Читать книгу A Hasty Betrothal - Jessica Nelson - Страница 9

Chapter One

Balls were the worst sort of social event.

One month after Lady Elizabeth Wayland’s arrival in London, the Season began full force. She received her voucher to Almack’s, that most-coveted place of stale biscuits and overeager girls in search of a groom.

As in Seasons past, Elizabeth loathed Almack’s on sight.

Tonight’s rout at Lady Charleston’s was bound to be just as detestable, but refusing the invitation would have been a slight too large to justify. Elizabeth’s father, a wealthy earl, and her mother, the daughter of a duke, were well liked by the haut monde. Their pristine reputations kept their calendar full. Her brother, John, was also making a name for himself in political circles.

Quite unlike Elizabeth, who preferred a secluded life at her grandmother’s estate. She’d been caring for the dowager duchess nigh unto fifteen years, ever since she was sent to live at Windermar as a young girl. Her mother and father resided in London for much of the year, but spent the heat of summer rusticating at their own estate in Kent.

Elizabeth adored her grandmother’s spacious home. Located in Cheshire County of Northern England, it was a three day ride to London. Escaping her parents’ abundance of charitable events caused Elizabeth a great feeling of accomplishment. They insisted her looks did not matter, but she could not help but feel that the large birthmark on her face made others uncomfortable.

No, it was far better to remain with her books and her adorable if decidedly eccentric grandmother.

Except each year when the Season rolled around.

Unfortunately, her parents refused to budge on the notion she should marry, despite her pleas. They cited reasons such as decorum, responsibility and her future. But Elizabeth knew that no man would ever want her, except be it for true love. Still, to satisfy her parents’ demands, every year she gathered her pluck and attended soirees, balls and dinner parties. She only went to enough to appease her parents. Once she’d participated in a few select events, they often let her return to the country before the end of the Season.

Frowning now, she picked her way across Lady Charleston’s overly crowded, giggle-saturated ballroom. Nothing was worse than being forced to dance with multiple partners who either stared at the large pinkish blotch covering her right cheekbone in pity or avoided looking at her altogether. Indignation burned through her, little salving the hurt that scraped the surface of her emotions.

She dropped her dance card to the floor, deliberately sliding it away with her slipper. Let someone else dance the night away. She longed to be finished, to return to Windermar and meld back into her normal life routine.

She left the ballroom, certain she remembered a library nearby from Seasons past when she’d made a similar escape. Spotting a familiar door, she sighed with relief and pushed it open.

The welcome scent of leather and paper greeted her. The library. She finally felt as though she could breathe. She inhaled deeply. Her corset stretched with the movement, and her lungs filled with less-congested air. Sweet Jenna had kept the strings loose. Elizabeth made note to give her lady’s maid a gift.

It had been trying indeed, attending dress fittings, fixing her hair, ordering new bonnets. Two fat curls dropped over each of her shoulders, and her pale blue gown had been designed with one goal in mind: to fetch a husband.

As if she planned to do such a thing. She would finagle some reading instead. She doubted her mother would notice her missing. After several minutes of perusal, she selected a book. Bound in cracked leather, the novel looked decrepit and, oh, so very intriguing. She could not recall ever reading this one before. She would merely take a moment, really only a few minutes, to traverse this story before returning to the ballroom. Very gently, with the tip of a finger, she eased to the first page and lost herself in a world far more exciting than the one she presently inhabited.

“Head in a book again, eh?”

At the sound of Miles Hawthorne’s husky voice, she looked up from what was actually a fascinating treatise on African populations. A wayward strand of hair fell across her vision, and she blew it away. Her brother’s friend, and her childhood nemesis, stood in the doorway. His clothing was neatly pressed, his fine black Hessians polished to a spit shine.

She glanced at her own skirts, creased from sitting. Most likely, she looked a fright. “Hawthorne, what a surprise. Have you taken up dancing?” she asked.

Not bothering to wait for his response, she eyed the book in her lap, trying to find the paragraph she’d been reading before his appearance. She traced the letters lovingly, each curve and bend a precious entrance to another world. Ah, there she’d been. The Maasai threw a rungu. She frowned at the page. How utterly painful. But a natural weapon, to be sure. She certainly would not want to have to dodge the aim of one of those warriors.

