The Lassoed by Marriage Romance Collection

by Bell, Angela; Breidenbach, Angela; Carter, Lisa

  An almost sweet notion, if it hadn’t been voiced like an estate agent or solicitor.

  Lord Carlyle at last succeeded in prying open the crate. Reaching inside, he selected one of her books and started his examination, slow and thorough. Almost every single page of the paneled leather-bound text received his careful scrutiny. Gwen’s head tilted to the side. He did seem legitimately concerned about the welfare of her personal collection. A greater tenderness than she ever expected to receive from him.

  Perhaps she ought to return his kindness in like by offering an update on the status of his books? Gwen lightly cleared her throat. “Y–your books are pulling through nicely. Overall.”

  This failed to evoke from him a glance. “Really?”

  “Indeed. I’ve been pleasantly surprised at the number of volumes that incurred no scars whatsoever. A few books more and this crate can be closed. It will be the fifth box of undamaged volumes to go into storage. Also, all the books in the dining room promise to make a full recovery with a little effort and…” Gwen let the sentence drift off and hang, incomplete. Why was she rambling on so? Lord Carlyle obviously had no interest in listening to her speak.

  Stay out of the way. Keep silent. Lowering her gaze to the worktable, Gwen beseeched her attention to return to her previous task.

  “What is your middle name?” Lord Carlyle’s smooth voice erased all thought of work.

  Why would he suddenly make such an inquiry? Gwen elevated her gaze only slightly, peering at Lord Carlyle over the rim of her spectacles. “Louisa.”

  A spark of interest brightened Lord Carlyle’s eyes. Lifting the book in his hand, he indicated the cover with a pointed finger. “By G. L. Bradbury. Did you write this novel?”

  Gwen’s stomach leaped to her throat and then plummeted. Every word on all three hundred and fifty pages. And she did not wish Lord Carlyle to be her first reader. She straightened and adjusted her lowered spectacles. “That? It–it’s nothing. Mere coincidence.”

  “Coincidence is ruled by chance, and I don’t put stock in chance. It’s a simple word utilized by simple men to label a truth they don’t like, a miracle they refuse to credit to the Divine, or facts they can’t explain away with their finite reason.” Lord Carlyle smiled again, broader, fuller. “The facts here are quite easy to explain.”

  Yes, but she’d rather he avoid such enlightenment regarding her writings. Gwen placed a shaking hand on the table. “Shouldn’t we get back to work? There is still much to be d—”

  “Fact one.” Lord Carlyle opened the cover of her novel. “The book’s author shares your initials. Fact two, it was in your possession. Fact three, you have the needed skill to bind a book yourself. And lastly…” He turned to the first page and met her gaze. “You have every symptom of a nervous novelist who has yet to share their work with another.”

  A deflating sigh escaped from Gwen. She didn’t know whether to be irritated by his insistence or flattered that he’d referred to her as a novelist.

  Lord Carlyle cradled her novel in the palm of one hand. “May I?”

  Had he truly just asked for her permission? And in all politeness? Gwen pursed her lips. How could she refuse his request when it was made with such courtesy? She nodded.

  An air of seeming pleasure brightened Lord Carlyle’s countenance as he began to read over her first page. Then the second page, the third. Gwen’s heart beat painfully slow, and she twisted her apron string round and round with her finger. What was he thinking? Did she want to know what he was thinking?

  Well into the first chapter, Lord Carlyle finally lifted his gaze and fixed it on her, really and truly. Not in a glance but in a steady manner that would not waver. “It’s…very good.”

  Good. Gwen released the mangled apron string and indulged in a smile. He’d said it was good. Very good, no less! Before responding, she took a calming breath and clasped her hands before her skirt. “Thank you.”

  “Whatever possessed you to write a novel?” His eye contact remained steady.

  “It began as a way to pass the time, but the more I wrote, the more I desired to create something that conveyed hope. Something that might cheer another through the written word as I have been countless times.” Gwen’s gaze faltered, dropping for a moment to the book-laden table. She couldn’t believe she had just confided such feelings to Lord Carlyle of all people. Not even Papa knew about her novel or daydreams.

