by Rose Gordon
“Pleasure?” he repeated, his blank expression still in place.
“Yes, pleasure. Whether it be pleasures of the flesh—” she tried not to grimace as she said it, but doubted she'd been able to hide her true feelings— “or other worldly pleasures, such as money or horses or whatever else he might hold in esteem, a gentleman's pleasure is his most valuable possession and he'll do whatever necessary to ensure nothing prohibits it.”
“I see.” He drew the words out long and slow, as if pondering his next response. “And what makes you such an expert on gentlemen?”
“I was married before,” she said airily.
He snorted. “Well then, that explains it. You're comparing me and every other gentleman to the one you were married to before.”
She shrugged. “You're all the same.”
“No, we're not. I'm sure your next husband will be vastly different from your first.”
“I don't see much of a difference between the two of you, other than physical appearance, of course.”
“Then why do you want to marry me?”
Obviously the real reason she wanted to marry him wouldn't be a very appropriate answer. “I have to marry someone, don't I?”
***
How flattering. She wanted to marry Elijah because she had to marry someone.
“Even though you think I'm just like your previous husband, you want to marry me?”
“Yes.”
“He must have been a wonderful fellow, then.”
She adjusted her glove and scowled. “No, not particularly; but since one gentleman is pretty much like the next, I suppose he was just fine.”
Henry ground his teeth. Gentlemen were not all the same. In fact, no two were exactly alike. “He was just fine, was he?” He shifted in his saddle. “Tell me, what was it that compelled you to marry him?”
“Money.” she said quickly, too quickly.
A bitter taste filled his mouth. “Of course; and is it fair to say now you don't have any?”
Something flashed in her hazel eyes. “I think it's time I head back to the cottage.”
“Answer my question, Laura.” He nearly winced at the roughness in his own voice. “Is it money you require?”
“Require? No.”
“Then you have an annuity?”
Her eyebrows furrowed together. “A what?”
Scratching his temple, he said. “It's like a trust, except a husband sets it up so that in the event of his death, his wife will receive a certain amount of money each year.”
“No.”
Henry couldn't determine if that was sadness or bitterness in her voice; perhaps it was a touch of both. “I see. So you married him for money. Was there anything that attracted you to him other than the depth of his coffers?” He was only asking because he wanted to find her the same type of chap tonight in Bath, no other reason.
She sighed. “I suppose he was witty and clever—”
“Ah, so you do think I'm witty and clever,” he teased.
Laura cast him a wry look. “On occasion, but I'm sure it's just an act—just like his was.”
“An act?” he choked. How on earth does one act that? Sure, one could act polite or act like a dragon, but wit and humor were not characteristics that everyone was capable of.
“Yes. After we married, he— Never mind that.” She split her lips into a smile so wide it couldn't possibly be genuine. “I should probably return to the cottage and get ready for tonight.”
Before she could leave, he moved Knight to block her way. “First, can you tell me what makes you think I'm the same way he was?”
Her nose wrinkled up in the most endearing way. “Just like that.”
“Just like what?”
“You want me to tell you all your 'best' attributes, just like he did. You're proud and self-important, just like he was. You're self-centered and arrogant, just like he was. You know just what to say and do to seem charming and genuinely interested—”
“Just like he did,” he finished for her.
She gave a curt nod. “Just so.”
“And what makes you think I only care about myself? Tell me, what have I done since you arrived to make you think I don't care about anyone but myself?”
“You've made no move to fulfill the agreement I presented to you.”
“And is that what you want? You want me to order the carriage ready and for us leave for Gretna Green right now?”
She bit her lip, uncertainty and perhaps a touch of apprehension swirled in her eyes.
“That's what I thought.”
She licked her lips and opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
“As you said before, it's time you go back to the cottage and get ready for tonight.”
~Chapter Eleven~
Laura couldn't get out of Henry's sight fast enough. Even after four days, he still had a way of unsettling her and making her uncertain of her answers and herself.
While she wasn't particularly excited at the prospect of marriage to anyone, especially him, it would make her goal of reuniting with his cousin and meeting her husband far easier if she were his wife.
Laura glanced in the cracked oval mirror that rested on the vanity and frowned. Her hair was in terrible disarray from riding Dame; but it was worth it for those few minutes she was able to feel the wind in her face and the freedom that came with riding a horse. She knew she missed that part of her girlhood, but she didn't know how much until she had that little taste today. She sighed and a wistful smile took her lips. Perhaps Henry would let her ride again someday; and if he didn't, she'd be sure to treasure today all the more.
“I see he's gotten to ye, too,” Beth said without preamble, walking into the room.
Laura pursed her lips. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”
The woman harrumphed, then tossed the red satin dress Laura had given her to press earlier down on the bed. With a smug smile, she walked over to where Laura was sitting on the stool and started pulling the pins from Laura's thick hair.
Laura tried not to wince as Beth went about removing her hairpins and then proceeded to brush her hair with more force than was necessary. Laura had the strangest feeling that she was being too aggressive on purpose, but quickly dismissed the idea. She was just tired and overwrought, so her perceptions were off.
