by Anna Bennett
“Your carriage isn’t very far away,” he said. It seemed far safer than commenting on the kiss. “I’ll escort you there whenever you like.” But part of him hoped she wasn’t too eager to leave.
“Thank you,” she said primly. “I must go soon, but first I thought we could discuss the next steps.”
“Of course,” he said, even though he had no idea what she was talking about.
“You should probably call daily over the next few days, so that it appears you’re courting me. Flowers would be a nice gesture. You needn’t ask my father for an audience just yet.”
“Wait.” Gray rubbed his temples before looking directly into Miss Hartley’s pretty blue eyes. “I have not agreed to a betrothal. I only agreed to consider one.”
A wounded expression flitted across her face. “I realize that. But, as I’ve already mentioned, time is of the essence, and you can’t properly consider my proposal unless we spend time together. I feel confident that I’ll be able to assuage any doubts or reservations you still have.”
“I have many, many doubts and reservations, Miss Hartley.”
“Then we shouldn’t waste another moment,” she countered. “You may choose when and where we meet to further our acquaintance; you may choose any activity or pastime that suits you.”
He arched a brow. If she had any inkling of his wicked thoughts, she would not be so foolish as to give him carte blanche. But she was far too innocent to suspect the workings of his mind.
“It’s imperative that we reach an agreement soon,” she was saying.
Gray heard the desperation in her voice but still didn’t understand it. He’d given her little to no encouragement, and yet she seemed determined to wed him.
He had no desire to hurt her feelings, but he … well, he was not the husband for her. Besides, he had no time for pretend wooing. He was overseeing half a dozen projects at the Fortress.
The Fortress. It should have occurred to him earlier. When it came to deterring marriages, his manor house had a proven record.
“Very well,” he said. “If you are sincere in your wish to become better acquainted, come visit me at my country estate.”
She clasped her hands together and beamed. “A house party? That would be lovely!”
Holy hell. “Nothing grand,” he said quickly. “I’m currently renovating, so your accommodations will be rustic, to say the least.”
“I’m not certain my father will be able to leave behind his mills, but my stepmother and my sister, Lily, will be delighted to accompany me. And I really must insist on inviting Sophie—Lady Callahan’s daughter—we’ve been friends for ages, and I wouldn’t dream of excluding her. It’s so generous of you to host us all.”
Gray snorted. Miss Hartley wouldn’t think him generous after she laid eyes on the Fortress. She’d think the house party was a cruel joke designed to discourage her.
Which was the truth, after all.
“Then it’s settled,” he said firmly. “I’ll call tomorrow morning to extend a proper invitation to your stepmother.”
“Thank you for thinking of this.” She gathered up her soggy bonnet and gloves, preparing to exit the carriage. “I’m eager to see your house and to meet your family and friends.”
Once, the sentiment might have warmed him, but Helena had said much the same thing. Then, she’d taken one look at the Fortress and washed her hands of him.
With a modicum of luck, Miss Hartley would do the same.
Chapter 5
On Initiating a Kiss with a Gentleman in a Coach
I cannot say I recommend it. The combination of our soaked clothes and the close quarters inside the carriage made for rather steamy conditions. Even the windows fogged. I do believe I comported myself well, however, given that it was my first kiss with a handsome earl. Or with any gentleman for that matter. (I shall not count our neighbor William, as we were only twelve years of age and acting on a ridiculous dare.)
Indeed, I suspect that Lord R. would be shocked to learn of my lack of experience given the boldness and competency I displayed in the coach. While much ado is made of kissing, I am happy to report that it is not a terribly difficult skill to master. And though it is not at all unpleasant, I did suffer some unexpected symptoms during the encounter. I am certain that the confined space was to blame for my racing heart and somersaulting belly. Hardly surprising since, as I previously stated, conditions were not optimal. Did I mention the smoldering heat?
