by Anna Bennett
“Where are my manners?” She clucked her tongue. “Please, do make yourself comfortable while I ring for tea.”
“I’m afraid I can’t stay,” he said quickly.
Fiona gasped. “But you’ve only just arrived.”
“Yes. Duty calls,” he said, deliberately vague. “I’m sure you understand.” But her crestfallen expression suggested she didn’t.
“Of course we understand,” Mrs. Hartley assured him. “As an earl, you must have a great many responsibilities. We would never presume to keep you from them.” She glared at her stepdaughters, silently forbidding them to contradict her.
“I did wish to extend an invitation,” Gray said. “I am hosting a small house party at my country estate next week—starting Monday. I would be delighted if you and your family would attend. Your friend Lady Callahan and her daughter are also welcome.”
Mrs. Hartley’s jaw hung slack. “A house party?” She turned to her stepdaughters and smiled as though she couldn’t believe their good fortune. “A house party,” she repeated. “At the Earl of Ravenport’s country house.”
“The accommodations will be somewhat rustic,” he warned. “The house is a work in progress. I’m restoring it—mostly for my grandmother’s sake. She lived there when she was a girl and remembers the halls and grounds quite fondly.”
Why the devil was he sharing private matters with the Hartleys? He clamped his mouth shut before he revealed all the maudlin details. No one needed to know his grandmother’s health—most specifically her eyesight—was failing. Or that the doctor had predicted she’d be blind within two years. Or that Gray was determined to return the house to its former glory while she could still see it.
He’d be damned if her final glimpses of her cherished childhood home would consist of walls marred by cracked mortar and windows darkened with overgrown ivy. She deserved visions of pristine marble, sparkling glass, and manicured lawns. It was the least he could do for her.
Mrs. Hartley’s eyes welled as though she was overcome by the mere invitation. “My daughters and I would be honored to attend your house party, Lord Ravenport.”
“Excellent. I shall send you the details tomorrow.” Time to make his exit. “I look forward to seeing you next week.”
“Next week?” Fiona blurted. “That is, I’d hoped we’d have the pleasure of your company before then.”
“Fiona!” her stepmother snapped under her breath.
The younger Hartley sister stepped forward, wringing her hands. “Perhaps we will see you in town before the house party. At a ball or soiree. Maybe the opera,” she said, grasping.
“I doubt it,” Gray replied. Even if he were inclined to attend such functions—which he most definitely was not—he was going to need every waking moment just to make the manor house habitable.
He made a curt bow and hazarded one last glance at Fiona—and wished he hadn’t.
Her cheeks flushed pink and her eyes flashed her displeasure. She wanted him to publicly court her. She wanted a whirlwind engagement.
But he’d agreed to neither of those things, and she shouldn’t expect more from him.
Because he couldn’t give it.
If there was one tiny corner of his heart that wasn’t frozen, it was reserved for his grandmother. And the sooner Miss Fiona Hartley realized he was a lost cause, the better off she’d be.
Chapter 6
Fiona’s stepmother had insisted on having several of Fiona’s and Lily’s gowns updated in advance of the earl’s house party. Mama claimed none of the dresses they owned was fit for such an auspicious occasion, and though she would have dearly loved to order new wardrobes for all of them prior to the house party, alas—time would not permit it. Much to Mama’s chagrin, they would have to be content with some clever alterations.
Fiona and Lily had tried in vain to convince Mama that their gowns were perfectly acceptable as they were, causing Mama significant distress. She’d collapsed onto the parlor settee and pressed the back of a hand to her forehead. In a trembling voice she said, “Opportunities like this one don’t come along often. We must make the most of them.” Then she gave Fiona a sharply pointed look that was easy to interpret: Don’t muff this, because it may be your only shot at marrying well.
Fiona hardly needed the reminder. She was acutely aware of the importance of the house party—to Lily, her, and her family. Even if her reason for wishing to marry the earl was vastly different from Mama’s.
More than anything, her stepmother craved respectability, status, and acceptance. An advantageous match for Fiona would elevate them all in the eyes of the world.
