Fairchild Regency Romance

by Jaima Fixsen

  He ought to. If he was to find himself another decent horse before leaving . . . .

  “Love to, but I’m afraid it had better be another time.” Alistair closed the case with a snap. If he went to Tattersall’s he’d have to forego walking with Anna.

  Jasper followed him outside Manton’s, frowning as he straightened his cuffs. “Gone back into hiding? Haven’t seen you at the club.”

  “No, just preparing for my journey. Lots to be done,” Alistair said.

  “Evidently.” Jasper narrowed his mouth. “Where’re you off to?”

  “Business,” Alistair said, but something in his face must have given him away.

  Jasper exhaled in a huff. “You can tell me about her next time. Or not.” He touched his hat, perfectly polite, but plainly displeased.

  Alistair held in a sigh, watching Jasper stroll away, headed to his tailor or his clubs. There really wasn’t anything to tell. And while he had, on rare occasions, hinted to his cousin about a particular lady’s charms, his knowledge of Anna Morris’s predicament was not for sharing. She bore up tolerably well, but someone ought to help her. He didn’t know exactly how or why he’d become convinced the someone should be him.

  It was past the time for afternoon calls when he knocked on the Fulham’s door, but the maid who answered the door reported that Anna was upstairs.

  He found her in the drawing room, alone, her forehead resting in her hands. She lifted her face as he approached, brushing her cheeks, unable to hide her red-rimmed eyes.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, mired in place, his hand frozen above the table where he usually dropped his gloves.

  She smiled weakly, corrected her posture and lied. “Nothing.”

  “My dear, when your eyes look like that, you’ll have to come up with something better.” He held out a handkerchief. “Tell me.”

  She dabbed her face obediently, then set the folded square on her lap, smoothing it with her fingers. Her lips clung together, holding everything in.

  The roundabout approach, then. “Come walking with me,” he said, stretching out his hand to forestall arguments. “Very pretty,” he said, admiring her soft blue walking dress as she rose. “You visited Brother Frederick today?” She always dressed with care and circumspection when meeting her in-laws.

  Anna caught her lip with her teeth, answering with a sharp nod. Something painful then. Her bonnet was beside her on the sofa, trailing grey ribbons onto Mrs. Fulham’s carpet—the serviceable, quiet design couldn’t have been Anna’s choice. “Don’t forget your hat,” he said.

  She was close to his height, their eyes nearly level as he fitted it onto her head and fastened the ribbons, wishing he could tell her she didn’t need to hide behind damp eyelashes.

  “Are your parents out?” he asked, for he didn’t see anyone on their way out of the house.

  “Father is home. He’s resting.” Instead of turning north, she took him past the church to Hans Town Gardens, a pocket sized bit of greenery compared to Hyde Park.

  “You won’t see anyone you know here,” she said.

  It wasn’t something that concerned him, but he’d failed to convince her of the truth of it. “What’s the matter? Is it your son?” Her eyes flashed to his and he knew he’d guessed the truth.

  “You needn’t—”

  “I want to know,” he insisted. It had been satisfying, picturing Frederick Morris standing behind his wafers earlier today. His family treated Anna abominably, stealing her money and keeping her from her son. He didn’t like to think how her husband might have behaved, after seeing the scorn the Morris butler had heaped on her when she’d gone over to see Henry that first Sunday.

  Her lips folded together, then she said, low and careful, “My mother-in-law is taking Henry back to Warwickshire.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I can’t go there. They won’t have me in the house. I’ll have to find a place nearby, or I’ll never see him. It’s just—I never wanted to go back to Warwickshire.”

  “How—”

  “I’ve money enough,” she said quickly. “I’ll have to keep to a simple style. A cottage. No more lace gloves or shopping on Bond Street.” She gave a fleeting smile.

  “Why won’t they let Henry live with you?” he asked.

  “He needs to be brought up properly,” she said, with a lightness that accentuated the pain in her eyes. “It won’t do to forget that no matter who I am, Henry is a gentleman’s son. I can’t be trusted to teach him what a gentleman ought to know. Nor can my parents.”

