by Willa Ramsey
She recoiled into the hard, wooden chair. Does Lord Ryland enjoy the charms of a prostitute? Or two, or three?
She hugged herself tightly, surprised by her fidgety, dyspeptic response. She had obviously adopted a tolerant outlook on the pursuit of libidinal pleasures. But she had not considered until then that Lord Ryland might take a tolerant outlook on Strayeth and Chumsley’s libidinal pursuit of her.
Edie’s brother might be a sentimentalist when it came to marriage, but he was unlikely to be spending his remaining days as a bachelor in a chaste manner. Mrs. Hellkirk had furnished her students with plenty of information on the relations of men and women. And one didn’t become friends with the members of a theater troupe without knowing the ins and outs of the act, as it were. She knew that men were more inclined to indulge in their carnal appetites, or so it was commonly believed. Why should Lord Ryland be any different?
She watched now as Miss Greer turned the corner, out of sight. Finding no other familiar faces on the street, she went downstairs and gave Stinson her letter for delivery. She asked him to wait for a response, knowing from experience that even earls did not dally when responding to the best architect—nay, architects—in all of England.
An hour later, she was still in the entrance hall, her arms crossed, toes tapping, gazing intently at the dozen or so paintings that adorned the high walls. It was as good a place as any to fizz with anticipation over Lord Ryland’s response.
Suddenly, the door opened and Stinson entered. Her heart found its way to her throat, and took refuge there as he handed her the following letter:
Dear Miss Crispin,
Are we to have a correspondence? How shocking! What’s next, then—a friendship? Please do not relay this possibility to my mother, or I might be cast out of the house and the project will be off entirely.
Edie and I will greet you and your esteemed parents at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, as requested. Our cook informs me that an apple and persimmon galette will be served with coffee in the drawing room to start us off. We’ll need sustenance for the grand tour, and besides, we have quite a lot of the stuff to be rid of.
Until then,
Ryland
She beamed, her smile testing the limits of her cheeks.
She would see him again. Soon. And she would see her smile reflected back at her in his bemused features, and she would meet him, parry for parry—
No. No—enough with the frivolity, Caro. She forced herself to remember the task before her, to consider how she would feel when she looked Lord Ryland in the eye and related the sordid details of her predicament. You see, my lord, ’tis true, I have long been in the habit of dallying with men. Yes, yes, potted plants and all that. Now, two of your peers have put one hundred pounds on which of them will be first to prove me no better than a common whore. And as we all know, whores are…bad?
Perhaps it would be best if she didn’t put it quite like that.
She inhaled deeply, preparing herself for the possibility that he would reject her request. All that really mattered was finding a way to teach Strayeth and Chumsley the error of their ways, and that the lesson would haunt them so intensely that they would never bother another woman because of it. Appealing to Lord Ryland was simply an obstacle on her journey. A handsome obstacle—and one she suspected was far more gentle and yielding than was widely known—but an obstacle nonetheless.
Nothing more.
“Miss?” Barclay said, making her jump. She hadn’t realized he was with her in the hall.
“Yes, Barclay?”
“I’m not sure if this is of interest, but I’ve seen Lord Chumsley walking down our street twice today, and it’s not yet noon.”
She held her breath, folding and unfolding the letter from Lord Ryland. “Thank you.” He started to head off when she added, “I wish it wasn’t of interest, Barclay. But for now, it is. Thank you for letting me know.”
He nodded, and was gone.
Chapter Eight
“Miss Crispin! How dare you do this to me?” Lady Ryland proclaimed.
Adam winced. Why must his mother address their guests—Miss Crispin and her parents—as if she were their general and they were the worst soldiers ever to don regimentals? He tried not to dissolve into a pool of embarrassment on his drawing room floor as she continued to play the scold.
“Young lady, you have finally brought me your mother and father,” she went on, as imposing as ever in her rolling chair, her injured leg propped high on a gold-tasseled pillow. “But you have not given me the opportunity to prepare a full dinner for you all! How could you do such a thing?”
