by Elisa Braden
“I do.” He smiled. “Probably because I am one, at heart.”
That must have been why she felt so comfortable around him. He was full of boyish energy.
“I enjoy them, as well,” she said, hoping her conversation sounded normal. “My nephew was born this spring. Griffin. Though he is but an infant, I can already see his intelligence. So much curiosity about the world.”
“My younger brothers are twins, and while they share some traits, their personalities are quite different. As boys, you could see Freddie was the more assertive and Edward the more thoughtful of the two.” He cast her a sidelong glance. “Do you believe we are born with a certain character, Miss Gray?”
She nodded. “In many respects, yes. Though, the things that happen to us may reshape who we are.” She glanced toward the east garden wall that overlooked the sea. “Sometimes drastically.”
He went quiet then asked if she played chess.
Minutes later, they stood on a giant chessboard formed of flat, gray flagstones and squares of lawn. The chess pieces were large-scaled, as well, made of painted wood. Her game with Mr. Farrington lasted an hour.
Of course, they were interrupted twice, once by Jameson delivering the peach tarts—of which Mr. Farrington offered her two—and the other by Phineas, who asked if he might observe.
Hannah let the game go on longer than necessary. She could have trounced Mr. Farrington in the first five minutes. But the large-scaled chessboard was in a part of the garden that overlooked the water, and she was enjoying herself immensely.
By the time Mr. Farrington conceded defeat and bid her farewell, she’d decided she simply must have a similar chessboard in her own garden—wherever that might be.
“You could have defeated him seven times before you did.” Phineas came to stand beside her while she gazed out at the water. “Is he who you want, little one?”
By all rights, he should have been. Andrew Farrington was not blancmange, to be sure, but his manner was so lighthearted her fear had faded to a mere hum rather than a constant roar. He liked children. He played chess, albeit with more exuberance than foresight.
He hadn’t touched her, of course. That was the true test. But as a beginning, their hours together showed promise.
Except that her chest would not stop aching.
“Hannah?”
She blinked faster and focused upon the sea. In the distance, blackening clouds stacked into mountains.
“What is it?”
“No,” she whispered. It felt as though the truth were being ripped out of her by the wind. “He is not.”
For all his easy charm, Andrew Farrington was not the man she wanted. No, the one she wanted rarely put her at ease. Rather, he challenged her. Fired her senses. Drove her to the very precipice of her control.
Phineas sighed. “Do not tell me—”
“I want …”
“Bloody hell.”
She looked at her brother, whose frown was fierce. “I want Jonas Hawthorn.” It felt good to say it. The pressure inside her chest lightened. Then changed. Then started to glow. She released a breath. And another. Before she knew it, she was smiling and little tingles were climbing her spine to her scalp. They tickled her skin.
Phineas shook his head. “Blast. She told me you would do this. I insisted you were far too sensible.”
“Eugenia knew?”
“She’s been trying to persuade me to like him. Now I understand why.”
Hannah chuckled at Phineas’s grudging tone. If Eugenia ever acquired the patience to learn chess, Hannah suspected she’d dominate them both.
“You realize the man hasn’t the funds to purchase a decent coat,” he said, “let alone provide for a wife and children. He lives like an impoverished miser. God knows what he’s doing with all the bounties he collects.”
“I have funds. More than enough.”
“You shouldn’t have to use them.”
Her chin went up. “This was no easy decision, you know.”
Ignoring her point, he blew out a breath and propped his hands on his hips. “He lives in London. You hate London. He is a Bow Street runner tasked with apprehending thieves and other criminals. That is a dangerous occupation for a man with a family.”
“He risked his life to save mine.”
“He frightens you. I can see it.”
It was true. No man was more dangerous to her heart than Jonas Hawthorn. But no other man had seized her heart as his sole possession, either. No other man had suffered two arrows through his body then ridden two days, bleeding and dying for her.
Yes, he terrified her. With him, she risked more than pain. But they went hand-in-hand, didn’t they? The risk and the prize.