  Alistair did not doubt that she would follow the Morrises to Warwickshire and that she’d be ignored there even more effectively. If, in desperation, she turned to a town lawyer, she might be able to buy herself costly hopes, but nothing more. She needed an ally, someone able to beat Frederick Morris at his own game.

  His mother would refuse point blank to help her, no question of that, but perhaps Aunt Georgiana might . . . Uncle William said he wished to help him. Of course, one never took up people on offers like that, or asked them to transfer their kindness to another. But it needn’t be for very long. All in all, it wasn’t an enormous favor to ask. They would need a clear reason though, something better from him than pity for a striking face.

  “Let’s sit down,” he said. One needed to, for conversations like this. He’d done this once before, but it hadn’t frightened him like this. Sophy had been well prepared to hear his offer.

  “If you were living with respectable people—no, the best people—would Morris let you have Henry?”

  She turned her palms up fatalistically. “In theory. But Frederick would find a reason to say no. Something about the situation wouldn’t be right enough for him, and besides, I haven’t one. Frederick doesn’t approve of any one I know.”

  “He’ll approve of me. Of my family.”

  She faltered, her lips falling open. “Bu—”

  He stopped her with a lifted finger. Time for that later. He had to take this at full gallop or he’d find a reason why it couldn’t work. “You wouldn’t have to live with my mother. Dreadful situation. My father is dying and her theatrics over it would infuriate a saint.” Anna, bless her, looked far too tempting to be one of those. Besides, he didn’t trust Cyril to keep the line.

  “I’m thinking of my aunt, Lady Fairchild. She’s perfect,” he said, before Anna could argue. “She’s a notable hostess, a bastion of respectability. If she’s deigned to notice a Morris within the last five years they’d remember it. No one would dare say her house isn’t a good place for Henry. My aunt could get you started, introduce you to the right people.” She’d opened society’s doors for Sophy. Anna had her husband’s name, if not his family’s support. She could find a way in as part of his aunt’s train.

  “But she wouldn’t do it. Why would anyone?”

  Being a guest of Lady Fairchild wouldn’t be enough. Anna needed a stronger foothold. And Aunt Georgiana wouldn’t take Anna without an excellent reason. “She’d do it for me,” he said. Probably. “Suppose we told her you were to become my wife.”

  Anna’s breath left her in a surprised huff. “But I’m not!” she said. Her eyes turned accusing. “You can’t afford to marry me.”

  “True. But we could be engaged. I’m off to Spain in a few days. There will be plenty of time for you to meet someone who suits after I’m gone. You can break off your engagement to me whenever it’s convenient. There’s plenty of reasons. No one will blame you. My career, all the time apart—it’s perfectly understandable.” He smiled lopsidedly. “Always possible I’ll turn up my toes and you can save yourself the trouble.”

  “Don’t joke about that.” She scowled at the ground in front of them.

  “The important thing is that in the meantime, you’ll have charge of your son.”

  She knotted her fingers together, looked at him once, then glanced swiftly away, to the walking path where a skinny housemaid with a giant basket of shopping listed by. They remained si
lent, waiting for her to pass out of earshot.

  “You can’t want this,” she whispered. “I’m all wrong for you.”

  Oh, but she wasn’t. She was so right that— “I want to help you,” he said. “I’m not usually troubled with benevolent impulses. You may as well give me my way on this one. Who knows if it will happen again? I should have at least one good deed credited to my name.”

  “It’s too much to ask of you. And your aunt.”

  “You aren’t asking. I offered.”

  “Then it’s too much to accept,” she said. “I can’t.”

  “You’d rather go to Warwickshire, where they can continue stalling you at the front door?” It would happen, he was sure of it.

  She ironed her lips into a stiff, starched line. “I haven’t anything to offer you.”

