The Choice of a Cavalier (The Heirs of the Aristocracy Book 3)

by Linda Rae Sande

  They sat in silence for a moment as Juliet considered his words. At no point had he displayed anger or resentment in her presence, and if he felt any jealousy, she was unaware of it.

  “You have said you will propose marriage, which now has me wondering, why me? Of all the young ladies you might possibly like if you would only take a few minutes to—”

  “Because I can imagine having breakfast with you every morning,” he said as he lifted a gloved hand to her face. “I know, because I have done so every morning since we met,” he replied. “I’ve taken tea with you on several occasions now, and I would like to continue doing so.” He took a breath. “I’ve imagined dinner together, but I admit I haven’t thought through a seven-course meal just yet. But besides the eating and drinking, I rather enjoy our conversations. You have opinions.You’re not an insipid empty-headed female—”

  “I should hope not!”

  “—And I like that you’re not cowed by my rank. That you’re a member of the ton but not so closely related as to show privilege. But I especially like that should I ever again display my less likable qualities, you will see to it I’m put in my place, whether that be a slap across the face, or a punch to the gut, or just a stern word of warning.”

  Juliet stared at him for a long time before a smile lifted her lips. “Oh, dear. I think I may be feeling some affection for you, Christopher. And mayhap a desire to have breakfast in your company.”

  Christopher’s eyes widened, not only by her use of his Christian name. “Oh?” he replied, straightening on the bench. “May I ask what has changed?”

  Juliet swallowed as she continued to stare at him. “You,” she said with a twinkle. She leaned over and kissed him on the corner of his mouth.

  Not about to let the moment pass without some sort of acknowledgement, Christopher took her lips with his.

  He meant for the kiss to be but a short one. A simple kiss that would segue into the real reason he had brought her to this specific location in the park. To surprise her with her real betrothal ring and tell her what he had in store for her in the way of jewelry. A bit of bribery, to be sure, but what else did he know how to do to entice her to be his wife?

  After a few moments, though, he was so engrossed in the kiss, he forgot all about the ring. Forgot where he was. Forgot there were two horses standing not five feet away. Forgot about the flakes of snow that had begun falling. Forgot about time and the rest of the world as his gloved hand moved from her cheek to the back of her head.

  The slight moan Juliet made in the back of her throat might have been the reason he suddenly pulled away, but the wash of warm air on his forehead had him leaning back even more.

  “Oh, Sean,” Juliet murmured, “Must you?”

  Christopher blinked. The Irish walker was nibbling on the silk flowers in Juliet’s small hat, his nostrils flaring when Juliet leaned toward Christopher to save her hat from further destruction. “Who’s Sean?” he asked as he glanced around where they were sitting. “Do you kiss him, too?”

  A series of discombobulated thoughts flew through Christopher’s injured head as jealousy replaced his feelings of love and devotion.

  What if Sean was her real lover, and she was imagining Sean whilst kissing him? What if Sean was somewhere nearby, spying on them? What if Sean was about to challenge him to a duel, and not with swords...?

  “My horse, of course,” Juliet replied, her eyes fluttering open. “And I rather doubt I’ve ever kissed him.” Her blonde brows furrowed when she noted Christopher’s odd expression. “Who did you think I was scolding?”

  Christopher experienced a sort of relief he had never before felt. He stared at the horse, who once again snorted so a blast of warm air surrounded him. “You named your horse Sean?” he asked, hoping to hide his momentary flight of fancy.

  “Well, he is an Irish walker,” she replied as she pulled an apple from a pocket in her habit and offered it to the horse. Sean quickly captured it with his flat teeth and stepped back. “I named his brother Seamus.”

  Christopher allowed a sigh of relief. “Oh.”

  Juliet stared at Christopher for a moment, concern still etched on her face. “Did you think...? Did you think I was speaking of another... man?” she stammered.

  Bobbing his head first one way and then the other, Christopher said, “I did. And truth be told, I’ve never been so jealous in all my life.”