  “Sounds like a noble ambition. You ever attempt to have it published?”

  “N–no. I never felt it was ready. Besides, I knew Mamma wouldn’t approve.”

  “Nonsense. You should begin inquiring among the London publishers. Try to generate interest. Perhaps transcribe a sample chapter for submission.” Lord Carlyle passed her the novel over the table. “Dreams are vital to life and should be fed, not starved.”

  There was a story hidden behind that statement, one she very much longed to read. Gwen accepted the book, holding it against her chest. “Do you have a dream?” Something to do with automata, perhaps? His inventions were lengths more creative than her writing. The world should know of them.

  Lord Carlyle’s posture resumed its former rigidity, every spark and smile packed into storage and boarded once more. “You were quite right before. There is much work to be done.”

  Later in the evening, Gwen sat at the desk in her chamber and composed a letter for Papa.

  Dearest Papa,

  I am sorry you learned of the swap scheme from Cynthia’s slip of the tongue. I should have told you long before. Yet I beseech you not to grieve for me. Neither let your fear run wild. I admit that my circumstances have not been comfortable or ideal. Yet I’m beginning to develop newfound hope that, one day, Lord Carlyle might think of me fondly.

  Gwen’s pen hovered above the page. Perhaps God saw her plight, after all.

  Chapter 7

  Finally, after four and twenty days, the library no longer resembled a greenhouse.

  Blueprint in hand, Elliott surveyed the laborers constructing the new window frame. A quartet of pounding hammers struck nails to differing rhythms as they secured the hand-carved wooden molding. Now they were making progress. Removal of that infernal tree, done. Relocation and temporary storage of the salvageable furnishings and books, done. Reconstruction of the window frame and exterior of the house, nearly done. He consulted the blueprint and nodded. Excellent. Once the glass he had ordered arrived from London and was installed, nature would be put back in its rightful place—outside.

  Now he could shift his attention to another matter.

  Miss Bradbury.

  Elliott cast a glance at his bride in the far corner where she worked, repairing books. Tirelessly, as she had for days on end. At the onset, he’d harbored reservations about the quality of her workmanship, but he could not criticize the results. She lacked neither intelligence nor diligence. In fact, her work was comparable to that of any professional bookbinders, except it hadn’t cost him a halfpenny. By defying his order to keep back, Miss Bradbury had actually done him a service. A kindness. One characteristic he’d not have wagered her to possess at their wedding.

  Yet, as days had accumulated into weeks, she had proven his initial estimation of her to be faulty. While they’d worked in the library, he had not once seen her speak an unkind, harsh, or belittling word to anyone. Not even the servants. Each person received her respect whether they worked upstairs or down. Elliott snuck another glimpse of the literary triage. Miss Gwendolyn Bradbury was not the deceptive, diabolical person he’d imagined. Perhaps Harrison was right. Maybe he ought not cast her aside.

  Maybe he ought to give God the opportunity to redeem their marriage.

  Rolling up the blueprint and tucking it in his waistcoat’s inner pocket, Elliott dismissed the workers for the day and then rang for Mrs. Nesbitt. Upon her arrival, he asked that tea be brought to the library. And that it be made for two. Mrs. Nesbitt tied a new string about her thumb and hastened from the room to carry out her task.

>   Elliott followed her departure as far as the hallway and then waited in the vacant passage, shoe tapping the floor. All right then. He was going to do it. He was going to give Miss Bradbury a chance. Probably the most dangerous experiment he’d ever undertaken.

  A few moments later, Harrison walked toward him harboring a stowaway grin beneath his lips and firm jawline. No unusual inflections altered his voice. “I heard you’ve ordered tea, my lord.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I also heard that the tea is to be arranged for two.”

  Blast. He should’ve known his request would ignite a gossip fire in the kitchens. The knowledge of such a blaze elevated his body temperature and scorched through his cheeks. “And?”

  “And Mrs. Nesbitt and Cook were perplexed as to why you’d request to have it served in the library. They suggested that the parlor would be more suitable for entertaining a guest.” Harrison’s eyes glinted, asking a question for which he already knew the answer.

