After the Kiss (7 page)

“Surely you cannot want me to leave you here at Ravenwood and go live in some stranger’s home.”

Aunt Lavinia made a clucking sound and rearranged her knitting in her lap. “I would hope your husband will not be a stranger to you. Or if he is,” she said, deferring to the realities of English upper-class marriage, “it would not be for long. You must resign yourself to marrying and having a home of your own without me.” She paused, then said, “Someday Nigel will corner you where there is no escape.”

Eliza gasped, amazed that her aunt had discerned the nature of Cousin Nigel’s offensive behavior. “How did you know?”

“I am merely blind, my dear. Not deaf and dumb. You must many, to save yourself from this untenable situation.”

Eliza stared at her aunt, who stared right back. “Have you considered the fact that no gentleman at the party may want to marry the impoverished daughter of a disinherited earl?”

“Considered it and rejected it,” her aunt said flatly. “Look at me, girl. Your future can be as bright as you
choose to make it. You must take the chip from your shoulder and give people a chance to like you. You are an amiable young lady, you know.”

Eliza dropped her eyes to escape her aunt’s piercing gaze. “If you say so,” she muttered.

One of the things that so unsettled people meeting her “blind, elderly aunt” for the first time was the fact that Aunt Lavinia’s pale gray eyes did not look sightless. When Lady Lavinia angled her head and stared at you, it appeared she was really seeing you.

Though no one had taken the time to formally educate a blind female child, Eliza found her aunt extraordinarily wise. And Aunt Lavinia was the only one of her father’s family who had come to visit him after he had been disinherited. Her aunt had been Eliza’s anchor in the months after her father’s death, six years following her mother’s, which had left her orphaned.

“There must be some other way to escape Ravenwood,” Eliza said. “Can we not go back to live at Father’s house? It is mine now.”

“Nigel is your guardian until you are five-and-twenty, or until you marry. I doubt he will allow it. Without his approval and support, we would have no wherewithal to live. My father, the former Earl of Sheringham, assumed I would never leave Ravenwood, so he accorded me nothing in his will except the right to live here the rest of my life.”

Eliza settled on the lush carpet beside her aunt’s chair, and laid her cheek on her aunt’s knee. The needles stopped clicking as Aunt Lavinia reached out to touch her, to stroke her face and her hair.

Eliza had learned over the years that touching
made things real for her aunt. But Eliza wondered how much her aunt could really “see” with her hands.

Aunt Lavinia could surely feel the warmth of the fire on Eliza’s hair, but there was no way she could see how the flames turned Eliza’s chestnut curls a burnished copper. She could feel Eliza’s downturned lips, but she could not see the faraway look in her eye. She could feel the tension in Eliza’s shoulders, but she could not know it came from seeing Cousin Nigel pause at the sewing room door to stare in at them. Yet, Eliza was constantly amazed at Aunt Lavinia’s powers of perception.

“I am having a private
tête-à-tête
with my niece, my lord. Would you mind closing the door for us?”

Cousin Nigel scowled, but pulled the door shut.

“However did you know he was there?” Eliza asked.

“Nigel smokes a truly wretched tobacco. Something he inherited from my father, no doubt. The stench precedes him wherever he goes.”

Eliza laughed. “Only you could leave an earl looking sheepish for interrupting two ladies in his care.”

“Fiddlefaddlingsticks,” her aunt said.

“I think you mean
fiddle-faddle
,” Eliza said with a grin. “Or
fiddlesticks
.” She was certain her aunt used the malapropisms on purpose. They were absurd enough to break the tension when Eliza was upset, or irritating enough to distract her when she was angry, and silly enough to make her laugh when she was sad.

When she corrected her aunt, as she always did—because that was part of the game—Aunt Lavinia would harrumph, as though anyone with any sense
would have known that was what she had meant all along.

Aunt Lavinia harrumphed.

Eliza laughed and kissed her aunt on the cheek. “You are absolutely incorrigible.”

“That is the kettle calling the pot black,” her aunt retorted. “As I was saying, before the earl so impertinently interrupted us, I believe you would enjoy yourself at Somersville Manor. From what you have told me of your friend, the Countess of Denbigh, I am sure she will have chosen the perfect husband for you.”

“What?”

