by Joyce Alec
“Very well,” Gerald said, seemingly unperturbed by her refusal. “I will continue to make it very difficult for you to marry, Martha. And don’t think for one moment that I will approve the marriage to a poor farmer. After all, I did promise your father that I would only approve of a good match.”
“And just what do you plan on doing with me after I turn twenty-five?”
“I will throw you out of my house, and you will have to fend for yourself,” said her stepbrother. “If you sign over the land now, maybe I can take pity on you.”
“My father left you everything,” screamed Martha. Martha lifted her chin, regaining control of her emotions. “You promised to take care of me, and you have done nothing but make my life miserable. You raise your hand to me and treat me like rubbish. I don’t deserve this.”
“I don’t see why you are putting up such a fuss. The land earns no income. I don’t see what it is so important to you.”
Martha stared at him, not knowing what to do. Should she sign over the land to improve her current life? Or, should she hold onto the land? It was the last gift she ever received from her father. Martha knew that it would be difficult to find a man who wanted to marry her, but she must try to fling herself into society once more and attempt to find an eligible gentleman. But, who would want to marry a young woman only recently out of mourning and with no dowry? Would she really be able to find an eligible gentleman, with wealth and family connections? How could she make such a man fall in love with her?
“Well?”
Martha uttered the words, “No. I will not let you have my land and lose the only thing my father left me.”
"I see," Gerald said, the smirk back on his face. "I should so hate for any rumors to circulate about you, Martha. That would put off many a gentleman, I am sure.” His parting words hit home as he left the room, leaving Martha trembling from head to toe.
She was doomed.
Chapter 2
“I can do this,” Charles said to himself, gritting his teeth. “I can do this.”
Stepping as confidently as he could onto the dance floor, he bowed to his partner and began to follow the steps, trying to remember each one correctly. A couple of small mistakes, of course, but that was bound to happen.
“Ouch!” his partner, the lovely Lady Augusta, cried, hopping up and down on one foot.
“Oh, I am so dreadfully sorry!” Charles exclaimed, unsure what it was he should do. “I do have such big feet!”
He bent down as if to examine the lady’s ankle, but was stopped by her shocked gasp.
“Of course, of course,” he mumbled, remembering how inappropriate it would be for any man to see a genteel lady's legs. "I do apologize."
He bowed low, only to be knocked completely off balance by a dancing couple and ended up firmly on his behind, right in the middle of the dance floor.
Lady Augusta went crimson from sheer embarrassment and, with as much dignity as she could muster, left the dance floor unattended, hobbling to a nearby chair. She was immediately surrounded by many ladies, who threw a great number of dark glances his way. However, Charles was not immune to the laughter he heard ricocheting around the room, directed solely at him and his ridiculous attempt at a dance. Hearing the first strains of a waltz begin, Charles hastily got to his feet, quickly dusted himself off, and attempted to make his way off the dance floor through all the waltzing couples. The laughter had now turned to jeers as he struggled to find a way through. Eventually, he reached the safety of the French doors and exited the ballroom immediately, his cheeks hot with shame.
“Lady Augusta is quite all right, old boy, no need to worry about that.”
Charles sighed, looking over his shoulders to see his best friend, Matthew, stride towards him.
“Here,” said Matthew, as he handed Charles a drink.
Grateful to his friend for his consideration, Charles grasped the glass of whiskey and threw it back in one large gulp. Shaking his head, he groaned, putting his head in his hands as he sat on the cold bench in the dark.
“At least out here, no one can see me,” Charles mumbled, pushing his hands even further into his hair. “That was truly awful.”
“It really was,” Matthew chuckled, slapping his friend on the back. “What on earth got into you, man? It was only a quadrille; you’ve been practicing that dance since you were in short coats!”
"I know, I know," Charles replied, finally raising his head. "It's just that I was dancing with Lady Augusta. She is quite pretty, and I became quite anxious in her presence," he trailed off as he realized how ridiculous he sounded.
“Ah, the curse of being in a beautiful woman’s company,” Matthew mocked, throwing back his own glass of whiskey. “You are lucky that you’re an earl with considerable wealth, or nobody would dance with you. What you need to do, my friend, is practice.”
“Practice?” Charles echoed. “Practice what?”
“You know,” Matthew began, getting to his feet. “Talking to a lady, walking with her, simply handing her a glass of refreshment—all of the things you seem entirely incapable of doing. Surely you do not want to remain persona non grata to all the ladies of the ton?”
Charles opened his mouth to argue, but then closed it again firmly. Matthew was right. Whenever he tried to talk to a beautiful young lady, his tongue felt like sandpaper in his mouth, his voice becoming a rasping cough whenever he tried to speak. He had lost count of the number of ladies who had walked away from him mid-conversation. Thinking of walking, whenever Charles tried to tuck a lady’s hand under his arm, her closeness gave him such anxiety that he often tripped over his own feet. Charles closed his eyes tightly, trying to push away the memories. He was a lost cause.
“Remember the time you poured a glass of ratafia down Lady Weston’s bodice?” Matthew cried, chuckling as he recalled the scene. “She screamed so loudly that her father rushed in, ready to knock out whoever it was that was ravishing his daughter.”
