A Night in Grosvenor Square

by Sarah M. Eden

  She chuckled, but the small motion sent stabbing pains through her side. “What happened to me? And why are you here . . . with me . . .” Her voice trailed off as her mind cleared enough to grasp the situation. No matter how well-meaning Davis Whitledge might be, a man staying with a woman alone in a room, while she slept, simply wasn’t done. As an old maid beyond thirty, she had very little in life, but she’d maintained at least a shred of dignity and a proper reputation. Until now.

  She didn’t fear Davis, but another fear stole through her, snaking through her middle like a hungry beast ready to consume her.

  “Where are we?” she asked again.

  “The Hampton mansion.” Davis leaned forward, resting his arms on his legs in a most casual manner, almost as if they’d known each other for years.

  While her mind said that such behavior was inappropriate and rude, her heart could not believe it. The whole felt utterly natural, and knowing that Davis was here, at her side, made her initial sense of imminent danger dissipate.

  “The hotel’s stable hands attacked you last night,” Davis said. “You’d come to make a delivery to the Hampton party.”

  The cobwebs in her mind were beginning to clear bit by bit. “Yes. You met me . . . at the door,” she said slowly.

  “That’s right.”

  The picture grew clearer. “As I left, Hank and Eric . . .” The next moments rushed back with such force that she felt as if a wave from the sea had knocked her feet out from under her. She closed her eyes again, hoping to block out the memory, but while she could not recall vivid details of what had transpired, she could remember the fear and agonizing pain that resulted from those events. What all had she forgotten? She opened her eyes again and turned her head, oh so slowly, to look at Davis directly. He gently rested a hand over hers, which clutched the bedclothes. His touch made her relax, breathe more easily, gave her the means to broach a most difficult question.

  “Did they—I mean, was I—were—”

  “No,” Davis broke in. The single word was accompanied by a firm shake of his head and what appeared to be a distinct flash of protective anger in his eyes. “I am most grateful that I came upon the incident soon enough to chase them away. They have since been apprehended.” His thumb softly stroked the back of her hand. Not since childhood had anyone touched her with such gentle tenderness.

  More cobwebs cleared, and with them came more worries. “What time is it? Surely I should be at work by now.”

  “I sent word that you were unwell and needed to convalesce,” he said. “I might have implied that you will need up to a week’s rest—with pay.”

  That would be a relief beyond expression, but she didn’t know if it was at all possible. “What did they say? They may well decide to not let me return at all after this,” she said, avoiding the subject of being attacked. Davis had to know what she meant, and that a tarnished reputation could be grounds for dismissal.

  “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But Peter has not an insignificant amount of influence. I’m confident that we can ensure that you will have employment, if that is what you wish.”

  Of course she wanted employment. But she also knew that plenty of women vied for positions such as hers. Her skills were good, but another woman with lesser skills could replace her for less money and learn as she worked.

  “Do others know that you’ve been here . . . with me . . .” She refrained from saying during the night, for she didn’t know for certain how long he’d sat watch, though the disheveled and rumpled appearance of his clothing and hair, and again, those telltale circles under his eyes implied enough.

  “Yes,” he said, then held up a finger. “But.”

  But what? What did he mean to say next? How could he possibly explain away the situation to look acceptable to anyone, let alone the ton, her employer, or her landlord? Yet he seemed so optimistic that she didn’t retort with her arguments about how the life she’d carefully built for herself would soon shatter into a thousand shards like sugar syrup cooked too long.

  She prompted him, repeating his last word. “But?”

  His cheeks flushed pink, and he wore a sheepish smile, making him look like a boy of fifteen even with the hints of pepper-gray hair above his ears.

  He dropped his gaze to their hands. He still stroked the back of hers with his thumb—warm and strong and twice the length of her thumb. It made her feel feminine. Noticed. Worth being cared for. After having to be strong for so long, after having to watch for her own safety at all times, for years on end, no longer having a father or brothers to tend to that duty, that simple act by Davis made her feel safe and protected. She waited, but he didn’t finish his thought.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked. “All of this, I mean. I’m no one.”

  “What I was going to say,” he said, clearly returning to the previous question instead of the one she’d just asked, “is that they all believe that you are my . . . you see . . . that is . . . they are under the impression that . . .” He cleared his throat. “That you’re my wife.” Only after completing the declaration did he look at her, and then it was with one eyebrow raised in an expression of trepidation.

  Anne didn’t know what to think, aside from assuming that she must have heard incorrectly. “That I’m your . . .”

  “Wife, yes.” He said it quickly now that the truth was out. “It seemed to be the only thing to do in the moment. I couldn’t have lived with myself if your reputation had been injured beyond repair after what happened, especially seeing as I had a hand in making it come about.”

  She shook her head, which made it throb. “It wasn’t your—”

  “Then I added to the problem by not wanting to leave your side, but I couldn’t. I had to stay here and make sure you received proper care and . . .” He shrugged helplessly. “I hope you don’t hate me for the lie. It was told with good intentions.”

