Candice Hern (6 page)

“Oh. Well, then…” A telltale warmth spread across his cheeks. “If you believe that to be true, then surely you must support their marriage.”

“There will be no marriage.”

“You plan to stop it?”

“There will be no marriage to stop.” She released
a sigh of sheer frustration. “Are you so naïve? Barkwith will not marry her after tonight. My only hope is to get her back home as quickly as possible and try to hush up the affair. All I want, all I can hope for, is to avoid her complete social ruin.”

“They are heading north,” he said. “Surely their destination is Scotland.”

“Unlikely.”

He suppressed a smile at her stubborn resolve. “Mrs. Tennant, I do believe you are a cynic.”

“A realist, Mr. Westover.”

“You might have a little more faith in your niece. Her letter led me to believe she was very much in love.”

“So she thinks.”

“And that Barkwith returned her affection.”

“Again, so she thinks. But he will break her heart, poor thing.”

“How can you be so sure? How do you know he is not in fact madly in love with her and has every intention of marrying her?”

“Because Geoffrey Barkwith is a scoundrel, a cad, a womanizer.” Her words were laced with anger and frustration. “He is a notorious libertine who has used his charm and good looks to win his way into more bedrooms than you could count.”

“That may be true. But he is also quite young, I believe. He may have been simply sowing wild oats until the right young lady came along—your niece—and captured his heart.”

“Bosh. Tell me, were you quite so wild in sowing your own oats, Mr. Westover?”

Dammit, but she seemed determined to make him blush. Or perhaps she would simply believe he had a permanently florid complexion. “Not every man spends his youth chasing the same folly,” he said. “If Barkwith is as handsome and charming as you say, he might have had more than a bit of feminine encouragement. Besides, even if he were a rake of the first order, that does not mean he could not have fallen in love with your niece.”

She gave a contemptuous little snort. “Next, you’ll be lecturing me on how reformed rakes make the best husbands.”

He smiled, for that was precisely what he’d been about to say. “Stranger things have happened.”

Mrs. Tennant sighed and sank back against the velvet squab. “I don’t know why I waste my breath arguing with such an incorrigible romantic. You’re hopeless.”

“Because I believe in love?”

“Yes.”

“And you do not?”

“No, I do not.”

Her words shocked him. He’d spent most of his life in the pursuit of love and romance. He could not imagine such disdain for the most important aspect of one’s existence. Could she really be so cynical?

No, he did not believe her. She was simply too stubborn to give an inch. “And so you and Mr. Tennant—”

“It was an arranged marriage. Not a love match, I assure you.”

She had crossed her arms tightly over her chest and turned her face toward the window. Simon was not sure if she was hurt or angry, or both.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You need not be. It is the way of the world. The real world, not the make-believe romantic fantasy world you seem to live in.”

He ought to let it go, but the sentimentalist in him felt compelled to press on. “And there has never been anyone else? Someone you cared about? Someone you gave your heart to?”

The slightest stiffening of her shoulders warned him that he’d touched a nerve. “You go too far, Mr. Westover. I have no intention of discussing my personal life with you.”

There was no need for her to do so. It was clear to Simon that she had indeed cared for someone, once upon a time. But an arranged marriage got in the way, and she’d forgotten what it was like to be in love.

Poor woman. Poor beautiful, obstinate woman.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I had no right to ask. I was simply trying to help you understand that what you perceive as a tragedy for Belinda may in fact be a love story with a happy ending in store. You could be mistaken about Barkwith, you know.”

“Nonsense. I know exactly what he is up to.”

“All right. Let us suppose for the moment that
you are correct. What happens if and when we catch up with them? What do you propose we do?”

“Rescue Belinda, of course.”

“And what if she does not want rescuing?”

She turned her fierce, determined gaze upon him, and she was once again Boadicea incarnate. “Then we shall have to kidnap her. Bind and gag her, if necessary. Drag her away kicking and screaming. Anything to get her out of the clutches of that villain.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

Dear God, what had he got himself into?

Once he’d resigned himself to accompanying the lovely widow, Simon had decided he rather liked the idea of having her depend on him. He hoped he might have an opportunity to be her knight in shining armor after all, to be a hero in her eyes by finding her niece and bringing her home to safety.

It had never occurred to him that abduction and derring-do would enter into it.

He was a poet, and she wanted a swashbuckler.

What the devil was he to do?

“T
here is nothing for it, I’m afraid. We’re going to have to stop for the night at St. Alban’s.”

Eleanor pressed her nose to the glass and watched the rain coming down hard outside. It pained her to admit it, but Mr. Westover was right. They would have to stop. Their progress had slowed as rain turned the road to mud. Throughout most of the journey they had been able to watch the actions of the postillions through the front window. But the window was now so splattered with mud it was difficult to see anything at all.

