Chapter 2 #2
“I am not,” she shot back, voice firm despite the fluttering nerves. “I have the letter!” She began rifling through her reticule on the floor, knocking aside gloves and handkerchiefs, desperate to prove her point.
Rowan groaned, the sound low and frustrated, and he rose to his full height.
The chair scraped sharply behind him. “Enough!” His voice carried over hers, stern.
“I am done with this. You are in the wrong house. A matchmaker? How could you not ascertain the proper estate? You are not even equipped for this task.”
Lucy’s fingers fumbled over her bag, finally finding the folded letter. She rose slightly from her seat, keeping her tone measured and respectful, though her cheeks were aflame. “Your Grace,” she said carefully, holding it out, “I am not mistaken. This is why I am here.”
Rowan paused mid-step, regarding her with a gaze that was equal parts disbelief and frustration. His jaw tightened, though he said nothing, allowing her the dignity of her protest, however futile it might appear.
Lucy’s hand trembled slightly, but she held the letter aloft, the paper crisp between her fingers.
Rowan walked over to her side of the table, and Lucy instinctively stood up.
He reached out, and before Lucy could pull back, his fingers closed around the letter.
He stood in front of her, his presence commanding, impossible to ignore.
He unfolded the letter slowly, scanning its contents. Lucy watched every flicker of expression. His narrowed eyes, the tightening of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows. There was a subtle shift, a softening beneath the usual steel, as though a puzzle piece had finally revealed its shape.
Then, just for a heartbeat, she saw it. The realization.
But it was not the kind of realization she was expecting.
No... she could tell then that he did not write the letter.
It seemed as though he was regarding the paper for the first time.
Someone had orchestrated this, and he seemed to know precisely who.
Her stomach tightened as her pulse quickened, and she found herself staring at him, not wanting to look away but unsure if she should.
No wonder something felt off about the letter when she had received it that day in Selina’s study.
He returned the letter to her and took in a sharp breath. “Miss Crampton, like I said, I did not send this letter. You have come for nothing. Perhaps… you would do best to leave.”
Lucy’s chest rose and fell quickly as he turned to leave. Instinctively, she walked right into his path, abruptly halting him mid-step. For a second, he faltered, almost bumping into her.
She reached out and steadied him, her hand brushing his arm in a fleeting, charged touch. The warmth of his skin, the strength beneath his tailored sleeve, made her pulse stutter.
“You… cannot leave,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the fluttering in her chest. “Not yet. You must hear me.”
Rowan’s eyes, dark and unreadable, flickered down to her hand on his arm then back to her face. A faint exhale escaped him, almost imperceptible, and the tension shifted. He remained still, commanding as ever, but the sharp edge of certainty had softened.
Lucy held her ground, every ounce of resolve tethered to the letter still clenched in her other hand. She could feel him studying her, analyzing, weighing, but she did not retreat.
“If you did not send the letter, then who did?” she questioned. “It bears your seal.”
Rowan’s jaw tightened. “It does,” he admitted. “But I did not send it.”
Lucy blinked, confusion flickering across her features. “Then who did?”
“My son,” he said outrightly. “My eldest.”
Her breath caught. “Your son sent the letter?”
He inclined his head, expression taut with controlled irritation.
“He apparently believes his father requires someone. He is wrong. It was a mistake. I do not require a wife, Miss Crampton. I have my children, my estate, my responsibilities. I have no need of a matchmaker nor of the fuss this letter has wrought.”
Her fingers tightened around the crisp paper. “Then… I have come all this way for nothing?”
Rowan’s expression darkened with exasperation. He stepped back, brushing past her as if to leave, his coat brushing hers, sending an involuntary shiver up her spine. “You have, indeed. You are best advised to return to your aunt, Miss Crampton. This matter is concluded.”
The study door clicked softly behind him, and Lucy remained frozen for a heartbeat, the echo of his departing steps lingering like a ghost in the room.
She pressed her palms to the desk, her fingers brushing over the polished surface, grounding herself.
The reality of the moment pressed down..
. the humiliation, the frustration, the sting of futility.
She drew in a shuddering breath and straightened, but the strength was hollow. Her gaze swept the room, the bookshelves lined with leather-bound volumes, the fine tapestries, the vast windows letting in the fading light... but nothing could fill the sudden emptiness gnawing at her chest.
Her mind spun, replaying every word. This was her one chance, her only chance to prove myself.
Now, it seemed, she had failed before she had even begun.
Her aunt’s trust, her training, her opportunity to step into a life she had long dreamed of, all of it felt as though it had slipped through her fingers.
Lucy sank into the nearest chair, letting the letter rest in her lap, her gaze distant. “I came all this way for nothing,” she whispered, almost to herself, the words heavy on her tongue. “Perhaps I am not meant to do this at all.”
A soft sigh escaped her lips. For the first time since leaving her aunt’s estate, she felt the uncertainty settle in her bones, the bitter taste of a mistake she could not yet correct.
“Wait! Wait! Wait! Stop the carriage!” a voice came from outside the moving carriage.
Lucy blinked, the words slicing through her fog of disappointment and reflection. She pressed her hands to the windowpane, startled by the abrupt interruption. The carriage jolted to a halt, and the horses shifted nervously beneath the sudden command.
Before she could fully process what was happening, the door creaked open. Standing there was a small figure, no more than twelve years old, his dark coat slightly rumpled, hair tumbling into a shock of curls that framed a face far too serious for his years.
The boy looked up at her with wide, earnest eyes, his small hand gripping the strap of a leather satchel that swung at his side. “You are Madame Selina Mullens? The matchmaker?”
