by Lee Rowan
“Might I ask—” He stopped to clear his throat. “—whether you have any gentleman in mind for the honor?”
“I do,” she said with some asperity. “I have been conversing with him for at least an hour. He is a fine, gallant gentleman, and I believe we would suit admirably.”
“I believe we would,” he said. “But only if you can dispense with one bit of foolishness.”
Did he not like her bonnet? “I think I very likely can. What foolishness is that?”
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. A shiver ran through her. “The delusion that you are unattractive.”
“I am not in the least pretty,” she said. “My mother—”
“Your mother was exceptionally pretty. But you are beautiful, too—in an entirely different way. She was, I think, a fairy princess, too frail to stay upon the earth. But you—my dearest lady, you are a human woman, round and ripe and altogether desirable, beautiful inside and out—exactly the sort of woman I had despaired of ever finding.”
He went to one knee in the classic pose, and Cynthia thought her heart would burst through her ribs. “Miss Lancaster, I know that this is far too sudden, and I do not expect an immediate answer—but I beg that you will do me the honor of becoming my wife.”
She had hoped, wished, half expected it—but the reality was still a shock. “Yes, I would like to,” she said, and found herself caught up in an overwhelming embrace, literally lifted from the floor and squeezed so hard she could not breathe. When he set her back on her feet at last, she had to sit down on the divan.
“If there is a jeweler in town,” he said, back in command now things were settled, “I would like to buy you a ring. An aquamarine, if such a thing can be found.”
“Paul, wait,” Cynthia said. “Sit down for a moment, please?” She caught his hand and held it, her head spinning so that she thought she might faint. “There are two things… I said that I would like to marry you, but there are two things you must know, before you commit yourself.”
He sat beside her. “What are they?”
“One of my brothers… Paul, he is a Patriot. One brother a Loyalist, one a Patriot—I love them both. I cannot choose.”
He nodded. “My dear, if war comes, so long as your brother stays out of the Navy, we shall probably never meet. That is all I can say; he has his own path to follow. What is the other thing?”
“My grandmother. I don’t think I can bear to leave her.”
“Is that all?” He laughed. “Rest easy, I don’t think I can either. That is, if she wants to come along, though I think England would be a better place for her than the wretched cold of the Maritimes, and it would please me to think that you would not be alone in our home when I am off at sea.”
“Oh, that would be so perfect.” Cynthia felt giddy with relief. “Our home,” she said, savoring the words.
“Your home, for the most part. You should consider that, my dear. Much as I want you for my wife, I think that it would be best if you were to come back to England and meet my family. It would be ideal if your grandmother were to accompany you, and your father too, if we can pry him away from his business.”
“You would wait so long?”
“I don’t want to.” He touched her cheek and bent to kiss her with a gentleness surprising in so large a man.
The first touch of his lips was strange, but the second seemed to open a floodgate within her, and the thrill she had felt from his resonant voice was a pale shadow of the intimacy of the kiss. She did not want to wait either—and she wondered, if a kiss was this splendid, what would the rest would be like? “I won’t change my mind.”
“But you must have the chance,” he said in that deep, rich voice. She could hear the control that he was exerting over himself.
“Kiss me again?”
“Aye-aye, ma’am.”
The third kiss was better, and the next better still. What a joy it would be to have a man who wanted her for who and what she was, not in spite of those things. A man strong enough to stay calm in the face of her father’s inevitable furor, and overcome it. A man who thought she was beautiful.
This man.
She leaned into his warm embrace and relaxed, safer than she could ever remember feeling.
“Cynthia!”
She jumped a little, away from Paul’s arms, and saw her father standing red-faced and furious in the doorway. “Father!”
He did not reply to her, but advanced on Paul. “How dare you, sir! I invite you into my home, and you seduce—”
Stepping between her and her father, Paul cut through the bluster. “Not so, sir. Do not dishonor your daughter with such a suggestion! I fell in love with her. I cannot and will not apologize for that.” His composure was absolute, his deep voice level and reasonable. “I have proposed honorable marriage.”
“You have what?” Mr. Lancaster stopped and blinked, then sputtered, “Under my roof!”
“Surely the town square was too public a place, sir!”
Hands over her mouth to stop an unseemly laugh, Cynthia wondered whether she should attempt to intervene. A slight movement from the kitchen door caught her eye, and she looked past her father to see her grandmother watching, a finger to her lips. Yes, that was the wisest thing to do—Father was unlikely to listen to anything she had to say. It was wondrous to have a champion taking her part, and she almost hoped the discussion would not be resolved too quickly.
Paul was not giving Mr. Lancaster a moment to collect his arguments. “In another moment I would have made it my business to find you and ask that you reconsider the plans for your daughter’s engagement. If Mr. Humboldt is unable to summon the courage to ask for her hand, I at least am not.”
“That is obvious!”
“I would be grateful if we might adjourn to your office, sir, so I may acquaint you with my situation. Of course, you would not release your treasure to a man unable to care for her in a proper way.”
“Well, no, I would not!”
“Then we are already in accord, I believe. May we speak plainly, sir?”
