“Oh, wouldn’t he?” St. Clare rode up the crest of the hill to join them. His jet-black horse was bigger than both hers and James’s combined. An intimidating creature, and one Maggie had been yearning to ride ever since her husband had purchased him last month.
“Perhaps after the new baby comes, and you’ve recovered your health,” St. Clare had suggested.
He was right, of course. But the new baby’s arrival was more than six months away. And in the meanwhile, Maggie was yearning for excitement.
“You promised to take care.” St. Clare drew his horse up alongside hers. His expression was stern. But there was no masking the tender concern in his stormy gray eyes, the love that shone there as brilliantly as ever, even when he was at his most exasperated. “Have you already forgotten?”
“An uphill gallop isn’t dangerous.” She stretched out a gloved hand to him. “I told you to race me.”
He took her hand in his, holding it safe. “You were gone before I could formulate a reply—and our son along with you.”
James’s eyes brightened. They were the same color gray as his father’s. “Did you see how fast I galloped, Papa?”
“Frighteningly fast. You very nearly managed to outpace your mother.”
“I could beat Mama if I had a horse instead of a pony.” James patted his tiny steed’s neck, as if in consolation for the insult. “I’m big enough now.”
Maggie gave her son a speaking glance. The subject of a horse was one that had already been addressed, and often. Despite James’s insistence to the contrary, he wasn’t yet ready for a full-sized mount. Besides, both she and St. Clare had promised Lord Allendale that his young heir would be restricted to a pony until he was ten years of age. A minor concession to put the earl’s mind at ease.
“Well, I am,” James said under his breath.
He was growing up faster than Maggie would like. Indeed, the happier she was, the more quickly time seemed to pass. It felt like a lifetime ago that she’d sat inside the house in her mourning blacks, frail and restless and longing to be out from under the oppressive control of the Burton-Smythes.
Sir Roderick had passed away after an episode of apoplexy during the winter of 1820. And Fred—now Sir Fred—had married a sturdy village girl of eighteen, someone who properly adored him, and who had promptly given him a son.
Fred avoided Maggie’s family for the most part, as much as was possible with them being neighbors. And on those rare occasions they happened to meet, in the village or on the border of their respective estates, he and St. Clare managed to refrain from coming to blows.
As for Maggie, years of fresh air and moderate exercise had strengthened her lungs and improved her health. St. Clare had been at her side the entire time, helping and encouraging her. She’d not been married to him three months before she was back on a horse, the two of them riding over the grounds of Beasley Park, just as they’d done when they were young.
He was still the love of her life. Her best friend and soul mate. The children they’d had together had only strengthened the already unbreakable bond they shared.
“A fine day, isn’t it?” His thumb moved over the back of Maggie’s hand in an absent caress.
“It’s a perfect day,” she said. “We should have had Nurse bring Ivo and Jack out for a picnic.”
“We still can. The day isn’t over yet.”
James’s lower lip crept out in the barest threat of a pout. “Not the babies.”
“Come,” St. Clare said. “None of that. Your little brothers look to you as an example.”
“But Papa—”
“Ride back and tell Nurse that we’re picnicking on the banks of the stream, and that she’s to bring Ivo and Jack along directly.”
“You may stop by the kitchens afterward for a cream cake,” Maggie added encouragingly. If that wasn’t an incentive, she didn’t know what was. “And don’t forget to mention that we’ll need a hamper. Cook can have Salter bring it down.”
James heaved a world-weary sigh. “Yes, Mama.” And turning his pony, he trotted away down the hill where a groom waited to accompany him.
St. Clare’s mouth hitched in a smile. “Sometimes, I think he’s more Honeywell than Beresford.”
“You wouldn’t know it by looking at him.”
James had his father’s looks, as did their three-year-old son, Ivo, and their one-year-old baby, Jack. Each of them blond and gray eyed and handsome.
“No, indeed. He’s my mirror image. But it’s your stubbornness he’s got running through his veins.” St. Clare dismounted, and after looping his reins around a nearby branch, came to assist her down from her mare. His hands were gentle but firm at her waist, lifting her easily and setting her carefully on the ground.
She clutched at his shoulders. “I’m not going to break, you know.”
“No.” He gazed down at her. “But every time you’re in this condition…” His brow furrowed. “Is it too much to ask that we remain in one place for the duration?”
They had been traveling a good deal. Autumn had been spent in London, with Lord and Lady Mattingly. Jane and Mattingly had married less than a year after St. Clare and Maggie, and their children were of a similar age. Their two families always enjoyed their time together.
Visiting London was, nevertheless, somewhat of an ordeal. The gossip over St. Clare’s legitimacy had never been fully extinguished. It had merely been subsumed by the gossip over the scandal of his birth—the fact that his mother had been a tavern wench and that he’d been born into a life of servitude.
Even after six years, there were still stares and whispers to contend with. Maggie and St. Clare only endured it on account of their children. Making their presence known in fashionable society, however uncomfortably, in the hopes that one day James, Ivo, and Jack—and the babe yet to come—would have an easier time of it.
