by Erica Ridley
“This is my second eldest.” Ignoring Dahlia’s ferocious scowls, Mother shoved her middle daughter forward. “Pay no attention to her current disposition. Dahlia has the megrims. She normally has a very pretty face. She also has naturally curly hair, fine sturdy bones, and would make any man a fine wife.”
“It’s as if we’re auctioning a horse,” Dahlia said through clenched teeth. “Should I whinny?”
“Not on my behalf.” Lord Wainwright’s gentle smile was reassuring. “I’m afraid some of the other guests frown on indoor whinnying, and we really ought not to disrupt their comfort. I shall simply assume that your bones are the sturdiest of the ton and your whinny the finest of any other young lady I’ve had the privilege to know.”
Dahlia’s answering glare didn’t lessen in the slightest… but the look in Bryony’s eyes could only be described as melting.
Camellia herself couldn’t help but be impressed with the way the earl quickly and earnestly did his best to put them all at ease, from soothing Dahlia’s understandably ruffled feathers to glossing over their mother’s horrific behavior to making a silly jest to keep an extremely awkward moment from turning sour.
Yet she could not forgive him so easily for ruining the fund-raising chances for Dahlia’s school. The unplanned words that tripped off his tongue to make each guest feel welcome came from the same thoughtless mechanism that caused him to interrupt a conversation with empty compliments capable of derailing months of planning and effort.
But she didn’t think he meant to do it. She didn’t even think he noticed. Already, Lord Wainwright was bowing to her mother and seamlessly gliding to the next clump of hopefuls, where he delivered his devastating smile and bestowed a few flattering words upon his tongue-tied guests before moving on to the next arrivals in line.
Camellia frowned. She wasn’t certain that obliviousness negated the crime. The fact that he did not notice, that he interacted with others automatically rather than authentically, made her believe the caricaturists were right. He didn’t bother hiding his superficial nature… and it didn’t matter. Ladies melted like butter in his hand before he even opened his mouth.
“That went well, I think.” Mother fanned her lace fichu with a painted fan. “I daresay he might attend our dinner party.”
“He’s not attending our dinner party,” Dahlia said flatly. “He didn’t even ask what day it was.”
“An earl expects a formal invitation, of course. I shall send him one the moment we get home. And tomorrow as well, in case the first one gets lost.” Mother tapped her chin. “Is three too many?”
“Three invitations are definitely too many.” Camellia steered her mother away from the earl. “Goodness, is that not Lord and Lady Sheffield? I am sure they are dying for you to chat with them about the party.”
“You’re right, of course. I mustn’t keep them waiting.” Mother rushed toward the viscount and viscountess without a backward glance.
“Now what?” Camellia asked her sisters. Because she often kept to herself, Lord and Lady Sheffield were the only people she had recognized. On the other hand, Dahlia and Bryony both had busy social calendars and were likely to have several acquaintances in the crowd. “Should we mingle or stay close to the door?”
“We should stay away from the ratafia.” Bryony tilted her head. “Lady Pettibone is guarding the refreshments. She’s called ‘the old dragon’ for a reason. The lady can smite with a single glance.”
“Let’s find the retiring room,” Camellia suggested. “If Mother asks where we went, Dahlia and I can say we were employing heroic efforts to un-droop your hair.”
“I don’t even like ringlets,” Bryony sighed, but she followed them toward the nearest corridor.
Halfway down the hall, Dahlia grabbed their wrists and halted them just before they passed a crowded side room. “Shh, listen. They’re talking about Wainwright.”
The sounds spilling from the open door sounded more like a card game than scandalbroth. The clink of glasses and tinkle of betting fish blended with the murmur of male voices.
“Have you seen it?” asked one of the men.
“Seen what, the harps? Not yet. I hear they’re all solid gold.”
“They cannot all be solid gold, you imbecile. Who could lift a giant, solid gold harp?”
“Not you, obviously. God knows you’ve never won a single round at Jackson’s.”