  He understood exactly what she meant. No tumbles, no brush of skin on skin, no raking his fingers through her hair. He hadn’t let himself consciously explore the idea too far, but it had taken shape anyway, in the shadowy backstairs closet of his mind. Well, she was honest, so he wouldn’t pretend to be high-minded. If she’d been willing, he would have accepted. Gladly. With a boy’s eagerness, and perhaps even the shaking hands.

  Thankfully, he had sufficient presence now to keep them perfectly still. “Anna, I haven’t asked for anything. I won’t. We don’t do things that way, you know. Keeping personal ledgers.”

  Blood flooded into her cheeks and she retreated, shamed, behind the dusky shade of her eyelids.

  “You’re uncomfortable with chivalry,” he said. “Fair enough. As an impulse, it’s new to me too. If you’d rather, we can stick to exchanges. Let’s start with a smile.”

  Her eyes snapped up, confused and not a little suspicious.

  “Well, I won’t object to a kiss or two, if I can get them,” he said. “But I’ll consider myself amply repaid if I see more smiles on you, and know that when I leave, you’ll be happy. No,” he said, stopping her again with a finger on her lips. “Don’t expostulate about refusing pity and charity. Just say yes.”

  She struggled, her chest rising as if her heart were trying to climb out of it.

  “You’re too proud, my dear,” he said.

  “Fine! Yes! And don’t blame me when you regret it.” She scowled at him, now the words were wrung out of her.

  “My smile?” he asked, hiding his jubilation behind a careful examination of his fingernails. There was no reason for it, after all. Their agreement was only pretend.

  Her expression was more of a grimace.

  “Your parents will think I frightened you into marrying me if you show them a face like that.”

  “No, just that you browbeat me, and that’s the truth,” she said.

  “I don’t think we want anyone to know that,” he said. “This won’t work if people think it a mere business arrangement.”

  “I thought most marriages between your kind were,” she said, with acid sweetness. “That has been my experience, certainly.”

  “Choose more carefully next time. I’d like to see you happy.” And because it seemed appropriate, he leaned in to kiss her. Pretend or not, she’d still accepted him. At the last second, courage failed him, and he limited himself to a brief, brotherly salute—an action as businesslike as franking a letter. She didn’t lean in, or hide her eyes from him when he pulled away, but her cheeks burned. He was satisfied.

  “We can be friends,” he said. “Allies.”

  “All right.”

  He studied her expression, tilting his head. “Nearly there. Let the smile show a little more in the eyes. Yes. That’s right. We want your parents to think you’re delighted with our engagement.”

  “Are you?” She eyed him suspiciously.

  “Of course I am,” he said, gathering up her hand and pulling her to her feet. Throwing away caution for just a moment, he pulled her close, until their bodies were nearly touching—close enough that the space between them turned alive and quivering. He held her there, letting that silent hum grow, consuming every other sense until he could stand it no more.

  “Why wouldn’t I be happy?” he said, letting go of her hands and retreating a step. “I’m engaged to the most beautiful woman in London.” She would catch any man fool enough to look into those dark, dilating eyes. He’d have to take care.

  “How old were you when you married Anthony Morris?” he asked. A beauty with a handsome fortune should have done better than Anthony Morris, no matter how plebeian her birth. “Why did you choose him? You must have had other proposals.”

  She shook her head. “I was eighteen and just out of mourning for my brother. A lawyer friend of my father’s invited us for dinner practically the first evening we put off our blacks. Anthony was there. He must have arranged it all with my father’s friend, because he never ate at that house again once we were married. I think the lawyer worked for his family.”

  Huh. Plucked her before she had bloomed even. Selfish bastard.

  They stepped out of the dappled light of the park, back into the dusty glare of the street, Alistair moving to shield her as a coal wagon trundled by. Even the air around her was potent, making it nearly impossible for him to pretend to be unaffected when their shoulders brushed together. Yet it didn’t sound for a minute that Morris had lost his heart to her. “Was he dreadful?” he asked.

  She mirrored his easy tone, slipping him a sideways smile. “Oh, quite. You can be sure I repaid him in kind.”

