by Cecilia Gray
Right now, her father was clearly feeling nostalgic, which in his case, was a very short distance from disappointed. His voice may have been low and quiet, but it rumbled through her when he said, “I always thought you would be the first.”
She turned away, but he moved quickly and held her hands tightly. “You mustn’t assume you’re on the shelf.”
She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek and immediately cursed the swollen sore she knew would develop from the wound. “I don’t.”
“Then why—”
“Not now, Father. Not today.” She couldn’t consider her failure as the eldest to fulfill her mother’s wishes in the same breath as her looming duties for the wedding. “There’s so much to be done. A problem in the kitchen. The flowers haven’t arrived at the church, and I haven’t even checked on Sera.” Her sister was but weeks from sixteen and had gone her whole life without a mother. Their Aunt Margaret had done her best to step in, but there was no substitute for a mother’s love and advice, and Sera sorely needed it today. Alice intended to assist where she could.
“There is always one emergency or another for you to fix, Alice. But Sera will have to learn to run Woodbury now. You must find your own home to manage.”
“I’ll never find one if you do not allow me to accept any offers.”
Her father’s hearty laugh had an edge to it. “Offers? I know of no such offers, nor your encouragements of any.”
“Two seasons ago there was the gentleman from Newhaven.”
His eyes flashed angrily. “He was a nobody. To think you even entertained his affections—”
“Plus the good sir from Bath,” she interrupted.
“A fortune hunter with no title,” he murmured. A gross exaggeration as the man in question, while he had no title, was from a family of good name and reasonable fortune.
Her father was determined to see her make an advantageous match, although the definition of advantageous felt murky and nebulous. A duke, he always insisted. Maybe a marquess, if one were desperate. A lord, for certain.
But it was not as easy as that. She was wealthy, yes, but so were her sisters, who were far more charming and beautiful than she was. There were also other beautiful heiresses whose families did not come from the trade industry, which seemed to be preferable to eligible bachelors of the ton. Not to mention who were not the B-word. Bossy.
Still, she had received offers, and it was her father’s fault they had all amounted to nothing. “You always find a reason to say no.”
“As do you, my dear.” A hard glint reflected off his eyeglasses as his gaze turned stormy. “The duke you refused to dance with at the March’s ball?”
“I hardly refused,” she said. “I was promised to another for the dance, one who actually bothered to get on my dance card. Besides, that man barely reached my knee.”
“Hyperbole. He was on a level with your neck, and you can hardly blame him, tall as you are.”
She fought the urge to duck her head and sighed. “We can spend all day discussing the wedding I haven’t had, or we can celebrate the one upon us.” She yanked her hands back and turned toward the door. With those parting words, she returned to the main wing of the house, where she was needed in the kitchen.
Fuming, she sought to soften her steps, which rang louder than the clop of horses’ hooves from the arriving deliveries for the event. It was always the same argument. Her father accused her of not wanting to honor her mother’s wishes. But she did want it! Oh, how she wanted so much to make her mother, bless her soul, and her father happy.
In some ways, her father was right. There had been candidates who, on paper, resembled her mother’s wishes for Alice’s husband as titled gentlemen. But upon meeting the candidates, she would realize that one smelled of patchouli, which her mother hated, and another had a pointy finger longer than his middle, which her mother had always said was a sign of madness. Little indications, here and there, that each of them was not the man her mother would have wanted for her.
When Alice had been three years old, she had declared that she wanted to marry her father. Her mother had laughed and explained that she could not, that he was already married to her. But she added that one day, Alice would find her own husband. Alice had asked how she would know they were to be married and her mother had said, Simple. You will want to marry him, and he will ask you to do so because he will discover that nothing makes him happier than giving you what you want.
Her legs gave out at the memory, and she leaned against the wall for support. When she’d been growing up, it had all seemed so easy. Find a duke. Marry him. Make her family happy. But instead, her life had become all about raising her sisters, ensuring their happiness, and along the way, allowing her youngest sister to beat her to the finish.
She fisted her hands. She had no time for such sentiment and weakness—not today.
Once she reached the kitchen, she was directed back to the stove, where she found a cowering slip of a boy hiding under the servants’ dining table. Leaning over the table, beckoning to the boy to come out, stood a gentleman in a gray coat.
Alice stopped in her tracks and stared at the man. The back of one gentleman should have been the same as any other, yet this one gave her pause. The way the blond hair at the base of his neck curled into spirals. The taut line across the breadth of his shoulders.
A kitchen maid sidled up to her. “He heard the boy screaming, Miss Belle,” she said by way of explanation, perhaps taking Alice’s study of the gentleman as displeasure. “One of the guests. Came in to see what was the matter and won’t leave.”
“That’s all right. I shall deal with him.” Alice gave the kitchen maid a reassuring smile. “Go about your business. I’m sure there’s much to do.”
The gentleman, upon hearing her voice, turned to her, straightening and smoothing his jacket. It was a fine material but cut in the fashion of several Seasons ago. She didn’t recognize him, so he must be a friend of the Abernathy family, although he seemed too young, closer to her age, to be an acquaintance of the groom.
