“I don’t care about the Jade,” he said again, the smile disappearing as he tightened his grip on her arms and dipped his head so that they were eye to eye. “I care about surviving. I can’t breathe when you’re not around. I didn’t realize I wasn’t breathing until you came back, and then suddenly, there was air.”
What was he saying? The ground beneath her was shifting so that she couldn’t find her footing.
“You were going to leave, weren’t you? To teach at Catharine’s school?”
“I heard you talking to the investors. I didn’t want to be the reason you lost the Jade. I couldn’t be.” She hung her head, unable to keep meeting his burning eyes. “But I was, anyway.”
He tilted her chin back up with one hand before returning it to its former spot on her upper arm. “I don’t care about the Jade,” he said, speaking slowly and articulating each syllable. “Everything I was looking for all these years was you. I love you.”
She began to crumple then. Was this what it was like not to fight? Did she know how to be in the world without struggle?
Somehow, impossibly, he heard her doubts, knew her fears. He spoke into her hair as he pulled her close, straightening her sagging knees as he held her against him. “We know how to survive, you and I, to fight for life. We did it before, and we’ve just done it again. I think twice is quite enough.” He kissed her hair. “Now I think we should just live. You asked me recently why I thought we survived. I couldn’t have known it at the time, but this is why I sent you away from Seven Dials all those years ago. So we could live now. Just live. We were saving each other for later.”
He pulled back and searched her eyes. “Marry me, Lucy. You needn’t give up anything. I’ll build a new hotel for you to manage if you like.”
“How? You’ve lost everything.”
“Ah, but you’re forgetting the ships. And the mines. These things make money. I can sell them, and then we shan’t need any investors this time.”
“Yes, but, if you didn’t want to sell them the first time, why would you—”
“But perhaps another hotel isn’t quite the thing.” He struggled to keep his face serious as he interrupted her. “Perhaps my true calling is to carry your bags around as you crisscross the country on a speaking tour on the rights of women. You choose. It shall be as you like.”
Just as she was about to speak, to capitulate, he held up a finger. “One more thing. I promise marriage to me will not result in suicidal despair or anything like it, so if you utter a single word about Mary Wollstonecraft’s unworthy husbands, I’ll—”
Her laughter interrupted him. She reached behind her neck and unclasped her necklace, slid the Jade off the chain, and placed it on her own left ring finger.
For once, she hadn’t been thinking of Mary. She’d only been going to say: “Yes.”
Epilogue
One year later, Essex.
“Welcome to the Owl and Rose!”
Trevor looked up from his table in the inn’s tavern, where he was puzzling over a column of figures that wouldn’t quite square, to watch his wife greet their latest guests.
“Oh, it’s you!” Lucy’s face lit up.
Catharine and Emily floated in on a wave of chatter and laughter—and the squalling of an infant Catharine carried in her arms. The ladies were followed shortly by the less exuberant but still smiling Blackstone and James.
Trevor got up and moved behind the bar to stand behind Lucy. A glance down showed him she had been going over the same figures that had been confounding him—and that she’d found the error. Naturally.
“I thought we were meeting for dinner later,” Lucy exclaimed, “but it’s so wonderful to see you all! You’ve been in London too long—we’ve missed you so!”
“Yes, we’re overdue for a meeting of the Essex branch of the Ladies’ Society in Support of Mrs. Wollstonecraft, aren’t we?” Emily said.
“We’ve a new plan!” Catharine pitched her voice so it could be heard over the insistent vocalizations of her baby daughter. “Emily and I are going to stay here while the gentlemen go hunting!”
“Assuming you have room.” Emily looked down at the babe with affection. The others followed her gaze, and even Blackstone’s usually taciturn demeanour softened. Trevor took advantage of the opportunity to squeeze his wife’s bottom. She jumped but did not move away. He watched the tips of her ears color. Would he ever grow accustomed to the notion that he could just touch her whenever he liked? That she was truly—and finally—his?
“Yes,” Catharine said, dragging her attention from the baby. “We’ll have an adventure—just the three of us ladies.”
“Four!” Emily said. “Don’t forget the baby!”
“Oh, but Clareford Manor will be so much more comfortable for you,” Lucy protested. “This is just a humble country inn.”
“Yes, but it’s your humble country inn.” Catharine handed the baby to James and shrugged out of her spencer. “And therefore, it’s perfect.”
Trevor couldn’t help but agree. He had sold his mines—after marrying Lucy he’d found his appetite for the relentless accumulation of wealth was simply not as voracious as it had been—and used the money to buy the inn outright. No investors, no one to make happy except themselves: it was a slice of heaven.
“It will be an adventure,” Emily asserted. The men will be out in the hunting box shooting defenseless creatures, and we’ll be cozied up here.” She grinned. “I think we should drink some ale!”