Beth pinned her hair up again, only poking her with the sharp pins thrice, then unfastened her gown, tightened her corset to the point Laura was certain something was going to snap: either her bones or the whalebone corset, and finally helped her into her evening gown with all the grace of the scullery maid she probably was.
“Thank you,” Laura choked.
Beth scowled and bobbed her head once, then left like the strange girl Laura thought her to be.
In the adjacent room, Henry started whistling a merry tune, one she couldn't help but hum along to until he came to get her. She blushed. She was living alone with a gentleman! What would her friends back in Georgia think? A wave of sadness settled over her. Nothing. They'd think nothing. Likely none of them had ever thought of her again once she left for New York. That was the way of life for them. Either you lived your whole life in the same county, knowing the same families from the day you were born until you died, or you moved away to find a different life and were nothing but a mere memory to those who'd stayed.
As if to prove that theory, not a single one of her friends from Frederica County had so much as sent her a missive. She meant no more to them than she had to Robbie or his family, who couldn't get rid of her fast enough after they'd learned of his untimely death. A bitter taste flooded her mouth. The span between Robbie's disappearance and the one year anniversary of the notification that his body had been buried in England, as a result of the inability to send it across the ocean upon his demise, had been the most miserable time she'd ever lived.
Then came the four years that followed.
Being an unwanted guest in her in-law's home, where she was t
old what to do and treated like the poor relation, was wonderful compared to being tossed out and made to make her way in any manner she was capable of. She assumed they thought she'd become a kept mistress or find a protector and become a saloon girl. While most wouldn't wish for their daughter-in-law to take up such a lifestyle, the Swifts weren't like most.
They hated her. Despised her, even.
She was the reason they'd lost their beloved son.
If she'd been prettier or more intelligent…Or perhaps if her family had had more wealth to recommend her…Or...or...or. There were so many things about her they didn't like; and the honest truth was, if she'd been Madison Banks, their only son would still be alive. He'd have never crossed the ocean to find her and would have been around to take over his father's legacy.
But she wasn't Madison Banks.
She was born Laura Small on a once-booming cotton plantation to a mother who died young and a father with failing health. She had brown hair instead of blonde and preferred to ride horses instead of sewing. Some might think she was beautiful, but only the ones in desperate need of spectacles. She wasn't what she'd term as ugly, however; just not as striking as say Madison Banks.
Henry's whistling came to an abrupt halt; and Laura opened her eyes, that she hadn't even realized she'd shut, only to find him standing in the doorway, his lips forming a perfect O.
“Sorry,” she blurted, taking to her feet. He sure was a handsome fellow, dressed in a blue coat that hung over a red waistcoat and black trousers. Even his feet were dashing with his black hessian boots. She jerked her eyes away from examining the way the leather hugged his calf and fastened them on the emerald pin in the middle of his cravat.
“Is something the matter?”
“No.” She cleared her throat and forced herself to meet his light blue eyes. “Why would you think that?”
“You looked as if you were about to cry when I came in, and now your voice is wavering,” he said without ceremony.
“Well, I'm not,” she snapped. “But if I were, it would be because you were making me wait and were being annoying with your whistling at the same time.”
“If you say so.”
“I say so,” she said with a sniff. She reached down and picked up her reticule and fan. “Are you ready to leave now, or do you require a bit more time to attend your toilette?”
“No. I'm not sure if I could possibly make myself any more dashing than this.”
She fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Vanity. It will be the end of humanity.”
“Pardon?”
She flicked her wrist. “Nothing. Just a saying, that's all.” She squinted her eyes. “Is that a cane?”
“Are you talking about this?” Henry brought his right hand forward. “I prefer to call it a walking stick.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Walking stick sounds sophisticated. Cane sounds—” he shrugged— “old.”
“But you don't need assistance walking,” she pointed out, perplexed.
“I'm glad you've noticed.” He winked and then offered her his arm instead. “The carriage is waiting downstairs. It's not Watson's finest, mind you, since my brother is away, but it should get us there with only minimal amounts of bumps and bruises.”
“You weren't jesting,” Laura commented as the carriage lurched forward.
Henry grabbed hold of the little strap above the window to steady himself, then wrapped his other arm around her. “Just stay close to me and I'll try to keep us steady.”
Though she shouldn't, she liked being close to him, smelling his outdoorsy scent and feeling the firmness of his body pressed against hers. It was scandalous. It was wrong. It was not done. It was intoxicating and delicious, is what it was.
“When we get there, I need you to wait in the carriage while I locate my cousin and ask her to act as your chaperone.”
Laura's skin tingled. His cousin? Which one would it be? Could she be so lucky to meet Madison so soon?
“Her name is Liberty Grimes,” he continued.
She stiffened. She remembered the name Liberty and would wager every hair on her head that Liberty Grimes was the same as Liberty Banks. And that would not do. If Liberty knew of her presence here in England, it'd only be a matter of days before the news made it to her sister. That wouldn't do. She wanted to surprise Madison so she wouldn't have time to hide or make up some sort of lie. “Must I have a chaperone?” She might not be able to change whether Liberty was there or not; but if there were enough people, she could blend into the crowd and stay as far away as possible. But if she was to be her chaperone...