He smiled ruefully, his blue eyes twinkling, and ran a hand through his ruffled hair. “The boy is frightened,” he stated, as if the child’s fear was not obvious to everyone in the kitchen.
Alice pressed her lips together to contain her laughter. “Not of you, surely?” She couldn’t remember ever seeing a less frightening gentleman or a more agreeable countenance.
“I hope not.” He leaned back over the table. “Young man, am I frightening you?”
“No,” came a squeak of a voice.
Alice was grateful she had not yet changed into her evening dress for the ceremony. The yellow walking gown she was currently wearing allowed her the room to kneel and peer under the table. She met the boy’s wide brown eyes, welling with tears. He couldn’t have been more than seven. An angry red slash rose on his right hand.
“Come out, boy. No one is angry with you.”
“But His Grace—”
“Is not here,” she finished. The less she thought of the odious and old Duke of Rivington, the better.
The boy’s gaze shifted over to the man.
“I’m no one of importance,” the man said. “And I certainly don’t speak with His Grace unless I absolutely must.”
The boy must have been convinced by this declaration because he inched forward on his knees. Alice bade him sit on the table so she could tend to him standing upright. The gentleman joined them at her side. She was pleased to see he stood a half head taller than she.
The boy did as she’d requested, and Alice noted how the child sat awkwardly, hugging his right hand to his chest. The gentleman captured the boy’s wrist, and both he and Alice bowed their heads to inspect it.
“Is this from a tin pot?” she asked the boy.
The boy nodded, his bottom lip trembling, and Alice called for the kitchen maid to chip a little ice off the block in the pantry.
“Tin pot?” the gentleman questioned.
; Alice inclined her head toward the back stove, where a tin pot sat on the front burner. Caramel sauce vigorously bubbled and popped from within.
“Ah,” the gentleman said in understanding. “The caramel does smell tempting.”
The scent of baked, sizzling sugar permeated the kitchen even now. “Tempting as it is, you mustn’t touch things without asking,” Alice felt compelled to add, looking at the boy.
He hung his head. “But my mum would have said no.”
“Rightfully so,” Alice said. “The caramel is for the wedding guests, not your stomach.”
“That’s why I didn’t ask,” he muttered.
Alice bit back her grin as she glanced at the gentleman, who returned her smile. She collected the ice from the kitchen maid, which was wrapped in a spare cloth, and set it on the boy’s hand above the welt. He winced.
“Where is your mother?” the gentleman asked him.
“She’s readying the guest bedrooms and putting on the clean sheets.”
Alice and the gentleman exchanged a quick glance, and then he said, “I’ll bring you to her and speak to the head of staff to ensure someone is able to take her place.”
The boy gave an anxious cry.
“No one is in trouble,” Alice assured him.
“Come with me,” the gentleman said, stepping to the side and gesturing for the boy to lead the way.
Alice looked up at him with relief. How extraordinary to encounter a gentleman whose presence created less work for her rather than more. “Thank you, sir.”
The gentleman doffed an imaginary hat in response and nudged the boy along.
Alice stared at the empty spot where he’d stood, her hand pressed to her chest. Every social interaction of her life up till now had been dictated and choreographed, yet she had spoken to a man she did not know and who did not know her. There was a strange exhilaration in it. Meeting men had become a chore, a bore for her. But not this man . . .
She must learn his name. But for the moment, he could have been anyone. Someone who would satisfy her father’s blasted conditions for a husband. He was certainly attractive enough to warrant attention, gentlemanly enough to warrant consideration, and something about his presence was companionable enough that her imagination wandered much further than she expected—to her in a church with him by her side.
She forced the image away with a hard shake of her head.
Her sister Bridget’s romantic musings were clearly becoming a bad influence.
* * *
After seeing the boy and his mother on their way home, Robert Crawford made his way back toward the kitchen, but was waylaid by Benjamin Abernathy, who came upon Robert as he cut through the ballroom, the only room in the entire estate free of servants as it had been set for celebrations much earlier in the day.
Upon seeing him, Benjamin clapped his hand upon Robert’s shoulder. “Good to see you made it, Robert.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it.”
“Liar,” Benjamin said. “You’ve missed everything else.”
Robert couldn’t disagree. His group of friends—consisting of Benjamin Abernathy, Graham Abernathy, and their best friends Damon Savage and Christian Hughes—used to be inseparable, first as childhood friends, later at Cambridge, and then while serving in the Battle of Salamanca, where Robert had commanded their unit.
They had come back from the war changed in their own ways, but England had changed even more. Robert had found his family more possessive of him than they’d been previously. His men had confirmed similar experiences upon returning to their homes. Not wanting to cause his family any additional concern, Robert had chosen to remain the past few years at his family’s estate near Leeds. It was a dilapidated, run-down house prone to drafts and leaks, but it was his home.