Meanwhile, Fiona was simply trying to save Lily—and the entire family—from being cast into a pit of ruin.
In any event, arguing with Mama about gowns was both pointless and exhausting, so Fiona and Lily found themselves at the modiste’s shop for the third straight day since Lord Ravenport’s visit.
Two of Madam Dubois’s most talented seamstresses had worked around the clock to alter half a dozen dresses for Fiona and Lily. Even Fiona had to admit that some of the gown transformations were extraordinary.
In a corner of the dress shop behind a plush velvet curtain, she slipped a gold silk dress over her head. The seamstress had stripped off the lace trim and replaced it with delicate beading so that even in the dressing area light danced off the tiny crystals, creating a dazzling effect.
Fiona barely recognized the ball gown. Indeed, she barely recognized herself.
Mama must have paid Madam Dubois a small fortune for the miracle her dressmakers had worked. In fact, the shopkeeper’s bill probably exceeded the amount Fiona needed to pay off the blackmailer.
She fervently wished there were some way she could ask her parents for the money. But Fiona refused to risk upsetting Papa. His father, Fiona’s grandfather, had died suddenly of heart failure when Papa was the same age as she. And Papa’s doctor constantly cautioned him that he must slow down and avoid undue stress. Fiona had taken it upon herself to protect Papa as much as she could.
Asking Mama was out of the question as well. She’d balk at the very suggestion. Hadn’t they already given her everything a young woman could possibly want? What on earth did she intend to use it for? She’d be suspicious—rightfully so. And if she discovered that someone was trying to extort money from Fiona, they’d demand to know the scandalous secret about Lily.
And Fiona was afraid Mama would never look at her sister the same way.
Which would break Fiona’s heart. Lily might not be her sister by blood, but they were almost the same age and had grown up together, as close as twins. Nothing could change the way Fiona felt about her sister.
But Mama … well, she was a fickle sort. Anyone who jeopardized her tenuous social standing was a liability. She loved Lily—as much as she was capable of loving anyone, Fiona supposed—but if she feared that the truth about Lily might become known, she’d cut her off. Send her away.
Papa was different. Or he had been, once. He’d doted on Fiona and Lily, taking them on picnics or to the park whenever he could. And when he was working, the girls happily spent their days playing beneath his desk, tidying his office, and tagging along as he visited his mills. But then he’d remarried, and his new wife had put her foot down, claiming well-bred young ladies did not engage in such crass pastimes. Mama had been the one who’d insisted Fiona and Lily go away and attend a proper finishing school. It had broken Fiona’s heart when she left Papa—and she was fairly certain it had broken his, too.
Now he was rarely at home and deferred to his wife in all family matters. It was almost as if he didn’t trust himself to do the right thing when it came to his daughters.
No, Fiona couldn’t risk confiding in her parents.
Besides, it was too late to turn back now. She had only ten days before the blackmailer published what he knew in the London Hearsay. She simply had to convince Lord Ravenport to marry her before then, so she could access her marriage settlement and pa
y the extortionist.
And it vexed her that the earl was not obediently going along with the plan.
She shrugged herself out of the gold silk and thanked the seamstress as she handed her the dress. Yes, the earl had invited her family to the house party, as promised. But he’d done so as though he was under duress, not even deigning to sit and visit awhile before he escaped their drawing room. Would it have killed him to drink a cup of tea? Or to pretend to be a little smitten with her?
With the help of the efficient seamstress, Fiona dressed and returned to the main area of the shop where Mama and Lily waited, their expressions anxious. “You’ll never guess who just walked by,” Lily blurted.
Fiona’s belly sank, and she pretended to admire a bolt of cloth on a nearby counter. “Oh?”
“Lord Ravenport!” Mama sang, confirming Fiona’s fears. “Fortuitous, is it not? If we leave now, we shall be able to catch him.”
“It wouldn’t be seemly for us to chase after the earl,” Fiona said firmly. “Besides, we shall see him in two days’ time—at his house party.”
“I don’t know,” Lily mused. “I should think he’d be pleased to see you. Besides, you could thank him in person.”
