Lost In Love (Road To Forever Series #1)

by Louisa Cornell

  “Oh dear,” she said softly. “How on earth can a girl turn down a proposal like that?”

  Chapter Five

  The fire crackled cheerily in the hearth. The afternoon sun shone in the window, trailing the news evening was nearly at hand. Standing in that light, staring at him with that most wonderful of mixtures—laughter and tears—in her eyes, Adelaide Formsby-Smythe was the answer to every battlefield prayer he had ever prayed.

  “Dear God, just let me live.”

  He knew he must say something; if only to secure the answer he thought she had given. What words did one use when asking a mythical creature to grant one’s most secret heart-hidden wish?

  “Is that a yes, Miss Formsby-Smythe?” Perhaps the most boorish, arrogant, stiff-necked question he could ask. Even he would refuse a proposal followed up with a question in such a tone. Obviously, Addy did not find it so. She smiled an intriguing little half smile.

  “I do believe it is, Your Grace. God help you.”

  Talking was not his forte. Rising from the bed, trailing lacy underthings as he did, he stood before her. With a hand that refused to stop trembling just a bit, he reached up to tuck an errant lock of silky burnished hair behind her ear. Her eyes widened in expectation as he lowered his lips to hers. He touched her mouth in a kiss as soft as a vesper’s benediction. She raised her hand to his scarred cheek. No force on heaven or earth could stop him from leaning into that gentle touch.

  “Marcus,” she whispered against his lips.

  A flame dropped in brandy did not ignite as swiftly as his desire on hearing his name on her lips. Gathering her in his arms, he set about kissing her in such a way, she would never even think of changing her mind. Her equally passionate response sent tiny thrills of excitement up and down his spine.

  So involved were they in sealing their engagement and each other’s lips, they did not hear the soft knock on the door. Nor did they realize the door was being opened. They did, however, become aware of the world outside of themselves when a bloodcurdling scream pierced the afternoon quiet. Their awakening was complete when the scream was cut short by a rather loud thump, followed by the opened bedroom door’s revelation of Henrietta Formsby-Smythe in an untidy heap on the corridor floor.

  “Selridge, really,” his mother said. “I told you to propose to the girl, not scandalize the entire household.” Her tone might be one of the much put upon mother, but the smile on her face left her opinion of the situation in no doubt. If not for the prostrate form of Mrs. Formsby-Smythe, Emily Winfield, soon-to-be Dowager Duchess of Selridge would be dancing with joy.

  Addy’s covered laughter drew his attention from his mother’s efforts to revive her mother. He raised an inquiring eyebrow. She pulled a particularly sheer silk stocking off his shoulder. Her questioning look and laughing eyes drew his attention to the fact he was covered in various bits and pieces of her intimate apparel.

  No wonder the poor woman fainted. Any mother who came upon her daughter being kissed by a man, in a bedroom, said man covered in her daughter’s undergarments, was entitled to a good faint. At least he hoped it was a good faint. Mrs. Formsby-Smythe looked like a puppet whose strings had been ruthlessly cut.

  The appearance of Mr. Formsby-Smythe in the doorway engendered a different vision entirely in Marcus. One in which his own strings and various other appendages were about to be cut.

  “Emmy, do I want to know why my wife is a puddle of petticoats in the hall and your son is covered in petticoats in my daughter’s room?” Formsby-Smythe asked as he struggled to lift his wife from the floor.

  “I think not, Wills,” the dowager duchess replied. “I simply am not up to the task of explaining and getting Henrietta up and into your suite.”

  “Emmy?” Marcus inquired in a hushed whisper.

  “Wills?” Addy responded in kind.

  “I tell you what, my dear,” the older gentleman huffed as he hoisted his wife into his arms. “You stay here and discover, what I am sure will be a perfectly acceptable explanation of this… touching scene. His Grace and I will escort m’wife to her bed where she can awaken to blame this entire thing on me out of the hearing of the servants.”

  His mother laughed, a wonderfully sweet sound. She had laughed very little in the last six months. Looking down into Addy’s still slightly bemused face, he marveled at the idea she was somehow responsible for that as well.

