Jane Ashford (27 page)

The following evening, Thalia went to dinner at the Elguards’ to meet the other members of her prospective family. Aggie and John set off for Kensington, to call on his old aunt.

Lady Fanshawe, professing herself burnt to the socket by the unaccustomed gaieties of the past several weeks, retired to bed soon after tea, ordering dinner on a tray. Thus Euphie was left to her own devices and ate her dinner all alone.

Afterward, she went up to the drawing room and leafed through some illustrated magazines that lay on a table. But she could not summon any real interest in them, and after a while she sat down and put her chin on her hand. “Why do I feel blue-deviled?” she asked the empty air.

Receiving no answer, she sighed and stared at the wall. Presently she sighed again, and rose, making her way to the back parlor and the pianoforte.

When she sat down at the instrument, some of her glumness lifted. She ran her fingers lightly over the keys and then began to play very softly, so as not to disturb the countess upstairs. At first she played short passages from this or that favorite piece, along with a few of her own compositions that would have raised an approving eyebrow in certain musical circles. Then she bent over the keyboard and launched into a favorite sonata, very quiet and melancholy. Before long, she was lost in it, her worries forgotten, her surroundings irrelevant.

Though she continued to play softly, the strains filled the parlor and echoed in the passage outside. Euphie, wholly engrossed, did not hear footsteps approach or the door open. She went on playing until she felt a tug at her skirts and looked down to find Nero batting at a ruffle with one playful paw. She smiled and nodded absently, continuing to the end of the piece. Nero, offended at this lack of notice, began to climb up her muslin skirt.

She finished with a flourish, laughed, and bent to pick him up. Holding the cat out in front of her, she said, “Nuisance. Have you no appreciation of music? Nero was clearly an improper name for
you
. Or perhaps you prefer the violin?”

There was a tiny noise from the direction of the doorway, but Euphie did not notice it as she continued to talk to the cat.

“We shall soon be all alone here, Nero, you and I. You have enjoyed playing with Brutus and Juvenal, haven’t you? But they will be going away. It is a lowering reflection. I suppose that is what depressed my spirits tonight.”

“Wrrow,” replied Nero.

“Don’t think I don’t wish them happy,” added Euphie hurriedly. “Of course I do. It is just so sudden, you see. I lost them once. And now, when we are just back together again, both of them are engaged and starting a new life. And I remain as before. I haven’t become accustomed to it yet; that is all.”

Nero struggled wildly in her grasp, and she bent to put him down again. As she did so, she caught a glimpse of movement by the door and spun round. “Lord Fanshawe!”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. I called to see Mother, and when Jenkins told me she was resting, I heard the music. I couldn’t resist coming to listen. You do play so exquisitely.”

“You’ve… you’ve been here the whole time?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. But once you had begun, I didn’t know how to make my presence known. And I was sure you would hear if I tried to leave the room.”

Euphie stood. “It doesn’t matter,” she replied as grandly as she could. She started to move away from the pianoforte, took a misstep, and trod on Nero’s tail. He jumped and yowled; Euphie started back and knocked against the piano stool with such violence that it toppled to the floor.

Lord Fanshawe began to laugh.

She gazed at him with incredulous rage. To her horror, tears filled her eyes, and in a moment, despite all she could do, she was crying bitterly. “Here, no,” said the earl, coming forward. “Forgive me.” He righted the stool and put Nero on an armchair nearby.

“I th-think you’re b-beastly,” sobbed Euphie. “Everything is b-beastly, and, and I h-haven’t any handkerchief.”

Suppressing a smile, Fanshawe offered her his. “You know,” he said, “it’s perfectly natural for you to be feeling some sadness at your sisters’ engagements. It will be a great change. But I think you’ll find it won’t be as radical as you fear.”

“I d-don’t care what you think,” wailed the girl, wiping her eyes and trying her utmost to stop crying.

“Yes, well, I suppose it really isn’t any of my affair. Although…”

“Oh, why don’t you just go away.”

“But I came here tonight particularly to speak to you.”

“To me?” This was surprising enough to check the flow of tears.

“Yes.”

“You said you came to see your mother.”

“Well, yes, of course. I meant to see her, too. But I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“What?” Euphie blew her nose pointedly.

He smiled again. “Recently I have somehow gotten the notion that you are avoiding me. You seem to leave a room whenever I come into it. Have I offended you?”

