A Reluctant Courtship

by Laurie Alice Eakes

  “I am safe here,” she assured him in a voice as cold as she could manage around the burning pain inside her. “Go back to the respectable ladies who do not kiss you back and will not tarnish your name . . . further.”

  The last was a jab, a mean and nasty one she regretted in an instant, yet did not admit she regretted.

  “Miss Bainbridge.” He released his breath in a drawn-out sigh and smoothed a lock of hair away from her brow with such tenderness, tears pooled in her eyes and clung to her lashes. “Honore, I shouldn’t have done that. I can make excuses about the moon and the dancing and probably a dozen more things. The truth is simpler than that. I’ve wanted to kiss you since I pulled you up that cliff. You are beautiful and brave and—”

  “Everything a wife should be except respectable. I know. If you ally yourself with me, as you saw tonight, you lose the rest of the county.” That was the simple truth, making her throat so tight she could not speak above a whisper. “You need those people to find out who could have hated your father enough to want him hanged for a murder he did not commit.”

  “And I need you as my friend.” The mere timbre of his voice was a caress.

  Her knees wobbled. She leaned against the gate for support and laid the truth at his feet, made his choice for him, to salve the conscience a man like him would have. “You have a mother and seven brothers and sisters dependent on your largess to keep them from starving, probably to provide dowries for your sisters too. If you are shunned by the haut ton, you might find yourself in prison, even hanged for being a traitor. That means staying out of the company of a lady known for an association with a traitor who met a traitor’s death. We both know duty calls you away from me, even if you do care for me.” She made herself laugh, a high, tinkling trill. “But I doubt you do. It was the moonlight.”

  “No, Honore Bainbridge, it’s you.” He leaned forward and kissed her lightly, a little too long for a mere fare-thee-well. “It’s you. You are everything your father said you are and more.”

  “And were he still alive, he would sweep aside anyone who dared ostracize me. He had that kind of power. But my brother has neither the power nor the will to do so. On the contrary, he is making matters worse for me. But I will not make matters worse for you. I could not live with myself if I ruined you and brought worse suspicions down on your head.” She screwed up her face. “I can hear the cats now. ‘Miss Bainbridge has set her cap for him, so he must be guilty of something wrong. A murderous father, and he was not born here, therefore—’”

  “Shh.” He brushed his finger across her lips.

  She shook her head. “You know it is the truth, the way people think. All that the vicar and my sisters preach is wrong. There is no forgiveness. Now go fetch Miss Morrow for me. I need to go home.”

  “I can’t . . . I wish . . .” He pressed the back of his hand to her cheek as though checking to see if she had a fever. “I want to argue with you, but I can’t. It seems everything I pray for grants me the exact opposite. I feel like everything I’ve been accused of—the worst of traitors—even thinking of leaving you here.”

  “But I will always have a home and food. It may not be the best nor what I want, but I will have it. Eventually, Society will accept me again, or my family will buy me a husband. Your family cannot afford for you to end up on the block. So go.” She turned and walked away from him.

  “This is why I love you,” he said behind her in a tone so low she might have only imagined the words. A moment later, boot heels scraped on the cobbles and the sense of his presence left the gate.

  She swung back. Stark moonlight shone where he had stood. He had made the right decision. He could not ally himself with her. He and his family need not suffer because she had made poor choices.

  “But where is forgiveness, God?” She leaned against one of the porch’s support pillars. “Why do You keep punishing me when I have been the model of respectability since last year?”

  First Papa had gone. Next her sisters were given excellent excuses to send her away from their homes where she had taken refuge. On the heels of that, her brother banished her to the dower house. And now, worst of all, she had found a man she believed truly worthy of her love, and he was not free to return her affections.

  Unless he was not what she thought and God was protecting her from making a third mistake.

