A Hasty Betrothal (11 page)

He hesitated, feeling the heat of Bitt's skin through her broadcloth sleeve. Her eyes were on him, wide, surprised, but she did not shrug away. And somehow their horses had stopped moving to nibble at the grass. It was the two of them on a sloping hill, sunlight and flowers their sweet companions. Beneath his sternum, his heart pulsated in quick, staccato beats.

“I know what it is to never be enough,” he said quietly. The thing he most adored about Bitt was her capacity to listen. Not in a normal conversation. No, in those she flitted away like a delicate butterfly, lost in her dreams the way a monarch lost itself in a bouquet of lilacs. But when someone spoke to her of important matters, she listened with her whole self.

He saw that gift of hers now. The line of her vision did not waver from his. He found himself clutching her arm because memories spiraled through him in angry circuits, a long algorithm of mathematical codes that all ended with the same conclusion: he had never been enough.

“Miles, please tell me.” Her fingers skimmed his hand, lightly, each stroke resting on his knuckles, as though comforting him.

And strangely enough, he had need of comfort, for he had never spoken of his marriage to anyone. But if Bitt was to be his wife, she should know something of what he'd gone through. He owed her that, at the very least.

“Anastasia was a great beauty,” he began. Creaking words crowded his throat. Having never been spoken, perhaps they had rusted within, tarnishing him in ways he had not anticipated. “Her laugh, it was said, was reminiscent of the tinkling bells played at Hyde Park during winter months. Her eyes the sparkling blue of a clear lake, and her form comely in every way. She came from an impoverished earl's family. It was said that she had little dowry. No one in the ton cared. Perhaps you were too young to remember?”

“I was in the schoolroom still, but I heard of her. She came to a house party once, perhaps when you two were married, though you were not with her.”

Miles winced. “I should have been with her more.”

“Were you not working, providing for your family?”

She had been expensive, he thought, remembering the first time he'd received the bill for her clothing expenditures. But he'd believed he was making her happy.

“There is more to marriage than building a comfortable nest. Anastasia had needs I couldn't meet, and as bright as her smiles were, her frowns were far deeper and darker. I did not have the skill nor the knowledge to make her happy.”

Bitt's eyes turned glossy. Her fingers crept around his until their hands were clasped. “I had no idea, and I am deeply distressed to hear you speak thus.”

“I only speak so for a reason.” He brought her hand to his mouth. He pressed his lips lightly against her glove, letting the touch linger. When he let her hand go, he saw that her mouth was parted. “It is never my intent to cause you harm, nor to imply that you are lacking in any way. In my eyes, you are wonderfully you.”

Chapter Twelve

I
n my eyes, you are wonderfully you.

The words played with Elizabeth's emotions, weaving in and out of her every thought the following morn. While she ate breakfast, she thought of Miles. When she tried to read, he interrupted the story, his intense gray eyes teasing her memories. He had spoken so fiercely, as though he truly meant what he said.

She frowned at her breakfast plate. They were to leave for London in an hour, and she could not relieve herself of these intrusive, disturbing thoughts. If only she could shoo them away as easily as she swatted a fly.

Not that she swatted flies often. Why, she never even went into the barn except for making visits to the tenants or to check on their houses. She always walked to Littleshire. The barn smelled of mold, animal droppings and a broken heart.

What a fanciful notion. She wanted to swish it away, too, but it buzzed at the back of her mind, reminding her of feelings she wanted to forget, memories of unkindness better left in the darkness of a stable corner.

Groaning, she pushed her plate away and stood. Her things should be packed by now and all that remained was to bid farewell to her grandmother.

A servant entered, head down, and set the mail plate on the table.

“Thank you.” Elizabeth paused, realizing she did not know the girl's name. It really wasn't so horrible to be unfamiliar with the lesser housemaids, but seeing how Miles treated everyone as an equal stirred uncomfortable guilt. The maid turned to leave, so Elizabeth touched her shoulder. The girl's face crumpled and then quickly settled into a mask as she looked down at the floor.

Elizabeth dropped her hand to her side. It was easy to forget that this girl was raised to believe her livelihood depended on her employer's goodwill. A perfectly valid belief, for it did.

“I apologize for startling you. I simply wish...to know your name. You may look up.”

“Yes, my lady.” The hesitant words followed an even more reluctant action. “My name is Sara.” A swift curtsy followed. Head down again.

Frustration simmered, but Elizabeth tamped it down. After all, how often had she chosen to speak to the staff? Not often at all. In fact, she only addressed Stockton, the head housemaid, White, and the most senior maid in her office twice a week. Every Monday she conferred with Cook about the menu. Except when she'd been in London. In that case, they had planned ahead.

“Sara, thank you for bringing the post.”

