by Anna Bennett
In any event, having a gentleman ask me to join him for a ride in the park was another particularly vivid fantasy. Until yesterday, when Lord R. single-handedly crushed it.
In my naïve imaginings, the invitation went something like this: A handsome gentleman would call on me and pay me pretty compliments. He’d gaze deeply into my eyes, and, with barely controlled passion, beg me to accompany him for a ride. When I accepted, he’d exclaim that he was sure to be the envy of every man in town.
But Lord R.’s request was a pale imitation of the fantasy, more akin to an unfeeling summons than a romantic invitation. I suppose I have only myself to blame for conjuring up such fanciful and unrealistic expectations.
Just like the corset.
“I do not write poetry,” Lord Ravenport announced, somewhere between annoyed and irate. He shot Fiona a sidelong glance, then returned his attention to the road in front of them, expertly steering his horses around a parked carriage. The earl’s curricle was neither new nor particularly flashy, but people throughout the park were staring—presumably at her. And the earl. Together.
With the top down, they were on display for all to see, and Fiona’s nerves were already strung tight. Not because Lord Ravenport was angry—justifiably so—but because his thigh inadvertently brushed against her skirts each time the curricle rolled over the slightest bump. And every time the earl pulled the reins to the right, his flexed bicep lightly collided with her elbow. She couldn’t quite decide if she dreaded the bumps and turns or eagerly anticipated them. But she suspected the latter.
The skies were a brilliant blue, a rarity for London, but Lord Ravenport seemed distinctly unappreciative—of the lovely afternoon, her company, and the world in general.
“I do not write poetry,” he repeated, “and I don’t read it. I don’t even believe in it.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Fiona said. She’d been on the verge of apologizing for the ruse of him having sent the flowers and poetry, but she couldn’t let such a ludicrous statement go unchallenged. “You may say you don’t believe in unicorns or dragons or one-eyed giants. But you cannot deny the existence of poetry.”
“I can,” he countered. “I just did. Poetry is nothing more than a puffed-up collection of words—words that think they’re too good for common, plain-speaking folk.”
“Poetry is snobbish?” Fiona asked, incredulous.
The earl nodded. “Absolutely. It was invented by sentimental fools who have nothing better to do than wax on about rubbish like their lover’s eyes or lips.”
“I see,” Fiona said dryly. “Poetry is snobbish and superfluous.”
He leaned closer and smiled at her, smug. “Precisely.”
“Ovid and Homer would be distressed to learn of your poor opinion of them.”
“No doubt,” he agreed wryly. “Shakespeare would be inconsolable.”
Fine. If Lord Ravenport failed to see the value in great works of literary genius, she was not going to waste her breath trying to change his mind. He could remain unenlightened, for all she cared. She needed a husband, not a poet.
She smiled brightly—as though his lack of refinement didn’t trouble her in the slightest—and soaked in the scene around her. The path was crowded with phaetons and barouches, pedestrians and onlookers. “The park is quite busy today,” she remarked.
“Hell is empty, and all the devils are here,” he grumbled.
Fiona narrowed her eyes at him. “Two minutes after renouncing poetry, you have the audacity to quote Shakespeare?”
The earl shot her a wry grin and shrugged. “Even idiots like the Bard stumble upon the occasional gem.”
She took a deep breath and resolved to avoid sparring with him. He wasn’t scowling at the moment, indicating a marked improvement of mood—and she intended to take advantage of it. “I owe you an apology,” she began earnestly. “I shouldn’t have led my family to believe that you sent me flowers and wrote me poetry. Please forgive me.”
He gave a curt nod and tightened his hands on the reins. “Will you also apologize to your admirer?”
Fiona blinked. “I’m not aware of an admirer.”
“Someone is making romantic overtures. The flowers, the poem…”
Good heavens. Her cheeks flushed. Admitting the truth aloud was going to be nothing short of mortifying. “It’s a rather amusing tale, actually.”