  For the first time since she had fled from the assembly rooms without her shawl, Honore felt the cold of the October night engulfing her like an icy bath. Gooseflesh rose on her arms. She began to shiver, teeth chattering. She pulled the rest of the pins from her hair and drew the tresses around her like a cloak, but it helped only in a minimal way. The chill reached clear through her, forming a ball of ice in her middle.

  She was mad to think so. He was so gentle, so kind, so concerned for his family, he endured a life he did not want in order to provide for them. Her father thought him worthy of marrying Honore, admittedly the late Lord Bainbridge’s favorite child. He had saved her life.

  From a cliff someone had made to break apart when walked upon.

  “What if—” She could not say it, could not even think it.

  She pressed her hand to her mouth, the mouth so recently, so thoroughly, so tenderly kissed by the man she was about to accuse of heinous crimes. Surely he could not talk of caring for her and yet be betraying her and the Crown in the same hour.

  But of course he could. It would not be the first time for her. Two other men had kissed her. Both had turned out to be scoundrels. She would not—she should not—be surprised if a third man paying court to her ended up the same.

  So she had not truly repented. She had fallen into the same trap as before, allowed flattery—more subtle from Ashmoor, but flattery just the same—to sway her right into the arms of a rogue. Yes, he had admitted that he loved her. But Gerald Frobisher had done the same. Major Crawford had wooed her with tales of his difficult rise through the ranks of the military without a proper sponsor. He, at least, had been telling the truth. Ashmoor was likely telling the truth—at least about the needs of his family. She only wanted to believe the rest in her anguish over her brother’s treatment, her loneliness, her aching desire to be settled like her sisters.

  He’d said everything he prayed for got the opposite response. How well she understood in that moment. She prayed for a husband and got . . . nothing but another kiss to make her restless and anxious, empty and hungering for more.

  She pressed her fingers against her lips. Kissing Ashmoor had been different from the other two. With them, she felt possessed. With Ashmoor, she felt cherished. They had been forceful, something she thought made them manly and exciting. Ashmoor’s gentleness melted something she had not known was frozen inside her. The memory now melted the knot of cold fear inside her.

  “I cannot think the worst of him just because of the others.”

  But what about because of him?

  She did not have the opportunity to pursue that line of thinking. The sound of voices in the lane sent her scrambling onto the porch to hide behind a pillar. The gate swung open on hinges she now noticed needed to be oiled, and Miss Morrow called, “Miss Bainbridge?” in a voice pitched to carry only the few feet to the front of the church.

  Honore descended the steps to the front path and greeted her companion along with Mr. Tuckfield and Mr. Chilcott. She could not stop herself from scanning the street behind the group for a tall, broad figure. He was nowhere to be seen.

  “Thank you for coming for me,” she said. “I am sorry to interrupt your enjoyment.”

  “It was getting too boisterous,” Tuckfield said.

  “And I could not enjoy myself while worrying about you.” Miss Morrow tucked her arm through Honore’s. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, quite. I simply needed to get away from the cats.”

  If Ashmoor liked cats, she needed to find another term for hissing, spiteful females.

  “The four-footed variety is well enough,” Tuckfield said. “I h
ave four of the beasts, I admit. As well as a pup.”

  “Why, Mr. Tuckfield,” Miss Morrow exclaimed, “I would never have guessed you could be so sentimental.”

  “Or ridiculous,” Chilcott muttered. He then turned to Honore. “If you are well, Miss Bainbridge, I shall let your companion and steward see you home. I feel the need to go to Ashmoor and repair the damage—ahem.”

  “Do what you like, Mr. Chilcott.” Honore did not allow the merest hint of warmth into her tone. “But you know as well as I that the Devenish crowd will take him back for the price of a bouquet of flowers for Miss Carolina Devenish.”

  “I . . . they . . .” Chilcott spluttered to silence.

  Honore turned her back on the Ashmoor steward. “I want to go home.”

