Ivy stared at the long and thin package wrapped in brown paper, resting on the chaise in the drawing room. She plucked the small white note that accompanied the gift and read it.
“Perhaps you would like to practice with this once you have finished A Gentlemen’s Guide to Fishing. My well-stocked lake is open to you whenever you wish.” It was signed simply, ‘Cy’.
The informality of his signature did not pass unnoticed. They had barely been introduced, but familiarity was growing between them. Slowly, she unwrapped the gift and stared at the most beautiful fishing rod she had ever seen. It was dark wood, hand crafted and a true work of art. The rods she used growing up were rudimentary, and little more than sticks with a line and handmade hook. She had done moderately well, and the local boys told her she was a natural. Fishing with this rod would be different.
“Ivy,” Willow breathed coming into the room. “A fishing rod? My, it is breathtaking, even though I abhor the sport! Who is it from?”
“The Earl of Stanton,” Ivy answered through a tight throat. She was in awe, but then it quickly turned to nervousness. Was he pursuing her?
“That was very generous of him,” Willow replied. She looked at Ivy, who was lost in thought. “You must send him a note.”
“Yes. That would be the appropriate thing to do.” Ivy sat down at the Duchess’s walnut writing desk and picked up the ink quill and a piece of stationary. She wrote a note, the contents of which she refused to share with Willow, and then sealed it with wax. She rang the bell for Simms, and he entered promptly.
“Please take this to the Earl of Stanton,” she commanded.
As soon as the note was on its way, Ivy said to Willow, “If you will excuse me, I think I will go for my morning ride.”
Willow watched in amazement as Ivy left the room in a swish of muslin. Does Ivy not wish to receive gifts from the handsome Earl? Willow wondered. It could not be because of the Duchess who surely approved of Stanton’s pursuit. The Earl was a well-bred, eligible bachelor. It would be the grandest match of the Season if an illegitimate daughter of a duke married an earl.
Unable to contain her inquisitiveness a minute longer, the Duchess entered the drawing room. Immediately she noticed the fishing rod, and pursed her lips in disapproval at the unladylike gift.
“A fishing rod? It seems your sister is extremely well suited to the Earl.” Her tone was censorious.
Willow nodded. “So it would seem. Will you excuse me? I have a few things I would like to take care of before my dance lesson.”
“Willow,” the Duchess called. “Most young women would be happy to catch the Earl of Stanton’s attention.”
“Ivy is not like most women.”
“She will have to marry,” the Duchess reminded, her usually stoic face softening. “As will you.”
“I know.”
“You both will cause quite a stir when you enter society. If Ivy can land Stanton, it will make your debut easier.”
Willow looked at the Duchess. “I did not think you cared if we had an easy time of it or not.”
“I see your sister’s penchant for speaking her mind is catching.”
Smiling wryly, Willow replied, “I realize we are both uncomfortable reminders of your son’s secret life, and I know we have thrown your world into disarray by being here. I am empathetic to your plight, however, a small measure of warmth from you might help us all.”
The Duchess raised her eyebrows. “Is that all it would take for you to explain why Ivy is reluctant to accept gifts from the Earl?”
Willow debated on the matter. Their father had been a member of the aristocracy, seducing their mother with charm and rugged good looks. They had met when the Duke had taken a trip to Paris and attended a ballet. From the first moment their mother danced across the stage, the Duke had been entranced.
He had wooed her with compliments and tokens of affection, but never hid the fact that he was married. Despite her better judgment, their mother fell in love with him. Their times together were always brief; he had a real family, after all, back in England. Ivy vowed never to follow the same painful path.
“Ivy has pride, Your Grace. To her, gifts are a consolation prize for something she can never have.”
The Duchess frowned. “I do not understand. Stanton is courting her.”
“Perhaps Ivy wonders to what end,” Willow stated. “Our mother accepted gifts because that was all our father could ever offer her. He could not give her his name or title.”