Miss Crispin curtsied deeply. She wore a sunny yellow dress, and had smiled so warmly upon greeting him a few moments earlier that he’d nearly turned the wrong way as he guided them inside, so dazzled were his wits. “My lady, I do you grievous harm. Perhaps one day, God willing, you can forgive me.”
There. Good. Miss Crispin understood Mother’s strange and aggressive sense of humor.
“Humph,” Mother replied. “I do not know that I can forgive you, Miss Caroline. Only time will tell! Good thing for you that I am so resilient. Now, come closer and give me a kiss.”
Miss Crispin complied at once, and her parents came forward a half-step, too. Adam knew that the couple had many patrons among the ton, but he could tell by their manner that they had not been born into such circles. They clasped their hands in front of them like servants, and kept back even when their daughter took a low stool between Mother and Edie.
“Do not trouble yourself, my lady,” Mr. Crispin began. “We will be honored to join you for a meal when you are well.”
“You will do no such thing.”
“No?”
“No.”
Mr. Crispin looked bluish. “I beg your pardon, my lady. I thought—”
“You must come within a fortnight, sir! I insist! Nothing waits for this fool leg.” She rapped on her cast with the ruler she had taken to carrying around like a scepter. “Brandt! Where is that handsome butler of ours? Brandt! Ah, there you are: Tell Cook to prepare a luncheon for next week. I want to stuff the Crispins full of duck and turtle soup, if you please.”
Adam had to hand it to his mother: She might push everyone around for her own ends, but she had a way of making them feel important, too.
“Mother,” he said gently, “we should not delay our tour any longer, as the Crispins have many other clients making demands on their time. And sanity.”
He looked at Miss Crispin as he said it, and felt a thrill bubble through him when she smiled back, feeling for a brief moment that he was possibly the most charming (and in all likelihood, most handsome) man in all of England. He was relieved that she seemed in the same good spirits in which she had left him at the market.
So much for avoiding attachments with the skeptical, disinterested Miss Crispin.
“Yes, yes—be off with you, all of you!” Mother barked with a shooing motion. “But do take your time! Do look in all the cracks and crevices, my dears! And above all else, be sure to tell Adam and Edie everything you really think. No holding back!”
“What Mama means is that we need an architect who isn’t afraid to tell us, for instance, that all of this dark paneling is hideous,” Edie said, gesturing toward the walls.
“Precisely!” Mother chimed in, snapping her fingers and pointing to Edie for emphasis. “And that the dining room is far too small—”
“As are the mews,” Adam interrupted.
“And the saloon is too stuffy, and the windows too few.”
“Yes, it is entirely too dark in here. And I would love a proper garden,” he added. “Would that be possible? The grooms were apoplectic when I tried to plant a tree in their area yesterday.”
Mother guffawed. “Goodness, Adam! Must you really dig in the dirt here in town? I thought we agreed you would keep that habit of yours in the country.”
Caro’s head whipped around toward Mother, and he thought it must be surprise—or
was it disapproval?—that had put the slight crinkle in her nose.
“Even so, Mother,” Edie chimed in, “I think we can agree that there’s too little room for the servants. In the garden, the mews, and everywhere else, really.”
“And with that—let us proceed,” Adam replied, trying for his most commanding tone. The Crispins rose and wished Mother goodbye, then reiterated their promises to share a rich, excessive meal with her very soon, and to relate to her offspring the many ways in which their home was cramped, tasteless, and in poor repair. Then they moved on with their tour.
Edie and Mama led the way, ambling arm in arm through the top-floor corridor, pointing at things, chatting at length. They were kindred spirits, both of them prone to sullenness and withdrawal. Papa followed close behind, joining in their observations and measuring the occasional doorway or window.
So Caro had Lord Ryland to herself.
I can do this. It is just one small favor, and the rest I can do alone.
