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

by Kasey Stockton

  I had missed this.

  “You are gifted,” he said, guiding me around the set.

  “Thank you, sir.” I hated the way my voice sounded breathless and airy. I tried to filter more steadiness into my tone. “I have always had a special love for dancing.”

  “Yet you are not often found on the floor. Is there a reasonable explanation?”

  I pursed my lips, wondering if my proclaimed illegitimacy was explanation enough for him.

  I shrugged. The center of a ball was not exactly the ideal moment to bring up old scandals, particularly when they were better left forgotten.

  Mr. Kimble slowed, his gaze narrowing in behind me. “What is that?”

  The rest of the dancers continued to move and I pulled Mr. Kimble along so we would not ruin the set. I glanced over my shoulder where the majority of the spectators’ gazes were fixed, but I could not see over the crowds lining the room.

  The din in the ballroom grew louder with gossip as we spun in graceful circles. There was some sort of event taking place and we were sure to hear of it the moment our dance ended.

  “Perhaps it is Lady Melbourne,” he continued, craning his neck as we danced. I tamped down my irritation; if Mr. Kimble wanted to act like an old gossip then that was his prerogative. Perhaps he was a true hunter, but instead of assisting with pheasants, his objective was gossip.

  The final strands of the waltz came to a close and I curtseyed to my distracted partner while he eyed the crowd near the doorway.

  He did not bow, but instead said, “Lady Melbourne was seen at Almack’s last week throwing a cup of punch in a footman’s face because he would not fetch her something stronger.”

  “Oh?” I placed my hand on his arm as he led me from the dance floor.

  “And she gave Mrs. Folsom the cut direct at her own ball last month because she let her daughters wear dark colored gowns to their ball.”

  That was certainly rude of the woman. I had heard some of Lady Melbourne’s antics in recent conversations, but never paid them any mind. She sounded, to me, an uptight, volatile woman and I was glad not to run in the same circles as her. I was sure to receive the cut direct as well for my own claim to scandal, however long ago it occurred. People like that did not tend to forget blunders.

  But still, what business of hers was it that the young women were wearing dark colors? “Are they debutantes?”

  “No, but only recently out of the schoolroom. They both came out last Season.”

  In that case, the young women should have been dressed in pale colors. I had never been one to care much about Society’s standards, but many people did.

  Lady Melbourne, evidently, was one of them.

  We made it to the edge of the ballroom and I was about to tell Mr. Kimble to leave me there as I was acting as my own chaperone—I was no longer part of the market, anyhow, and firmly on the shelf—when we passed Lady Melbourne in quiet discussion with another woman.

  “Not her, then,” Mr. Kimble said, directing me further away. He seemed disappointed; another strike against him.

  “We shall know soon enough,” I remarked. Secrets had a way of making their way around a ballroom quicker than wheat on fire.

  “I should think—” Mr. Kimble’s words died on his lips as his eyes widened in synchronized fashion with his mouth. I glanced over my shoulder in the direction he was staring and found my own face falling slack.

  I could not believe what I was seeing.

  The crowd seemed to part like the Red Sea for Moses and a man stepped from the throng, his fancy clothing and exquisitely styled hair no match for the splendor and magnificence adorning the woman beside him. They reeked of money and prestige, and the smug looks on their faces revealed their prideful self-satisfaction.

  “Is that—”

  “Yes,” I said, swallowing a lump, unable to shift my gaze from the couple. “That is my father and his wife.” I supposed he knew about my scandal, then, if he was capable of picking my father from a crowd.

  A younger woman stepped out from behind them, her hair the same light strawberry blonde as the older woman’s, her gown a regal, white confection that made her look like an angel swathed in golden light.

  “And that,” Mr. Kimble said, “must be your sister.”

  * * *

  “Shall we go?” Elsie gripped my shoulders, her concerned eyes boring into my face. “Why am I even asking? Of course we shall go.” She spoke to her husband, her eyes never leaving mine. “Cameron, fetch the carriage please.”