The boy’s question hung in the air. Lucy blinked, unsure how to respond. “I am not Madame Selina,” she said cautiously, straightening in her seat. “I am Lucy Crampton, her niece. She sent me.”
The boy’s eyes brightened at the confirmation, and without another word, he leapt into the carriage beside her.
The door slammed shut with a decisive thud, and the horses clattered back into motion, sending a jolt through the floorboards.
Lucy gripped the edge of the seat, heart racing, startled by both his sudden presence and the swiftness of his action.
“I am Anthony Clawridge,” he said matter-of-factly, settling with the air of someone much older than his years. “First son of the Duke of Langridge, and you...” He tilted his head, studying her closely. “...are here because of the letter.”
Lucy’s mind spun. She stared at him, trying to read the expression on his small, earnest face. “It was you. You sent the letter?” she asked cautiously, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
Anthony nodded. “Yes. I wrote it myself. I thought… you could help. You must remain here in Langridge. Father needs a wife, someone proper, someone to care for us. I wanted someone who could make the household right again.”
Lucy’s pulse fluttered between frustration and disbelief. She couldn’t decide whether to be angry at the audacity of a twelve-year-old orchestrating this scheme or impressed by his determination. “You do realize that you have humiliated me by doing this without the Duke’s knowledge?”
Anthony’s small hands clenched the straps of his satchel.
“I know, and I apologize. I know it seems… bold. But you don’t understand.
My father won’t ask anyone for help. He is a proud man.
He’ll never admit he needs help. But he does.
He needs help desperately. He needs someone to make the house a home, to care for us. Miss Crampton, we need your help.”
Lucy frowned, leaning back slightly. “So, you decided that sending a letter to a matchmaker without telling him was the way to do it?”
“Yes,” Anthony’s eyes widened, earnest and unwavering.
“It was my decision. I wrote it myself. My father has three sons. I am the oldest. Our governesses are the ones practically raising us at this point. I can tell you without a doubt that we need someone. A wife for my father and a mother for us. My father can be a stubborn man, so if he won’t take the initiative, I will.
I can’t do it. I don’t know what to say to my brothers.
I’m only a boy. I heard that Madame Selina is clever and that she understands people.
That’s why I wrote to her. So she might be able to find a suitable lady for my father. ”
Lucy stared at him, blinking in disbelief. “You expect me to convince your father, the Duke of Langridge, to accept a wife when he vehemently does not want to?”
Anthony’s expression hardened with determination. “Yes.”
Lucy’s chest tightened. She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to suppress her frustration. “So let me get this straight. You’ve orchestrated my entire journey here based on your belief that a stranger can accomplish what your father refuses to admit he needs?”
Anthony’s shoulders straightened, his small frame suddenly rigid with resolve.
“Perhaps it was a foolish thing to do, but I had to try. I may be young, but I’m being taught to be a Duke.
Everything I do, every lesson, every expectation, is to prepare me to lead, to take care of the family.
I cannot fail. Father is strict, and he expects everything of us, all of us.
I need someone to care for my brothers, too.
Not just Father, but for them and me. A mother figure, someone who can make this house feel like a home. ”
Lucy pressed her lips together, astonished at the maturity in his words. “You need someone who will willingly manage the house and care for your family?”
Anthony’s expression softened, a vulnerability peeking through his otherwise resolute demeanor.
“Exactly. Someone who can teach, who can be kind, who can show him and us that a family can be more than rules and duty. I can try to do what I must, but honestly, I am not sure what I am supposed to be doing. That is why I sent for you. I thought maybe you could make it right,” he hesitated, just briefly.
“Father tries. I know he does. But he does not like admitting when he needs help.”
Again, Anthony took a short pause and sat back. “I think…” he continued quietly. “… that he believes asking for help means failing. Especially when it comes to us. That is why I sent for you.”
Lucy shook her head, a small laugh escaping despite herself. “You are remarkably determined for a twelve-year-old.”
He tilted his head, expression unwavering. “I have to be. Someone must. Perhaps you can succeed where others would fail.”
Lucy exhaled, leaning back in her seat. “Oh, this is so complicated.”
Anthony’s lips curved into a small smile. “Will you help me?”
Lucy leaned slightly forward, curiosity tugging at her. “Anthony, forgive me, but I must ask. What happened to your mother? Your birth mother?”
The boy instantly lowered his eyes, a shadow passing over his face. But before he could answer, a sudden clatter of hooves and shouts outside shattered the moment.
“What is that?” Lucy gasped and sprang to her feet as the carriage jolted violently. The door rattled under force, and voices, rough, threatening, echoed from the darkness beyond.
“Bandits,” Anthony muttered, already sliding to the edge of the seat with surprising agility, his small frame tense and alert. “Stay behind me, Miss Crampton.”
Lucy froze. “Stay behind you?” she questioned his audacity, pulling him towards her so she could shield him as the unknown assailants tried to pry the door open. “Stay close. God forbid anything happens to you. Your Papa would have my head.”
Lucy’s mind raced as she scanned the shadows outside the carriage, searching for any way to protect Anthony from the people trying to force their way in.
Her hands clenched at the edges of the seat, her pulse hammering, every instinct screaming at her to act, to shield the boy who had tried to take charge of the impossible situation.
Then, through the cacophony of hooves and shouts, a voice cut sharply through the night air, one she recognized though she could not place it right away. Her breath caught, and her gaze darted toward the source, frozen in confusion.
“That’s… that’s my father’s voice!” Anthony shouted suddenly, his small hand gripping her arm with surprising strength.