by Cheryl Bolen
Though his sisters seldom came into Appleton’s domain—the wood-paneled library at the rear of the townhouse’s ground floor—Annie awaited him in the dimly lit room. He could tell by the troubled look on her face that something was wrong.
He fleetingly wondered if the interview with Ellie’s friend had disturbed her. That a murderer was still loose in their city was enough to terrify any woman.
“What’s wrong?” He moved to her.
She sighed. “Abby’s returned, and so has her careless tongue. She’s offended Dot to the point I wouldn’t be surprised if she wishes to break your betrothal.”
He felt as if a cannonball had slammed into him. His first reaction was not disappointment over the withdrawal of the huge dowry he so desperately needed. It was the crushing intelligence that his youngest sister had hurt Dot.
Dot was perhaps the most genuinely caring person he’d ever known. There was little on earth he wouldn’t endure to spare her. His eyes narrowed to slits. “What did Abby say?”
Annie rolled her eyes. “What didn’t she say? And in so public a forum!”
His gut clinched. “Where?”
“In the absolute crush that was Glee Blankenship’s drawing room. I declare, there wasn’t an empty chair!”
He winced. He knew nothing disparaging about Glee or her sister, but the urge to spread gossip typically ran strong among the female gender. “What did The Pest say?” He dreaded hearing the truth.
“Allow me to say her allusion to your mistress was the most harmless intelligence she conveyed.”
He closed his eyes and cursed. “And the harmful?”
Annie shook her head sadly. “Oh, Timothy, it was ghastly! When Abby was introduced to Dot she all but said she had expected Dot to be ugly.”
He cursed again.
“Dot’s intelligent enough to know that any information about her had originated from either you or me.”
He nodded, a sick feeling slamming into him. “I may have spoken of Dot in the most unflattering terms when we first met her.” He drew a deep breath. “It’s so contrary to what I now feel, I’d almost forgotten. Is there more?”
“Abby immediately asked about Dot’s cats.”
He sighed. “So either you or I must have written the girls about Dot’s . . . peculiarities.”
She nodded. “It was abundantly obvious Dot was embarrassed. And hurt.”
“These are not insurmountable problems. Surely Dot realizes you and I have both grown to care very deeply for her.”
“There’s more.”
He waited a moment while his sister gathered her wits about her enough to continue, and when she spoke, there were tears in her eyes. “Dot was understandably upset and was the first to leave. I followed.” Annie swallowed hard. “She. . . she asked me if you had known about her fortune before you asked her to become your wife.”
This time he cursed aloud. “So she thinks I’m a blasted fortune hunter who ridicules her behind her back?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Neither spoke for several moments.
As angry as he was with his youngest sister, he was angrier with himself. Abby hadn’t lied. All her thoughtless comments had been instigated by him before he had come to know and to care for Dot. “I must go to her now.” He went to turn, but Annie caught his arm.
“I would advise against it. She was weeping. She’ll be in a vastly irritable mood and won’t feel in the least charitable toward you. Let her cry it out tonight, then go to her tomorrow. I know you care for her. Let her know your true feelings.”
“Very well.” He went to his desk and penned a note to Dot.
My Dearest Dot,
Expect me to call at ten in the morning.
Yours,
Forrester
Since he’d inherited the title he had signed all correspondence and documents with the simple surname Appleton, as was customary for men of rank. But with Dot, he could not think of using anything other than her own special name for him.
Calling him Forrester was just another example of the ways in which the two of them had grown close. He had come to feel an intimate connection with her.
Especially since kissing her the past two nights. The very memory created a deep yearning.
He called for a footman and requested he deliver the message to Miss Pankhurst.
* * *
Dot had told neither her father nor her maid the real reason she remained in her bedchamber all night and refused dinner. She merely said she wasn’t feeling well and did not wish to be disturbed. Which was true. She just neglected to inform them she suffered from a bruised heart more than a physical infirmity. When one was heartsick, though, one’s whole body suffered. She had lost her appetite. Her churning stomach did feel as if she were unwell. And she was too miserable to sleep.
As hurt and humiliated as she was, she derived a modicum of comfort from the note Forrester sent. Dearest. Never had she needed to see such an endearment more than she did then.
In the morning her mood brightened, aided by the glow of sunshine flooding her bedchamber. She and Meg took extra time with her toilette, and she wore a new morning dress that Mrs. Gainsworth had delivered the previous day.
Dot knew it was becoming on her. She had come to learn from his reactions what Forrester admired. She was oddly pleased that his favorite dresses were those that displayed her ample bosom. He also showed a preference for dresses either of white or white background. She supposed the white accentuated her teeth, which she was gratified to admit were uncommonly white. Or did they just seem so because her complexion was darker than what was acceptable for upper class ladies?
Today’s dress was another exceedingly thin sprigged muslin of pink roses on white. She had learned that the thinner the muslin, the heftier its price.
Meg had procured rouge which she sparingly patted on Dot’s cheeks to make them appear pink. The result could not have been more natural looking. For the first time in memory, Dot was possessed of pink cheeks.
