by Jill Gregory
“And he is a fine-looking man, too,” Josie added, nearly chuckling with delight as Miss Perry’s eyes seemed to glisten.
“Yes, quite handsome,” she admitted, and the pink color in her cheeks deepened.
“I must be going,” she said suddenly, and reached for her handbag. Her usually steady fingers were trembling a bit as she clutched it. “I’ve just realized I have no idea what I’m going to wear this evening.”
“Whatever you choose, I’m sure Colonel Hamring will find it most becoming.” Josie didn’t know what devil made her say that, but Miss Perry, though she turned red as an apple, only sighed.
“I daresay he’ll scarcely notice. I seem to recall in the past he has occupied himself in the gaming rooms, playing cards with the gentlemen, and rarely dancing. He probably won’t even realize I’m there. And he certainly wouldn’t bother himself over me if he did. Not that I would wish him to,” she added hastily.
“Of course not.” But we’ll just see about that is what Josie was actually thinking as she watched Miss Perry go down the steps and turn up the street with a wave.
As she went upstairs and along the corridor to her own bedroom, Josie tried to concentrate on the possibility of a romance between Miss Perry and Colonel Hamring, and what she could do to further it. It was a much more pleasant topic than the other one she kept having to block from her mind: Ethan’s overwhelming love for Molly. His pain at her death, and during the years following it. The ache he must feel for her, which no doubt was stronger now that he had come home to England where they’d met and loved.
Why had he come home?
It wasn’t for the money. Josie knew that as well as she knew how to lace her shoes. She’d seen Ethan’s torment that night he’d heard from Latherby about his father’s will, when he’d gotten himself roaring drunk and forced her to marry him. He hadn’t been a happy man—ecstatic over an inheritance. He’d been tortured, driven, enraged.
What had he said that first night in her bedroom at Stonecliff Park? They’re depending on me. Every person you met tonight is depending on me. All those servants, and the tenants besides... If not... I’d never willingly set foot on this damned British soil again.”
Something about this sense of duty, this owning up to his obligations, touched her more deeply even than his courage against Pirate Pete and Tiny. The only other person she’d ever deeply cared for was Pop Watson, and Pop, for all his good qualities, had never owned up to much responsibility. But Ethan hadn’t tried to escape his. Despite the cost to himself, despite the fact that he’d vowed before all of London society never to return, when duty had summoned him, he’d answered. He’d returned to face one and all. That took a rare courage.
I’ve never had a real home, Josie thought as she closed the door of her dusky-pink and cream room. I’ve never had an attachment to a place, a spot where I mattered, where I couldn’t just up and leave, and no one would much notice or care if I never came back.
A place where I belonged.
But Ethan did. He belonged here in England. He belonged at Stonecliff Park. Deep down, whether he knew it or not, he was rooted to this lovely green land, rooted to Stonecliff Park, rooted to all those attached to it and who were dependent on him.
Rooted in a way she could never be to anything—or, she thought on a small sob of despair—to anyone.
Don’t get attached, she warned herself as she paced to the window and stared down past the gate into the quiet, tree-shaded street. To Ethan or to Stonecliff Park, or to this beautiful, comfortable house. They’re not yours, they were never yours. It’s only for a few months.
Loneliness engulfed her then in quick, drowning waves. And with it came a quiet grief. As the sun dipped lower in the sky and the shadows lengthened and began to fall, she stood at the window and shook with silent sobs.
Seventeen
My congratulations, Josephine—er, my lady.” Lucas Latherby pushed his spectacles up on his nose as Ethan stood aside so that she could join them in the library.
“You have done it. You look precisely, without a doubt, like a lady. The transformation is... awe-inspiring. Your hair—why, every strand is perfectly in place. Your carriage, excellent. Even the demure expression upon your face—”
“Enough, Latherby,” Ethan interrupted irritably as Josie came forward and he closed the library door. “She’s been dissected by you quite enough for a lifetime.”
