by Brenda Hiatt
She fanned herself rapidly before continuing. "But he has never been at all in the petticoat line. At least not with, well..." She tittered self-consciously, her florid cheeks pinkening.
Azalea understood quite well what her cousin had left unsaid, but she remained silent, not wishing to encourage Lady Beauforth in this flight of fancy.
"In point of truth," continued her cousin after a moment, "I've never heard of him calling on any eligible girl before. I suppose it could be in deference to Lord Kayce, for I hear they are as thick as thieves."
A singularly apt analogy, Azalea thought.
"But even so, he seemed quite taken with you. Why did you not mention his presence at Kayce's dinner party before now?"
Azalea replied distractedly that she had not thought it of any importance, and thereafter excused herself, saying she wanted to finish writing a letter before nuncheon. She was wondering how she would be able to prevent any further attentions from Lord Drowling, since it was clear he would have Lady Beauforth's unqualified support. Cousin Alice would no doubt do all in her power to throw them together at every opportunity.
She prayed that Lord Glaedon would return to London soon.
* * *
The Earl, meanwhile, was making the most of his time in the country, though not as his relations there had expected. In fact, his grandmother considered his behaviour to border on inhospitable.
For Christian spent every moment that could be spared from his duties as host in his father's private library, going through musty old papers and letters, searching for the Lord only knew what.
When Lady Glaedon confronted him, demanding to know what could be so important that it caused him to neglect his guests, he merely replied that he had become curious about his father's youth and was endeavouring to learn more of his deceased parent through his letters.
The dowager pointed out that any personal letters he found were likely to have been written to the late Earl rather than by him, but her grandson's attention had already wandered back to the pile of papers on the table before him. She gave it up for the time being and returned to their guests, to attempt to compensate for their host's lack of attentiveness.
Christian's persistent research was yielding rewards, however. On leaving London nearly a fortnight before, his emotions had been a turmoil of guilt and longing. He was firm, though, in his intention of carefully examining his father's papers in the hopes of learning something —anything —about Miss Azalea Clayton.
He knew that the late Earl had corresponded with the girl's grandfather regularly over the years, and it was to Reverend Simpson's letters that he directed his attention. There were more of these than he had expected, and what he was learning from their perusal surprised him even more.
Christian had known that the two men had served together in India. He found now that their friendship had begun years before that, when both his father and Gregory Simpson were mere boys at Eton.
Judging by the language in the letters, there was virtually nothing they did not confide to one another. Their separation when Gregory left for America was felt keenly by both. These early letters gave Christian a great deal of insight into Azalea's heritage, on the maternal side, at least.
Adele Simpson, Azalea's mother, had, by her fond father's account, been a spectacular beauty. Fully appreciating what she had bequeathed to her daughter in the way of looks, Christian saw no reason to doubt his word. Gregory lamented the fact that there were no young men even remotely worthy of his daughter in the small college town to which he had removed, and feared that she might become attached to some penniless student or, worse, a farmer's son.
Reverend Simpson, it appeared, had not quite embraced his new country's rejection of class distinctions.
Then Walter Clayton, eldest son and heir of Lord Kayce, had appeared on the scene. He and Adele were immediately drawn to one another, though she was only sixteen at the time. While he fully approved of such a connection, as well as the young man himself, Gregory was unwilling to allow his daughter to marry at so young an age. Finally, however, he had been persuaded to a formal betrothal.
Due to his father's illness, Walter had returned to England shortly thereafter, but had promised to return for Adele. Reading ahead two years, Christian found that Walter, by then the new Lord Kayce, had kept his promise; he and Adele were married in 1791.
At that point, Walter elected to remain in America rather than take his new bride back to England as originally planned, leaving his estates in the hands of his younger brother. This development surprised Reverend Simpson, who hazarded a guess or two as to its cause. He did not openly question it, however, since he was grateful that his only child was not to be removed across the Atlantic.
Reading between the lines, Christian was able to infer that Kayce gradually became infected by the republican spirit of the newly liberated colonies, a turn of events of which his father-in-law did not entirely approve, it appeared.
Sporadic news of the couple occurred in the letters of the next few years, as the Claytons had resettled in the near-wilderness west of Richmond to try their fortunes. Two stillbirths were reported, then Azalea's birth in November of 1795. Gregory travelled west to see his new granddaughter in the spring of 1796 and sent a letter to the Earl a few months later singing her praises.
Christian began to read the closely written pages more carefully from that point on, grateful that his father had chosen to retain all of his personal correspondence, though not according to any particular system. It had taken him several days to find and then chronologically order all of Reverend Simpson's letters.
Herschel's name, and his own, had been frequently mentioned, mainly in regard to enquiries after their health and activities. The third letter after the one detailing the remarkable cleverness and beauty of five-month-old Azalea, however, mentioned what was apparently a years-old dream of both men—to someday unite their families through the marriage of their offspring.