After London, they’d traveled north, where they’d spent the winter and most of the spring at Worth House, Lord Allendale’s palatial estate in Hertfordshire. The earl doted on his great-grandchildren, delighted to have both an heir and two spares to spoil.
And then, as May drifted lazily into June, they’d finally come home. It had been at Maggie’s insistence. She looked forward to the warm spring and summer months at Beasley more than anything.
“Everything is going to be fine,” she promised, curving a hand around St. Clare’s neck.
He bent his head. “You always say that.” His lips brushed over hers. Softly, slowly. A prelude to a kiss.
She stretched up to meet it, heart beating swiftly. Her eyes closed as his mouth captured hers. She clung to him. Even after all these years, his kisses still had the power to make her knees go weak. “Nicholas,” she breathed. It was a name she only ever used in their most intimate moments.
He made a low sound, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “I believe this is how we got into this predicament.”
“A predicament. Is that what you call it?”
“A lovely, wonderful predicament.” He rested a hand on the slight swell of her belly. “I wonder if this one will be a girl?”
“I sincerely hope so. The ladies in our household are woefully outnumbered.”
“I hope so, too. A brave, beautiful girl, with dark hair and blue eyes, like her mother.”
Maggie smiled up at him. “Perhaps she will be.”
And she was.
An Excerpt from A Holiday By Gaslight
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London, England
November, 1861
An icy late November breeze rustled the bare branches of the trees along the Serpentine. Hyde Park was practically deserted at this time of morning. And no wonder. It was freezing cold, the gray skies heavy with the scent of impendin
g rain. Sophie Appersett thrust her hands more firmly into the confines of the oversized mink muff she wore suspended from a silken cord round her neck. “So you see, Mr. Sharpe. There’s no reason to continue as we are.”
Edward Sharpe walked at her side in complete silence. His large gloved hands were clasped behind his back, his deep blue eyes fixed straight ahead. His expression was somber. So somber that, when paired with his severe black suit, black topcoat, and black beaver hat, he might easily have been mistaken for a man on his way to a funeral.
No one who saw him now would ever believe he was one of the wealthiest manufactory owners in Greater London. And they certainly wouldn’t credit him as being part owner of not one but two separate railway concerns.
Sophie cast him a sidelong glance. He was a handsome man, if one liked tall, dark males of the serious variety, but he was infuriatingly difficult to read. He never betrayed his feelings with a look or a word. And when it came to conversation, silence was, by far, his favorite subject. During their brief courtship, she’d been obliged to do most of the talking.
In the past two months, she’d come to hate the sound of her own voice. It was always droning on and on, filling up the vast emptiness between them with magpie-like chatter. Forever talking, talking, talking, but never really saying anything.
But she was saying something now. Something she should have said two months ago. “We simply do not suit.”
“No indeed, ma’am.” Mr. Sharpe’s voice was a deep, rich baritone. He had no discernible accent. Quite the opposite. He spoke in the cultured tones of a gentleman. Where he’d learned to do so, she hadn’t the slightest idea. His parents were London shopkeepers. He’d never gone to Eton or Cambridge. Instead, he’d spent his youth delivering packages and stocking the shelves of their store.
And now he was one and thirty. Wealthy, powerful, and—according to her parents—imminently eligible.
“He’s trying to gain entrée into polite society,” Mama had said when she and Papa first broached the subject of an alliance. “It’s why he wants to court you, my dear.”
“And he’ll never flaunt his common origins in your face,” Papa had added. “He’s too ashamed of them. Now he’s made his fortune, he wishes to forget his humble beginnings. And if he can forget them, Sophia, then so can you.”
Sophie didn’t care about Mr. Sharpe’s humble beginnings. Quite the opposite. She’d often wished he would speak of them. She’d been curious about him and desired to know him better. But after two months…
She sighed. “I haven’t told my parents yet. I know they’ll be dreadfully disappointed. They like you very much.”
“I expect they do,” he said.
She shot him a narrow glance. His face was set in lines as immoveable as granite, his broad shoulders taut beneath the expensive fabric of his topcoat. “You needn’t be unpleasant about it. They were no more mercenary than you.”
“Mercenary,” he repeated. “Is that what I’ve been?”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s how these things are done. It’s how they’ve always been done. Alliances contrived between wealthy merchant’s daughters and impoverished nobleman. Or—as in our situation—successful men of business and the daughters of impoverished country gentry.” A troubled frown clouded her brow. “I’m sorry it’s all come to nothing for you.”
“Are you?”
“Yes, but…honestly, Mr. Sharpe, if you wish to gain admittance into society, you would do better to look higher than the Appersetts of Derbyshire. Find yourself an earl’s daughter. A lady who is accustomed to moving about in society. As for myself, I—”
“Is there someone else?” he asked abruptly.
Sophie’s gaze jerked to his. “What?”
“Is there another man? Someone you prefer?”
“Goodness no. If there were, I’d never have agreed to walk out with you.” She slowed her pace. They’d ventured too far from the entrance to the park. And she couldn’t stay much longer. She had to get back before her absence was remarked. “It’s only that we have nothing at all in common. After two months, surely you must see that.”
He made no reply.
