“Um, thank you, Mr. Cavell,” Dorothy murmured, catching Martha’s gaze and raising her brows and hands in an exaggerated expression of confusion.
“You just make yourselves comfortable—it’ll be no time—no time at all,” he assured them again.
The girls all exchanged glances. It seemed highly unlikely that he was telling Rose and Daisy to be comfortable, since the two horses were pulling the wagon. So Dorothy repeated her thanks.
After a full minute, Martha cleared her throat and prepared to answer her sister’s first remark. “I realize that Quinton—Lord Ashbourne—must marry, and Lady Honore is an excellent match. Despite your fears, I am quite pleased with his decision. She will suit him very well.”
After a quick glance, Dorothy gave her a hug. “It is for the best, you’ll see.” She straightened, and although she smiled, the skin around her eyes remained pinched with anxiety. “I am sure we shall have many splendid adventures in London, and I predict that we shall all be happily married before the year is out.”
“But I don’t want to be happily married!” Grace wailed before covering her face with her hands and sobbing. Between tearing gulps, she said, “I want to stay here. Dear Trevor says—”
“Trevor!” Dorothy exclaimed. “You mean Mr. Blyth, I’m sure, and he is hardly in any position to say aught about your situation. He is a mere curate—why, he can barely afford to feed himself, much less a wife! He doesn’t even have a maid, as you very well know. What he can possibly have to say about our future—other than to agree that going to Aunt Mary’s is the best possible course—is beyond me.” Her voice rose as she spoke, her words increasingly chaotic and incomprehensible as her own fears spilled out in a long torrent.
Martha stopped listening and stared down at her clasped hands. London. Surely, Aunt Mary would at least allow them to visit the museums and lending library, and there was some solace in that.
At last, exhausted by her emotional outburst, Dorothy slumped forward, her elbows on her knees. Stretching out one hand, she patted first Martha’s arm and then Grace’s. “I am sorry. It is all so difficult… But we must remain hopeful, after all.”
“Hopeful,” Grace echoed. She sniffed and pressed her handkerchief to her nose.
Martha remained silent. What could she possibly say? In a few hours, they would be in London. The wagon slewed to the right as they rounded the bend in the road and passed by the lane leading to Hornbeam Manor.
Was Quinton there, courting Lady Honore? The image of the lady, pressed against his broad chest, her face tilted up to his, arose to bother her, as pesky as a fly.
Martha’s chest tightened, and she shifted away from the piece of straw jabbing the tender area at the back of her knee.
His arms had been so warm, so strong, when he’d kissed her. A tingle shivered through her at the memory of his embrace before she took a deep breath and thrust it out of her mind. A poet might recommend cherishing that moment, that one kiss, but she could not. It simply hurt too much to remember something she would never experience again. The memory was too much like a teasing carrot held in front of a reluctant animal—aggravating, unsettling, and forever out of reach.
The wheels jolted and rattled over the dusty road, almost throwing her off of her seat. She looked around. They were passing the lane leading to Ashbourne House. In the distance, she could make out a thin stream of dark smoke, and if she stared hard enough, she could just see the straight, dark lines of the roof above the jagged treetops. She blinked back the warmth filling her eyes and pulled her shawl more closely around her.
Mr. Cavell’s low voice murmured continuously to Daisy and Rose, while Martha’s sisters sat in glum silence, lost in their own dire thoughts. Her heart went out to Grace. She was so young, and although they’d tried to prevent her from associating too much with their young curate, she had clearly grown attached. They were all leaving behind everything they loved, to face an uncertain future.
Or perhaps a future of which they were only too certain, given Aunt Mary’s proclivities. The Stainton girls would soon be reduced to a trio of seamstresses and drudges, grateful for any meager crumb Mary Polkinghorne granted them.
“Hold there! Cavell!” A voice called over the approaching thunder of horse’s hooves.
Martha’s head snapped up. Quinton? Her heart beat a loud tattoo in her chest—so loud that she felt deaf. She shook her head and took a deep breath as she glanced around.
