A Novella Collection

by Theresa Romain

  “Hmm?” With a forearm, Nicholas shoved back his hair and rubbed perspiration away. The room was warm. His thin linen shirt was sticking to his skin. “Figurative?” What was the man getting at? Here he was, peacefully punching this sandbag, so to speak. Hardly looking for advice.

  The older man began easing the wrappings from his fists. “You could do much, Your Grace, with the respect others lend you.”

  Nicholas bristled. “I have always—”

  “But you fight more than you realize. Is insulting a well-meaning widow in her own home a worthy battle?”

  Thump. He smashed his fist hard into the sandbag, sending it careening in a crazy direction. “You refer to Lady Frederick, I suppose?”

  Killian unwound and re-rolled his mufflers with great concentration, ignoring the sway of the weighted bag inches from his face. “I was in attendance at her recent card party. Her ladyship is not the silent sort.”

  Nicholas set his jaw. “I merely reminded her that Catholics continue to be excluded from Parliament—an issue over which England lost the best prime minister it ever had.”

  “I have enormous respect for Pitt,” Killian replied, “but he couldn’t convince the king to accept Catholics. So Pitt resigned on principle, and now Addington leads. Was that right?”

  “For him to resign on principle?” Nicholas let the bag swing back toward him without hitting it. “I believe so. Though the question is a valid one.” Over a matter of principle, the Whig prime minister stepped down—thus handing a seat of power to the other party.

  They lost more than they gained. Principle was well and good, but one couldn’t effect change from the outside.

  Killian’s question about Lady Frederick was valid too. She was on the outside, more voiceless as a woman than even Ireland’s Catholic lords. Nicholas was a duke, and he could do whatever he damned well wanted to—but he had a conscience, and what he’d wanted to do then, scoring a point off his hostess when he was in a sour mood, hadn’t been right.

  Maybe that was part of what had felt wrong about this week too.

  “You are most illuminating, Lord Killian.” Nicholas rubbed the sore knuckles of his right hand.

  The Irishman’s square face broke into a smile. “Am I? All I did was hit a sandbag.”

  Nicholas inclined his head. “May we meet over an obliging sandbag again, my lord.”

  “I am sure we will, Your Grace. And I shall see you in Parliament on Monday.”

  Two days away. The time seemed long.

  A week ago he had slept well, on that narrow sofa in the front parlor of his mother’s house, as Ellie’s playing lullabied him. Now he had too many thoughts; his head was in a clamor. Punching a bag of sand was good for the muscles of his arms, but it had little other effect.

  Maybe Ellie would play for him again. Oh—no, they were supposed to attend a ball together tonight. He’d promised Miss Lewis the first dance.

  The music in a ballroom was never as pleasant as that of a pianoforte played by a friend.

  Bidding Jackson a farewell, he exchanged the light-soled shoes used in the saloon for his usual top boots, then reassembled his clothing. Back to Hampshire House for a bath, a few hours of working at correspondence and legislation, then he would retrieve Ellie in his carriage.

  What would she think of his swollen knuckles? Of his sleeplessness, if she knew of it?

  Whatever she thought, she would tell him. And she wouldn’t let him slip away from the conversation. She’d look at him with that “you are uttering foolishness” gaze of hers. He had twitted her about it, but it was one of his favorite expressions on one of his favorite faces in the world. It was so damned honest.

  As he pushed open the door and stepped out into the afternoon sunlight on Bond Street, he decided: he was going to ice his knuckles once home.

  But before then, he had a few flowers to purchase.

  * * *

  Everything Eleanor had packed at Athelney Place was now flung about her bedchamber in the Duchess of Hampshire’s house. The red silk bedcovers were hidden under gowns. The large, expensive carpet was patterned with shoes. The bed’s heavy gold draperies, hanging from the tester, had been bunched and shoved back, and the similarly gold-upholstered wing chair before the fireplace was bedecked with shawls and stockings.

  Sarah Darling, Eleanor’s lady’s maid, stood amidst the chaos with hands on her hips. “It’s no good,” she proclaimed. “None of it.”

