Chapter Twelve
Gwendolyn had been too excited to fall asleep immediately, for Milbury’s marriage proposal had taken her by surprise for several reasons.
First, that he had chosen her had caught her completely unprepared.
His cautious nature and the fact he was not going to settle for anything short of love had left her thinking her matchmaking endeavors were going to implode in catastrophic failure.
And all the while, he was falling in love with her.
Receiving his proposal had lightened her heart and elated her beyond anything imaginable.
Which led to the second reason for her surprise.
That she was receptive to the possibility of marrying him had also caught her completely off guard.
She had spent a decade rebuffing all suitors and keeping faithful to Andrew without a moment’s regret until James Milbury had come to her seeking assistance in his search for a suitable bride.
Never in her wildest dreams had she considered herself a potential choice when he first approached her.
But these past few months had been more pleasant than any she remembered having in all her years.
She realized that she might want to accept him.
But was she ready to shed her past?
Despite her fitful sleep, she rose early and took extra care in preparing herself for their excursion to Brighton. She wanted to look her best, although she was not certain why it mattered so much to her. Perhaps because she now knew that he loved her.
It was also possible that she loved him.
But that possibility still scared her and left her in torment.
“Good morning, Gwen. Did you sleep well?” Milbury asked, stepping outside to find her and Agatha waiting beside his carriage and enjoying the warmth on another perfect summer’s day.
She blushed. “It took me a little while to fall asleep. But once I did, yes. I had a very good sleep.”
“And you, Agatha?” he asked her companion out of politeness.
“Oh, the best ever. I’ve never had finer quarters, my lord.”
“Good.” He helped them both into his carriage and climbed in after them. “Let’s hope the house is still standing upon our return,” he jested. “I’m not sure Harting or Mrs. Harting can keep up with my boys.”
“It isn’t too late to take them with us,” Gwen suggested.
He shook his head. “We have too much to do, and the boys will be bored to distraction while dragged from shop to shop. We’ll be back well before nightfall.”
They spent the rest of the ride to Brighton organizing the stops they were to make.
“Invitations first,” Gwendolyn stated. “The stationer’s is not far from your uncle’s bakery shop, Agatha. We can make his shop our second stop because he is on Duchess Fiona’s list of trusted merchants.”
Agatha nodded enthusiastically and turned to Milbury. “Oh, he’ll be pleased to have your business, my lord. Rest assured, I shall put in a good word for you.”
“That is much appreciated,” he said, tossing Gwendolyn a grin.
As it turned out, one of Agatha’s cousins happened to be walking along the street when their carriage drew up in front of the stationery shop. Milbury insisted Agatha go off with her cousin, and they arranged to pick her up at the bakery at three o’clock in the afternoon.
Gwendolyn was relieved to be alone with Milbury…James.
She really ought to call him James now. It felt right to do so. Why did she continue to resist? Even in her own mind, her brain would seesaw between thinking of him as Milbury or more intimately, by his given name.
James.
It was a nice name. One that evoked quiet strength.
They did not take long to select the perfect invitation cards and place a rush on the order in the hope they would be ready by tomorrow or the day after at the latest.
She wanted those invitations sent off so there would be no question he was to hold his house party. She needed this party to happen, even though he had made his choice in a wife.
Her.
But she had to have more time to think about the change this would make in her life, a massive and unexpected change that had her completely upended.
A small, thin man who appeared to be the proprietor scurried toward them as they entered the stationery shop. “May I help you, my lord?”
Milbury had come to Brighton dressed impeccably and looking every inch the powerful marquess. He carried himself with an understated elegance that spoke of his wealth and noble rank. The proprietor was not going to hesitate in catering to his every whim.
Of course, he would also demand a heightened price.
Gwendolyn had also tried to look her prettiest for this excursion, donning a russet silk that added a copper luster to her hair and brought out the bluish-green of her eyes.
The proprietor, a man by the name of Mr. Digby, bowed and scraped and flattered them to the point of embarrassment while she and James looked through the sample books he set before them.