“If you have a beau, there’s no need to hide him. In fact, you should bring him out of the shadows.”
The earl’s voice had a bitter, hollow quality that made Fiona want to shake him and hug him at the same time. “It’s not that simple,” she said.
“He obviously has tender feelings for you. If you are determined to wed someone, why not him? Why involve me at all?”
For the love of—“There is no admirer. No beau,” she said. “I sent the flowers. I wrote the poem … to myself.”
The earl immediately pulled the curricle to the side of the road beneath the shade of a tree and turned to Fiona. He held the reins in one hand and raked the other through his hair. “You pretended to have a suitor?”
“Yes, my lord.” She raised her chin defiantly. “I pretended to have you as a suitor.”
“That is, quite possibly, the saddest thing I have ever heard.”
“I don’t need your pity.” But, heaven help her, she did need the earl to marry her, and if a little pity helped her cause …
“Why don’t you have real suitors?”
Why indeed? “I suppose there are several reasons, but I’ve no wish to enumerate them. The point is, I shouldn’t have involved you in the lie.”
“Why did you?” he asked, more curious than angry.
She looked around to make sure no passersby were within earshot and lowered her voice. “I know you haven’t agreed to marry me—yet. But in the event that I’m able to persuade you, it’s important that our affections seem … genuine. Our engagement … normal.”
“There’s nothing normal about marrying someone you’ve known for less than a fortnight, Miss Hartley, and all the flowers and poetry in the world can’t make it so.” He frowned for a moment, then asked earnestly, “Haven’t you ever been in love?”
Fiona swallowed. “I once fancied myself in love with a boy who lived near our country house. I was twelve and thought him very clever. He would fish or practice archery, and I would sketch him. But when his father discovered how much time we were spending together, he forbade William to see me.”
“Were you heartbroken?”
“No,” she answered honestly. “But I did miss him.”
“And there’s been no one since?” He stared at her, disbelieving.
“Not really.” A few handsome gentlemen had caught her eye, but none had truly captured her interest, much less her heart.
“Well, I’m no expert on the subject of love either, but I do know this: You can’t fake it. Look at all the couples strolling by the Serpentine.” He waved a hand in the direction of a nearby footpath. “None of them are in love,” he said dryly. “Some might be in the throes of temporary infatuation, but most are wishing they were walking with someone else. You can tell by the way they’re swiveling their heads, looking around the park for someone better than their partners.”
Goodness. Lady Helena must have wounded him deeply—maybe more than he cared to admit to himself. “That is a rather jaded view, but you may be correct,” Fiona conceded. “Perhaps none of those couples is in love. But I disagree that it’s impossible to fake affection. My mother and sister believe you are smitten—partly because of the poetry I wrote, but mostly because that’s what they want to believe. I’m not asking you to play the part of lovesick suitor for the duration of the house party, but perhaps you could scowl a little less? Maybe pay me the occasional compliment? Would that be so very difficult?”
* * *
Paying Miss Hartley a compliment wouldn’t be difficult at all. Gray could think of half a dozen off the top of his head. She was easy to talk to, and the
lilting sound of her voice warmed his blood. She was the opposite of ordinary, and even though he’d thought nothing could surprise him anymore, she did. She was clever and pretty and nice. She smelled good.
No, paying her a compliment would be easy—and misleading.
“I don’t want to falsely raise your hopes with flattery,” he said regretfully. “The chances of me marrying you are almost nil.”
“So, there is a chance,” she said, triumphant.
“A minuscule chance.” God, he felt like an ass. But the sooner she accepted the truth, the better off she’d be. He’d witnessed the devastating effects of a love that had turned sour. He’d seen things no one should have to see. Was it any wonder he wished her to be spared the same fate? “When you arrive at my manor house tomorrow, you’ll see. We are from different worlds, you and I.”