“Whoa!” Farmer Cavell pulled back on the reins, bringing the wagon to a halt.
A rider came to an abrupt stop behind them, a small cloud of dust swirling around him. His horse snorted and danced, stepping sideways as if determined to slip free of the reins.
“Lord Ashbourne!” Dorothy exclaimed, placing a restraining hand on Martha’s arm. “Whatever is amiss?”
“Your sudden disappearance is what’s amiss,” Quinton replied as he lifted his hat in a jaunty salute.
“What now?” Mr. Cavell asked, frowning over his shoulder. “We’ve a late enough start as it is. We won’t be in London before dark if we delay, and my brother promised supper…”
Quinton bowed in the farmer’s direction, his horse breathing heavily and dancing closer to the wagon. In a great show of skill, Quinton maneuvered the horse around the rear of the vehicle to edge closer to where Martha sat, her hands clasped tightly and a frown wrinkling her brow. “It will not be much of a delay, I promise you.”
Without a by-your-leave, he reached down, slipped an arm around Martha’s waist and lifted her straight out of the wagon and onto his horse.
“My lord!” Martha exclaimed, slapping at his arm. “Release me at once!”
His embrace only tightened, holding her in a horribly uncomfortable position in front of him on the horse’s shoulders.
“I am afraid I cannot do so. At least, not at this moment,” Quinton said. His eyes were brilliant with laughter. “Unless you wish a more intimate view of the road.”
Martha bit her lower lip to keep from giggling in response.
“Please release my sister, my lord. We are on our way to London and must not delay Mr. Cavell any longer.” Dorothy stood unsteadily and held out her arms, motioning with her hands.
Grace twisted around, her handkerchief still clutched in her hand. She stared at them, open-mouthed, her lashes spiked with sparkling tears. Her blue eyes brightened with hope as she caught Martha’s flustered gaze. A tremulous smile curved her mouth.
“Then drive on, Mr. Cavell,” Quinton responded in such a flippant manner that Martha would have boxed his ears if she hadn’t feared he’d drop her in the dirt if she did so.
“Your lordship?” Mr. Cavell’s frown deepened. He stared over his shoulder at Martha. Slowly, a knowing grin replaced his frown. He nodded. “I see. Well, good luck to you both, then.” He clicked his tongue and flicked the reins to get the attention of Rose and Daisy.
The horses took tentative steps forward, jerking the wagon. Dorothy tottered, almost pitching out onto the road before she clutched Grace’s slim shoulder and eased down again onto her bale of straw.
“Stop!” Dorothy ordered one last time. “We can not go without Martha! Put my sister down immediately, my lord! Your actions are positively indecent!”
The wagon creaked forward.
“What are you doing, Quinton?” Martha asked, trying to bring order to her thoughts. She glanced over her shoulder at the moving wagon. “I cannot stay here—you know that. Oh, please! Let me go!”
He shifted her to a slightly more comfortable, sideways position in front of him and studied her with eyes the color of spring leaves. The sunlight gleamed through his chestnut hair, and vibrant life seemed to pulse through him. Martha’s breath caught in her throat.
Her fingers fluttered, wanting to touch his lean cheek. A deep, thrumming longing swept through her, followed by a tearing hopelessness. She wanted—ached for—something that she could never have, that would never be hers. Her eyes stung again, and she bit her low
er lip harder, struggling for control. Her hands clenched.
Whatever this was, whatever he was doing, it was not in answer to her prayers. She had to remember that.
“I apologize for my precipitous removal of you from Farmer Cavell’s wagon, but I did not wish to delay him any further.” His eyes twinkled even more fiercely. “Most likely, he will not reach London before dark as it is.”
“And I will be even later, thanks to you! When shall I reach London, my lord?”
“Not for several years, I fear.”
“After you have ruined me?” She slapped at his arm and kicked, hoping to slip down his horse’s shoulder to the road.