  Before he could inquire, she went on. “If this were a real offer, I’d advise you to reconsider. You should, you know. What if I changed my mind and decided to keep you?”

  Once they were engaged, he wouldn’t be able to call it off. Only ladies had the privilege of changing their minds. It was a tempting thought, but marrying Anna was no way to provide for his future. Their children would be practically paupers. And unless Anna turned shrewish and lost her looks—God forbid—they’d probably have about a dozen. Completely impractical.

  His silence chased the humor from her face. “I wouldn’t repay you with such an ill-turn, you know,” she said, softly.

  “Of course not,” Alistair said. “I’d make a bad bargain, you know, if you were stuck with me.”

  She laughed at that, but he hardly heard. If Anthony Morris had never found her . . . if he’d come to her first, when she still had her fortune, it could have been different.

  There was no point in thinking of it. A man could waste his life, lost in the world of might-have been. He couldn’t afford to be a dreamer.

  “We are agreed then?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She glanced at him, more tentatively than she had before. “Thank-you.”

  Chapter Ten

  Conceal Your Hand

  The next morning when Anna sat down to breakfast, her father took the unprecedented step of folding his newspaper and setting it aside. He didn’t even notice the daily puzzle soaking up butter from his toast.

  “Are you sure about this?” he asked.

  “I’m sure,” she said. It was the same answer she’d given when she’d come running home without Henry, certain she’d soon have him back in her arms. It hadn’t been as simple as she’d expected. “Perfectly sure.”

  She took a pear from the bowl on the table and sliced it in half with one clean stroke, laying it open and flicking away a stray seed with the point of her knife. It landed on the tablecloth, but she ignored it.

  “It’s very sudden,” her father said.

  She wished he’d pick up his fork, or find his way back to his coffee cup. Her engagement couldn’t stand this kind of scrutiny. The hopes that had prompted her acceptance last night seemed foolish this morning, but the fact was that most of her dreams evaporated while she slept. Happily ever afters only seemed possible in evening—by candlelight, over the dessert course. That was when she’d fallen for Anthony. Even now, she could remember him, smiling at her across the table, playing with his fork. She should know better. Dreams were always lost at breakfas
t, evaporating as soon as your eyes fell on the toast rack. No wonder so many ladies thought coming down to eat the meal was insupportable. You could cling to fiction in bed, with a cup of chocolate in your hand.

  “He’s a handsome dog,” her father said.

  She agreed silently. Captain Beaumaris was far too handsome for his own good, or hers. But—“That’s not why,” she said.

  “It isn’t? You fell head over ears for Morris.” He didn’t need to finish the thought. They both knew how that had turned out.

  “This is different,” Anna said. “He cares about me, not the money.”

  “He better. Won’t get more than a pittance from you, will he?”

  She lifted a slice of pear to her mouth and chewed slowly. Alistair was getting nothing at all, except trouble. Hers. Of course, there was the possibility that he might still be hoping for—intimacies, she thought, quashing the sudden skip of her pulse. Last night he’d claimed he could be satisfied with smiles and perhaps a few kisses, but Captain Beaumaris was a man of the world, and she was a widow. He might expect more from her in exchange for the help he was offering than he would from a lady who’d never married. Well, if he did, he’d be disappointed. As far as he was concerned, she was as respectable as she ought to be. She wasn’t, of course, but she could kiss and be careful.

  “He seems right enough. Of course, so did Morris,” her father said.

  “I’m not rushing into marriage this time,” she reminded him. “There’s plenty of time for us both to consider the matter. He thinks he can help me with Henry.”

  Her father fiddled with his knife. “That so? I hope he may. Frederick Morris is a slippery fellow.”

  “We are going to speak to him today,” she said, looking down at her plate so she needn’t see her father blush. He wasn’t to blame for her current situation—she had her own foolishness to thank for that—but she felt an ache every time he retreated behind a shamed face. He had tried to help her, but he was too kindly a soul to trump the Morrises. He was a retiring sort of man, a persistent organizer who managed small details, not the god of her childhood.