THE DEFIANT LADY

by Samantha Garman

  Emily nodded. “I am. I will be staying with my favorite aunt for a spell. My parents are allowing me a full French wardrobe for the Season this year.”

  Alyssa’s blue eyes twinkled inquisitively. “Are you leaving soon?”

  Emily smiled and shrugged. “Soon enough.”

  Mathilda and Alyssa exchanged looks. “What does that mean?” Alyssa asked.

  Emily took a deep breath and then decided she had to confide in someone, and it might as well be her two closest friends.

  “I believe I will leave after my betrothal to the Earl of Stanton is arranged,” Emily said simply. She tried not to smile, but an errant grin crossed her face. She was like a cat that had just eaten an entire bowl of cream and had gone back for seconds.

  “The Earl of Stanton? Truly?” Mathilda cried out, knowing Emily had her heart set on becoming titled.

  Emily nodded. “He was here visiting my father this morning.”

  “He must be on the verge of offering for you,” Alyssa agreed.

  “Can you imagine? Emily, you are going to be the next Countess of Stanton!” Mathilda said, trying in vain to hide her jealously and obviously doing a poor job of it.

  Emily could no longer keep from boasting. Her hazel eyes danced merrily as she blurted, “He has been here to see Father numerous times in the past month!”

  Mathilda reached over and grabbed Emily’s hand. “Have you thought about your wedding?”

  Emily attempted to rein in her satisfaction, but it was difficult. The Earl of Stanton was one of the most eligible bachelors of the year. He had eluded the clutches of numerous young women and their matchmaking mothers, and now Emily was on the verge of becoming his fiancée. I will have everything I have ever desired, she thought gleefully.

  She would become the Countess of Stanton.

  It was all but settled.

  ***

  Cyrus Corbin Archibald, the fifth Earl of Stanton, waited for his solicitor to take a seat across the massive oak desk. Nathan Crosby was barely over five feet tall, yet he managed to convey a formidable presence when he wished. He maintained that rare ability when imparting bad news. Usually admiring of Nathan’s talent, at the moment Cy abhorred it, since he was about to be subjected to it directly.

  “You cannot continue paying the debt this way, My Lord. If you go on much longer, you will have to sell everything you own. The interest alone is a small fortune,” Nathan said, shuffling papers and laying a few on the desk in front of the Earl.

  Cy did not even glance at them; he already knew what they said. Looking at them would just annoy him further. “I am aware,” Cy voiced blandly, adjusting his long legs in the plush leather chair. He sighed resolutely. “I have no choice but to marry for wealth.” The idea made his throat tighten, and his stomach burn.

  Nathan Crosby had been the Earl’s solicitor since Cy had come of age. Though the title was hundreds of years old and full of prestige, Stanton heirs never seemed to possess any sort of business acumen, including Cy’s father. After inheriting the family title, Cy quickly realized that he had the elusive talent for business, and more importantly, he actually enjoyed it.

  Unfortunately, Cy did not have the chance to double a stout inheritance. He barely had two pence to scratch together, not to mention the matter of repaying the debt his father had left him, along with hefty interest for such a lengthy delay in remittance.

  Only a select few knew of the debt or how it had been incurred, and Nathan Crosby was one of them. The late Earl had borrowed money from the late Duke of Cavehill. The man had a weakness for gambling and cards, but no good fortune. Mortgaged and indebted up to his ears, and with the family estate nearly on the auction block, Cy’s father borrowed money to save the family estate for his only son. The Duke of Cavehill died only four years later, and the Earl of Stanton died two years following.

  At the age of six and twenty, Cy inherited his title, along with an enormous debt between two men who were no longer living.

  Cy vowed to repay the debt, restore the family fortune and marry a woman of quality. These things alone would restore the family title to respect and honor and enable him to finally live the life of a true gentleman.

  Possessing a strong desire to right his situation, Cy believed himself completely capable of doing so. Thinking that if he had inherited wealth instead of debt, he would have already tripled his family fortune, but because he was financially crippled by such a colossal debt, Cy could only invest small amounts at certain times, and the returns never came close to matching the interest that was owed. His existing land, estate and investments made him appear to be a wealthy man, but in actuality, he was barely solvent.

