by Allegra Gray
After a long moment, her friend stepped back. Bea was, as usual, the picture of fashion in a cherry-colored day gown and matching slippers. Her expression, however, was that of someone rather put out.
“Bea, whatever’s wrong?” Perhaps she had problems of her own. Elizabeth’s palms dampened as fresh doubt surged through her. If her best friend turned her away, she’d nowhere left to go but home.
Bea pouted. “It seems you’ve had a grand adventure, and didn’t share even the tiniest morsel of detail with me, your poor, dull, widowed friend.” She grinned.
Elizabeth tried to smile, but to her horror, felt her eyes well instead. “Some adventure. Oh, Bea, I’m in the most awful fix. I probably shouldn’t even be here—associating with the likes of me will tarnish your reputation irreparably. Though,” she added, “I am infinitely, if selfishly, grateful to see you anyway.”
“An awful fix? It seems I’ve heard those same words from you not long ago.”
“This is ever so much worse.”
Her friend nodded slowly. “I imagine. Come,” she said, pulling Elizabeth out the door and across the hall to the family salon. “Tell me all about it.”
The recounting was quick. Under other circumstances, Elizabeth would have been tempted to divulge details, but at the moment, she was too worried about her future to revel in sharing the delicious thrill of the duke’s embrace—especially when it was unlikely she’d ever again experience it.
When she neared the end of the story and told Bea of the disgrace in which she’d left the Grumsby home, Bea scooted closer on the settee and hugged her gently. Elizabeth leaned her head on her friend’s shoulder, relieved to know the whole world had not turned against her.
“E., you’re my dearest friend and I love you no matter what scandal surrounds you, but I admit I’m not certain how to help you out of this one.”
“I fear my uncle’s wrath, should I return home,” Elizabeth admitted.
“Then you shan’t go there. You’ll stay here, of course.”
Elizabeth lifted her head. “I’d be ever so grateful. It’s only until I come up with a new plan. I shall be entirely discreet, too—no one will ever know you’ve taken in a ruined woman.”
Bea squeezed her hand. “Poor dear. The rumors are quite nasty, as rumors tend to be. Hiding away will only strengthen wagging tongues, you know. But don’t worry about me.” She grinned. “My own life has been exceedingly dull of late, and a brush with scandal may be just the thing to liven it up.”
Elizabeth knew her friend well enough to discern the worry behind her smile. “You are a true friend, Bea.”
“Well,” Bea said carefully, “thus far, none of the rumors I have heard have come from anyone who actually saw you with Beaufort…only servants’ gossip and the like. Perhaps we could persuade the rest of the ton the rumors are untrue?” She sat forward, and Elizabeth could tell her friend was warming to the idea.
“Bea, it would never—”
“I suspect I’m the only person, other than Charity, privy to the exchange you and the duke held in the park—the one where his interest in you was, em, well…lacking?”
Elizabeth’s cheeks heated. “I have no reason to believe anyone else knows of it.”
“We could re-tell that episode, then. Leave out the part about what you were actually proposing, of course, and simply focus on the duke’s disinterest. No offense to you, dear, but surely the ton will find it easier to believe the duke was out of your reach than that this whole affair could be true.”
“Lady Grumsby fired me,” Elizabeth pointed out.
Bea deflated. “Yes, there is that.” She sat back again.
The two young women sat in silence for a moment.
“So…the duke’s interest in you was not so lacking as it first appeared.” Bea’s lips quirked, and the light in her eyes revealed only curiosity, not malicious intent.
Elizabeth felt another surge of gratitude to her friend.
“Alex’s interests were…” Her flush deepened and she pressed her hands to her heated cheeks, as thoughts of the duke flooded her with desire and longing. And frustration. How could he have left her to face all this alone? Her spirits sank once more.
“I see,” Bea said softly, sparing her further explanation. She stood, pulling Elizabeth to her feet as well. “You shall have your old room here for as long as you wish. I imagine you’re exhausted, so why don’t you have a rest before we decide anything else.”