“Ah,” the Duchess remarked in understanding.
“Please do not let Ivy know I shared this confidence with you, Your Grace.” Willow looked beseechingly at the older woman.
The Duchess inclined her head regally. “My lips are sealed, Willow. Best let this play out between Stanton and Ivy.”
***
The next morning, the ladies dined together in relative quiet, which was not unusual. Tea and meals were tense and uncomfortable. Willow brushed aside the strain, babbling away, pretending that one word answers from Ivy and the Duchess was nothing unusual. She often carried the conversation herself.
Today was no different as they sat at a large wooden table, and a footman stood in the corner, ready to serve them tea from an old, but immaculate silver tea set. The walls were paneled oak, and dark red carpet lined the floorboards of the room. Unlit silver candelabras that would easily dispel the darkness of evening graced the table.
Entering the dining room, Simms announced there was another gift from the Earl of Stanton for Miss Ivy in the drawing rom. Willow and the Duchess followed her, unable to hide their interest.
It was a stack of all of Molière’s work, first editions. Books were terribly expensive, even for the wealthy, and to have a first edition of even one of Molière’s works was more than Ivy could imagine.
The Earl’s gifts were speaking to her heart. He was not buying her jewels or furs, which would appeal to other women. He was spending time thinking of each gift, finding the perfect fit for Ivy, gifts he knew she would enjoy. She felt truly pursued and completely out of her element.
“The man is courting you!” Willow squealed. “Why are you not more excited?”
Ivy looked at Willow, and then at the Duchess for confirmation. “Is this true?”
“It would appear so,” the Duchess answered.
“Is this not what you wished for all along? A high-class gentleman courting your illegitimate granddaughter?”
“Must you be so mocking and irreverent?” the Duchess demanded angrily.
“Yes, I must!”
Ivy stormed out of the room, wondering if there was anything she could do to please the stern Duchess. And then Ivy wondered why she cared.
***
“Miss Ivy, you have another gift,” Simms announced in exasperation a week later.
What could it possibly be now? she wondered. Ivy was curled up on a chaise, A Gentleman’s Guide to Fishing in her lap, but she was much too distracted to read.
“Where is it?” Ivy asked.
“In the stables.”
Moments later they were at the Duchess’s stables and a groom held the reins to a beautiful black mare with a snowy white patch on her forehead. Her black mane was long and glossy, and she neighed in greeting upon Ivy’s arrival. The horse tossed her head impatiently.
“We seem to be very similar,” Ivy murmured to the horse, stroking the animal’s nose. When she stopped petting it for only a moment, the mare bumped its head against Ivy’s hand. Ivy laughed.
“Shall I fetch you ink and paper for a response?” Simms asked.
“That will not be necessary.” She grasped the spirited mare’s reins and hauled herself up onto the back of the unsaddled animal, sitting astride.
“Miss Ivy!” Simms gasped. He was blushing at the sight of Ivy’s legs. “You cannot ride astride. It is unladylike! Do something!” He looked at the groom for help.
“It is best not to fight, Miss Ivy,” the groom said, shaking his head. “Yo
u will not win.”
Ivy’s lips quirked into an amused smile. “I cannot control my horse riding sidesaddle. I tried it the other morning and the experience was thoroughly miserable.”
The footman sputtered with indignation. “The Duchess will have my head if she discovers I let you leave the stable without a saddle.”
“Then do not tell her,” Ivy suggested.
Willow had just made her way to the stables, and when she saw Ivy, she gasped.
Simms sighed in relief. “Excellent. Miss Willow, can you talk some sense into your sister?”
“Absolutely not,” Willow remarked with a smile. “I was gasping in awe of the mare. Is that your gift?”
Ivy nodded. “This is the most extravagant gift I have ever received. I must thank him in person. Which way is the Earl’s home?” Ivy asked Simms, who was still attempting to recover from shock.
