by Sara Portman
She wished she could allow herself to be convinced by his words, moved by the power in them to forget every rational objection, but she could not be so selfish. After all that Michael had done for her, she could not. The only thing he had ever asked of her from the very beginning was that she not interfere with his plans—his chance to have something of his own. He had feared she would somehow find a way to keep him from getting the thing he wanted most and he had been right . He was offering to toss it away for her. She could not let him do it. It would be his greatest regret and hers.
Tears formed in her eyes amidst her denials and he must have thought she was going mad.
“Don’t you see, Juliana?” He reached for her hands. “You are that person. Nothing else matters, so long as we are together. Everything that’s happened today has made that perfectly clear.” He peered at her and his pleading expression slowly killed the painful hammering in her heart until she was numb with grief and loss. “Clear to me, anyway,” he added. “Isn’t it clear to you?”
She looked down, avoiding his eyes, and heard him exhale as though she had struck him.
“Juliana,” he said one more time.
She brought a hand to her face and swiped clumsily at the tears. She inhaled deeply and blew the air out slowly. She lifted her eyes. “No, Michael,” she said, staring forward but not meeting his gaze. “I will not marry you. I told you before I mean to never marry and that was the truth. My feelings have not changed.”
Liar! Her feelings had not changed? She was unrecognizable from the woman who’d departed Beadwell, so altered was she by his entry into her life.
Michael closed his eyes and she watched her lie settle over him like a chill that no fire could warm.
Silently, Michael rose from the bed and pulled on his trousers. With unhurried and deliberate motions, he located his crumpled shirt, shook it out, and put it on. Once dressed, he looked back at her. She could only weep. In an action that felt irreversibly final to Juliana, Michael snuffed the candle and left the room.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“I have made a decision,” Michael announced to the marquess and marchioness at the breakfast table.
He’d risen early that morning. Denying the initial listlessness into which he’d awakened, he took a bracingly cool bath to start his day. He was not particularly hungry, but made his way to the breakfast room from habit, and the desire to speak to his father. He’d found both the marquess and the marchioness there, which was just as well. Better to address them both. He’d bid them good morning, filled a small plate for which he had little appetite, and seated himself at the table.
“In what regard?” his father asked in response to his announcement.
“In regard to Alexander.”
This drew their immediate curiosity. The marchioness lowered her cup to its saucer. The marquess leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest.
“I accept your terms,” Michael told him. “I will marry Miss Thatcher and I will serve as trustee for the marquessate until Alexander comes of age, provided Rose Hall is transferred to me as a wedding gift.” The words came more tersely than he’d intended, but they were well received despite his tone. The marquess began nodding as soon as the words ‘I accept’ had left Michael’s lips.
“That is good news,” the marquess said, clapping his hands on the table top. A footman started forward from the corner of the room, unsure if the motion was a summons. Michael shook his head to send him back to his post. “Come to my study this afternoon and we shall manage the details.” the old man said, smiling. “We should invite Thatcher and his daughter to dine again,” he directed the marchioness.
She’d been quiet since Michael’s announcement. She studied him and he waited, unsure what she thought to find. “Perhaps in a few days would be a better time,” she said finally.
“No point in waiting,” the marquess insisted. “It’s not as though we’re rushing things. Thatcher is expecting a proposal. It’s already been discussed.”
The marchioness was unruffled by her husband’s impatience. “Still, I think not this evening.”
The marchioness was trying to avoid having both Miss Crawford and Miss Thatcher together at dinner. Michael was able to solve that dilemma easily. “If you are thinking of Miss Crawford, you should know she will be leaving today.”
“Will she?” The marchioness lifted a delicate brow. “Where will she be going?”
In truth, the answer to that question was no longer Michael’s concern, but he’d assumed she would go to Mrs. Brantwood’s house. “To a friend,” he said. He would speak to Juliana after breakfast. He would calmly inform her that she would be better to stay elsewhere, just as she had calmly informed him that her feelings had not changed.
“I see,” the marchioness said, still studying him.
She could stare all she wanted and conclude whatever she wanted. Michael had said what he had come to say.
How trivial everything seemed all of a sudden. He rose. “Invite Miss Thatcher for this evening and I will propose tonight. I agree with father. There is no reason to delay.”
He left then, leaving his father to his victory and the marchioness to her curiosity.
* * * *
Michael found Albert in the mews behind the house. A carriage had been readied and a pair of horses already hitched. Albert was bent over brushing one of them down.
Good, Michael thought. All the better that he was waiting and ready.
“Morning,” Albert said, glancing up from brushing the horse’s flank as Michael approached.
“Good morning, Albert. I have an errand for you today.”
Albert continued brushing. “What is that, sir?”
“Miss Crawford will be leaving. She will need to be delivered to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Brantwood. I believe she has the direction.”
Albert halted his task and faced Michael with an odd assessing expression. Was everyone determined to puzzle him out today? “You seem confused Albert,” he said, frustration clipping his tone. “I should think that a fairly simple instruction.”
