“Well, it does not seem minor to me.” Righteous indignation colored her words.
Emily cast her a worried frown. “I thought you loved him?”
Cece waved off the observation with a dismissive flick of her hand. “We have already established that fact.”
Confusion furrowed her sister’s brow. “But you won’t marry him?”
“Oh, I shall marry him,” Cece said lightly.
“But how—I mean—don’t—” Emily’s puzzled frown deepened.
“You’re confused, aren’t you, Em?” Cece said sympathetically. “I must admit I too am a bit perplexed.”
She sank down on the bed. “This business of love is most unsettling. I find myself forlorn and wretched without him, yet his presence is nothing less than maddening.” She shook her head in amazement. “It defies all logic and sensibility.”
“But you do plan to marry him?” Emily said cautiously.
“Of course.” Cece shrugged. “I believe I should much rather be infuriated with him than miserable without him.”
“I thought the whole idea behind your original scheme was to make Jared—or, rather, the Earl of Graystone—miserable?”
“That was before love entered the picture.” She threw her sister a teasing grin. “I rather suspect I can do a far better job of making his life miserable as his wife than as a mere fiancée.”
Emily stared, disbelief in her eyes. “Let me see if I understand all this. Even though you find this man irritating—”
“Only when it comes to this business of marrying for wealth,” Cece said pointedly, “which I whole-heartedly disagree with.”
Emily glared at the interruption. “Very well, I’ll amend that. His reasons for marriage go against your own beliefs…” she quirked a questioning brow at her sister. Cece nodded for her to continue. “However, you are willing to overlook that rather significant conflict in order to spend the rest of your life with him and be…happily miserable. Is that correct?”
“Very good.” Cece cast her sister an approving smile.
“It makes no sense whatsoever. Although…” Emily eyed her sister thoughtfully. “I suppose love is not supposed to make sense.”
“I don’t know,” Cece said confidentially. “It’s my first experience with love. I must say it’s somewhat exciting, given the confusion and all.”
“I suppose this means you’ll give up that ridiculous idea of becoming another Nellie Bly,” Emily said, as if her sister’s answer was of no interest.
“My goodness, of course not. What ever would make you think that?”
“Cece,” Emily said with exasperation, “no man in his right mind would allow his wife to work for a living. Especially not as a journalist. Especially not a countess. It’s simply not done. It would be absurd. Ridiculous. Positively scandalous.”
“Why?” Cece’s tone was light, and she smothered the impulse to laugh at her sister’s expression. She could practically see the panic flitting through the girl’s eyes in her struggle to come up with a good argument to sway her older sister.
Cece had already accepted the very real possibility that, with marriage, her dream would die. But that no longer seemed as tragic as it once would have. After all, she would have Jared, and if she’d learned nothing else about love she recognized he might well be enough to satisfy her ambitions—if, of course, she could help him achieve his goals with the automobile. The lure of the motorcar, the attraction of progress, the enticement of the modern world, was every bit as irrestistible as the call of journalism. Why, she and Jared could work hand in hand to build his vision. Together, they could drive into the future on his wire-and-metal noxious-fumed steed. She would be more than a mere wife; she would be a helpmate, a partner—
“Children,” Emily said triumphantly.
“What about children?”
“You cannot have children and be a journalist at the same time.” Emily tossed Cece a smugly victorious smile. “Nellie Bly has no children.”
“You may have a point there,” Cece said slowly, resisting the desire to grin. “Children would definitely put a crimp in the life of a girl reporter. But I shall cross that bridge when, and if, I come to it. For now…”
“For now what?” Apprehension flickered across Emily’s face. Cece sighed to herself at the expression. The poor child really needed to learn not to take everything in life quite so seriously.
“For now I need to decide how best to proceed with this courtship.” Cece rose and paced the room, furrowing her brow in thought. She barely noticed her sister’s anxious gaze following her every step.
“What is there to decide? You love him. You’ve already said you’ll marry him. I don’t see that there are any decisions left to make.”
“Honestly, Em.” Cece tossed her a pitying glance. The dear girl was so young and had so much left to learn. Cece might be new at this game of love, but she was an old hand at the ins and outs of the contest called courtship. “I simply can’t fall into his arms just because he quirks his little finger and declares undying devotion. Not that he actually did,” she said thoughtfully.
“Quirk his little finger?” Emily said, obviously confused once again.
“Don’t be silly. He hasn’t declared his undying devotion. Though he has admitted to love, so I suppose it’s probably much the same thing.” Cece shrugged. “At any rate, anything achieved too easily is valued too lightly. Why do you think emeralds are so terribly expensive?”
“Why, they’re beautiful, of course,” Emily said confidently.
“Certainly, but beyond that they’re exceedingly rare. It is their uniqueness, the difficulty in obtaining them, that gives the jewels their true worth. If one could simply pluck them up off the street, they would be as trivial as pebbles.” Cece shook her head. “No, Em, this match requires a great deal of sacrifice on my part. It diminishes any hopes I have of the in de pen dent life of a reporter.”
Emily sighed her relief.
Cece ignored her. “It also requires my giving up my home and my country.”