Gads. “Actually, I’ve developed a bit of a headache.” Fiona pressed a fingertip to her temple for effect. “Trying on six gowns in the space of an hour will do that to a per—”
Mama yanked her by the arm and pulled her toward the door of the shop with enough force to uproot a small tree. “You mustn’t be shy. Never fear, we shall make it seem as though our meeting is purely coincidental.”
Oh dear. Mama was not known for her subtlety. Fiona prayed that she’d delayed long enough for Lord Ravenport to make his getaway. It wasn’t that she was opposed to seeing the earl; she simply wanted to avoid a public meeting until she’d had the chance to privately explain to him what she’d done. Which was to take matters into her own hands.
Lily burst through the shop door onto the pavement outside and surveyed the street. “There he is, talking to a gentleman outside the bootmaker’s shop.”
“How convenient,” Mama said smugly. “Come along, girls. It just so happens that your father is in desperate need of a new pair of hessians.”
* * *
Gray bid a good day to Kirby and headed toward his carriage parked around the corner from the bootmaker’s. He’d taken only a few steps when a shrill voice rang out. “Lord Ravenport.”
Reluctantly, he turned toward Mrs. Hartley and plastered some semblance of a smile on his face. He’d been kicking himself ever since he opened his mouth and invited her family to the house party. Now that guests would be descending upon him in only two days, he realized the folly of hosting any event at the Fortress. Even Kirby, who was always game for adventure, thought Gray mad for going through with the plans. His friend had wagered ten pounds that the Hartleys would be in their carriage, heading back to town, within twenty-four hours of arriving at the Fortress.
Which suited Gray just fine.
“Why, I thought it was you.” Mrs. Hartley bustled toward him, her daughters in tow. The way the older woman gazed at him, as though he were some sort of hero, made him want a stiff drink. Her younger daughter, Lily, appeared similarly dreamy eyed, while Fiona looked distinctly … unenthused.
Gray made a polite bow. “Good afternoon, ladies.”
“We’ve just come from Madam Dubois’s shop. She’s the best modiste in all of town, but I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that.” Mrs. Hartley paused and gave him a conspiratorial wink that simultaneously frightened and baffled him. “In any event, we just happened to see you, and good manners dictated that we stop to pay our respects.”
Gray nodded amiably and stole a glance at Fiona. The sunlight brought out the deep reds in her hair, and her freckles were more pronounced than usual. She didn’t hide beneath a parasol or cake powder on her face, thank God. With a soft breeze rustling the curls at her nape, she looked more like a woodland fairy than a London miss on a shopping excursion.
But she would not meet his gaze. In fact, if there had been a rock nearby she no doubt would have tried to slink under it. Interesting.
“I trust you’re enjoying your outing, Miss Hartley?”
“Oh yes.” She stared at the pavement between their feet, like a demure miss. Which he knew very well she was not.
“We were attending to some errands in advance of your house party,” the younger sister said, leaping into the awkward silence. “You’d think we were readying ourselves for a voyage to America rather than a week at a manor house,” she teased.
“It never hurts to be prepared. Besides, your cabin on a transatlantic voyage would probably be more luxurious than any of my guest chambers.”
The women laughed as though he were joking. If only that were true.
Fiona shot him a tight-lipped smile. “Well, we do not wish to keep you from your own errands, my lord. Do enjoy the rest of the afternoon.”
He should have been relieved that she was trying to end their encounter so quickly. Instead, he was oddly annoyed.
“Fiona,” Mrs. Hartley said, giving her daughter a subtle elbow jab. “Wasn’t there something you wished to say to the earl?”
Fiona’s eyebrows rose halfway to her hairline. “Not that I can recall. Shouldn’t we be on our way? We wouldn’t want to be late for dinner.”
The younger sister, Lily, shot Fiona a mildly scolding frown, then beamed at Gray. “The flowers were lovely. Pink roses,” she sighed. “Such a romantic choice.”
“Flowers,” he repeated, glaring at Fiona.
She closed her eyes briefly and swallowed. “Yes. Thank you for sending them. Such a thoughtful gesture. I was remiss not to mention it.”