“I want the sort of love you share with Eugenia.” She swallowed the lump forming in her throat. She must stay strong or Phineas would believe her too frail to survive the ordeal she was about to undertake. Her own doubts were difficult enough. “Your love has immeasurable power, Phineas. It makes you willing to bear anything for her sake. Pain. Fear. Death.” She rested her hands upon the ancient stone wall, rough beneath her fingers, and looked out upon the darkening water. “The things I must overcome will require just such power. Sensible is safe, but it is far too weak. I don’t need sufficient funds. I need sufficient force.”
His hand covered hers. She only flinched a little.
“If he hurts you, I will deliver punishment that will make him wish those arrows had ended his existence.”
“But you will not stand in my way?”
Eyes the same as hers focused upon their hands. “No. I won’t stop you.”
“Will you …” She swallowed. “Will you help me, Phineas?”
His eyes came up, fiercely lit with the intensity he usually softened for her sake. “I will give you anything you require. Always, little one.”
Seeing his love for her unveiled was difficult to bear. But, just as she’d worked at climbing on a horse and holding a riding cane and letting Eugenia hug her, she practiced allowing the resistance to rise then move through her. She pictured it as a membrane that must pass. A membrane of dread—unpleasant, to be sure. But eventually, with time and repetition, it would erode and she’d hardly feel it at all. She must believe that. She must.
With a deep, shuddering breath, she asked her brother for advice. “I—I need to know … what might … tempt a man.”
Eyes like hers flared with alarm. Phineas reeled back and paced ten feet away before turning. “Good God, Hannah. Perhaps I should have specified I’d give you anything except advice on—”
“I am dreadful at flirtation, Phineas. Eugenia has been teaching me, but—”
“Damn and blast.”
“—I require a man’s perspective. You are the only one I trust.”
He stared at her for several seconds, then looked around and closed all but the last two feet between them. “You won’t have to flirt with him,” he muttered.
She frowned. Had Eugenia been wrong?
“He already wants you. All you must do is convey to him that you are … open to his suit.”
“I want him to be my husband, not my suitor.”
“Perhaps we should fetch Euge—”
“It must happen immediately. Before he returns to London.” And before she lost her courage. “I haven’t time to experiment.”
Phineas pinched the bridge of his nose. “Make him an offer.”
“Of?”
“Marriage.”
Her mind went blank. Offer marriage? Just like that?
“The man looks at you like you’re the first meal he’s seen in a decade of famine. Make marriage the price to dine.”
“Yes, but surely it cannot be that simple. What of wooing?”
“What of it?”
“Won’t he need persuasion?”
“No.”
She blew out a breath, thoroughly exasperated. “I don’t believe you. I think you are trying to sabotage me.”
“Don’t be
ridic—”
“This is just like the trap you set for my queen two nights ago. I sweep in for the kill, and next thing I know, you are crowing checkmate.”
“You must—I did not—devil take it, Hannah. Just trust me.”
“Thank you for your advice, Phineas.” She sniffed. “I shall ask Eugenia.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose again. “That’s what I tried to—”
She spun on her heel and went in search of her sister-in-law, who was certain to give better counsel than proposing marriage to Jonas Hawthorn without so much as a fluttering eyelash.
She searched the gardens first but found no sign of Eugenia. She did, however, discover the butler, Mr. Nash, quietly instructing a footman to find the missing peach tarts. Mr. Nash did not know where Eugenia had gone.
Rounding a hedge, she then encountered Benedict Chatham, Lord Rutherford, the source of little Jameson’s sable hair and hooded turquoise eyes. He was lifting a squealing boy of perhaps two years onto his shoulders.
Tiny legs kicked the marquess’s chest as the boy bounced and demanded, “Ide, Pa. Ide.”
She assumed he meant to say, “Ride.”
Rutherford grinned at her, demonstrating what Charlotte must have found irresistible in her husband. “Miss Gray. My son tells me his peach tart scheme proved quite lucrative.”
She smiled at Jameson’s younger brother as the little boy reached for her from his high perch. “Indeed. He persuaded Mr. Farrington to surrender his hat with scarcely a volley of negotiation.”
