by Liz Botts
My heart cramped at the thought of Graham leaving for an indefinite amount of time. Of course, with Father and James back, safe and sound, I did not need Graham to protect me any more. The selfish secret part of my heart wanted to throw myself at his feet and beg him not to go. I wanted to confess my love and hope beyond hope that he would deign to return my feelings.
Who was I, though, to ask such a blessing?
“Come along, Katherine, please hurry now. We mustn’t bother your father’s guest.”
Kate looked up at me, the old-soul sadness of when we first met returning. She dipped in an awkward curtsy that only a four-year-old child could make charming. “I will miss you.”
Her words were spoken softly, almost too quietly to hear. The emotion laced behind each one made the icy fingers of panic wrap around my throat, and I felt tears burn the backs of my eyes. I wanted to drop to the floor before her, envelop the girl in my arms, and reassure her that I would see her again. However, I couldn’t lie to her. With her father leaving, I would not see her. Grandmother would keep me busy in the whirlwind social season in London, and I had no idea what Father would want to do. We had not discussed the future, perhaps because there was only one future I wanted to consider.
I reached out to stroke Kate’s silken hair once more, but the nurse stepped forward and placed a firm hand on the little girl’s shoulder. “Come, Katherine.”
“Goodbye.” The corners of Kate’s mouth lifted as if she were trying to smile at me.
Tears threatened to spill down my cheeks, so I blinked rapidly and let my hand fall to my side as I watched her exit the room. When the two had left, the sitting room got quiet again. Too quiet. Not caring for composure or decorum, I ran the heels of my hands along my eyes. I pressed hard to stem the flow of sadness.
The future could not look brighter, I told myself sternly. Father and James had come home safe. Grandmother had determined to sponsor me for yet another season. How many times had she told me I would find a very eligible young man to marry before I knew it? Certainly, these were things any young lady would be thrilled about.
Taking a deep breath, I walked to the window which looked out over the southern part of the Blessington estate. The manicured gardens Graham and I had strolled through in the autumn looked quite cheery in the bright sunlight. I imagined I could see beautiful red roses blooming as far as the eye could see. On such a lovely day, no one should be saying goodbye.
“I did not expect to see you.”
The voice startled me before settling around me like warm honey. No doubt who the golden tones belonged to. Still, I stayed at the window, lowering my gaze to the sill, waiting for Graham to address me again.
“Felicity.” Graham’s voice held a note of something I had heard the day in the gardens. I had mistaken it then for affection, but now I knew better.
I turned with all the grace I had learned in the past few months. With my gaze still cast down, I clasped my hands in front of me. Grandmother would have been proud. Her lessons about holding my tongue had finally taken root, albeit too late to save me from heartache, but at least I could maintain my dignity.
“Fliss.” The sound of my nickname on his lips made me look up. Instantly I cursed myself for the move. His dark blue eyes captured me in a heartbeat and drew me in. He took a step toward me, but that was all. When the moment passed and he did not reach for me, did not take me in his arms and confess his love, I was crushed. Despite all the practical counseling I had given myself, hope had ingrained itself deeply in my being.
We stood together in an awkward silence. My thoughts flitted back to the easy conversations we had enjoyed on the ship. Even after the social season had started in London, Graham and I had been able to chat freely. I realized it had not been until Grandmother had fulfilled her mission of turning me into a proper young woman that things had grown difficult. With a wistful sigh, I knew I couldn’t blame the dear old woman for my present predicament. She had only meant well, and it had helped her move through some of her grief over losing my mother.
Graham cleared his throat. “I heard your father and brother have taken up residence at the family estate. I do not suppose they will be reentering service any time soon?”
“Father cannot. As you know, his injuries were quite extensive. He has sold his commission, and has decided he’d prefer to spend time with our family. Now that he is mostly healed, it is clear he will always have pain in his left leg. I… His spirit seems broken, too,” I said. I had voiced my concerns about Father to no one, and yet telling Graham felt right. As always.
“I can imagine that losing the love of his life would be enough to break even the strongest man.” Graham looked away from me and stared out the window.