A crude line drawing on the next page sent her imagination wandering into the wilds of the Sahara. Stumbling over broken pieces of...well, whatever was in the Sahara? Perhaps it was better to imagine dredging through dark dunes of rust-colored sand. The grains scraped the palms of her hand as she stumbled up a hill. Skeletal shrubs snagged her dress. And then a lion appeared, its mighty mane—were there lions in the Sahara? And would she be wearing a dress? It seemed she might wear something more luxurious and strange... More research was required.

This might even be a topic the Society of Scientific Minds would be interested in reading. Her last article on astronomy had been well received by the group.

“Bitt, did you hear me?”

The nickname filtered through her daydreams. Snapping the book closed, she dragged her gaze to meet Miles’s remonstrative glare. “I have repeatedly told you not to call me that horrid name. What are you doing at a ball, anyhow? Do not tell me you are in search of a wife?”

“I will never get married again.” He chuckled lightly, though she had the feeling that his words carried a deep weight. He meant them, certainly.

She did not blame him one whit. She had heard rumors about his tempestuous marriage. She studied him now, wondering why he looked different.

Same lanky frame. Gray eyes, though she’d seen them turn green when he was in a temper, and unfortunately, his tempers happened often. Nothing violent, just long silences and tempestuous looks. She preferred his authenticity to the sticky disingenuousness of the haut monde.

What she actually preferred was isolation.

His eyes held seriousness tonight. Despite his moody temperament, he managed to sport sun-streaked hair as though he spent time outside rather than brooding indoors. The blond strands must be from horse riding. Crooked smile...wait...she paused, eyes narrowed, and then gasped.

“Why, Miles, whatever did you do to your mustache?”

His lips dented at the corners. “It’s been gone for more than two months.” He paused. “I’m wounded, well and truly hurt to the core of my being, that you have just now remarked upon my new style.”

Elizabeth reluctantly put the book she’d been reading back in its place on the shelf.

He did look handsome without the facial hair. More dashing and younger somehow... She put the thought to the side. It was artificial and irrelevant to the moment.

“Tell me, sweet Bitt, why are you hiding in the library? Your grandmother sent me to find you. It’s not seemly for a dowager duchess’s granddaughter to be poring through literature like a bluestocking.” His smile grew more crooked.

“You are a thorn in my side,” she said testily, rankling again over his use of that detested moniker. “It is not your business what I am doing here. I don’t need watching over, and I don’t like your hovering, smelly presence.”

“Why, Bitt...” He pressed a hand to his elegantly tied cravat. “Another insult?”

Truth be told, he smelled quite nice, but she’d rather be gored with an elephant tusk than admit such a thing to him. The boy who used to pull her hair, steal her books and then lose her spot in them.

“Mr. Hawthorne, stop the pretense. Tell Grandmother I shall return shortly.”

“And if she asks why you did not come with me?”

She sighed heavily. “Very well, if you insist on being difficult.” She stood, brushing out her skirts as best she could, knowing the rest of the evening would prove to be a great bore. Nevertheless, duty must be fulfilled. Perhaps she might claim a megrim... It would certainly not be unexpected.

Miles held out his arm as she neared. “I know that look. Plotting escape, are you?”

“Not I.” She felt his gaze upon her. “Do stop staring,” she murmured, taking his arm and allowing him to escort her back to the ballroom.

“You really should not be wandering alone, especially at a crush this size.”

“Please, Miles, not now.” He was right, of course. She risked her family’s reputation, but staying in that horridly stuffy ballroom had proved unbearable. Besides, she was older than many here. Nothing untoward would happen.

“Shouldn’t you be entertaining a bridegroom by now?” Miles asked.

She rolled her eyes. He acted as though he were her guardian rather than an old family friend. Oh, how she despised his pristine, well-kept appearance! The cravat that was always tied just so and the unblemished features he’d been born with. It was not his fault that he knew nothing of her struggles, of her insecurities.

But to mention her lack of prospects...how utterly uncouth of him. The audacity of his comment rendered her speechless for a moment. This was why she preferred never to see Miles. His blunt ways and teasing smile bothered her to no end. Then there was the unfortunate incident he’d witnessed her fifteenth year... Yes, she avoided him whenever possible.

But most importantly, he possessed the greatest fault of all: the man never opened a book.

That thought uppermost, she leveled a lofty look at him, the one she reserved for ill-trained butlers and staring housemaids. “I will marry for love or not at all.”

“Why, Elizabeth? Love can come with time.” They paused in the doorway of the ballroom, his eyes searching her face. “Don’t you wish to have a family, your own home?”