“You say that as though being from different worlds is a bad thing. Maybe it isn’t. All I’m asking is that you open your mind to the possibility we might suit one another.”
Gray snorted, slapped his horses’ reins, and steered the curricle back onto the road. Damn, but Miss Hartley was stubborn. “I’m hosting you at the Fortress for a week,” he told her. “That will fulfill any obligation I have to you.”
“I know you could use the money from my marriage settlement,” she said boldly. “And I presume you’ll eventually need an heir.”
Jesus, she wasn’t mincing words. But two could play that game. “I will require an heir. And a spare. But why should I stop there? Perhaps I’ll want a wife who’s willing to give me a whole houseful of brats.” He hazarded a glance at her, pleased to see she’d turned a shade paler.
“I am open to negotiating such matters,” she said. “But I suspect you’re merely trying to scare me off—and I don’t scare easily.”
“I’d noticed.”
She wrung her hands in her lap. “The trouble is, I have only nine days left in which to marry someone.”
An idea dawned. “Does your sense of urgency stem from one of those odd, antiquated clauses in a will? The kind that states you must marry by the time you’re a certain age, or the money reverts to the estate?”
“No, nothing like that,” she said, forlorn. “It stems from wanting to protect my family. More than that I cannot say.”
“I’m sorry I can’t help with your predicament, Miss Hartley.” But then another thought occurred to him. Maybe he could help her—by finding her an eligible beau. Someone besides him.
She was beautiful, smart, and kind—and her father was richer than Croesus. She wanted a titled husband, and he knew plenty of bachelors who were peers. Gray was not in the business of matchmaking, but if finding Miss Hartley a real suitor took the pressure off him he wasn’t averse to playing Cupid this once.
He’d already roped Kirby into attending the farce of a house party; what was one or two bachelors more? Gray would ensure that the potential candidates were well-mannered, decent fellows—the kind he wouldn’t object to courting his own sister, if he’d had one.
He was congratulating himself on his brilliant idea when the left wheel of his curricle unexpectedly dipped into a rut. Miss Hartley had no time to brace herself. She slid on the bench seat, and the side of her body—from shoulder to hip—collided with his.
Any notion of comparing her to a sister fled.
All rational thought fled.
“Oh my,” she breathed as she wriggled against him, trying unsuccessfully to right herself.
Gray gathered the reins in one hand, wrapped his free arm around the nip of her waist, and nudged her upright. “Forgive me. I should have avoided the hole in the road.”
“No, no,” she said, charmingly flustered as she adjusted her bonnet, which now sat cockeyed on her head. “I should have been more alert. I confess I’m more accustomed to lumbering carriages than spritely curricles. But the change is wonderful,” she assured him. “I like feeling the breeze on my face.”
Gray smiled at her candor. “You can’t fully appreciate the vehicle’s speed in a park setting. Once we’re in the country, I’ll take you for a ride and let the horses—” He stopped, irritated with himself for forgetting, even momentarily, that he mustn’t lead Miss Hartley on. He should definitely not be making promises to take her on additional outings when the goal was to be rid of her as soon as possible. “Actually, I’m sure any gentleman at the house party would be happy to drive you through the countryside.”
She smiled knowingly, damn it all. “That sounds divine.”
Determined to regain control of the conversation—assuming he ever had it—he announced firmly, “There will be no more poetry. At least none attributed to me.”
“Fair enough,” she replied with a sigh. “No poetry, no flowers, no love letters. And I do apologize if I embarrassed you.”
He shrugged and decided he could afford to be magnanimous. “No harm done. If word of my poetry spreads to my club, I’ll tell everyone I was foxed when I wrote it.”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“It was horrid.”
She didn’t reply but smiled and lifted her face to the sun, letting the ribbons of her bonnet flutter in the wind. They rode in companionable silence for a minute or two; then she turned to him. “May I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“How do you feel about romantic ballads?”
The back of his neck prickled. “About listening to them or writing them?” he asked pointedly.
