Chapter Nine
Fletcher received a note from Louisa asking him to meet with her with all possible haste.
Worried she had found herself in a spot of trouble—and perhaps hoping, with no reason to do so, that she’d decided to toss over Rotherfeld—he wrote back agreeing but asked where, suggesting his mother’s house.
She agreed, and so now Fletcher was in his mother’s sitting room, drinking cooling tea as he waited for Louisa.
The thought had been that at least here, they’d be chaperoned by Fletcher’s mother, but he’d quite forgotten that she’d gone to Bath for a few days, so, aside from the staff, he and Louisa would be quite alone.
Perhaps Louisa could tell her parents and fiancé that the dowager Marchioness of Greystone was here; if Fletcher had forgotten she’d left town, society probably had, too.
Not that he had any untoward plans. He intended simply to speak with Louisa, to let her have her say.
He worried she’d gotten herself in some kind of trouble.
But he knew that if he went to her home or she came to his, anyone who spotted them could talk—and keep Louisa from speaking freely—and Fletcher would prefer not to have to meet Rotherfeld with pistols at dawn.
Although Fletcher was a damned good shot, so maybe he’d be all right.
But, no, he should not be harboring fantasies about doing away with Louisa’s fiancé.
Lord, what a mess.
When Hoskins, the elderly Greystone butler, creaked that Lady Louisa had arrived, Fletcher stood as she swept into the room. Hoskins knew Louisa as well as anyone, had watched her grow up, and understood the nature of her relationship with Fletcher, at least until recently.
“Leave us, Hoskins,” Fletcher said, a bit loudly, “but ask Mrs. Stone to send up tea.”
“Yes, my lord.” Hoskins bowed and left.
Fletcher turned to look at Louisa. She seemed in a tizzy. She was, of course, as artfully put together as she always was, in a lavender day dress, a yellow overcoat, and her hair pinned up in an elaborate design. But the expression on her face looked harried.
This did not stop Fletcher from glancing at her bosom. It was right there, after all.
“I am having a bit of a crisis,” said Louisa.
Hoskins came back and helped her out of her coat. He left again, saying he’d hang her coat near the door. Poor Hoskins had, perhaps, gotten too slow to catch Louisa when she was worked up like this.
“Will you sit?” He gestured to the settee.
“Oh, all right.” She perched at the edge of it while he took a chair opposite her. She glanced at the open door, seeming agitated.
“I forgot until I found the house empty that Mother is taking in the waters at Bath for a few days.”
“Oh.”
“She took some of the staff with her. It’s just Hoskins, who can barely hear anymore, and the kitchen staff, who are downstairs. I apologize if this feels like false pretenses…”
“No, it’s fine. I’d rather your mother not hear what I have to say. Who knows she’s in Bath?”
“I barely did, so I suspect not many people. I believe she and the Dowager Duchess of Swynford went together, but I don’t think anyone else knows.”
“Then if anyone asks, I had tea with your mother today.”
“Yes. But in reality, we are quite alone. You can speak freely.”
“Fletcher.” Louisa wrung her hands. “I fear I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
“Talk to me.”
It would have to wait, though, because Mrs. Stone walked in with tea service then.
She set the tray on the table at the center of the room, and Fletcher was a bit surprised to see not only tea, but also an array of little cakes, as if Mrs. Stone somehow knew there’d be company today even though the mistress was out.
“Did you conjure these cakes with witchcraft, Mrs. Stone?” Fletcher asked.
Mrs. Stone winked. “As it happens, I’m training the new girl in the kitchen. I’m pleased to see Lady Louisa, because now we will not grow fat eating all these cakes ourselves. Please enjoy. I know the pink ones with the berries are your favorites, my lady.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Stone,” said Louisa. “I believe one of those cakes will be just the thing.”
Mrs. Stone smiled and left.
Fletcher took a moment to marvel that even the Greystone staff loved Louisa. How had it taken Fletcher so long to realize he did?
“What is your terrible mistake?” Fletcher asked, once they were alone.
Louisa busied herself pouring a cup of tea and dropping several sugar cubes into it before she said, “I suspect I have been ruled by my baser instincts and have agreed to marry a man who is not much more than a very handsome empty shirt.”
Fletcher tamped down the triumph he felt. Carefully, he said, “What makes you say that?”
In truth, he knew the answer, but he wanted to hear her say it.
She sat back on the settee and took a sip of tea.
“One could argue that Daniel—Rotherfeld—and I have been courting for nearly a year, but it is much less time than that because we spent the summer apart.” She seemed to be working through something as she talked. She kept her hands busy.