  Elliott huffed out a sigh. “The tea is for myself and Miss Bradbury. And I suggest, Harrison, that you take off that smug expression and swallow it along with the forthcoming ‘I told you so.’ I may be taking your advice, but you’ve yet to be proven right. This experimentation could explode in my face and make matters worse.”

  “Lady Gwen is a young woman, not a test subject. And you are going in there, not as a mad scientist, but as her husband. Best look the part.” One by one, Harrison unrolled Elliott’s scrunched, wrinkled sleeves and buttoned them at the wrists. Then he withdrew a fine-tooth comb from his black jacket’s inner pocket and attempted to tame Elliott’s unkempt hair.

  Mrs. Nesbitt arrived with the loaded tea tray. “Here you are, Lord Carlyle.”

  Waving off Harrison’s attempts to preen him, Elliott seized the tea tray. “Thank you. I’m quite capable of taking it from here. It’s only tea.” He strode up to the library’s open door, but his feet refused to convey him farther. What was he thinking? He’d never been capable of carrying on idle teatime chatter. Nor had he ever been skilled at conversing with young ladies. In their brief courtship, Cynthia had always maintained—dominated—the conversation, which had suited him just fine. But Gwendolyn was so much quieter, so reserved. Would he have to carry all of the talking? What if he said the wrong thing?

  “It’s only tea, my lord.” Harrison’s voice drew his gaze back into the hall.

  Mrs. Nesbitt took a red string from out of her pocket, tied it in a bow around Elliott’s thumb, and gave it a gentle tug. “Breathe. You’ll be all right.”

  “Right.” Elliott inhaled a deep breath and walked into the library.

  All too soon he found himself facing Miss Bradbury with a tea tray in his hands, a table spread with books between them. Miss Bradbury looked up from the volume she was rebinding, and her spectacle-framed eyes widened, though she said not a word. Elliott’s stomach took a tumble. Say something, fool. “Good afternoon.”

  Miss Bradbury remained frozen in place. “Good afternoon.”

  Blast, his turn again already. How should he proceed? Which method of social convention would be appropriate for this scenario? For a second, his gaze dropped to the tray and the red string on his thumb. Breathe. Elliott cleared his throat. “You—and I—w–we, rather, have been working hard. Long hours and so forth. I thought we’d more than earned a break from our labor.” He lifted the tray, rattling the cups on their saucers. “For tea.”

  Miss Bradbury set aside her task and pushed her spectacles up her nose. “Sounds delightful. Shall we go into the parlor?”

  “Actually, I thought we might take tea here. And admire our progress. On the renovations, that is.” How many ways could he butcher a sentence?

  “Where are we to sit?”

  Sit? Elliott looked over his shoulder. Not one stick of furniture remained in the library except for Miss Bradbury’s worktable and the large bookcases, which had been covered with tarpaulin. More of the same waterproof canvas covered the floor near the window. Dash it all. He should’ve thought to provide proper seating. Perhaps he should escort her to the parlor? But there he would feel stiff as the formal, uncomfortable furnishings. It was almost as bad as being in London. Here, he could relax. Here, he and Miss Bradbury had common ground.

  Come on, man, think. He rotated in place, searching for a swift and tangible solution. Someone had placed a few clean tarps beside the doors, folded and forgotten. It would have to do. Spinning back around, Elliott extended the tray toward Miss Bradbury. “Would you hold this for one moment? I’ll be right back.”

  Without a word, Miss Bradbury accepted the tray, her expression heavily burdened with unasked questions. Elliott hurried to the door and acquired one of the tarps. Unfolding the canvas, he laid it out in a place warmed by the afternoon sun, yet not in direct light. Once satisfied with its appearance, he returned to Miss Bradbury and reclaimed the tray.

  Elliott motioned his head toward the tarp and offered her the use of his elbow. “Care to join me for an indoor picnic?”

  A slight, unsure smile lifted Miss Bradbury’s countenance. She came round the table and placed her hand within the crook of his elbow. Elliott guided her to the tarp where he then put down the tray and assisted Miss Bradbury in lowering herself upon their makeshift picnic blanket. After she seemed comfortable, he sat on the opposite corner and began to serve tea.