  “You can’t take it back, you know,” he warned her. “We made your mother faint. There has to be a rule somewhere. If two people create a scandal so bad as to make a parent faint, they have to marry.”

  “I won’t take it back, Marcus,” she said, her tone quite serious. “I hope I can make you happy.”

  Plucking the last pieces of silk and lace from his person, Marcus handed them to her with a wink and moved quickly to help her father. Those last words made him uncomfortable. She had shown him the desires of her body in no uncertain terms. She hoped to make him happy. What did she want from him in return?

  “Can I assume one of us won’t be having grass for breakfast?” Formsby-Smythe asked as they carried the man’s still unconscious wife down the hall.

  “No, sir. For some reason the poor girl said yes.” Marcus shook his head. “I wonder if she has any idea what she has done.”

  “Well, I, at least, am grateful. Your mother would never forgive me if I put a hole into the only son she has left.” They deposited their burden onto the canopied bed in the guest suite and moved with alacrity out of the way. Mrs. Formsby-Smythe’s sparrow of a maid fluttered about her now rousing mistress, chirping out her agitation in a burst of ‘oh dears.’

  “And you may well discover my Addy knows exactly what she has done,” he continued, offering Marcus a cigar. “You, however, have not the faintest idea what you are in for, Your Grace.”

  *

  As in any English village, the local tavern was a veritable cornucopia of information. One could learn what had happened, was about to happen, was happening at this very moment, what might happen and most important—what the citizenry thought about it. Whether one wanted to be privy to those opinions or not.

  The Black Bull was no different. From its white-washed exterior under a thatched roof to its sloping floors made of ale-polished wood it was the quintessential rural gathering place. Trying to peer through windows smoked to the consistency of leather proved futile. Dylan Crosby stepped inside, ducking through the doorway sized for Yorkshire farmers and miners rather than lanky gentlemen of leisure. He discovered visibility was almost as bad inside as out.

  It would seem the locals preferred to take their late afternoon drink in near darkness and en masse. Almost every table was full and the room was packed with tables. Of course, once he got a whiff of what passed for ale in the establishment he thought perhaps anonymity was best.

  A slight movement from the alcove to the rear of the taproom caught his eye. What to anyone else appeared to be a pile of clothes, with a weather-beaten coachman’s hat perched on top, beckoned to him. Weaving his way through the crowded room he reached the table under the eaves. Once there, he settled into a chair of questionable sturdiness and eyed the man seated across from him.

  “Couldn’t find a chair in the kitchen, Sully?” he asked, casting his eyes around the room in search of a tavern maid.

  “Best seat in the ’ouse, guv. Can see everythin’ an’ can’t be seen ’cept by those what really looks,” the wizened old man under the coachman’s hat explained.

  “Are we hiding then?” Dylan inquired, smiling up at the buxom young blond who had answered his wordless call from across the room. “Do you have any whisky, by chance, my dear?”

  “To be sure, m’lor’ but it comes at a dear price,” she said, batting her eyelashes in blatant invitation.

  “As does any lovely thing worth having.” He drew a guinea from his pocket. “Will this get me a bottle and a clean glass?”

  “Cor’ blimey. I told Wallace you was a proper toff when you come in,”
she exclaimed, eying the gold guinea. “Me name’s Agnes. I’ll clean the glass, meself, I will.”

  “Thank you, Agnes.”

  Sully snorted in disgust before taking a draught of the mug of ale he’d undoubtedly been nursing for the last hour.

  “You could talk a nun out of her garters with that silver tongue of yours, guv. What you want with whisky when you could have some good English ale?” He took another long swig. “This’ll put ‘air on your chest, it will.”

  “What’s an Irishman doing extolling the virtues of English ale?” Dylan asked with a gimlet look. “That swill may well put hair on your chest, but it will also take the lacquer off my brother’s best carriage.”

  “’Tis true you English are a sorry lot, but you do make a good ale. Have you heard from the lass?”