Her eyes flew upward, dark brown orbs wide with apprehension and perhaps a touch of disgust? They flittered across Elizabeth's birthmark. She steeled herself to remain facing the young maid when all her instincts begged her to duck her face. Thankfully, Sara did not look too long upon the mark, returning her gaze to the floor instead.

“You're welcome but it is my duty, my lady,” she said. “I carry the post in every morning.”

Wonderful. Now she felt even more the dunce. “Well, you do a marvelous job. I shall mention so to Ms. White.”

At the mention of their head housemaid's name, Sara's face colored. “Thank—thank you.”

Annoyed that Sara found her so fearsome, Elizabeth waved her hand in dismissal, and the maid scurried off.

Sighing, she turned to the silver salver that Sara had forgotten on the table. How was it that she struck fear into the staff? She frowned, scooping up the multiple letters on the table to take to Grandmother. The duchess spent a goodly amount of time each day composing missives to her London friends, and perhaps friends in other places.

Elizabeth had never quite paid attention to her grandmother's communications, but now she wondered if she ought to have done so. Delved a little deeper, expressed interest. She found her Grandmother in the garden room, talking to a plant covered with fiery orange blooms.

“There, my love, you have performed marvelously. I knew that you would, of course, being an expert in all matters of horticulture. Why, dear Lindon told me to give you a bit more sunlight, just enough to warm your leaves, and he was right. The old sod.” Grandmother giggled, completely unaware of Elizabeth.

She did not usually like to interrupt Grandmother, as her garden room was to her as the library was to Elizabeth, but Grandmother adored her letters. And as she planned to leave soon, now was as good a time as any to say farewell.

She set the salver on a small table near the doorway. Grandmother turned, her outfit a frothy concoction of purple frills and pink ruffles. She looked like a pretty flower herself.

“Is that the post?” Grandmother rubbed her hands together and shuffled over. Though spry, sometimes she moved stiffly due to rheumatism in her knees. “I have been waiting for the latest on-dit regarding the princess. She is so shockingly impolite. Though I must say that Prinny deserves her crassness, after all he's put her through.” Her grandmother clucked her tongue.

“I know not, only that a maid—” She caught herself. “Sara, brought the post to me.”

“To you?” Grandmother's brows crinkled. “Whatever for, if the mail is mine?”

“A pertinent point,” Elizabeth murmured.

“And to leave the salver with you, how perfectly uncouth and ill trained. I shall have a word with White about this Sara. It is not
your
job to deliver the post, do you understand me, Elizabeth? We pay staff to perform these duties.”

Her throat closed. “Please do not say a word to White. Sara was perfectly well mannered. I took the salver of my own accord, because I wanted to see you before I leave for London.”

Grandmother set down the paper she'd been holding. “Leave? Why, you only just arrived!”

“I know, but I have been planning our betrothal ball, and I am also to visit Drury Lane next week. It will be a boon for Miles and me to be seen together before the house party. The staff will need time to prepare. It is still acceptable to hold it here?” She'd spoken with Grandmother about the event yesterday, but it did not hurt to check again.

“Of course, you will have the party here. I have invited a few friends myself.” Grandmother sniffed, lifting her nose. “I must say, I'm perturbed at the manner in which Mr. Hawthorne is stealing you away from me.”

“You wanted me to marry,” she pointed out gently, ignoring the tight ball growing in her stomach.

“I simply did not think the process through.” Grandmother let out a long, shuddering sigh. “At least I shall have my flowers to keep me company. But who shall plan the menu? And direct the cleaning?”

Elizabeth stepped forward, drawing her grandmother into a hug, breathing in her familiar scent of talcum powder and lavender. “I shall help in whatever ways possible. Why, it is probable that I shall even be living here after my marriage.”

Grandmother's eyebrows snapped together so fiercely that she startled Elizabeth. “Bah! I should think not. I expect grandchildren.”

The knot that had been forming constricted, making her feel positively ill. “There will be no children, Grandmother. I do not dare pass on my blemish.”

“My dear girl, that is hogwash of the silliest sort. There is nothing a touch of rouge or powder can't lighten. My sister had one, you know, and she was a great force in society.” Grandmother lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “She turned down a prince, you see, all for the sake of true love.”

True love... Elizabeth had lost her own chance for that. Regret curled through her, strong and viscous. Oh, why had she gone out to that gazebo? Why couldn't she have braved the ball instead of placing her reputation on the line? If she could only go back...but alas, the deed had been done and Lord Wrottesley had seen to it that she was compromised.

Blinking hard, she handed Grandmother the mail she still clutched, wishing desperately to be curled on her bed with a good book. Her grandmother took the stack, saying nothing though a knowing gleam lit her eyes.

“This is for you, dearie.” She held out a parchment stamped with a crest Elizabeth did not recognize.