A small gasp escaped my lips. How could I have been so insensitive? Of course Graham would understand what Father had been through. He had lost the love of his life, as well, although he had never admitted how it had hurt him until now. My heart ached for him, for Kate, and for myself. We would never have the chance to be together. He would never marry me.
The reality of the situation hit me hard. Tears sprang to my eyes. I had not felt this way since I had said goodbye to Mama. After her simple burial, survival mode had taken over, and I had been able to leave Father and face the unknown about James.
Now, though, while saying goodbye to this man I loved and his little girl, who had become as dear to me as if she were my own, my heart cramped. I didn’t think I would live through the experience. How could I go back to the life Grandmother had planned for me? Another social season in London with its whirl of parties and frivolities. Another round of rumors that I was an odd duck. None of the girls I had met, save Freya — the maid at Grandmother’s home — had ever understood my sadness or withdrawal at random moments when grief hit me hard. No matter how hard I tried, I knew I would never fit into Grandmother’s world to anyone’s satisfaction.
“And will you stay on at the estate or will you return to London with your grandparents?” Graham asked, breaking the silence that had extended a moment too long.
The question was innocuous, but the tone of his voice held an undercurrent of something I didn’t recognize. I fiddled with the necklace at the base of my throat. For the millionth time, I thought of how I would never get used to being dressed like this. When I looked up at Graham, I realized he was following the movement of my hand. Perhaps I hadn’t imagined the darkening of his eyes on occasion when I appeared in some new frock, or the way he let his lips linger when he kissed my hand.
“I have not decided as of yet,” I replied, a new feeling taking hold within me. I instinctively knew I had more control than I had thought a moment ago. What an odd sensation. Even though it did nothing to quell the sadness over the goodbye, it made me feel less like a pawn in some silly game.
Feeling brazen, I took a step toward Graham, praying that he would meet my gaze. When he did, I smiled. “What are your plans?”
Graham held my gaze for a long moment before he looked away. Again he cleared his throat. “I have yet to decide, as well.”
The answer surprised me. “I had heard you planned to go abroad again.”
Graham chuckled, a surprising but welcome sound in the midst of the tense situation. “You did? And who told you that, I wonder?”
I knew he was teasing me, but I couldn’t help my confusion. Grandmother had told me that Grandfather had said Graham was going abroad again. That he left at the first of the month. Embarrassment crept over me as I realized Grandmother had misinformed me; whether or not it had been on purpose did not matter at the moment. Only that she had.
“So, you are not going away, then?” I heard the breathy whisper and barely managed to connect it to my own voice.
The smile that creased Graham’s face deepened the lines around his mouth and eyes, making him look boyishly handsome and erasing the sadness that always seemed to linger on his features. His obvious joy was infectious, and I found myself smiling along.
&nb
sp; “No, I am not going away, at least not yet. Someday in the future I may want to charter my own vessel and embark on another adventure. For now, though, I am needed here. Kate needs a father, and I have duties here that need to be attended to. Someone once told me that I need to stop running away from my life. I agree.” Graham tilted his head, seemingly examining me.
“Oh.” Hope that I hadn’t realized I was holding onto slipped from my grasp. All my brazenness fled, too. Deflated, I stepped away from Graham. Being near him, falling into the orbit of his smile, hurt too much. I realized now that saying goodbye would have been far easier than being rejected and still having to see him at society functions. How could I bear to watch as he danced and courted other women? And what would happen when he became betrothed?
“I suppose I will have to hire a new nurse for Kate, though, even if I am home more. She needs a woman’s touch, do you agree? I do not suppose you know of anyone looking for a position.”
His words hit me hard. Could he possibly be suggesting that I be Kate’s new nurse? After all we had been through together, I would never consent to being in his employ, though that couldn’t have been quite right. Someone of my rank would never be a servant, so what was he suggesting? I shook my head and averted my eyes.
Undaunted, he continued, “The temporary one we have is wretched. I believe you had the pleasure of meeting her when you arrived.”