  “The gold shawl from Sidney is quite nice.” Snatching it up from the tall back of the chair, Eleanor clutched it close.

  “Oh, all right.” Sarah, a few years Ellie’s junior, had a stubborn chin and equally stubborn ideas about how her ladyship ought to be dressed. “Since it’s not black or gray, it’ll do.”

  So much of her clothing was black and gray, though.

  With one of those grand balls in which the ton delighted only a few hours ahead, Eleanor was taking a determined inventory of her possessions. Each one represented an investment—of money, of attention, of the modiste’s time.

  When Palmer ran through her dowry within the first year of their marriage, Eleanor had stopped discarding anything. Every penny must be pinched until it squealed, every item used and turned and used yet more.

  The more careful she became, the more Palmer had laughed and teased her—and gone on spending. Not on things that could have made their lives easier, such as wages for another housemaid, or bespoke boots that didn’t pinch Eleanor’s toes. No, it went to wagers on games of chance, and gold snuffboxes, and the sort of fashionable nonsense that made a good show to others.

  The employment of Sarah had been just such a good-show gesture, or so Palmer regarded it. A lady, he thought, ought to have a lady’s maid. But Sarah was far more than that; she was a support and voice of reason as Eleanor’s husband became increasingly erratic. With Sarah’s help, Eleanor could make a decent show with last year’s gowns and bonnets, turned and retrimmed, and turned again the following year. No one needed to know, save the two of them, how difficult things had become.

  When Palmer died, his debts fell to his nearest male relatives, and Eleanor had no more tie to them. But she had little else, either. Sidney and Mariah gave her house-room, but she was too proud at the time to ask for more than that. So the twice-turned gowns were dyed inky black. After a year’s mourning, they had faded. Some were dyed again in grays and lavenders—wan colors for a widow’s half-lived life.

  That wasn’t the sort of life she wanted.

  Why had she kept all her worn-out, unwanted things since Palmer’s death? Lack of trust, maybe, that she wouldn’t become impoverished again. The fear seemed ludicrous, now that she stood at the center of a duchess’s bedchamber, with silk-covered walls and gilt and crystal all about.

  She could always have come here, could she not? She could have always asked Sidney for help, or Nicholas. But they hadn’t wanted her to marry Palmer—he’s not good enough for you, they had said—and she would have choked to death on her pride rather than swallow it. Much good had that done her.

  Much good was any of this now. She didn’t want to wear them, these blacks and grays, the lavender of half-mourning. The secondhand slippers that had never quite fit right. The ones that had, that she’d worn until the soles were thinned to nothing.

  “You are right, Sarah,” she decided. “Not much of this can be saved. Though the blue gown is all right, and the drab will do for day.”

  “Only until you can have more clothing made.” Sarah folded her arms.

  Eleanor wasn’t going to argue with that. Who would want to spend her life wearing a color called drab?

  She set aside the pieces she wanted—or couldn’t afford to dispose of yet. The plain shifts, the coarse stockings. More happily, there was the gold shawl and the other one Nicholas had folded, still in its tidy triangle. The blue gown she had worn to Lady Frederick’s house. It was plain, but she had felt pretty in it.

 
“Sarah, I won’t keep the rest of this. Have what you like of it, then take the remainder to a used-clothing shop.”

  She was not going to hold on to her life with Palmer anymore, in any way.

  But what would she wear to the ball at Devonshire House that night? Like the ash-covered Cendrillon of the old French tale, she owned nothing suitable. She would need the intercession of a wise fairy or a magical dove. Or a sister-in-law.

  Clearly, it was time to call on Mariah.

  * * *

  “You would look beautiful in the black and white one, I think.” From her bed, the young marchioness regarded the two gowns Eleanor held up. “The fabric is so light, you’ll feel like you’re floating when you dance.”

  The gown was elegant, undeniably, of petal-delicate layers of white edged in thick, stark black ribbon. But. “I would rather wear something more colorful,” she told her sister-in-law.

  “Then you’d best go with the darker purple, though it’s not quite as formal. If you bind up your hair in golden fillets, though—oh, Sarah could work a wonder with that.” Mariah adjusted the posture of the sleeping baby in her arms, a considering expression on her pleasant face. “She’ll have to baste the seams too, or the bodice will be loose on you.”