  “That was rather ingenious of you.” The dread of what her life would become without a reputation intact faded like fog in the morning sun. If she really were married, Gunter’s wouldn’t need to worry over her fallen reputation tainting the shop’s good name. A married woman would be able to stay on at the boardinghouse—and perhaps have sympathy if she’d been abandoned by a supposed American husband. The situation seemed to be turning out quite well after all.

  “Being a married woman would provide many advantages, even if my alleged husband is a continent away.”

  Davis released her hand and ran his fingers through his hair, then got off the bed abruptly and paced the little room.

  Had she said something wrong? “I’m sorry. I assumed that you were going back to America. Are you planning on staying in England?” They could certainly live out such a ruse here, although the details would be a bit more complicated.

  “You asked why I was doing this,” he said.

  “Yes . . .” She had the feeling that she was about to hear something that might well shake the ground beneath her feet, and she didn’t know whether to hope for it or run from it.

  “I care, Anne. Though we’ve known each other but a short time, I genuinely care about you.” His pacing ended at her feet. Davis pulled up the chair and clasped his hands, leaning forward as if making a plea. “I feel quite strongly that with time, that affection . . . will only increase.”

  Anne felt ready to faint, though that was because his words had made her stop breathing, not due to her injuries.

  He leaned closer and encompassed both of her hands between his. He slid off the chair and knelt beside the bed, his face only inches from hers. “Come to America with me.”

  He couldn’t possibly be in earnest. She tried to laugh, but it came out as a near sob. “You’re mad,” Anne said, though in her mind’s eye, her future shop already had a handsome man of Davis’s description working at her side. “Has someone given you laudanum instead of me?”

  “I may be mad, but you’re wonderful,” he said. “You have no family here, correct?”

&nb
sp; She’d told him and Clara as much, but she confirmed it. “None.”

  “You’ve long wanted to go to America to begin anew.”

  Reluctantly—oh, so reluctantly—Anne extricated her hands from his, though she immediately missed the contact. “I’m a proud woman, Mr. Whitledge,” she said, returning to the formal name. “I earn my way. I am not one to take charity, even from those with good intentions.” She did not add that she refused to be obligated to anyone.

  For a charged moment, they sat there in silence. She stared at her hands in her lap. Davis didn’t say a word, but at length, he reached out with one finger and lifted her chin until their eyes met. The dark-gray depths would not release their hold; she couldn’t look away again.

  “I do not offer charity, Anne Preston. I offer myself, my life, and anything I am capable of providing to make you happy and comfortable.”

  What, precisely, was he implying?

  “While you were sleeping, I consulted the papers and learned that the Soteria leaves the harbor tonight. I can secure us passage in a private cabin. That is, if you’re feeling well enough to travel, and—”

  What a kind, if uninformed, man. She smiled sadly. “I have a feeling that even in America, a single woman traveling with a bachelor would be scandalous.” She wouldn’t jump from one frying pan if it meant landing in another fire.

  His eyes suddenly twinkled. “Oh, but that wouldn’t be the case.” Davis lifted her hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to her fingers. A flutter in her stomach erupted into a flurry of heat and happiness inside. “A ship’s captain can marry his passengers. Or, if you’d rather, I can find a preacher to handle the matter before we depart. Whichever you would prefer.”

  Anne’s insides felt ready to burst with any number of conflicting emotions. “Davis, I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say yes.” He held her hand so close to his lips that she could feel his breath tickling her skin.

  Kiss them again, she wanted to say. The sensation was bliss even with one of her eyes swelling, her body covered in scratches, and some ribs cracked, at least.

  “We’ll have at least six weeks aboard to become better acquainted. If, after we arrive in Boston, you’d prefer to never see my face again, I will make the necessary arrangements immediately.” His brow furrowed, and he stroked the back of her hand again. “Though I would like to think that having me as a husband would not be so terrible, and I will do everything in my power to make you happy.” He took in and let out a big breath, then went on. “Say you’ll marry me, Anne. I’ll help you set up your shop. I can do the books. Or I’ll scrub the floors and dishes. Do deliveries. Anything you ask of me.”

  Anne couldn’t bear to be lying down any longer. She eased herself to a sitting position, wincing a few times at the pain in her ribs, until she was upright. She scooted until her back leaned against the wall and her feet dangled off the edge of the bed.

  The way he looked at her seemed to say that his very happiness hung in the balance and that she had the power to determine his fate. She took a steadying breath of her own before replying.

  “We’ll hire help to scrub our floors.”

  He seemed to think through her words once, twice, three times before answering, making sure he understood her meaning. He rose from his knees and climbed onto the bed, sitting beside her, their legs out straight, parallel to one another, both of them leaning against the wall.

  After a moment of silence, he asked, “Does that mean yes?”

  She felt herself blushing. “I cannot believe I’m saying this—or sitting on a bed with a man I’ve spent less time with than some cakes . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “But?” He reached for her hand and squeezed it.

