A Hasty Betrothal

by Jessica Nelson

  Could it be that she missed Miles? Surely not...and yet he had such a ready laugh, and his eyes crinkled at the corners in a most becoming way. He always looked at her, really looked, and listened.

  As though her thoughts had spoken aloud, Miles appeared. He sauntered toward her, passing guests without removing his gaze from her own.

  She felt as though she were the subject beneath a microscope. Her stomach quivered. Her fingers pressed against the wall. He wore pristine breeches and an elegantly cut waistcoat, and his cravat was neatly knotted. The look in his eyes did her in, though.

  It was as though they saw only her.

  Which could not be, she tried to remind herself, but her thoughts were drowned by the heady rush of feelings pulsating through her.

  He came to a stop before the alcove. Looking past her, he bowed. “Your Grace,” he murmured.

  And then he turned to her, his eyes a tempestuous gray filled with mystery, his hand aloft. “My lady, would you join me for a waltz?”

  Even as he spoke, the music swelled in the ballroom and couples crowded the floor. Heat flared through Elizabeth. Cheek to cheek, hand to hand...the dance called for a scandalous closeness, and now Miles was asking her to participate?

  Ignoring his hand, which waited for hers, she glanced back at Grandmother. The duchess’s lips formed a thin line but Elizabeth could not tell if she approved of waltzing with Miles or no.

  Turning to him, limbs quivering, heart shaking, she placed her hand in his. He asked for a waltz, but it felt as though he asked for so much more.

  And she did not know if she was capable of giving him what he deserved.

  * * *

  The slightness of Elizabeth’s hand in Miles’s stirred feelings he had longed to forget. They pinched at his chest, tightening the muscles, mingling pleasure and pain.

  He drew Elizabeth onto the floor, her perfume heady, surrounding him, reminding him of dances long past. She wore her hair in elaborate auburn curls, which cascaded around her shoulders. Her dress, an icy concoction of frills in all the right places, emphasized the beauty of her eyes and the soft tones of her skin.

  Had she ever looked so beautiful? The last waltz he’d danced had been with Anastasia in France, before the dance had arrived in England. He’d been there not only for business, but to try to cheer his wife. It hadn’t worked and not long after she’d... The memory clamored within, struggling for release.

  But with Elizabeth in front of him, so close he only inhaled the scent of her, he could barely remember what Anastasia looked like.

  The lines of her face and the color of her eyes faded from memory. Fizzled away like foam on a seashore.

  He tugged Elizabeth closer. They were hand to hand, swirling around the dance floor. Music undulated within him, pulsing to the beat of their steps on the floor. She followed his lead flawlessly, every inch an earl’s daughter. Her hair tickled the bottom of his chin. She smelled like roses. Reminding him of the trellis they’d stood beneath weeks ago.

  Her fingers closed in his, tightening. He couldn’t see her face, but he was altogether aware of the fluidity of her movements, the grace.

  That terrible pinching began again, somewhere at the bottom of his sternum. An ache he struggled to ignore. Piano chords strained, the notes vaguely registering within the cloud of uncertainty that overtook him.

  He’d expected marriage to be like owning factories. He would wed Bitt. Make sure she could perform the most fundamental of wifely duties. Organize their lives so that she avoided ruin, and he would never have to worry about dealing with women again. After all, marriage ensured safety from the clamoring misses looking for a man with a fortune, even though a great bulk of his wealth was tied up in his businesses.

  The entire plan had seemed very clear-cut.

  And it still could be, his mind insisted. Even with Bitt in his arms, warm and soft and smelling like forever, it was possible to keep their marriage strictly platonic.

  Was the music still playing? Faces blurred as they danced by. Sweet notes echoed through him. Bitt’s dress rustled against his legs as they twirled.

  She looked up at him then, tilting her head, meeting his eyes with that dreamy directness she often employed. As though part of her existed in another realm. The look always softened him, made him want to protect her. There was a gentleness in her eyes as she smiled at him. Laughter edged the corners of her lips.

  Reflexively his arms tightened around her. He was as close to her as he possibly could be and still keep propriety, but he wanted to be closer. He wanted...more.

  That acknowledgment shook him as nothing else had. Deliberately he loosened his hold. Her smile faltered. They were still sweeping along the ballroom, but her body stiffened beneath his hands and her eyes clouded.

  Was he doing the right thing? He had believed he was but now...he didn’t know. He hated not knowing. His entire life revolved around making choices. Being in control.

  But this feeling...this constriction in his throat.

  He didn’t like it.

  Not at all.

  The music ended and he found himself releasing Elizabeth quickly. She didn’t seem to notice as she took his arm and rather forcefully led him to the side of the floor.

  “I have been awaiting your arrival, Miles.”

  “There was an accident at Littleshire.”

  “I do hope no one was hurt.”

  “Thankfully not, but equipment was damaged and I had to oversee the ordering.”

  “Let us go outside.” She cast a glance behind him. “It is too loud in here for what I’ve wanted to discuss with you.”

  Taken aback, Miles wanted to say no. Outside was private. Moonlit. Everything within resisted, but Elizabeth practically propelled him out. He allowed her to lead him onto a quiet patio that overlooked a well-manicured garden. A different one than where he’d found her last time.