“Excellent. Excellent, my lord,” the man said, continuing to smile obsequiously and bow as they finished looking through all the letterhead styles and placed their order. “I’ll have those invitations done for you by tomorrow before closing time.”
“Lady Gwendolyn and I will pick them up on the morning after.”
They moved on to the baker’s, where they saw Agatha helping out behind her uncle’s counter. “I was only waiting for you to arrive, m’lady. I’ll head off with my cousins after you’ve placed your order.”
Since Fiona had written detailed suggestions, they did not take long in making their dessert selections for every day of the house party.
Of course, Milbury’s cook and her staff were going to prepare most of the food themselves, including the sweet and savory pies.
The more intricate evening desserts were to be left to Agatha’s uncle, who was pleased for the business and looked forward to making the daily deliveries.
Gwendolyn realized she was taking on the role of lady of the house by planning these daily menus, and Milbury seemed to be going along with all her suggestions.
In truth, planning the menus felt natural to her.
She was no stranger to London parties, including the popular al fresco affairs held during the summer months.
The fare at these country house parties could not be much different, but she did take her time and listened to the merchants respond to her questions because she wanted the meals to reflect the popular dishes of the area and treat the party guests to something delicious they might not have experienced before.
They next stopped at the butcher’s to view his selection of meats and game fowl.
Then on to the grocer’s, although neither she nor Milbury knew how to select the best fruits or vegetables.
Of course, ensuring they received the best and freshest would be left to Milbury’s cook and her assistants, who would inspect everything delivered daily to Milbury Hill.
The morning’s excursion was to let the merchants know that the marquess himself was keeping an eye out and they had better not supply him with anything less than the best.
They next stopped at the aptly named Pavilion Hotel, one of the finer Brighton hotels, not far from the Royal Pavilion, to hear a pianist and harpist playing for the luncheon crowd. “Are you hungry, Gwen?” he asked.
Since they had sampled their way through all the shops and several farm stands, she laughed and patted her stomach. “Not really. Do you mind if we walk around a bit before grabbing a bite to eat?”
“Not at all. In fact, there’s a lovely café with grand views of the water along the seafront promenade that I think you’ll enjoy. It is quaint and discreet, and the food is excellent. Unless you would rather be ‘seen’ at one of the elegant hotel dining rooms.”
“Quaint and charming, please.” She glanced down at her gown and shook her head. “Although we’ll probably look out of place there, dressed as we are in our finery.”
He shrugged. “We will add a certain cachet to the place. I’ve dined there before and the proprietor is always welcoming.
Claims he was a minor French nobleman living quietly in the countryside when the angry rabble came for him.
He narrowly escaped to England in the 1790s and has since made a life for himself here. ”
“A humble life far different from the privileges he must have once enjoyed,” Gwendolyn remarked. “Does he ever wish to return to reclaim his family properties now that France is finally at peace?”
“His children might do so. But as for him? I’m not sure he ever desires to return.
He’s made a good life here in England, married a local girl and has sons and daughters who are now grown and work in the café with him.
He makes a comfortable living and owns a nice home, or so he claims. I suspect he also served as part of a spy network getting other noblemen and their families safely out of France.
He probably has a side occupation now in smuggling French goods.
Lace. Wines. Perfumes. That sort of thing.
Everyone does a bit of smuggling in these seacoast towns.
It is viewed as an honorable profession.
However, the Crown’s revenue agents might not agree. ”
“He sounds like quite the industrious fellow.”
Gwendolyn was hungry by the time they reached the café known as the Crab & Cod. Milbury introduced her to the proprietor, Pierre Marchand, a hardy, barrel-chested fellow who appeared to be in his fifties but still quite lively.
He greeted Milbury warmly and was equally solicitous of her, and yet he did not pander to them. Gwendolyn enjoyed his open and engaging manner.
“Come this way,” he said in a heavy French accent, and led them to the best table with a magnificent view of the sea.
Gwendolyn enjoyed a tasty meal of crab-and-cod stew that was the best thing she had ever tasted. “Oh my. This is delicious.”
Milbury laughed. “First time I came here, I ate until my insides almost exploded.”