The Three Evesham Daughters: Books 1-3: A Regency Romance Trilogy

by Audrey Ashwood

Rose got up and sat next to her mother, who had remained suspiciously silent.

  “I believe it is too early for me to have anything other than tea,” her mother said. “Unless you have something to tell us that would make a sherry or even a whiskey go down well.”

  “I will order tea,” said the marquess, without directly answering her mother. Only after the servant he rung for had come and gone again, he responded to the duchess’s comment. “You are right, it is too early,” he said now. “What I need to tell you is only difficult for me, not for you, my Lady or Lady Rose.” His dark brown eyes found hers. Her pulse shot up as she tried to read his face.

  “My sister apologises.” Faster than Rose thought possible, a housemaid appeared and served the tea.

  The marquess remained silent until she had left the room, then straightened his shoulders and continued, “I must apologise to you, Lady Rose. You were right in saying that Lord de Coucy was not to blame for the crime I attributed to him.”

  Her throat tightened in relief as she heard his words. Richard was innocent, she had known all along!

  “I shall apologise to your fiancé,” the marquess continued. “My conduct was unacceptable. I should have…”

  “Please stop, it is fine,” Rose interjected. “Of course, I am glad that Lord de Coucy is innocent.” However, a harmless little word named “but” was dancing around in her head. But why did she not feel the joy that had just been revealed? “How is Lady Henrietta? Did she say why she named Lord de Coucy, of all people?”

  “No, she did not say why. She prefers not to talk to me.”

  “If you allow, I would like to talk to your sister,” the duchess came into the conversation. “I think this is a matter more likely to be entrusted to another woman than to a man, especially if that man is her own brother. Do you mind?”

  The marquess gave her mother a grateful look before speaking. “Please try to tell my sister that I only want what is best for her.”

  In disbelief, she heard how her mother, the Duchess of Evesham, uttered such an unladylike sound that even she herself would have struggled to make it, try as she might. “My dear Cavanaugh, what a man considers to be the best for a woman under his care is rarely in accord with what the lady herself regards as such. Tell me one thing: Is there any hint of feelings involved?”

  Rose drew in a sharp breath when her mother hinted that Henrietta had voluntarily given herself to a man. Without thinking, she stood up, walked over to the marquess, and only just managed to keep from laying a hand on his arm. As much as she wished, after her escapades, as her Mother put it, a forbidden touch was inappropriate, no matter how harmless.

  Her mother questioningly raised her eyebrows but said nothing of her non-verbal support. Rose saw his jaw tighten, and he had to gather himself for a moment before answering the duchess in a hoarse voice. “Actually, she said something similar when I found out,” he admitted, closing his eyes for a second. “I thought she might have said it to stop me from doing anything unreasonable.”

  Like duelling with the man whom he considered the culprit.

  “How about you take Rose out to Hyde Park while I talk to Lady Henrietta in private? Your cousin, Lady Catherine, could accompany you both,” her mother finally suggested. “You have my explicit permission.” Her lips twitched. “Only, may I advise you to be sensible and not to rescue a second dog of this size; otherwise the space in your drawing room may quickly become rather tight.”

  “Your mother is an unusual woman,” the marquess said as the duchess had left.

  “That is what I just thought, too,” Rose replied, although her suspicions took off in a different direction to Gabriel’s meaning. Was her mother trying to make him, the marquess, appeal to her as a husband? The idea was, even putting it kindly, disturbing. Rose had always known that her mother, like her sisters, was unimpressed by the idea of Rose marrying Richard de Coucy, but the true extent of her … what was Rose supposed to call it? Displeasure? Abhorrence? … lack of enthusiasm for the connection was only now becoming clear to Rose.

  “Would you like a ride out?” Cavanaugh asked.

  “To be honest, no, not now. I am quite happy to sit here and watch Oberon sleep.”

  “And listen to him,” commented the marquess upon a particularly loud snore from the dog. Rose reached out to pet the dog, and the marquess went to stroke the dog’s flank at the same time. Their fingertips touched in the thick, soft fur. Rose held her breath and raised her eyes.