Fiona contemplated sketching the earl the next afternoon. Even now, nearly twenty-four hours after their meeting in the park, she could easily recall the texture of his hair, the shadow of stubble on his chin, and the guarded expression on his face. She also remembered the feel of his hand on hers and the current that it sent through her body. In fact, she could think of little else.
And that was precisely why she couldn’t sketch him yet. There were facets of Lord Ravenport she could not capture on paper with charcoal—the way his eyes flashed cold one moment and hot the next, and the way his mouth could turn from displeasure to interest in a fraction of a second.
The earl was still a mystery to her.
So, Fiona sketched the vicar from memory instead. Rather, she sat in the drawing room and attempted to sketch the vicar, while her sister, Lily, ruthlessly interrogated her.
“You say Lord Ravenport requested permission to call on you today.” Lily paced in front of the settee where Fiona sat and pretended to be absorbed in drawing the vicar’s spectacles.
“Yes,” Fiona confirmed, for perhaps the fifth time that morning. She’d informed her family at dinner last night, so the earl’s visit wouldn’t catch them entirely off guard. Her stepmother had nearly choked on her roast beef, and her sister had dropped her fork at the unexpected—but most welcome—news.
Lily tossed a cascade of dark curls over her shoulder and crossed her arms. “And he made this request during a chance meeting at the park?”
Fiona ignored her sister’s skeptical tone. Avoided her shrewd green eyes. “He did,” she said breezily. As if this sort of thing transpired every Wednesday afternoon.
Lily tilted her head to one side. “How would you describe the nature of the earl’s request? Was it reserved and polite? Or impassioned and heartfelt?”
Good heavens. Fiona frowned at the sketch on her lap and hoped the vicar would forgive the little lie she was about to tell. Because the truth was that the earl had not requested permission to call so much as she had instructed him to. “Reserved,” she replied. It seemed less of a stretch than impassioned and heartfelt.
Lily nodded, assimilating this new piece of information. “Not surprising. He’s rather cold, isn’t he? I don’t imagine Lord Ravenport has a romantic bone in his body.”
Cold was not a word Fiona would have used to describe the earl, but her sister’s point was well taken. “He tends to be serious,” Fiona said. And stubborn. And exasperating. But it was too late to set her sights on another potential husband. Besides, she wasn’t certain she wanted to.
“You must have made an impression on him at the Northcroft ball,” Lily mused.
“Are you referring to the waltz, when I almost succeeded in pulling him to the dance floor on top of me?”
“He’s very handsome,” Lily countered. “I could think of worse things.”
“Lily!”
“Have you been writing about him? In your diary, I mean?”
Fiona glanced at the doorway to make sure their stepmother hadn’t suddenly appeared. She’d retreated to her rooms with her lady’s maid shortly after breakfast in order to ready herself for the earl’s visit. “I have started a journal,” Fiona said, “just as I promised.”
Lily clasped her hands together, rapturous. “Very good.” The gleam in her eyes might have made Fiona nervous if she didn’t know Lily would never stoop to snooping through her bedchamber or invading her privacy.
Which was not to say Lily had any qualms about trying to cajole the information out of Fiona,
using any and all means at her disposal.
“Did you write about the night at the ball? And the encounter at the park?”
Fiona pressed her lips together and hummed a little tune while she sketched a buckle on the vicar’s right shoe.
But Lily was not easily deterred. “Dear diary,” she dictated with dramatic relish, “the earl is both a brooding and breathtaking creature. He possesses the face of Adonis and the body of—”
“That’s quite enough,” Fiona said, holding up a staying hand. “Your diary may contain the scribblings of a lovesick schoolgirl, but I can assure you that mine does not.” The very idea was preposterous, and may lightning strike her if she ever succumbed to such sappy, sentimental impulses. “And since Lord Ravenport could soon arrive on our doorstep, could we please begin pretending that we are proper young ladies who do not lose their heads over the mere prospect of a gentleman caller?”
“Lord Ravenport is not just any gentleman caller,” Lily said. “He’s dashing and dark—and an earl. You may count on Mama making a complete cake of herself the moment he steps foot in the house.”