Euphie, who had nearly regained control of herself, was further stiffened by this question. “How should you offend me, Lord Fanshawe?”

“I’m not sure. That is why I ask you.”

The girl turned her head away. “You are mistaken. I am not the least offended. And now, if you will excuse—”

“But I won’t.” The earl came closer. “Tell me why you’re angry.”

“I am not—”

“You are. And I cannot think why. We danced together so pleasantly at Almack’s, and—”

“And you snubbed me so thoroughly at the Butlers’ musical evening,” snapped Euphie before she thought. Then, angry at herself, she grimaced.

“Ah.”

“There is no need to say ‘ah’ in that odious way. It was nothing but a trifle; pray forget it.” Euphie started to turn away.

“Nonsense. You are right; I was rude. But I had a reason.”

She turned back to look at him.

“Will you hear it?”

After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. His tone was so serious that she could not refuse.

“Thank you.” He paused and appeared to think. “It is difficult to know how to say this without seeming a complete coxcomb. I must simply trust to your understanding. I have been on the town some ten years now, Miss Hartington, and in that time I have been pursued in every imaginable way by matchmaking mamas and their daughters. I learned early that it was a great mistake to pay any girl the slightest attentions, lest I then be expected to make an offer. I began to ignore the debs altogether. Because of this, I have acquired a certain reputation. And now, if I am seen to like a young girl, gossip begins at once. I was reminded of this on the evening you mention, and I realized that in my enjoyment of your wit and charm, I had allowed myself—”

Euphie had flushed bright red as he spoke, and now she blurted, “Are you accusing me of setting my cap at you?”

“Of course not. But you are staying in my mother’s house; it is a delicate situation. Particularly because I have come to—”

“You were rude to me because you were afraid people would think you interested, is that it? Well, you may be as rude as you please, I shan’t care.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Oh, you never mean anything, that’s perfectly clear. You stand imperturbably above us all and smile at our silly foibles. Well, I have had enough, and I, I w-want to be left alone now.” To Euphie’s disgust, her speech was marred by renewed tears.

“My dear Miss Hartington…”

With an inarticulate sound, Euphie ran across to a sofa and threw herself down on it, giving way totally to tears. Looking distinctly upset, Lord Fanshawe followed her, though for the moment he could do nothing but make soothing noises and stroke her hair.

Gradually Euphie’s sobs subsided. After a while she sat up, sniffing, and began to use the handkerchief again. When she could control her voice, she said, “There is really not the least need for you to stay. I shall be perfectly all right in a moment. I’m sorry for making such a scene.” She tossed her head. “I’ll have your handkerchief laundered and sent back.”

“Blast my handkerchief.” He sat down beside her. “I had no idea I seemed so offensive to you, and I promise I never meant to be supercilious. I have an unfortunate manner sometimes, I know. Others have mentioned it. But I never meant to exhibit it with you.”

“Yes, yes, very well,” said Euphie tiredly. “It doesn’t matter. It was very wrong of me to speak as I did. But now, could you—”

“Don’t you see,” he went on, leaning forward, “I was anxious about gossip because my feelings for you are very deep. I could not bear having them mauled over by the ton.”

“Your feelings for me?” echoed Euphie, astonished.

He laughed ruefully. “Now I’ve torn it.”

She stared at him.

“Exactly so.” He ran a hand through his hair. “You are very young, Miss Hartington.”

“I shall be eighteen next month.”

“And I am more than ten years from eighteen. It is a large difference.”

Euphie shrugged.

He smiled. “It is. I had not thought to broach this subject with you for some time. I wanted to go slowly, to give you a chance to see things and form your own tastes and ideas.”

Euphie’s tears had nearly disappeared. “My tastes in what?”

“Everything.”

She considered this. “Well, it is an odd circumstance, but whether because of my unusual childhood or because I found music very young, my tastes have always been very settled.”

“Throughout your lengthy career?”

She looked directly into his eyes for a long moment Something she saw there seemed to reassure her, and she nodded, lips quivering. “And you know, I am quite determined to make a grand marriage.”

“Are you indeed?”

“Yes. Aggie and Thalia never cared for that sort of thing, but I am different.” She looked at him from beneath her lashes. “I should like a title.”

“Should you?”

“Oh, yes. And large houses and lots of servants.”

“What you deserve, minx, is a husband who beats you soundly.”