  Miss Bradbury sipped from her cup. “This is lovely. I haven’t been on a picnic in years.”

  “Neither have I, actually.”

  They exchanged a smile over this commonality and then fell once more into an uncomfortable silence. Miss Bradbury took her tea, rarely making eye contact. Sweat beaded on Elliott’s brow while his stomach engaged in more acrobatics. As he suspected, she was waiting for him to lead the conversation. What could they talk about? Perhaps he could inquire about her writing? He would like to know more about her process.

  “At what age did you begin writing your novel?”

  “Eighteen.”

  Quite impressive. “How long did it take to complete?”

  “Two years.”

  Elliott swigged the remaining tea in his cup like a draught of cognac. This wasn’t working. Surely she wasn’t so painfully shy? She had spoken more freely than this on previous occasions. Something must be wrong. Otherwise, why would she suddenly be unwilling to supply more than curt answers? Maybe…maybe it was because he had refused to answer the one question she had asked of him?

  He sighed. He wasn’t being fair. When he’d prodded, she had told him about her novel, her dream. How could he ask more from her unless he was willing to do as much?

  Slowly Elliott placed his empty cup and saucer upon the tarpaulin. Breathe. “Miss Bradbury, I must offer you an apology for leaving your question so rudely unanswered the other day. If you still wish, I’d like to answer it now.”

  Miss Bradbury’s gaze rose and stayed firmly upon him, waiting.

  “I tend to be…hesitant when asked about my work or my ambitions. You see, unlike yourself, I have attempted to pursue my dream. And it ended badly.” Elliott shifted, sank, anchoring a palm on the canvas and allowing it to bear his weight. Why was he doing this? This whole thing was a bad idea.

  “Please, go on.” Miss Bradbury’s tone contained not a tinge of patronization.

  Too late to back out now, chap. Inhaling a breath, he met her eyes. “Knowledge is very important to me. The gaining of new knowledge, the sharing of that knowledge with others. If my pursuit of knowledge had led me in a traditional direction, I might have garnered praise from my peers and esteem from my family. Unfortunately, to the dismay of both parties, my pursuit led me to automata.”

  “I fail to see the problem.”

  “The problem is that automation has yet to be accredited as a valid science. It’s a relatively new technology and, on the whole, unexplored apart from ambitious clock and watchmakers who wish to display their skill for wealthy clientele. Most in the scientific community believe it should remai
n relegated to that sphere—that it has no great benefits beyond artistic sensibility. Disagreeing with their scruples, I ventured to explore the frontier of automaton engineering and broaden its limitations. Then years ago, I petitioned to have my work featured in a display at my graduating university.”

  Her eyebrows raised. “And?”

  And his former professors had laughed him out of the room. “My petition was declined.” Solidifying all of his family’s criticism and concerns in one fell swoop.

  “Why? What was their reasoning?”

  “They thought my inventions too…fanciful.” He gently tossed the barbed word out there and let it fall where it may.

  Miss Bradbury’s teacup clattered against the saucer and settled down to her lap. “S–surely…they could not have meant that? Not in that way. Words have so many different facets, different meanings. And people aren’t always capable of handling them properly, especially when not aided by a steady pen.” She glanced at her cup before returning her gaze to him, accented with a furrowed brow. “One can quite easily be misunderstood.”

  Misunderstood. She hadn’t known the barb existed, then? The word had never been crafted as an insult. She might even have been paying him a compliment. Elliott straightened his posture. “Words are tricky devices. I think, in such cases of their misinterpretation, it’s best to place blame on the language’s complexity. Not on the speaker.”

  A faint smile smoothed the furrow from Miss Bradbury’s brow.

  “However, in the case of my professors, I’m certain they meant their every word.”

  She shook her head. “I cannot believe they would be so dull witted. I agree your inventions possess an artistic quality, but even I know there’s more to them than that. Much more. How could they look at one of your inventions and doubt that intelligence and scientific ingenuity went into its making?”