Lovestruck in Lilac: The Brothers Duke: Book Three

by Felicia Greene

  ‘Good day.’

  She couldn’t keep the tremble from her voice. Just as she couldn’t keep a shocked gasp from leaving her lips as John reached for her hand, turned her palm to the sky, and kissed the underside of her wrist with brief, searing passion. A hot, liquid tingle ran through her from head to foot; she bit her lip hard, needing desperately to ground herself.

  The voices were coming closer. With a look as penetrating as his kiss had been, John left the workshop just as two women came in. Happily conversing, barely noticing Anne as she shrank against the wall, they began to peruse the gowns with sunny disregard for anything else.

  Her wrist burned where he’d kissed her. Anne looked down at it, half-expecting to see a mark. A brand that would mark her as his, and no-one else’s.

  ‘I say, is this Miss Fletcher?’ The girl sounded perfectly pleasant, but Anne had never felt more irritated. ‘The gowns here are just spectacular!’

  Yes. Her gowns were spectacular. They were better than any other gown in London, and they were made with all the finest fabrics that Charles Weldon’s mills could provide. That was the only thing important enough to be remembered. Charles Weldon had given her the level of security that she comfortably enjoyed, and no kiss on the wrist was powerful enough to make her forget it.

  But she would still be at the Frost Fair one week hence. Nothing on earth would induce her to miss it.

  ‘Yes. I am Miss Fletcher.’ She curtseyed, a little of her equilibrium returning as she looked at the two new potential clients. She had remembered herself, but had also made a decision. ‘How may I assist you?’

  He couldn’t go back to her. Even though the only thing he wanted to do was return to that clean, pure space full of silk and tulle and kiss Anne Fletcher until he was dizzy, he couldn’t turn back. John kept walking down the road, almost bumping into passers-by as he went over what had just happened in his head.

  He couldn’t even remember the precise words he’d said to her. He never did in front of Anne; everything grew abominably confused, threaded through with a desire that made everything else secondary. Even if he had somehow been able to draw how he felt, his usual way of expressing the inexpressible, he wouldn’t have been able to produce anything of value.

  He had kissed her skin. He would remember that until the day he died. Even if others had kissed her lips–he couldn’t begrudge her that–only he would have kissed that part of her. Her shocked gasp, the shiver that had ran along her arm as he’d placed his lips to the underside of her wrist, let him know that it had been the first time for her as well.

  How many more firsts would they share? How many more kisses, how many more moments together when more than kissing could occur? He wanted to say so much, do so much, be so much with her before… before…

  … before her marriage.

  Nothing was written in stone yet. No banns had been read, no proposal had been made. But knowing how much material support the Weldon mill had given to the Fletcher workshop, and knowing how long Charles Weldon had known Anne–how often they were seen together…

  … No. There was no use dwelling on the future, which could only bring disappointment of the most savage kind. He could only think of one week hence, when the Frost Fair would open and turn the Thames into a winter pleasure-ground.

  At the very thought of winter, the cold air of the street began to blow even colder. John hunched into his coat, bowing his head as a vicious breeze attempted to burrow down the back of his shirt.

  The Frost Fair. The Frost Fair, Anne, and a meeting that probably wouldn’t happen—and even if it did, wouldn’t reach the expectations he had already set. If he kept focused on these outcomes and told no-one—absolutely no-one—of what he’d planned, then perhaps he could carve out a small portion of happiness for himself. A kind of magic charm against the cold, lonely months that lay ahead.

  ‘John! Oi! John!’

  Edward. Of course Edward was here; his brother could rarely be found at home doing something useful when he could be propping up the door of a coffee-house. John turned, trying to arrange his face into an appropriate expression for a surprise meeting. ‘Edward.’

  ‘Christ.’ Edward started as he stepped forward, an immediate frown forming on his otherwise pleasant face. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or that you’ve become one. What on earth has happened?’

  ‘I–I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘When have you ever been able to lie?’ Edward took John firmly by the arm, patting his shoulder. ‘Look. Thomas is choosing a pair of winter boots with Dorothea, Robert has taken Charlotte to Vauxhall and Henry is somewhere in the Royal Society, no doubt bothering some poor scholar beyond hope of redemption. We are alone, and within walking distance of at least three pubs. Tell me what’s happened.’