He studied her, though, as she accepted the goblet of brandy he offered her and took a dainty sip. Lord, she was an incredible sight. A vision in a glimmering beaded evening gown of midnight blue, her skin glowing like rich pale cream against it. Her eyes glowed nearly the same shade as the dramatic hues of the gown. And around her throat were the Marsdale pearls, passed down through his mother’s family for generations.
She had not yet drawn on her gloves, and he found himself staring at the gold ring on her finger. Latherby’s ring, he remembered now, and suddenly felt uncomfortable. As if it were months ago and not merely weeks, he found himself remembering how adverse he’d been to slipping his grandfather’s ring onto her finger the night of their wedding. Now he felt a twinge of resentment about her wearing as a wedding band a ring that belonged to Latherby.
He was toying with the idea of having her take it off and put on the emerald ring here and now. The thought gave him pleasure. He didn’t know why. But then he noticed that there were pale lavender shadows beneath her lovely eyes. Her fine-boned face looked pinched and tense, despite the smile she bestowed on Latherby over her brandy goblet, and Ethan forgot everything else.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded, studying her with penetrating hawk’s eyes as she turned her carefully neutral gaze upon him.
“Why should anything be wrong?”
He didn’t know. He only knew that the easy smile wasn’t in her eyes. The lilt had vanished from her voice. What in hell had happened to take all the sparkle out of her?
“Did you hurt yourself this afternoon when you threw yourself in the way of that damned carriage?” He stalked toward her and gripped her wrist so she couldn’t turn away. His eyes inspected her, searching for a bruise, but all of her white exposed skin, from her throat down to the lush expanse of bosom displayed by the low-cut gown, was sumptuous perfection.
“No, of course not. I’m tired, Ethan. That’s all.”
He didn’t believe it for a moment, but he wasn’t about to call her a liar in front of Latherby. Beneath his thumb, he felt her pulse throbbing, and still watching her eyes, he began to stroke her wrist with his thumb, very gently holding it, brushing his thumb back and forth lightly across her delicate skin.
“Latherby came by to tell me that Grismore is most eager to make your acquaintance and settle the terms of the will.”
“Oh.” Josie felt electricity jolt through her as Ethan’s thumb flicked back and forth across her wrist. The gaslight globes in the library hissed softly as she fought to think clearly, to keep her emotions under tight control.
Her pulse raced faster. The knowledge of his deep and indelible love for Molly rested heavily upon her shoulders. If she didn’t want to make a complete fool of herself, she must keep her feelings for him hidden deep inside her soul.
“So,” she asked as steadily as she could beneath that steely gaze, and with her wrist captured by his hand, “when is the inspection to be held?”
That surprised a grin from him. “Inspection? You make it sound like you’re a horse I’m planning to buy.”
“No—more like the horse you’ve already bought.” The words were out before she realized just how inelegant they sounded. She threw a mortified glance at Latherby, bracing herself for a reproof.
But that gentleman had been observing with acute shrewdness the way the Earl of Stonecliff was gazing at his dance hall bride. Was that... could there be tenderness in the Earl’s eyes?
Where was the coldness? The anger, the sarcasm?
He saw warmth, amusement, interest. And admiration. His thoughts
spun, but he had the wit to hold his tongue as he turned to the Countess.
“The interview will be held next Tuesday, if that is convenient for you and his lordship, my lady.”
“My lady? Come now, Mr. Latherby, since when have we been on such formal terms?” A more natural laugh sprang to Josie’s lips, and a pretty spark entered her eyes. “It’s only me—your same old clumsy Josie.”
“You are quite transformed, my lady. I am nearly speechless!”
“You?” Now Josie did laugh, a delightful musical sound that warmed Ethan’s heart inexplicably and seemed to mellow and soften all the austere masculine shadows of the room.
“Latherby also came by to tell me that he believes the police have several new leads concerning Pirate Pete and his cohorts. They last robbed a house in Belgravia, and there are rumors that they’ve been seen at some of the public houses near the gasworks. Other witnesses have placed them at an inn as far away as Tunbridge Wells. The landlord’s being questioned. But at any rate, the police are hunting them with a vengeance, and they ought to be in custody soon. So you don’t have to worry.”