Any other coachman would have accepted the rebuke, apologized, and gone about the task with extra haste. Albert did not. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and tilted his head to one side. “It would be simple,” he said, “if she were still here. Since she’s not, it’s a bit more complicated.”
Michael stiffened. She was already gone? No one had told him. She had not told him. Had she slipped away like some criminal in the predawn hours of the morning?
“When?” he asked.
“Just got back,” Albert said.
“Fine.” Michael nodded. “Thank you.” He returned to the house.
Very well. So it was done. Juliana Crawford was gone and his life would proceed as though he had never met her.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Michael went to his father’s study early that afternoon, eager to have the entire matter of his marriage and future settled and eager to know that Rose Hall would be his.
“Come in. Come in,” his father urged when he appeared in the doorway. “Sit.”
“I intend to depart for Rose Hall tomorrow,” Michael said as he sat, not seeing any reason to waste words on idle chatter when they were here for a specific purpose.
“Tomorrow?” his father echoed.
“I shall settle matters with Miss Thatcher this evening. I assume the wedding plans will require weeks, or even a few months. I will not remain in London during that time. I have matters that require my attention at Rose Hall, especially if I am to be there less often in the future.”
The marquess scoffed. “You can’t just propose and disappear, boy. How will that look for the bride? Ladies expect some courting and attention even after they’ve accepted you, you know.”
“Miss Thatcher did not seem particularly foolish to me. Sh
e is well aware of the reasons for our partnership. I will not disrespect her by falsely declaring I have developed an undying devotion to her over a single meal and an aborted ride in the park.” As soon as the words were out, Michael heard the parallel in them. How long had he known Juliana? Hadn’t he declared his undying devotion to her? In retrospect, it was foolish. She’d been right to refuse.
“I am adamant for tomorrow’s departure, Father,” he said. “Let us discuss the other arrangements.”
His father opened his mouth to speak but shut it again, looking beyond Michael’s shoulder. Michael turned to look as well. The marchioness had entered, sailing into the room with an air of great import.
“How convenient that you are together,” she said, clapping her hands together. “There is a matter I wish to discuss.”
The marquess looked to her and sighed heavily. “Can it wait, dear? We were discussing another matter, just now.” He gave her a significant look, clearly meant to suggest that she should know what other matter he referenced.
“That is precisely the matter I wish to discuss.”
The marquess registered surprise, but indicated the chair next to Michael. “Then by all means, join us.”
“Thank you.” She sat and turned to Michael, reaching out to lay her hand over his. “Michael, dear, I know what he asks of you—for Alexander—is horribly unfair. Not only will you not inherit, despite the fact that you are the first son, but now you are asked to become caretaker of the inheritance you shall not have, only to turn it over to Alexander’s care when he comes of age. I told your father it was too much to ask.”
The marquess coughed. “You could not be my heir, but you have always been my son, Michael, and I have always been proud of you.”
“Thank you,” Michael said, appreciative of their recognition, at least. “But I have agreed to this arrangement and I will honor my word.”
“I expected you would,” the marchioness said. “That is not the bit I wish to address.”
“What is the bit you wish to address?” the marquess blustered.
“Miss Thatcher,” she said.
“What about her?” father asked.
“Michael can’t marry her.”
Father’s fist pounded the desk. “Why the devil not?”
“Oh Edward!” she cried, spreading her hands wide. “He is clearly in love with Miss Crawford. Any fool can see that.”
The marquess looked in surprise at his wife who had, in essence, just called him a fool.
The marchioness was not a fool. In fact, she was more perceptive than Michael realized, but she had failed to learn one very important point in the matter of Miss Crawford.
“She doesn’t want to marry me,” Michael said.
Both of the others looked at him.
The marchioness rolled her eyes. “Of course she does. Any fool could see that.” She cut Michael a look indicating that he was now the one with questionable intelligence.
Michael straightened in his chair, finding this conversation not entirely comfortable. “She has already refused me.”
“You proposed marriage to the girl?” the marquess asked, throwing his hands up in exasperation.
Ignoring her husband, the marchioness tilted away in surprise. “Has she?”
“Yes.”
She considered, perplexed for a moment then asked, “Does she know of your father’s arrangement?”
“Yes.”
“Ah,” she said, nodding happily. “There it is. She loves you more than I thought.” She patted his hand again. “I’m very happy for you, Michael.”
He peered at her. Was she daft? “I’m afraid I don’t follow, ma’am.”
The marchioness gave a delicate shrug. “It’s obvious she is refusing you because she knows you must choose between her and all the rest of it—your father, your brother, Brinn Abbey, Rose Hall.”
Could she be correct? Juliana said she didn’t want to marry. She said she didn’t belong at Rose Hall. Had she meant that she didn’t belong there because she prevented Michael from having it? Could she truly love him so much that she refused to marry him only to be self-sacrificing?
Damn it. He could believe it of her. That was precisely the sort of thing she might do.