Simms looked at the groom, as if seeking safety in numbers and then said forcefully, “Miss Ivy, we cannot let you ride this way. Think of the Earl. What will he say?”
Willow smothered her laughter when Ivy’s face flushed in annoyance. “I encountered the Earl the other morning, and he saw me riding astride. He called me spirited and unique!” When no one responded, she went on, “Are you and the rest of the staff not incredibly loyal?”
“Of course we are,” Simms answered, perplexed.
“Then you will ensure discretion. We can be assured the Earl will do the same.”
Simms sighed, and Ivy knew she had won. He apparently already recognized Ivy’s stubborn expression because he relented and gave her directions to the Earl of Stanton’s estate. Ivy turned her mare, and gently brought her to a canter.
“Say hello to the Earl of Stanton for me!” Willow laughingly called as Ivy raced off into the distance.
Why Ivy arrived at the Earl’s estate, she did not know where the stables were, so she tied the mare to an iron post near the front of his impressive manor. She rapped on the front door, and the butler answered.
“I am Miss Sinclair,” Ivy announced.
The butler blinked several times and then said, “Welcome, Miss Sinclair. Please come in.”
“Thank you.” As she entered the Earl’s home, she took in her surroundings, which consisted mostly of dark, well-crafted wood and luxurious oil paintings. The butler escorted her down the hall, paused outside a closed door, and then knocked on it twice in rapid succession. He waited for a reply from within before opening the door.
The Earl of Stanton rose from his high-backed leather chair and gazed at Ivy across his massive oak desk. “Miss Sinclair, this is a nice surprise,” he said with a smile.
“I am not disturbing you, am I?”
“Not at all.” He gestured for her to sit down in the chair across from his desk. The butler retreated and closed the door.
Ivy made herself comfortable and stared at him for a moment in silence. “Thank you for the gift.”
The Earl grinned. “Which gift would that be?”
“The mare.”
“Ah.” He leaned back in his chair. “Do you like her?”
“Very much, but I cannot keep her.” Her troubled gaze sought his.
“Of course you can. You kept the other gifts,” he pointed out wryly.
Ivy sighed in exasperation. “If that is the logic, then I will be returning the other gifts to you as well.”
“You do not return gifts. That is the entire point of a gift. You are meant to keep and enjoy them.”
“You gave me a horse,” Ivy said in an accusatory tone.
“So I did,” he agreed good-naturedly.
“It is extravagant.”
He shook his head. “No, it is not. If I had given you the Crown Jewels, that would have been extravagant.”
Her eyes were wary. “You are not planning on giving me jewels...are you?”
The Earl’s gray eyes were warm. “Would you like it if I did?”
Ivy was vexed, but only because she desperately wanted to hide her growing weakness for the man’s charms. “No! I mean, yes. Of course! What woman would not want jewels from you?” She bit her lip.
“Why are you upset?” he asked quizzically.
She looked at his desk, refusing to meet his gaze. “Men only give women gifts when they are interested in earning their affections. You cannot possibly want mine.” When he did not respond she looked up to find him closely examining her.
“Why would I not want your affections?” he asked.
She sighed. “You are an earl and I...I am not from the same social circle as you. I did not have the same upbringing.”
“Does your grandmother find me unsuitable?” he asked rhetorically.
“Highly unsuitable,” she teased before sobering. “You are popular and eligible. I am not suitable for you.”
“You are going to have to wed, Ivy,” he said with familiarity.
She pulled back her shoulders and prickly said, “You were not given permission to use my given name.”
He shrugged. “I gave you permission to use mine, I thought it only justifiable to call you by yours.”
She tossed her head haughtily. “Presumptuous.”
“Indeed.” He peered at her. “Would you consider me an option?”
“Consider you?”
“For marriage,” he clarified.
“No!” she said quickly.
“Why not?”