Once Lord Appleton was announced, she sucked in her breath, left her bedchamber, and descended the stairs to join her father and him in the drawing room. She arrived just in time to hear her father offer him a glass of brandy, which Forrester politely declined.
“Papa! Lord Appleton is sure to think you a sot! One does not drink brandy at ten in the morning!” A quick glance confirmed that her father was, indeed, drinking brandy.
Mr. Pankhurst sighed. “It helps to blunt the pain of my many infirmities.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Taking the baths would be much preferred. Will you go today?”
“If it’s what my daughter desires.”
“That’s what your daughter desires.” She then turned to Forrester, who had stood when she entered the chamber.
“You look lovely this morning,” said he.
“Thank you.” She thought he would then sit back down, but he did not.
“I had hoped, especially since it’s such a fine day, that you and I could go for a walk.”
Her heartbeat pounded. She knew he would bring up the embarrassing topic which had so troubled her the previous day. But she also knew they had to discuss it.
Last night she had decided she might have to break their betrothal, though she wanted to marry Forrester more than she’d ever wanted anything. This walk with him could prove to be the most important in her entire three-and-twenty years.
Once they were on the pavement, he offered his arm, and she placed her hand on it, which he quickly covered with his. His lightest touch seemed to open up her body like a flower, creating a molten ache only he could heal.
Her thoughts spun to their last kiss, to the heat of his body pressed against hers, his mouth hot and wet and demanding, and all rational thought fled her need-fogged brain.
She was only vaguely aware of the passing horses and carts and equipages. She would have been incapable of describing a single person they passed as they trod along the busy street.
Fin
ally he spoke. “I pray you slept better last night than I.”
She did not respond. Pride prevented her from admitting her distress.
“My sister informed me that you were upset yesterday.” He pressed her hand. “Nothing could make me more miserable that to think I could ever have hurt you.” He stopped right there on the pavement and looked down at her.
Her heart leapt at the pain on his beloved face, at the dewy melancholy of his mossy eyes. “No woman exists whom I care for more deeply than I care for you, and that’s the honest truth.”
He might not have used the word love, but she knew it was as close as he could come.
And it was enough for her.
She could have sighed with relief. She would not have to break their engagement. “In addition to some of the comments made by your youngest sister,” she began, but faltered when she realized they were blocking passage of others.
He nodded. “Come. We’ll go to Crescent Field.”
A few moments later they were on the massive lawn which swept into the shape of the Royal Crescent above it. They began to plod across it. “As I was saying, in addition to being distressed over some of the comments made by your sister Abby, there’s another matter we must discuss before we can set a wedding date.”
He raised a brow.
“Your mistress.”
“That blasted Abby!”
They stood in the grass as she took both his hands. “My dearest Forrester, I’ve known about your Mrs. P for some time.”
“That blasted Bath Chronicle!”
She nodded.
He bent forward and pressed a soft kiss to the tip of her nose. “That woman is history. As soon as you did me the honor of consenting to become my wife, I broke it off with her.” He drew a breath. “Because you are to be my wife I will speak of something I would not normally discuss.” He drew another breath. “My father kept mistresses. I did not approve. My mother was a wonderful woman, a devoted wife. She deserved my father’s complete fidelity.” He took her hands and kissed them. “I vow to you I will be a faithful husband.”
She could ask for nothing more than the words he’d said to her today.
She had thought to ask him when he’d learned she was considered an heiress, but she didn’t want to hear the truth.
For she already knew it.
* * *
When they returned to her house, Appleton joined her in the library where he helped her on the invitations to Friday night’s salon. “You’ve been so helpful in assisting me with the list of invitees and providing their addresses,” she said. “You don’t have to stay. I can finish them and have them delivered this afternoon.”
“I’ll stay.” Was it a weakness to admit he enjoyed being with her? There was also another matter they must decide.
It had already been more than two weeks since that damned Wolf had acquired his gambling debts. He had less than two weeks in which to get the money to save the house and keep that man from trying to marry Annie. Appleton needed to marry Dot soon. Her father had already agreed to present him the dowry upon their marriage.
“I’m desperate to marry you.” He moved closer and pressed whispery kisses on the silky skin of her neck as he murmured. “I’m hungry to make you my wife.” He emitted a low groan. “In every way.”
She set down her pen and looked up at him with those big chocolaty eyes, and he thought he’d never seen a more desirable woman. When her hand stroked his thigh, he thought he could go mad with desire. “I must get a special license,” he ground out.
Tracing sultry circles on his thigh, she nodded. “You can set the date,” she said breathlessly.
He snatched her hand and kissed it. Otherwise he might have tried to ravish her on the floor of her father’s library. He did not know what had gotten into him. No woman had ever aroused him as she did. “Then we’ll marry before the week’s out, my beloved.”
With those words, he stood. By God, he was going to find a clergyman and get a special license immediately.
Chapter 17
Judging from the attendance, Dot would say her salon was a great success. Every person she had invited came. Once they had all arrived, Forrester took her hand and went to stand in front of the fireplace, the focal point at which the drawing room.