  It angered him to no end. He pledged that no future generation of his family would suffer from his father’s reckless choices. The debt would end with him, even if that meant selling his title on the marriage mart to snag himself a wealthy wife.

  Cy’s morning had been rotten. First, his favorite stallion slipped a shoe. Then, his perfectly fitted brown jacket sleeve ripped. And now he was forced to discuss marriage plans to prevent imminent financial ruin, almost as if he were discussing the weather with a passerby.

  “You could mortgage some of your smaller properties,” Nathan suggested. “Or sell your investments in the shipping companies.”

  Cy shook his head. “Both options are out of the question. I will not do as my father and mortgage my lands, leaving me penniless. If I marry a woman who has a large enough dowry, I can wipe the debt clean, start turning a profit from my existing investments, and build back my rightful wealth. I want this debt cleared without leaving me destitute, landless and with no hope for the future. Besides, it is past time I marry and produce an heir,” he stated sardonically.

  “Is it to be Miss Emily Fitzgerald then?” Nathan asked, knowing his employer had been spending a great deal of time with the young woman’s father.

  Cy thought of the attractive blonde. Though she was beautiful and the daughter of a baron, she inspired no deep emotion in him. She would be perfect, but more specifically her dowry would cover his inherited debt in full, including interest. They both would lead separate lives; he had no qualms about shackling himself to a well-bred woman who would act as his hostess and provide him with an heir.

  Sitting back in his chair, Cy pressed his fingertips together in thought. “I will send correspondence to Miss Fitzgerald’s father. Have the marriage contract drawn up.”

  “As you wish.” Nathan took off his glasses and polished them for a moment in silence. After he put them back on, he looked at Cy and with complete sincerity said, “Congratulations.”

  Cy smiled ironically. “Thank you, Nathan. You always know just what to say.”

  ***

  London, England

  Lord Brandon Caldwell stepped off the cobblestone street, adjusted his cravat and straightened his brown overcoat. Walking down Bond Street for a few minutes, he then turned down a narrow alleyway littered with scattered garbage and other refuse. A dirty orphan boy, who was inadequately clad for the English winter, darted out in front of Caldwell. His big, brown eyes pleaded for a handout. Lord Caldwell sniffed in disdain and peered down at the child as if he were vermin. The boy recognized the look and scampered off through soiled snow, glad he had not received the back of the gentleman’s hand.

  When Caldwell reached the end of the alley, he knocked on a chipped red door, and a moment later a middle-aged woman with a heaving chest and wearing far too much rouge answered. She smiled in greeting and quickly ushered him inside. A dark hallway opened into a large, dimly lit room decorated in red silks and plush brocade.

  “Good afternoon, Monsieur Caldwell,” the woman purred with an engaging smile. “It is such a pleasure to see you. What can I do for you today?”

  “Is Angeline available?” Caldwell asked.

  Madame Rousard did not care for the pompous gentleman, but he came to her brothel on a regular basis nonetheless. Caldwell paid well in return for clean girls an
d the utmost discretion. Angeline was available, but it would cost him, and Madame Rousard had no doubt he would pay.

  “Mais oui, anything for you,” she cooed flirtatiously.

  Caldwell inclined his head and followed Madame Rousard down the squeaky wooden hallway. Sounds of ecstasy and the scent of heavy perfume filtered through thick doors on either side of the hall. When they came to a dead end, Madame Rousard knocked on a door to the right and opened it.

  The room was decorated in pastel lavender and white, and a young woman lay on the bed wearing a white, silk robe. Her long, brown hair was straight and covered one eye. She kept her gaze lowered, her youthful cheeks stained with a woman’s first blush.

  “Angeline,” Madame Rousard announced, glancing at the girl. She knew Lord Caldwell preferred his women on the brink of womanhood. He liked them nubile and young, receiving his cruel pleasure with a feigned cry of desire. The Madame closed the door, a warning knell of what was to come.