“Not with someone who does not love me.” She broke their shared gaze, searching the room for her mother. Why wouldn’t Miles just leave? His questions poked tender scars from years ago.

“Haven’t you had several Seasons now?” He continued speaking as though he had no notion of how his words affected her. And maybe he didn’t, for she was well versed in decorum.

A lady did not show her emotions in public places.

“Perhaps I shall start a rumor that you are a heart crusher,” he said.

“Tittle-tattle, all of it,” she responded quietly. She’d experienced many Seasons—though it was no wonder he strove to remember. She was worse than a wallflower. This time of the year was always terrible, but she managed to muddle through. Oh, why didn’t he leave? She had little patience for Miles and his irreverent ruminations. “Go away.”

“You are filled with sharp words today, sweeting.” Before she realized what he intended, he drew her to an alcove to their right, which held a small bench situated behind a potted plant. He released her arm and, gratefully, she sat.

From this vantage point, she could watch the dancing without being noticed. “It is this time of year. I suppose I am irritated with my parents. They are always trying to marry me off.”

Elizabeth dropped her chin into her hands and surveyed the attendees. They chatted and swirled, preened and giggled. The gentlemen wore starched cravats, crisp breeches and such serious expressions one might think the world would end if they didn’t snag a bride. Or rather, a fortune.

“What are you brooding about?” Miles settled beside her, his cologne intoxicating.

“Avariciousness.”

He made a sound akin to a laugh. She scowled at him. “It’s not funny—it’s ludicrous. What do these people hope to become? To dream about? The latest French fashions?”

“Very judgmental, my lady.”

“I’m in a foul mood.” She focused on the people milling about. “My parents refuse to see reason.”

“This is regarding your marital prospects?”

“The lack thereof.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw his hands lift, palms up. “You’re an heiress. Surely you’ve had offers.”

She sniffed. “When I marry, it shall be for love. If I marry. No one shall force me into the cage and if my brother’s career suffers, if my parents’ reputations hold the tiniest smear of disgrace simply due to my hermitude, I care not a whit.”

“Harsh words, my lady.” He leaned forward, mimicking her bent posture. “Marriage can be rewarding. It is not all doom and gloom. If you choose wisely, you will spend the rest of your days residing on a country estate. Why, you might even be allowed to move your bed into the library. Then you may cozy up to your books without interruption and never be parted from them again.”

“You are silly, Mr. Hawthorne.” She scrunched her face at him, realizing that an unacceptable giggle gurgled within. She tamped it down. Firmly. “This is no time for laughter. Do you see those dowagers and my mother watching me? They are assessing my value. Planning, no doubt, for my sale to the highest bidder.”

“Come now, Bitt, that is hardly fair.”

She straightened, suddenly annoyed. “You are not a woman. You do not know what it is like to be picked apart and looked over, only to be found wanting.” Her eyes stung, and she blinked. Oh, rats. Why did this happen when she talked to him? Perhaps because he knew about Luke. He knew what had happened so long ago. “What are you doing here, anyway? This is hardly the place for a widower who has vowed to never marry again.”

As she faced him, she caught the grimace crossing his face. Was that regret in his eyes? Guilt barreled through her. “My brother told me of your commitment to work.”

“I acquired a new factory near your grandmother’s estate, actually. I don’t have time to cater to a wife.” His eyes were dark, stormy, as though a mood had come upon him.

If she was honest with herself, she’d always enjoyed looking at Miles. Almost in the way one admired a violent sunset splashing across the horizon. When she was around him, she felt freer somehow.

As if she too were a myriad of colors spilling into the sea.

“If you are not here for a wife, then you must be here for some other nefarious purpose.” She squinted at him, allowing a bit of mockery in her smile. “Tell me truthfully: Did John send you here to spy on me?”

“Your brother is too busy for meddling.”

“Do not be vague with me, Mr. Hawthorne.”

“Despite my lack of title, I also received an invitation. Does that surprise you?”

“As you are a gentleman, it is not surprising at all.” She stood, suddenly tired of their banter, of the constant irritation that had plagued her from the moment she’d arrived in London. Nay, before that. “I’m in need of fresh air. Do not follow me. If you see Grandmother, please tell her I took a turn in the gardens.”

“Without a companion?”

“Perhaps I shall conveniently snag one on the way out,” she said crossly. She really should keep a companion near her at all times, but what she wanted most was to be alone. Who would bother a wallflower, anyhow?

