by Willa Ramsey
“I was miserable twice over, Mother. Firstly because I loathed fighting. And secondly because I hated the idea that I might disappoint Father. It increased tenfold when he died believing his only son and heir was a coward.”
He looked up and found her staring at him, gripping both armrests.
“He did not think that, Adam,” she said in a stern whisper. “Never. And neither have I. That does remind me, however, of one other thing that I very much regret.”
“What is that?”
“I do not agree with the belief, which so many others seem to carry through life, that fighting is somehow part and parcel of manhood. That a willingness to go at another person with one’s fists—or a weapon—is by definition a brave act. I should have insisted on digging that out of you, long, long ago.”
He stared at her. “Please be easy, Mother. I should not place the blame at your feet because I did not stand up to Father. And besides, I seem to have dug it out of myself, at long last.”
“Truly?”
“Truly. I have struggled with it, but I am done. I no longer believe myself lacking in bravery—”
“I am thrilled to hear it.”
“—and am officially retired from boxing.”
She nodded. “After your father died, I was bitter for many years. I eventually turned that bitterness inside out, doused it with humor, and began spooning it out to the world. I knew I would not keep my wits about me—and keep this family together—if I kept such ill humor inside of me.”
He went to her and kneeled next to her. “But I should not have teased you so much about the things you do love,” she continued, brushing the sides of his short hair as if to tuck it behind his ears.
He squeezed and kissed her hand. “Be easy, Mother. I want you to know that I have good memories of Father, too. I have missed him, too.”
She covered his hand with her own and gave it one quick pat before drawing it back again. “Now, tell me about this event that you and Edie are having.”
He sighed and stood. “It’s going to be rather wonderful, I think. We’re going to exhibit the drawings the Crispins have done for the house.”
“Are they really so magnificent?”
“You will see,” he replied as he walked to the window.
He considered telling her that he intended to propose to Caro. But two days had passed since he had woken up alone, and doubts still nagged him as to whether she would accept him. He had not been sore that she had left; she had explained that she needed to leave and in truth, he sympathized with her long-suffering parents’ desire to see her safely home. And their night together had been a clarion declaration of their affection for one another—in words and in gesture, and in every quiet moment in between.
But her refusal to talk of the future had left him bothered and restless. Having her love and her desire was a magnificent gift, but it would not be enough.
Not having her at all would be devastating.
How many times now, had he tried to ask her to marry him and been interrupted? It had become almost ludicrous. The first time he’d tried was in his scullery, at Edie’s dinner party; then he’d nearly done so in her carriage, after the infamous ride with Chumsley and that other snake. And then, of course, he’d tried to broach the topic when they’d lain in bed together.
When he saw her at the exhibition, he would invite her to spend time with him alone. To take a walk, perhaps. He could not take this uncertainty much longer.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Miss Crispin?”
“Lady Tilbeth!” Caro replied, smirking openly. She was standing with Edie in the entrance hall of Adam’s townhome, welcoming guests to the exhibition. “What a lovely shade of red your cheeks have become just now.”
“Indeed,” Edie added with an impish smile. “Tell us, Lady Tilbeth: how do you accomplish such a natural flush?”
Lady Tilbeth’s mouth opened and closed like the fish that inhabited her pond. “You must excuse me, I…I believe…”
“Please, come inside,” Edie replied. “Have a seat. Or a brandy, perhaps.”
When she’d gone, Edie turned back to Caro. “I can greet everyone on my own, you know. There’s no need for you to suffer this.”
“Thank you, dearest. But I want to face everyone and be done with it,” she replied. “In fact, I’m feeling a little better already.”
Edie squeezed her arm. “Then I’m going ask everyone to be seated. Just whistle if you need rescuing.”
“Depending on the offending party,” she said as she watched Edie walk away and into the saloon, “I might just throw my slipper at them.”
While she waited for another guest to arrive she bounced on her toes, facing away from the door, trying to see past the crowds of admirers who were jostling for a look at the drawings the pupils had set up in the saloon. And as she strained to see, she spotted Adam standing near the large wooden easels, talking with Mama and Papa. Suddenly he looked up at her and they exchanged smiles. She resisted the urge to wave at him.
“I am exceedingly happy for you both,” said a voice from behind her.
She turned and found Lord Quillen waiting to greet her. She had left his estate without saying goodbye, and they hadn’t spoken since she had passed him there—worried and distracted—in a dark corridor, on her way to procure something or other for Adam.
“Please let me know when I may congratulate you more publicly,” he continued.
She curtsied. “I am not flirtatious anymore, Lord Quillen. So I won’t pretend that I don’t know what you mean.”
He frowned at her. “My dear Miss Crispin. I have known you many years, and have only ever known you to be an outgoing, clever, generous woman. If others have given less pleasant descriptions of your manners, it is a sign of their own insecurity and nothing more. Please do not change your nature—not a whit.”