Aunt Lavinia chuckled. “Dear child, I forget sometimes how innocent you are. Surely you must realize your friend will have invited a number of eligible gentlemen for you to interview as potential husbands.”

“But that’s awful!” Eliza said, lifting her head to stare into her aunt’s sightless gray eyes. “You expect me to choose a husband from a pack of male wolves?”

“Just be sure to get the pick of the litter,” her aunt said with a chuckle.

“I would rather run away than be forced into a loveless marriage,” Eliza said.

“Don’t speak foolishness,” her aunt said in the harshest voice Eliza had ever heard her use. “What other future is there for a woman except to marry and breed up an heir for her husband?”

“It is not enough,” Eliza said in a whisper. “I want more.”

The problem was, she did not know what form that “more” should take. Something was missing from her life, but she did not know what it was. She had never let herself contemplate marriage, because she
had been so certain no man would ever want her. But she could not stay at Ravenwood. Marry she must.

However, not just any man would do. She needed someone willing to accept a blind, elderly woman as part of the package, because she had no intention of leaving Aunt Lavinia behind. Still, stalking a husband like a deer seemed a bit unfair, if not downright unscrupulous.

“I never thought I would hear you say I should make a marriage of convenience,” Eliza muttered.

“I did not say you could not like the man,” Aunt Lavinia retorted. “Merely that you must choose one and button yourself to him.”

“That’s
buckle
, Aunt Lavinia. Buckle myself to him.”

Her aunt harrumphed. “Button, buckle, it’s all the same. Give love a chance, Eliza. You cannot find your Prince Charming if you do not attend the ball.”

Eliza laid her head back down on her aunt’s knee, the only sign of capitulation she was willing to make. When the knitting needles began clacking again, she knew Aunt Lavinia understood she was willing to do what must be done. Truthfully, if she must marry, she had already picked the groom.

Her cousin, Major Julian Sheringham.

That afternoon, Eliza wrote a letter to her friend, Charlie, the Countess of Denbigh, who was best friends with the Duchess of Braddock, asking her to please make certain that Major Julian Sheringham was invited to the party and giving his direction in London. Once Eliza had posted the letter, she felt much better about attending.

But before her letter could possibly have gotten to Charlie, Cousin Nigel had attacked her and she had
fled Ravenwood. It had made more sense to go to London and speak directly with Julian, than to attend a party to which he had not yet received an invitation, and where she might have to wait an entire week for him to arrive.

Eliza turned over in the lumpy bed at the White Ball Inn and pulled the covers over her shoulder. She could hardly keep her eyes open. Yet the moment she closed them, she saw a pair of haunting blue eyes. A frustrated, gurgling sound issued from her throat. It should be Julian’s dark eyes she was seeing. After all, he was the man she loved.

The Beau might be handsome, but she knew better than to be swayed by his good looks. A rake like the Beau might be tantalizing and intriguing. But scandal married to scandal? Utterly ridiculous.

Eliza needed—wanted—intended to marry a man of honesty and character, a paragon of propriety, someone steadfast and reliable who would keep both her and Aunt Lavinia safe from care and worry. The Beau flunked that test, while Julian passed with flying colors.

Nevertheless, Eliza was grateful for Captain Wharton’s offer of escort. She had not been precisely sure of the way to London. Now she could make her journey with all good speed.

She pictured Julian in his hussar’s uniform and herself beside him holding a wedding bouquet of wildflowers, and with a seraphic smile, fell sound asleep.

“
D
o you think we should wake her up?” becky asked.

Reggie stepped up to the iron-railed bed where Miss Sheringham lay sprawled sideways, sound asleep. “Uncle Marcus said Miss Sheringham was quite insistent last night that we leave at dawn. That is why he sent us up here so early with her traveling bag. He was sure she would need it to dress.”

Becky glanced out the window. “It is still dark outside. Maybe we could wait—”

Reggie dropped the cloth bag onto the hardwood floor beside the bed. “Uncle Marcus said we cannot have breakfast until we change our clothes and have Miss Sheringham comb our hair. And she cannot comb our hair while she is sleeping.”

Miss Sheringham yawned and stretched.

“She’s waking up,” Becky whispered.

The lady in question merely rolled over, pulled a pillow over her head, and lay still.

“Maybe we should go get Uncle Marcus,” Becky suggested. “He will know what to do.”