The marchioness turned to her husband and tapped one fingertip to her chin. “Now if only he could have all of those things and Miss Crawford,” she mused.
The marquess threw up his hands. “The settlement from Thatcher was to be for you and Alexander, to make sure you’re taken care of after I’m gone,” he blustered.
The marchioness rose and rounded the desk to where her husband sat. She bent and placed a kiss on the top of his head. “We shall be well taken care of without Miss Thatcher’s fortune, darling. Michael will see to it.” She smiled across at him. “Won’t you Michael?”
“I will, ma’am.” He would. He could. He had meant what he said to Juliana. He didn’t care if their lives were spent at Rose Hall or Brinn Abbey, or a tiny stone cookhouse in the middle of the Derbyshire countryside. He wanted to spend his life with her and if he needed to manage two estates and an underage marquess to do it, he would. He would manage the whole damned country if he needed to. He turned to his father. “I promise, I will care for your family,”—he looked to the marchioness—“my family,” he amended, “after you are gone. You have my word.”
The marquess sighed. “It will be more difficult. There is work to be done, improvements to be made. Those will have to come slowly without the settlement. You will have a challenge on your hands, Michael.”
“I accept it, Father.” The weight in his chest began to shift. It was no longer resignation. As he sat and listened to the marchioness it had become a burning need to know the truth. If Juliana had refused him to save his dream of Rose Hall, if she did love him after all—he needed to know immediately. The answer to that question became more important than all other things. “I need to find Juliana,” he said, stupidly, as though they all did not already know it.
The marquess sipped his whiskey then shook his head. “I believe this should make our evening dinner plans decidedly uncomfortable,” he said to the marchioness.
His wife smiled. “I’ve made no arrangements for dinner, dear.”
Michael stared at them both then abruptly stood. “Excuse me,” he said and left with no other explanation, knowing the reason was fairly obvious.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Albert took Michael to the address to which he’d delivered Miss Crawford early that morning. Michael darted out of the carriage before it fully stopped, disregarding the pain in his leg at his hard landing, and raced up the steps. He rapped upon the black painted front door.
Despite his urgency, the door opened slowly. It eventually revealed a pinch-faced woman with hair scraped severely back into a white lace cap. She glared at him as though he’d offended her by simply appearing at her employer’s doorstep.
“Is Mrs. Brantwood at home?” he asked the sour-faced housekeeper. “I’m here to call upon her guest, Miss Crawford. She arrived this morning.”
She stared a moment then said, “I don’t allow gentleman callers,” and began to shut the door.
What the devil…?
He reached his hand out and stopped the door before it shut. Shock crossed her expression briefly then narrowed into a glare. “Go cause your trouble somewhere else.”
She wasn’t going to let him in? Like hell, she wasn’t. “Where is your employer? I demand to speak to Mr. or Mrs. Brantwood.”
“You’re at the wrong house. I’m the proprietress here. Kindly remove your hand from my door and be on your way.” There was nothing kind about her request.
Wrong house? He looked back at Albert, seated in the coachman’s box, settling the horses as they stood in the street. Proprietress?
It hit him then. “Are you Mrs. S
tone?”
“I am,” she said it as a dare. Of course. She’d gone to the boarding house. Michael changed tack. He steadied his voice and gave a reassuring smile. “I am very sorry, madame. I was confused, but I understand now. I am here to see a woman who is staying here. A Miss Crawford.”
She eyed his hand still on the door. He removed it.
“I don’t allow gentleman callers.”
Frustration roared within him, but he worked to keep his tone conciliatory. “This is very important. I must speak with her.”
“She knows the rules here. You can’t come in.”
“Then send her out,” he blurted, unable to rein his frustration any longer.
“The front step is no better than the front parlor. The rule is firm.”
“Mrs. Stone, please be reasonable. I have to see her. She is going to be my wife.”
This declaration did nothing to budge the stubborn woman. “If that’s the case, she will know where to find you, but you’ll not come courting here, do you understand?”
My God, he wanted to shake her. He was so close. Juliana was in there somewhere and he had to know what she was thinking. If the marchioness was correct, she was as devastated as he. He had to get to her. “Mrs. Stone,” he began again.
He was cut off by a loud crash from inside the house that sounded distinctly like a large item breaking.
Mrs. Stone’s eyes widened at the sound. She looked over her shoulder toward a place he couldn’t see.
“Mrs. Stone, come quickly,” a female voice called from behind her.
She turned back to Michael. “Good day, sir,” she said forcefully, and shut the door in his face.
Damn it.
He raised his fist to knock again, already preparing to shove her aside and tear the house apart until he found Juliana. To hell with the bloody rules.
His fist never met the door. It flung open. Mrs. Stone was gone and in her place was a buxom young woman with dark hair and even darker eyes. She grabbed his coat sleeve and tugged him inside. “You’ll have to hurry,” she whispered forcefully. “The vase didn’t shatter as badly as I’d hoped, so it won’t take long to pick up the pieces.” She pulled him toward the staircase. “Second floor. Last room on the right.”