“Yes,” said Fletcher.
“And in all the time we’ve spent together, you’ll be pleased to know, he has behaved himself impeccably. Always polite. Never inappropriate.”
“Why would that please me?”
“I assume you do not want me to marry a cad.”
Fletcher could not hide his revulsion to the idea. “Indeed not.”
“My point being that…oh, I don’t know if I should say this.”
“Just speak with me. I promise not to tease or be mocking. You can tell me anything.”
“But you got upset when we talked on the way to the opera.”
A fair point. “In my defense, you were trying to pry information out of me. And, again, we are alone, so if you need to discuss something, you should feel free to do so, even if it is of a personal nature. But don’t feel like you need to tell me something you are uncomfortable with.”
“The topic did not bother you?”
Fletcher worried she wanted to talk about sex again. “It did, but again, you were pushing me to tell you things about myself I was uncomfortable sharing. I want you to be able to share your thoughts with me, regardless of the topic. But if I feel you have stepped over a line, I will stop you.”
“Okay. That is, there is not much to tell, because as I said, Daniel—that is, Rotherfeld—has never done anything in the same neighborhood as inappropriate. Always a perfect gentleman. Even when we are alone.”
Fletcher was not sure what to make of that. “What is the issue, then?”
“Well, I have been feeling for the last week or so that…” She looked off into the distance. “I mean, you saw him at the garden party.”
“Birds.”
“Yes, birds. And grain futures and balancing ledgers and the speed at which paint dries and any number of completely dull topics. It’s like once I learned he was boring, I couldn’t stop seeing it.
Then he called on me yesterday and I tried again in earnest to learn what there was under his very good-looking surface. ”
Fletcher’s heart pounded. His jealousy was becoming an ugly thing. “May we refrain from commenting on Rotherfeld’s looks?”
“They are relevant to my crisis,” said Louisa, although the edges of her mouth ticked up.
Devil take him. “Carry on.”
“I asked about his interests last week,” she said. “Do you know what he said his current keen interest is?”
“The growth of grass on the moors? The land speed of a specific species of snail?”
“Farming techniques.”
Fletcher was unable school his face. Rotherfeld truly was as scintillating as the reference books in Fletcher’s library—which was to say, not at all. “Farming techniques.”
“I had engaged him in conversation with the hope that I could find some topic on which you and he could find some common knowledge. The only time he came close was when discussing horse racing.”
“I do like a good race, but we’d run out of things to discuss in five minutes.”
“He likes the gambling part of it.”
Of course he did. Fletcher was more interested in the horses. “That is almost exciting, at least. A common gentlemanly pursuit.”
“Uh-huh. And then there are investments.”
“That holds some promise. What has he invested in?”
“Textiles.”
Fletcher laughed for lack of anything better to say. “Naturally. Why would he invest in anything risky or interesting?”
Louisa’s brow furrowed. “Do you not like Rotherfeld?”
Fletcher hesitated. He wasn’t sure how to approach this. He wanted Louisa to know what he really thought, and if she was open to it, he wanted to talk her out of marrying Rotherfeld, but he wasn’t sure he understood what she wanted. “Do you want my honest opinion?”
“Yes. Unvarnished truth.”
“I’ve only had an extended conversation with him once, and I’m sure he’s a perfectly nice fellow, but I found him boring. Which I’d apologize for saying, but you’ve said as much yourself.”
“I have, yes. I have a similar issue with him.”
“The birds.”
“Yes, but generally. I find conversation with him difficult to sustain. We swiftly run out of topics to discuss.”
Fletcher sighed. He struggled with whether to push or whether to let her get where he wanted her to go on her own.
It occurred to him that even if he talked her out of marrying Rotherfeld, that did not mean she’d marry Fletcher, so maybe it was better to let her do the work.
“Yes, but I don’t really think I should get involved with—”
“I kissed him.”
Fletcher’s stomach dropped. “You did?”
“You’re the one who suggested I enact some kind of intimate conversation with him. We were alone, so I brought up our wedding night. He put me off, but I asked him to kiss me, since we’re engaged and all and he’s barely touched me.”
“Oh.” Well, Fletcher really hoped for the chandelier above him to fall on him and put him out of his misery.
“And I’ve kissed him a few times since to see if the first time was just an awkward moment.”
“And?”
“It was terrible. Every time.”
Thank God. Fletcher fought back a smile. “How could it have been terrible?”
“I don’t know. But kisses in novels are always nice. Is kissing nice?”