  John grimaced. He couldn’t tell Edward–couldn’t tell anyone.

  ‘Come on. I’m buying.’

  ‘It’s… it’s nothing.’ But he had already begun speaking, and the words were building up in him like a fire that had only just begun to burn in earnest. ‘It’s just—’

  ‘Come on. I’m here. And I promise not to laugh.’

  That was a promise that Edward very rarely made. John, almost against his will, felt the words blazing inside him. ‘It’s—it’s love.’

  ‘Beg pardon?’

  ‘Love. I’m in it.’

  ‘... Well then.’ Now Edward was the one who looked white. ‘Let’s go to the nearest of the pubs.’

  One week later, the day dawned crisp and bright. Pigeons froze in their perches overlooking Trafalgar Square, and every child in possession of a sled and mittens took part in the squealing, snowballed winter fun until their cheeks were red from exertion. Anne stared out of the window of the carriage as it rattled its way to the bank of the Thames, her breath clouding the air as she tried to control the sick, swooping feeling in her stomach.

  To her twinned fear and gratitude, her friend Margaret Barton had suggested a group outing to the Frost Fair before she could. Anne knew she had to be grateful to her friend because perhaps, just perhaps, she never would have found enough courage to do so herself–and she was afraid, because with Margaret at her side it would be ever so difficult to slip away and meet John as promised. Margaret was both perceptive and intelligent, drawing conclusions from things that other people saw as commonplace, and Anne knew that any unexplained absence was sure to invite an assertive line of questioning.

  Still—there was little she could do about it now, apart from be frightened. The carriage had arrived at the appointed time outside the workshop, Charles Weldon’s horses groomed and shining in the winter light as they kicked up clouds of snow. She had barely had time to adjust her bonnet, tucking a secret bundle into the dark mass of skirts she had chosen to wear, before it was time to disembark near the bank of the Thames.

  Did she look pretty? Yes–pretty enough. She had never been a great beauty, but it had never seemed to matter. Charles seemed contented enough with her physical appearance–he had never expressed dissatisfaction. Only now that she knew John, that she had seen the way he looked at her, did Anne realise with a jolt that neutrality and attraction weren’t the same thing at all.

  There they were, waiting for her beneath the bare branches of a tree. Charles held up a hand, waving, and for a moment Anne was seized with the most dreadful sort of guilt. It was wrong that she had come here with a duplicitous heart, already planning how to get away…

  … but as she approached, she saw the fear in his eyes that became more apparent every time they met. The deep-seated, uncomfortable awkwardness that only grew every time they were together. By the time she had curtseyed and he had bowed, by the time she had greeted Margaret, Anne’s doubts had crystallised into certainty.

  Charles didn’t like being with her anymore. Not like this. The easy friendship that they had shared through adolescence had grown far less easy with time. Far less pleasant, less welcoming, as the date of the presumed proposal drew near
er.

  ‘Miss Fletcher.’ Charles’s bow was perfectly correct, but his eyes showed the same instinctive reluctance to speak that Anne felt deep in her breast. ‘What do you wish to see at the Frost Fair this year?’

  That was the type of question that would normally be posed to a stranger. Anne fought a rush of irritation, curtseying with all the grace she could muster. ‘As long as they don’t push some poor beast out onto the ice again, I’ll be a happy woman.’

  Charles smiled faintly. Anne stared at his reddish blonde hair, his square jaw, and wondered when they had become so distant from one another. ‘I doubt they’ll do that to the elephant again.’

  ‘I hope not.’

  ‘And—and what a fine day it is.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Very fine.’

  ‘Cold, of course. I think the beasts and birds are suffering it.’

  ‘Yes. How lucky that we have muffs and wraps, and thick coats.’

  ‘Perhaps we should go and try to put wraps on the smaller animals.’

  Anne smiled. There was a hint of the old humour that had made Charles such a good companion. ‘You should attempt it first.’

