by Willa Ramsey
“Because I want to watch you play matchmaker with all the mamas.”
“Have you told our own mother that you don’t want to be married?”
“Repeatedly. She says I will change my mind.”
“She may be right, you know. But in the meantime, I see no reason to plunge forward when your heart’s not in it.”
“Oh, make no mistake, Adam: We will be plunging. Plunging will occur. I intend to accept every invitation I receive if it means you’ll have to spend an entire evening propositioning young lords on my behalf, waxing at length about my many virtues. I’m certain you’ll need to spend a great deal of time with Lady Tilbeth, as she’s also trying to marry off a young relative this season. And secrets must be shared! Plans discussed! Fashions criticized!”
He smirked at her. “Be careful, Edie. You can pitch me to society’s wolves if you like, but I can just as easily fill your dance card with bachelors of bad hygiene and even worse politics. London has quite a lot of them on offer.”
She didn’t even look up from her newspaper when she replied, “Do your worst, brother.”
The door opened and Brandt, their butler, approached Edie with a silver tray. She lifted a small card from it, and upon recognizing the sender, tore into it with some haste.
“What is it?” Adam asked, sitting down.
She held the paper in front of her and read, ignoring his question.
“Has Mrs. Hellkirk finally been arrested?” he teased.
She dropped her hands to her lap, her prominent brows high and still.
“No need to fret. She can write you from the Tower.”
She tossed him a light scowl as she scooted back her chair. “You’re so…brotherly.”
“It’s my sacred duty. Edie, what is it? You’re clearly troubled.”
She gathered her skirts and stood. “I’m off to the market at Covent Garden.”
“What? Why?” He stood up, too.
“If I tell you, will you stop with all these questions?”
He thought for a moment. “I can’t promise you that.”
“Caro has asked me to meet her there. It seems…urgent.”
“But you cannot go there on your own,” he replied. “It’s not seemly. And don’t look at me like that—it wasn’t even a question.” Now his mind was whirling, too. What could have perturbed the imperturbable Miss Crispin? He was struck with a sudden need to know, as if she were already someone in whom he had special interest, a special claim.
But Edie was already heading through the door. “Mrs. Hellkirk says that walking alone promotes self-sufficiency in a young lady. Caro goes everywhere alone.”
“Edie, Mrs. Hellkirk has graduated a great many ladies who have fallen out of society,” he said, following on her heels.
“I’ll take Tildie then,” she replied.
“That’s a wonderful idea. There’s room enough in the curricle for you and your tiny lady’s maid.”
“But…you never let me drive in town,” Edie began, confused and excited at once. She looked up at him expectantly, almost beaming.
“I’m not. I’m coming with you.”
She glared at him. “We’d better take the coach, then.”
Chapter Five
“Supposed gentlemen,” Caro muttered, grabbing a beetroot and casting it roughly aside. “Pfft! Damn them all. Damn them all, and their pretty horses, too…”
It was mid-day at Covent Garden, and no gentlemen were about just yet (not coincidentally, neither were the prostitutes). There were horses, however, and plenty of other livestock, and lots of servants and costermongers, all of them jostling between stalls, wagons, and barrels, and hopscotching amongst steaming piles of produce, entrails, and dung.
She lingered over the beetroots awhile, where the one-eyed, one-toothed costermonger dipped his chin at her, unfazed by her strange mutterings. He was unfazed by her lack of a chaperone, too, as he’d likely seen far worse in his time, perched as he was atop an old keg that’d been blackened—much like his tooth—with the grime and rot of many a decade.
After several minutes, she moved on to the cucumbers at the next stall.
“‘Compromised,’ you say? I’ll show you compromised! I don’t believe you’ve really seen—”
“Have these cucumbers offended you, Miss Crispin?”
She whipped around. An exceptionally tall man stood next to her, his head dipped in greeting, his face hidden by a gloved hand and the brim of a fine black hat.
Her chest constricted as her thoughts raced back to the nook—to two other masculine voices and their cruel, ugly words.
“It’s very nice to see you again. Tell me, are these vegetables bothering you?” The gentleman lifted his face, his lips releasing into a sly sort of smile.
Lord Ryland!
“I’m handling it,” she replied, her voice somehow staying straight and true.
“Indeed.”
She set the cucumber down. “Do forgive me, Lord Ryland. I am much…I am not…” She dipped a shallow curtsy and walked quickly to the next cart. “I must be on my way.”
He followed.
“I was heading that way myself,” he called out with a quick grunt of amusement. “Do you know, Miss Crispin? It’s funny! But I’d forgotten they even sold vegetables here. Covent Garden is better known for…less savory fare.”
“Good day, my lord!” she called back, lifting her skirts above some muck. She picked up her pace, too. She just couldn’t bring herself to indulge the attentions of any gentlemen today. Today was different. Today, a gentleman who refused to listen to a polite refusal was anything but attractive.
“Crikey! That squirrel over there—do you see it, Miss Crispin? It has a lady’s bonnet, and is running with it! What’ll you wager he gets it to the top of that shed, there?” he continued.
Now she spun around and stepped up to him. “Lord Ryland, please. I do not desire anyone’s company just now. Do go about your business.”