“Singing them. Perhaps while a young lady of your acquaintance accompanied you on the pianoforte?”
“Miss Hartley…”
She blinked innocently. “It’s purely a hypothetical question. Although it might be fun.”
He turned and shot her a glare that would have made most men tremble in their boots.
She laughed. Laughed. The deep-bellied kind that can’t be faked. And the way she beamed, brimming with mirth … It momentarily stopped his world.
“I was only teasing,” she said, giving him a saucy wink. “But let me know if you change your mind about the ballad.”
Chapter 8
Gray and his grandmother arrived at the Fortress the next morning a few hours before guests were expected. He’d tried valiantly to dissuade her from attending the house party—not because he didn’t want her company, but because he didn’t want her to trip over a warped floorboard or freeze in the drafty dining room. She’d insisted on joining him, however, saying it had been far too long since he’d entertained there. Or anywhere.
And when she heard that several young ladies would be spending the week at the house … well, Gray doubted the Devil himself could keep her away.
He’d made sure his grandmother’s bedchamber was appointed with the best curtains and carpets the Fortress had to offer—which wasn’t saying much, unfortunately. He’d instructed her maid to pack several extra blankets, her favorite books, and anything else she required for her comfort.
His grandmother had patted his shoulder and assured him that one didn’t live to be her age without being stubborn and hardy.
And she was both. She’d survived a husband who succumbed to scarlet fever; she’d buried a son and daughter-in-law. Gray was a boy of twelve when he lost both parents, and his grandmother had been the one who consoled him, the one who loved him.
She’d helped Gray to survive capsizing waves of grief and guilt, never letting him see the depths of her own heartbreak.
And now that he was finally able to return the favor and take care of her, she was going blind—and there was absolutely nothing he could do to prevent it.
He escorted her to the drawing room, which was the most habitable space in the house. The furnishings were shabby, but a few strategically placed paintings covered holes and cracks in the plaster walls. Gray had already replaced the broken windows, and his housekeeper had sewn a few colorful silk pillows to make the threadbare settee and chairs seem more welcoming.
A small fire warmed the seating area, and Gray
settled his grandmother into an armchair near the fireplace. “Shall I ask your maid to fetch a blanket?” he asked.
“No, my dear boy. Not unless you wish me to expire from the heat.”
“Should I ring for tea?”
She shook her head. “Please sit,” she said, waving a hand at the chair across from her. “Tell me about the Hartley sisters and their friend Miss Kendall. Why did you invite them? You could have chosen any of the young ladies in London to be your guests.”
He arched a brow at her. “Yes, and a great many would have declined.” Including Helena. But he didn’t need to tell his grandmother who he was thinking of. She already knew.
“Don’t be so contrary. Any miss worth her weight in salt would have been delighted to receive an invitation from the Earl of Ravenport, but you chose these three. Why?”
Gray lowered himself into the chair, debating how to best dodge the question. He’d avoided answering at least three times during the coach ride there, and—
Crack. The right back leg of his armchair broke, and Gray flew backward, somersaulting across the drawing room and toppling a small table in the process. Good grief.
“Gray!” his grandmother exclaimed. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” he assured her. But in truth, his heart pounded with the fear of what might have happened. What if he’d sat his grandmother in the bad chair? She could have hit her head, broken her neck, or worse.
He stood, brushed off the sleeves of his jacket, and went to inspect the faulty chair. The wooden leg had split in two, but it could be easily fixed. He’d add it to the list of necessary house repairs—oh, somewhere near the bottom of the fourth page.
“I’m beginning to think you’ll resort to any lengths to avoid answering my questions,” his grandmother teased. “Even performing tumbling tricks.”
“In case you’ve forgotten, you’re the one who directed me to sit.” Gray shot her a grin, dropped to the floor, and inspected the legs of the chair she sat in. No sign of any loose or rotten parts. “Your chair appears to be sturdy.”