A Reluctant Courtship

by Laurie Alice Eakes

  He expected to wait at least an hour. They both needed a good scrubbing, like the dower house did. He spent the time sipping the cream-laced coffee a footman had brought him and flipping through the pages of a two-year-old copy of The Gentleman’s Magazine. Then, just as the clock struck three quarters of an hour, the ladies appeared looking neat and fresh and, in the case of Miss Bainbridge, too pretty for a man’s comfort. She wore a white dress with an overlay of some kind of gold stuff that had as many holes in it as a fishing net but suited her nicely, matching her hair as it did.

  He rose and bowed, and this time she curtsied before extending her hand to him. He took it in his. She wore no gloves there in her own parlor with a meal expected. Her fingers were smooth and warm, and he didn’t want to let them go.

  She drew her hand free without looking at him. “I have ordered rather substantial refreshments to be served in here. I hope that suits you.”

  “Whatever is right. I didn’t mean to come so late.”

  He hadn’t meant to come at all, but he had walked and walked along the beach until the rising tide drove him up a path to Bainbridge.

  “You are always welcome, my lord.” Miss Bainbridge seated herself on a sofa before the fire, her companion beside her. Meric seated himself adjacent to the ladies, and the three of them sat staring at the coffee service for one. They were supposed to talk with one another, he and Miss Bainbridge, but he doubted she wanted her companion to know of the midnight excursion. No doubt Miss Morrow reported back to one of the sisters or the brother, and Miss Bainbridge would suffer worse than banishment to the dower house if any of her family learned of her exploit.

  But they could talk about her brother—maybe.

  “Is Lord Bainbridge coming to stay here at the house?” Meric asked at last.

  “He is bringing his fiancée.” Miss Bainbridge’s upper lip curled. “We know nothing of her, as she was not out when I had my Season, but she must be a high stickler, for I am not good enough for her presence.” She fixed him with eyes like a winter sky. “Then, my lord, you understand how that is.”

  Miss Morrow gasped. “Honore Bainbridge.”

  Meric waved the companion to silence and met the challenge head-on. “As I think you know, when I arrived in England last year, it was mere days after the country learned that the United States had declared war on Great Britain, probably an act of national suicide, but England has behaved badly to American sailors and shipping, and—but the merits of the war are not on point here. What matters is that I was immediately tossed into prison along with my brother under suspicion of spying. For months no one would believe we were heirs assumptive and presumptive to the Ashmoor title. Your father finally got a message and helped with the matter, and all was well until after his death. Once he died, the trouble began.”

  A scratch at the door was followed by the entrance of the butler and footmen to clear away the coffee service and set up a table with the supper buffet Miss Bainbridge had ordered, so they could call the meal refreshments and not be accused of having a single gentleman to dinner.

  “Do let me serve you, my lord.” She rose and made her way to the table, where she picked up a plate and fork. “Roast chicken? Some of this lovely fish?”

  He removed the plate from her hands. “I believe the gentleman serves the lady.”

  “Well, um, yes, usually at a buffet . . .” She toyed with the golden netting stuff draping her skirt and avoided his eyes. “I just did not think . . . This is highly unusual, though proper enough with Miss Morrow here, and, um . . .” She fled back to the sofa.

  Meric raised his eyebrows at the companion, who stood quietly on the other side of the table, waiting with her own plate.

  She smiled at him. “Miss Bainbridge has a hearty appetite.”

  And something about his action had flustered her. Was she that unused to male kindness? Surely during her Season she had never lacked for gentlemen to serve her, not a lady with her looks and, when she chose, charm.

  He rather liked her best when she wasn’t being charming. When one was a nobleman with a substantial income, the world filled with charming females rather than honest ones.

  Like Miss Devenish? Had he just considered that Miss Devenish was dishonest? Surely not. She was sweet-natured. He must remember that.

  He carried a filled plate to Miss Bainbridge, then returned for his own. Once they were all seated again and the ladies eating, he asked, “Shall I continue?”

