by Cach, Lisa
"Mrs. Highcroft is going to see if she cannot force him to attend the Atherton ball on Friday. Can I tell her that you will be there, and will try to talk to Charles?"
Evelina nodded, fragile hope beating in her chest.
Mama picked up a lock of her hair, rubbing it between her fingers. "We'll try lemon juice and sitting in a sunny window. Three days of that, and there should be not a hint of green left."
Evelina managed a fragile smile. "Maybe, Mama."
Charles brushed Desert Rose and told himself he was not going to take Evelina's watercolor out of his jacket pocket again. He was not going to stand there mooning over it for half an hour, trying to match the happiness she had painted into his eyes with the emptiness he knew was there now. He was going to throw the damn thing away. He was.
He set down the brush and took the folded picture out of his pocket. He had better look at it once more before burning it.
A twinge of pain went through his heart. Who but Miss Johnson would ever have made him look so colorful? So alive?
With the pain came the doubts that had been hounding him since the Wetherby assembly, and since he had confronted Evelina.
There was no question that she had kissed more than half a dozen men, with apparently little feeling for them personally. Was it possible, though, that with him she had cared? He could not forget one of her parting comments, about how she had thought she had feelings for him.
The laughter of his friends had been too fresh in his ears, though, for him to listen, as had been the sight of her dancing and flirting with another.
But what was a single dance and the tap of a fan? In truth, it was of no consequence. And what should it matter if others laughed at him for his choice of mate, so long as he was happy?
Evelina had been right when she had made those comments about his clothing. He hid by wearing them. He had been a coward, in that and with her, and he deserved every bit of misery he felt.
A wave of utter sadness washed over him for what he had lost. He was alone now, and the company of horses could not fill the emptiness. He had spoiled his one chance at a future with a cheerful, warmhearted woman who might have been as fond of him as he was of her, and he had hurt her in the process. She probably hated him now.
"Charles? Are you in here?" his mother called from down the center aisle of the stables.
With flush of panic, he stuffed the picture back into his pocket and picked up the horse brush. "Here."
His mother approached in her characteristic stance, her back stiff as steel stays, her nose held high as if she were above her surroundings. She would be horrified if she knew he had fallen in love with Evelina.
"What are you doing in here?" she asked. "Why have you not been spending time with Miss Johnson? I want an answer this time."
"She has not expressed any wish to go out."
"Since when does a man wait on a woman's invitation? Really, Charles, I had thought you had come further along than that."
He said nothing.
She sniffed. "Regardless. Evelina is in need of your steadying presence. Mrs. Johnson tells me that she has been lolling about like a drunk cook at the end of a banquet–where she gets these images, I do not care to know–and she fears the girl may have had the bad sense to fall in love with someone inappropriate. You know how girls can get. They know no moderation, and one begins to fear they will make themselves ill with their emotions."
"Evelina is in love with someone?"
"That is what Mrs. Johnson fears. Would you happen to know who? You have been by her side, and surely must have seen who it was who caught her fancy."
He shrugged, and tried to hide a sudden spark of hope that all might not be lost, after all.
"Mrs. Johnson is going to persuade her to go to the Atherton ball, and asks that you try to speak with her. Mrs. Johnson feels Evelina may listen to your good sense, whereas she rejects it from her mother. Would you consider going?"
"Of course," he said, trying to sound like it was imposition. Inside, however, he was rejoicing. He had a second chance! Evelina might hate him, but maybe... just maybe it was the opposite that she felt.
His mother blinked at him in wary surprise. "You’ll go? Willingly?"
"I can surely bear a ball for the sake of helping a friend. If I must. These are the burdens of friendship."
"Ah. Well. Mrs. Johnson will be glad to hear it." She was still looking at him as if she could not quite believe he was her son.
He decided to befuddle her completely. "I'm not certain I have anything fine enough to wear. Might I borrow something of Papa's, and a wig?"
She made a little noise in the back of her throat, her mouth an O of astonishment. “A wig?” she whispered, which was all the warning he had before she fainted.
Chapter Seven
Evelina rose on tiptoe, searching the crowded ballroom for a head of dark hair and a mud-brown coat. She saw no sign of Charles amidst the sea of white, bewigged male heads and colorful clothing, and rested back on her heels with a sigh of frustration. Perhaps he had not come after all.
She was caught between relief and disappointment, her stomach churning with a mix of anxiety and hopeful expectation. Over the past three days she had tried—and failed—to think of what she could say to clean up the mess between them. In the end she had chosen to speak without words, and to hope that when he saw her he would understand what she was saying.
She wore only the barest hint of makeup, invisible to an inexpert eye: a faint touch of color on her lips, a slight darkening on her lashes from the lead comb, the tiniest bit of powder on her nose to dull the shine. Her hair was its natural hue of golden brown, made somewhat more golden by the days in front of the window with lemon juice; a small bunch of fresh flowers was nestled in the arrangement, and their perfume was the only one she wore.
Her gown was of soft pink and cream with silver lace, her hoops the smallest pair she owned. Her brocade shoes did have paste-diamond buckles over the instep, but as they were down on her feet and almost hidden by her skirts, she didn't think they would count against her. They were the only buckles that matched the shoes and gown, and a girl had to have the right footwear if she was to maintain her confidence.
