt, it was unlikely she had heard him spouting his nonsense from where she sat at the head of the table.

  “I am glad you’ve come,” I said.

  “And I as well,” he whispered. Soft snoring flowed from Elsie’s unconscious form. Amusement colored his tone as he continued. “We’ve done quite a bit of traveling these last few weeks. She’s plum worn out.”

  “Then hopefully she will sleep through the morning tomorrow.”

  * * *

  Elsie slept through breakfast and then past noon. I began to wonder if we should send one of my numerous maids to check on her—they could idly be chatting if I did not find a good use for them—when she came into the pink sitting room and joined me for tea.

  “Lord Cameron has gone to see his brother,” I informed her when she seated herself on the settee beside me.

  “Tarquin?” she asked, her eyebrows drawn together. “That’s odd. They haven’t been particularly close of late.”

  I filled a teacup and prepared it for Elsie. I requested a plate of meats and cheeses and we drank tea while waiting for a heartier meal to be brought.

  “I didn’t know he was even in Town,” she continued, setting her cup down. “He’s acted oddly ever since the death of their brother. I know Cameron is concerned. I can only assume he decided to check in with Tarquin.”

&
nbsp; I shrugged. Another useless maid came in with a tray of food and set it on the table in front of our settee. I dismissed her so she would be free to chat excessively with the other incompetent maids and—

  “Whatever is going on in your head?” Elsie asked, her honey-colored brows pulled together and a smile playing at her lips. “You look positively outraged.”

  I set my own cup on the table, stretching my fingers to release the built-up tension. I hadn’t been aware I was squeezing them so tightly. It was a blessing I had not shattered the cup.

  “Freya?” she prompted.

  “Rosalynn played matchmaker last evening.”

  Her head reared back slightly. “I thought you weren’t interested in marriage. Have you changed your mind?”

  I looked at her clearly, portraying my feelings as honestly as I knew how. “No. I still have zero desire to wed.”

  “Then perhaps you’ve misunderstood her intent?”

  “No, it was apparent.” I shook my head, Mr. Kimble’s arrogant smile replaying in my mind. “And he was an overbearing, boastful idiot.”

  “What a review.” Her eyebrows hitched higher on her face and then lowered again as if she considered my words. “I am sorry she did that to you.”

  “Time has blinded her.”

  Elsie picked up a plate and began loading it with sliced ham and cheese, pulling a hunk of bread from the platter and dropping it on her plate. She speared me with a knowing glare from which I could not escape. “Or perhaps love has.”

  I could not control the scoff that burst forth. “Blinded her? Love?”

  “Yes!” Elsie chuckled, always the peacemaker. “Rosalynn is happy. I am sure she only wants you to feel that same happiness.”

  “I am happy,” I defended.

  “Of course you are.” Elsie did not sound, even slightly, like she thought what she said was true.

  “I am.” It was true. I was content in the life I led. I had a comfortable home and my steward’s regular letters to keep me entertained. What more did I need?

  We sipped our tea quietly until Lord Cameron entered the room and saved us from continuing down that path. He took a seat on the chair beside his wife and reached over to hold her hand momentarily.

  “How is Tarquin?” she asked.

  Lord Cameron shook his head. “Didn’t get to see him. He was busy.”

  “I didn’t realize you were even going to try.”

  He glanced at her sharply, his mind turning. “I did not want to worry you. But alas, I shall have to try another time. I do wonder if he is only avoiding me.”

  Elsie widened her eyes in such a way that spoke volumes of the argument they were silently carrying on and how often they had discussed this very thing. She speared him with a look before turning back to me. “Tell me about the cats,” she said, a smile forcing her lips thin. There was a significant amount of information I was missing about Lord Tarquin, it would seem, but now was not the proper time to fill in those gaps.

  “Aunt Georgina could not say no,” I said instead, pouring Lord Cameron a cup of tea. “She always blamed Coco, you know. After you brought the dog here, she discovered her love for animals. It was a slow accruement over the years, but she ended up with six cats and one dog.”

  “Six?” Lord Cameron expostulated.

  I nodded, sipping my tea. “It is not so bad, really. Most of them keep to themselves. There’s one little obnoxious tyrant, but since I’ve given him the drawing room he seems to be satisfied.”

  I caught the tail end of Elsie and Lord Cameron exchanging glances. It was hard not to feel a thread of resentment at their unified understanding. Of course six cats sounded excessive—it felt that way sometimes, too. But we did not gain six cats and a dog overnight. Aunt Georgina and I had proper time to acclimate to each additional animal. It was a slow progression in our household that outsiders did not quite understand.

  There were many, many things outsiders did not understand and I missed Aunt Georgina immensely as those things were brought to the forefront of my thoughts.

  Elsie looked about her, sighing. “I have to admit that it feels strange to be in this house without Aunt Georgina. I find myself waiting to see her around corners.”

