Chapter 14
CHAPTER 14
“ O h, dear me,” Aunt Agatha tutted as she fixed her monocle, gazing at the scandal sheets of the London Gazette while having afternoon tea, two days after the Duke’s ball. “That is a hideous picture of you, Alice.”
The knife Alice had been using to spread marmalade on her toast hovered over the crumpet. She blinked, “Pardon?”
Her aunt did not answer yet because her uncle, dressed in his plain waistcoat and shirtsleeves, sat his cup of weak tea on the table and kissed his wife. “Good morning, dear.”
Aunt Agatha looked up with a thin smile. “Are your travels finished for a while, Richard? I hope you would have some time to chauffeur your wife and daughter around to the various ton affairs instead of letting them assume we are poor waifs, hm?”
“My apologies,” Richard sipped his drink. “What were you saying about Alice?”
“This,” her aunt spun the paper.
It showed a caricature of a petite blond lady, tripping with two glasses in hand, and a man who was supposedly Benedict lowered to one knee, holding up a bouquet of rolled-up pound notes, and what appeared to be diamond rings spilling from every conceivable pocket, looking like a besotted fool.
“I do not appreciate them disparaging your relationship, Alice. Richard, will you have a word with the editor today?” Her aunt ordered.
Alice cleared her throat, “I think that might do more harm than good, Aunt. It is simply gossip. By next week, they will be finding another poor soul to make fun of.”
“Hmph,” Aunt Agatha snorted as she shook out the paper. “ The ton is all aflutter with news of Marquess Brampton courting, dare we say, an outsider! Hush hush, gently we shall tread. Discreet inquiries into this Miss Alice Winslow have unveiled… nothing much.
The lady, er, forgive us, Miss, is the daughter of a late merchandiser and a governess, decent enough occupations, we suppose, and eyewitnesses have reposted that the meeting between the two was complexly happenstance
A few ladies who know the miss in question have commented that she is severely lacking in appearance and gentility to become a duchess, as we all know that Duke Valhaven is handing his ducal role to his brother upon his graduation . Is the ton ready for a gentry duchess? A makeshift one, that is. We shall know soon .”
With her stomach turning, Alice sipped her lukewarm tea and tried to control the roll in her heart.
“What’s that?” Eliza asked bluntly as she entered the room, gazing at the paper in her mother’s hand.
“A poor caricature of dear Alice,” her mother said.
Taking a look, Eliza burst into a peal of mocking laughter. “It looks exactly like you, Alice. Even the exaggerated ears!”
“Thank you, Eliza,” Alice said emptily.
A discreet knock on the door drew their attention to the doorway where Mr. Charles, one of the two footmen her uncle employed, bowed. “I am sorry to interrupt, but Lord Rutledge is here to see Miss Penelope.”
The cup in Eliza’s hand crashed to the floor, splintering expensive crockery everywhere and soaking her shoes. “ What ?” Eliza spluttered.
Alice sat quietly as the footman reiterated his opening statement and the unholy rage that creased Eliza’s face made Alice’s heart curl in fear.
It only grew worse when the lord entered; his blond hair was combed rakishly to the side, and he was dressed dapperly in a checkered brown jacket and matching silk cravat.
Her aunt looked moonstruck, but her uncle handled the sudden visit with aplomb, and Rutledge was the perfect gentleman, his smile wide and his words light.
“Oh my goodness,” Aunt Agatha’s hand fluttered as she fanned her face. “Another titled lord for my girls. Dear husband, I think I may faint.”
We are your girls now? Since when?
“No collapsing, my dear,” Richard said. “Stay with us, please. After all, isn’t this what you wanted for your girls?”
Penelope entered the room, clad in a white taffeta dress; with its tight waist and elegant ruffled elbow-length sleeves, she looked like a princess. “My lord,” she curtsied.
“You look like a beautiful dove,” Rutledge said, but Alice noted a strain in his words, as if he were forcing them out of his mouth instead of them coming from his heart.
“She does, doesn’t she,” Aunt Agatha gushed. “Will you be joining us for luncheon, my lord?”
“If you don’t mind,” Rutledge smiled.
Alice dropped her utensils while feeling utterly discomfited and a bit ill. “Aunt, would you mind chaperoning Penelope? I just remembered that I have to go to the Pall Mall for some ribbons.”
Aunt Agatha nodded absently. “Of course, dear.”
Slipping away from the table, Alice met Rutledge’s eyes and internally grimaced at the hardness in the man’s gaze; it vanished in seconds as he took Penelope’s hand and kissed it.
Hurrying, she left to her bedchamber and quickly changed her homey attire into a peach dress, donned her bonnet and coat, then left for the carriage with her reticule in hand. Only when the vehicle set off did Alice feel that she could breathe.