She took another sip of brandy and shook her head. “I’m not worried. Do I look worried?”
She did, but not about that, Ethan guessed. Yet he was relieved to hear the lighter note in her voice and hoped it meant her troubles were lifting. Whatever they might be.
“If anything,” Josie continued, arching an eyebrow, “I’m worried that we’ll be late for the party and insult Lady Cartwright.” She smiled then, that wonderful smile, and Ethan felt aching tension ripple through him. He had an enchanting view of lush, slightly parted lips.
“Did you know that she works tirelessly on behalf of the new foundling home? We had a conversation about it at the races just the other day. I offered to help her,” she added, half challengingly, as if wondering how he would react to this announcement.
“Suit yourself.” Ethan knew that whatever Josie and Lady Cartwright and the other ladies of London who were so inclined might do to aid the poor orphaned children of the rookeries could hardly make a dent in their troubles, but every bit would help. He’d already made arrangements for some of his newly inherited wealth to go toward bettering some of the conditions of the slums—squalid, brutal conditions that bred criminals like Pirate Pete, Lucian, and Tiny, and many others not so bold or vicious, but equally as desperate. The difference between the rich and middle classes, and those of the poorer working classes, was staggering and pathetic. In his years as a gunfighter, there’d been many times when he’d tried to use his gun to help and protect those who were too weak to protect themselves—now he had the means to help those who were weak and vulnerable in a different sort of way.
It didn’t surprise him that Josie was interested in helping too. Mrs. Fielding had mentioned to him before he left Sussex that the new lady of the house was seeking ways to aid the poor of the district. And considering her own background, it made sense. But not everyone would take action as she was doing, Ethan reflected. Some would simply exult in their own good fortune and the luxuries that had fallen into their laps—and not give a damn about anyone else.
“We’d better be going.” As she set down the goblet, he took her arm. “I’m sure you don’t want to miss one moment of Miss Crenshaw’s scintillating company,” he added wickedly.
As Latherby watched Ethan Savage hand his delicately beautiful wife up into the carriage, the astounding thought that had entered his head earlier returned, even stronger than before.
Ethan Savage was falling in love with that chit—or more likely, had already fallen. And fallen hard.
What in heaven must the old earl be thinking now, providing he could think from his grave? His plan for manipulation and revenge was possibly bringing his wayward son happiness—not the misery and entrapment he’d planned.
But, Latherby pondered as the carriage clattered away into the misty night, how long would it continue so?
Especially in light of a certain visit he himself had been paid only this afternoon by Mr. Oliver Winthrop.
A most interesting and highly profitable visit.
Latherby grimaced, remembering with a heavy heart the way Ethan had looked at his wife tonight in the library.
He squared his shoulders, put his bowler on his head, and set off into the darkness.
Eighteen
I don’t care a fig for what Rosamund Crenshaw says—it is my belief that Lady Stonecliff is a breath of fresh air.”
Lady Cartwright held court at the center of a small group of ladies near the refreshment table. Behind her in the brilliantly lit silver ballroom, fragrant with cut flowers and perfume, men and women in all their bejeweled finery drank champagne, chatted, strolled, and danced.
“In the short time I’ve known her, I’ve not once found her lacking in courtesy—and there is something so sweet about her. Perhaps it’s the American touch, which I happen to find appealing. She has even offered her help at the foundling home. I like her—I like her very much.”
Lady Cartwright was pleased to see Lady Tattersall nodding agreement with her. “Oh, yes, she’s a dear girl.” Lady Tattersall turned slightly so that she could catch sight of Lady Stonecliff as she was whirled across the dance floor in her husband’s arms. With approval she noted how closely Ethan was holding her, how adorably Josephine tilted her head up to gaze into his eyes. They appeared oblivious of everyone and everything else.