Gregory pointed out that, as Howard had been so disobliging as to marry much later in life than himself, that dream, if it were ever to be fulfilled, would have to be through his darling Azalea or some future daughter of Adele's. His tone was less than serious, but Christian was much struck by this revelation nonetheless.
There was to be no future daughter. When Azalea was barely two years old, Walter was killed by a fall while hunting, and Adele returned to Williamsburg with her baby daughter.
News of Azalea was now liberally strewn throughout every letter, and Christian read the accounts of her childhood escapades with an absorption he found hard to explain. So caught up in her history did he become that he was actually moved to tears at the account of Adele's death and her five-year-old daughter's uncomprehending grief.
Wiping his eyes, Christian glanced around the library, glad that his grandmother had not chosen this moment to remind him, yet again, of what was expected of the host at a family gathering.
As it happened, that perceptive lady had not believed for a moment in Christian's sudden acquisition of a passion for family history. She had discovered, through an investigation quickly and surreptitiously conducted during one of his brief absences from the library, that his attention seemed focused on a collection of letters from one Gregory Simpson of Williamsburg, Virginia.
Lady Glaedon's curiosity was thoroughly aroused but, as Christian himself seemed disinclined to be communicative, she had to content herself with supposition. For lack of a better confidante, she broached the subject to her daughter, Lady Constance Highton, one evening when they were alone.
"Connie, I've been meaning to ask you if you've noticed anything... odd... in Christian's manner since he arrived home."
Lady Constance, a handsome, middle-aged matron, considered carefully before answering. "Well, Mama, he has been quite as correct in his bearing towards me as ever, though I will admit I have seen less of him than usual this Christmas."
The dowager regarded her daughter with some impatience. She knew that
Constance's understanding was not absolutely of the first order, but she felt a need to discuss her concerns with someone and she was unwilling to share them with anyone less closely connected to Christian.
"I was not discussing his politeness, Connie," she continued carefully after a moment. "I meant that he has seemed rather... distracted of late."
"Oh! Yes, now that you mention it, I do remember that just this afternoon at nuncheon I had to speak to him twice before he would answer my question regarding the advisability of new draperies in my small salon at the London house. Mr. Highton favours cream, you see, but I have always felt that the blue and buff we have there now more appropriately reflect—"
"Yes, of course, Connie, we went over all that earlier, if you recall," the dowager broke in, forestalling yet another complete cataloguing of the furnishings of her daughter's small salon. "But we were discussing Christian. If I were to hazard a guess, I would say his manner almost resembles that of a young man in love. However, much as I have wished for just that, I fear there must be another explanation."
"But why? Miss Beauforth is quite lovely." Lady Constance frowned vaguely. "I must agree that if she has captured his heart, 'twould be no bad thing. But even if she has not, it is not quite the thing to be in love with one's spouse, anyway. No doubt they will deal perfectly well together."
"Yes, yes, you are right, of course." The dowager lapsed into discontented silence. Not even to Constance would she voice her suspicion that Christian's preoccupation had nothing whatsoever to do with Miss Beauforth. Nor would she confide that she, herself, would be more pleased than dismayed if that proved to be true.
If he had truly fallen in love with someone else, she doubted she could bring herself to criticize his choice, if only Christian were happy. And she doubted he would ever be truly happy with Marilyn Beauforth. But would he cry off his betrothal, even for love? Not for the first time she mentally cursed that male code of honour with which all the men in her family had been afflicted, often to their detriment.
If her guess were correct, who might the lucky girl be? Could she possibly have some connection to those musty old letters from America? It seemed unlikely.
"Well," she said briskly, bringing her thoughts back to the present, "I suppose the most I can hope is that he will confide in me. Pray don't mention this conversation to Christian," she cautioned her daughter. "I am only guessing, after all, and it is certain that he would not appreciate any interference on our part."
Even as his grandmother and aunt discussed him, Christian was immersed in his self-appointed research once again. He had been charmed by Reverend Simpson's accounts of Azalea's early childhood antics as well as impressed by the evidence he offered of his granddaughter's exceptional abilities. Christian began to understand why the girl was so able to hold her own in the few arguments they had had; her unusual intelligence had been augmented by an excellent education.
He read of her fascination with botany, which had become evident by the time she was six years old, and seemed to be the child's way of retaining some contact with her departed mother. Her other absorbing interest appeared to be horses, and he recalled with some amusement the near-lecture she had given him on that topic their first morning in the Park. They had more in common than he had ever realized.
Irresistibly, he remembered again her sweet curves, her lustrous green eyes. He had tried to forget, but he might as well have tried to stop his heart from beating. The very thought of her, even after a fortnight's absence, still had the power to stir his blood.
Now more than ever, he bitterly regretted his betrothal to Miss Beauforth, made for the sake of maintaining the family honour.
Finally, only two letters remained. Christian had forced himself to read all of them sequentially, although the temptation had been great to open the last letter at the outset. It had been received by his father only a month before their ill-fated voyage to the New World.
