Along Came a Lady

by Christi Caldwell

  She dropped his spoon, and with her jaw set at the familiar obstinate Audley angle, proceeded to eat, glaring at Rafe all the while.

  “Except that isn’t quite true,” Hunter said as he wiped the back of his sleeve across his mouth.

  Both Rafe and Cailin whipped their attention his way. Rafe narrowed his eyes. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying you may have sent the lady away and think she left, but she has no intention of doing so. Has every intention of escorting you back.” Hunter grinned. “Her words.”

  Miss Dalrymple . . . was still here? And sudden traitor that she’d become, Cailin laughed.

  It was the first time in longer than he could remember that he recalled her finding amusement in anything, and under any other circumstances he’d have been only glad for it. Ignoring his sister’s amusement, Rafe focused on what Hunter had revealed. Despite his directives to leave, and his insistence that he’d never make that trip to London, she had stayed here in Staffordshire? The bloody insolence of her. Believing that what he wanted and the decisions he made mattered less than what she wanted. It was the way of all highbrow elites. Making demands and having expectations, without caring or even listening to those whom they took as their inferiors. And the bit of baggage could dress it up with a smile and her fancy, fine words, but that veneer of innocence didn’t erase what her intentions were. Over his cold, lifeless body . . . and he’d no intention of kicking up his heels anytime soon.

  Growling, he shoved back his chair quickly and quit the kitchen, heading for the front door.

  Cailin gasped and flew to her feet. “Do not be a boor, Rafe,” she called after him. “Go with him, Hunter.”

  “Not my business,” their brother replied.

  “But it was yours when you were baiting . . .”

  That debate faded as Rafe headed for the stables to ready his mount. As he did, his fury and annoyance swelled: at the duke for being unrelenting . . . thirty-one years too late. At his perverse brother for having found amusement in any of this. And at Miss Dalrymple herself. The one who’d not quit. A short while later, he found his way to the Old Crow . . . determined to end this nonsense with Miss Dalrymple once and for all.

  He entered the inn. Laughter and conversation swelled around the room, with the mining occupants who came here to drink at the end of the day raising their voices to be heard over the others gathered, which only increased the cacophony. Tankards clanged. Men bellowed with laughter. Always busy at this hour, with miners having retired from the coalfields to partake in an ale, the taproom had not a scrap of space to be spared at any table or anywhere else.

  Smoke from the many pipes being puffed upon hung like a hazy curtain over the room. Rafe passed a gaze quickly over the patrons . . . and even crowded as it was, he instantly found her.

  Seated at a table square in the middle of the taproom, the young lady stood out like a lone flower that had managed to bloom in a coalfield, and given the pale pink gown stitched with roses all over it, she had the look of one, too.

  And through the chaos around them, there she sat . . . working: papers and notebooks stacked in neat little rows she’d made with her belongings. And a crystal inkwell set out near her fingertips. Periodically, she would dip the most ridiculously long feather quill into that pot, the remnants of ink along the side, before dashing whatever notes she did on her page. All around her, people streamed past her table, nearly brushing her shoulder, while she worked, none of which fazed her.

  The proprietor, Old Mr. Ward, joined Rafe. “You be wanting a glass, do you, Mr. Audley?” he yelled, barely loud enough to be heard over the din. The stocky man held a pitcher aloft.

  Rafe waved off that offer. “That won’t be necessary. I’ve come for different reasons.” His focus went back to the young lady now chewing away at the end of her feather, engrossed. The entire establishment could have been ablaze, and Rafe would wager she would’ve went right up with it and her papers.

  Mr. Ward followed his gaze. “Interesting one, she is.” He scratched at his balding pate. “Been here four days, she has. Every day, she comes down and does the same thing. Seems like a right fancy lady, a right fancy lady, indeed, but there’s no gentleman about. No servants. None of us know quite what to make of her.”

  That made the lot of them, then.

  Mr. Ward leaned in. “Do you have a problem with the miss?”