“Oh, no.” She raised great shocked eyes to his face, but her cheeks showed irrepressible dimples.

He laughed. “But as no such courageous candidate has presented himself, will you have me, impudence?”

Euphie’s smile broke through, and she nodded shyly. He drew her close and took the handkerchief to wipe the remaining traces of tears from her face. This done, he kissed her very expertly.

After a while they sat back together on the sofa. “You
do
have a great house, don’t you?” inquired Euphie.

“Several, my infuriating darling. Bulging with servants of all descriptions.”

“Good,” sighed the girl.

There was another hiatus; then Euphie said, “Oh, Giles, your mother will have an apoplexy!”

“I sincerely hope not.”

“Three engagements in two days!”

“Well, we must break the news gently.” A thought occurred to him. “And we will
not
participate in a multiple wedding in Hanover Square,” he added.

“Oh no. I want my
own
wedding. A lavish one!”

“I daresay Mother will be satisfied with that.”

At this moment Nero leaped from a shelf behind them onto the earl’s shoulder, startling him into an oath. “I suppose you will say that this abominable animal must live with us,” he continued, when he had plucked the cat off and set him down on the floor.

“But of course. He introduced us.”

“Intro… Why, so he did.”

They looked down at Nero, who was casting covetous glances at Lord Fanshawe’s boot. Sensing their regard, he looked up and said, “Mmrrow?”

“You will grow to love him,” laughed Euphie.

“I doubt it. You will have to be content that I love you.”

This notion was so satisfactory that Euphie could not protest. Instead, she slipped an arm about his neck and smiled, which effectively put an end to conversation for quite some time.

Read on for excerpts from Jane Ashford’s brand-new Regency romances!

From
Once Again a Bride

Available now from Sourcebooks Casablanca

Charlotte Rutherford Wylde closed her eyes and enjoyed the sensation of the brush moving rhythmically through her long hair. Lucy had been her maid since she was eleven years old and was well aware that her mistress’s lacerated feelings needed soothing. The whole household was aware, no doubt, but only Lucy cared. The rest of the servants had a hundred subtle, unprovable ways of intensifying the laceration. It had become a kind of sport for them, Charlotte believed, growing more daring as the months passed without reprimand, denied with a practiced blankness that made her doubly a fool.

Lucy stopped brushing and began to braid Charlotte’s hair for the night. Charlotte opened her eyes and faced up to the dressing table mirror. Candlelight gleamed on the creamy lace of her nightdress, just visible under the heavy dressing gown that protected her from drafts. Her bedchamber was cold despite the fire on this bitter March night. Every room in this tall, narrow London house was cold. Cold in so many different ways.

She ought to be changed utterly by these months, Charlotte thought. But the mirror showed her hair of the same coppery gold, eyes the same hazel—though without any hint of the sparkle that had once been called alluring. Her familiar oval face, straight nose, and full lips had been judged pretty a scant year, and a lifetime, ago. She was perhaps too thin, now that each meal was an ordeal. There were dark smudges under her eyes, and they looked hopelessly back at her like those of a trapped animal. She remembered suddenly a squirrel she had found one long-ago winter—frozen during a terrible cold snap that had turned the countryside hard and bitter. It had lain on its side in the snow, its legs poised as if running from icy death.

“There you are, Miss Charlotte.” Lucy put a comforting hand on her shoulder. When they were alone, she always used the old familiar form of address. It was a futile but comforting pretense. “Can I get you anything…?”

“No, thank you, Lucy.” Charlotte tried to put a world of gratitude into her tone as she repeated, “Thank you.”

“You should get into bed. I warmed the sheets.”

“I will. In a moment. You go on to bed yourself.”

“Are you sure I can’t…?”

“I’m all right.”

Neither of them believed it. Lucy pressed her lips together on some reply, then sketched a curtsy and turned to go. Slender, yet solid as a rock, her familiar figure was such a comfort that Charlotte almost called her back. But Lucy deserved her sleep. She shouldn’t be deprived just because Charlotte expected none.

The door opened and closed. The candles guttered and steadied. Charlotte sat on, rehearsing thoughts and plans she had already gone over a hundred times. There must be something she could do, some approach she could discover to make things—if not right, at least better. Not hopeless, not unendurable.

Her father—her dear, scattered, and now departed father—had done his best. She had to believe that. Tears came as she thought of him; when he died six months ago, he’d no longer remembered who she was. The brutal erosion of his mind, his most prized possession, had been complete.