It was surprising how easy it was to keep warm when one was involved in cricket and wrestling with six older brothers, fed by their sundry wives, and doted upon by all manner of nieces and nephews. It mattered not to Robert that there were few funds and no inheritance left for him if it meant the people he loved were supported. Besides, he had recently made several good investments that, if well managed, would see him comfortably to his old age as long as he kept his needs modest, which had been quite easy to do given he had forsaken years of London life and social events to stay close to his loved ones. Now that they were reassured he was alive and well, he was eager to rejoin society and the friends he’d left behind. He was ready to start his life again.
Still, coming back to society was rather like jumping on horseback after several years away—familiar and dangerous all at once. He did remember that one was supposed to offer pleasantries, however.
“My congratulations to your family, and Tom especially.” Tom was the eldest Abernathy, heir to the title, and while pleasant, was not part of their set. Robert doubted he would even exchange two words with the man.
“Tom is even more eager now than he was at his first wedding.”
“Your brother is about to marry the great, incomparable beauty of the Season from the richest family in the hemisphere,” Robert said. “I should hope he would be eager.”
“Eager, but nervous. Apparently much has gone awry. Something about a flower wagon.”
“Flowers?” Robert raised a brow. “Since when does Tom care for flowers?”
“He doesn’t, but father has already lost his head over our having the ceremony in the Woodbury parish church instead of at Westminster.”
Robert didn’t bother to feign surprise. August Abernathy, Duke of Rivington, was a pompous ass. Robert had no idea who to credit for the relative sincerity and sanity of the man’s sons.
“I would love to catch up,” Benjamin said, clapping his hand on Robert’s shoulder again, “but it will have to wait. I’m to head to the church and resolve this catastrophe.”
“I’ll go in your stead,” Robert said. “You’re not even dressed for the ceremony, man.”
“You would? I would be grateful. I’m running late after. . .”
“No question. Consider it done.”
Robert would rather search for the woman from the kitchen. While their surroundings were opulent, the energy that crackled from her as she tended to the boy rather reminded him of an older woman he’d encountered at Salamanca after she rushed the battlefield to tend to the wounded, ripping at cloth bandages with her teeth.
He knew he would have to seek the young lady out in polite company in order to solicit an introduction. So he bid Benjamin farewell and headed to the stables. He saddled a horse and rode to the church, recalling the curve of her lip, the glint in her gray eyes, the stray locks of ebony hair that escaped its confinement.
Judging by the way she managed the incident and the ease with which she crawled on the kitchen floor to get to the boy, she was a lady of quality yet still accustomed to work, which meant she wouldn’t find it trying to be married to someone of his meager, if honorable, means. But all that was secondary to the sensation that being near her was somehow easy, comforting, and compelling. That he could just as easily imagine her rushing a battlefield for her loved ones.
What would one say to such a woman? A pang of nerves clenched his muscles and must have urged his horse faster because the ride to go by quickly, and he was soon at the parish church. The stone building nestled in a meadow of larkspur, with lilacs nodding at the lych-gate. As he leaped off the horse and tied it to a post, he saw the very same woman picking bouquets of flowers in the meadow.
He shook his head and blinked, certain he was hallucinating. But there she was, cradling five bouquets in her arms. She looked up and saw him. She dropped the bouquets, and the flowers rained down over the tips of her shoes.
Almost instantly, Robert was on his knees at her feet, picking up the flowers that were bound together in white ribbon. She was here, and rather than nerves, he felt a relief to be with her again, as if their time apart had unsettled him. He handed the flowers to her, then took a respectable step backward. “Pardon the i
mpropriety. You seemed in distress.”
“I am fine. My flowers, perhaps, are distressed.” More purple petals fell, landing on the hem of her walking gown, the stems bending, limp.
“I can help you gather more,” he offered.
“And you are? Forgive the impudence, but you have proven a guardian angel twice this morning and I do not know your name.”
“Forgive me for not being able to beg a formal introduction.” He plucked a handful of flowers from the ground, perfuming the air with each rustle.
Her next words were a whisper, her tone light.” You may beg if you wish.”
He looked up sharply at her flirtation. He knelt once more and held up the new bouquet. “Perhaps I should beg from here?”
Her breath caught in her throat. She accepted the flowers and twisted the ribbon so tightly that the stems snapped. The wind tousled her midnight hair, and he wanted to run his fingers through the strands.
“Please, sir, I must have your name.”
He stood and cleared his throat. “I am Robert Crawford, of Leeds. I am here for the wedding, as I am acquainted with the Abernathy family and am a close friend of two of Tom’s brothers, Benjamin and Graham. I’m here to see to some arrangements at the church before the family’s arrival.”
Her gray gaze dropped to her feet and then lifted back to him. For some reason, the spark in them had left her and she looked at him with resignation. “Ah, I see. I thank you for your assistance. I am Miss Alice Belle, eldest sister of the bride.”
Ah. He saw, too. “If you have no further need of assistance, then I may see myself back to the church.”
“Thank you, Mr. Crawford.”
Robert patted his horse’s nose at the gate and went into the church, his fantasies her dispersing as easily as the petals on the flowers. The Bayswater Belles were infamous for their wealth. How had he thought her accustomed to work? He was a fool. She could buy half of London if she wished.
And he was simply a poor nobody.