After he thanked everyone for coming, he made an announcement: “My dear Miss Pankhurst and I wish to tell those of you who have gathered here tonight that we’re to marry on Wednesday morning in Bath Cathedral, and all of you . . .” Forrester scanned the assemblage, “my closest friends, are invited.”
His comment was met with broad smiles, and Mrs. James Blankenship, who’d managed to seat herself next to Mr. Pankhurst, even clapped her hands to demonstrate her hearty approval.
“One other announcement: after tonight’s discussions, whist tables will be set up for all who desire to play. Now,” he said, “I’m going to step aside and allow our hostess to introduce our first speaker.”
Dot had decided that even though she’d been told Melvin Steffington was the shyer of the two scholars, she would have him go first. Her reasoning was that his topic of a Roman philosopher/orator would be less appealing than Jonathan Blankenship speaking on contemporary matters of politics. Having Jonathan go last would extend the discussions to enable all attendees who desired to further address the topic.
“It is my honor tonight,” she began, “to present our first speaker whose newest work is a translation of some of Cicero’s more obscure letters.” She eyed Melvin, who looked so much like Sir Elvin she would not have been able to tell which was which were he not seated next to his pretty blonde wife. “Please welcome Dr. Melvin Steffington.”
He slowly came to replace Dot in front of the fireplace and cleared his throat. “I have decided that instead of reading from my work tonight—which my wife tells me might be considered by some to be dull—I will tell you a little about the remarkable Roman who, in my opinion, came to personify the entire Renaissance movement to bring us out of the dark ages.”
He went on to commend Cicero and explain that he gave up his life to defend his principles.
When Mr. Steffington finished, he asked for questions.
Abby Appleton’s arm shot up, and he called upon her. Dot shuddered, hoping the unthinking young lady would not say something offensive to the shy scholar. Dot’s glance met Forrester’s. He looked anxious.
“I suppose, Mr. Steffington,” Abby began, “that Cicero wrote in Latin?”
He nodded. “That is correct.”
Abby shrugged. “I fail to understand why people like you continue to study Latin. We all know it’s a dead language.”
Dot and Forrester looked at one another, and he rolled his eyes with exasperation.
Melvin Steffington did not answer for a moment. It was clear to Dot that he’d not anticipated questions of so naïve a nature. “Well . . . first, allow me to explain that Latin has heavily influenced every language spoken in Europe today, so I believe an understanding of Latin broadens one’s vocabulary. But most importantly, these brilliant men who ruled the world’s most civilized country almost two thousand years ago imparted significant wisdom which will benefit all mankind for the next two thousand years, and reading their works in the language in which they spoke is the purest, most exacting way to convey their thoughts and to fully understand them.”
Dot was most relieved by Mr. Steffington’s intelligent response—and thankful that Abby’s careless words must not have offended him too badly.
“Well said,” Forrester praised.
The gentlemen in the chamber continued to speak of Cicero, but the ladies, owing to their lack of a classical education, contributed little.
After a while Dot returned to the fireplace and addressed the gathering. “Thank you so much, Mr. Steffington, for such an enlightening discussion. I, for one, will be reading all the translations of Cicero that I can get my hands on—that is, after I read yours. He sounds like a brilliant, fascinating man, and we are indeb
ted to you for sharing your wealth of research with us.”
Then she proceeded to introduce Jonathan Blankenship. “Many of you know the younger Mr. Blankenship from his essays on political economy which appear regularly in the Edinburgh Review, and it is my privilege tonight to introduce Mr. Jonathan Blankenship.”
He came to take her place in front of those assembled. “Tonight I have decided to give all of you a preview of my article that will appear next month in the Edinburgh Review. I’ll be promulgating penal reform.”
Abby shrieked and covered her ears. “In front of ladies?”
Forrester issued an impatient oath. “I beg your pardon, Jonathan, but obviously my youngest sister is unacquainted with the word penal. Would you mind explaining it for her sake?”
Dot admired Forrester. What a good head of the family he made. How quick he was to analyze something. He would be an admirable husband.
Blanks and Sir Elvin could not hold back their laughter.
Jonathan quickly recovered. “Penal refers to punishment, particularly as it refers to incarceration and transportation. I will specifically be speaking to the need for a system of classifying crimes –and subsequent punishment—according to the severity of the crime.”
Several heads nodded in agreement.
“For example,” he said, “in Britain we have many, many minor crimes, such as poaching, that are punishable by death. It is my belief that the death penalty be reserved for crimes of murder. Lesser crimes should have lesser penalties.”
More heads nodded.
He gave a clearly defined talk that laid out the problems that needed to be addressed, and he proposed solutions. When he finished, everyone in the chamber clapped, and a lively discussion ensued.
Topham began to circulate throughout the chamber with a tray filled with glasses of port.
Dot was pleased when her guests got up and began to mingle while the footmen set up card tables.
Blanks came up to her. She was struck again by his handsomeness. He was the tallest man in the chamber and was possessed of thick hair in a rich dark brown and an exceedingly agreeable face that evoked a good nature. “You have caused considerable consternation in our house, Miss Pankhurst.”