  Lord Cameron reached toward his wife again and took her hand, and I found myself averting my eyes. It was not so very forward or wrong of them, but it made me uncomfortable, though I knew not why.

  Clearing my throat delicately, I pasted a smile on my face. “Are you planning to attend the Season while you are here?”

  “Yes!” Elsie said, regaining her composure. “I’ve missed London parties. The people in part, but the dancing most of all.”

  “You did not dance in India?”

  “We did,” she said, a grin showing her teeth. “Though it was not quite the same. You shall have to wait for The Golden Prince to print and read all about it.”

  “Very well,” I said with a nod. “I believe the Flemings are hosting a ball next week, but we have not received invitations to anything sooner.”

  “That suits me,” Elsie said, chewing on a hunk of bread. “I should like to rest for a week at least, and then never leave England again. If you’ll have us, that is.”

  I ignored her indication that she was the guest in this home. “I find I like your plan excessively. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I just recalled that I have some correspondence from my steward I’ve yet to reply to.”

  “You’ve got a steward?” Lord Cameron asked. “Does he take direction well?”

  He forgot to add from a woman. It was true that men did not generally answer to women easily. Mr. Bryce was the exception, however. It was only a year earlier that he had replaced the aging steward my father had employed at the time of my inheritance over twenty years prior. I found Mr. Bryce through my man of business in London and we corresponded every fortnight. Mr. Bryce kept me significantly more informed than his predecessor and I found my interest in the people and happenings of Corden Hall growing with each missive. I’d done my best to match his stories wit for wit but as I lacked significant exposure in recent months to much society, my reservoir of interesting conversation pieces had run dry and I was forced to resort to my antics with the cats.

  I was walking a dangerous line with Mr. Bryce. As our communication grew more familiar, I found myself pretending I was communicating with a father figure—the type of man I wished mine was. Mr. Bryce mentioned my visiting Corden Hall in his last two letters and while the idea tempted me significantly—to say nothing of my desire to see the house and lands I owned—I was worried meeting would ruin the fantasy I was beginning to build in my head.

  “For a man,” I said, facing Lord Cameron with my hands clasped before me, “he is actually quite agreeable. To say nothing of our recent increase in profits and gratifying reports on last year’s harvest. I hope I never lose him.”

  Chapter 3

  The Flemings had invited nearly everyone in London to their ball, and it seemed every single person had accepted. In my recent recession from polite society I had come to forget the mass amounts of people that would gather together in a ballroom and the resulting heat and stench. Anxiety gripped my spine as I was pushed from one group of women to the next, following Elsie in her rounds. She had not seen most of these people in years and had, apparently, quite a few to visit with.

  Not that I was surprised. Elsie and her husband became quite the sensation after their books began publishing. I knew her mother-in-law was not pleased with their writing career, but the majority of Society viewed it as an interesting oddity and they were widely accepted.

  Elsie had always been the friendly sort and conversed with ease. I used to be much the same way in my younger years. Recently, I couldn’t claim the desire or the skill.

  “But the last novel you put out was so romantic,” the white-haired matron said, her ostrich feather bouncing along with her enthusiastic words. “I read the whole thing in one sitting, I vow.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Doolit
tle.”Elsie’s sweet smile and no-nonsense expression clearly conveyed her genuine gratitude. “I appreciate the praise. I’m glad I could formulate such a gripping story for you.”

  Mrs. Doolittle preened, her ostrich feathers bouncing again as she dipped her aging head.

  The strands of a waltz began and Elsie jerked her head up. “I promised this dance to my husband. I should probably make myself easier to find.”

  Mrs. Doolittle shooed us away. Elsie dragged me toward the edge of the crowd and the opening of the dance floor. “I am going to find the ladies’ retiring room,” I said over the noise of music and chatter.

  “No, you must dance!” Elsie complained, holding my hands in hers. “You said yourself it has been years, and I recall how much you used to enjoy it.”

  “The key words being used to,” I said wryly.

  “Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport.”

  Mr. Kimble appeared by my side and I startled at his sudden nearness. He’d put on a shirt with such high collar points his head could not move very far from side to side. I imagined the shirt point stabbing his long cheek the moment he turned sharply one way or the other. His smile, however, was uninhibited by the dangerous clothing and he turned it on me with full force. “What a pleasant surprise to find you here, Miss Hurst. Would you like to dance?”

  His dark coat and neatly arranged hair had him looking quite the gentleman—if a hound could look like a gentleman.

  But I did so love dancing . . .

  “Very well,” I agreed, placing my hand on Mr. Kimble’s impeccable sleeve and following him onto the dance floor. My breath caught in my throat as he swept me into the waltz. The heady feeling of floating around a waxed ballroom floor in the dim, warm lighting was making me dizzy, in an enjoyable way.