Alone in her room, Elizabeth sank onto the bed and gratefully closed her eyes. But when she awoke, her problems still loomed large. Bea’s hospitality was a godsend, but she refused to endanger her friend’s reputation by advertising her presence at the Pullington house.
The result was Elizabeth spent most of her time indoors, whiling away the hours at embroidery or other pointless tasks, away from the beady eyes and wagging tongues of Society.
On her second day at Bea’s, Elizabeth wrote to Alex. After several drafts in which she poured out her love, her sorrow, how much she missed him, and how horribly unfair it was that this happened while he was gone, she decided on a different course.
The final letter was short.
Your Grace,
Everyone knows. I’ve lost my position with your sister.
Elizabeth
She made no mention of what she’d been told by Mr. Cutter in the park. Who knew if it was even true? The fact that she was now shunned by all of Society was plenty.
She had no idea how Alex would react. She didn’t even know where to reach him, so she hired a hack and took it to Alex’s London address.
“Please,” she told the butler, trying not to wonder what the man was thinking behind his impassive expression, “I need to get this letter to the duke. I understand he’s not here, but can you see that it gets to him, soon?”
“Of course,” the man said.
Elizabeth felt marginally better on the way home. Her situation was grim, but surely Alex would know what to do.
But as days went by, she heard nothing from him. She knew he was somewhere on the coast. Anxiously she tried to calculate how long the letter would take to reach him, and how long before she could expect a response. She even built in an extra couple days, just in case the butler hadn’t been prompt in passing on the letter.
Still, nothing. Either the letter hadn’t reached him, or he’d not deigned to respond. She doubted his servants would be so slack as to ignore a letter from a woman they must know was involved with their master. Which left the possibility that Alex was too busy, or too uninterested, to respond. Either way, it hurt.
After two weeks, she forced herself to stop checking the post the moment it arrived. She tried instead to resign herself to hermitage, for that was essentially what her life had become.
She knew—oh, she knew—how willingly she’d given herself to the duke. And for that one moment in the sun, she would pay the price of a lifetime. Loneliness.
Now that finding a respectable governess’s position was out of the question, Elizabeth sent inquiries to several modistes, asking whether they had need of assistance. Plying needle and thread seemed her best hope of supporting herself.
“Any responses?” she asked Bea, who was sorting through the correspondence on her small writing desk.
“No, nothing yet.” Bea picked up another envelope. “Oh. Lady Mettlethorne is hosting a card party. I should like to attend, but…” She trailed off with a furtive glance in Elizabeth’s direction.
A pang of—what? Regret? Jealousy?—shot through her. “Please, don’t feel you need to stay in on account of me. I’ll be fine.”
“Well, all right, then.” Bea flushed, sparking Elizabeth’s curiosity.
“What is it about this party? Who did you say? Lady Mettlethorne?”
“She’s a friend of my mother’s.”
“Oh. But what…oh! Is there any possibility a certain son of hers will be in attendance?” Mr. Colin Mettlethorne was attractive, not much older than Bea,
and, if Elizabeth remembered correctly, eligible.
Bea flushed deeper.
“By all means, go! And I shall expect to hear every detail when you return.”
Elizabeth briefly considered waiting up for Bea the night of the card party, then dismissed the notion as foolish. She was well aware that such events often lasted through the night—both her parents had attended them regularly. Her mother had been at one the night her father died.
Elizabeth shuddered, unwilling to relive the events of those midnight hours, and forced the melancholy thought away.
Bea had done an excellent job in supplying her with novels and stitching materials to help pass the time. Her eyes grew tired long before her body, though. With no company to liven her lonely existence, she ended up pacing restlessly about the house before finally sinking into the oblivion of sleep, her dreams tortured by the strong arms of a dark but elusive lover.