“It is the best thing,” she tried to argue with herself. “If she is in that way, it is best that they marry. Otherwise, it will spell her destruction. She’ll be an outcast. They’ll marry for a year; the babe will be born, and they’ll separate. It is better than the alternative.”
Speaking of alternatives; what shall I do with Benedict and Edward?
The carriage ran through the streets of London, making the surroundings a blur, or maybe it was her state of mind that made it look so—until they came to the bookstore.
She thanked the driver and told him to return by evening as she felt she needed to be away from the house for a full day.
Entering the store, a haven away from her home, she promised to visit the dining lounge and sample the pastries they had on display. She took the shelves, meandering through them, wondering what title would catch her eye.
She perused her way through sections of history, architecture, and sculpture, before winding her way to the back of the store where the romance novels and poetry were housed.
“ The Pauper’s Wife ?” she read out loud while plucking the book from the shelf. “What could this be about?”
“Well, well, if it is not Miss Alice Winslow, skulking through the bookshelves as you once did at Lady Loughrey's,” a light female voice sang out, a voice Alice knew all too well.
“Diana!” She exclaimed, delighted. “You’re back!”
Four years older than her, Diana Duhart had been Alice’s older classmate at school and the one older girl who had not snubbed her nose at the poor ten-year-old because of her gentry position.
Alice had mourned the day she had left but was grateful for the two years they had shared. Months after her third year, she’d learned that Diana had married and moved away from the country.
Hugging her old friend, Alice held her at arm’s length. “How are you back?”
“My cousin’s wedding is being held in two weeks and Mama wanted all the family back to celebrate,” Diana said, while patting her tight dark curls. “Speaking of weddings, are the papers true? You should have seen my mouth this morning when I read the scandal papers.
“I said to myself, it cannot be true, but then again, if anyone would dare to break the unwritten rules of the ton, it would be you,” Diana beamed. “So, tell me, are you truly being courted by the next Duke of Valhaven?”
Alice made to answer but clamped her mouth tightly before biting her bottom lip; keenly, Diana caught on. “Oh, no, that spells trouble.”
“I—”
Without a word, Diana steered Alice out and away from the books to the dining lounge and to a table in the corner. “I’ll get some hot chocolate, and you can tell me what is bothering you.”
Ashamed, Alice shook her head. “I cannot ask that of you.”
“Oh, don’t you fret.” Diana called a server over and put in the request for the hot drink and slices of apple cake. When she was done, she added, “It’s the fun of having a rich industrialist American husband. You should absolutely come and see New York one day, Alice. It’s an amazing city. Now, what is bothering you?”
Careful about the people around her, Alice phrased her situation in the hypotheticals. “When you were ill, did you ever have to choose between sensible cordials or heady hot elderberry wine?”
It took Diana a hair longer than Alice expected her friend to catch on, but then when she did, light sprung into her eyes, “I gather you mean if it is worth the risk to try something that might make you over a wheelbarrow or if it is best to keep to what works slowly and steadily?”
“Yes,” Alice emphasized slowly, while the waiter came with their refreshments.
“Well,” Diana sipped her drink. “There comes a time when you would do well with the slow cure, there are some more merits to choosing the logical option that will help, but the wine, the wine, the wine, the wine . It sparks something inside you that that cordial does not.”
Gazing into the rich drink, Alice sighed, “But what happens when you wake up in the cold light of day after you’ve drunk the wine and realize you have made a mistake?”
“Is choosing your heart over your head always a risk? Yes and indeed, it often leads to more than simply going along or against society’s rules,” Diana replied. “I married an American and Mama almost had a conniption when I rejected a viscount with seventy years of history, according to the Debrett’s, in favor of a young railroad industrialist.”
“But it worked for you.”
“It did,” Diana replied. “Choosing the right… drink, the one your heart and soul feels connected to— is not without risk. That is not to say the staid choice of the cordial is without merit, but sometimes it is better to take a leap of faith than settle for mediocracy.”
She leaned in, her tone barely above a whisper. “Is this other man different from Lord Brampton?”
Alice could only nod. “Yes, but he doesn’t believe in love.”
“Then show him how wrong he is,” Diana chimed. “And with how headstrong you are, I know you will find a way.”
Brushing her mopes away, Alice asked, “So, tell me, what is America like?”
With his hair curling from a warm bath, Edward was dressed in a thick woolen shirt, loose trousers, and silk robe, sipping a hot infusion of cloves in his study; he prayed the tickle in the back of his throat would vanish quickly.
“Your Grace,” Ramsay stepped into his study. “I am sorry to disturb you, but you have a rather insistent visitor.”
“Who is—” As Ramsay stepped aside, Alice came in, her expression wary. Flicking his eyes to his butler, Edward then ordered, “ I see . Make sure we are not disturbed, Ramsay.”