He stopped smiling and took off his hat. “I apologize, Miss Crispin. I only meant to help, as I believe you are looking for my sister.”
She crossed her arms. “I am, indeed. Is Edie here?”
Huh! Lord Ryland had just apologized to her for the second time in less than a full day. Gentlemen didn’t do such things! She looked him over curiously. Their previous encounter had been brief, dim, and sleepy, but now she could examine him at length. He seemed to be doing the same of her, in fact, as if they were each meeting a character from a book they’d read over and over since childhood.
She could see that his pitch-black hair was too tidy for the day’s fashion, for example. She could tell that his coat was of the highest quality, and very well cared-for. But she couldn’t make out the color of his eyes—were they grayish, or blueish?—so she squinted up at him when he glanced aside at a sharp noise. Too late, she realized she’d leaned in a bit too close—close enough to detect that he smelled of rich coffee—and when he turned back again, his eyes and smile went wide—laughing in unison at her unexpected closeness.
“Oh, God!” she exclaimed, stepping back. “Do forgive me, Lord Ryland. I seem to have forgotten my manners entirely. I’m afraid it’s been a…a rather unusual morning.”
She reached out to touch his wrist—as it had always been her way to put a hand on a person’s back or shoulder or such—but Lord Ryland appeared startled, so she caught herself, pulling her hand back sharply.
Lud! There she was, giving a marriageable man the impression she was interested in him again. She wasn’t used to censoring herself, and doing so now felt jarring and unnatural.
So: no mention of bodices or bosoms, no more conversation of a personal nature. And no more casual touches. That ought to do it. New leaf, Caro! New leaf!
“No apology necessary. Please, allow me to escort you to my sister. She’s waiting on the other side of St. Paul’s.” He held out his arm for her to take.
“Why? Is she unwell?” she asked. Edie wasn’t terribly piou
s, she knew.
“She’s fine. I asked her to wait there while I found you.”
“Why?” she asked again, ignoring his arm.
Lord Ryland smiled. He glanced at the stalls around them and squinted into the sun. “I could tell you that I left Edie behind because I find it unseemly for a lady to come into such a place. But that wouldn’t be the complete truth.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What is the complete truth, then?”
“I also wanted to spend time with the infamous Miss Crispin. Alone.”
Again, the pressure in her chest nearly felled her. Because she didn’t know which “infamous Miss Crispin” Lord Ryland wished to be alone with: The one who devised audacious charity schemes, or the one who was reputed to give men “special favors,” in dark corners?
Gathering every trace of bravado she had left in her wearied, trampled chest, she looked back at him and tossed up her chin. “Why is it you wish to spend time with me, my lord?”
His smile faded once more. “Miss Crispin, I would like to escort you to my sister.”
“And I would like an answer to my question.”
He stepped closer and lifted his cane to his chest, gripping it tightly with both hands. He twisted it slowly, his leather gloves straining and groaning against the polished wood. It was a sound of both resistance and strength, submission and control—and it numbed her in unforeseen places. It was a sensation that made her more curious about men than ever; about this man, in particular. And she suddenly hoped Lord Ryland was seeking her out for a rendezvous in a dark corner, because she suddenly wanted very much to be in one with him.
Alone.
She clenched her fists and flushed hot, a wave of shame washing over her. What a foolish thing to think! What had happened to the horror she’d felt at hearing Strayeth and Chumsley calling her a whore? She wanted this gentleman to think her “available,” but not others? Had she lost her wits? She didn’t know anymore. All she knew was that up felt like down, left seemed like right, and if dogs suddenly began mewing and purring in the streets, she wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised.
“I only wanted to become better acquainted with the person Edie has told me so much about,” he replied, glancing over every feature of her face. He lowered his cane and pulled out his pocket watch, his face softening into playful irritation. “But I haven’t got all day, Miss Crispin. Edie will have my head if I don’t deliver you soon.”
“‘Deliver’ me? Sir, I am not a side of pork.”
“Tell me, what shopping have you left? What other vegetables must we admonish?”
One thing was certain: He was definitely flirting with her.
Adam had been telling the truth: He’d gone into the market to fetch her, yes, but also to have her company to himself awhile. She was clearly skeptical of his attempts at escorting her to safety, however, so perhaps Edie had been right; perhaps something was troubling her.
“I’m off to the strawberries!” she announced as she walked off. “If you care to tell Edie my whereabouts, then you should know that I’m off to the strawberries.”
“How fortunate! For I am also in need of some strawberries,” he said as he reached her again. He glanced around at the assortment of carts. “And some turnips, of course. I cannot face my cook without a great many of those. So! What does one look for, in this case? What makes the elite strawberry?” he asked as he popped one into his mouth.
She looked at him with a frown—the kind that struggled to hold on to its downward curl, because every feeling seemed to want to reverse its course.
He liked that look on Miss Crispin, he found.
“I know what this is about, Lord Ryland.”
“This is about fruit, I think. So many things with you are about fruit.”
“No. You want me to stand here and tell you how all the best berries blush red, from tip to toe. Particularly once you’ve taken their tops off.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but do go on. That sounds interesting.”