“I know you're older—”
“And a widow,” she added, hoping that would convince him.
He sighed. “Are you sure you don't wish to have a chaperone? She'll make sure—”
“Yes, I'm sure. I don't care about my reputation. Honestly, you could introduce me as your mistress and I wouldn't care.” Well, perhaps that was a bit too much, but the last thing she wanted was to have a chaperone, especially one who would foil her plan.
“All right,” he said slowly.
“What if we take on a disguise?”
“A disguise?” he repeated.
She nodded enthusiastically. He'd once been a spy; surely he'd know how to act in disguise. “We'll pretend to be a married couple visiting from London.”
He frowned. “That will never work. Everyone around here knows me.”
“And you're sure you still wish to go?”
***
Henry heard her words; he just didn't know what they were. Everyone around here knew him. He'd attended school with or had been to the houses of many who he'd see tonight; and they'd all know he was Henry and not Elijah because Elijah now had a wife; and he couldn't pretend Laura was Amelia because then he wouldn't be able to find her a suitor. What a tangle.
“You're right.”
She blinked her hazel eyes at him. “Pardon?”
He scowled. She'd heard him, he was sure of it. She just wanted to gloat that she'd been right. “We need a disguise.”
“And how do you suppose we find one so quickly.”
“In the carriage.” He reached across the carriage and lifted the seat cushion, then pulled out a little box. He blew the dust off the top and then opened it. By the low glow of the lighted sconce inside the carriage, he rummaged through the box until he found what he was looking for: a grey mustache and a little bottle of paste. Ignoring her curious stare, he dipped the little brush inside the paste and then ran it over his upper lip before pressing the patch of silver hair onto it.
“A mustache is all you have?”
He continued to smooth down the edges of his new found bristles. “It's all I need.”
“And what of me?”
“What about you? Nobody here has ever seen you; they don't know that you're not really Monsieur Archambeau's widowed daughter.”
“Daughter.” She scoffed. “You really think they'll believe I'm your daughter?”
“I'll make them.” And then I'll hand select one to propose marriage to you.
“You're rather confident in your skills, aren't you?”
Henry closed the box and put it back where he'd stored it so long ago. “Yes. I have to be. It's confidence that does the convincing. If one is sure of himself, he can convince anyone of anything.”
“And you think you can be that confident; to convince a room full of guests that you are not the young lad they've known their whole lives but a Frenchman at least twenty years my senior?”
“I've convinced them all of something far more ridiculous than that.” And he had. His face burned as memories of dressing up as everything from a penniless cotton farmer to a wealthy duke's daughter cycled through his head. After becoming an Agent of the Crown at eighteen, he'd had to play many roles, and acting as an older Frenchman for the evening would be one of the easier, more enjoyable ones.
“How old are you, if you don't mind my asking?”
&nb
sp; Her question caught him unawares. Why did his age matter? “A gentleman never reveals such.”
She swatted at him. “Yes, he does.”
“And will you tell me your age?”
Silence was his reply.
He chuckled. “I'm seven-and-twenty. Is that old enough for you?”
Sighing, she said, “It will suffice, I suppose.”
He grinned and shook his head. “I'm glad my age meets with your approval.”
“I actually thought you were a bit older.” She shifted in her seat and straightened her skirt. “You seem older.”
Henry didn't know why, but he had the strangest feeling that she'd just complimented him. She couldn't be older than four-and-twenty and to have already been married and widowed; she must have had quite a difficult life. He'd seen several portraits of her husband when he'd been in New York and guessed that had he lived, he'd be about Henry's age. Mentally, he did the math. If she was twenty-four and he'd met her five years ago, that'd make her widowed at around nineteen and married when she was seventeen or eighteen to a groom of about twenty. Unease and a touch of sympathy settled over him. Most boys of twenty weren't ready for the responsibility of becoming a husband. Of course, there were also seventy-year-old men who viewed fidelity as an afterthought, but to a twenty-year-old... Most that he'd met lived to get under a lady's skirt, no matter who she was, and having a wife wouldn't deter them from seeking the company of others.
Instinctively, he pulled her closer to him. Fidelity. That was another characteristic he'd have to make sure any gentlemen he found tonight would be capable of. She deserved nothing less.
The carriage came to a stop and laughter and talking filled the air. “We're here.”
Laura pulled away and gathered her reticule and fan. “I forgot to ask. Who am I supposed to be?”
“You are to be my shy daughter. Try not to speak too much or you'll give yourself away with your thick American accent, Madame Le Fleur.”
~Chapter Twelve~
Laura was impressed.
Though why, she didn't know.
She'd witnessed him and his brother Elijah pretending to be wealthy businessmen from Philadelphia for six weeks before she'd learned their true identity. But that was different. They'd practically acted as themselves and only lied about their names and the amount of money they were in possession of. This time, he had an accent and a disguise. He'd even managed a slight limp, which was a good thing, because just walking with a walking stick when one didn't need it, looked absolutely ridiculous. At least to her mind; however, looking around her, she was quickly learning she was in the minority as all the gentlemen, no matter their age or ability, carried them. Ridiculous.