She thought she was being discreet in her efforts to lag behind with him when he looked at her suddenly and said, “Miss Crispin, if I am not mistaken, you are purposely trying to dally with me.”
She looked back at him in horror. “Sir!” His use of the word “dally” nearly gave her the vapors.
“Do not worry, Miss Crispin. I will not judge you for it. I simply find it amusing that my company is so delightful to you today, when you quite literally ran from me at the market just two days past. Has my conversation improved so markedly in so short a time?”
“I cannot tell yet, my lord,” she replied, relaxing a bit. “Why don’t you tell me something of your interests, and I will have more of an opportunity to assess your information, wit, and syntax.”
Lud! Could she ever get used to seeing Lord Ryland smile at her like that. She could find a thousand witty things to say if he would just keep looking at her like that for the rest of the season. She might even be able to forget about teaching Strayeth and Chumsley a lesson.
No—that wouldn’t do at all. She needed to focus on her task, and be careful not to misrepresent her interests: She remained resolute in her intention never to marry. Perhaps she and Lord Ryland could flirt for fun—but only a little, and not as part of a courtship.
“Right. Well, at present, my main occupations are fixing this house and finding a husband for Edie.”
“Ah, yes! And who better for the job than the great hopeless romantic of Mayfair?”
“You mock me, Miss Crispin, but I assure you I am quite sincere in my enthusiasm for marriages of affection.”
“I apologize, my lord. I did not mean to mock you. I just cannot resist an opportunity to tease you.”
“Ah! You are forgiven, then, as teasing is entirely different from mocking.”
“Is it? And here I thought I was grasping at straws.”
“Indeed. Mocking is done with an intention to wound. Teasing is done with love.”
Caro went red-hot beneath her skin. “I—I simply meant to point out one of the many ways in which you are unfashionable, sir. Firstly, you are a romantic. Secondly, there is your hair—”
“I beg your pardon!” he interrupted, lifting a hand to his cropped black locks. “What, pray tell, is your concern with my hair?”
Where to begin, my lord? She had first thought of sifting her fingers through his hair—and mussing it up a little—when she met him at her ball. The instinct had only increased over cucumbers in Covent Garden. And today, she had to clasp her hands behind her back to keep from reaching out and indulging herself.
“Tell me, sir. What other unfashionable traits are you keeping from me? Next, you’ll be telling me that you take your seat in Parliament, and pay attention to the speeches.”
He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a red silk sleeve. He held it upside down and out fell a pair of spectacles. They looked tiny in his hands as he lifted them up, unfolded them, and put them on.
Lud.
“How is this for unfashionable?”
She tried to swallow without being terribly obvious about it, as her throat was suddenly rather parched.
“You…you look tolerable,” she muttered finally. Though tolerable did not seem the right word for Lord Ryland’s attractiveness to her at that moment.
He laughed and removed the spectacles, returning them to his pocket. “Lying is not one of your accomplishments, I see.”
“Indeed.”
She looked ahead and noticed that the others had turned a corner and disappeared, likely down a servants’ staircase. They were alone.
“The most unfashionable thing about me,” he continued, his throat busier than normal, “is that…well, I hesitate to admit it—”
“Lord Ryland,” she interrupted, “you know I am being ridiculous, right? Do not believe a word I say. I—”
“Indeed,” he replied. “Do not make yourself uneasy, Miss Crispin. I know you only tease, and in truth I enjoy it. Tremendously.”
There was that demon feeling again—the one that tried to possess her hand and lead it to his arm, his hair, or to his own expressive and enormous hands. She wrestled it down.
“What is it, then? Is it about your spectacles?” She gasped and lowered her voice. “Do you wear them as a disguise?”
“No,” he laughed, patting at his pocket. “No, it’s just that—well, I have an unfashionable opinion about athletic competitions. That is, that I despise them. All of them, but boxing most of all.” He shrugged.
She shrugged back, and waited for him to continue.