Fiona cringed. “I know. That’s why I’m relying on you to help me prove that the entire family’s not mad.”
Chuckling, Lily circled behind Fiona and peered over her shoulder at the sketchbook on her lap. “Another lovely drawing, Fi.” She paused, then said, “Is it just me, or does the good vicar seem to be judging us?”
Fiona looked down at the vicar’s kind face and wise eyes, then sighed. “No, it’s not just you.” It almost seemed the vicar knew what she was about—and did not approve of her keeping secrets and kissing earls in coaches.
Lily laughed. “I’m going to meet Sophie in the park. Would you like to join us?”
“I think I’ll stay and finish this portrait. But please give Soph my best—and don’t dally too long. I need you here when the earl calls.”
“I shan’t leave you to face him alone.” Lily squeezed Fiona’s shoulders affectionately. “I’ll return in an hour or so.”
“Thank you.”
As soon as Lily left, Fiona fetched the blackmail note from the bottom of her bureau drawer. Whenever she began to question the prudence of marrying a man she scarcely knew, she pulled out the letter and reread it, letting the horror of the threat sink into her bones. Her eyes went to the bottom of the first page, which read:
Lest you doubt my resolve, I have enclosed an exact copy of the letter which I have written to the London Hearsay. Upon receipt of your payment, I shall destroy the letter and take your family’s secret to my grave. You have my word on this. However, if you do not provide the full amount, I shall immediately deliver the letter to the newspaper for publication in their next edition.
Fiona took a deep breath before shuffling the pages. The blackmailer’s letter to the Hearsay was written in the kind of titillating, provocative prose that would have every household in London clamoring to buy the issue—unless Fiona prevented it from going to print:
Miss Lily Hartley, the younger daughter of a wealthy mill owner, may possess beauty and fortune aplenty, but she also possesses a dark, scandalous secret. She was abandoned by her true mother when she was but an infant, left on a doorstep where, but for the grace of God, she might have easily perished in the cold.
The truth is that the woman who gave birth to Miss Hartley is none other than the proprietress of Mayfair’s most notorious house of ill repute. One need only gaze upon the fair faces of the debutante and Madam Serena Labelle to ascertain they are indeed daughter and mother. However, additional proof rests in a memento left with the unwanted babe. Madam Labelle’s newborn was found wearing one bootie embroidered with an L. Inside the bootie was a note that read: “Please take care of my darling Lily.” The madam kept the other bootie for herself—so that she might never forget her perfidy.
Miss Hartley would no doubt have preferred to keep the truth about her lineage a secret, but since she is on the marriage mart, it seems only fair that the gentlemen who might otherwise be inclined to pursue her be in possession of the facts: Tainted blood runs through her veins.
Neither a proper finishing school education nor a princess’s dowry can erase the truth: Miss Hartley’s mother is a whore.
Fiona wouldn’t have believed the story if the blackmailer hadn’t mentioned the bootie and the note left inside it. How many nights had she and Lily lain awake, wondering about her birth mother? In their romantic musings, Lily’s mother had been a royal princess forced to flee her kingdom. Unable to care for her beloved child, she’d left Lily with a couple who would dote on her.
Fiona and Lily naïvely believed the banished princess would appear at their door one day, bootie in hand, begging Lily’s forgiveness and inviting her to come and live at a palace where she would claim her birthright.
And in Lily and Fiona’s imaginations, Lily would respond by saying that she and Fiona were true sisters and simply could not be separated. Lily’s long-lost mother would have to be content with having Lily and Fiona live at the palace for six months out of the year, as they intended to remain in London with the Hartleys for the other six.
The embroidered bootie was supposed to have been a clue leading Lily into the arms of a second, loving family.
Instead, it was the evidence that could ruin Lily.
A small, precious keepsake that could destroy them all.
* * *
As Gray stood on the Hartleys’ doorstep, his hand poised to lower the knocker, he had an eerie sense of déjà vu. One month ago, he’d been calling on Helena and making polite conversation with her family, trying to ingratiate himself.