Indeed. He was starting to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Someone—not him—had sent Fiona flowers. Pink roses, to be precise. And she’d led her mother and sister to believe Gray had been the one to send them.
Good grief. He had neither the time nor the tolerance for this sort of nonsense. But he could see the silent plea in Miss Hartley’s startling blue eyes and took pity. “No thanks are necessary.”
Fiona blew out a long breath, obviously relieved. “We’ve taken far too much of your time, my lord. We look forward to—”
“The earl is being too modest,” Lily protested. “After all, it wasn’t merely the flowers.”
Gray arched a brow at Fiona. “It wasn’t?”
“Lily, we mustn’t embarrass Lord Ravenport,” Fiona said under her breath, all but begging her sister to drop the subject.
But Gray didn’t want to let it rest. If she had an admirer, he deserved to know who the swain was. Not that he objected to Fiona having a suitor. Quite the contrary. If someone else was willing to marry her, maybe he could wipe his hands of the whole business and spare himself a lot of trouble.
“I’m not embarrassed,” Gray said. He’d attempted an amiable tone but sounded slightly irritated, even to his own ears. What else had Fiona’s beau sent her?
“Nor should you be,” Mrs. Hartley said, quick to reassure him. “Your poem was…” She closed her eyes and fanned herself with a hand as she searched for the correct adjective. “Moving. Dare I say, stirring? All the ladies at my whist game agreed—you have a gift with words.”
Gray clenched his jaw to keep himself from uttering words that would send Mrs. Hartley straight to her fainting couch. But it was Fiona who deserved his ire. Oh, he had plenty to say to her. Instead, he replied to her stepmother. “I’ve never been accused of being a poet, much less a good one.”
The younger sister, Lily, shrugged her slim shoulders and smiled mischievously. “Perhaps you never had the proper inspiration before.” She inclined her dark head toward Fiona.
“That’s enough,” Fiona proclaimed. Her cheeks were a vivid pink—the better to match her precious roses. “The poem was intended for me,” she said, “and it was meant to be private.”
“I know, dear,” her stepmother said, c
ontrite. “Forgive me. But some things are simply too delicious not to share. Such as the verse that read: ‘Your eyes shine brighter than the stars on a moonless night. No mortal man could help but be blinded by the sight.’ It made Mrs. Greenbriar shed a tear right there at the card table. Even the vicar’s wife declared it hopelessly romantic. Everyone loves young love. You can’t blame us all for being a little swept away.”
“Ah … yes. The moonless night line,” he managed. What the devil? If word of this spread to the men in his club, he’d never hear the end of it. He had no idea what sort of game Miss Fiona Hartley was playing—attributing some other sap’s flowers and poetry to him—but he intended to put a hasty end to it.
He only required a few minutes alone with her in order to discover what she was about, and before he’d fully considered all the ramifications he opened his idiotic mouth. “Miss Hartley, would you care to join me for a drive in the park tomorrow afternoon?”
Fiona gulped. “That sounds…”
“Wonderful!” Mrs. Hartley exclaimed. She clasped her hands against her large bosom and bit her bottom lip as though fighting back joyous tears.
God save him.
“Excellent,” he said to Fiona, making a slight bow. “I’ll come around at five.”
She nodded somberly—as if she’d agreed not to a drive in the park, but to twenty lashings in the town square.
As he strode toward his carriage, he heard Mrs. Hartley’s loud, suggestive whisper: “Perhaps tomorrow’s outing will provide the earl inspiration for a new poem.”
Perhaps it would—but damned if he wouldn’t be the last to know.
Chapter 7
On Accepting an Invitation to Ride in the Park
Certain milestones in a girl’s life are long anticipated and much dreamed about. Some—like attending balls and dancing the waltz—fulfill every lofty expectation, while others fall disappointingly short. Wearing a corset, for example. As a schoolgirl, I was quite desperate to have one. I begged Mama for months before she agreed to purchase a few for me. Now I have a drawerful of the things, and I can’t imagine why I was once so eager to be squeezed in and laced up to the point where a deep breath is nigh impossible.