  Inhaling slowly, Juliet allowed a wan grin and settled her head into the small of his shoulder. “Oh, really, Christopher. You needn’t be jealous of Sean. Or of Seamus.”

  Christopher wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pressed a kiss against her coiffure, heartened she had used his Christian name—even if she’d been admonishing him. “I would not if I knew you would always spend your nights with me,” he whispered. “Your mornings, during breakfast.”

  “Tea and dinner with you?” she murmured, lifting her head to regard him with a smirk.

  “Indeed. Will you marry me?” He fished the ring from his waistcoat pocket and held it close to his chest.

  Juliet’s eyes widened. “Is that... is that a horseshoe?” she asked in awe. She quickly straightened on the bench and continued to stare at the ring.

  “It is,” Christopher acknowledged. “Do you like it?”

  Juliet turned her attention to him and then back to the ring. “I do.” She watched in wonder as he pulled her glove from her left hand and slid the ring onto her finger. “It’s perfect with this riding habit,” she whispered. “You had it made special, didn’t you?”

  “I did,” he admitted. “There will be more, of course,” he murmured before he kissed her forehead. “Will you marry me?”

  “If I do, will you always kiss me like you did a few minutes ago?”

  “Will you marry me if I do?”

  She nodded. “I will.”

  “Then of course I will,” he replied. “So... you will marry me?”

  Juliet giggled. “Yes. Yes, I will.”

  He pulled her close and held her for a time until Thunder nudged his shoulder, nearly knocking him over.

  Juliet giggled again and pulled a carrot from another pocket. She held it out for his horse, who quickly downed it.

  “You do realize you’ll forever be his favorite now?” Christopher said in a scolding voice.

  “Will I always be yours?” she countered, a brow arching.

  Christopher nodded. “Always,” he replied. He gave her another kiss and then glanced around to discover snow falling all around them.

  “It’s magical,” she murmured, lifting her face so the flakes settled on her chilled skin. She took a deep breath and regarded him a moment. “I can hardly wait to tell Vicky, and I know she’ll be happy for me—for us—but I can’t help but think she will assume I’ll no longer visit Fairmont Park as often.”

  “Of course you will,” Christopher assured her. “I shall put forth no impediment to you continuing your weekly trip there.” He leaned forward and added, “Besides, I do believe Vicky will have a man of her own very soon.”

  Juliet’s eyes widened in delight. “How do you know that?”

  He chuckled but didn’t provide a reply. “Come. Let’s get you back and share our good news with your parents,” he suggested, offering a hand to assist her from the bench. He lifted her onto Sean and made sure she was settled in the saddle before he mounted Thunder.

  Despite how hard the snow fell, the two took their time returning to South Audley Street.

  Chapter 33

  Boots, a Bath, Bubbles and a Bauble

  Meanwhile, at Fairmont Park

  As the unmarked town coach lumbered into the circle drive in front of Fairmont Park, Tom glanced out the window and wondered if his arrival could be seen by the lady of the house. Nervous, he couldn’t decide if he wanted her to be forewarned or taken by surprise.

  If she was still bedridden, her only view would be toward the stables and the track, given her bedchamber faced that vantage. She had probably
been watching Alistair Comber from her window as he put the horses through their paces these past two days.

  Given the snowy weather and the number of pasteboard boxes he had for Victoria, Tom had opted to have his town coach deliver him to Fairmont Park. He had hoped to drive the phaeton and then pay the stableboy to see to Jake’s care, but the snow had dashed those plans.

  The coach door opened and his driver began collecting the boxes into a stack. “Should I wait out front here or... pull around to the back?” the driver asked as Tom stepped out and then took the boxes from him.

  “Neither,” Tom replied. “Come back for me tomorrow in the morning. Say... nine o’clock.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  The driver moved to step up to the seat and Tom said, “Make that ten o’clock,” he amended.

  “Very good, sir,” the driver replied, a smirk barely hidden as he took the reins from the pole and set the team in motion.

  Tom watched as the coach departed and then turned his attention to the front door.