  “What should we do instead?”

  “We wait,” Rose said simply. She did not remove her fingers as his began to take her hand, finger by finger.

  “We do not know how long your mother will spend talking to Henrietta. I could show you the house or the stables,” he suggested. “Please, be so kind as to go on a little walk with me through the garden for a little while at least, to ease my unrest.”

  “We cannot leave Oberon alone,” Rose pointed out.

  “The dog is sleeping soundly. We are not doing him any good if we disturb him in his sleep.” Mossy-green flecks shone in his brown eyes, and his eyelashes were as thick and nearly as long as her own. No man should have eyelashes like those! “Come on, my Lady. After all, following our experiences of yesterday, you cannot possibly be afraid of a walk with me. Just let me ring for Lady Catherine.”

  If she continued to resist, he would only attribute her refusal to a meaning that was underserved. “I accept defeat,” she said, allowing him to take her coat and place it over her shoulders. As his cousin entered the drawing room and greeted Rose, she remembered the woman who had always been inconspicuous and surrounded by a certain lassitude. She held herself more upright than before, with gleaming eyes and almost vivid gestures.

  “I will sit on the terrace for a while, if that is all right,” Catherine suggested, as the marquess asked her to escort him and Rose outside. “I am suffering from a slight headache, which I can easily cure by sitting down.” Her cheeks flushed, and Rose understood that Lady Catherine wanted to do the marquess and her a favour.

  “We will stay in sight in case your headache becomes too strong and you want to return to the house,” he promised, although his words were clearly just for Rose’s reassurance.

  Although not large, the adjoining garden was in a very well-kept condition, Rose noticed, as she walked along the path on his arm. She thought of the evening two years ago when his stature had almost filled her with fear, and how small she had felt while dancing. “What are you thinking about?” His voice was even, deep and calm, as it cut into Rose’s thoughts.

  “About that night two years ago, before you left for France,” she replied, watching two sparrows quarrelling over a seed.

  He followed her gaze and laughed as one of the birds surrendered and flew away.

  “Why are you laughing?” Rose wanted to know.

  “Did you see how quickly the bird with the bright crest gave up when the other one challenged him? That was the male who knew he had no chance against the female of the species. Sometimes I believe we humans behave in ways that are not unlike animals.”

  “I have never quarrelled with a gentleman over dinner,” Rose replied gracefully, averting her face to hide her smile. “Although, no one has ever tried to fight me over my dessert.”

  “Grace to God the Lord for anyone who comes between you and … what is your favourite dessert? No, do not tell me. Let me guess.” They were already at the end of the path, but instead of turning back, the marquess led them to a bench in a small, cobbled, circular courtyard. If Lady Catherine was looking up, Rose and the marquess were still within sight. “Trifle? No, I think not.” He sat down next to her on the bench, not too close, but not too far away, either. “Lemon cream seems to suit you.”

  “You are right, I like the sweet and sour, but I am not a friend of pudding.”

  “Then there is only one possibility left: your favourite dessert has to be ice cream. Lemon-flavoured ice cream, to be precise.”

  “Y
ou are right. Unfortunately, even though our cook bakes superbly, she is not able to make ice cream.”

  “Then allow me to take you to Gunter’s on one of the next afternoons,” the marquess said lightly. “The ice cream there is divine. At least it was two years ago.”

  “My Lord,” Rose replied, moving away from him a bit until she could face him. Whatever she had wanted to say did not pass her lips, because she had a strange feeling of déjà vu. Two years ago, on the night of the kiss, she had sat once before on a bench with the marquess. Unlike the last time, his face with his drawn eyebrows, appeared almost dark in determination. Her heart jumped as he tilted his head, and a hint of his aftershave grazed her nose. Rose could not help but shut her eyes and, with a racing heart, tried to recall the ascending memory awoken by the scent, but it was a wasted effort. As quickly as her dress allowed, she rose to her feet. “My Lord, you know that I am engaged and should not be seen out with you over tea and ice cream.” It was not exactly polite to reject him in such a direct manner, but Rose had never been particularly diplomatic, and she also had her doubts that sweet talk would get her very far with the marquess.