  This was true. Mariah was a little taller than Eleanor and sweetly plump. “Sarah is quick as a piston when she bastes. It will be fine. Really, I can’t thank you enough for lending me your pretty things.”

  “All in the name of family goodwill.” Mariah grinned. “And romance, perhaps?”

  Eleanor had known Mariah before Sidney had. Seven years younger than she—a scant twenty-three—Mariah was the only child of wealthy and ambitious parents. By the time she made her debut, Eleanor was clinging to the edges of the ton, respectable but with pockets entirely to let. At those edges, the long-suffering wife and the cit’s daughter had met. It had been friendship at first sight.

  When Sidney met Mariah and encountered her ever-ready smile, he fell in deep and delighted love. Now, four years after their marriage, they had a lovely little nocturnal son.

  “Let me borrow Siddy from you.” Eleanor laid the two gowns at the foot of the bed, then made a gentle cradle of her arms for the sleeping baby. “How are you feeling, Mariah? Ready to be up and about?”

  The younger woman stretched her arms, rolling her wrists in a circle. “Oof, he’s getting heavy, isn’t he? Yes, I’m ready to be up. Three weeks of beef tea and novels have me set for months to come. I’m craving archery and a long walk through Hyde Park.”

  Eleanor held one hand beneath the baby’s bottom, one hand at his back. This let his little head nestle into the curve of her shoulder. She inhaled the scent of him: clean cloth, a milky mouth, and the addictive warm scent of new-baby skin. “I’ll stay with him. Go shoot a target full of arrows.”

  Mariah laughed. “As if your brother hasn’t engaged the city’s finest nurse and nanny to watch over the baby in our absence?”

  “Of course he has. Sidney has never been one to settle for a single plan when two or three, all implemented at once, would do as well.” Cautious and caring, that was her brother.

  It was too easy for her voice to take on an envious edge, and she snuggled the baby more tightly to settle herself. Palmer had never planned anything; he had blamed Eleanor for their childlessness. He probably wouldn’t have been a caring father, but he would have been an entertaining one.

  Ah, well. She could plan as well as her brother could. As Mariah swung her feet over the edge of the bed and padded about the room in a dressing robe, collecting accessories and jewelry, Eleanor described the progress of her courtship—if it was a courtship?—with Lord Barberry.

  Mariah held up a garnet earbob, considering, then returned it to her jewel box. “If you’ve seen him every day, then it sounds like a courtship to me.”

  “I’ve seen Nicholas every day too.” Her cheeks heated, but Mariah didn’t appear to notice.

  “Yes, well, he’s part of the family. That’s to be expected, isn’t it?”

  Yes, yes, it was to be expected. Eleanor was being silly. “I could probably convince Lord Barberry to love me, if I bent my efforts and will to the matter. But could I do the same for him?”

  “You’ll never know unless you pursue the matter.” Turning to face Eleanor, Mariah held up two fans. “Do you like the one of carved ebony, or the one with the painting?”

  “Ebony, I think.” Eleanor crossed to her to eye the delicate fan more closely. “He always asks about my new pianoforte when I see him.”

  “Lord Barberry?” Mariah’s brow puckered. “Oh, no—you mean Nicholas!” She grinned. “What a good gift that was. And how sly you were! All the time you were living here, you never touched the pianoforte. I didn’t even realize you were musical.”

  “It wasn’t mine to play.” How could she explain to Mariah? Her own instrument had been sold by Palmer, so she oughtn’t to get too attached to anyone else’s. After all, she had married Palmer against Sidney’s advice, against Nicholas’s. Had she the right to feel joy?

  And yet…a sensible life did not have to be a joyless one. She must remember that. If not playing the pianoforte had been a penance, then surely a benediction had arrived in the form of a wood and string and ivory creation by John Broadwood.

  Nicholas had wanted her to have a gift she adored. That was the word he had used: adore.

  Nestled against her shoulder, the sleeping viscount wiggled his peach-fuzz head.