  He slowly took off his coat and walked towards Angeline. He grabbed her right arm, pulled her towards him forcefully, and then parted her robe and slipped his hands inside. She looked up and watched him with calm eyes, but her heart raced, and he smiled maliciously when he gripped her delicate wrist in a painful grasp.

  “Will you beat me again tonight?” Angeline ventured, her voice trembling in a faint Irish lilt.

  Madame Rousard had given all her girls French names, claiming that the French were better lovers, hoping men would pay more for their services. Angeline tried not to think of her given name, or her dead parents and brother buried in Ireland, and a life she should have already forgotten. Best to leave it in the past, dead, for there was no hope to ever return to it. She had no one now, except a man whose incredibly handsome face hid his twisted cravings.

  He loomed over her, and she knew he anticipated an evening of selfish desire. He was rough and punishing, but Angeline did not have to work for a whole week on what she made in an hour with him. Not that anyone would pay for a battered doxy anyway.

  Caldwell did not say a word as he roughly shoved her away from him and began to take off his belt. Angeline tried not to shudder in fear, but she could not help it. The beatings hurt, and she knew he liked it when she cried. She waited expectantly for what was about to happen.

  Perhaps Madame Rousard would let her have a new dress, or a box of decadent chocolates if the night went well.

  She quaked as he wrapped his belt around his hand and came towards her...

  ***

  Hampshire, England

  Ivy could not sleep, tossing and turning like waves in an ocean storm. She was unable to get comfortable in the fluffy feather bed in her elegant bedroom that was the size of their old Paris flat. Though the bed had soft, white satin sheets and was more decadent than anything she had ever slept on, thoughts continued to race through her troubled mind, and the rich food she consumed at dinner settled in her belly like rocks.

  Ivy had always been independent and self-reliant, and asking others for aid battered her self-worth. She knew there had been no other option, but the Duchess’s steady, unwavering and hostile gaze over dinner left her anxious. Thank God her sister was asleep down the hall. At least the sisters still had each other, for Ivy did not know what she would do if Willow had not been there.

  There was a light knock on her door and a moment later Willow popped her head in. “Ivy, are you asleep?”

  “Come in, Willow,” Ivy answered as she pulled back the covers on her bed and moved to light the candle on the bedside table.

  Willow entered the bedroom and closed the door. She quickly climbed into bed next to Ivy. “I have the softest, largest bed in the world, and yet I miss sharing our tiny bed.”

  Ivy sighed. “I think it will take some time to adjust to our new life.” She wondered if she would ever be comfortable in this cold, sheltered world. She felt like a caterpillar, waiting and hoping desperately to become a butterfly, and dreaming of flying away.

  “Get up,” Ivy said suddenly, throwing off the covers. She drew back the curtain to reveal a full moon. Reaching for her sash, she tied up her nightdress.

  “Please do not make me,” Willow pleaded.

  Ivy chuckled, but pulled Willow off the bed. “How is it you were ever going to be a ballerina? You hate to practice.”

  Willow shrugged and then tied up her own nightdress. “Perhaps I have more interests than just ballet?”

  Ivy looked at her and teased, “You had better not be speaking about pressing flowers into books. Come, let us begin.” The sisters began moving through dance positions almost without thought; it was so natural to them. When they finished, they clambered into Ivy’s huge upholstered bed. Ivy blew out the candle, and the girls fell asleep.

  ***

  “How did you sleep, Ivy?” Willow asked, her blue eyes wide with sham innocence.

  Ivy threw her younger sister a genuine smile and said, “Not as well as you, Willow. You can sleep anywhere.”

  Willow chuckled. Even after the dance positions, Ivy had a restless night. This morning, she was tired and listless. Willow, on the other hand, seemed to have a never-ending supply of energy, no matter how little sleep she received.

  They were as different in dispositions as they were in appearance. Willow looked like their mother. Tall, lithe, blonde and blue-eyed, she was incredibly sweet and feminine. Though she was talented at ballet, she had never been as committed as Ivy.