  Lord Cameron was off at once. What an obedient husband.

  “Would you like to sit down?” Elsie asked, her voice growing panicked. “I can fetch a glass of lemonade. Or something stronger?”

  I immediately thought of Lady Melbourne throwing punch at a footman. If that had even occurred. Gossip could not be relied upon for accuracy.

  “Freya,” Elsie said, her voice low and steady, “you are beginning to worry me.”

  Worry her? Whatever had I done to elicit that response? I had not even said one word…oh. I cleared my throat. “I would like to go home.”

  I propelled her into action with my words. Her hand came around my arm in a vice-like grip, steering me toward the ballroom exit in a direction that avoided my father and his family. My eyes smarted as I caught knowing glances from the men and women we passed and tears formed in my eyes regardless of how hard I tried to stem them. It was the sudden unexpected presence of my father after four years of not seeing him, and not that he brought his real family into my realm, that bothered me so excessively. Nor did it matter that he hadn’t written to me in three years.

  Not that I was counting, for I did not care.

  “I cannot believe the gall of that man,” Elsie muttered as we entered the carriage. “Selfish, stupid man.”

  “Elsie,” Lord Cameron said gently, his gaze flicking between his wife and me.

  I wanted to tell him I was not so fragile, that it felt nice to have someone as angry with my father as I felt, but my mouth remained closed.

  We rode home in silence and I assured both Elsie and Lord Cameron that I would be all right, I simply needed a hot soak and an early night. I felt their pitying gazes warm my back as I mounted the stairs.

  It was a relief to be in my own room with the door closed. I leaned back against the hard slab and sank down onto the floor, pulling my knees up and resting my forehead on them. I was too old to sit and cry over my father. I’d had years to come to terms with his choices and subsequent abandonment. True, he had once written me letters, years ago, but then he had stopped. If he truly loved me, he wouldn’t have given up.

  He would not have left.

  “Oof!” The door collided with my back. The maid trying to enter uttered a soft curse and tried again. “One moment, please!” I said, pulling myself off of the floor and opening the door to let her in.

  Mr. Kimble’s image floated in my mind as she and another maid began to prepare my bath. If I did not have two women available for the job it would have taken twice as long and my water would have been twice as cooled. So, there. Take that, Mr. Kimble and your tiresome, thrifty ways.

  I sat in the tub after Tilly washed my hair until the water turned cold and I began to shiver, the lavender oil doing very little to calm my nerves. When I finally dressed and climbed into bed, I could not sleep. Images from the ball filtered through my mind over and over again. My father, his wife. Their daughter stepping forward into the glowing candlelight like an ethereal being, absolutely beautiful and quite a few years younger than I. She was a veritable diamond of the first water and was bound to be a smashing hit in London if that was what they were here for.

  Oh, heavens. Could that be it? A knot formed in the pit of my stomach and grew at the thought of enduring their presence among my friends and acquaintances for the next few months. If they planned to be here for the entire Season, there was only one answer for it.

  I could not be.

  Chapter 4

&nbs
p; I stepped into the breakfast room and silence engulfed me. Elsie sat perched on a chair at the table, her eyebrows pulled together in concern, Lord Cameron’s face a mirror image of hers from where he stood at the sideboard.

  “Shall I make you a plate?” he asked.

  “No, thank you.” I picked up a plate and loaded it with my usual fare, ignoring the well-meant attention the Nichols were slathering on me. I sat beside Elsie. Lord Cameron delivered her breakfast and went back to the sideboard to retrieve his own. “Really, I am fine,” I said, eyeing Elsie with as much gumption as I could.

  “But last night. I cannot even fathom…” She looked to her husband and then back to me. Leaning in, she lowered her voice. “Listen. Cameron has some contacts from his newspaper days. He is willing to make some inquiries to find out what we are dealing with here.”