  “If you think it is important information for us to have.” Miss Bainbridge did not look at him.

  “Of course I think it is important. I intended to tell you that day I brought you the marriage contract, only we got distracted by a little tumble off a cliff.”

  Her head shot up. “You told me quite enough that day, enough I insisted on walking home across the field and—” Her eyes widened. “That is where I—”

  “Where you what?” Meric leaned toward her.

  “Never you mind right now. Do, please, continue. Life has been difficult for you since my father died? I do understand. It has been difficult for me too. My family decided my mourning was a good reason for me to be hidden away as though they were ashamed of me.” Her lower lip quivered. “As though they are ashamed of me.”

  Miss Morrow laid her hand on Miss Bainbridge’s arm. “That will pass, you know. By next Season, something more interesting will have come along and everyone will forget about your unfortunate alliances.”

  “I keep hoping for the same.” Meric smiled at the ladies. “But my alliances are blood ties I can’t break.”

  “You mean your father?” Miss Bainbridge gave him her full attention. “You are being blamed for your father’s . . . misfortune?”

  “And for being raised in America with the two countries now at war.” Meric speared a mouthful of some succulent-looking fish with enough vigor to flake it into bits. “Since my father was accused of murder and something akin to treason, I am potentially the apple that didn’t fall far from the tree. In short, whenever something bad occurs locally—namely a smuggler landing or prisoners escaping from Dartmoor, some form of military men pound on my door and ask intrusive questions about my whereabouts.”

  The ladies stared at him, eyes wide, mouths agape, forks poised above barely touched plates.

  “They still think you are helping prisoners escape?” Miss Bainbridge finally asked.

  Meric inclined his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “But why would you take such a risk? Your life? Your liberty? Your family?”

  “I wouldn’t be the first man to do so for a cause he believed in.”

  “But you have given them no cause,” Miss Bainbridge protested with gratifying vehemence.

  Meric gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Other than being the son of an accused murderer.”

  “So you need to clear your father’s name,” Miss Morrow said in her quiet voice. “If you can.”

  “If I can. Until then . . .” He looked at Miss Bainbridge, every particle of his being suddenly aching as though he suffered from a fever.

  Her hand shaking enough to rattle her cutlery against her plate, she set her service aside, rose, and crossed the room to the window. Not a good decision. With darkness having fallen outside and the candles and fire bright inside, her face was reflected in the glass, pale and working with emotion she was trying to control. Each pinching of her nostrils, every compression of her lips tugged at his heart, at his conscience.

  He stood and joined her at the window. “I am sorry, Miss Bainbridge. Under other circumstances, I think we would have gotten along well together.”

  “But you cannot take a wife who has a reputation sullied by her association with a murderer and a traitor. Unless, of course, we learn who truly did kill that revenue officer and exonerate your father.”

  “If it’s possible, it can’t be a safe thing to do.”

  “I expect not. And more, we need to keep you safe from being accused outright of helping prisoners escape f
rom Dartmoor.”

  “Another dangerous prospect.”

  She smiled at him in the glass. “I am willing to risk it, my lord.”

  “You cannot.” Without thinking of the impropriety of it, he curved his hand around her shoulder. “This is work for my brother and me and has nothing to do with you other than . . . ahem . . .”

  “Other than the reason why you cannot accede to the wishes of my father, the only true friend you had here in England—his desire for you to wed me.” She faced him, and they stood far too close, close enough for him to see his reflection in her big blue eyes, close enough for him to smell her scent, light and sweet like wildflowers. “You need a wife above reproach. I already worked that out. But my father wanted to help you for the sake of your father, his friend. It is the least I can do.”

  Realizing his hand still rested on her shoulder, holding her with her bodice nearly touching his waistcoat buttons, he released her and took half a step away. “Your father would not want you risking anything.”

  “My father would not wish for a number of events that have occurred, like my brother banishing me to the dower house, or me living here alone with a companion, but that is the state of matters. I have nothing to lose.”