  The meaning behind that inquiry from Mr. Ward was clear: all Rafe needed to do was say the word, and Miss Edwina Dalrymple’s time here was done. That manner of loyalty wasn’t just afforded Rafe because he was foreman at the mines where nearly every person had a family member employed. Rather, it came from the close-knit nature of the mining community in general. “No problem.” Or rather, soon, he wouldn’t, after he was done with this exchange.

  Just then Mr. Ward’s daughter, gruff, always-scowling Maryam, approached Miss Dalrymple’s table with a plate of hotchpotch and bread. This . . . should be interesting. No-nonsense, and with little time spent on pleasantries, the eldest Ward daughter couldn’t be more different than the effervescent woman whom she now served.

  Unnoticed as he was by the lady, Rafe watched her as she at last looked up. Miss Dalrymple smiled that wide smile she seemed to be in perpetual possession of; her lips moved quickly as she chattered in what he’d learned in no time was her also-familiar way, and made to clear a place on her crowded table. Once she’d made proper space, she patted the spot, her lips moving in the motion of a “thank you.”

  Maryam returned that smile. Or . . . the closest thing to it that Rafe had ever observed from her. More a half twist, and a grimace at that, but still a smile. Rafe narrowed his eyes. Mayhap, he had better be more wary than he had been where the duke’s latest servant was concerned.

  “Was hoping you weren’t going to say she was a problem. Because my Maryam has taken a liking to her,” Mr. Ward said loudly. And, by his tone, the old proprietor had little interest in gainsaying the daughter who really ran this place. “Not that I wouldn’t be rid of her if she was a problem,” he hurried to assure Rafe. “Just that I’d rather not be the one to toss her out.” As if he were afraid Rafe might change his mind, the proprietor hurried off to fill another patron’s tankard, and Rafe was left to freely observe Miss Dalrymple once more.

  Having worked for a man who delighted in bullying about all those in his employ, the last thing he’d ever sought to do was be a bully back to someone else. But neither would he tolerate the insolent busybodies who thought they were better than him, seeking to drag him back to London, all at the whim of a duke who’d decided he wanted to finally play at father.

  Thirty-one years too late.

  In fairness, this latest to show up on his doorstep wasn’t like the others. Not just because she was female. Rather for the simple truth that he really didn’t know what to make of Miss Edwina Dalrymple, which was perhaps even more reason to fear her. The resolve she had displayed hunting him down at the coalfields and then refusing to leave Staffordshire altogether made her more fearless then all the men who’d come before her, combined.

  As such, he wanted her out as soon as yesterday.

  That sprang him into movement, and he started to weave through the crowded taproom, winding his way past the patrons milling about. As he walked, he returned the greetings of fellow miners but didn’t break his stride. All the while, he kept his focus on her.

  Miss Dalrymple.

  She continued chatting amicably with Maryam, moving the tip of her fork, with the same gracefulness she exuded when she walked, gliding it over the top layer of her hotchpotch. “. . . never had anything quite like it. Rather a splendid dish,” she was saying.

  And damned if the always-unimpressed Maryam Ward didn’t blush under that praise. Oh yes, with this one’s sway, there was only one resolution Rafe was walking away with this day—her immediate departure.

  S
topping directly across from her, he gripped the back of the empty chair and tugged it out.

  The lady looked up, her shock and startlement giving way to such pleasure, he thought she must have taken him for a friend whom she was excited to see. “Mr. Audley!” she exclaimed, confirming he was, in fact, that someone after all. Miss Dalrymple immediately sailed to her feet, and sank into a curtsy better suited for the king and queen themselves than a duke’s by-blow coalminer son. “How lovely it is to meet again! Won’t you please sit?” she invited him, motioning to the chair he’d already had every intention of claiming. “And perhaps a hotchpot, as well?” He opened his mouth to disabuse her of the idea that this was a social meeting, but she had already turned to Maryam Ward. “If you would be so good as to fetch Mr. Audley a plate of this splendid dish, when you are able.”