“I did get a black eye,” Charles said ruefully. “Her father was quite a strong man, as I recall.”
Matthew let out a roar of laughter as tears now began to roll down his cheeks.
"Then you stood on her precious little pug as you took your leave," he cried, filled with hilarity.
"It was a small thing, and I could hardly see it," Charles cried, coming to his own defense. "I should not think that could be considered my fault."
Despite himself, Charles felt a smile come over his face. He truly was too clumsy for his own good.
After some time, Matthew grew quiet, still letting out the occasional little hiccup of laughter.
“So,” Charles began, thinking seriously once more. “How do I practice all those things?”
Matthew thought for a moment before saying, “Well, I suggest we find a lady of society who is not overly beautiful and who is not likely to ever marry—whether it be through circumstances or age, or lack of desirability.”
Charles wrinkled his nose at the description, but Matthew hadn’t finished.
“You can treat her as an acquaintance, get to know her, practice your conversation, practice your dancing, and take her for walks in the park.”
“Fetch her a glass of ratafia,” Charles interjected, a grin on his face.
“Exactly,” Matthew replied, holding back a laugh. “Then, considering you know you won’t ever marry the chit, you will be sufficiently improved to begin courting whichever eligible lady you choose.”
“Wonderful!” Charles exclaimed, getting to his feet. “I really believe you have come up with a good plan, Matthew.”
“Thank you,” Matthew replied, sweeping an overly exaggerated bow.
“There is only one problem,” Charles continued, raising an eyebrow.
“Oh?”
“We need to find such a lady.”
Chapter 3
Martha stepped into the ballroom, trying to hide her rising nerves. Of course there were a few subtle glances thrown her way, but she did her bes
t to ignore them. At first, she'd been filled with hope as she began her quest for a proper gentleman, but she'd soon learned that her stepbrother would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. Various rumors were now the topics of gossip, ranging from her being compromised, all the way up to her bearing an illegitimate child and causing the death of her father, due to his grief over her wayward ways. Everyone in the ton now knew that she now had no dowry, but again, there were numerous stories as to how that came to be.
Martha forced her hands together, intertwining her fingers to stop them from trembling. She would hold her head high and show society a brave face, one that did not intend to be pushed into a corner by Gerald. She had no other choice but to find a suitable gentleman, refusing to think of the consequences should she fail in her quest.
From across the room, Matthew looked at Martha, and said, “That one.”
"Where?"
Having re-entered the ballroom, Charles followed Matthew's gaze to a dark-haired young lady, standing to one side of the ballroom.
“She’s a wallflower!”
Matthew shrugged, and explained, “So? She’s pretty, but not beautiful. Nothing like that red-haired woman over there.”
Charles spotted the tall, beautiful young lady, who had piqued Matthew’s interest. The young woman’s auburn curls tumbled down her back as she moved gracefully across the dance floor. Matthew drew his attention away from the beauty and continued his conversation about the other young woman, sitting alone.
“She is certainly not in her first fling of youth and, by all accounts, is not likely to ever marry,” he finished, keeping his eye on the black-haired woman.
“You know her?” Charles asked, not taking his eyes from the lady half-hidden in shadow.
“Vaguely,” Matthew replied, moving to pour himself another drink. “That is Lady Martha Larkson. Her father recently passed on and left his entire fortune to his stepson, Lord Crewe.”
“I see,” Charles murmured. “She is out of mourning?”
“Yes,” Matthew replied, taking a sip of his whiskey. “It has been over a year since her father died. Her stepmother passed on before him, by only six months, I believe.”
“She has known great loss in such a short space of time,” Charles replied, his heart tugging a little as he studied the lady.
“Don’t let her appearance fool you,” Matthew said, putting his hand on Charles’s shoulder. “I know that soft heart of yours. Rumor has it that she has been compromised and the man responsible ran off with her dowry.”
“Ran off?”
“Apparently, she found a way to give it to him, believing him to be the great love of her life. She gave him both her dowry and her body, and now look at her. Left with nothing.”
“I see,” Charles replied slowly, not sure that this Lady Martha was someone he wished to get to know. “Are you sure she’s the right one, Matthew?”
"Yes, yes," Matthew replied, hastily. "There could be no greater match for our little plan. Besides," he continued, "if the rumors are true, she will have no qualms about accepting your attentions. It is not as if she is going to be able to muster any form of attention from any other eligible gentleman."
Charles nodded, throwing back another whiskey for good measure. “Very well,” he replied, fixing his eyes on the lady. “I’ll do it. Wish me luck, Matthew.”
“You don’t need any,” Matthew replied, slapping him on the back. “It’s a match made in heaven.”
Martha tried not to look at the two gentlemen staring at her, hating that she did not know what rumors they had heard. She could feel her face heating as they continued to study her, and, with nowhere to go, she could only sit and look anywhere but in their direction. She saw Suzanne, her friend, smiling at her and waving a little in passing, with Martha nodding back. Ever since the rumors had begun, her friend had been forbidden by her parents to be in contact with Martha, and besides, Gerald would have refused her entry. It had been a cruel blow. Suzanne had been Martha's only true friend, and her loss was hard to take.