  Ivy had a sharp mind, a clear intellect and incredible spirit. Her small chin jutted out just enough to show a sense of dignity. Her eyes were emerald green and her cheekbones were flawlessly high. She was small in stature and could be mistaken for fragile, but there was a core of strength about her. How else had she managed after their mother died? When she took center stage, all eyes were on her, and it was though she grew three feet in height. She commanded attention.

  After breakfast, they walked down the hallway to the drawing room, Willow chattering on like a cheerful little songbird. Ivy listened with one ear as she took in her surroundings, likening the manor to a museum. It was prestigious and large and objects were to be looked at, but not touched. When they arrived at their destination, she smoothed her old blue gown to make sure she was as presentable as possible, not wishing to give the Duchess a reason to snipe at her.

  “How are you finding your rooms?” the Duchess asked when the girls were seated. Her tone was full of standard civility, but her face was blank, betraying no lingering emotion.

  “Beautiful and capacious. I have never had so much space to myself,” Willow replied earnestly. “Thank you so much.”

  Willow’s pleasure did nothing to melt the Duchess’s frosty demeanor. “You are welcome.” She looked at Ivy. “And you?”

  “I am settled,” Ivy clipped noncommittally.

  The Duchess compressed her lips, no doubt in disapproval of Ivy’s intractable iron will. “I am having an informal ball in May to introduce you both to our neighbors. It only gives us two months to make sure you are both presentable. Come June, your official debut will commence in the splendor of London. Balls, theatre, opera…”

  The Duchess rang a small brass bell to ring for tea, which was a taciturn affair much like their dinner the previous evening. Willow attempted to break the unrelenting silence a few times, but it was met with vague replies from Ivy and resentful looks from the Duchess. Willow quickly gave up and drank her tea in silence.

  ***

  The next morning after breakfast, Madame LaRue, the Duchess’s personal modiste, arrived with two assistants, plenty of measuring tape and a sketchbook. Madame LaRue was less than five feet tall and traveled with a small platform so she could measure all her customers herself. She was of an indiscriminate age, and it was unclear whether she was thirty or fifty. Her face was unlined, except for when she smiled, and then it was as if tiny spider webs had formed at the corners of her eyes. A flurry of energy, she constantly seemed to be in two places at once.

  The woma
n positively radiated excitement at seeing Ivy and Willow; she was overjoyed with Ivy’s coloring and Willow’s tall frame. “Two lovely sisters. You will both take London by storm!” the woman predicted.

  “I am so excited!” Willow twirled in place. “I cannot wait for our new wardrobes. I feel positively shabby!”

  It was hard for Ivy to maintain her stoicism when she saw her sister so happy. Though it would take weeks for their clothes to be completed, Willow’s pleasure was unrivaled.

  After hours of measuring, questioning and incessant chatter from Madam LaRue, Ivy fell exhaustedly into a chair. She did not think she had the stamina, or the desire to be a lady. She looked at the Duchess and said, “Please tell me I do not have to do this again for a very, very long time.”

  The Duchess’s resolute face did not change when she replied, “Not until next season.”

  Ivy was unable to stifle a groan.

  Willow grinned, despite the Duchess’s reserved manner, and said, “I have never had so many beautiful things all at once.”

  “I do believe you will enjoy London,” the Duchess remarked.

  “It sounds wonderful,” Willow admitted. “Though I doubt Ivy shares my sentiments.”

  “Though Ivy is stunning, she reminds me of a newborn colt. It will be interesting to see if she will find her way, or fall at the first sign of difficulty.” The Duchess spoke of Ivy like she had already vacated the room.

  Willow looked at the Duchess in surprise. “You think Ivy is stunning?

  “She also compared me to a horse,” Ivy said dryly.

  Stifling a gurgle of laughter, Willow said, “Ivy would prefer the country to the city. She has more use for a well-crafted fishing rod than ball gowns,” Willow teased. The moment she realized what she said, she closed her mouth and sent an apologetic look to her sister.