Sophie worried her lower lip between her teeth. How much more was she required to say in order to put an end to their relationship? She had no experience with this sort of thing. No man had ever asked leave to court her before. And, she thought grimly, it was very possible that no man ever would again. “Perhaps I should have said something sooner.”
“Why didn’t you?”
She looked out across the choppy waters of the Serpentine. “I don’t know. I suppose I thought…” That he would warm to her. That he would come to care for her. Even to love her a little. She’d been ready to love him. It would have taken so little encouragement. A fond glance. A kind word. An affectionate touch. “But it doesn’t matter now, does it? We’ve come to the natural end of things.”
“As you say.” Mr. Sharpe withdrew his gold pocket watch from his waistcoat to look at the time. It was a singularly dismissive gesture.
Sophie stopped. The chill breeze rustled her heavy woolen skirts around her legs. “Am I keeping you from an appointment, sir?”
He stopped as well, turning to face her. His expression remained unreadable, but she detected a slight hardening along the firm line of his jaw. As if he were irritated—or even angry. “You are, Miss Appersett.”
An embarrassed flush crept into her cheeks. Here she was attempting to sever their relationship in the most delicate manner possible, and all he could think about was his next meeting! He didn’t even care. The past two months had been as nothing to him. It was what she’d always suspected, but still…
It hurt. She had so wanted him to like her.
She clenched her fingers within the confines of her muff. “I will not detain you. If all is settled between us—”
“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. “We don’t suit.”
“Then you agree—”
“Perfectly. There’s no reason to continue this charade.”
Sophie inwardly winced. A charade? Is that what he thought of their courtship? How utterly lowering. “No reason at all.” She withdrew her hand from her muff and extended it to him. “I wish you well, Mr. Sharpe.”
Mr. Sharpe’s gaze dropped to her outstretched hand. It was encased in a red kid glove, slightly worn at the thumb. After a moment of hesitation, his much larger hand engulfed hers, clasping it just a heartbeat longer than was strictly necessary. “And I you, Miss Appersett,” he said.
And then he let her go.
Ned threw his hat and gloves onto the upholstered settee in his office with such force that his tall beaver hat ricocheted against the cushions and onto the floor. He didn’t pick it up. Instead, he raked both hands through his hair until it stood half on end. He had a cowlick near his forehead, an infuriating feature which made his thick black locks impossible to tame. Even a liberal application of Macassar oil couldn’t civilize them for long.
Well, there was no more point in civilizing his hair, nor in civilizing himself. Miss Appersett was gone from his life. Their courtship was over. And any hopes of something more were at an end.
After a long moment, he shrugged off his topcoat and tossed it over a chair. His frock coat followed. He rolled up his shirtsleeves as he made his way to the enormous mahogany barrister’s desk by the window. Stacks of carefully organized papers covered the surface, a marble paperweight securing the financial statements he’d been perusing when Miss Appersett’s note had arrived. The note itself was folded inside an inner pocket of his coat, the scrawled words emblazoned on his brain.
Dear Mr. Sharpe,
Will you do me the courtesy of meeting me at the entrance to Hyde Park at 10 o’clock? There is something of importance I need to discuss with you.
Sincerely,
S.A.
God knows what he’d expected to happen. This entire affair had been the equivalent of walking blindfolded along a cliff’s edge. The only way he’d managed to navigate was by going at a snail’s pace. Even then, he’d often hemmed and halted and hesitated—never knowing when he might put a foot wrong and plummet straight down over the side.
Courtship among the upper classes was a delicate business governed by more rules than a Chancery suit. He’d been completely out of his depth, forced to rely on the rather vague advice administered in the Gentlemen’s Book of Etiquette.
Rule No. 1: When you see a lady who impresses you favorably, do not be in any rash haste to make advances.
“What bollocks,” he muttered.
It would have been so much easier if Miss Appersett had asked him for money or a gift of some sort. He’d have happily given her anything she wanted. He’d already spent a small fortune on her engagement ring. It was a flawless brilliant-cut diamond, presently residing in the bottommost drawer of his desk. He’d intended to give it to her next month. Her parents had invited him to their Derbyshire estate for the Christmas holiday. Sir William and Lady Appersett had made no secret that they expected him to propose marriage to their daughter during his stay.
Not that he’d felt obligated in any way. If he’d wanted to put an end to his relationship with Miss Appersett, he’d have done so without hesitation. But he hadn’t wanted to end things. He’d been besotted with Sophia Appersett since almost the first moment he laid eyes on her.
It had been mid-June at the opening of the new Horticultural Gardens at South Kensington. Prince Albert himself had been presiding over the occasion. Ned saw Miss Appersett standing with another lady on the terrace at the top of the arcade. He passed behind them along the rock asphalt promenade.
“Mr. Sharpe! Is that you?”
He stopped to respond, recognizing the lady as the wife of Vincent Carstairs, heir to the Carstairs shipping fortune. Vincent was a casual acquaintance of his. A man who, like Ned, was not strictly a gentleman, but had earned a measure of acceptance in polite society by virtue of his good looks, good manners, and sizeable bank balance. And, of course, it didn’t hurt that Vincent had managed to marry the daughter of a viscount.
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