A Notorious Vow (The Four Hundred #3)

by Joanna Shupe

  This is my greatest joy, she’d told him, seeing you enjoy a place I love so much.

  It would have made his mother happy to know Christina appreciated the gardens, too.

  He went back to his ledger. Use the gardens as much as you like. I do not mind.

  “Truly?”

  Excitement brightened her expression, brown gaze sparkling, and his mouth dried out. He swallowed and looked down at the paper. Why do you like them? It is not even spring.

  “It is quiet. I am able to be alone there.” She bit her lip. “Well, almost alone.”

  He could understand the need for solitude. That had been his main priority in the past decade.

  She pointed to the equipment resting on the counter. “What are you working on?”

  Various wires and tools littered the surface of his workspace. He had been perfecting his design for an electric hearing device that would assist the partially deaf to hear. It would not help him, but it would change the lives of millions of people around the world.

  Instead of attempting to explain it, he pointed at her with both hands. “Come here,” he signed, curling his arms toward himself. Without any fear or hesitation whatsoever, Christina closed the distance between them. He picked up the earpiece and held it near her ear. Then he switched on the large battery and lightly tapped the microphone with his finger.

  Her eyes rounded. “Oh, my.” He tapped again. “How remarkable,” she said, handing him the earpiece. “That will help people to hear?”

  Yes, it will. Not the completely deaf, he wrote on his pad with a pencil. It is not a cure.

  “How do you know it works if you cannot hear the sounds?”

  Vibration, he wrote and put a finger on the earpiece. It was the same way he was able to enjoy music.

  “Remarkable.” Christina’s gaze sparkled in genuine fascination. Oliver had not shown anyone this version yet, so her interest was a positive sign. “Have you sold it?”

  It is too bulky and too expensive. This model would cost at least four hundred dollars.

  Her eyes bulged at the figure, a number so high as to be impractical for most anyone. “And you are trying to bring down the cost?”

  “Yes,” he signed but did not elaborate. He doubted she came here to discuss his efforts to create a high-voltage dry cell battery.

  “May I sit and watch you work?”

  “Christina,” he signed, spelling out the letters of her name, lingering on the last letter in frustration.

  “Oliver,” she signed back, the movements perfectly executed, and her expression was so full of fake exasperation that he nearly laughed.

  You have been practicing, he wrote.

  A slight flush crept over her cheeks, captivating him. “Just those letters. I hope you will teach me more someday.”

  He hung his head to hide a smile. He did not want to like her but she was adorable and obviously intelligent. No pretension, as one might have expected with an English aristocrat. His plan to remain aloof seemed a losing battle, a coat that no longer fit. Perhaps if he showed her a few simple signs then she would leave. I suppose I could, he wrote. Then you must go.

  She nodded eagerly. Using four fingers and a flat hand, he touched his temple, his elbow pointed at the ground, and then shifted his hand to the right. “Hello,” he signed.

  She performed it perfectly, so he showed her signs for no, yes, and please. She paid attention, her eyes steady and thoughtful, a slight pinch between her brows as she concentrated. It had been a long time since he’d taught anyone how to sign and he had forgotten the joy of discovery in another’s face. In a different life he might’ve quite enjoyed the role of professor.

  He decided to teach her a two-step sign. Touching his lower knuckles together, he arched his hands, thumbs out, then rolled his wrists until his thumbs nearly faced her. “How,” he signed and pointed at her. “You?” He did both motions together. “How are you?”

  She nodded, ready. She lined up her knuckles but closed her palms. Without thinking, Oliver reached forward to correct her hand position. When he touched her bare skin, he inhaled sharply. Soft. She was so damn soft. Sparks raced through him, a shimmering heat that he could almost taste, scorching every part of him. He recognized the sensation, though he had never felt it this strong. Desire.

  She trembled, as if affected as well, and he jerked his hands away. Then he took a step in the opposite direction. Her eyes found his and he saw the question there, a curiosity that boded ill for them both. “I apologize,” he said aloud before he could think better of it.