  “Yesterday, your engagement did not stop you from going to Whitechapel with me,” he reminded her with a genuine smile and rose, as well. Evidently, the marquess had decided not to fiddle away the affair, whatever the “affair” may be. Suddenly, he became serious. “Let us talk sincerely to one another without the usual sugar-coated polite conversation.” He paused to find an answer on her face.

  Rose did not know if he found one, but he continued, “I am tired of constantly searching for hidden meanings behind the words that my interlocutors express. I know it is thought rude, even coarse, to say what one thinks, but I believe that you and I have already surpassed the limits of a superficial acquaintance.”

  She managed a barely perceptible nod. Her head felt strangely light, and a shiver spread from the middle of her body to her fingertips, without escaping outwards. Until just now, she did not realise that it was possible to shiver inside.

  “Allow me to be your friend,” he said after a while, which had seemed like an eternity to her.

  At first, Rose did not know whether to laugh or cry. She had expected almost anything, just not this touching request in all its simple sincerity. “My friend,” she repeated, feeling an unfamiliar sensation that caused her throat to tighten. “I do not know if that is possible,” she said as she spoke again.

  “Because we are so different, or because you are a woman and I, a man?”

  “Both,” Rose admitted reticently. “What would you expect of me if I agree?”

  “A friendship worthy of such a name has no expectations, Lady Rose. Like love, it is given by one’s own free accord,” the marquess retorted. He hesitated, began to say something, but could not seem to find the right words before one of his servants rushed towards them.

  “Lady Henrietta is asking for your company,” said the man, bowing curtly before walking straight back into the house.

  His appearance had saved Rose from giving an answer, but she knew full well that she was only granted a brief postponement.

  Chapter 22

  What had induced him to talk to Rose about friendship? As they walked back to the house together, Gabriel wondered if he had made a mistake. It had been an instinctive decision, he thought, much like in battle – you chose a path in a fraction of a second and could not go back. Something had made him hesitate from uttering the word “love,” and his feeling told him that he had done the right thing. Confronting Rose with his feelings would have resembled an ambush, and as much as he yearned to provide clarity to matters between them, he was sure he would have only scared her. To win Rose over meant being patient and persistent in order to slowly but steadily change her impression of him. Until half a day ago, he had been her “enemy.” Gabriel was not naïve enough to believe the words that flowed so easily from the pens of romantic authors, namely that one had to love only strong enough, to ultimately deliver the subject of one’s passionate affection into one’s arms.

  The path back was too short for Gabriel to brood for much longer, and when they entered the salon together, he was almost relieved that Rose had not given him an answer to his question. Faced with his sister’s tear-stained cheeks, both the fortune of a positive answer and the misfortune of a refusal would have been hard to bear.

  “Gabriel,” said Henrietta in a trembling voice, glancing everywhere but in his direction, “there you are.”

  The duchess sat beside her, holding her hand and looking intently at him. If he correctly interpreted the silent message in her eyes, she was asking him to be gentle with Henrietta. He gave her a barely noticeable nod and led Rose to a chair before sitting down next to his sister.

  “Speak openly,” he said. “Is de Coucy the father of your child or not?” This time it was Rose who gave him an admonishing glare. This art was probably passed on directly from mother to daughter – either that, or the wordless delivery of messages was the manner in which all women were born.

  “He is not,” murmured Henrietta. Her cheeks were a deep red. “I have not told the truth. I sincerely regret the anguish that I must have caused you, Lady Rose. Please forgive me.”

  At that moment, it was two things that Gabriel was very, very grateful for. Firstly, that there were, besides his sister, two other ladies present, whose attendance made him hold his tongue, and secondly, that his sister had made her confession to Rose rather than to him. Henrietta had deliberately deceived him. She had made a fool of him. He had even challenged de Coucy to a duel! There was no telling what would have happened had he turned up and been mortally wounded by Gabriel!