  Lanterns traced light along the borders of the walled patio. Elizabeth paused at its edge, her back to him as she stared out over the gardens. It was not silent out here. Faint strains from the orchestra merged with the quiet song of insects. A bright moon created deep shadows across the garden and draped Bitt in a milky glow.

  Miles had never felt so uncomfortable as he did at this moment.

  “You wished to speak with me?” His voice scraped the silence.

  She turned slowly, her fingers tapping the rail. “I was hoping to see you earlier today. With the week’s festivities, I haven’t felt that we’ve been able to communicate and I have an idea.”

  He tipped his head. “For?”

  “The Littleshire Mill. The children, Miles. Part of the problem is that these workers are uneducated. How can they better themselves, how can they find more stable and less dangerous occupations, if they cannot read?”

  “And then who will make the cotton?”

  She reared back at his words, which he supposed had sounded more cynical than intended.

  He held up a hand to stop any tirade. “You are correct about education, but there will always be a need for mill labor. For able-bodied workers to perform tedious tasks. It is the way of the world, Elizabeth.”

  She planted her hands on her hips. “My research has shown me that mills are changing. New inventions are creating safer workplaces. Not only that, but you said able-bodied workers, and I certainly do not consider children to be able bodied. Do you?”

  Her eyes were flashing at him, and though only inches separated them, he had the strongest inclination to reach out and haul her to himself, to kiss the indignation from her face and assure her that all would be well.

  He withheld himself.

  Doing such a thing would serve only to complicate an already complicated situation.

  He thought of the scrawny children scampering around Littleshire. Of h
ow often their eyes were dulled by hours of labor. “No,” he said finally. “I do not consider them able bodied.”

  “Then we are in agreement that something must be done. It is my intention to visit at least once a week for an hour or more to teach reading and writing. I shall buy supplies. I will provide a schoolroom somewhere, even if it is out in the sunshine, though I do confess that they may find it hard to study when there is so much nature to be explored. It is doubtful they’ve spent their childhood as you and John did, monkeying up trees and pilfering sweets from Cook’s kitchen.”

  Miles grimaced. “An hour a week? Who shall cover their shifts? How shall they be paid?”

  “A small decline in income is a small worry when their minds shall be so enriched.”

  He crossed his arms. “That is no answer, my lady.”

  “Do you have a better one? These children are in need of nutritious food for their minds. They deserve to see that a world far greater and wider and more beautiful than theirs exists. That there is more to life than powerful, odiferous machines that never cease their infernal clanking.” She wrinkled her nose as if reliving the sounds of his mills.

  “Come now, Bitt. It’s not so horrible as you make it out to be.” Sometimes he rather found the consistent sounds comforting. “And you speak of this rich world, but reading about a place is not the same as living there.”

  “It is a near enough substitute. Which is why I propose to enrich their minds with great literature and grand ideas. I shall hire a tutor to help them learn sums.”

  “All this in an hour?”

  “Cynicism solves nothing, Miles Hawthorne.”

  He frowned. “I am merely considering the practical aspects of your plan. Frivolous novels are not going to solve a widespread problem. These children need more than an hour of lessons, and their families will suffer from the lack of pay.”

  “One must start somewhere,” she said coldly. “Even if it’s with frivolity.”

  Sweeping her skirt up, she brushed past him, nose high, gaze averted. Telling him in no uncertain terms with her back just how much she disapproved of his response.

  Not the best way to end a betrothal ball, he mused, but certainly an indicator of what marriage to Elizabeth entailed.

  No matter what he’d felt while dancing with her, he must remember that a traditional marriage came with petty dramas, irritating spats and hurt feelings.

  Altogether more reason to keep his distance. To reject any notions of togetherness, romance or, horror of horrors, love.

  Chapter Fifteen

  When would this dreadful ball end?

  Elizabeth fanned herself, pressing her back against a corner and longing desperately for a story. Anything but this dream that had turned into a nightmare. Couples swished past her, lips curved and eyes alight. Much as she had done only moments ago.

  Frivolous.

  How dare he call her novels such a thing? She fumed in silence, tapping her toe and swishing her fan. The brush of cool air against her hot skin brought little relief because his words bounced within her mind, vexing little reminders of the kind of man she must marry. A man who did not value books. Who worked and worked and worked...

  Her fingers tightened on the fan until her knuckles ached. How often she’d daydreamed of love. The kind where a man saw into a woman’s heart, where he loved her for all her flaws and strengths. And what happened?

  She got herself almost ruined, forcing a marriage of convenience.

  Miles swirled her around the ballroom in the most dizzying, heart-stopping fashion and she lost her senses. Her brain ceased working and suddenly she had realized that she was at great risk of feeling too much for the infernal man.

  She could not, would not, allow such feelings for one who didn’t enjoy novels. His imagination must be terribly stilted, she mused, scanning the ballroom for him, hating that her gaze sought him out even after he’d so cavalierly thrown her ideas into the metaphorical trash bin.