Despite myself, a small smile crept across my lips. “She is horrid. Poor Kate. You know she needs a mother, not another stranger to care for her.” I gasped as soon as the words left my mouth. How could I have said something so forward to him?
“I have been thinking the same thing, but the only woman I have found acceptable enough to fill the position doesn’t seem to return my affections,” Graham said.
My undergarments seemed more constricting than normal. I simply couldn’t breathe. Being careful to avoid Graham, I made my way to a nearby chair.
“Are you feeling well?” Graham asked, alarm evident in his voice.
“I am fine, thank you,” I said, my stomach churning.
“You certainly are not,” Graham insisted, kneeling beside me. “You are frightfully pale. Fliss, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I pressed my hands firmly onto my lap. I could not let Graham see this weakness. First he suggested to me that I be Kate’s nurse, and then he confessed to loving another woman. Grandmother had insisted men were thick-headed creatures and I had failed to believe her. Yet here was the man I adored, the man who had stolen my heart, asking if I were ill.
“I cannot be Kate’s nurse,” I said with as much conviction as I could muster as I met his eyes.
Graham looked at me, his expression completely unreadable. He cupped my face with one hand. I closed my eyes briefly, and when I opened them I could feel the tears starting to gather.
“Felicity,” he said softly, “you have enthroned yourself in my heart. I never thought I could love again. You have healed what is broken, both within me and my family. Please do me the honor of becoming my wife.”
My tears spilled over as I clasped his hand in my own. “Yes. Oh, Graham. What a fool I have been. I never thought you could love me as I love you.”
Graham drew me to my feet and into his arms. Something flashed through his eyes; this time, I recognized it was love, and he leaned closer as he captured my mouth in a kiss. My eyes fluttered shut as I drank in the perfection of our true love’s kiss. Now that we were in love and to be married, everything seemed sweeter, more intense.
“Come,” Graham said as we finally parted. “Let’s go tell Kate. She’ll be thrilled.”
“As am I,” I said, taking his hand.
As we left the sitting room, Graham smiled down at me. “Now our adventures shall truly begin.”
About the Author
Liz Botts was born, raised, and still lives in northern Illinois with her husband and three small children (two boys and a girl). When not writing, she enjoys reading, sewing, trying new recipes, and hanging with her kids. She is proud to pass her love of stories on to her children, and makes several trips to the library each week. After working with teenagers for several years, she decided to write stories about them instead.
Also from Astraea Press
Chapter One
Thursday, October 14, 1813
Strong sunlight poured between the pretentious columns fronting the Olympic Pavilion. Beneath the portico moved shadows not cast by the neoclassical architecture, shadows of completely the wrong shapes and sizes; and, when His Grace approached to a sufficient proximity, shadows creating noises both indiscreet and inappropriate for a public street. A flash of copper curls and a clashing maroon sleeve caught his eye, and surely only one couple in all of Mayfair would dare sport such an unfortunate combination of colors. Deliberately he clumped on the pavement, announcing his presence. The shadows whipped behind their sheltering column and the salacious noises ceased.
But as he passed, a calculated glance back proved his theory correct. Mrs. Beryl Fitzwilliam, née Wentworth, stood on her tiptoes and peered over her new husband’s shoulder. The Duke of Cumberland, His Grace, Ernst Anton Oldenburg, gave her a victorious grin; her bewitching green eyes lit with glee and she wrinkled her nose at him. Satisfied, he resumed his more usual manner of walking and continued on his way, permitting them to resume — well. Perhaps better not to pursue that thought.
Enchanting Beryl’s adventure was complete, her dreams now reality.
Leaving him free to acquire a new target.
Who unknowingly awaited his tender attentions within Trent’s coffee house, beyond the Temple Bar on Fleet Street, where he’d first laid siege to delicious Anne Kirkhoven, now Mrs. Frederick Shaw, a woman delighted with her husband’s literary success and essaying upon a few attempts of her own.
As His Grace crossed the coffee house’s threshold into its shadowy, happy clutter, a hush descended upon the crowded patrons, heads swiveling in tribute to his entrance. He’d long ago become accustomed to such moments and let his lips curl into a rogue’s smile in greeting, doffing his beaver, tucking it beneath his elbow, and tugging off his gloves.