“I once beat a man very badly, Miss Crispin, and although I stopped fighting afterwards, society still lauds me as a fearsome fighter. But the truth is that combative sports make me ill.”
She waved a hand at him. “I know that you are no brute, my lord. I had only just met you when I realized all that was nonsense.”
“The desire to harm another?” He went on. “I cannot understand it, Miss Crispin. It’s been years since I’ve gone near a gymnasium—or the fencing club, or any such places. I avoid hells and pits entirely. Instead, I can be found touring the latest public square, or garden, or canal-building project. Or at a lecture on landscape painting at the Royal Academy.”
“I’m sorry you can’t be more forthcoming about your dislike of sport, my lord. But you can certainly be proud that you are a scholar-gardener at heart,” she replied. She did not regard his dislike of athletic competitions as a detriment, but she suspected it was difficult for a gentleman of such interests—and disinterests—to fit in amongst the aggressive, sporting males of the ton. It troubled him deeply, she could tell, and she now understood why he spent so much time in the country.
He shook his head. “Most people do not regard such interests as the domain of men.”
She sighed. “I forget, sometimes, that not everyone gets to move among artists, professors, builders, and other lively and open people, as I do. I forget that people like yourself are largely restricted to the banalities of the ton.”
“You’re the first person I have admitted all of that to, Miss Crispin. You have power over me now.” He held his hands out to the side, as if he had made himself an open book for her, and was waiting to see what she would make of the first passage.
And she didn’t know what to make of it at all. What was he saying to her?
Whenever she felt confused and nervous together, she began talking and didn’t stop until she had bluffed her way through whatever storm of uncertainty she had sailed into. “Do not be embarrassed, Lord Ryland. I think it’s lovely that you enjoy everything that pertains to our beautiful English landscapes. In fact, from here on I’ll expect to see you at all of my father’s lectures—”
“Yes, but—pardon the intrusion—but what do you make of my inability to fight, and compete? My lack of courage in those areas?”
She snorted and crossed her arms. “Sir, it isn’t cowardice to be wary of hurting another person. And it took courage for you to trust me
with your secret, did it not? Besides, it takes a rare sort of confidence to allow women to speak plainly at every turn, as you have done with me from our very first meeting. And I value that still more.”
He glanced away then, and if she wasn’t mistaken, she thought she saw him change color.
“Furthermore,” she continued, “you had my utmost support the moment you said you didn’t go to those God-awful pits. You are already among the finest men I know.”
“So tell me about these lectures of yours,” he replied, his voice suddenly ragged.
“Despite all evidence to the contrary, it is not me who gives public lectures but my father.”
“Right—your father’s lectures. Will I need to bring a bushel of apples?”
“How right of you to ask! Not apples this time, but books. For his engagement next week, I’ll be collecting books that I intend to distribute between Mrs. Hellkirk’s and an orphanage for boys in the Almonry. Please gather all your unwanted novels, atlases, histories, essay collections, scientific treatises, and assorted volumes of poetry. Any condition will do.”
She sighed. She would never have anticipated it, but there was a real comfort in sharing vulnerabilities with the same gentleman who made her positively squirmy with every glance. Her reluctance to share her secret and ask for his help had shrunk considerably, and she chastised herself for losing sight of what mattered the most: her scheme, and holding tight to the life that she loved. Be careful, Caro. Share just this one secret; ask just this one favor.
“When will we know if your parents can accept our commission, Miss Crispin?” he asked when they’d continued their tour.
He had begun to hurry them a little, stopping less and walking more swiftly, as he didn’t think he could stand to be alone with Miss Crispin much longer. Not if she was going to say such wonderful things to him. Not if it was going to feel so bloody relieving to confide in her. If they continued in this manner, he was liable to admit that he was struggling not to reach out and take her hand. That he was trying but failing to respect her opposition to marriage. That in spite of that opposition, she certainly treated everyone she knew—himself included—with the kindness and humor that suggested an enormous capacity for affection.