  But when she spotted him near Grandmother, her pulse sped up. Pinpricks of awareness washed through her. Her stomach knotted and unknotted all as she watched him from behind the safety of her fan. The decoration served as more than just a communication or cooling device.

  She spied on him, nerves thrumming. He bestowed a soft smile on her grandmother, bending near to hear her as she spoke. They engaged in conversation and he threw his head back in an open laugh. Perhaps his eyes might be a stormy gray, like a winter’s eve sky. She quite enjoyed his eyes and their moody changings. He had a way of looking at her... Despite herself, she shivered.

  That dance had been the most romantic moment of her life. She’d felt positive that, as he looked down at her, he must feel the same way about her as she did him.

  She snapped her fan closed. And how did she feel?

  Not as one should when marrying for convenience. Certainly not as one marrying to escape ruination.

  She would not allow this attraction to fester into anything more than childhood affection.

  He’d called her ideas for the children, her love of novels, frivolous.

  Just remembering that idiocy caused her teeth to grind and her body to stiffen.

  It was not reasonable to be attracted to a man who believed such foolishness. Emotions roiled, coiling within until her body strained with the effort of holding her temper back. Her neighbors from the south, a wealthy baron and his wife, stopped to greet her.

  She had never met them before and for a millisecond, felt conscious of her birthmark. Did the baron’s gaze stray to it? But no, both he and his wife spoke to her without allowing her disfigurement to distract them.

  The realization helped her create a conversation whilst hiding all the frustration she felt toward Miles beneath a veneer of politeness.

  “We have been admiring your grandmother’s stable and collection of prize mares. You realize,” the baroness was saying, “that my darling Edward never learned to ride until two years ago?”

  “How curious,” Elizabeth murmured, trying as hard as she could to rein in her riotous thoughts, to still the erratic pounding of her heart and the nervous tension that pressed upon her sternum. It was not their fault she’d realized a terrible discovery about herself. Unrequited attraction. How bothersome! She must find a way to avoid it. Miles did not fit into the box where she stored romantic daydreams.

  A dark and swarthy earl was one of her favorite daydreams. She’d meet him in a library. Yes, they’d both be reading Wordsworth. Perhaps he’d recite something to her. A romantic poem filled with the sweetness of tender longings and unfulfilled dreams. His gaze would hold hers, his irises a riotous mix of mossy greens and steely grays...she straightened abruptly.

  No, that had never been the color of her imaginary earl’s eyes before.

  “My lady?” The baroness stared at her, the question in her tone clearly stating that Elizabeth had been caught daydreaming.

  She wet her lips, inclining her head to indicate attention. “I apologize. My mind snagged. You were saying?” She looked expectantly from husband to wife, hoping one of them might forgive her lapse in manners and continue talking.

  The baroness graciously nodded, accepting the apology. “Only that my husband had a dreadful dislike of horses. He saw them as foul creatures and refused to enter the stables.”

  “Clod footed,” the baron put in, giving a humorous, good-natured tug on his mustachioed mouth.

  “It was only after I showed him their intelligence and gentle nature that he grew fond of them.”

  Elizabeth’s ears perked. “And now you enjoy horses, my lord?”

  “We ride every morning.” The baroness patted her husband’s arm, deep affection apparent in such a tiny touch. “But it took a tragedy to show him what he was missing. My favorite mare, Beauty, took sick. I’d had her since my sixteen
th birthday and she had aged, of course. One morning I went into the stables and there she lay, on her side, belly heaving.”

  “Your stable hands did not alert you?” asked Elizabeth.

  “I employ one and he stated that Beauty had been fine only moments beforehand.”

  Elizabeth controlled her cringe. Of course, they had only one. She was accustomed to a large staff and forgot that others required less. “Was she...did she recover?”

  “No.”

  The baron took his wife’s hand, and Elizabeth marveled at the sweetness between them. Had they been a love match then? Or had love grown over the years, fertilized by kindness and compatibility? She wanted to ask, but feared the question out of place.

  Instead she murmured, “I am very sorry.”

  “Thank you. It was a dreadful time for me but to comfort me, Edward promised a new mare. For my sake, he overlooked his antipathy toward horseflesh, and now he is an avid rider.”

  “I would not use the word avid, my love.” He chuckled.

  “All due to a change in perception then?” asked Elizabeth, a strange feeling unfurling within.

  “Much like your telescope,” he affirmed. “Last night I saw the stars in a marvelous new way. When I shopped for a mare, I learned each one’s personality. I had to see horses from a different perspective to appreciate their beauty. I do not claim to love horses as my wife does, but I respect them.”

  “Oh, look, there is Lady Danvers.” The baroness tugged on her husband’s sleeve. “Come, we must speak to her. She throws the most extravagant parties in London every year.”

  They offered their farewells and rushed off, leaving Elizabeth with a curiously lightened heart. Perhaps this unexpected situation with Miles was not hopeless, after all.

  He only needed but to see books in a different light. If she altered his perception of them, showed him the transforming wonder of a story, then surely he would agree to her plan.

  She flicked her fan open, holding it up and peering over the top. The house party had been a raging success. The ball, interesting and not altogether awkward as a part of her had feared it would be. After all, it was not every day that peerage and commoners mingled.