  If that moment could have been frozen in time, she would have happily lived there forever, leaving her hand in his, even if it meant never again piping with a bag of icing.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ll marry you aboard the Soteria. Let’s go to America, and you can make a proper woman out of me.”

  Davis leaned close and whispered, “Anne?”

  She leaned in, too, to hear . . . and to draw nearer to him. “Yes?” she answered with the only breath she could manage. To her ears, her heart sounded like an army marching inside her, so loud that customers at Gunter’s could have heard.

  He brushed his lips against her temple. “I hope that one day, I’ll be more to you than a man who made you a proper woman.”

  Anne summoned her courage to do something she never would have imagined herself capable of. She held her face to Davis’s stubbly cheek and pressed her lips to it, slow enough to breathe his scent and feel his warmth against her skin before she pulled back, but not far.

  She looked up at him, his gray eyes so deep that she could have drowned in them. “I believe that can be arranged.”

  More Books by Annette Lyon

  About Annette Lyon

  Annette Lyon is a USA Today bestselling author, a four-time recipient of Utah’s Best of State medal for fiction, a Whitney Award winner, and a five-time publication award winner from the League of Utah Writers. She’s the author of more than a dozen novels, even more novellas, and several nonfiction books. When she’s not writing, knitting, or eating chocolate, she can be found mothering and avoiding housework. Annette is a member of the Women’s Fiction Writers Association and is represented by Heather Karpas at ICM Partners.

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  Little London

  By Heather B. Moore

  Chapter One

  Somewhere outside of London, 1826

  Harpshire Village was a far cry from London in both architecture and entertainments, and the type of people who lived in the village were simple folk. The only time a member of the ton was sighted was when they stayed at the Harpshire Inn while en route from London to some vast country estate. Never to actually visit Harpshire itself.

  Yet there were advantages to not living in London. One didn’t see the poor and destitute lurking in the streets, clothed in rags and begging for shillings. One didn’t have to breathe the foul air. One didn’t have to fight through masses of people and carriages and horses just to walk down the street.

  One also didn’t have the opportunities of visiting museums, attending the opera, or browsing a shop that sold only hats.

  Missing out on all of this meant Ellen Humphreys had plenty of time to be bored.

  For whatever reason, Ellen’s father had given in to her mother’s whims nearly fifteen years ago and moved the entire family to the country. The entire family consisted of her father, her mother, her older brother Gerald, and Ellen. There had also been an aunt and uncle in there somewhere, but they had both died years ago. Her mother promptly became the world’s most reclusive recluse and therefore desired her only daughter to be at her side. Fortunately for Gerald, he’d escaped the confines of the country and gone to Eton. After Eton, he took up residence in London with no apparent thought for his sister.

  Ellen rarely saw her brother, and for that she would never forgive him. Ellen considered herself abandoned much like a wood nymph lost and forgotten in a dark wood. Her father traveled almost constantly, selling this or that, journeying back and forth to America to sell more things. He was a tradesman and owned his own factory in London, of which Gerald was an overseer.

  Ellen had begged more than once to go with her father so that she might live in his townhome. She could bring along her governess, since her mother would never consent to living in London. But the answer was always no. Her mother forbade Ellen from going to the wicked city and mingling with rakes and debauched women. When Ellen had asked, at the age of eleven, what rakes were, her mother had called for the
smelling salts. Ellen was grateful she hadn’t asked about debauched women since they didn’t sound much better.

  Her family’s property bordered Harpshire, and since it was miles and miles from civilization, Ellen had no choice but to walk to the village each day. It was the only place her mother allowed her to travel. At first, Ellen went with her governess, but by the time Ellen was fourteen, her governess preferred to stay in and take afternoon naps. So Ellen started walking on her own, and that’s when she found the most enchanting meadow. The place wasn’t far from the road, and she could usually hear an approaching carriage or a group of riders.

  Ellen named the meadow Little London.

  It was her escape. Her private world. And now, at eighteen, Ellen still went there every day. Sometimes she brought along a sketch pad and drew the wildflowers among the grasses. Other times she brought one of her father’s books—his forbidden books—which Ellen delighted in sneaking out of the dusty library. Her governess had once discovered one of the books in Ellen’s room but had said nothing.

  It was like an unspoken agreement between the two—the governess took afternoon naps, and Ellen sneaked her father’s books.

  Other times, Ellen would pretend the meadow was an elegant ballroom belonging to one of the fabulously wealthy members of the ton, whose daughter just happened to be Ellen’s best friend. This imaginary best friend had an older brother who was devastatingly handsome, and of course he was a marquess or an earl or a baron at the very least. He broke the hearts of all the women who met him, yet Ellen alone had the power to command his heart.

  Despite the fact that Ellen was now a grown woman, this was still her favorite game to play. And today was the perfect day to play it. The breeze was light, the sun none too hot, and her governess had just gone upstairs for her nap. Mother never called for Ellen until the evening, when she asked for a report on all that Ellen had accomplished in a day. It used to make Ellen furious, since her mother spent day after day doing nothing in her rooms and expected Ellen to learn French, history, geography, embroidery, music, and art.