The horse stepped sideways and danced a few steps, forcing Quinton to tighten his hold on Martha’s waist with one hand and on the reins with the other. He looked around and suddenly released her, letting her slide to the ground. Before she could do more than turn to stare at him, he dismounted and guided his horse to the side of the road, where he looped the reins over a low branch.
“You may certainly feel utterly ruined when you realize what an abysmal future lies ahead. However, I assure you, that is not my intention.”
“What is your intention? Just another amusing escapade? A little fun? Because I assure you that this is not the least bit amusing to me. And I doubt your betrothed will enjoy it if she discovers that you have kidnapped another woman—right in front of her sisters. Not to mention, Farmer Cavell.”
“I agree completely. Let us not mention Farmer Cavell any further. I’ve heard quite enough about Farmer Cavell and his wishes today.”
Snorting, Martha stifled a giggle. Nonetheless, her glance slipped up the road and lingered on the small puffs of dust, kicked up by the heavily laden wagon.
“Really, Quinton, please be serious. Lady Honore will not be pleased.”
“I confess I do not care if Lady Honore is pleased or not. My actions are not her concern.”
“Quinton!”
He sighed and shook his head, a teasing smile quirking his mouth.
A shy peek at him made her pulse stumble and quicken. She took a step away, clasping her arms over her waist.
“There is no need to look so shocked, my dearest Martha. If you had given the matter any thought at all, you’d have realized that I don’t care about Lady Honore in the least.”
“I have given it a great deal of thought! She is precisely the sort of wife you must have, as well you know. Duty—and your estate—demands it. So I don’t understand why you felt the need to assault me in this fashion. You must have known that leaving would be difficult enough for me without this.” She swallowed and sniffed, staring down at the weeds growing along the side of the road. Anything to avoid looking at Quinton. It was too painful and her emotions were too raw—he’d see them painted clearly over her features—and she didn’t want to see pity in his gaze.
“She may be the sort of wife I should have, but she is not the wife I wish to have.”
“If wishes were horses, we’d all be riding,” Martha answered mechanically, blinking furiously. Her throat felt thick and constricted. She forced herself to swallow the painful lump.
Why couldn’t he have left her alone, so she could leave with whatever shreds of dignity she could collect around her? Why did he insist on making everything a joke and laughing at her, when all she wanted to do was to collapse in the dirt and weep? Her knees shook, threatening to drop her into the dust whether she wished it or not.
Quinton placed a warm, steadying hand on her upper arm. “Perhaps I waited too long, or should have declared my intentions earlier.”
She shook his arm off and moved away to stare through the tangled hedgerow to the pasture beyond. “It would have been kinder, certainly, to announce your intentions to wed Lady Honore before. I’ll agree with you on that.” Then she realized what she’d admitted. Her hand flew up to cover her mouth.
Maybe he wouldn’t realize she’d just said that she cared for him. No—not cared for, loved.
“I have never had any intention of marrying Lady Honore—will you please get that notion out of your mind? I had, in point of fact, spoken to your father before he died. I would have thought you’d have known—”
“Known? Known what?” She pressed her hand harder against her mouth and looked at him. Her stomach clenched. She had to be wrong—he had to mean something else, someone else. “You—you were not intending to offer for Dorothy, were you? Or Grace? Oh, that would be just like you—to think everyone knew your intentions! Of course, it is Grace! I’ve been quite blind, have I not? Not to notice? Everyone loves Grace. It is impossible not to love her. I should have realized.” She gulped back a sob and stared up at the twisting branches of the overhanging tree, blinking and hoping the burning tears would evaporate before they seeped over her cheeks.
Quinton closed the gap between them and grasped her roughly by her shoulders. “I knew this would happen one day—all of those chemicals in your laboratory have driven you mad—quite mad.” He pulled her close, took her glasses off her face, and pocketed them.
She blinked up at him, confused, but her heart soaring all the same.
He grasped her again and pressed a hard kiss against her lips. “There!” He raised his head. “Now why the devil should I want Grace? Or Dorothy for that matter?”