Still, it was clear that Suzanne herself didn't believe the rumors, clearly determined to ignore her parents’ demands. Martha smiled sadly as she saw Suzanne being quickly reprimanded for daring to wave at Martha, but a stoic expression had come over Suzanne's face, and Martha knew what that meant. Suzanne was ignoring every single word that came from her mother's mouth, standing by her friend. Even though she remained hidden against the wall, blending into the shadows, Martha felt the warmth of her friend's loyalty. It meant the world to her.
“My lady.”
Startled by his voice, Martha turned to see a sandy-brown head of hair bowing in her vague direction. Not knowing what to say, Martha waited until the man finished bowing, which seemed to take a lot longer than any other gentleman of her acquaintance. When he finally rose, Martha was humiliated to recognize one of the gentlemen from across the room, who had been staring at her so intensely.
“My lord,” she replied stiffly, turning her head to look further down the room. “I don’t believe we have been introduced.”
Charles fumbled for a moment. “I did not think propriety was of great consequence, given the circumstances.”
“Circumstances?” Martha turned on the man, her eyes angry. "What circumstances, my lord? You have heard some rumors about me and immediately believe them to be true? Whether or not you wish to stick with propriety is not my concern, but I shall not speak to you until we are properly introduced. Do I make myself quite clear?”
Charles opened his mouth, but no sound came out. The lady had turned into a spitfire, her face matching the color of her red dress. This had not gone to plan.
“My lady...” he mumbled, not knowing what else to say.
She still held him in her furious gaze, and he could almost feel the heat of her wrath. He hastily bowed before turning on his heels and practically running across the room. It didn’t help that, as he did so, he tripped over another gentleman’s boot and went flying across the floor, knocking an entire tray of ratafia out of a footman’s hands which, of course, went all over him.
Charles closed his eyes and wished the ground would swallow him up. Instead, all he heard was the sound of sobbing as the lady he had been running from quickly left the room. Of course, immediately after that came the sound of the assembled crowd’s raucous laughter.
Chapter 4
Gerald came sauntering into the drawing room, perching himself on the arm of the chair where Martha was sitting.
“You were not able to find a suitable gentleman last evening, dear sister? What a shame.”
“Gerald,” she replied, attempting to rise, but Gerald held her arm firmly. “Only five more months until your birthday, my dear,” he continued, his tone light and airy. “You do know that with every passing day, the likelihood of getting that land grows even stronger?”
The hand that did not grip her wrist closed in on the back of her neck. Closing her eyes, Martha struggled against the pain as his hand tightened on her neck.
“Enough, Gerald,” she replied, once more attempting to get to her feet. “I shall find a gentleman soon enough, despite your best efforts.”
“My efforts?” Gerald sounded surprised. “I do not know to what you are referring, Martha dear.”
Tearing herself from his strong grasp, knowing she would have bruises to show for it, Martha struggled to her feet. “You know full well to what I am referring, Gerald, and it matters very little. I shall find an eligible gentleman by my birthday.”
Gerald’s response was cut short by the arrival of the butler.
“Pardon me, but you have a visitor, ma’am. Forgive me, two visitors.”
The butler handed Martha their cards.
“Don’t think for a moment that these two are eligible gentlemen,” Gerald snapped. "I'm sure they have simply heard that you are looking for a lover and are keen to get into your favors."
He sneered as he stalked from the room, leaving Martha completely alone.
She took a breath, seeing the look of sympathy on the normally stalwart butler’s face.
“Thank you, Mr. Frederick. Please, show them in.”
He nodded and left the room, giving Martha a few moments to compose herself. She had no idea who these gentlemen were and was worried that there was truth to her stepbrother’s words.
"You!" Martha got to her feet the moment the two gentlemen entered their room, not responding to their hasty bows. "How dare you call upon me! After your behavior last evening, I thought I made myself perfectly clear."
"My lady, please, I must speak for my friend." The tall, dark-haired gentleman swept another bow, taking her unwilling hand in his. “It was I who put such thoughts into his head and, as we are now aware, these things are clearly untrue."
Blushing furiously, Martha tugged her hand away, her chest heaving as she struggled to control her temper.
“They are most certainly not true, and if you have come here with such thoughts in your head, you must take your leave immediately.” She took a breath, knowing she needed to speak plainly, and said, “I have not been compromised, I do not have an illegitimate child living in Scotland, and I am certainly not looking for a lover. The terrible rumors are untrue. Do you both understand?”
“Perfectly,” the dark-haired man said smoothly, seating himself. “Shall I ring for tea?”
Stuttering for a moment, Martha collected herself. “Certainly not. I shall do so myself.”
After ringing for tea, she seated herself gracefully, trying to calm herself down. Gerald’s cruel actions and words had pushed her almost to a breaking point, and the appearance of the gentlemen from last evening had been the last straw. Whilst she should not have spoken so plainly—or so loudly—Martha was relieved that the gentlemen were not under any false pretenses.
"I am afraid I did not catch your name last evening," she began coolly, turning her gaze onto the brown-haired gentleman who, as yet, had not spoken a single word.