  Clark stood there, an expression of curiosity crossing his face. “Mr. Grandby? Is that you?”

  Leaning his head around the stack of pasteboard boxes, Tom said, “It is. Might her ladyship be in residence?”

  The butler nodded as he stepped aside. “She hasn’t left her bedchamber since you were last here, sir.”

  Tom quickly stepped inside so the servant could shut the door against the flurry of snowflakes that followed him in. He winced at the thought that Victoria’s ankle might still be too painful for her to at least limp around the first floor. “I’ll see if I can’t assist in that regard.” He set the boxes on a chair and then divested his coat and hat into the butler’s waiting arms.

  “Would you like me to announce you?”

  “No need.”

  Tom once again lifted the boxes and made his way toward the stairs. “But do send up a tea tray, won’t you?”

  The butler visibly winced. “I don’t think that would be a very good idea, sir. Her ladyship has not been pleased at the prospect of more tea since Miss Comber’s departure a few hours ago.”

  About to argue, Tom reconsidered his request. “Then send up a cup of chocolate and the brandy with two glasses.”

  “Very good, sir.” The butler hurried off as Tom carefully made his way up the stairs, balancing the boxes against the front of his body and securing the top one with his chin.

  When he reached Victoria’s door, he paused and attempted to knock with the back of his hand.

  “I said I do not want more tea,” he heard from the other side of the door. He silently thanked the butler for having warned him and then managed to lower the door handle with his elbow. He gave the door a slight shove and entered the room.

  He leaned against the door to shut it, prepared to greet Victoria formally and then beg forgiveness for not having sent word ahead that he would be paying a call.

  But he was suddenly tongue-tied.

  Victoria was propped up against a mound of pillows, the likes of which had probably required the feathers of the entire goose population of Devonshire. Her dark hair was down past her shoulders, and she wore a pristine white nightrail that featured only a small ruffle at the neckline and three pearl buttons down the front of the bodice.

  She was staring at him as if he were a ghost, and for a moment, he did the same with her. When he finally found his voice, he said, “You’re gorgeous.”

  Victoria blinked and then set aside the book she’d been reading. “You might be in need of spectacles,” she countered. “I’m in desperate need of a bath, as is my hair. What are all those boxes?”

  Pulled from his stupor, Tom straightened from the door and said, “Footwear.”

  “Footwear?” she repeated, her brows furrowing.

  “Slippers, boots, shoes.” He moved farther into the room and set the boxes on the end of the bed, careful they were well away from where her feet were tucked under the covers. Then he leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.

  She stared at him. “I never thought I’d see you again,” she whispered.

  Tom sat on the edge of the bed and took one of her hands in his. He kissed the back of it. “About that. I was a fool to have left the way I did.”

  She shook her head. “Thomas, I behaved terribly towards you. I’ve reread the contract—several times—and now I understand what divi—”

  The rest of her words were cut off when Tom’s lips took hers in an urgent kiss, his hand moving to the side of her face to cup her cheek. After a moment, he slowly pulled away, but he left his forehead pressed against hers. “I am here to do your bidding, my lady. If a bath is what you want, you shall have it.”

  Victoria stared at him, her lashes nearly brushing his, they were so close. “That bad, am I?”

  Thomas blinked. “What? Oh, no,” he assured her as he straightened. “I meant what I said when I arrived. You’re gorgeous.”

  “You said it as if you were surprised,” she accused, her lower lip protruding.

  “I was,” Tom admitted. “Clark said you hadn’t been out of this bedchamber since I was last here.”

  “Oh, dear. I think he might be right,” she murmured.

  “I was imagining you all old and withered, your hair turned white,” he teased.

  “You mean how you’ll look when you’re eighty?” she countered, a dimple appearing in one cheek.

  He afforded her a brilliant grin. “I can only hope you’ll still love me when I’m that old,” he whispered.

  Victoria sucked in a breath, about to chide him for his cheekiness. “What about you?”