The following morning, Elizabeth awoke more determined than ever to end this purgatory. Alex was gone, she told herself, but all hope was not lost. She would become a seamstress, earn her living, and, perhaps, in time, meet a respectable merchant and marry. Not for love—no one could ever make her feel the way her duke did—but with the hope of family, and children, at least. A simple life, well outside the elite circle in which she’d been raised, but one still open to her.
Her determination was redoubled when Bea finally drifted down for breakfast, a dreamy look on her face.
Elizabeth’s lips quirked. “I take it the events of last night were enjoyable?”
“Quite.” Bea’s cheeks pinkened prettily.
“Mr. Mettlethorne was in attendance, then?”
“He was.” Bea sat down at the small table with Elizabeth and poured a cup of tea.
“You are being maddeningly short of words.”
Bea smiled. “I am sorry. It’s only…I don’t know what to say.”
“Is he courting you?”
“Not yet.”
“Do you wish him to?”
Bea studied her cuticles. “I don’t know what I wish. When I first made my bow, my parents were already in discussions with Lord Pullington. I never had time for more than the briefest flirtations before I married.” She sipped her tea. “I’ve no wish to repeat the experience of my marriage, but perhaps…”
Elizabeth sipped at her own tea, weighing her response. She had no words to describe the exquisite pleasure of taking a lover one truly desired—nor could she imagine what Bea must have felt on her wedding night. “Yes, perhaps,” she echoed inadequately.
But when the first calling card to arrive that morning belonged to one Mr. C. P. Mettlethorne, the pleasure that lit Bea’s eyes was unmistakable.
Elizabeth was grateful the gentleman had sent his card rather than calling in person. She’d have been mortified to put Bea in the awkward position of either turning him down or asking her to hide in her room. And what if something more developed between them? Bea, more than anyone, deserved a chance at romance. What sort of liaisons could she have while harboring a fugitive from polite Society?
She looked out the window, pretending not to notice the careful, almost loving way her friend set Mettlethorne’s card on her writing desk. Today, Elizabeth determined, she would call personally on the dressmaking establishments she thought most likely to hire her.
Outside, an unadorned coach rolled to a stop in front of the Pullington home. Though the vehicle was plain, it was also familiar.
Sure enough, her uncle George’s form appeared in the door, followed by that of her mother.
Elizabeth tapped Bea on the shoulder, pointed, then slipped quietly into the servants’ hall, preferring to avoid confrontation until she knew their purpose. Her position in the hall kept her out of sight but within earshot.
A moment later, she heard her uncle loudly announce, “Lady Medford and Mr. George Gorsham. We seek audience with Lady Pullington.”
“Very good, Mr. Gorsham,” the butler replied. “Let me show you to the salon while I see if my lady is available.”
“Tell her the matter is urgent.”
“Certainly.” The butler moved off, but not in a hurry.
Bea took her time entering the salon, and the moment she did, Elizabeth’s uncle descended.
“Lady Pullington. I understand you are a close friend of my niece.”
“I am.”
“Right. Well. To come to the point, I wonder if you have any idea as to her whereabouts?”
“Her whereabouts?”
Elizabeth smiled in her hiding spot. Trust her friend not to give her away.
“Yes.” Uncle George cleared his throat. “We’ve said for some time Elizabeth was visiting sick relatives. In truth, she left on her own. And—there is no delicate way to put this, my lady—with the rumors surrounding her, it’s become imperative that I find her.”
“We’re concerned for her,” Elizabeth’s mother put in.
Elizabeth softened a fraction, but then her uncle continued.
“Yes. Time to put an end to this nonsense. Get her under control before she shames the family further.”
Anger flooded Elizabeth to hear her uncle disparage her so in front of her friend.
“The London gossips can be vicious, it’s true,” Bea replied noncommittally. “But what makes you think Elizabeth wishes to return home?”
Elizabeth could imagine her uncle’s face redden as he sputtered, “By God, the place of an unwed female is with her family.”
There was an awkward pause.
“Perhaps she is uncertain of her welcome,” Bea said softly.
“Do you know where she is, or do you not?”