Emily frowned. “Your country?”
“I can’t very well remain an American citizen and be a British countess at the same time. At least I don’t think I can. I shall have to look into that.” Cece paused to collect her thoughts. The realization of just what marriage to Jared would mean struck her abruptly. “No doubt he will expect to live here in En gland, rather than in Chicago.”
“No doubt,” Emily said dryly.
“We shall probably spend a great deal of the time at that drafty old castle of his.”
“How do you know it’s drafty?”
“Castles are always drafty, Em,” Cece said loftily. “It’s part of their charm.”
Emily smirked. “It’s no doubt haunted as well.”
“That would be interesting, wouldn’t it?” Cece brightened; then her mood fell. “I fear I cannot count on something so exciting as a spirit.” Her tone was wistful. “It seems love costs a very great deal. I never even considered how high a price one would have to pay for it.”
“Perhaps,” Emily said gently, “because it’s so rare.”
Cece widened her eyes in appreciation. “How very perceptive.” Her momentary twinge of doubt and self-pity vanished. “Loving Jared also requires that I overlook my conviction that a man should not profit by marriage alone. That he should have to work for his fortune. I further believe—”
Cece stopped short and stared at her sister. “Em,” she said slowly, “I have an interesting idea.”
Emily’s eyes grew wide and an odd strangling noise came from her throat. “No, Cece, please. Not another ‘interesting idea.’ An ‘interesting idea’ is what got us here in the first place.”
“And look at how delightfully this has turned out.” Cece beamed at her sister. “At least it will be delightful. Eventually.”
Emily threw up her hands in a gesture of surrender. “I give up. Don’t keep me in suspense. Tell me the latest diabolical plot your fiendis
h mind has come up with. Get it over with.”
“Emily,” Cece chastised, “that’s not fair. Fiendish and diabolical?” She cast her sister a wicked grin. “Well, perhaps just a little.”
Emily groaned. “What are you planning?”
“If I truly believe a man should have to work for his fortune,” Cece paused to choose the proper words, “then I see no reason why Jared should not have to work for his. Or rather, for me.”
“Work?” Emily choked out the word. “What do you mean, work?”
“I’m not exactly certain.” Cece narrowed her eyes, clasped her hands together and steepled her fingers. Thoughtfully, she tapped her chin with the tips of her nails. “It can’t be anything too easy.”
“Oh no, we wouldn’t want to make this easy for him,” Emily mocked.
“But it can’t be too difficult either.”
“Why not?”
Cece threw her an impatient glance. “Well, we wouldn’t want him to give up altogether.”
“So what are you planning?” Emily was plainly intrigued in spite of herself.
“It should be something near and dear to him. Something he feels strongly about. Something—” Cece’s eyes widened. “Of course! That’s it! It’s so obvious, I can’t believe I didn’t see it immediately.”
“What? What?” Emily said, with the frantic tone of one whose curiosity has been pushed to the limit.
The older girl sank onto the bed and beamed. “It’s the perfect answer. I shall insist that he teach me to drive.”
Confusion crossed Emily’s face. “But you are an excellent driver. There are few other women in Chicago who can match your skill with the reins. I don’t—” Emily gasped. “You’re not talking about carriages, are you? You mean—”
“I do indeed.” Cece nodded smugly and cast her a triumphant grin. “His automobile.”
Olivia pushed open the door of the third-floor nursery and cautiously stepped inside. She placed the gas lamp she carried on a small table to her right and waited a brief moment for its glow to fill every corner of the room.
Her hesitation had nothing to do with the possibility of an unexpected meeting with an errant mouse or other beast that might have made its home in the closed room. Those were distinct, real possibilities. Her wariness, her diffident manner, her doubtful first step, were a product of a far more bittersweet encounter. In this room, above all others, lived the ghosts of the past. Here, the memories of happier times with her boys assailed her with a nearly physical force.
Her gaze swept the room past the child-sized beds shrouded in linen and the long-unused playthings. Tension ebbed from her shoulders and she smiled softly. How odd to feel the least bit of apprehension here. When filled with the laughter of children this was always the nicest place in the house.
Few would have suspected the fierce love the eminently proper Lady Olivia Grayson had for her sons. Fewer still knew of the moments stolen from disapproving governesses to play with her children or romp with them or read to them stories of fair princesses and noble knights and deadly dragons. Even her husband Charles had expressed mild disapproval over her dedication to her offspring. But then, as now, Olivia had behaved precisely as she wanted, exactly as she thought best.
She meandered slowly around the fringes of the room, stepping aside to avoid a carved wooden horse here, an insistent recollection there. Lord, they’d grown so fast. Regret stabbed her heart. Childhood had lasted such a short while. It seemed she’d barely had time to enjoy them before they’d relinquished the trappings of children altogether and moved into their own rooms downstairs and then off to school, to responsibilities, to adulthood.
With Charles’s death five years ago, James had remained living here. As holder of the title, this was his rightful place. Now it was Jared’s. Olivia sighed with heartfelt exasperation. She did wish he would finally return home. That unacceptable little flat of his was fine for a second son with no responsibilities, even though privately she had not been at all pleased with his choice right from the beginning, but now that he was the head of the family, he did need to be ensconced in more suitable surroundings.