  “Aye.” The gruff woman dropped what may or may not have been a curtsy. And that would be the first time he’d ever witnessed a single person in these parts attempt that formality. “Mr. Audley,” Miss Ward said as if it were an afterthought. Because of a lady, and a stranger at that.

  “Miss Ward.” As she scurried off, he gave his head a wry shake. Displaced by a highbrow London lady in Staffordshire? The world had gone insane. Perhaps Miss Dalrymple was, in fact, one of those mythical witches or fairies his mother used to tell him tales of at bedtime.

  Miss Edwina Dalrymple held her arms aloft and floated back into her seat. “I am so happy you came,” she said. Collecting the white napkin she’d discarded, she quickly picked it up and dabbed at the corner of her immaculate lips. It was a dainty dusting of imagined crumbs, while all around them, men and women belched and scrubbed the backs of their sleeves across food-stained faces. Much the way his brother had a short while ago. It was just one more unnecessary reminder of how far apart she was from his world . . . and steadying for it.

  After she returned that article to her lap, she proceeded to clean up her makeshift work station. “Forgive me, I wasn’t expecting company.”

  Though he would give credit where credit was due: she didn’t meet the coarse crudeness of the villagers around her with the horror and disdain he would have expected from an uppity one such as her. It was the first time since she had crashed into his life, and made a nuisance of herself, that he wondered about the woman. One who conducted herself with the deportment and mannerisms of a highborn lady, but who was also apparently wholly at ease wandering around the coalfields, and keeping company with the rough-and-tough men and women of Staffordshire.

  However, he had neither the time nor any reason to care. “Listen, Miss Dalrymple,” he began, when moments later she was still clearing a space for him. “As I said, I’m not here for—”

  “Oh, splendid!” She lifted a finger, silencing him, as Maryam returned with another dish.

  The moment Miss Ward had gone, Rafe pushed the plate aside. “I’m not here for dinner.”

  “You really should try it, though. It’s really quite splendid,” she said as she used her knife and fork to dice up a piece of mutton and take a little bite. Her eyes slid closed, her dark lashes drifting down as if in complete and total rapture. And amid all the bustle that was the taproom, Rafe went absolutely motionless. It was . . . her lashes. Dark ginger, thick, and long . . . and the way she fluttered them held him briefly captivated.

  Rafe yanked at his collar. Captivated? What in hell was this madness? And it was then that his suspicions came roaring back to life. No one, no one was this innocent. Everything about her was affected. It had to be. Grabbing the sides of his chair, he moved himself closer to the table, lightly shaking the surface enough that her inkwell rattled, and her eyes flew open. “I said, I’m not here to join you for food.” As he spoke, Rafe jammed a fingertip into an old stain on the old oak table. “Nor is this a social visit.”

  “I . . . see.” Ever so slowly, she put her fork and knife down, so they were perfectly aligned and facing up toward him. “I assured you earlier I didn’t require looking after. My ankle is quite fine. It hardly even hurts anymore.”

  Rafe scrubbed his hands over his face. That was her takeaway? That he’d come to verify she was unhurt? “I want to know what you’re doing here.”

  She glanced about, looking briefly down at her pretty pink leather journal, as elegant and out of place as the lady herself. “I’m . . . working. Just completing a review of my notes and planning my lessons to come.”

  Me, his mind registered dumbly. She was speaking about . . . him?

  She favored him with another of those bright smiles. “Or, I should say, our lessons.”

  “There are no lessons,” he bellowed, that shout cutting across even the noise of the busy establishment. “Not today. Not tomorrow, and not one hundred tomorrows from forever.” Everyone fell briefly quiet, turning all their attention his way. And he resisted the urge to squirm under that scrutiny. That interest lasted the fraction of a moment, before everyone went back to their own business. There was nothing he hated more than being the recipient of anyone’s interest. In fact, even if he didn’t hate the man who’d sired him, the prospect of facing all of Polite Society would have been reason enough for him to avoid journeying to London.