  “You seem,” said Mariah, “to enjoy talking about the pianoforte rather more than you like talking about Lord Barberry.”

  “Only one of them is entirely mine at this point in time,” Eleanor quipped.

  Without waking, the baby let out a surprising burst of flatulence.

  Her sister-in-law smiled, but there was a knowing look in her eye. “Paste jewelry won’t do for tonight, if you intend to take possession of someone. We shall have to get out the jewel case.”

  * * *

  She was resplendent. Not that Nicholas could tell her that.

  “You look very nice, Ellie.”

  In the dim light that remained at the end of sunset, he could read her wry expression. “Are you certain of that? Doesn’t my hair look strange?”

  “Since you mentioned it, no, it does not.” It was bound up in some sort of Grecian-looking pile, banded with gold ribbons that allowed curls to twine around her face and spill onto her neck. “You look very Ellie-ish, and very nice. May I hand you down?”

  They had arrived at Devonshire House, and a servant had opened the door of Nicholas’s carriage. He dismounted, cursing the slick soles of his formal dancing shoes, then helped Ellie to clamber down as well. Her gold heeled slippers looked precarious on the steps, but she collected her trailing skirts and hopped to the ground without mishap.

  Nicholas retrieved his assortment of flowers, then bade the carriage leave them. He offered Ellie an arm, and together they approached the endless steps upward to the grand entrance of the mansion. Torches split the falling twilight; light poured from the windows of the main floor.

  Like Hampshire House, Devonshire House was a palace in all but name. Flat and plain on the outside, inside it was a glittering show of gilt and crystal, of candles and marble. But to reach that, one had to mount two stories’ worth of steep stone steps, which were wet from recent rain.

  “You look like a hothouse,” Ellie observed as they climbed, following a group of richly dressed nobles. “What do you intend to do with all those flowers? Please don’t think I’m angling for one. I’m only curious.”

  He paused, one foot raised to the next step, and drew a posy of red roses from the mass in his arms. “Here, you must take these. The smell of all these flowers together is going to make me faint.”

  “Ah, so I’m taking them as a good deed?” Her eyes crinkled at the corners.

  “That, and I know you like them. I wanted to give you something you would like.�
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  She took the roses in her satin-gloved hand, brow puckered. “As if a pianoforte is not enough?”

  “But it’s not, is it? If it were all you wanted in this world, you’d be happier.”

  “I’m…” Perfectly happy, he could almost hear her say, but she closed off the sentence. “The pink rosebuds must be for Miss Lewis?”

  “Horribly uncreative of me. I got the idea from Lord Barberry.”

  Her mouth pursed with humor. “And who are the white tulips for?”

  The flower of forgiveness—and not a commonly cultivated color. He had paid a small fortune for them. “Lady Frederick, if she’ll accept them. I was a bit of a boor at her house.”

  “She will accept them.” Ellie took up her train in her free hand and mounted another step. “People will take anything from a duke.”

  He hastened to catch up. “I don’t want her to take them only because she feels obligated.”

  “Sorry, I don’t know how to help you with that. You love flinging your title around, so no one can forget about it.”

  She sounded annoyed. But why? “Ellie. Wait.”

  She halted, one step above him, and turned. The line of her neck was strikingly graceful.

  “Ellie.” He fumbled for words. “I do…do what I wish, usually. But I greatly value the times when you tell me what I wish is stupid.”

  For a moment, she was silent—then she laughed, her face a sunbeam backed by the purple of nightfall. “I shall happily tell you that anytime the occasion arises, Nicholas.”

  “Why do you always call me Nicholas?” he asked.

  She smiled. “Sometimes I call you ‘Your Grace.’”

  He climbed a step to stand at her side. “No, I mean—your brother always calls me Nick, and he and I always call you Ellie. But you call me Nicholas.”

  “Oh.” She looked abashed. With her gloved fingertips, she touched her lips. “It started when we were much younger. I didn’t want to call you the same thing Sidney called you. Because I didn’t want you to see me the same way.”

  “How so?”

  “As only a friend.” She wasn’t quite looking at him. “It was…girlish infatuation.”