Olivia trailed her fingers over dust-covered soldiers, standing in metal readiness for an order that never came. It was sad, somehow, to see these and the other toys waiting here for children who no longer existed. She shook her head in an effort to clear it of the foolish thought. What ever possessed her to ponder such nonsensical things?
Perhaps it could be attributable to the same impulse that compelled her to visit the nursery to night. She’d come up here once after James died. Then it was the sense that everything in her life, in her world, was in upheaval. But to night was no different than any other night, this ball no different than any other. This company—
The thought hit Olivia like a bolt from above and she sank into a wooden rocker wedged amid shelves still burdened with the books of boyhood.
It’s that girl. The American. It made perfect sense. Olivia prided herself on being an excellent judge of character. She’d had nothing to do with that incident with that poor child, but it did serve well as a first…test, of sorts. Very well. She had a good feeling about her. She liked the tiniest glint of steel she’d spotted in the girl’s eye and the strength in her bearing. She wanted her son’s wife to be more than an insipid, lifelong burden. She wanted her to be a helpmate, a partner. Jared could, no doubt, use every bit of assistance available.
She leaned back in the rocker and narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. The child proved acceptable at a public gathering, but how would she fare in private? And how could Olivia best evaluate this girl’s suitability as a future countess?
Perhaps a house party? At Graystone Castle? That might well be the perfect setting. Olivia hadn’t entertained on a large scale since before Charles died. The long-forgotten rush of excitement that accompanied planning for such an event surged through her, and newfound determination pulled her to her feet.
She cast one final glance around the nursery and wondered how long it would be before Jared’s children were firmly established here. How long before she could once again steal precious time from an overprotective governess for games and stories? Her gaze fell upon the bookshelf. Without thinking, she reached for the book on the end and plucked it from its resting place.
Olivia smiled with delight. It was a long-neglected volume of tales by Hans Christian Andersen. She blew the dust off the leatherbound cover and remembered how Mr. Andersen’s stories had enchanted her children and, secretly, herself. She riffled the pages and the book fell open to one of her favorites, The Princess and the Pea.
It struck her abruptly how very much she had in common with the prince’s mother. The queen was so concerned that her son wed a true princess that she tested the applicant by placing a single pea under twenty mattresses and twenty featherbeds. In the charming tale, the princess passed the test. Olivia wondered if she’d somehow been influenced by the nearly forgotten story and, more, wondered if this American would do as well.
She snapped the book closed, replaced it on the shelf, and then paused and picked it up again, tucking it under her arm. She had much to do and little time to waste. Olivia picked up her lamp and briskly stepped out of the room, closing the door firmly behind her. She headed toward her bedchamber, her mind filled with plans and preparations. Still, she couldn’t suppress a smile that bordered on the improper edge of a grin.
Olivia could scarcely blame the queen in Mr. Andersen’s story for her interfering actions. After all, what mother wouldn’t want the very best for her son?
Chapter Six
The low murmur of excited voices greeted Cece on her way down the stairs. She stepped into the parlor and pulled up short.
“My goodness!” Her disparaging glance swept the room. “It looks like a flower shop in here.”
“Isn’t it lovely, dear?” Phoebe said, plea sure evident on her face. She and Lady Millicent stood in the center of the room, barely noticeable amid the greenery. Flo
wers covered every surface. Bouquets littered tabletops. Blossoms of all shapes and sizes and colors competed for attention in a display of glorious confusion. “They arrived this morning.”
Emily stepped from one grouping to the next, poking among the buds in an apparently futile quest for cards. She threw her sister a disgusted glance. “And they’re all for you. Every single one.”
“Are they?” Cece said coolly and plucked a lone card from the nearest nosegay.
“From the Earl of Graystone, I suspect.” Millicent nodded knowingly. Emily rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.
Cece glanced at the card. It bore what was obviously the Graystone crest and Jared’s name, nothing more. Cece tapped the card thoughtfully with her finger. “Lady Millicent, perhaps you could explain to me—”
“I know what you’re going to say, my dear.” Millicent waved away the anticipated question.
Cece shook her head. “I’m afraid I simply don’t understand how someone in his financial straits could afford a gesture as obviously expensive as this.”
Millicent tossed her a tolerant smile. “I’m sure it’s difficult to comprehend for someone of your background.” She sank onto a settee nearly hidden by blooms and patted the seat beside her. “Sit down and I will attempt to explain.”
Cece joined her and waited expectantly.
Millicent settled back and studied the younger woman. “You see, life is much different here than in America. When a family’s name and fortune stretches through the centuries it is not uncommon for wealth to also ebb and flow with time. The earls of Graystone, just as nearly every other aristocratic family, have, through the years, had to cope periodically with economic uncertainty. But it’s imperative that one still keeps up appearances. And all this—” she waved a hand airily at the fragrant array—“is no doubt provided in part because of the family’s reputation, outstanding credit and excellent expectations, as well as the certain knowledge that few respectable English lords are truly penniless and down on their luck for long.”
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