“I’m mopping up the betting table with your pocketbook, am I not? That’s trump. I win again.”
A chair scooted across parquet. “Bugger all of you. I’m out.”
“Go and find the harp room, coward. It’s full of naked portraits. I hear they’re even painted on the ceiling.”
“Brilliant! Sort of a bawdy library for rakes who aren’t bright enough to own books.”
“I’d take it. Not all books have pictures.”
A voice laughed. “The best ones do. Ever hear of etchings?”
“No one goes in the harp room to read, trust me. It’s made for sin.”
“I love the idea in theory but… Who would model for such a thing?”
“Probably your wife. All Wainwright has to do is crook a finger, and—”
Betting fish skittered across the floor as a scuffle broke out behind the wall.
Camellia’s stomach turned. Had she just been thinking that poor Lord Wainwright’s motives had possibly been misunderstood? His character was even worse than she’d previously suspected.
“Come with me.” She steered her sisters back toward the main door. “We’ll stay by the exit in full sight of the others until we can leave. I don’t want anyone thinking we even know about Lord Wainwright’s secret chamber of iniquity.”
Or the earl’s repulsive propensity to cuckold his own friends. She steeled her spine to hide her shudder.
He was a devil with an angel’s face.
Chapter 6
Now that Camellia had sworn to never again speak to Lord Wainwright—and now that, thanks to her mother, they’d suffered through the world’s most awkward conversation—she saw the earl everywhere.
Camellia would not even be in town, were it not for her mother’s insistence in mounting a formidable trousseau… and bedecking them all with new gowns in the process.
Everywhere she went, Lord Wainwright would come walking around the opposite corner. Bond Street, Oxford Street, Burlington Arcade, Saville Row, Floris on Jermyn Street. Camellia pressed her lips together in frustration. What the devil was the man doing? Outfitting his army of courtesans?
On a positive note, they did manage to avoid any further communication. Either Dahlia was right, and the earl had put them from his mind the moment he turned his back on them, or else his sense of self-preservation prevented him from so much as making eye contact while their mother was within a ten-block radius.
If only Camellia could escape her mother as easily.
For days, she had been trying without success to slip from the house undetected and flee to her secret refuge along the river.
She needed to think. To breathe. Her upcoming marriage loomed large in her mind, oppressing all other thoughts until all that was left was a wrenching despondency at the thought of being so far from her sisters. Northumberland was a world away. Four hundred miles might as well be four thousand.
From time to time, Camellia liked to escape for a few moments to refresh her inner spirit, but she could not imagine spending days, weeks, months at a time without seeing her family. What if Mr. Bost never wanted to return to London at all? What if years bled into decades and the next time she saw her sisters, their children were grown and Camellia had missed everything?
It was more than a fear. It was a distinct possibility. She would not be the first bride whose husband took her too far a distance for her to keep in touch with her family.
But she might be the first to die of a broken heart for it.
“Cam, are you listening?” came Dahlia’s exasperated voice.
Camellia jerked her
spine upright and focused on her sister. She was so desperate not to lose her family that it was affecting her ability to concentrate while they were still here. She needed a restorative trip to her river rock now more than ever.
“I’m listening,” she said. “You asked whether it’s wise to take on a business partner, given the current state of financial uncertainty.”
Dahlia nodded, her expression grateful. “Faith Digby is only slightly less of a wallflower than you are, but that means she has time for a big project. Because her family money comes from trade, Faith is looked down upon as mere nouveau riche. But riche is riche, I say. My school is in no position to turn away anyone’s pennies. Although Faith has no Almack’s voucher, she does have a few significant connections. She’s a distant relative to none other than Lady Pettibone.”
“The ‘old dragon?’” Camellia asked skeptically. “Then why doesn’t Miss Digby have an Almack’s voucher?”
“Distant relative,” Dahlia repeated. “Perhaps it’s not much in the way of connections, but as to the rest of it… What do you think? Should I offer her half ownership of the school, in exchange for monetary patronage?”