Trevor refrained from pointing out that they rarely shot defenseless animals on hunting excursions. In fact, they would very likely pass the three days languishing about Blackstone’s luxuriously appointed box playing cards and drinking scotch.
“But not before I’ve had a chance to consult Lucy on the curriculum changes I’m thinking of making at the school,” Catharine said in mock sternness. “Curriculum first, ale second.”
“Before you ladies incite a revolution—or get foxed—I have some news that will interest the Baileys.” Blackstone produced a newspaper. He set it on the bar in front of them and pointed to a short article entitled “Galsmith Found Guilty.” As a peer, Galsmith had been tried by the House of Lords, and the story had been everywhere over the past year. Trevor and Lucy, having decamped to Essex shortly after the fire—and their marriage—had mostly ignored it, though they did have to travel back to town to give testimony.
“What’s the gist of it?” Trevor asked, not wanting to waste even a moment reading about Galsmith. The man didn’t deserve an iota of their attention.
“The gist of it is that he’s on his way to Australia,” Blackstone said.
“Good.”
“But what about his family? The girls?” Lucy asked. Tenderhearted Lucy. “They haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Galsmith’s wife was the daughter of an earl,” Catharine said. “They’ll be fine. The trial has no doubt ensured they will never be received in polite society, but they won’t starve.”
“They’ll have to make their own way,” Emily said. “Like you, Lucy.”
“Perhaps I can send them some reading material.” Lucy reached down and squeezed Trevor’s hand below the bar where none of the rest of them could see.
“Yes.” Trevor rolled his eyes teasingly. “Perhaps you might know of a reading society they could join.”
Emily took the paper from the bar and made a point of handing it back to her husband. “What a relief to have that behind us. Now, what kind of ale do you have?”
“Wait!” Lucy cried. “If you’re to be guests of the Owl and Rose, you must have the official welcome biscuit!” She turned and lifted a cloth from a basket that stood on a shelf behind the bar.
While she was distributing the treats, Trevor filched one. She’d meant to replicate the childhood treat they’d so adored in Seven Dials, but her creation had far surpassed the original.
As long as he lived, he could never get enough of Lucy’s now-famous lemon biscuits.
&nb
sp; She shot him a look over her shoulder as she began pulling pints—she always knew when he was stealing biscuits.
He smiled through a mouthful and amended his previous thought. As long as he lived, he could never get enough of Lucy.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my friends Sandra Owens and Erika Olbricht for reading this book and making it immeasurably better with their good counsel.
Thank you to my friend Audra North for reading my (many, many) emails and making my life immeasurably better with her good counsel.
Thank you to Courtney Miller-Callihan for generalized awesomeness, as always, but also for talking about this book with me while strolling and driving around Ontario—when are you coming back?
Thank you to Tracy Montoya, for once again putting her finger on what I meant to say, and leading me to say it better.
And finally, thank you to Professor Lisa Disch, who introduced me to Mary Wollstonecraft many, many years ago in Intro to Political Thought. I sat silently in that lecture hall all quarter, but apparently some of it stuck. (Everything else I just made up, and isn’t her fault at all.)
Connect With Me
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About the Author
Jenny Holiday is a USA Today bestselling and RITA-nominated author of contemporary and historical romance. The New York Times once had this to say about one of her characters: “His feminist bona fides can seem piled on for a hypermasculine hero.” She took it as a compliment.
www.jennyholiday.com
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Other Books by Jenny Holiday
Regency Reformers
The Miss Mirren Mission
The Likelihood of Lucy
Viscountess of Vice
The Famous Series
Famous
Infamous (a male/male romance)
Bridesmaids Behaving Badly
Once Upon a Bride (a free novella)
One and Only
It Takes Two
Merrily Ever After
Three Little Words
The 49th Floor
Saving the CEO
Sleeping With Her Enemy
The Engagement Game
His Heart’s Revenge (a male/male romance)
New Wave Newsroom
The Fixer
The Gossip
The Pacifist
Standalone Novels
Undue Influence: A Persuasion Retelling (a male/male romance)
An Excerpt from The Viscountess of Vice
The Regency Reformers series continues with a prequel that tells the story of the infamous Catharine and her reforming hero, James
Autumn, 1812
Being a prostitute was hard work. Catharine poked a finger under the feathered mask she wore, trying to target an especially itchy spot near her hairline.
Correction: posing as a prostitute was hard work. An honest-to-goodness lady of the evening wouldn’t have to wear this blasted mask. The itching was driving her to distraction, never mind the sweating. It was a good thing she never took off the feathered confection, even when entertaining. The sight of her red, shiny face would have been enough to drive off even the most, ahem, enthusiastic of gentlemen.
Of course, an honest-to-goodness lightskirt would also have to have honest-to-goodness relations with any number of men, so on balance, what was a little itching? The wig was no better. She glanced around the overheated drawing room, taking a deep breath and fighting the urge to tear the flame-orange, elaborately-coiffed contrivance off her head and hurl it into the fire.