A tall man in turquoise velvet stopped a few feet from her, and scanned the crowd much as she had done, his posture denoting his frustration. He was wearing a white wig with a roll over either ear and a long tail down the back wrapped in black ribbon. She had the feeling she might have met him before, but for the life of her she could not place where.
Then, as if sensing her eyes upon him, he turned and locked gazes with her. The blue-green eyes that stared into hers could belong to only one person: Charles.
Her lips parted, but no sound emerged.
He blinked at her, and then his eyes widened in startled recognition, his gaze going from hair to face to dress, and back up again.
For a moment she thought that maybe he was dressed this way for someone else, that his supposed melancholy had nothing to do with her, that, indeed, he had dressed how she had always suggested in order to spite her, now that he was lost to her.
"Evelina?" he asked softly. The cautious hope in his voice encouraged her.
"Charles?"
A new dance was called, and Charles lifted his gloved hand in invitation.
"You can dance?" she asked. She knew there was much she needed to say, and much she needed to know about his feelings, but the dance floor was waiting and he was looking both handsome and unknown in his finery and wig.
"I was forced to learn, and I learned quickly—the more quickly to escape the lessons."
She smiled tentatively and laid her hand on his, and let him lead her out onto the floor and into position with the others. The music started, and he went flawlessly through the moves as they changed partners, touched hands, circled, and turned.
Colors and changing faces, notes of music, scents of bodies and perfumes, and the light of chandeliers swirled around her. At their ce
nter was always his face, with the intense blue-green eyes that held hers with a promise of touches more intimate than kisses.
She felt drunk and bewildered, although she'd had nothing to drink. She was floating and dizzy, her heart racing, and it all seemed a dream. She was afraid to trust that she might have a second chance, and he looked too different from the Charles to whom she was accustomed to believe it was him, and that she was awake and this was real.
When the dance ended he looked around, then led her off to one end of the floor and through the pillared archways of a gallery, where a thinner press of guests milled, observing the dancing. He pulled her to one end, where a pillar and the wall afforded a modicum of privacy.
"Charles, is it truly you?" She reached up and traced her fingertips lightly over his face, disbelieving, and afraid to hope.
He grasped her hand and kissed her palm. "As much as it is you I see before me. Golden brown hair. I never knew!"
"Do you forgive me, then?” she begged, her heart crushing at the thought that he might not. “I am so sorry for the things I said, and for flirting with that boy."
"Shhh, you are not the one who needs to beg forgiveness." He kissed the backs of her fingers. "I was the one who behaved unfairly. I was the coward that you accused me of being, and hurt you in my foolishness. Do you forgive me?"
"How could I not?” she cried. “It would be wounding my own heart not to do so!"
His grip on her hand tightened. "Then you do care for me?"
She nodded, her throat too tight with emotion to speak.
"Enough that you will come away with me, now, tonight, so that we may be married?"
"Elope?" Her heart thundered in her chest.
"I will not wait on the consent of parents. Let us present them with a fait accompli, and they may do with it what they will. I want you to be my wife, and to be by my side through all my days. I cannot imagine any happiness to be had without you."
"In a thousand years I could find no man I would rather have as my husband," she said, against the tears tight in her throat.
He released her hand and lightly laid his palms against either side of her head, tilting up her face. His chest and shoulders blocked out sight of all but him, and then he bent down his head, and her eyes closed against the nearness of his image, a delicious shiver running through her as she felt the warmth of the air between them, and the soft moistness of his breath against her skin. She felt weak, and clung to his coat, her fingers digging into the velvet.
And then he kissed her.
Liquid heat poured through her and pooled in her loins at the first touch of his lips against her own. He pressed more firmly, and her legs lost their strength, forcing him to wrap one arm around her waist and pull her up against him. She felt his thigh against the mound of her sex, and a moan started deep in her throat, beyond her control.
It had never been like this with any of the others. Her desires for them had been as small and quickly dying as a spark from a fire. Never had there been this soul-consuming yearning that made her want to become part of another, blending their bodies into one.
His lips parted, and she felt his tongue trace over the joining of her own lips. She let them open, and his tongue slipped inside, rubbing lightly against her own. She felt an echoing hunger between her legs, for an entry greater than this, and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, sucking his tongue deeper into her mouth and trying to take more of him than their clothing would permit.
Clapping and a whistle of appreciation broke them out of their web of desire. "Bravo, Highcroft! Marvelous performance! I wouldn't have thought you had it in you!"
They both turned to see Beauchamp standing in the shadows nearby, a smirk on his face. Evelina felt her stomach turn sour.
"Took what was owed you, you did!" Beauchamp leered. "And Miss Johnson, you are looking particularly lovely tonight. I don't suppose you'd care to put me back on your list of men to—"
Charles's fist knocked the rest of the words from his mouth. As Beauchamp's hands went up to his face, Charles punched him in his unprotected gut. Beauchamp doubled over, and a double-fisted thump on the back of his shoulders sent him face-first to the floor.