It had happened so quickly. Yes, he’d always been distracted, so deep in his scholarly work that practicalities escaped him. But in his library, reading and writing, corresponding with other historians, he’d never lost or mistaken the smallest detail. Until two years ago, when the insidious slide began—unnoticed, dismissed, denied until undeniable. Then he had set all his fading faculties on getting her “safely” married. That one idea had obsessed and sustained him as all else slipped away. Perforce, he’d looked among his own few friends and acquaintances for a groom. Why, why had he chosen Henry Wylde?

In her grief and fear, Charlotte had put up no protest. She’d even been excited by the thought of moving from her isolated country home to the city, with all its diversions and amusements. And so, at age eighteen, she’d been married to a man almost thirty years older. Had she imagined it would be some sort of eccentric fairy tale? How silly and ignorant had she been? She couldn’t remember now.

It wasn’t all stupidity; unequal matches need not be disastrous. She had observed a few older husbands who treated their young wives with every appearance of delight and appreciation. Not quite so much older, perhaps. But… from the day after the wedding, Henry had treated her like a troublesome pupil foisted upon his household for the express purpose of irritating him. He criticized everything she did. Just this morning, at breakfast, he had accused her of forgetting his precise instructions on how to brew his tea. She had
not
forgotten, not one single fussy step; she had carefully counted out the minutes in her head—easily done because Henry allowed no conversation at breakfast. He always brought a book. She was sure she had timed it exactly right, and still he railed at her for ten minutes, in front of the housemaid. She had ended up with the knot in her stomach and lump in her throat that were her constant companions now. The food lost all appeal.

If her husband did talk to her, it was most often about Tiberius or Hadrian or some other ancient. He spent his money—quite a lot of money, she suspected, and most of it hers—and all his affection on his collections. The lower floor of the house was like a museum, filled with cases of Roman coins and artifacts, shelves of books about Rome. For Henry, these things were important, and she, emphatically, was not.

After nearly a year of marriage, Charlotte still felt like a schoolgirl. It might have been different if there were a chance of children, but her husband seemed wholly uninterested in the process of getting them. And by this time, the thought of any physical contact with him repelled Charlotte so completely that she didn’t know what she would do if he suddenly changed his mind.

She stared into the mirror, watching the golden candle flames dance, feeling the drafts caress the back of her neck, seeing her life stretch out for decades in this intolerable way. It had become quite clear that it would drive her mad. And so, she had made her plan. Henry avoided her during the day, and she could not speak to him at meals, with the prying eyes of servants all around them. After dinner, he went to his club and stayed until she had gone to bed. So she would not go to bed. She would stay up and confront him, no matter how late. She would insist on changes.

She had tried waiting warm under the bedclothes but had failed to stay awake for two nights. Last night, she’d fallen asleep in the armchair and missed her opportunity. Tonight, she would sit up straight on the dressing table stool with no possibility of slumber. She rose and set the door ajar, ignoring the increased draft this created. She could see the head of the stairs from here; he could not get by her. She would thrash it out tonight, no matter what insults he flung at her. The memory of that cold, dispassionate voice reciting her seemingly endless list of faults made her shiver, but she would not give up.

The candles fluttered and burned down faster. Charlotte waited, jerking upright whenever she started to nod off. Once, she nearly fell off the backless stool. But she endured, hour after hour, into the deeps of the night. She replaced the stubs of the candles. She added coals to the fire, piled on another heavy shawl against the chill. She rubbed her hands together to warm them, gritted her teeth, and held on until light showed in the crevices of the draperies and birds began to twitter outside. Another day had dawned, and Henry Wylde had not come home. Her husband had spent the night elsewhere.

Pulling her shawls closer, Charlotte contemplated this stupefying fact. The man she saw as made of ice had a secret life? He kept a mistress? He drank himself into insensibility and collapsed at his club? He haunted the gaming hells with feverish wagers? Impossible to picture any of these things. But she had never waited up so long before. She had no idea what he did with his nights.

Chilled to the bone, she rose, shut the bedroom door, and crawled into her cold bed. She needed to get warm; she needed to decide if she could use this new information to change the bitter circumstances of her life. Perhaps Henry was not completely without feelings, as she had thought. Her eyelids drooped. Perhaps there was hope.