  She cocked her head and considered him. “Why do you not talk more often?”

  Suddenly self-conscious, he picked up his pencil. I know it sounds strange. I try not to talk unless absolutely necessary. He well recalled the strange looks and the comments.

  What is wrong with that man? He sounds unpleasant.

  Even his own cousin treated him as if he were stupid, a freak. Like one of Barnum’s oddities. Oliver refused to give them an opportunity to laugh any longer.

  Christina tapped his arm to get his attention. “It does not sound strange in the least. You have a nice voice,” she said then picked up her gloves and hat. She signed good-bye and then proceeded out the door.

  He found himself grinning long after she had left.

  Christina sipped her lemonade and watched as the melting ice sculpture dripped all over the buffet table. Waterlogged canapés and soggy salmon were arranged in a morose line. Still, the dining room made an excellent place in which to hide from the other girls and their cutting comments. Most unmarried ladies never ate in public if they could help it, as this was considered bourgeois. Once her mother ripped a tart clean out of Christina’s hands when she had foolishly attempted to eat in a crowd.

  Someone touched her arm, startling her. It was her cousin, Patricia. Christina blew out a breath. “Oh, it is you.”

  “Did I frighten you? I apologize. You were staring at the ice sculpture.” At eighteen, Patricia had just come out and, unlike Christina, seemed to enjoy the never-ending stream of parties and events. She linked their arms together and gestured a free hand toward the buffet. “That is the most disgusting thing I have seen all day—and that includes the dead frozen horse I saw lying in the street this morning.”

  “It has certainly ruined my appetite.”

  “Well, I have a craving,” Patricia said quietly, “but it is not for food.”

  “What on earth does that mean?”

  “Mr. Felton asked me to meet him in the gardens in a few moments.”

  “Patricia! Tell me you are not going.”

  Glancing over her shoulder, Patricia pulled Christina toward the wall, away from the few people gathered at the buffet. “Of course I am going. I am mad for him. He is the sweetest, most handsome man.”

  “Yes, but you must not act inappropriately. What if your mother found out?”

  Her cousin waved her hand. “Please. My mother would jump with joy if Felton ruined me. She’s hoping I have a proposal within the month. Gracious, the way he kisses . . . I tell you, I am besotted.”

  “He has kissed you?” Christina could not believe it. She was both horrified and terribly curious. What was it like when a man pressed his mouth to yours? It sounded terribly messy. And weren’t tongues oftentimes involved? “Was it . . . Did you enjoy it?”

  “It was divine—and I am planning to doing it again the second I have the opportunity tonight. You know how hard it is to stay away when you fancy a gentleman.”

  Christina nodded and forced a knowing smile. Yet, she did not know. She had no idea, actually, but admitting as much only made her appear foolish. Silly Christina. Such ignorance was the very reason she was a terrible conversationalist. The minute she opened her mouth she sounded like an imbecile.

  No one wants to hear a lady’s thoughts, her mother always said. Just smile and look pretty.

  Yet Patricia talked all the time, laughing and smiling, and she was liked by just about eve
ryone. A beautiful girl with cool blond hair, her cousin was unpretentious and comfortable in her own skin. Sort of like Oliver Hawkes, a man who hadn’t even bothered to don a coat in the presence of a lady, propriety be damned. He was smart and resourceful, obviously unconcerned with how others saw him. How Christina envied them both.

  Two young American heiresses strolled by, their gazes darting to where Christina and Patricia stood talking. “Did you see her dress?” one girl said in a not-so-quiet voice.

  “I swear, that pattern went out with hoop skirts,” her friend answered.

  They both laughed. “God, the English are so poor,” the first girl drawled as the two moved away.

  “Ignore them,” Patricia said. “They are unforgivably rude.”

  “But not wrong.” Mercy, Christina wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole.