She smiled and shook his hand. “I only meant that I will be saving my more flirtatious energies for one gentleman in particular. Rest assured that I will continue to speak my mind to the rest of you lot. Someone must keep you all in line.”
“Ah, good. I fear that task must fall to you now, since you have demonstrated yourself so capable of running a man out of the country when necessary.”
He bowed and headed toward the saloon.
She bounced on her toes again. It had been surprisingly pleasant greeting the guests with Edie; no one had made her feel unwelcome, although a few—like the Tilbeths—had done little to conceal their shock upon seeing her. But she was impatient for everyone to arrive so that she could have a private word with Adam.
She needed to begin her scheme.
As Edie finished herding the last of the guests to their seats, Adam came into the entrance hall and grinned at her in a most peculiar way. Did he feel the same queerness she felt? That delicious anticipation, overlaid with the agony of having to wait still longer to realize their hopes?
And to hop into bed again?
“Please, Miss Crispin. If you would allow me to escort you, I have saved you the very best seat.” He extended his arm for her to take and she took it. Eagerly, and without a care as to who might be looking. They had an understanding now.
Almost.
“Is the seat next to you, by chance?”
“Indeed. But that is not why it is the best.”
“Why, then?”
“Come, and you will see.”
Caro took his arm and drew close; so close, in fact, that they jostled against one another, gently, as they walked into the saloon. She looked up at him every so often, too, as they passed the rows of chairs and strode together to the front of the room.
This was not the behavior of a lover. This was a proclamation of her attachment to him, and of his to her. It was the behavior of two people who had an understanding.
She must feel as he did. She must. And he had never been happier.
He led her to her seat in the middle of the first row, and when she sat, bowed deeply. She reach
ed out with her other hand and pressed something into his palm—a small letter of some kind.
He pretended to gasp. “Shocking!” he whispered before stepping away. He slipped it into his pocket and went to stand before the drawings.
And what drawings they were! The Crispins had outdone themselves: there was an elevation and two sections in pen and sepia, a series of plans in pencil and colorful washes, and even a watercolor perspective that showed not just their own home but the ones on either side, an assortment of trees (that did not yet exist!), and the street out front. A few exuberant-looking pedestrians had been drawn in, too, all of them wearing the latest fashions. When he had expressed his astonishment over the piece, Mrs. Crispin had simply told him, “I couldn’t help myself. It was so diverting!”
As a set, the drawings illustrated in great detail the Crispins’ proposal for a restoration of the home’s façade, including more—and taller—windows; the addition of a fourth and fifth floor to the house, and a third floor to the mews; the removal of a wall to enlarge the dining room and create a single, large entertaining space; a trellis in the front for Adam’s greenery; and a terrace built out over the grooms’ area in the back, where additional planting could occur. Together with other, smaller improvements, these changes had the potential to ameliorate the inconveniences of their current living quarters, and to help the house become the spacious, light-filled family home he had hoped it could be. The drawings were gorgeous to behold, too, and the crowd was still oohing and ahhing and debating some detail or other from their seats.
“My friends,” Adam began after he turned and faced the crowd, “welcome to our home. My mother, sister, and I have great affection for this old place—many memories of laughing here over our Christmas goose, of setting out for ices at Gunter’s, of sitting quietly by the fire while my late father read aloud from a book of verse.” He looked toward Mother as he said it, and watched as she closed her eyes and allowed sadness and happiness to dance together on her face awhile as he spoke. It was a rare display of unguardedness, and it warmed him.
“But I am thrilled to open a new chapter on this nearly century-old home,” he continued, “and on behalf of our entire family I would like to say how honored we are to have Mrs. Betsy Crispin as the architect for our renovation.”
Caro’s jaw fell open as if on a well-oiled hinge, and there were audible gasps from the crowd. He began applauding at once, however, and after several seconds of what appeared to be utter shock, Caro lifted her hands and joined him.
Gradually, other members of the crowd did, too.
“Many of you have already told me today how magnificent these drawings are. How inspired the ideas are. How they move you. So I’m sure you will join me in enthusiastically welcoming Mrs. Crispin to the front of the room, to address us all today on the origins of her ideas, and the process she has used to develop them into what you see before you.”
He and Caro clapped again and this time, the greater portion of the crowd joined them. Caro was struggling to remain composed, he could tell; her eyes shone and her lip trembled. He waited as her mother walked to the front of the room, the corners of her eyes and mouth crinkling as she turned and faced a few dozen of society’s most prominent members. As far as he could tell, not a one of them continued to whisper as Mrs. Betsy Crispin, Architect, shook his hand and began her presentation, her voice strong and clear and true.
He took his seat and looked at Caro, who clamped onto his arm and squeezed it. She mouthed the words thank you before turning back to listen, dabbing absently at her tears with the handkerchief in her spare hand.