  “I came in here despite what I was imagining,” he reminded her with a grin.

  Her gaze moved to the pasteboard boxes. “Are those yours?”

  He shook his head. “They’re yours, actually. I rather doubt they would fit me.”

  “May I see?”

  “Of course.” Tom reached over and selected the largest box, knowing they contained her riding boots. He placed it on her lap.

  Victoria watched him as she lifted the lid. She gave a start when she lifted one of the boots from the tissue. “Isn’t this... isn’t this my boot?” She pulled the other one out of the box and held them up. “This one, too?” Her eyes widened. “What were you doing with my boots?”

  “I wasn’t doing anything with them. Mr. Shoemaker was. Is. Did,” he stammered.

  “How...?”

  “Miss Comber arranged for their delivery to me a couple of nights ago.” When he noted Victoria’s look of disbelief, he said, “She’s a resourceful young woman. She’ll make an excellent countess.” He pulled his chronometer from his waistcoat pocket. “I rather imagine Haddon is about to propose to her this very moment,” he added.

  “She’s going to accept his suit,” Victoria whispered, a hint of sadness creeping into her voice.

  “With the caveat that she’ll still be allowed to pay calls on you every week,” Tom murmured, heartened when he saw how her expression changed. “And now you won’t have to accept his suit.”

  She displayed a smirk. “What a disaster we would be,” she whispered.

  Tom was about to pull the pearl and emerald ring from his waistcoat pocket, but a knock on the door had him standing up from the bed.

  Cummings poked her head around the door. “It’s not tea, I promise, my lady,” she said as she moved to set the tray on the nightstand. “Will there be anything else, my lady?”

  Victoria stared over at the tray and furrowed her brows. Then she glanced at Tom and grinned. “Will there be anything else, Mr. Grandby?”

  Tom turned his attention on the lady’s maid. “Tonight’s dinner will be served at seven o’clock in the dining room. There will be two of us.”

  Cummings blinked. “Should I come to dress her ladyship at six?”

  Tom glanced over at Victoria. “Your services won’t be required again until tomorrow at ten o’clock,” he replied. “But let the cook know breakfast will be served at n
ine.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cummings replied happily. She curtsied and took her leave of the bedchamber, fairly bouncing as she did so.

  When he returned to his place at the edge of the bed, Tom found Victoria staring at him. “Please, don’t be angry with me,” he pleaded.

  “Oh, I’m not,” she replied. “You just do it so... easily. I always feel as if I’m imposing on them.” She lifted one of the boots. “Since you dismissed my maid, could you...?”

  “Oh, of course.” He reached over and took the boots from her. “Where would you like them?”

  “In the dressing room,” she said, pointing to a door in the opposite wall from the bed.

  Tom entered the long, thin room, taking in the rows of colorful gowns hung from pegs along the wall. There were several pairs of misshapen slippers, but none looked quite like the ones Mr. Shoemaker had created. He hoped the man had been successful with copying the pattern of her riding boots.

  When he emerged from the dressing room, he found Victoria staring at a pair of sapphire slippers. She looked up at him. “You did this?”

  He shook his head. “Mr. Shoemaker made them. In New Bond Street. Shall we see if they fit?”

  Victoria nodded, her eyes still round in awe.

  He flung the covers from her feet and undid the wrapping from around her ankle, heartened to see that any swelling had subsided. “Does this hurt?” he asked as he pressed on her inner ankle bone.

  She shook her head. “I’ve been moving it about. Stretching it,” she replied. “I will probably have pain when I put weight on it, but I do think it’s much better.”

  “Well, this is good news,” he said as he slid the larger of the two slippers onto her foot. It went on without much effort.

  Victoria inhaled and watched as he slid the smaller one onto her other foot. “It fits,” she breathed. “They both fit.” Then she leaned over and grabbed another box from the stack. She opened it, her eyes wide with wonder. Inside was a pair of black half-boots. “Thomas,” she whispered. She was about to reach for another box, but Tom stilled her hand. “Later,” he said.