  “Yes, and keep your voice down.” Dylan leaned across the table. “You and I could survive discovery. She won’t. We’re to meet her at the gates of Winfield Abbey at half past midnight. We’ll leave from there.” He glanced around the room. “She followed the man home the day before yesterday. There are three in that sorry excuse for a kennel. Apparently, the squire sold his hunting pack off years ago.”

  “Right then.” Sully nodded and then grew silent.

  “What is it old man? Going soft on me?”

  “Whist! The day I go soft you can put me to bed with a shovel and that’s the truth. Nay. ‘Tis just… the lass. She don’t need to be doin’ this. ‘Tis dangerous and not fit work for a lady.”

  “Try telling her that and you’ll get a tongue lashing for your efforts.”

  “An’ if you tell her?”

  “She’ll draw my cork. Adelaide has a wicked right cross.”

  “That she does,” Sully said with a cackle. “Taught her meself. Took those brothers of hers by surprise.”

  Dylan smiled in agreement. Adelaide was his best friend since they were children. They grew up on neighboring estates, the youngest in their respective households, and had banded together to survive the ravages of her older brothers, his disapproving governesses, and the combined exasperation of her parents and his grandmother, to whom he’d been sent at age of eight. As they reached maturity, many thought they would make a match of it. They had shared many a laugh at the assumption. Their bond was closer than that of most siblings related by blood.

  The bond grew even stronger when Adelaide helped him to survive the most devastating loss of his life—the death of his only sister, Jocelyn. They’d been separated when she was two and had grown up in different households. Unlike their elder brother, however, Josie had spent every summer and most holidays visiting him at their maternal grandmother’s estate. Dylan was six when Josie was born and sixteen when she died. If not for Adelaide, he might have gone mad. Without her, he’d never have had the courage to embark on his quest of the past several years to honor the memory of that wonderful little girl.

  Just as she had helped him, Dylan stood by her during her first Season on the Marriage Mart. Along with the late Duke of Selridge, he’d made those weeks great fun and had kept Adelaide out of the way of those men who came in search of her fortune rather than the real treasure—Adelaide herself. He doubted any man would ever be clever enough to realize it.

  “T’will be a long one to Lancashire with three of ‘em, guv. Why’d the lass come to this godforsaken place?”

  Stirred from his musings, Dylan blinked the smoke from his eyes and smiled up at Agnes as she placed the glass and bottle he’d ordered on the rickety table. A few shillings in her hand produced a broad grin and a twitch of her hips as she walked away.

  “Haven’t a clue, Sully. Something to do with a condolence call on the Winfields. Her mother’s idea, no doubt. Only Henrietta Formsby-Smythe would drag her family all this way to pay her respects to a man whose been dead going on six months.”

  “You have the right of it there,” Sully agreed with gusto. “Never seen a woman as fussy as that one. But that duke, he was a right one. Quick to grease a man’s palm with a crown and not one to put on airs.”

  “His Grace was a good man, Sully,” Dylan said. “I guess it’s true, what they say.”

  “What’s that, guv?”

  “Only the good die young.”

  “Well then,” Sully replied, finishing off his ale. “No worries for you and me now, is there?”

  Dylan laughed and poured himself another dram of whisky. “No worries at all, Sully. You and I are likely to live forever.”

  Chapter Six

  Adelaide often thought a formal dinner to be more a theatrical event than a gastronomical one. A ballet without music. Then again, the clinks and chimes of glassware and china, and the ring of the silver provided quite a nice score to the precisely rehearsed steps of Winfield Abbey’s household staff as they presented the dinner celebrating her betrothal. The lively conversation of her dinner companions set up an engaging counterpoint to the place setting symphony and the service ballet it accompanied.

  The food, of course, was without equal. The Italian chef who traveled everywhere with the duchess had outdone himself. Apparently, the irony of an Italian chef whose specialty was French cuisine serving in an English household was lost on everyone but Adelaide.