She took the missive. The paper was of fine quality, thick and stiff. Prying the letter open, she scanned the contents and then, to be sure, she read it again. Her heart crashed to her stomach, or so it felt. The strength left her legs and she moved quickly to the small couch Grandmother had set up near a potted fern. Sinking down, she closed her eyes as apprehension scuttled through her on pointed toes, piercing every nerve and bringing her breaths to quick inhalations.

“Whatever is the matter?” Grandmother glided over, concern in every syllable. “Elizabeth Wayland, you are as white as a sheet.”

“I have had an invitation,” she said painfully. All these years of writing articles, and now this...

“From?”

“The Society of Scientific Minds wants me to speak to them of my experiences with a telescope.”

“The who?” Grandmother shook her head. “And the what? Speak English, my dear. Does this have to do with those articles you write?”

“They are merely opinion pieces, designed to explore the nature of mathematics in relation to the stars.”

Grandmother waved a hand, her rings glittering in the bright light of the solarium. “So speak to them. I have never heard of anything half so dull in my life, but if it is what you wish to do, then do it well.”

Elizabeth's throat felt as dry as the deserts she'd read about. “That is the very thing. I plan to decline, but in a way that will still allow me entrance to their group. They are a very closed society who study all sorts of interesting and fantastical wonders. I confess I hardly know what they are talking about at times, but to read their musings is fascinating.”

“You must know enough to write what they want to read. They would not ask you to speak if it were not so.”

“I am well-read, and I am the only one who has acquired a telescope. They wish to hear how the invention works.”

“And this causes an attack of nerves?”

“What will I say? Their eyes will be upon me.”

“You are the granddaughter of a duchess. Need I remind you how your great-grandfather was knighted for his bravery, or how I have sat at the table of kings and queens? No granddaughter of mine dare shudder at the thought of speaking to others. Chin up.”

Chin up, indeed. She frowned at the paper, tucking it close. Whatever would she do?

* * *

Marriage must be the worst shackle ever created.

With a sigh of relief, Miles exited the barouche containing his friend Wiley and his wife. Their ride around Hyde Park had been horrific, thanks to his wife's constant commentary on every subject possible. Miles rubbed his forehead. He did not think he had ever met a more garrulous female.

Turning on his heel, he walked up to his townhome. Perhaps it was a good thing Bitt had turned down the invitation, after all. At first he'd been disappointed, but now he realized that if Wiley's wife drove him mad, there was no telling how his reclusive betrothed would cope.

She'd enjoy Drury Lane more. A theater was nothing if not the showcase of a story.

Their drive back to London had been mostly silent. Three days of near silence, to be exact. He did not think he had ever met a more quiet female than Bitt. She had been pensive, speaking little and even appearing to have trouble reading. He'd caught her staring out the window several times, a worried expression upon her features. When he asked her what was wrong, however, she'd shrugged him away.

Unsettled by the memory, he nodded to Powell, who opened the door and took his frock coat. While most of the London ton was still up and about, enjoying the Season, he preferred to get a good night's rest.

He was not a peer. Just a businessman who lived in modest comfort. His home, situated on a quiet street near Mayfair, offered him the best of both worlds. Access to well-made goods and crime-free living, but not so near the ton's neighborhood that their constant social visits, characterized by carriage wheels on cobblestones, broke his sleep.

And a good sleep it was.

In the morning he rose, performed his ablutions and went over various business arrangements. His report from the Littleshire factory looked promising. He had scanned the ledgers while there but found nothing out of place. Perhaps during the house party, he and Bitt could look over them together.

The thought of being in proximity to her accelerated his pulse. Perhaps he should not have kissed her hand. The action crossed a line, taking him from old family friend to...to what? Everything within protested a romantic relationship. That had not been part of the deal.

“Sir?” Powell set a crisp invitation on the desk in front of Miles. “This just came for you.”

“Thank you.” He sliced the edge of the paper, unfolding it to read the message. The Society of Scientific Minds invited him to attend a special seminar to be held three days hence. Guest speaker to share experiences with telescope.

For the first time that morning, Miles smiled. The article writer known only as E.W. was to be the guest, and he would not miss his presentation for anything. The man's writings were fresh and insightful. He often shared interesting tidbits and wrote in a clear, bold voice. The society was a very secretive group, and he was fortunate indeed that they'd invited him.

“Draft a response accepting the invitation at once,” he told Powell, who still lingered near the wall, awaiting direction. “Then send a post to Lady Elizabeth requesting her company on this day. Do not mention anything else.”

“Very good, sir.” Powell bowed and left.

Miles leaned back in his chair, the morning suddenly so much cheerier. He was not sure Elizabeth would be interested in such an event, but the idea to invite her had been spontaneous. She was inquisitive, and he thought she might like to hear about a telescope.

Perhaps it was the one thing she had not read about? Chuckling, he went back to his work.

When her refusal to go with him arrived less than an hour later, he was not so amused.