  ‘Yes.’ Charles’s smile faded. The brief moment of camaraderie dissolved into awkwardness once more. ‘Who knows if we’ll have time?’

  There was no point in attempting to capture the feeling of friendship again. It would make sense if the ambiguity came from her and her alone, given her conduct, but Charles was exactly as melancholy as she was. They were both building a wall around their own, separate selves, and not attempting to stop it.

  ‘Oh Anne, the tea stall is here! Do you remember it from last year?’ Margaret’s happy exclamation cut through the tension. ‘Do buy a cup with me. We can leave the cups at the other stall, further along the riverbank.’

  Any opportunity to get away from this conversation was one to be seized upon. She couldn’t spend the next few hours being guilty and annoyed by turns. Anne took her friend’s hand and began to walk ahead, looking briefly back at Charles with an apologetic smile. ‘Margaret requires tea.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Of course.’ Charles seemed happy enough with the arrangement. But as Anne turned, she was almost sure that she heard a sigh of relief.

  Knowing that Charles had begun to fear her company was meant to make her angry. Make her jealous, at least—but all she could muster up was a faint, weak sadness that made everything around her seem greyer. Only Margaret, with her sharp brightness that could make a tomb look cheery, worked as anything like an effective antidote.

  Margaret Barton had risen through the ranks of overly-interested spinsters and boorish mamas to become the most respected matchmaker in London, with plans to take her quick brain and ready wit to further regions. She was elegant, attractive and impeccably refined–so refined, in fact, that Anne half-wondered on occasion why she chose to receive payment for her pairings. Surely a lady of such elegant quality as Margaret had a private income, and wasn’t forced to rely on trade… but still, Margaret was a dear friend, and it never paid to be too curious about one’s friends.

  The only problem with Margaret was the same problem the rest of the world seemed to have. She supported entirely the idea of Anne marrying Charles. If anything, she appeared to have taken the marriage on as a sort of pet project. This meant that every time Anne wished to see Margaret in private, the meeting inevitably grew to contain Charles as well—and Margaret would spend the vast majority of the time ensuring, with a sweet smile and steely determination, that Anne would be left alone with her supposed paramour as much as possible.

  ‘There. Two cups, and two of those lovely gingerbread biscuits.’ Margaret slipped one into Anne’s gloved hands, the steam warming the air. ‘I can’t think what they put in it. Perhaps I don’t wish to know.’

  ‘You wish to know everything about everything.’

  ‘I only wish to know about tea and biscuits if the tea-merchant or biscuit-baker is looking for a wife.’ Margaret looked back at the tea-seller with pursed lips. ‘And I doubt I have connections with exactly the type of woman they’re looking for.’

  The tea was remarkably good, spiced and hot as it slipped down the throat. Anne took a larger gulp than she needed to, needing the slight pain of the hot tea hitting the back of her throat. It would distract her from knowing John was out there in the crowd, oblivious as yet to her presence, and that she had no way of reaching him without attracting attention.

  In twenty minutes, the festivities would officially begin. The vast majority of the stalls would open, fiddle-players and ballad-sellers would begin weaving their way through the crowds… and maybe, just maybe, she would be able to escape.

  ‘Goodness, Anne. Were you thirsty?’ Margaret smiled, taking a slightly more appropriate sip of tea. ‘You’ll stain the snow if you spill it.’

  ‘You must be the only woman in London worried about stained snow.’

  ‘I am tasked with worrying about everything. Without attention to detail, I will rapidly begin to lose my hard-won place in society.’ Margaret laughed, taking a gentle bite of an almond biscuit as they walked along the river bank. The smoke and chatter of the stalls soon gave way to the heavy, grey calm of the river on a snowy day. ‘The mamas rely on me to provide a very detailed assessment of a young gentleman’s character.’

  ‘I’m sure the Crown would pay you more for spying. I think you’d be excellent at it.’

  ‘Lord, no. All that dashing about and derring-do. I’d be awfully flustered.’ Margaret finished her biscuit with a decisive crunch. ‘And I think I’d become very annoyed with the ignorance and slowness of my fellow spies.’

  ‘Come now. British spies can’t be all that bad.’