“His mother’s influence.” Turquoise took on an admiring glow. “Charlotte has a keen understanding of supply and demand.”
She asked if he’d seen Eugenia, and he pointed in the direction of the castle, saying he’d seen her with Maureen a short while ago.
Minutes later, she found Maureen inside the gallery—but no Eugenia.
“Lady Wallingham demanded her consultation on a new bonnet,” Maureen informed her. “It seems she is torn between three ostrich feathers and five.”
Hannah blew out a sigh. Blast.
With a tilt of her head, Maureen asked, “Oh, dear. That sounded melancholy. May I be of help?”
Blinking, Hannah examined her friend. With sweet, soft features and sunlit brown hair, Maureen Thorpe was the prettiest of the Huxley sisters. She might not be as plainspoken as Eugenia, but she’d had several successful seasons before marrying Lord Dunston. She’d even enticed Phineas to offer marriage. “Yes. Perhaps so.” Hannah glanced around as two footmen passed carrying a tray of peach tarts. She gestured toward the drawing room, which, fortunately, was empty. She asked her question just as Maureen sank down on the sofa next to her. “How does one induce a man to propose marriage?”
Maureen’s mouth rounded. “Induce?”
“Compel. With urgency.”
“Oh, my. Have you decided upon a suitor, dearest? It is Mr. Keeble, isn’t it? He does have lovely blue eyes.”
“It is not Mr. Keeble.”
She nibbled her lower lip. “Oh. I fear I must confess, when I called Mr. Winstead sensible, I was attempting to be kind. Reusing tea leaves is an appalling—”
“It is Mr. Hawthorn.”
Maureen’s hand fluttered to her bodice. “Oh,” she breathed. “Oh!”
Hannah waited. And waited. “So, how did you persuade Lord Dunston to marry you?”
“How did I … oh, yes. Henry and I were very much in love. But he led a dangerous life because of …” Maureen’s eyes saddened. “Well, you know.”
Hannah nodded.
“In any event, he’d convinced me that his affections were merely friendship. To keep me safe from … you know. Then your brother began to take an interest, and I liked him very much. Phineas is such a good man.”
“Yes, he is.”
“Mmm. But my heart was always Henry’s. He was all I wanted. And, in time, he came round to see things the same way.”
Hannah sat forward. “What changed his mind?”
“Well, Henry may appear to be a perfect dandy, but he is a bit … possessive. I suspect it was all the standing about pretending to be my bosom friend whilst other gentlemen expressed an interest—”
“Did you flutter your lashes?”
“Pardon?”
“Your lashes. Did you flutter them?” Hannah demonstrated.
“Oh, dear. No. That looks a bit like an insect flew into your eye.”
She slumped. “That’s what Eugenia said.”
Maureen’s expression softened. “Dearest, what is this about?”
“Flirtation is something normal ladies do. I am inept at flirtation. Yet, I must flirt if I am to persuade Mr. Hawthorn to marry me.”
Her friend’s golden-brown gaze turned wry. “When I last spoke to Mr. Hawthorn, he did not appear blind.”
Hannah frowned.
Maureen clarified, “You are beautiful, Hannah. I doubt flirtation will be necessary to gain his interest. Perhaps you should simply speak to the man.”
She blew out a gust of frustration. “And say what, precisely?”
“Well, start with, ‘Lovely day, Mr. Hawthorn.’ Then give him a smile.”
“It doesn’t work.”
“What?”
“My smile.”
“You have a lovely smile.”
“Not with … him. I am too anxious. My belly fizzes.” Her hand moved there. Even now, she felt the bubbles starting.
“That is excitement, darling.” Maureen whispered the words like a secret. Then, she clicked her tongue. “Here is what you must do. Are you ready?”
Hannah nodded, hoping for proper instruction this time.
“Your first task is to locate Mr. Hawthorn. Your second is to approach him. Bid him good day. Speak of the weather, perhaps. Next, inquire after his health.”