“Because they are beautiful!”
“Have they kept you without a mirror for all these years?” He gave her a shake before enfolding her in his arms. “They are both dowds compared to you, my dearest Martha.”
Resting her head against his wide chest, she listened to the deep thud of his heartbeat, a smile tickling her lips. The world, fuzzy, golden, and summery green sparkled around them. Glorious giggles threatened to choke her.
“Then what, precisely, did you speak to my father about?” she asked in an innocent voice when she could finally speak.
His arms tightened around her. He kissed her cheek and rested his chin on the crown of her hat. “Marriage. To you, Martha.” He let out a long breath. “Unfortunately, he pointed out to me that I can ill afford a wife.”
She stiffened, all of her fears rushing back, but he did not let her go. “Then…?”
“He never gave me permission, my love.” He pushed her slightly away, but kept hold of her upper arms. Without her glasses, his handsome features were soft and blurred, like a water painting smudged by the dew.
“But you did not speak to me!”
“How could I? Your father was right—I can ill afford a wife.”
“Lady Honore—”
“I forbid you to speak that woman’s name to me again!”
“Forbid? Me!?”
“Then I beg of you—please cease throwing her name at me like a rock heaved through a window. I understand well enough where my duty lies and what she has to offer. However, I find I’m without sufficient honor to perform my duty, if that is what it requires.” He released her to go down on one knee and grip her hands. “I humbly ask you to marry me, knowing full well the disadvantages this offer entails. I am not a wealthy man—far from it. And although my man assures me that we will, someday, bring a small measure of prosperity back to my estate, it will not be quick. Or easy. It will mean a great deal of economizing—”
“With which I am already exceedingly familiar,” she said, interrupting with a smile and squeezing his fingers.
“And with which you will, unfortunately, become even more familiar.”
“Indeed,” she answered dryly. “For my entire wardrobe has gone to London in Mr. Cavell’s wagon. Nonetheless, if you believe the need to economize will put me off or force me to refuse your offer, you’re doomed to disappointment.” A deep rich glow filled her, expanding her chest and warming her cheeks. “I do wish you’d return my spectacles to me, however. I would like very much to see you.”
“I believe you see me well enough, Martha. And I have every intention of kissing you again when you allow me to rise. I dislike insisting, but I must know, what is your answe
r?”
“Why yes, of course!” She giggled as he got to his feet and brushed off his trousers before pulling her into his arms again.
He glanced over her head at the empty road and frowned. “Your sisters are gone, I fear. You have no chaperone.”
“There is always Widow Willow.” She straightened and smiled. “Or perhaps you should ask Lady Honore if she would grace us with her presence. She would be a wonderful chaperone, I’m sure.”
When he groaned and raised his gaze to the Heavens, she laughed.
In retaliation, he kissed her again, stopping her giggling and holding her, safe and secure, in his strong embrace until both of them forgot about Lady Honore for quite some time.
###
Marrying the Belle of Edinburgh
The Marriage Maker
Book Eighteen
The Marriage Maker and the Widows
Lisa Boero
Scarsdale Voices
The Marriage Maker and the Widows
Virgins are overrated. Women of experience. Women who know what they want. Women who don’t need a man—at least for nothing more than the pleasures only a man can provide. These are the women men desire.
It takes a man of worth, of steel determination, to capture one of these beauties…especially when she doesn’t want to be caught, and I know from experience, they take great pains to avoid the marriage trap. Why give up her freedom, nights spent with lovers who worship her body as only a lover can? Nae. The man who sets his sights on one of these women must forgo conventional wisdom. Poetic words of love fall on deaf ears, for many men have confessed their devotion in brilliantly lit ballrooms and under moonlit skies. This female creature has no desire to be tamed beyond the pleasures of one night.
A man who loves this woman must be ready to give his soul to save hers.
Fate often watches in perverse glee when these women pass within a hair’s breadth of these men, blithely unaware of their hero’s existence.
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