  “Do not worry. I shall ‘accidentally’ trip them the next time I am dancing.”

  Christina clasped her fingers together and bit back a smile. It was nice to have a friend, one who would willingly stick up for her. “Thank you but that is unnecessary.”

  Patricia waved her hand. “So what about you? Has any man caught your eye? New York City has the best-looking swells in the entire world, you know.”

  “I haven’t noticed. It hardly matters anyway because my parents are determined to marry me off to the highest bidder.”

  “But why—”

  “Christina.”

  The single word went through Christina like a pike. She straightened, immediately wiping all traces of emotion from her face as she turned to find her mother. Please do not let her embarrass me. “Yes, Mother?”

  Her mother’s demeanor softened when she saw Christina’s cousin. “Oh hello, Patricia. I did not see you standing there. Don’t you appear lovely this evening? How I wish my daughter could carry off that pale pink color as well. It is a shame her complexion is not as pale as mine and yours.”

  “I happen to think Lady Christina looks smashing in her gown.” Patricia squeezed Christina’s arm.

  The countess appeared unconvinced. “If you will excuse us, I require my daughter for a moment.”

  “Of course. Christina, I shall visit with you later.”

  “I cannot comprehend why you are hiding in here,” her mother said as she towed Christina out of the room. “You should be dancing and flirting with the eligible men. Fortunately, I have been doing your job for you. There is someone you need to meet.”

  Christina’s stomach dropped. She tried for a reprieve. “Must I meet him now? I had hoped to—”

  “You will do as I say.” Her mother’s grip tightened, nails scoring through gloves and into Christina’s flesh, and she pulled them to a halt. “Everything is riding on this, Christina. Everything. Our entire future depends on what happens in the next few weeks. You will not disappoint us.”

  Christina winced at the pain shooting down her arm, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from making a noise. Then her mother let go and rubbed Christina’s arms affectionately, as if she were a doting, affectionate parent.

  Christina knew better.

  She’d been disappointing her mother since the day she was born. The countess never stopped telling Christina all she was doing wrong, all the ways she would never measure up.

  When I was your age, I was the most sought-after girl in Europe.

  When I was your age, I’d already turned down three marriage proposals.

  When I was your age, all the girls copied my coiffures and gown patterns.

  “There,” her mother cooed. “Now, are we ready to remember our purpose here?”

  “Yes.” The sooner this distasteful business was over with the sooner she could return to hiding.

  “Good. I am taking you to meet the wealthiest man in this godforsaken city. He is recently out of mourning and looking for a wife. I have already told him all about you, so merely smile and nod and you shall do fine.”

  Without waiting on a response, her mother pulled her into the ballroom, threading their elbows together as if they were lifelong friends out for a stroll. Her mother hated growing older and often introduced herself and Christina as sisters when encountering strangers. It never made any sense to Christina.

  They made their way to the far side of the room, where her father stood next to a . . . Goodness. Was that the man? Stooped shoulders rounded into a crooked neck. Wrinkled, dull skin. Shorn gray hair. His black evening suit hung on his frame, as if he’d recently lost weight. He only came up to her father’s sternum, which was slightly shorter than Christina.

  Her lungs refused to pull in air. Escape. You cannot do this. She stumbled, her feet as reluctant as her brain, as the man turned stiffly toward them. Spittle had gathered at the sides of his flat blue lips, which began to twist as he raked her body with a dispassionate gray gaze. She felt exposed, as if she were a prized stallion he was considering for purchase.

  Her mother’s hold strengthened, bringing her along. “Mr. Van Peet. Allow me to present my daughter, Lady Christina.”

  Pressure on her elbow forced Christina into a semi-curtsey. When she raised her head, a strange glitter appeared in Van Peet’s eyes. “I see you have not understated your daughter’s beauty, Pennington. Child, how old are you?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Slightly old for my tastes but I might be willing to overlook it.”