Suddenly, shame filled Elizabeth. She was no coward. Bea shouldn’t have to be the one to answer for her, nor to pay for her mistakes. But that’s what she was allowing to happen, the longer she hid in her friend’s home.
Elizabeth straightened her skirts, less because they needed it than to give her nervous hands something to do.
She was tired of living in hiding. There’d been no word from Harold Wetherby in the months she’d been gone, or Charity would have found a way to tell her. Likely he wanted nothing to do with her anymore. Thank heaven for small things.
Going home would not be pleasant, but at least it wouldn’t be dangerous.
Nor did it have to be permanent, Elizabeth told herself as she stepped from her hiding place. As soon as she found respectable employment, she could be on her own again.
She walked slowly into the salon, interrupting the tense conversation. “It’s all right, Bea. You needn’t make excuses for me any longer. I’ll go home.”
It was strange. Before “the scandal,” Elizabeth was always on the receiving end of endless lectures about her responsibilities and her mother’s expectations for her. Now, though she’d moved back into her old room, no one seemed to know what to do with her. Clearly, she was doomed to spinsterhood, but no one spoke about it. Uncle George hadn’t offered to support her—not that she wanted him to. Nor had anyone suggested she seek employment. With Bea’s assistance, she’d arranged to interview for a seamstress’s position next week, but she’d no intention of telling her family before she knew the outcome.
Besides Charity, there was hardly anyone to talk to. Many of the servants, aware of the Medford family’s impending financial doom, had left to seek employment elsewhere. Emma, once as much friend as servant, was among those who’d left. So was the butler, who’d been replaced by a surly man who acted far loftier than merited, for a man willing to settle for the limited wages the family could pay.
All in all, it was a quiet, strained household.
On Tuesday morning after her return home, she sat in the salon, pretending to work at her needlecraft, while the rest of the household pretended she wasn’t there.
Elizabeth sighed and stared out the window, embroidery forgotten. She had to think of something. She was willing to admit she’d acted foolishly in falling for Alex, but if she didn’t cobble her li
fe back together soon, she’d spend the rest of it under her uncle’s thumb.
The door opened and Charity clomped in, then flung herself dramatically on the settee. “Ugh. Mother’s got to stop. I can’t blame you for leaving, E. I might do the same.”
“No! Charity, what are you talking about?” Her lovely sister really did appear disgruntled.
“She’s trying to make me a match. I haven’t even had a Season, but she says that won’t matter to certain gentlemen. Her only qualification seems to be that the gentleman is wealthy enough not to care whether I have a dowry.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said dryly. “I’m aware of that qualification. Though I was unaware she’d set her new hopes on you.”
“I don’t see why we can’t all just retire to the country. Uncle George’s home is not so very small, nor do I require as much upkeep as he seems to believe.”
“Don’t you want to marry eventually?”
Charity sat up. “Perhaps. But not like this. Do you know what she told me today? Lord Hetterton expressed possible interest. Whatever ‘possible’ means, she did not say, but do you know how old that man is?”
Elizabeth tried to dredge a face from her memory. “Hetterton? Oh! Yes. Why, he must be approaching fifty. Where did you encounter him?”
“A tea I attended with Mother. He spent nearly an hour telling me of his spinster sister’s fondness for small dogs.”
“Ugh. How dismal.”
“Well, thankfully he’s not knocking at the door yet. Though, honestly, I don’t think Mother or Uncle are in the mood to listen to my preferences in finding a suitor.”
Guilt gnawed Elizabeth. “This whole debacle is my fault. You shouldn’t be in this situation.” All her life Elizabeth had been the responsible one—at least until the past few months. And while she didn’t mind her own reputation being smeared, it bothered her that, ultimately, her sister would be the one to pay the price.
Charity shrugged. “As I said, I don’t blame you for running. I encouraged it, right? Wetherby was vile. You just couldn’t marry him.” She wrinkled her nose. “Hetterton isn’t vile, or even a complete toad. Dull, but not unkind. I just never imagined marrying so soon, or someone so old.”