When the door closed, he asked, “To what do I owe the pleasure, Miss Winslow?”
Her lips firmed. “So, it is Miss Winslow now?”
He leaned into his chair and drummed his fingers on the table, head cocking to the side, “Would you rather I address you by your Christian name? Because I will.”
“What I need is for you to promise me that nothing of what happened the other night will happen again,” Alice notched her chin up. “I cannot risk my future with Benedict because of this—this—”
“Mutual attraction?”
“Devilish distraction ,” she said stiffly. “I do thank you for getting Rutledge to do the right thing, but you and I cannot continue sinning behind your brother’s back. I hate myself for even deceiving him and a part of me is hating myself for….”
He waited, then smirked, “For feeling something other than polite amusement?”
“Whichever way you want to call it, it is wrong, and I am not that sort of person. I am no lightskirt tart going around deceiving men,” Alice said forcefully—her hands fisting by her side were almost trembling with the strength of her words. “And I will not allow you to make me so.”
Gently, Edward rose from his chair and rounded his desk, “Truly, it is adorable how fiercely you are trying to convince yourself about what you do not feel for me.”
“I feel contempt and sorrow at myself knowing that the one I am connected to is your brother, but I allowed you to have your wicked way with me,” she pressed.
“Do you really regret it?” Edward asked as he leaned on the desk.
“How can you face your brother in the face and not feel any guilt!” she lamented. “Do you have no shame?”
Sidestepping the question, Edward asked, “See, I don’t think you hate yourself for it, Alice. You simply have not allowed yourself to accept that you feel more for me than you do for Benedict.”
She stared at him blankly. “… What ?”
“Admit it,” he shrugged. “I cannot do it for you.”
“If you think so, you are either foxed out of your mind or mad and on the way to Bedlam,” she said in outrage.
“Has Benedict made you an offer yet?” He asked calmly.
Her nose wrinkled, “No. Well, not yet .”
“Which means you are a free woman,” Edward told her.
She flung her hands up in frustration. “Do you not see the issue here or do you not care? What we are doing is immoral .”
“Never said I was a saint,” Edward shrugged. “But if you are so decided, I will never touch you again. Not even when you ask me to.”
“I have never asked you to do such a thing!” Alice protested.
This time, Edward, knowing he was breaking the promise he’d stated seconds ago, reached out, and holding her chin, said, “You might not know it but your body… Your pulse is racing, Alice—” his fingers brushed her cheek, “—your skin is flushed and your breath increased twice its pace the very few minutes you have stood before me.”
She yanked her head away and he dropped his arm, a strip of red across her nose and cheeks, while her breasts rose and fell as rapidly as the beating pulse under her ear. His gaze roved over her silently.
“I don’t know what you want with me when it is clear that you do not want anything else,” she said quietly. “You do not want a commitment because you prize your freedom and you scoff at the notion of love because, well, I don’t know why you do, but that, in itself, is not enough for me.”
The lost, wistful look on Alice’s face stirred up a spark in a dark, frozen corner inside his chest—a dangerous spark of doubt and regret. He didn’t want to give her pain, but was there any other way? He was not in the way to marry—for any reason, money, companionship, even the basic cordiality of mutual respect.
“The one thing I could ever offer you is the one thing I know you would never accept,” Edward said while returning to his chair. “You are not in the market for that sort of arrangement, Miss Winslow.”
She wrapped her arms around her middle, “To be your mistress, isn’t that it?”
“In less vulgar terms,” Edward sipped his cooled drink and grimaced at the raw feeling in the back of his throat. “But essentially, yes.” Resting the cup, he asked, “Is there any other reason you came here than to tell me we will never become anything significant?”
“I suppose not,” she replied softly.
“You are free to leave whenever you’d like,” he muttered and held back the grimace at how uncouth and harsh it sounded. “But Alice, you need to ask yourself, what do you truly want? Who do you truly want?”
She pivoted to him, her eyes big and brimming with a sheen of tears. “That’s unfair.”
“Why?”
“Because what I want is what I will never allow myself to have,” Alice said before walking through the door.
She would have done them both a service if she had slammed the door behind her, but she left with a whisper and not the bang he’d so wanted. Dropping the quill onto a blotter, Edward sunk into his seat and pressed the heel of his left hand into his eye.
“Damn and blast, what is wrong with me?” he asked himself with a croak.
Giving up on the very idea of working, Edward left for his rooms, tugged out a drawer in his washing room, and took a dram of laudanum. Back in his chambers, he pulled the drapes down and fell back against the pillows as fatigue began to spread outward in languorous waves.
His eyes and limbs grew heavy, and he barely felt when Atticus clambered onto the bed and curled up at his feet. Sleep beckoned, and too exhausted and ill to resist, he finally followed.