  When he turned back, he found Miss Dalrymple more serious than he’d ever seen her in these past hours of knowing her. In fact, before this instant, he’d have wagered his role as foreman she wasn’t capable of anything but bright, cheerful optimism. And he should not be the one to put out that light. It was just one more reason to send her on her way, as quick as he could. To protect her from becoming jaded by someone as cynical as himself. This time, when he spoke, he tempered his response. “I understand you’re just attempting to do the role that you signed on to do.” And he respected a woman of such strength, one who’d go toe to toe with him. “However, my frustration comes from the fact that I’ve given you my answer. I will not return to London. With you, or with anyone.” And certainly not because the Duke of Bentley had summoned him.

  “I . . . see,” she said quietly. Then ever so meticulously, she pushed aside her dinner that she’d been previously enjoying, and set to work folding her napkin. That stained and aged cotton fabric that no doubt bore the marks of wear from all the hands that had previously used the rag, she now folded first in half, and then over into a square, and then over once more, into an even smaller square. When she’d finished her folding, she studied her work, smoothing her manicured fingertips along its perimeter.

  For a moment, he wondered if she had dismissed him, and he’d simply missed the cue. Until, at last, she looked up. “I understand a lot of what you are feeling.”

  “I highly doubt that.” She couldn’t know a thing about the resentment and hatred Rafe carried for the man who served as her employer . . . and how Rafe’s past had shaped who he had become.

  “You don’t care to have people looking at you or any real attention being paid you.” He frowned. She couldn’t know that. That was, the lady wasn’t wrong, but how could she have gathered that in just a pair of short exchanges? Grasping her chair, as he had moments ago, she drew her seat closer and dropped her elbows atop the table, so that she mirrored him. “How do I know?” she asked in answer to the silent questions he’d carried. “Color filled your cheeks when your men came and found you speaking with me. Because you didn’t like them being observers to any business we had together. And when the other patrons looked our way a bit ago, you had that same look of discomfort to you.”

  Flummoxed, he was incapable of a response.

  And unfortunately, Miss Dalrymple had words enough for the both of them.

  “You don’t like being challenged, and you feel my presence here, and my intention to escort you to London, does just that.”

  Unnerved, he made a concerted effort to conceal it.

  She was insightful in ways that he’d previously taken for flighty. She was keenly sharp when he had thought her embarrassingly
innocent and naïve. And she saw too much. Entirely too much. And those smiling, twinkling eyes glimmered with a knowing sparkle.

  Yes, it was official. He needed to get rid of her . . . now.

  “May I escort you to your room?” Rafe was already pushing back his chair.

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “I’m not asking you,” he said bluntly.

  She wrinkled her nose. “Then, you shouldn’t have added a question to your tone, because that implied it was a question, Mr. Audley. Now, if you had said, ‘I am escorting you to your rooms’, that would have been a clear statement that required no answering on my part.” She must have seen something in his eyes, for she abruptly stopped talking, and coming to her feet, began to meticulously gather up her papers. Filing them into neat, clean piles, and then depositing them into a floral valise that, until now, he’d failed to see.

  He grabbed her bag and headed for the stairs.

  “I assure you, I am more than capable of seeing to my own things, Mr. Audley,” she called after him, hurrying close. “Though that is quite gentlemanly of you.”

  Gentlemanly? He took the stairs quickly, and she kept an impressive pace, nearly matching his stride.

  “Door?” he asked when they reached the main hall.

  When she didn’t speak, he glanced back.

  She shook her head.

  “Which door is yours?” he snapped.

  “See, that is vastly better. One-word utterances only beget confusion and—” He growled. “The second on the right,” she said hastily.

  Rafe was already striding over. He gave her a pointed look.

  The young lady shook her head. “I don’t know what you are—?”

  “The key.”

  “It is not locked.”

  He briefly closed his eyes. “You don’t lock your door.”