  “Except maybe your life.”

  She shrugged. “No one would dare harm the sister of a peer.”

  Meric gave his head an emphatic shake. “No, Miss Bainbridge, I will not allow it. I simply wished to give you a full explanation—”

  “What if I may have information you can use in your hunt?”

  “What? How?” He gripped his hands behind his back so he didn’t seize her, as he might do with one of his younger siblings withholding vital information from him.

  She smiled. “Will you let me help you?”

  “No.”

  “Then I will hunt down the source of this myself.” From the folds of her skirt, she drew half of a flat silver disc embossed in a way already familiar to him.

  The other half of the button he had picked up on the pasture path the day the cliff nearly dropped Miss Bainbridge into the sea.

  12

  Stillness hovered over the library like an impending storm. In front of the fire, Miss Morrow bowed her head as though she were praying. In front of Honore, Lord Ashmoor hardened his jaw and glared down at her from eyes that held no hint of gold lights, only green and brown like the depths of a forest.

  “Where,” he asked in a rasping voice, “did you find that?”

  She shoved the button back through the slit in her skirt to the pocket tied around her waist beneath her gown. “Our dinner is growing cold, and I know Cook has made gingerbread with a lemon custard for the sweet.”

  “Tempting, Miss Bainbridge, but not good enough to distract me.” Despite his words, one corner of his mouth twitched as though he tried not to smile.

  She shrugged. “The decision is yours, my lord. After all, would you not like a look at the footprints or any other things that might exist in the—” She clamped her lips shut as she realized she had nearly given away the location in which she found the button half.

  “You know I would. I expect the authorities would too.”

  “But they are not interested in proving your father innocent—or you, for that matter.”

  He scowled at her for another moment, then laughed, a rich, rolling chuckle that seemed to vibrate through her even though he was not touching her. “I think you have me there, Miss Bainbridge. Against my better judgment, I will agree to let you help me so long as you do nothing rash.” He lowered his voice. “Like the other night.”

  “That, I agree, was stupid. I was overwrought about my brother’s letter . . .” She pasted a too-bright smile on her face. “Shall we return to our dinners—er, refreshments?”

  Miss Morrow had placed their plates upon the hearth to keep them warm. Roast chicken and cod in aspic were a bit dry, but still flavorful. Although Miss Morrow must have heard every word—or most words—spoken by the window, more conversation regarding broken French buttons and nearly thirty-year-old murders directly beside her seemed inappropriate. The stiffness of her posture spoke disapproval.

  After several mouthfuls and minutes of silence save for the crackle and shift of the coals on the hearth and the chink of silver against china, Honore set aside her plate, rose, and rang for coffee and the sweet. Instead of returning to the sofa, she began to pace around the room. Miss Morrow’s eyes upon her told her that her action was rude. Her own upbringing told her that her action was rude. But she could not bring herself to stop. As though propelling themselves without her will, her feet kept placing themselves one in front of the other, from door to window to shelves of books, then back to the window. If a cold, damp wind did not rattle the panes of glass and seep around the edges, she might have flung open that window.

  This was like the other night, when thoughts of her brother’s letter had driven her out of the house and through the garden to the cliffs. She knew not what compelled her action other than a restlessness of body and spirit, the same kind of restlessness that had driven her to take foolish risks with her reputation while Mr. Frobisher and then Major Crawford courted her. Foolish, thoughtless risks that hurt not only her but also her family. Yet there she was, about to delve into another foolish risk with her reputation simply because . . .

  Her family did not care what she did now. They shunted her off to Devonshire alone save for someone they paid to stay with her. Now her brother had gone one step further and banished her to the dower house. Perhaps she should count her blessings that he had not decided she was fit for life nowhere except a Channel Island, where no one they knew would encounter her.