Mr. Lancaster suddenly seemed to realize that he had a small but attentive audience both before him and behind his back. “Yes… please go. I shall join you shortly.” As the unwelcome suitor left the room, he whirled on his mother. “You knew about this!”
“I certainly did,” she snapped back, “and I think it’s high time Cynthia had a real man come courting! For Heaven’s sake, Edward, go speak to Commander Smith. For once, put your daughter before your convenience!”
“I always—” His eyes went to Cynthia, finally. “I always do. You know that.”
“Do you, Papa?” She instantly regretted the words; he looked hurt, as though she had slapped him—but only for a moment.
“Women!” he snorted, and stamped away.
Cynthia closed her eyes as the enormity of the change that faced her suddenly sank in. Yes, it was lovely to imagine returning to England… but right now? So soon?
A strong, bony hand caught her arm. “Are you all right, child?”
“Yes, Grandmama.” She blinked. “He proposed. He proposed marriage. To me!”
“Of course to you, you goose. He’s got no interest in me! Did you accept?”
“Yes!” She sounded frightened, even to herself. “Yes, I did. And now I wonder if I made a terrible mistake! Is that not foolish of me?”
“No more than for any girl who’s been swept off her feet. Come into the kitchen. I made tea.”
The ordinary business of setting cups and saucers on the table calmed Cynthia a little, but even with the first sip, her mind was whirling again. “What if Papa sends him away?”
“Send away the son of a Viscount? Your father’s no fool in his business dealings, dear. He will not be blind to the advantage of such a connection. Instead of worrying about what your father may do, you must give serious thought to whether this match is what you truly desire. Every girl’s life changes when she marries, but this will be a gre
ater change than most. Are you prepared to go back to England and know that you might never see any of us again?” The old woman’s eyes were glistening, but she was not seeking pity; Grandmama never did.
“No,” Cynthia admitted. “I could never bear to leave you, and I told P—” She caught herself. “I told the Commander as much. He asked if you would be willing to come with me to England, to meet his family, before I decide for certain. And to stay with me, if I remain.”
Her grandmother looked down into her teacup and drank slowly, using both hands to steady the cup. “He must be fairly besotted, to take an old crow like me in the bargain.”
“I think he admires you, Grandmama. He said it would please him if I had you with me, when he is off at sea. He went so far as to suggest that the climate in England would be better for you than the cold of the Maritimes.”
A second sip, and a smile spread across her grandmother’s face. “Then we had better hope his family is agreeable, had we not?”
“You will come?”
“Indeed, I will. I would not have left in the first place if I had not known your mama would need me, rest her soul. And after she was gone, there were you children.”
Cynthia leaned over and kissed her wrinkled cheek. “I shall always need you.”
“Well, I plan to stay around until I hold your children, God willing.” She finished her tea and rose, the old familiar twinkle back in her eye. “Now, let us bustle. Your father never likes to lose an argument, and my old bones say he must give in on this account. I think he will be much more agreeable if there’s food waiting on the table when he and the Commander declare a truce.”
The prospect of England, green and welcoming and absolutely free of wild bears and savage Indians, was becoming more real. Cynthia felt her spirits lift once more. “Oh, I hope Papa agrees!”
“Agree? Child, by the end of dinner, he will be convinced it was his own idea. All that remains now is to persuade him that Widow Humboldt would make him a comfortable home, and we shall have things beautifully arranged for us all.”
“Grandmama!”
The old lady laughed and turned back to the stove. Cynthia busied herself with laying the table, but all her attention was on the door at the end of the dining room, the door to her father’s study. She could hear nothing, and she was too proud to listen at the keyhole, and the minutes stretched unbearably until at last the door opened.
Paul stepped out. He said nothing, only smiled and held out his hands.
She went to him decorously, put her hands in his. “Yes?”
He nodded, and the rest of the room vanished for the space of a heartbeat. All she could see was his face, and his smile… and her future in his eyes.
SEE PARIS
London, 1792
“You must go, Kit.” Arethusa St. John, Dowager Baroness Guilford, fixed her only son with a steely eye. “You simply must, or those French madmen will leave us high and dry.”
Her son settled into the armchair on the other side of the fireplace, exasperation battling with affection. “Mama…. You know I begrudge you no task, but is that really necessary?”
“I believe it is, yes.” She flounced the loose edge of the needlework that had occupied her attention until he entered the room. “There are some situations that require a man’s firm hand.”
Christopher St. John, eighteen years of age and the youngest Baron Guilford to head his family in the past century, was startled by this change of attitude. Ordinarily he had to move Heaven and Earth to escape her watchful eye. “I beg your pardon, madam—did I hear you correctly?”
She laughed at his astonishment, and when she smiled, he could see how this still-handsome woman, with her titian locks and perfect skin, had made his father the envy of his set. “Yes, my dear. Your uncle Douglas came to call while you were out riding, and he reminded me that although you will always be my dear boy, you are nearly a gentleman grown! I must accept that you have reached an age that demands I treat you according to your station.”
By sending me into a nest of vipers. Thank you so much, Mama! Kit felt certain that his uncle had not expected her to acknowledge her son’s arrival at a man’s status by sending him on a fool’s errand into the catastrophe that was the French Republic. But his mother’s knowledge of politics was—well, he would be doing her a kindness to call it “narrow.”