“Then we’ll move on, and you’ll want me to tell you that when a turnip gets big, it’s wooden and hard. And that opinions vary as to the whether they are pleasant to the taste.”
He coughed and spit his strawberry onto the ground, nearly doubling over in both shock and amusement.
“Lord Ryland, whatever is the matter?” she asked, all faux innocence.
“What are they teaching at Hellkirk’s these days?” he asked between coughs.
They walked on to the next cart, but this time, instead of blustering forward in a single file, they strode more slowly—side by side. They settled into the pace of a country amble, and he found himself walking a little taller, his hands clasped behind his back, trying not to grin like a fool.
Miss Crispin was making him feel a strange way, indeed. This was not the sort of courting-type conversation he’d envisioned, but he was finding that few things with Miss Crispin went as expected. He didn’t mind it. Indeed, it was uncommonly refreshing.
“Pray, Miss Crispin. Are you even close to being finished?”
“One cannot rush a good persimmon,” she replied, putting an odd little fruit right up against her nostrils and inhaling deeply, eyes closed. He caught himself watching her bodice expand and contract and by the time she put the fruit down again, the turnips weren’t the only things in the market too firm for their own good.
He needed to get them back into mixed company, as soon as possible.
“Persimmons, you say? That’s what these little runts are?”
“Yes, my lord. Although I’m not sure you’re ready for a lesson in persimmons. This isn’t the place for fainting.”
“All the persimmons, sir,” he announced to the costermonger. “I will have all of your persimmons.”
Miss Crispin looked at him agape. “Sirrah! You cannot have all of the persimmons!”
“Oh, but I can. And indeed, I do.” The merchant began placing the last of his stock into three wooden bushels.
“But…how are you going to carry all of those?” she asked, palms out. “Throw them into your carriage, like it’s a country wagon?”
“Miss Crispin, just recently, I was forced to carry an armful of apples to a party of yours. You can certainly carry some of these to my poor awaiting sister.” He handed her the first of the wooden containers, to the horror of the costermonger and several onlookers, then picked up the others and marched off.
He didn’t look back, but he could tell from the shadow wobbling at his feet that she was coming after him, with some effort.
Shock—and if she was being honest with herself, delight—coursed through her. “Do you often engage with young women in this way?” Caro asked as she struggled along.
They might as well be familiar with one another, she figured. Lord Ryland had made her lug a heavy bushel, after all, and she had clearly abandoned her goal of avoiding bawdy conversation with men.
“What, now? I am not engaged, Miss Crispin. How forward of you to ask!”
“I did not ask if you were engaged, my lord. I asked if you speak to other young ladies in this…informal way,” she repeated, catching up to him. She suspected he had heard her correctly the first time.
“No. I never subject ladies to such nonsense. Except for the ones I am related to, of course. They encounter it daily.”
She smiled. Their conversation had been full of playful nonsense, hadn’t it? It was her favorite kind of talk.
“’Tis a pity,” he continued. “Perhaps if men and women were willing to be a bit sillier with one another, we’d see a few more love matches about.”
Her tongue went fuzzy, her heart lurching every which direction. Was Lord Ryland suggesting they might be well-suited to one another?
And if so, why did that feel…fine? Good, even?
Her independence was precious to her, and any man known for sending one of his peers to the blacksmith for a gruesome bone-setting was precisely the sort of man who wouldn’t honor such a thing
.
Right?
“‘Be sillier with one another’?” she replied. She knew she ought to change the subject, but she was far too stubborn and curious to do so. “You mean ‘silly’ as in foolish?”
“No, ‘silly’ in the old sense: Joyous, playful.” He looked at her now, arching a brow. “You’ve never seen one, then?”
“Seen what, my lord?”
“A love match!”
She shook her head. “No. None that has lasted.”
“Not your parents?”
“My parents…” she began before looking aside. She would never understand her mother’s real feelings—not really. How wrenching it must have been to marry a loving husband and then discover a shared talent, only to spend the ensuing years watching that same husband receive sole acclaim for that talent. It was like something from one of those cruel fables she’d been forced to read as a child. “My parents’ marriage is complicated,” she answered finally.
“Forgive me, Miss Crispin. I should not have inquired on such a private matter.”
“Oh! Not at all. I was going to ask the same of you.”
“I am happy to talk of my parents. My father died many years ago, as you likely know. But I’ve remained very much in awe of his happiness with my mother.”
“There was silliness, as you call it?”
“Quite a bit, yes. And since I have seen what a marriage can be like, where the affection and the laughter are both plentiful, I find I want to try for one of my own.”
When she didn’t respond, he continued. “Do you not have similar hopes, Miss Crispin? For your own marriage?”
She didn’t know what to do with this man. One minute, he was making lewd suggestions over cucumbers. The next, he was speaking rather earnestly about love and marriage—a rare habit among aristocrats, especially the brutish ones. And the contrast between his light, teasing manner and that heavy, gravelly voice of his? It tickled her rather pleasantly, and her cheeks ached from all the smiling she’d been doing.
A current flickered through her, as she recalled him holding out his arm for her.