  Rose had been right from the start.

  He looked at her, who at that point showed no sign of triumph. Her beautiful eyes shimmered with compassion. “It is all right,” she said, giving his sister a gentle smile. “Whatever your reasons, I know you did not act recklessly.” Even the way Rose was not looking at him reminded him to show restraint.

  “It was never my intention to get Lord de Coucy into trouble,” whispered Henrietta. “Please, let me explain … I was very afraid to tell my brother the truth about the child’s father, and the very moment he asked me about him, I saw Lord de Coucy.” Lady Henrietta had seen no other way out, so much was clear, but for what reason could the marquess not know the name of the man?

  It appeared by the expression on Rose’s face, she would have liked to ask the question, but as suggested by her mother, she must have thought this was an incident better discussed between brother and sister.

  The duchess had been silent for a long time, and when she spoke, her voice was admirably composed. “Lady Henrietta, would you like me to stay while you tell your brother about the father of the child?”

  “You have done more than enough,” his sister explained, though even Gabriel could tell from her expression that she was reluctant to take a pass on the support from the two other women. “Thank you from my heart, both of you, and I hope you do not condemn me too much.”

  The duchess stood, and Rose did so after her. “You cannot undo your mistake, Lady Henrietta,” the older woman said. “But you may accept the help offered to you. Think about my offer in peace. Ask your brother what he thinks of it, and let me know of your decision.”

  Gabriel saw the curious look Rose gave her mother, but the duchess pretended not to see it. Gabriel escorted the two to the door and explicitly thanked the duchess, again, for her support.

  “Promise me one thing,” she replied. “Do not be too harsh on your sister. She now needs all her strength, and above all, your affection. The next few months will not be easy. For either of you.”

  Rose had already left through the door. “My Lady,” he said quietly so that Rose would not hear him, “I could understand if you now forbid me from seeing your daughter.” As he spoke, his gaze wandered over to Rose.

  “I only want the best for my daughter,” the duchess replied, also adopting
a subdued tone. “I admit, I do not know if you are the best for Rose, but …” She glanced over to her daughter. “Talk to your sister first. I have offered her a solution that could avoid a scandal. Goodbye, my Lord.” Her parting words she spoke loud enough for her daughter to hear.

  Rose turned around. Gabriel stepped down the two stairs separating them and leaned over her hand. “Goodbye, Lady Rose.”

  Her answer came without hesitation. “See you soon, Lord Cavanaugh.”

  He felt light at heart. He had received his answer, he was sure of that.

  Henrietta was waiting for him in the drawing room, together with Oberon, who had stretched out at her feet and was snoring. She looked miserable, and her expression reminded him of the untamed little sister whose tears he had dried an eternity ago, after she had fallen from the apple tree in a particularly daring climb and had grazed both her knees. She could not have been older than four or five, and even then, it had been his job rather than his elder brother’s to ease her pain.

  How was he supposed to fulfil his responsibilities as head of the family when she looked at him with such a heartbroken expression on her face?

  He sat down next to his sister and looked at her for a long while. “How could you ever let this happen, Henrietta? What happened? I need to know.” He felt her stiffen.

  “I am deeply sorry, Gabriel.”

  “As the duchess said, we cannot turn back time and undo your misstep. Who is the father? Tell me about him.” He softened his harsh question. Oberon, who had opened his eyes upon hearing his stern tone, glanced at him and seemed to cast a reproachful look. “I want to know how it happened.”

  “James …” Henrietta began, visibly swallowing.

  “Does this James have a full name? Do I know him?”

  “Please let me tell you at my own pace, Gabe. I will confess everything to you without exception, but please allow me a little more room to breathe.” She leaned down and petted the dog’s mighty head. “I met James in Hyde Park six months ago.” She closed her eyes and smiled through tears. “James … no, I have to begin differently.” Gabriel tamed his impatience, although palpably difficult. “Father had been dead for six months, Elijah was missing, and you, you were in France, fighting in a war that you might never return from. I cannot remember ever feeling so alone, Gabriel.”