There they sat, at a table near the yellow-curtained casement windows, three elegant gentlemen of the ton staring at his entrance. They all wore similar expressions of eyebrow-arching recognition, although George Anson’s little smile seemed tinged with a certain amount of relief, as well. Whatever topic they had under discussion, perhaps it was more beyond his reach than usual. Not that Anson was stupid, not at all; merely limited in his understanding of deeper subjects, such as anything beyond Goodwood, sporting life, and Gentleman Jackson’s saloon on Bond Street.
But his manners remained impeccable. “Well met, your grace. Won’t you join us?”
“It would be entirely my pleasure, Mr. Anson. Thank you.”
Surprise joined Anson’s relief. Well, if the subject was that deep, the invitation might be his first contribution to the discussion since sitting down.
They made room for him, Henry Culver and Kenneth Rainier scooting their chairs to the sides. Round-faced Trent brought a steaming pot and matching cup — his best, the ivory with blue and white flowers — sans any cream or sugar; only lesser mortals doctored Trent’s invigorating brew. Preparations complete, His Grace leaned back, cradling the cup, and inhaled the coffee’s essence. The aroma alone was sufficient to wake half the ton at dawn and keep them that way for days.
Deliberately, and with malice aforethought, His Grace stared even more pointedly than normal at Miss Coralie Busche, who hid in the shadows beside the dark paneling.
The chair she adorned angled away from the gentlemen, her shoulder half-turned and her attention supposedly reserved for her amiably mature and still lovely companion, the widowed Mrs. Lacey, who sat across from her at their little table. A plain bone china tea set cluttered the tabletop between them, stray sunbeams flashing through the windows and glancing off the highly polished white surfaces as if from a lo
oking glass. Her beautiful hair glowed amber where it peeked from beneath her rose-bedecked bonnet, and the light touched her smooth cheek and jaw line, setting her off against the dark paneling like a portrait from a background. If indeed their likeness were taken, elegant Coralie and dear Mrs. Lacey, the completed picture would be one of grace and beauty. Most definitely beauty.
“Maybe your grace will support my poor argument here.” Rainier poured the last tea into his cup and pushed the pot to the table’s center. Of the three gentlemen, only he seemed relaxed, as if enjoying the discussion. Thick brown hair waved extravagantly around his temples, his narrow chin forming the rounded bottom point of an upside-down triangle, and his grey-blue eyes lit with intensity. The green swallowtail coat fit him perfectly, a tribute to his tailor. “Romeo and Juliet—”
Culver shook his head hard and cut in. “—were young and silly. Love at first sight is manifestly impossible, love on short acquaintance hardly less so, and both bloodshed and self-murder are ridiculous responses to a momentary attraction.” In contrast to Rainier’s relaxation, Culver’s shoulders were hunched and tense. Not a discussion, then, but a debate, and Culver’s distaste for all forms of competition was well known.
“—is one of the greatest poetic and dramatic works ever composed.” Rainier amiably awaited his opponent’s pause for breath before continuing as if he’d not been interrupted. “The irrationality of their behavior is beside the point, if irrationality it can honestly be called. How can one impose time constraints upon affection? And what could be greater than dying for love?”
As if you really understood the glorious sentiments you spout. His Grace managed to suppress an eye roll. Over the last four months he’d conversed repeatedly with Rainier, observed him from a surreptitious distance, and gained a strong sense of the young man’s perspective on life. Those blithe words didn’t reflect Rainier’s honest thoughts, but rather a typical diatribe from an adherent of the Romantic philosophy, young and idealistic intellectuals who refused to follow the sensible but bland Rationalism of their parents. Instead of commonsensical answers to life’s difficult questions, Romantics preferred to give free rein to their feelings and desires — dramatic blasted heaths instead of peaceful and productive farmland, so to speak. Unfortunately, too many Romantics, perhaps not yet mature enough to appreciate the necessity of balance, locked away their rationality to such a degree that they said things they neither understood nor truly believed.