  She was the one too old? Christina fought to keep the horror from showing on her face.

  “We waited a year to have her come out in New York,” her mother explained in a blatant lie. The scandal had prevented a debut last year.

  “You shall visit me tomorrow,” Van Peet announced to her mother. “Bring your daughter.”

  “We would be honored.” Her mother sounded positively euphoric and Christina’s stomach roiled. Looks and age aside, he had not even been friendly or solicitous. He had been downright rude.

  Van Peet shuffled away, leaving the three Barclays alone. “That went well,” the earl said to his wife over Christina’s head. A common practice, as they liked to pretend she did not exist. “Very encouraging.”

  “Indeed. If we are able to convince him to offer for her quickly, we shall have the money in a matter of weeks. Then we may return to London and retake our rightful place in society.”

  And leave her here? Married to that man? Christina said nothing, though she fought the urge to scream and shout, to run out of the ballroom and keep going.

  “It will be a jolly good thing to get those creditors off our backs,” her father murmured. “If this does not happen quickly, we shall lose the Mayfair house.”

  “Van Peet is desperate,” the countess said in a reassuring tone. “He knows he does not possess much more time. That will work to our advantage.”

  A shiver went through Christina. They were discussing this as if the marriage were a foregone conclusion. What was she going to do? “Mother, I cannot—”

  “Christina.” Her mother’s hiss cracked through the air. “We shall discuss this at home.”

  Christina knocked softly on her mother’s door. They had arrived home from the ball moments ago and she would not be able to sleep until she voiced her concerns about Van Peet.

  Her mother’s maid opened the door, then stepped aside. “Come in, my lady. I have just taken her hair down.”

  “Is that Christina?” her mother called.

  “Yes, Mother.” Christina walked in to her mother’s sitting room. The countess sat at the dressing table, still wearing her evening gown.

  “Excuse us, will you, Gertie?” The maid bobbed a curtsey and then disappeared, shutting the door behind her. The countess turned to face Christina and folded her hands in her lap. “Well, what is it?”

  Christina hated that impatient look in her mother’s eyes but she swallowed her nerves. This was too important. She drew herself up. “Mother, I will not marry Van Peet. I will find someone else—”

  “Christina, you shall do what we tell you. Your duty i
s to marry the man your father and I select for you, regardless of his identity. Do you understand?”

  “No. I cannot marry him. I understand we need the money, but surely there is a man not quite so . . . old.”

  Her mother’s expression hardened. “You ungrateful girl, I am doing you a favor by selecting a man like Van Peet. He won’t live much longer and then you shall have all that money for yourself. Heavens!” She threw her hands up and rose, her silk skirts rustling. “Think for a moment. Yes, he might be less than ideal, but you would remain married to him only for a short time. Would you instead rather marry a younger man, one who might ruin your life for decades? When Van Peet dies, you shall be free, utterly in control of your own finances and happiness. Are you so dense that you cannot see the incredible gift I am giving you?”

  No, Christina could not. Marriage to Van Peet did not feel like a gift; it felt like a death sentence. “There are plenty of wealthy men, Mother.”

  “Yes, a wealthy man who might live for years and years. Who might spend all that money and then leave you grasping and poor. Relying on the kindness of relatives. Do you honestly think I like coming here to New York, staying with my cousin? Selling off all my jewelry and discharging the staff?” She put a hand to her throat. “I am trying to save you from what I went through, Christina—from what I am still going through. This world is about two things for women: men and money. You must learn how to manage both, or you will end up miserable.”

  “But why not allow me to choose my own husband? I shall pick someone with money, as Patricia has.”

  Her mother sneered. “Yes, she’s settled on Felton, who won’t come into his trust until his father dies. God knows how long that will be. Your father and I do not have years to wait, Christina. We are destitute. If we return to England without the funds to settle our debts, your father will go to prison. We shall lose the house in Mayfair, the one his great-great-grandfather built. Is that what you want for your parents?”