Reggie gave her sister a pitiful look. “I can handle this.” She leaned close to Miss Sheringham’s ear and
shouted, “Wake up, Miss Sheringham! It is time to dress!”

Miss Sheringham bolted upright as though she were attached to a spring. She stared at Reggie in confusion, then glanced at Becky as though she were seeing double. She blinked her eyes, groaned, and said, “How did you two get in here?”

“The innkeeper has another key,” Reggie said. “Uncle Marcus told him to let us in.” Reggie thought it was a good thing Uncle Marcus had not come with them. Miss Sheringham did not look pleased.

“Uncle Marcus said you would not mind helping us change our clothes,” Becky said. She put a hand to the rat’s nest of straw and hair on her head and added, “And he was sure you would be glad to fix our hair for us.”

“He was, was he,” Eliza muttered, crossing her arms and staring daggers at the closed door.

Reggie knew very well when she was not wanted. Who needed
her
to comb their hair, anyway. “Come on, Becky. We should leave Miss Sheringham alone to dress.” She had to grab Becky’s hand and practically drag her away. “Come on,” she insisted. “Let’s go.”

“Wait,” Miss Sheringham said.

When Reggie looked back, Miss Sheringham’s arms were uncrossed. She stepped barefoot onto the hardwood floor and immediately tripped over the traveling bag Reggie had dropped beside the bed.

“What corkbrain put that there?” she yelped.

Reggie cringed.

Miss Sheringham’s arms windmilled to keep her enormous height upright. There was so much of her, Reggie was certain she would lose the contest and fall.

Miss Sheringham surprised her with an agile hop over the bag, a shoulder slam against the wall, and a bounce right back to the bedstead, where she stubbed her toe. The foot came up, and Miss Sheringham grabbed her toe and hopped around muttering “Ow, ow, ow.”

Reggie could not help it. She laughed.

Becky looked appalled. “Are you all right, Miss Sheringham?”

Miss Sheringham let her foot go and limped in a circle, testing her toe. “I believe I am.”

Reggie stared at the curious mixture of underclothing Miss Sheringham was wearing. The chemise was identifiable, but she could only guess at the other garment. “Are those men’s smalls?” she asked incredulously.

Miss Sheringham glanced down and grinned. “They are. My pantalets had too many frills to wear beneath a pair of breeches. Lumps,” she explained.

Reggie was fascinated, but wary of Miss Sheringham’s sudden return to friendliness. She reached for the doorknob.

“Don’t go,” Miss Sheringham said. “Please. I would be glad to help you change your clothes and fix your hair.”

“I would like that very much,” Becky said. She yanked herself free of Reggie’s hand and trotted back to Miss Sheringham.

Reggie’s lips puckered in disgust. Becky was a sap for a smile. Her sister was so gullible! Reggie knew better. Miss Sheringham did not really want anything to do with them. She merely wanted to impress Uncle Marcus. Ladies always did.

“I hope you will call me Eliza,” Miss Sheringham said. “I want us to be friends.”

Eliza
wanted to impress Uncle Marcus, all right. “Sure,” Reggie said, her tone snide. “We’ll be glad to call you Liza.”

“Eliza,” Miss Sheringham corrected.

“Eliza,” Becky dutifully repeated with a smile.

Reggie stared, saying nothing. Good old
Eliza
was not going to whip her into line. Reggie had confronted the best governesses London had to offer, taken everything they doled out, and come out on top.
Eliza
was not going to find Lady Regina as big a flat as her sister.

Miss Sheringham turned away, apparently conceding the battle even before they drew arms. Reggie smirked in triumph.

But no one was looking.

“Where are the clothes you wish to change into?” Miss Sheringham asked Becky.

Becky pointed to a leather valise by the door.

“Would you bring it here, please, Reggie?” Miss Sheringham said.

“How do you know I am Reggie?” Reggie asked. “We are identical twins. No one can tell us apart.”

“I cheated,” Miss Sheringham admitted.

Reggie arched an inquiring brow.

“You have a hole in the knee of your stocking.”

Reggie admired cleverness. And Miss Sheringham appeared to have her share of it. Reggie picked up the valise with both hands. It bounced against her knee as she carted it over and hefted it onto the foot of the bed. “I do not see why we have to change. We will
just be putting on a shift exactly like the one we already have on.”