Some ladies possessed much acumen in the way of the larger world. Sadly, the Dowager was not one of them. She possessed a limited intellect but a deep capacity for affection; her special talent lay in the closed circle of the nobility, staging entertainments and helping to launch her daughter and many nieces into Society. She was an affectionate parent, a superb hostess, and had been a great asset to the previous Baron before his untimely end in a hunting accident when Kit was only nine. Her brothers, Douglas and Eugene, had stepped in as trustees to guide the family fortunes until Kit was old enough to take the reins himself.
He was beginning to suspect that the time had arrived. “Mama, the family’s been doing business with M. Monfort since long before I was born. He’s been entirely reliable.”
“He has been, dear, but just this past week, my friend Hyacinth—that’s Lady Rownham, you know—told me that half her last order from Monfort’s went missing.”
“That does happen from time to time, you know. Accidents, broken bottles, even theft—”
“It’s those horrible revolutionaries. They’re interfering with everything, and when they ‘inspect’ a cargo, I believe they just help themselves and say it’s been confiscated. Now, I have spoken with your uncle, and he has a ship sailing to France in ten days. You can travel aboard the Susanna. What could be more convenient?”
“Mama—” Kit hated politics, British equally with French. For an upstanding member of the Church of England, his distaste was remarkably catholic. But at least the conflicts in Parliament did not usually involve swords and pistols; what was going on in France was quite another matter. He was no coward, but neither was he an idiot, and from what the papers said, Paris was a particularly fine place to avoid. “Mama, France is in a state of anarchy—armed anarchy. If they would seize goods on false pretenses, don’t you imagine they would do exactly the same under the snooty nose of an English aristo?”
“They wouldn’t dare.” And that was the end of that discussion, as far as Her Ladyship was concerned.
They wouldn’t dare try any flummery if his mother were giving them that fisheye, Kit was certain. He sighed. What Mama lacked in political acumen, she made up for in persistence. When I look at France, I see fools chasing a lost dream. When my mother looks, she sees the loss of her favorite brandy.
Kit would not have argued with the revolutionary charge that Louis had been a wastrel of a king—His Royal Highness was a complete ass. But the revolutionaries had gone overboard by putting their own King Louis under arrest. Better to have let him escape to England, though there were those who uncharitably said it was better for England’s coffers not to have to support the profligate monarch as a guest.
Now that they had their king in prison, though, they couldn’t let him out. The citizens had backed themselves into an awkward corner, and no matter what they did, it would mean trouble for England. War was coming. Everyone knew that.
And for Kit’s mother, war meant embargo, and embargo meant loss of legal access to the finest French wines and brandies, which would be available only through smugglers. The Dowager would deal with these denizens of the dark if she had to—not personally, of course!—but she considered it more practical and farsighted to stock the wine cellar to bursting while the trade was still legal than to hint delicately to the butler that it was time to place an order with the Free Trade gentlemen.
He made one last attempt to wriggle free. “Mama, if I were to undertake this mission, I would be bound to miss Cousin Eugenia’s birthday party. I might not even be back in time for the Carstairs’s ball.” Since Kit would not have full control of his estate or his life until the
age of twenty-five, he had agreed to give his mother charge of his social calendar. She’d cast him out in the world like a trout fisher with a shiny lure, hoping to land a fecund daughter-in-law who would promptly produce grandchildren. Her particular wish was for a male grandchild to secure the succession and insure that Guilford, her home for the past twenty-three years, would not fall into the clutches of Aunt Rose, with whom she had a long-standing feud.
His mother nodded. “Yes, love, and that is a pity. But you’ve met all the young ladies who will be in attendance, and I am at wits’ end to find new candidates! Perhaps while you are away, I will have more luck.”
“Perhaps you’re right, Mama.” Being bride bait had become wearisome work. Kit suddenly realized that if he played his cards right and dawdled along the way, he would be obliged to miss several social engagements his mother had decreed he must attend.
He’d known most of the eligible girls since they were all children together, of course, and he enjoyed their company well enough. But familiarity had bred indifference: none of the young ladies woke a spark of passion, and he did not intend to marry without it. He knew what a love match could be; his parents had been besotted with each other, and his earliest memories were full of their laughter and affectionate conversation. His mother, beautiful in her young widowhood, had mourned her husband for years, refusing handsome offers of marriage from several eligible gentlemen until they finally accepted that the Baron had been her one and only love.
Kit wasn’t about to settle for anything less, and he wouldn’t mind missing a few parties. “Very well, then, milady, I shall take up your token and face down the dragons of the Seine. If you’ll pardon me, I had better write a few letters and express my regrets to Aunt Juliet.”
And after all, what could be so dangerous about buying wine in France?
“AHOY, COZ!”
Kit blinked in surprise as the shore boat carried him alongside the merchant brig Susanna. Squinting up at the figure outlined against a bright sky, he recognized his cousin Philip, who would eventually inherit the ship as well as the business. He waved in return as the oarsmen held steady, then passed them a tip and scrambled up to the wooden stair that had been let down alongside the curving hull.