“His health.”
“Indeed. Or his horse. That works equally well.”
“I’m not sure that I—”
“Then, you must suddenly lose control of some element of your apparel.”
What in blazes? Had Maureen gone mad?
“Your handkerchief, for example. Or your bonnet. Even a slipper will do. Ask for his assistance. This will put him in proximity. Now, I know this may be difficult for you, but proximity is necessary in matters of this nature.”
“I have trouble with normalcy, Maureen. Not basic knowledge.”
“Now, the final step is critical. Are you listening?”
Hannah wanted to roll her eyes. But there was a tiny, near-infinitesimal chance that Maureen might say something useful. So, instead, she nodded.
“He must help you reapply whatever article of clothing you have lost. And when he moves near enough to do so, you must look directly into his eyes. Hold his gaze as long as you dare, then let your eyes fall to his lips. His chin works, too. They cannot tell the difference.” She waved a hand in a sweeping motion. “The point is to lower your gaze. And that is when you say, ‘My dear Mr. Hawthorn, I should be a fortunate lady indeed to have a gentleman so dashing as you in my life.’” Maureen sat back, looking quite impressed with herself. “He will melt faster than butter in a hot pan.”
“Did you employ such measures with Dunston?”
“Oh, no. Henry knew I felt as he did almost from the first. We were enchanted with one another. Had certain … matters been different …”
“Lady Holstoke. You may say her name.”
“Yes. Lady Holstoke.”
“So, did you apply this stratagem to Phineas, then? Or other gentlemen?”
Maureen shook her head. “I read about it in a periodical some years ago. I may have missed a step here or there. But the concept sounded quite effective.”
Drat and blast and devil take her best hat. Was there nobody at this house party who might teach her to flirt properly?
“Ah, there you are, pet.” Dunston strode through the drawing room door, looking wind-tossed and handsome in a blue coat and emerald waistcoat. He grinned a greeting to Hannah
but moved directly to his wife to steal a kiss. “I have been looking for you.”
“Mmm. I thought you’d return much later. Did you discover anything useful?”
Dunston chuckled. “Only that Hawthorn is surly as the devil when he’s a trifle overheated. I’m tempted to send him to my tailor for a new coat. But he already has my twelve—”
“You were with Mr. Hawthorn?” Hannah interrupted.
He raised a brow. “Yes, since daybreak. Why do you ask?”
“Where is he now?”
Dunston looked to Maureen, who nodded as though giving permission. “He was headed to the village. The inn, I think.”
She stood and made for the doors, her belly tingling and bubbling. Her breath came faster, and she wondered if she wasn’t a bit mad.
Of course she was. But if she did not go to him now, she greatly feared that she would lose her nerve.
“Hannah,” Maureen called softly.
Hannah turned.
Maureen clung to her husband’s hand, and he appeared to give her a reassuring squeeze. “Good luck, dearest.”
Though he smiled, Dunston’s eyes flashed with a hard glint. “If he troubles you, remind him that I am much more proficient with knives than archery.”
Hannah returned his smile with one of thanks. From the moment he’d discovered her existence, long before he knew her name, Dunston had fought to save her from harm. But this battle—her hardest battle—was one she must fight alone.
*~*~*
CHAPTER EIGHT
“An incidental resemblance does not imply kinship. One might as well decide sheep give birth to clouds. Or Lord Muggeridge fathers sheep.”
—Lady Dorothea Penworth to Malcolm Charles Bainbridge, Earl Bainbridge, in a letter expressing doubt about the parentage of a handsome Thoroughbred.
“Looks a mite like you, eh?” The grizzled old innkeeper scratched his head and squinted at the sketch in Jonas’s hand. “No. Haven’t seen such a man hereabouts.”
“It would have been several weeks ago. He might have had a trunk with him. Black with brown trimmings.”
The innkeeper shook his head. “Regret to say I cannot help ye. Pr’aps me barmaid will remember somethin’ different.” He nodded toward a redheaded woman with round hips and a ready grin placing bowls of stew before two large men.