Christian had already discovered that for some years his father had taken a discreet interest in Azalea's English inheritance and the Kayce estates, at her grandfather's request. Some problems had apparently arisen, and in the second-to-last letter Reverend Simpson implied strongly that Kayce was not to be trusted. He also mentioned his own failing health, agreeing that the "steps" Lord Glaedon had recommended might be necessary after all.
The letter concluded with a reference to "what would be best for the youngsters," which made Christian reach for the final envelope in hopes that this curious "problem" and his father's "solution" would be discussed more fully.
The last letter opened with the assurance that Simpson and his granddaughter would be honoured by a visit from Glaedon and his son, Christian, if the Earl would only name the time. Reading further, Christian's interest turned to amazement as he realized what the purport of this visit was to be: no less than his own marriage to Azalea Clayton.
"I recommend that the young people be allowed to meet and form some sort of opinion of each other before any commitment be made," Simpson had written. "It is up to you whether you wish to discuss our plan with Christian in advance. Knowing Azalea as I do, it will probably be best on my part to wait until she has met your son, so as not to prejudice her against him at the outset. The girl has shown little inclination toward any young man as yet, but I suppose that is not to be wondered at, as she is barely thirteen at this writing."
It appeared obvious from the tone of this last letter that his father had earnestly desired this match. Christian had offered for Miss Beauforth thinking that his father would have wanted him to take up Herschel's betrothal. But it would seem the old Earl had made plans for both his sons.
Earlier, Christian had cursed the very devotion to family honour and his father's memory that had led him to betroth himself to Miss Beauforth. It suddenly struck him now that it would be undutiful, as well as dishonourable, of him to disregard what amounted to his father's dying wish.
So where did that leave him? Honour bound to marry two different women? There could be no question where his inclination lay. Unfortunately, it was equally clear which course was the more honourable. He was already betrothed to Miss Beauforth.
Christian rose. It was high time he returned to London, for it seemed he had quite a lot to sort out.
* * *
CHAPTER 13
As it happened, several days passed before Christian was able to leave for Town. After directing Lawrence, his valet, to have everything ready for their immediate departure at his word, the Earl went in search of the dowager in order to take his leave of her and to acquaint her with his plans.
He found his grandmother alone in the small parlour she habitually used as her private sitting-room. She had decorated it herself many years before, and it had since become her favourite retreat in the enormous, rambling manor house.
"Ma'am, I am off for London almost at once, but I wished to speak with you first," he said, striding purposefully into the room.
The dowager looked up calmly from her needlework, apparently little perturbed by her grandson's tempestuous entrance. "Certainly, Christian. Pray have a seat." She gestured to the gilt chair opposite her.
Put off his stride by receiving none of the resistance to his abrupt departure that he had expected, Christian dropped into the chair and tugged at his collar, trying to decide how best to begin. Now that it came to the point of actually framing the words, he realized that his dilemma might sound vaguely absurd.
"You wished to tell me something?" Lady Glaedon prompted him.
"Yes. That is... you have expressed certain misgivings about my betrothal to Miss Beauforth, as I recall. I begin to think you may be right."
The dowager waited expectantly.
"In fact, I go to London to discover whether I can honourably extricate myself from it. If I cannot, I suppose I must marry her after all." A sudden depression seized him and he looked pleadingly at his grandmother.
"Not if you do not care for her," the dowager said placidly. "Your happiness h
as always been my foremost consideration, Chris, and I have been doubtful all along that Miss Beauforth would be likely to secure it. I am relieved you have come to your senses in time." He shook his head disbelievingly, wondering if his grandmother had actually uttered those words or if he were merely hearing what he wished to. "There will be the devil of a scandal if I cry off, you realize," he said cautiously.
"That is neither here nor there," she replied, startling him again. "You had something else to tell me, did you not?" she prompted.
"You know me far too well, I see. Yes, there was something else."
"What is her name?"
Christian passed from surprise to astonishment. "I did not realize that mind-reading was among your many talents, ma'am. Her name is Clayton. Miss Azalea Clayton. She is living in the Beauforth household, which makes the situation doubly awkward."
Now, finally, it was the dowager's turn to look surprised. "Clayton? But that is the Kayce family name, is it not? Lord Kayce has no daughter that I know of. Pray explain everything, Christian, from the beginning. Precisely who is this Miss Clayton, and why is she staying with Lady Beauforth?"
At that, Christian took a deep breath to organize his thoughts and proceeded to relate to his grandmother all that he knew of Azalea: her parents and grandparents, her history, and their few meetings, which had quickly grown into friendship and affection, at least on his part. Finally, he showed her the last letter from Reverend Simpson.
"If possible," he said, "I should like to fulfill my father's final wish."
"Very noble!" said the dowager with barely concealed amusement at the conclusion of his story.
She had watched Christian's face closely during his recital and had a fair suspicion of what he had left unsaid. He was obviously head over ears in love with the girl, but she did not think he had yet admitted this to himself. He had instead convinced himself that it was his "duty" to his late father to offer for her—if he could extricate himself from his current betrothal, also entered into in the name of duty and honour.