An excited murmur went through the nearby guests, who had turned to watch. Evelina stared in shock from the fallen Beauchamp to Charles, who was breathing heavily and looked three times his previous size.
Beauchamp groaned on the floor, a smear of blood beneath him.
"So help me God, if I ever hear Miss Johnson's name on your lips again, I will geld you like a horse and stuff your jewels down your throat."
A few of the nearby men laughed nervously, and one unseen voice said, “About time Beauchamp got what he deserved.”
Charles grabbed Evelina’s hand and tugged her away from the scene, pushing his way through the gathering crowd and dragging her after him. "I have a carriage waiting. Let's be away before any think to stop us." And then, as if as an afterthought, he added, "Pardon my language back there."
"It is quite all right," she said, bemused, her shock replaced now by glee. "But you know, the fashionable way to settle a disagreement over a lady's honor is a duel, not fisticuffs."
He turned and gave her a dark look.
She grinned, joy rising up inside her. "But I find I am growing quite fond of the unfashionable. Quite fond indeed!"
Chapter Eight
Mrs. Johnson folded the letter she had just read aloud, set it beside her cup of chocolate, and smiled at Mrs. Highcroft. "They sound as if they are enjoying Scotland. I should think this is a lovely time of year to visit."
"I do not suppose they will be spending much time outside of their rooms," Mrs. Highcroft said, with such a bland expression that it took Mrs. Johnson several moments to realize that her friend had indeed just made a lewd remark.
"Dear me, no. What newlyweds do?" She giggled, covering her mouth with her hand as her false teeth shifted. "And perhaps they will enjoy those rooms for some time yet, as I believe they are half-afraid to return home."
Mrs. Highcroft's lips twitched in a contained smile. "We could have made a living on the stage, you and I. There were times I thought Charles fairly hated me. It was hard to say some of the things I had to."
"For me, as well... Although sometimes my greatest challenge was simply not to confess all. I do not know if Evelina would forgive me if she knew she had been so neatly herded to her chosen husband."
"Nor Charles." Mrs. Highcroft sighed. "I expect I shall have to play the slowly softening mama, rather than welcome them with open arms."
Mrs. Johnson sipped her chocolate, spilled a bit on her gown, and did not mind. She was feeling altogether too pleased with herself, with her cleverness, and with the fortune Charles Highcroft would inherit from his merchant father.
She looked over the rim of her cup at Mrs. Highcroft, wondering if her friend knew how very much in need of those funds the Johnsons were. Her friend would have a fit of the vapors if she knew she had been outfoxed!
"They shall live at Highcastle, of course," Mrs. Highcroft said.
Mrs. Johnson lowered her cup. "I beg your pardon? Evelina will inherit the Johnson lands and manor. Charles will need to live there to learn how to manage the estate."
"As you wish, my dear." And then, almost idly, "One day I suppose it will be known as the Highcroft estate, when Charles's children inherit in turn." Mrs. Highcroft's expression was one of quiet victory. "And no one will dare say they are the social-climbing offspring of a merchant!"
Mrs. Johnson sipped her chocolate, contemplated her new in-law, and sighed within the confines of her stays.
Back to Table of Contents
A Rose by Any Other Name
Chapter One
Seattle
Kelsey hid behind a goat and spied on her employee.
Plump, fifty-six-year old Bridget was being dusted with kisses by her husband. He pressed lips to Bridget’s eyelids as if he was worshipping an idol, both giving and rec
eiving blessings with his touch. He pressed his brow to hers, the two of them joined gazes, and the soft murmurs of their devotion drifted up the weedy slope to Kelsey.
Kelsey sniffled. It was the same routine every morning, corny and excessive and enough to make her sick with yearning for the same thing in her own life.
The goat, Little Bastard, said, “Nay.”
Kelsey wiped her nose on the back of her sleeve. “I can too have that,” she whispered. “Someday. If someone as weird as me exists, then there’s got to be an equally weird guy out there for me.”
“Nay.”
“Shut up. Stupid goat.”
Little Bastard narrowed his yellow eyes and abruptly moved away. Kelsey lost her balance and plopped onto her butt amidst the thorns of brambles, her yelp drawing the eyes of Bridget et homme. Bridget’s husband waved uncertainly. Bridget said something to him, and after one more doubting look up the slope to Kelsey he got back into his ancient, bumper-stickered Volvo and putt-putted off to work. Bridget waved until he was out of sight.
“I will find someone,” Kelsey whispered.
Little Bastard, whose tether had stopped him from completing his offended exit, stared at Kelsey over his shoulder.
“I will! He’ll be awkward and geeky, just like me. And shy.” She painted a mental portrait of her dream mate: pale, unmuscled, a look of concern in his eyes. She saw him in an old T-shirt, camping shorts, and Teva sandals, carrying a canvas grocery bag. They’d go to a farmers’ market, and then cook their squash and chard in the kitchen they’d built together out of recycled materials. And when the meal was over and the wine had been drunk – just one glass each, because they liked it for the taste, not the effect – they would slowly undress each other in the moonlight and he would trace his shaking fingertips over her breasts…