The letter Caro had given him had requested that he meet her at Covent Garden, at nine o’clock the next morning.
He chuckled at the appropriateness of rendezvousing with her there. He had developed a fondness for the place since sparring with her over the fruits and vegetables, three months earlier.
He just wasn’t sure where in the market he was meant to find her. The apples, perhaps? They seemed like a good choice, given the role they had played in their first meeting. Or maybe the cucumbers? Or turnips? Those were the most salacious vegetables they had teased over. On the other hand, it was over strawberries where she had first made him laugh so hard that he nearly choked.
He smiled at the special attachments he had to these foods, and speculated fondly over what other things—whether animal, vegetable, or mineral—he would eventually imbue with memories of time spent with Caro, laughing and talking and yes, flirting.
He recognized the costermonger tending the cucumbers, but before he could ask if he had seen Caro, the man reached out and handed him one of his wares.
The man smiled and leaned back. When Adam tried to hand him some coin, he shook his head and wagged a knobby finger at him, then turned with a warm smile to his next customer.
So Adam was left to move on to the strawberries, and once there, the woman overseeing the cart handed him a sack of the tiny red fruits without so much as a “How do you do?”
“Pray, madam,” he said, “Why are you handing me these strawberries?”
She waved him off with a chapped, red hand. “You will see, my lord. You’ll see.”
The same thing happened at the apples. And the turnips. At the persimmons, the man gave him an empty bushel to carry all of his items. He tipped his hat and when he turned away, spotted Caro standing nearby, her features nearly bursting with that peculiar blend of pride and mischief that he’d come to recognize as one of her hallmarks. At her feet, Toby rolled and contorted himself in the dirt, as if trying to work out an itch.
“Why, Lord Ryland!” she called out, sounding not so much like herself as one of her friends from the theater troupe. In a ruby-red frock he’d never seen before, she came toward him with one hand held aloft, unable to contain her ebullient grin. “How thoughtful of you to bring me a basket of all our favorite produce. It is almost…romantic.” The dog shook himself out and followed.
“Mmm. Most thoughtful of me, indeed.” He set down the bushel and held out his hands for her to take. “What is all this, Caro?”
“This is the only place in town I could think of,” she began, placing her hands in his, “where none of our acquaintances would come upon us and interrupt your proposal.”
He tilted his head at her.
“At least not in the morning hours, before the working ladies are up and about. So let’s have it, then. Out with it.”
He released her hands and rubbed at his jaw, feigning confusion. “Is this my proposal, or yours?”
“Whichever you would prefer, my lord. This is your day. Your chance. Your time.”
He put his hands on his hips and tried to look serious. Ebullient grins were contagious, it turned out. “It would be most interesting to hear your proposal, though I do appreciate you offering me the opportunity to finish my own. Very generous of you.”
“You are quite welcome. Please, continue.”
He rubbed at his jaw. “Miss Caroline Cris—”
“Wait!”
“What is it?”
“A question: Would we live in town, or in the country?”
“Which would you prefer? I’ve come to like both.”
“Toby and I would like to try the country, but I also require time in town. So good, yes, that will be fine.”
“May I continue?”
“Yes.”
“Caro, I love you. You leave me in pieces every time I see you. Would you do me the honor—”
“Wait!”
“Blazes, Caro! Devil take it!”
She laughed and threw herself into his arms, scaring a kit of pigeons into flight. He lifted her off the ground and brought her face to his. It was a highly untoward display of affection, but it scarcely mattered—they were each other’s now. And there were far more untoward things going on at Covent Garden than the two of them embracing and kissing.
“Are we engaged or not?” she asked when they paused, their noses still touching.
&nbs
p; “I hope so. I certainly feel engaged,” he replied.
“That was quite possibly the strangest proposal in history.”
“Strangely romantic, I think.”
“Indeed? That’s too bad. I was aiming for silly.”
He laughed. “Sometimes, my dear, they are one and the same.”
THE END
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Acknowledgments
I owe a lot, to a lot of people. That’s especially true when it came to publishing this book.
I want to thank the team at City Owl Press, particularly my editor Heather McCorkle and company co-founders Tina Moss and Yelena Casale, for believing in this story and in me. The other City Owl authors have also been welcoming and helpful at every opportunity.
The publishing world is a heartening, supportive place, especially where there are Romance-genre people, and especially where there are aspiring and debut authors. The expertise and generosity of the Rose City Romance Writers and the Authors ’18 Facebook Group have been indispensable. I also learned a tremendous amount from freelance editor Wylie O’Sullivan and writers Gretchen Grey-Hatton, Felicia Grossman, MJ Marshall, Lisa Leoni. Author Christy Carlyle has been a helpful guide and friend, and author Tessa Dare gave me lovely encouragement when I first started writing. Dozens of contest judges and mentors helped shape this book, too.