  They left the church and climbed the hill to the mews at the top where the carriage awaited. Even with the full moon, driving at night necessitated driving slowly, and over an hour passed in near silence. At last the torches left burning at the gates to Bainbridge loomed out of the night. The carriage turned between them and stopped for Tuckfield to descend. He lived across the road in a little cottage on the estate. He bade them good night, holding Miss Morrow’s hand a little longer than proper, and strode off into the darkness, whistling one of the tunes played at the assembly. The coachman shut and latched the gates behind him, and they continued up the drive to find the house, which should have lain in near blackness at that hour, ablaze with light.

  “Oh no!” Honore cried. “Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no! Coachman.” She rose enough to rap on the hatch. “Stop here.”

  “Miss Bainbridge, what—”

  The front door flew open. Light from the opening spilled over the blond hair and lithe figure of Lord Beau Bainbridge.

  Honore’s brother had arrived a day early.

  19

  “Beau!” Honore leaped from the carriage without waiting for the steps and dashed toward her brother.

  He held up his right hand, palm toward her, as though warding her off. “Get back into the carriage and continue on to the dower house.”

  “I cannot tonight,” Honore protested. “My things are still in the house.”

  “I will have your maid pack them up and bring them over.” He turned his back on her. “I will meet you there within the quarter hour, so do not think you can sneak off elsewhere.”

  “Where . . . else would I go?” Honore asked of empty air.

  Beau had already disappeared into the house.

  Her insides cringing from the pain of being hollowed out with a sharp knife while still alive, she stumbled back to the carriage. A footman had let down the steps, and she half climbed, half crawled inside, as her legs were refusing to fully cooperate in holding her upright. Her back tended to bow, and only a lifetime of training stopped her from curling in on herself like an overcooked prawn.

  “Carry on,” she told the coachman.

  He could not have heard her, but he had heard her brother. Anyone within fifty feet had heard her brother. Presumably that did not include her future sister-in-law.

  “I am going to be ill,” she whispered.

  “No, you are not.” Miss Morrow’s tone held an extra bracing note. “You will face him down for the unnatural brother that he is.”

  Honore shook her head. “He is not unnatural. Many brothers with a sister like me would have sent her to the remotest estate they own or someplace where she would never mix with polite company.”

  “It was not your father’s wishes for you to be treated thus. The more Lord Bainbridge treats you this way, the worse it makes the scandal.”

  “Scandals,” Honore corrected her. “Two of them. I barely escaped a gaming . . . establishment with my life after going there with a traitor—not that I knew him as one—and then I was caught kissing a man who turned out to be a murderer. Everyone tried, but no one can keep these things secret. Servants know. Servants talk.”

  “But your father wanted you to wed.”

  “Yes, a man who doesn’t wish to wed me.” Honore pressed her hand to her mouth. “I am good enough to kiss, but not good enough to—”

  Miss Morrow gasped. “He did not.”

  “He did, and I quite happily kissed him back. I thought, after he made such a show of support, perhaps he had changed his mind.”

  She closed her mouth. She closed her eyes. She would not cry. Beau must not find her weeping. He should not find her with her gown rumpled and her hair disheveled, but she had no time to make repairs without so much as a comb moved over to the dower house yet, let alone more hairpins. He had seen her dress, so changing it would raise his suspicions further.

  She wrapped her shawl more tightly around her against the chill in a house without fires, and set about lighting candles in the front parlor. Light would at least give her the illusion of warmth.

  “I can light a fire.” Miss Morrow knelt before the hearth and began to do so.

  It was just taking hold when Beau strode in without benefit of knocking to announce his presence. From now on, that door would be locked.

  “Where have you been that you come home at midnight looking like a wanton?” he demanded of Honore without preamble.

  She did not answer his question. She swept him a mocking curtsy. “So good to see you too, brother. And how was your journey?”

  “Fatiguing, now answer me.”