And he’d loathed every minute of it.
If there was any bright side to being jilted by his fiancée, it was that he no longer had to feign interest in the dozen different varieties of roses that Helena’s fussy mother tended in her godforsaken garden. He wasn’t obliged to teach Helena’s whiny spoiled younger brother how to fence; he needn’t smoke stale cigars and make inane small talk with her stodgy father.
Gray’s time was his own, and he answered to no one—save his grandmother, for whom he’d gladly lay down his life.
But now he was standing at Miss Hartley’s damned front door—all because she’d dared to kiss him.
He had two goals for today’s visit. First, to issue an invitation to a house party—one that was intended to disabuse Miss Hartley, once and for all, of her foolish notion of marrying him. And second, to get the hell out of there before any family members or pets could form an attachment to him.
He knocked and presented his card to a butler in a starched jacket. Despite the servant’s impassive expression and courteous manners, Gray detected a hint of surprise—a slight flare of the butler’s nostrils and a faint widening of his eyes that suggested Miss Hartley and her sister did not have a great many callers.
An unexpected twinge of anger flickered in Gray’s chest. What did it matter if Fiona Hartley was not of noble birth, or if her father had made his fortune in trade? Who gave a fig if she fell and made a spectacle of herself at every ball from now till Christmastide? She was infuriating to be sure, but she didn’t deserve to be a pariah.
The butler’s shoes clicked across pristine marble floors as he led Gray to an opulent drawing room where every furnishing sparkled like new. The gold clock on the wood-carved mantel, the silver vase on the gleaming mahogany table, the crystal droplets on the elegant wall sconces—every carefully selected piece in the room bespoke luxury. Wealth.
And it made Gray break out in a cold sweat. The Hartleys’ house was well staffed and appointed with every creature comfort. What would they think of the Fortress—with its drafty windows, shabby furniture, and peeling wallpaper? Only last night, while he’d lain in bed at the manor house, he’d heard mice rustling behind the walls and bats fluttering in the attic. He couldn’t imagine so much as a fly being permitted to invade the Hartleys’ house.
His mind screamed for him to call off this ridiculous pl
an, to walk out and never look back. He’d spare himself a great deal of embarrassment and headache.
But then he spotted Miss Hartley sitting on the settee with her feet tucked under her and her slippers tossed on the floor. Sunlight streamed over her shoulder, and her brows were knit in concentration as her charcoal flew over the sketchbook she held in her lap. Absorbed in her work, she seemed unaware of the loose curl that dangled at her temple, or the hitched skirts that revealed a glimpse of her stockinged calf.
She looked so industrious and earnest and … vulnerable. He couldn’t go back on his word.
But he could gently dissuade her—and refrain from encouraging her.
Her younger sister, whom Gray hadn’t even noticed sitting at the pianoforte, cleared her throat in warning just before the butler announced, “The Earl of Ravenport.”
Miss Hartley’s sketchbook slipped from her lap, and she scrambled to her feet, covering her empty slippers with the hem of her gown. She attempted to wriggle her feet into her shoes as she dipped a curtsy. “My lord,” she managed.
He opened his mouth to reply, but Mrs. Hartley stormed into the room behind him, her ample bosom preceding her like the prow of a Viking ship. “Lord Ravenport,” she cooed. “It is a great honor to welcome you into our humble home. You grace us with your presence.” She placed one hand over her chest and offered him the other.
Bowing over it, he replied, “The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Hartley.” Two goals. Invitation. Escape.
“You’re acquainted with my lovely daughters, Fiona and Lily.” As she waved an arm in their direction, her pungent perfume wafted around his head, stinging his eyes. “They’re actually my stepdaughters,” she continued, “as I’m sure you’ve deduced. Though we’re sometimes mistaken for sisters.”
Gray’s gaze flicked to Fiona, who visibly cringed. He inclined his head so he wouldn’t have to look at Mrs. Hartley as he replied. “Anyone could be forgiven for the error.”