Miles chuckled, the sound warm and inviting. She steeled herself against any feelings of friendliness toward him.

“You laugh, yet you have never known the restrictions of womanhood.”

“If you mean spending your days reading, shopping and talking, you’re correct. I have never known such freedoms.”

“You mock me!”

“Nay, but I beg you to consider the benefits of your station in life. Most have not the comforts you enjoy on a daily basis.”

“I know that,” she said hotly. Who did Miles think he was? Always needling her, acting as though she was some spoiled, ungrateful wretch. “Would you have me sacrifice myself to the cold system of our society? A system that prefers breeding over character, purse over heart? I think not, Miles. Now, if you would be so kind as to bid me adieu...” She trailed off, for Lord Wrottesley headed toward her, a disconcertingly aggressive look to his gaze. “I really must leave now. Lord Wrottesley has called on me twice since we arrived in London. I do not wish to speak with him.”

“Who is he?”

“A fortune hunter.” Without wasting another moment in useless conversation, she twisted to the right, desiring to dodge several patrons, but she caught her reflection in the large mirrors that gilded the ballroom: a pale wisp of an heiress, the strawberry birthmark covering her right cheekbone, glaring out from the whiteness of her skin.

Averting her eyes from the sight, she charged toward a set of French doors she’d seen earlier.

The exit promised solitude. A rest from the noise of congestion, the odor of too much perfume that clogged her windpipe. She dared not glance back to see if Wrottesley followed her.

She prayed he did not. When he had called last Wednesday, it had been the most stifling thirty minutes of her existence.

Grandmother insisted God heard prayers from every soul, and Elizabeth dearly hoped the duchess was right.

The doors shuddered beneath the force of Elizabeth’s exit, but the damp earth welcomed her slippers a bit too readily. She sank deeply into the ground and, in her haste, almost fell. Catching her balance, she hurried forward to the garden walk, ignoring the sucking sound her slippers made in the mud. They would be ruined, but she owned at least twenty more.

The scent of rain clung to the air. Lighted lanterns cast eerie shadows upon the path ahead, but the stones promised dryness for her feet and where they led, she would follow. Lord and Lady Charleston’s back lawn was a lovely respite, the gardens a comfortable touch for guests. Though situated in London, they’d made good use of their small plot of land.

Oh, for quiet from this dreadful press of a ball. Vaguely it entered her mind that she risked her reputation by entering the gardens alone. Surely a brief rest could not hurt, though. She would return shortly. She reached the stone walkway and heaved a sigh of relief, for her toes squished and the sad, sodden state of her slippers reminded her of her future. Equally dark and muddy.

She should pray. Grandmother exhorted her to do so. Glancing up at the night sky, she saw that the moon hid behind clouds, painting them shades of dark blue and gray. Lord, please guide me tonight. Give me wisdom for I am beset by worries.

She picked her way down the path, passing a couple sharing sweet whispers on a bench. The lanterns guided her feet to a ribbon-festooned gazebo sitting on the edge of what looked to be a pond. Out here, beyond the maddening noise of festivities, she finally felt she could draw a breath. The air was sweet, humid. Crickets welcomed her, their song harmonious and gracious.

She stepped into the gazebo, and it was as though a weight lifted from her shoulders. The half-circle bench beckoned her to sit and wait out the night. Perhaps a half hour, and then she could beg off the event by claiming malaise. A megrim, perhaps, or blisters from too much dancing. Sinking onto the bench, she watched the shimmering reflection of the now-unveiled moon on the water.

Blessed peace descended. It was only her and the night and God’s watchful eye. He had answered her prayer and for that, she thanked Him. She sat for some time, her heartbeat lulled into synchrony with her breaths. She propped her arms on the edge of the gazebo, laying her head down, knowing she smashed the curls Jenna had worked so hard on and hoping her maid would forgive her the transgression.

She did not wish to think of marriage nor her parents. She wanted only to rest here and pretend that their desire to marry her off could be circumvented.

In the midst of her thoughts and the swirling anxiety that never seemed to quit, a twig snapped, cracking the silence.

Her head lifted, her pulse ratcheted. “Who’s there?”

More scuffling, another twig snapping and suddenly she realized just how secluded she was. Perhaps no one went missing at balls, but plenty had been ruined. She stiffened as a shadow fell across the entrance of the gazebo.

“Alone, my lady?”