A pang of nostalgia gripped Camellia by the heart. These were the conversations she’d miss the most. Lying in a chaise longue with one sister in the bay window and the other kicking up her stocking feet by the fire. Answering questions. Being their sounding board. What would any of them do without each other?
“Well,” she answered slowly. “I think Miss Digby sounds like a fine addition to the project. However, I think it unwise to make her a full partner before she has even stepped foot on the school grounds. Why don’t you set some parameters that protect both of you? If, after three months, she still wishes to be a partner, and if, after three months, you still think her partnership is the right course for your school, then sign the contract.”
Dahlia’s eyes were desperate. “What if she says no?”
“To the contract?”
“To three months. If I do not make her a partner, and she loses interest altogether…”
Then the school would almost certainly be forced to close. Dahlia’s destitute girls would be back on the streets.
Camellia leaned forward. “Then there should be two contracts. A temporary one, which spells out the agreement and the time limitations. For three months, she has to act in the best interest of the school. And you have to give her all the leeway and support she requires. After that, the two of you decide whether to make her temporary position permanent.”
Dahlia launched from the window seat to envelop Camellia in a fierce embrace. “I knew you would have the answers. You always do. I’ll miss you so much.”
“I’ll miss you too,” Camellia said through the stinging in her throat. She hugged her sister back as if it were the last time. Every moment was precious. Already a week had vanished. A few more, and she would be the one with a permanent position she didn’t want.
Dahlia kissed her cheek and dashed back to her traveling desk. “I shall write to her right now to let her know what we’re thinking.”
“Why don’t you visit in person instead?” Camellia rose to her feet. “I’ll accompany you partway.”
“Brief respite at Hyde Park?” Dahlia asked with a knowing smile.
“Opposite of brief,” Camellia agreed with a relieved sigh. “If we can leave with only one maid as chaperone, she can continue on with you after I alight.” She slipped her father’s old pocket watch into her reticule. “Come to fetch me exactly two hours after we part company.”
Dahlia reached for her pelisse. “Perfect.”
In no time at all, Camellia was striding through the park, first on well-trodden trails, then lesser-known paths, then an overgrown shortcut known only to her.
She emerged from a thicket into a wide expanse of bright green grass leading to a pristine river. Acres of virgin trees lined the other side. Their healthy profusion of fluttering leaves offered welcome shade from the dappled sun.
Wildflowers ran along the river’s edge and into the woods, providing a touch of floral sweetness to the light, crisp breeze. A profound sense of contentment filled her at the sound of rippling water below, the song of birds overhead.
At long last, Camellia had returned to her hidden oasis.
She climbed up onto the large gray rock beside the river and lay back facing the sky. The weather was chill despite her pelisse, but wind-chapped cheeks were worth the chance to finally, fully relax.
A corner of her mouth curved at the irony. At home she enjoyed banging at the pianoforte and singing as loudly as she wished—her siblings were often even louder—but Camellia still needed to escape to the wild in order to find the quiet she frequently craved.
Where would she go for comfort after she moved to Northumberland? Would there even be a place to run to? Would she need to? What kind of husband might Bost be?
She tried to push the thoughts from her head and focus on nothing more than the leaves rustling overhead, but she couldn’t shake her worries.
It was perhaps not fair to Bost that she was already contemplating moments of escape. For all she knew, he would be an exemplary husband. She might be the shrew from which he yearned for freedom. The only thing she knew for certain about marriage was that the best ones were a partnership.
The problem wasn’t Bost, she realized. It was that she did not know him. They had not chosen each other. He didn’t know the first thing about her. Nor care to. She clenched her fists at the infuriating sensation of being immaterial to her own future. She and Mr. Bost had no relationship whatsoever. She’d had a deeper heart-to-heart with Lord X at the masquerade than she’d ever had with her future husband.