  “Actually, that would be really helpful,” I said, my shoulders deflating. Elsie clearly had not expected that response, as her honey-colored eyebrows rose a fraction. I lifted my lips in the semblance of a smile. “I want to say it does not matter and I will do what I wish, but what I really wish is to not have to see them again. I vow, if I never lay eyes on my father for the rest of my life, I shall die a satisfied woman.”

  A throat cleared from the doorway and Elsie and I turned in unison to find my butler, Perkins, standing there, a man behind him.

  “I do not know whether to sally forth or tuck tail and run,” my father said, belying his words by stepping into the room. Curse Perkins and his absolute disregard for me. He should have waited and announced my father first.

  Elsie’s hand came under the table and held mine, solidifying her presence and reminding me of the many times she had done so before. If there was one thing I could always count on, it was her unwavering support.

  My father’s white hair was styled neatly and his clothes looked just as expensive as they had the night before. His eyes had gained some wrinkles in recent years but he was otherwise unchanged.

  “How did you know where to find me?” Not the smartest thing I had ever said, as I recalled the letters he had sent to this address years ago. It had come from my mouth of its own accord, however, and was a suitable replacement for what I truly wished to know: why he had not done so sooner.

  “It was not so hard to discover,” he said. “I merely asked the right people.”

  Lord Cameron came to stand behind me in a show of solidarity and support. While I valued his friendship, I did not need his protection. I stood, letting go of Elsie’s hand and clasping mine together before me. “What do you need?”

  Father’s hat spun circles in his hands as he toyed with the brim. My initial reaction was to pity his discomfort but I quickly squashed that feeling away, hardening myself to his plight.

  “I hoped to speak to you.”

  “You are,” I said.

  “Alone?”

  “No,” I replied clearly, ignoring his wince. “This is the Nichols’ home and I will not ask them to leave. You may speak plainly, sir.”

  His eyes bore into mine and dread and regret slithered up my spine, much as it did whenever I’d faced my father as a little girl. But he had no control over me now; I was not even his legal daughter. I was illegitimate. Fire replaced the discomfort and I gazed back with all of the heat I felt.

  He sallied forth. “I hoped we could come to an agreeable arrangement. I’ve brought Sophie and Adele to Town for the Season and I wished to introduce you.”

  My heart broke upon hearing their names. I had known of their existence for years, of course, but never before had I known their names. There was something so very real and final about giving someone a name. I could no longer pretend they were unreal—neither could I feign being unaffected.

  Silent, warm tears rolled down my cheeks as I severed the last remaining care I had for the man standing on the other side of the breakfast room. “You need to leave,” I said with quiet strength.

  “But—”

  “I am sorry, sir,” Lord Cameron said, crossing the room and taking my father’s arm. “It’s probably best if you go now.”

  My father yanked his arm free, his eyes searching mine over his shoulder as Lord Cameron escorted him from the room.

  “Freya Bee, please,” he called.

  I squeezed my eyes closed, the pet name from my childhood digging the dagger deeper into my spine. I had to remind myself that he had not used the name in years. Not since I went away to school.

  I winced when the front door closed behind my father. Sitting hard on the chair, I was vaguely aware of Elsie’s arms coming around me. I cried into her shoulder for what felt like hours until the tears dried up and I was able to breathe normally again. Sitting back in my chair, I wiped my eyes and stared at the congealed butter and toast on my plate.

  “What a relief,” Lord Cameron said facetiously. “I did not anticipate contacting my old newspaper chums with any excitement. I suppose I need not inquire now that we have learned his intentions.”

  He was trying to break the tension, I was sure. I stared at him a moment before laughter bubbled up out of my throat—the loud, maniacal kind, of course—and did not stop until Elsie joined in and Lord Cameron chuckled.

  “I suppose he heard me speak before he entered the room.” I wiped my eyes. It was not funny in the least, but Lord Cameron had helped me to relieve some of the tension regardless. “Yet he approached anyway.”