  She did not feel particularly blessed. Restlessness, hollowness that did not wish for food gnawed at her, driving her around the room one more time until she simply must fling open the window and dash across the terrace to the garden, to the cliffs—

  The door opened and servants entered with more trays, some empty, some full of cake and coffee. The chafing dishes of dinner disappeared. Slices of cake with warm, yellow custard spooned atop it replaced them. Coffee steamed from a silver pot, fresh cream frothed from another. By the time the servants withdrew, Honore had regained her composure and acted as footman to Miss Morrow and Lord Ashmoor, laughing as though her doing so were a great jest.

  Miss Morrow took her plate and cup while gazing at Honore with concern in her fine eyes. “Are you well, my dear?”

  “Of course.” Honore avoided her gaze.

  His lordship took his service and allowed his gaze to move to hers, the gold lights sparkling in his eyes again. “I think you would like the frontier, Miss Bainbridge.”

  “Why would you say such a thing, my lord?” Honore seized on the diversion as she had seized that half-dead sapling on the edge of the cliff. “Do tell us more.”

  “The western side of New York isn’t much frontier any longer,” he admitted. “It is still not all that populated, and the land is . . . untamed.”

  Honore glanced at Miss Morrow, a laugh bubbling inside her. “Have I just been insulted?”

  “I do not think so—quite.” Something sparked in the depths of Miss Morrow’s eyes, making them more blue than gray, and a little smile touched her lips. “But do, please, continue, my lord. What is so untamed about the land?”

  “The forest. I’m afraid clearing it to farm is an arduous task. And it’s cold there more than half of the year, so the growing season is short. We lived a great deal on fish from the lakes and game from the woods.”

  “Why ever would a body choose to live there?” Honore held her coffee untasted.

  Ashmoor cradled his cup between his hands, his long fingers and broad palms engulfing the fragile china. “My parents had little choice. Father wanted to hide. He wasn’t sure if the Americans would send him back here for trial if they caught him, so he wanted to be away from civilization. And then they found they liked the land, the freedom.”

  “The hardship?” Honore spok
e without thought.

  Ashmoor flashed her a smile. “Yes, ma’am, the hardship too. They were both country born and bred, but to good families with lots of money and servants. Neither of them had to work before, but they discovered they liked it. Father said he had never been so satisfied as he was at the end of the day, knowing he was eating something for which he had worked. He said—” A muscle jumped in his jaw, and he looked away, sipped at his coffee.

  “How long ago did he pass, my lord?” Miss Morrow asked into the silence.

  “Eight years ago. I was twenty, the youngest a mere baby of four. She scarcely remembers him.” Infinite sadness softened his chiseled features. “I hated leaving them.”

  “But you can make their lives so much easier now,” Honore said. “Once this war is over, they can all come here to live. You can find good husbands for your sisters and wives for your brothers and—why are you shaking your head?”

  “My mother won’t come back here, and that means neither will the girls.” His face brightened. “But they live in Albany now. I’ve . . . er . . . managed to get some money to them.”

  “Have you now.” Honore gazed at him through lowered lashes.

  Was the man quite as innocent of connections to the lawless as he claimed? She must be careful of that. She must not make another mistake like she had with Frobisher and Crawford, or she would find herself shipped off to Jamaica or even those western woods of New York.

  She shivered. “Did you get a great deal of snow in those woods?”

  “Feet of it sometimes.” His expression grew dreamy, as though he remembered happy times. “I built us a sled when I was twelve years, and we spent many hours sledding down the hills. Then there are the lakes. They freeze so solid a body could drive a coach and four onto them. We ice-skated on them and chopped holes in the ice to fish.”

  “You fished through the ice?” Honore and Miss Morrow exclaimed together.

  Ashmoor laughed. “Yes, it is very fresh fish. But the ice is dangerous. Sometimes one makes a mistake and goes through. The water is so cold a body can’t survive long enough to get out.” That sorrow touched him again, and he set his cup and plate on the table. “I should be going, if you ladies will be so kind as to excuse me from this delightful interlude. I hear rain starting.”