“Because you cannot consider me! Perhaps if I found a man with a lower title I would not feel so...If you marry me, you will be marrying far below your station and you know it. You cannot ignore the fact that I am not a lady.”
“A lady is not always born a lady, Ivy. You have strength in character, the confidence to speak your mind, and an engaging spirit. You are not like other young ladies who were bred into their positions; you are different. But you are still very much a lady.” He smiled. “The Duchess would be quite pleased if we married.”
“You seem to be the only one who enjoys my dissimilarities. I am sure the Duchess feels as though I should hold my tongue and keep my temper hidden. She has shown me nothing but disdain.”
“Perhaps she is trying to teach you a lesson.”
“What do you mean, My Lord?”
“If you do not show how the Duchess’s cool reception effects you, I imagine there will be nothing in society that you cannot overcome.”
“You make a valid point,” she murmured. She had not thought about it that way.
“Do you really have no idea of your own worth? Do not let anyone make you feel inferior, even the Duchess.”
She scoffed. “I do not feel inferior, sir.”
“Cy,” he corrected. “And you do feel inferior, otherwise you would not be spouting this nonsense about not being good enough for me. Women usually see me as nothing more than an uncommonly handsome man with a lofty title—one that could better elevate them closer to the pinnacle of society. For as long as I can remember, a woman has never been concerned about what was best for me. Do you really not care for my title? Could you care for me, as a woman cares for a man?”
She stared at him in dazed amazement. “Your frankness astounds me.”
“So we have already established.” He gazed at her a moment and then asked, “Do you play cards?”
Momentarily taken aback, she replied, “Yes.”
“Good.” He opened a desk drawer and withdrew a brand new deck, and peeled off the duty wrapper. “Have you ever heard of wagering?"
Alarm bells sounded in her head. Mutely, she nodded. She had heard stories of gentlemen and their gambling clubs; full of sorry chaps who lost everything in a series of bad wagers. Desperate men were even known to wager their land.
He began to shuffle the deck. “The idea is that you wager something of importance. That is what makes it interesting…and worth playing. If you were to wager against me, what would it be?”
She thought for a moment before answering. “I want you to find a more deserving woman. A lady of cl
ass to be your countess.”
“Strong wager. If I win, you will marry me. That is pretty straight forward, is it not?”
Ivy felt like she was reasoning with a brick wall. “I am the illegitimate daughter of a duke. I was training to be a ballerina in Paris; it will surely cause a scandal when everyone learns of my past. I have nothing to offer you. Will you have that in your bloodline?” she asked, making one last attempt to convince him.
The Earl’s eyes darkened. “It matters not. There are pirates, rogues and robbers in my bloodline already.”
Despite the rather tense situation, she smiled in genuine amusement. “Under different circumstances, I would ask to hear those stories.”
“Another time, I promise.” He held out the deck to her and said, “We will each draw a card. If you get the high card, I will stop pursuing you. If I get the high card, then you will marry me. Aces high, of course, in hope of Napoleon’s future surrender.”
Ivy swallowed, completely ignoring his political witticism.
Dare she let her life hang in the balance over a deck of cards? The Earl’s hands were large and steady as they held the deck. Could she marry this man? And if not, would she find anyone more caring in his attentions? The way he gave her gifts was only a small indication of what he would be like as an attentive husband. Her time was running out, both to find a husband and to pick a card. She reached out and chose one, glancing at it.
Queen of Hearts. Few cards were higher.
The Earl quickly pulled his own. “Show them.”
She lay down her Queen, unsure if she wanted to win or lose. Not taking his eyes from hers, he placed his card on top of hers.
It was the three of Spades.
Ivy felt despondency bubbling up inside of her. It was foreign and confusing.
“My family has never had much luck with wagers.” He rose and stepped out from around the desk and reached for her, helping her stand. His arms encircled her body in his warm, tight embrace.
“What are you doing?” she asked nervously.
THE DEFIANT LADY Page 5