At least the discomfort provided a welcome distraction from her nerves. Here she was, nearly a month in, and she still felt that same fluttering in her stomach before the first gathering. And she wasn’t the nervous type—far from it. She was Catharine Chambers, the Viscountess Cranbrook, for God’s sake. Slightly scandalous widow, woman of action. Not that anyone here knew that, hidden as she was by her disguise. Still, she had not expected to find herself a nervous mouse every time. Didn’t expect it, and more to the point, didn’t like it.
Several young men filed in, talking quietly among themselves, joining the handful already present in the crowded room. Good. Once the gathering began, she could lose herself in her role. It was never as bad as she imagined, once the evening got underway. No, in truth, it was usually very dull—that was the great irony of the whole absurd situation. Sitting straighter, she turned her head, displaying the pale length of her neck to best advantage. Suppressing a sigh, she affected a bemused smile.
The ten o’clock crowd was typically young, eager, and always the politest of the evening’s three groups. The men she sought were not likely to possess any of those qualities. Why did she even bother with the first gathering? Because Blackstone insisted? He was rarely here to check up on her and would never know if she slipped away to her room for a nap—just what she needed to fortify herself before the midnight gathering.
A footman entered with a tray of champagne glasses, a sign of Madame Cherie’s imminent arrival. Too late to escape. Resigned, Catharine accepted a glass, willing her hand not to shake. A sense of obligation would have kept her here anyway. Yes, she appeared dutifully at the ten o’clock gathering twice a week because underneath her scandalously low, black-ribbon-trimmed bodice beat the heart of a patriot. A very nervous patriot.
Noble motivations and stage fright aside, this was supposed to have been entertaining. That was the whole point, really. In that sense, it was all very disappointing. Who knew that in addition to being exceedingly itchy, prostitution could manage to be so very dull?
The door opened, and Madame entered with an elegant young gentleman on her arm. Catharine heard her own sharp, involuntary intake of breath. She quickly looked away, studying the patterns of shadow and light thrown by the fire on the scarlet silk walls. Even as her heart thrummed, she forced her face into a placid expression, opening her fan and idly fluttering it. Only then did she cast a look back toward Madame’s guest. A head taller than the others, he was dressed in black from the broad woolen shoulders of his coat to the tips of his shining Hessians. Even his hair, which he wore cropped close to his head, was dark. It was only a white shirt and perfectly starched cravat that softened the imposing effect.
His bright green eyes darted around the room for a few seconds after he entered, as if he were unsure where to settle his gaze. Unlike her, he hadn’t learned to hide his unease. He was new, and he was, simply, beautiful.
The gentleman gained control over his lovely eyes and began to survey the room in a more measured, calmer manner. Catharine tried to see the place as a newcomer would. A few of the girls were already upstairs entertaining regular clients, so there were only half a dozen others besides her in attendance, perched on settees and chairs throughout the room. And of course there was Amelia, draped over a chaise longue in a manner that bordered on the ridiculous. With her heavily painted eyes and rouged nipples peeking out of an elaborate lace bodice that was so low it practically met the high waist of her dress, Amelia offered gentlemen the caricature of a courtesan. She even affected a French accent and introduced herself as Amélie. Of course, presenting herself like this had made her the most popular girl in the house, both with the gentlemen and with Madame Cherie, who
took great pains to present the entire establishment as French and therefore fashionable. Madame exhorted the girls at regular intervals to display a little je ne sais quoi. Amelia was the only one among them who equated je ne sais quoi with nipples, but there you had it.
Catharine startled a little when Madame rang the silver bell that signaled the start of a gathering. At that moment, the gentleman’s gaze swung to meet hers. The combination of the bell’s shrill tone and the stranger’s insistent green stare sent a chill down her spine, and the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood on end under her wig. She pressed her palm to her chest, feeling the bumpy gooseflesh there. His eyes followed her hand, and she snatched it away.
She was accustomed to the bald, almost clinical gazes gentlemen deployed in this place, but his was different, more intimate. Could he be the one?
Then, inexplicably, he smiled. Not the ironic, leering smirk she would have expected, but a genuine, wide smile that lit up his emerald eyes. She breathed deeply, her tightly corseted lungs suddenly in need of a great deal more air than they were receiving. How very…surprising.
A final trill drew her attention to Madame Cherie. A petite, dark woman, Madame was a beauty despite her fifty-plus years. Unlike some of the older girls, she had allowed the silver streaks in her hair to advance unimpeded. The silver and black tresses, twisted into an elegant chignon and her modest, though highly fashionable, copper silk gown belied her profession. If Catharine had met her in a Mayfair ballroom, she never would have believed the woman was the proprietress of London’s most exclusive house of ill repute.
The Likelihood of Lucy (Regency Reformers Book 2) Page 30