  ‘We do seem to keep getting involved in skirmishes with France. If the spies knew how to do their jobs, we would probably have more prolonged periods of peace.’ Margaret took another sip of tea. ‘Besides—as I said, I’d be an atrocious spy.’

  ‘You wouldn’t. You’re so mysterious already. I’ve still never seen where you grew up.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’m a creature of great mystery.’ Margaret laughed, but Anne was almost sure she heard a hint of uncertainty in her tone. ‘You’re not the only one who observes and makes calculations, you know. I watch you frequently.’

  ‘And?

  ‘Well, my dear, I–I rather wished to say something to you away from the gentlemen, if we’re going to speak about observations made and conclusions drawn.’ Margaret smiled. ‘If you’ll permit me the liberty, of course.’

  Anne turned, curious despite herself. Margaret so rarely allowed a glimpse into her private self; she was glittering and polished, but in the same way as a mirror was. No matter how deeply one wished to penetrate the shining exterior, it was only your own self that was reflected back at you. ‘Of course. Any liberty you wish to take.’

  Perhaps she was going to say something that would make the marriage impossible. Something terrible about Charles–some hidden aspect of his personality that had never surfaced during years of friendship, but would make a union unthinkable? A secret wife–a secret gentleman friend? Something that would mean she could walk away with a happy heart, promising her continued friendship…

  … Lord, she was becoming a monster. She should be ashamed of herself.

  ‘I simply wished to say something to you. Something important.’ Margaret looked at her with a hint of anxiety. ‘I’m so terribly worried that you’ll take the words in a different spirit to how they’re meant.’

  ‘I promise to hear them as freely as I can.’ Definitely a secret wife. Perhaps two. ‘Please. Tell me.’

  ‘It is nothing so very important, I assure you.’ Margaret took a deep breath, evidently preparing herself to say something of some significance. ‘Your friendship with Mr. Weldon… the union that we all know will be placed into law and custom sooner rather than later…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It gives me hope.’ Margaret smiled. ‘It–it makes me believe in love. True love.’
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  All hope of secret wives and hidden personality flaws abruptly burned to ashes. Anne forced a smile, nodding gently as Margaret continued.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t believe in love, of course. Sometimes it happens over the course of my arrangements–there’s a spark of feeling, of sympathy, that makes the organisation of a marriage so much easier.’ Margaret gave a brisk sigh. ‘But it isn’t the goal. It certainly isn’t necessary. So many ladies and gentlemen marry because it is considered necessary, as if a marriage is a new cravat or a pistol. You and Mr. Weldon put paid to that lack of enthusiasm.’

  This was intolerable. Unbearable. Anne bit her lip hard, not trusting herself to speak. How Margaret could look at the mutual alienation between her and Charles, the fear that was growing between them… how could she not see any of that?

  How could she see an affinity that she felt for another man entirely?

  ‘That’s it. I’ve said my piece, and I’ll trouble you no further.’ Margaret finished her tea, holding the empty cup as she smiled. ‘You seem embarrassed enough.’

  ‘I’m not embarrassed. I’m truly not. I—I simply make for a very poor friend.’

  ‘That’s a rather dramatic thing to say.’

  ‘Forgive me. I’m not myself. Now that you’ve told me something secret, Margaret, I must tell you a secret of my own.’ Anne didn’t have to do anything exaggerated, like holding a hand to her head or pretending to swoon. She knew she had to look pale and drawn enough to make any excuse convincing. ‘I have the most atrocious headache.’

  ‘Oh, my dear! Why didn’t you say something sooner? I have a little tincture in my reticule—perhaps not enough to dull it if it is truly bad, but—’

  ‘No, my dear. I’m afraid it has reached the point where darkness and silence are the only true remedies. I’ll have to steal away.’

  ‘But you’ve only just arrived!’

  ‘I didn’t wish to let you or Charles down. And it’s entirely possible that I’ll return in an hour or two.’ This excuse was held together with the thinnest of threads–with the slightest prodding Margaret would have the whole edifice crumbling into pieces. ‘And Lord Weston is coming as well, isn’t he? Charles loves talking to him.’