Add to that the thought of living so far away… Even if Mr. Bost turned out to be a perfectly wonderful man—a “firm, but doting” husband, her mother might say—a life so far from London, so far from her family, from the familiar comfort of her favorite river, of familiar sights and sounds and smells… It would be too miserable to bear.
So she wouldn’t think about that. Not until the wedding was over and she was being handed into the carriage.
For now, she would concentrate on what she could look forward to. A lazy afternoon counting leaves. A carriage ride with her sister. An assignation with the mysterious Lord X at Lambley’s next masquerade ball. She couldn’t help but grin.
Contrary to Camellia’s earlier assumption, Bryony had not at all been put out to discover her sister’s entrée to the masquerade had been a shocking success. In fact, Bryony had taken the money their mother had earmarked for her youngest daughter’s gown at Camellia’s wedding and spent it on an entirely different sort of ensemble instead. Bryony had given it to Camellia to wear at the next masquerade.
The jewel-toned gown was a deep ruby hue, with a whispery silk skirt and bodice lined with glass stones that would sparkle beneath the candlelight. She could scarcely wait to witness Lord X’s reaction. Smiling at thoughts of what he might say, she drowsed to the sound of the water, her mind at peaceful harmony with nature.
All too soon, however, her two hours were nearly up, and Camellia had to make haste in order to meet her sister at the appointed time. She eased up from her prone position and rolled her shoulders to loosen the muscles. She couldn’t stay in her hideaway forever. Dahlia was counting on her.
With a resigned sigh, Camellia slid down from the rock and brushed the dirt from her pelisse as best she could. She was running out of time. Her mother wouldn’t be at the door to notice and the maids were long used to Camellia’s mysterious dirt stains, so she did the best she could and then hurried across the grass to a spot where a break in the trees rejoined an old path through the park.
She leapt across a fallen log and onto the old trail—only to take a header straight into the fluffed cravat of a gentleman out for an afternoon stroll.
“I’m so sorry,” she gasped. “I was running because… there might have been a… squirrel?”
The lie died in he
r throat as she belatedly recognized the gentleman she’d barreled headfirst into.
“Miss… Grenville?” Lord Wainwright stared at her in understandable confusion, then smiled as if her crashing into his sternum had been the highlight of his day. “Why, of course you are. Do help me out—I am dreadful with names. Are you the one who performs at musicales or the chit with the champion whinny?”
“All Grenville girls have whinnies as strong as their fine teeth,” she answered with a straight face—until she realized she’d just done the unthinkable. She’d exchanged jests with the enemy. The despicable Lord Wainwright.
Alone.
In the woods.
Miles from anyone.
“What are you doing out here?” she stammered, clutching her pelisse tighter about her bosom.
“I’ve just slipped my duenna,” he replied with a pointed look over her shoulder at the distinct lack of chaperonage joining them on the trail. “I don’t suppose you could loan me yours?”
“She’s got the ague,” Camellia replied quickly. “It may be catching. I do hope I haven’t passed it along to you. I haven’t any quicksilver handy.”
“Females.” The earl gave an exaggerated sigh. “Why does the fairer sex insist upon carrying reticules and then fail to stock them with anything useful?”
Camellia glared back at him. She hoped. She definitely did not want him to believe she found him charming. Or that their ridiculous conversation reminded her of the teasing volley of insults she had been known to exchange with her brother and his friends. She bit her lip.
Of all the conversations she might have had with a wicked, rakish earl in the middle of the forest with no one about… the last thing she’d expected him to do was put her at ease.
Well. She would not do the same. If he chose to waste his money on courtesans and cravats, that was his own business. But Lord Wainwright was the enemy of her sister and behaved far from honorably with the wives of his friends. She could not forgive him. There was nothing Camellia valued more than friendship and family.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said briskly. “I am very busy. The vicar is joining us for supper. He’ll be giving a lovely talk based on my favorite Bible verse on the evils of fornicators, and I do not want to miss it.”