  She stared at him. He was only two years her senior, and they had always gotten along well. They were not as close as he and Cassandra had been while growing up, but he had always been a kind and thoughtful brother. Somewhere between being a carefree young heir to an ancient title and comfortable fortune and becoming the baron, he had changed. She must write Cassandra and Lydia and tell them. If they were not too preoccupied with their babies, surely born by now, perhaps they could give her advice on how to manage this new, officious brother.

  He strode up to her now and loomed over her. “I asked you a question.”

  “And I did not answer.”

  “That is obvious. Now answer me this time. Where have you been and why is your hair down?”

  “Because a man buried his fingers in it and pulled it down while kissing me. Is that what you want to hear?”

  “It is not.” He raised his hand.

  For a heartbeat, Honore feared he intended to strike her. Nonetheless she held her ground, meeting his gaze full on.

  Instead, he cupped her chin and turned her face to the light of the nearest candle. “But you are telling the truth, are you not?”

  Honore sighed. “I am, I regret to say.”

  “Is he another criminal?”

  Honore winced. “I do not know.”

  Miss Morrow caught her breath. “Miss Bainbridge, surely not.”

  “I think perhaps I have fallen in love with him, so that does not bode well for his veracity.” Her lower lip, still feeling the tenderness of Ashmoor’s kiss, protruded, quivering. “Though Father approved of him.”

  “Father?” Beau jerked back. “Ashmoor? Are you telling me you have been . . . carrying on with Ashmoor?”

  “Not carrying on. There was an assembly in Clovelly and a full moon. I thought . . . Never you mind. I am too scandalous for his lordship. He wants to remain above reproach, and association with me will not help him do so.”

  Because he needed to ensure his position of innocence, a position he did not deserve?

  Honore pressed her hands to her temples. “Do not think you can make Ashmoor wed me over a mere kiss, Beau. He will not.”

  “Someone will have to, or I fear you will continue this behavior until you lose your looks. Once Miss Dunbar and I are safely wed, we will arrange a marriage for you.”

  “Is it not Christien’s role to find me a husband?” Honore could not resist the taunt. “After all, he is my guardian, not you.”

  Beau stalked to the door. “De Meuse is too preoccupied with his new family.”

  “Did Lydia—that is, has she—” Honore stumbled on a delicate way to ask the ques
tion.

  “No, the petit paquet has not yet arrived that I know of. I expect word any day now.” Beau scowled at Honore. “Do not leave the grounds of the dower house for any reason while Miss Dunbar and her mother are here. Your maid shall arrive with your things shortly, and I will see that you have adequate foodstuffs sent over.”

  “How magnanimous of you.” Honore sneered at him. “Bread and water for the prisoner.”

  “Do not be pert. Your latest escapade carries you quite to the edge with me.”

  “And only a little push will send me over?”

  “I expect you know what you mean by that,” Beau said. Then he was gone, closing the door behind him with too hard a slam.

  Honore did not know what she meant by that. She could not suspect that her brother had arranged for the cliff to give way beneath her. He had not known when she would arrive at Bainbridge. Still, her fall would have benefited him well, apparently. The dower house was not far enough away from this fiancée, who must be quite a termagant or high stickler at the least to refuse to be in the same house with Honore. Her brother was seeking an excuse to send her off to Somerset, to a house that might not even be habitable.

  She should declare that she would never give him a reason to send her packing, but she knew she could not. If she wanted Ashmoor, she must clear his name, and that would entail taking action about which her loyal companion would probably tattle, if she found it necessary to stop her. Yet now that she was immured in the dower house, she could seek clues. Surely whoever had been using the miniature manor for a hiding place had missed another clue when cleaning the place. She could hope.

  She could pray.

  No, not that. She had moved beyond reconciliation with the Lord. He did not want her. Well, no, that was not true. The Bible told her He did, and she believed in her head that was right. In her heart, however, she merely felt punished and unworthy, battered with her sins, with too many events in her life like Ashmoor’s rejection because of her past mistakes, and her brother exiling her to the dower house and wanting to exile her further. In truth, all of her family wanted to exile her further away from them.