  Elsie sighed. “He came all this way. I am sure he only wanted to speak his piece.”

  “And he has. I can walk away now with the comfort of knowing I truly do not need a relationship with him.”

  Lord Cameron stood from his chair. “I will give you both some time.”

  Elsie waited until he left before turning toward me. “I know this is perhaps the last thing you would like to hear right now, but I speak from experience when I say holding on to your anger only hurts you, Freya.”

  I leveled her with a wry look. “Your parents lied about your dowry and tried to force you to wed someone with money, which you did end up doing. What your mother did was wrong, but it was nothing like this. She did not try to carry on two families in two separate countries at the same time.”

  “That is true. What you have gone through is horrid and I could never begin to understand how you have suffered because of it. Yet, I can’t help but feel that you would obtain your own sense of release if you simply forgave your father. I am not saying you need to have a relationship with him, and you certainly do not need to endure the company of his wife or her daughter, but the forgiveness could help you to let it go.”

  I stood, her words burning and causing tears to form once again. Suddenly, I knew what I had to do. I was done. With crying, with my father, with the whole of it.

  “I am going to Corden Hall,” I said. “I will begin packing and shall leave as soon as I can make all of the proper arrangements.”

  “Whatever are you talking about?” Elsie leapt to her feet. “You do not need to run away from us, Freya. We can be here for you.”

  “I am not running away,” I said acerbically, the accusation hitting a chord within me. “I am going to visit the estate that I own. I have lived off the generosity of others for years, and it is time I support myself. I am not saying I will remain there forever, but I should like to see it, and this is as good a time as any. I should like to see the fields of wheat and the red sandstone buildings. My steward has asked me to come and settle some matters and it seems a prime opportunity to do so. Let them have London; I have my own house.”

  “Very well,” she said, her arms falling limp at her sides. “But we only just reunited. Can we accompany you?”

  I softened my tone to cushion my words. “You’re good to me, Elsie. But I would rather go alone.”

  * * *

  Four years of residence in Aunt Georgina’s home caused a longer delay in my travels than I had anticipated. I decided to take Tilly with me to Corden Hall and she accepted eagerly. Coco was going to accompany
me, of course, and it would probably be wise to take a few of the cats off Elsie’s hands. There was a stable at Corden Hall that could possibly house a few felines; the only difficulty was determining which ones to take.

  Jasper, the irritable tabby, would be a horrible carriage companion, so he was out. Mabel and Lucille were too old to bother with catching mice and didn’t do much beyond sunning in windows or curling up near fireplaces. That left Kitty, Cleo and Max.

  I watched Tilly absently as she packed away my gowns and shoes, debating the merits of each cat and which ones I should bring with me. A tap at the door interrupted my musings and I delivered a strained smile when Elsie stepped inside the room. Things had been different between us since the incident in the breakfast room the week before. I knew she felt like I was running from my problems. She had even said as much. Years before when we first discovered my father’s second family and I retreated from Society, she had felt much the same way.

  She did not realize at the time that I was not going into hiding, but I was strategizing. I could not face Society until I understood fully what my situation was and how I felt about it. I was simply doing the same thing now. Whether or not she could understand how I felt was irrelevant, for it was how I dealt with the blows I’d been dealt.

  “How is packing coming along?” she asked, coming to sit beside me on the edge of my bed.

  “I am trying to decide which cats to take.”

  “All of them.”

  I laughed. “Jasper would claw me to death if we were forced to share a carriage ride to Shropshire together.”

  She moaned. “He is the worst of the lot. Do not tell me you are leaving him here.”

  “I must! The clawing, remember?”

  She pouted. “Very well. I see you have no choice in the matter. How about we make a deal where you take half and leave me half? We can evenly divide Aunt Georgina’s babies, for I know she felt that way about them. Her letters spoke of little else.”