“She is exactly the sort of wife my godson needs—vibrant, you know, not the least bit insipid. Ethan would be bored to tears with someone strictly conventional.”
“Well, I have heard some rumors about her background in America,” sniffed the third matron present, the pale, broad-shouldered Duchess of Melling. Her beetle eyes narrowed on the waltzing couple, who appeared, at least from this distance, to be very much in love. Which in itself, she concluded, was a vulgar display and wholly inappropriate. What person of quality married for love? “And if there is any truth to them—”
“Of course there isn’t,” a new voice piped in. “And it is unbecoming to accept as truth that which is only idle gossip.”
In surprise, all three women turned simultaneously to find Miss Clara Perry regarding them with a martial light in her eyes.
As they parted to admit her to the circle, Lady Cartwright, Lady Tattersall, and the Duchess all had to suppress gasps of astonishment. The mousy Miss Perry never spoke up so forthrightly—particularly to a group of ladies she only happened to be passing by and had overheard.
There was something else unusual about her tonight. In place of her usual plain gray or russet gown of somewhat old-fashioned style, she was wearing a fashionable ensemble of water-green taffeta, embellished by a black-silk sash and buttons and a narrow paneled skirt complete with a quite elegant lace train.
“Forgive my intrusion, your grace,” she continued, peeping up at the Duchess with nowhere near her usual shyness. “But I have found it wise not to believe hearsay. From my own knowledge of her, I can say that Lady Stonecliff is everything admirable. And aside from that, if she has won the heart of the Earl of Stonecliff, who are we, or even my own dear cousin, Miss Crenshaw, to argue?”
Lady Tattersall beamed. “Quite.”
“I wholly agree, Miss Perry.” Lady Cartwright smiled warmly at the woman she’d never really spoken to before, someone she’d only noticed at the fringes of the fashionable crowd. “Well said, my dear.”
“Hah!” The Duchess flushed, her skin taking on the shade of rotten grapes. She was not going to be bested by some insipid poor relation of the Crenshaws! “Don’t be so sure of Lord Stonecliff’s taste when it comes to females,” she snorted. “Or have you forgotten that he once bestowed his deepest affections upon a shopgirl?”
Miss Perry opened her mouth to reply to this, but before she could utter a word, Lady Tattersall fired the parting shot. “You really ought to pay a bit more attention, my dear—and make use of your eyes, your ears, and your wits as well as your tong
ue. Anyone with any degree of sense can perceive that Lady Stonecliff is certainly not a shopgirl!”
And with this, she tucked Miss Perry’s arm in hers and swept off with her. Lady Cartwright, smiling, quickly excused herself from the Duchess of Melling’s company, leaving that fuming lady to stare balefully at the handsome young couple still waltzing dreamily across the marble floor.
But things weren’t going quite as smoothly between the Earl and Countess as they appeared.
The evening was taking its toll on Ethan. Hell, the whole week was taking its toll. Every moment he spent with her, playing the smitten husband, filled him with a seething frustration. Because after only a few minutes in her company, he always found himself wishing they could cast off the pretenses and just be themselves. Wishing he could say things, think things, do things proper English peers didn’t say and think and do.
“You dance well,” he told Josie as they whirled past velvet curtained alcoves and potted palms. But what he really wanted to tell her was: You feel like an angel in my arms. I’d like to show you heaven in my bed.
She answered in the same polite tone he had used. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”
Practice? She meant at the Golden Pistol. Dancing with cowboys, miners, townsmen—old drunks and overgrown boys and every kind of scoundrel from gambler to gunman. The image of her dancing with them, flirting with them, possibly sleeping with them, set his teeth on edge.
“Ahuh. I’ll just bet you did.”
His mocking tone and narrowed eyes brought a flush to her cheeks. Her chin flew up at a defiant angle.
“That offends you? I don’t see why it should.”
“It doesn’t. I don’t give a damn what you did before, or what you’ll do after.” Beneath her perfectly poised expression, Ethan thought he saw her flinch.