  The fact these were the thoughts going through her head at the dinner to celebrate what any other girl would see as a great victory, now that was irony. She cut her eyes down to glance at her hand resting in her lap. Never one to wear ostentatious jewelry, she was a bit overwhelmed to see the Selridge betrothal ring glittering there. A large ruby, surrounded by diamonds, sat in an intricate setting that attested to its age.

  It might glitter a little brighter had it been given in a more romantic fashion. After seating her in the place of honor on his right, Marcus had turned to go to his place at the head of the table and then turned back. He’d removed the ring from his waistcoat pocket and placed it on the plate before her.

  “I didn’t have the chance to give this to you earlier, my dear,” he’d said solemnly, “Mother reminded me it is yours now. I hope you like it.”

  She’d stared at it for a full minute before she realized he was waiting for her to put it on. For her to put it on her own finger. Would it have killed him to at least… Oh well, it was no matter at this point.

  His mother’s reaction was almost enough to soothe her hurt feelings. The poor lady had groaned as if in utter agony and covered her eyes with her hand. Marcus had glared at his mother. He then had the nerve to give her a look that very plainly said “What have I done now?”

  The poor man spent the rest of the meal dodging his mother’s glares and head shaking, followed quickly by Adelaide’s smiles and muffled laughter disguised as coughs to put a consumptive to shame. It gave Adelaide hope—the knowledge Marcus had no idea what he was doing. Any man who was that at sea could be taught. She was certain of it.

  For a moment, she closed her eyes and let the music of the course removal and service of the next course lilt over her. The heavenly scent of ox-tail soup lingered, but was faint as the course was removed. Entering the room with their comfortable warmth under the tang of a soubise sauce came mutton cutlets, one of Adelaide’s favorites. There was something to be said for denying oneself the sight of a dish, the better to enjoy its aroma.

  It was also a better position in which to recall her extraordinary conversation with the Duchess of Selridge immediately after accepting her son’s proposal. Whilst her father and Marcus trundled her supine mother off to bed, Adelaide was alone with a very pleased duchess. She had sat on the bed and invited Adelaide to join her with a pat to the silk comforter.

  “Please tell me my son didn’t make too much a hash of his proposal, my dear.”

  “Which one, Your Grace?”

  “Which one? How many times did he propose?” It was difficult to tell if his mother was amused or horrified.

  Never one to mince words, Adelaide told her. “Five, that I counted, Your Grace. In less than an hour as a matter of fact.” She co
uld not help it. Adelaide was very proud she had forced the lordly Duke of Selridge to propose to her five times before he received the answer he wanted. Or at least she hoped it was the answer he wanted.

  “Five times?” She beamed with delight. “Oh, good girl, Adelaide. I am impressed. You don’t mind that I call you Adelaide, do you? We shall be family now.”

  “Not at all, Your Grace. I would prefer it.”

  “Perfect. And you must call me Emily. I would say call me mother, but dear Henrietta would never countenance it. Dare I hope you turned him down the first four times?

  Adelaide liked this woman. Truly liked her. The tension she’d felt at accepting Marcus’s proposal eased just a bit. “I did, Your Grace. I mean, Emily. I had no intention of accepting him at all,” she assured her. “Then he said something… quite… Wonderful.” She smiled wistfully. “I had no choice after that. I had to accept him.”

  “Something wonderful? Marcus?” The open skepticism in her voice had shocked Adelaide, but only a little. She had a feeling the woman knew her son all too well.

  “Let’s hope it wasn’t one of those freak occurrences, like lightening striking or the like.”

  As both women realized what his mother had said they’d had to laugh.

  “Actually, my dear,” Emily had continued. “I think this bodes very well for your future. You’re good for him. I could tell right away. In another thirty years or so you could turn him into quite the romantic.”

  “To quote your son, ma’am, ‘Good God.’”

  “It will all come right, Adelaide,” she’d said in the hushed tone mothers used when uttering their heartfelt hopes and beliefs. “I know it will.”

  She’d clasped Adelaide’s hand and patted it.

  “Might I ask you something… Emily?”

  “Of course, my dear. Anything.”

  Adelaide had leveled her gaze and taken a deep breath. “Emmy and Wills?”