Even in such a well-built, beautifully appointed carriage the ride had become rough. For the last few miles, despite keeping a firm hold on the grip, she had been tossed hard against her long-legged companion more times than she could count. And
the gleam in his blue eyes told her how much he enjoyed each encounter.

Men.
Gentleman or plowman, they were all alike.

“How long until we reach St. Alban’s?” she asked.

“It is less than five miles into town, I believe, though I’m not certain about the location of the Red Lion. In any case, it should not be long.”

Eleanor sensed him watching her and it made her uneasy. Constance’s words kept returning to taunt her.
He’s interested
, she had said. Had she made a huge mistake in asking him to join her?

“I suspect you will be glad to stop for the night, will you not?” he said. “To be out of this carriage at last.”

Was it so obvious what she had been thinking? “I confess the jostling about has become a bit tiresome,” she said. “But in truth, I am not so happy to stop for the night. It only means more time lost in our pursuit.”

“They will have stopped as well.”

She spun around to face him. Damn the man for reminding her, for prompting her to envision what would surely take place between Belinda and Barkwith this night. “I know.” Her voice sounded chilly and accusatory. “I know.”

“I understand your concern, Mrs. Tennant, and I am sorry for it. For myself, I am going to keep good thoughts and assume all will turn out happily.”

“Oh, you foolish man. Don’t you dare start in again on true love and happy endings.”

He chuckled softly. “I cannot help it. I believe in the power of love. I’ve always been an optimist about such things.”

“And it shows with every piece of idealistic advice you dispense as the Busybody.”

“Is that so wrong? To offer hope? To encourage young women to reach for happiness?”

“We have been over this ground before, sir. I need not repeat my views on your sometimes dangerously ill-conceived advice.”

“True,” he said. “But I do enjoy a good debate, and we have nothing else to do at the moment. I should like to hear more about your views on the Busybody’s advice. Your enlightened critique could perhaps be of use to me in future articles.”

At that moment, another lurch of the carriage brought them bumping up against each other once again. He flashed a wide smile, and for the first time Eleanor noticed the dimples.

Dimples, for heaven’s sake. How had she missed them? She supposed he had been somewhat reserved throughout the day. Until now, when the perfectly matched set of indentations twinkled on either side of his mouth.

A smattering of freckles, a tendency to blush, and now dimples. She refused to listen to the insistent echo of her cousin’s voice in her head. He was
not
adorable.

“You mock me, sir,” she said. “You cannot convince me that you believe my opinions to be enlightened. We are as opposite as…as Mr. Hackett and Mr. Mumby.”

His smile widened and the dimples deepened. “You are suggesting one of us is narrow-minded and the other broad-minded? Hmm. I wonder which of us is which?”

“You mock me again, sir.”

“I am but making conversation to pass the time. Or attempting to do so. And making a poor job of it, apparently. Perhaps you would prefer that we sat in silence.”

“No, I would not prefer it,” she said and offered a faint smile. “It is just that I am feeling more than a bit prickly after the events of the day. But you are right, Mr. Westover. Conversation is preferable to a strained silence. Even if that conversation results in heated discussion.”

“I shall do my best to curb my temper, ma’am.”

The laughter in his eyes said he mocked her yet again, but Eleanor did not rise to his bait.

“Let us stick to less volatile topics, then,” she said. “Tell me about your family. We can ignore for now the very formidable father who strikes fear in your heart and who, of course, must never learn about your Busybody activities. Unless you would care to explain why it is so important he not find out?”

“No, I would not.”

“It does not signify. I can guess the reasons in
any case. We shall disregard the estimable Sir Harold for the moment. Do you have brothers and sisters?”

His eyes had narrowed at the mention of his father, but he smiled at the change of subject. “I have one younger brother, Malcolm.”

“Is he like you?”

The dimples flashed again. “You mean is he a foolish romantic with his head in the clouds?”

“No, I meant is he”—she would
not
say adorable—“red-haired?”

“You think my hair red? Hmm. I always preferred to think of it as auburn. That sounds so much more exotic.”

It was not exotic. It was practically red.

“But red sounds so schoolboyish, don’t you think?” he said, as though reading her thoughts. “Yes, I can see that you do. Well, luckily for Malcolm, I got all the schoolboy hair in the family. But Malcolm got all the brawn. He is a great strapping fellow and sporting mad. I’m afraid I’ve never been much in the sporting line. Could never hope to measure up to Malcolm in that respect. I was always the skinny, bookish brother. A bit of a scribbler.”

Bookish. What could be more useless during a time of crisis? Eleanor was willing to bet he even wore spectacles in private. And skinny? His height probably made him appear thinner than he was, though he was certainly not brawny. The big, strapping brother would probably have proved
more useful when they caught up with the runaways. He could have pummeled Barkwith into mush while she spirited Belinda away. Instead, she was stuck with the brother who’d kept his head buried in books, a romantic scribbler, a man of words when she needed a man of action.

But the wretched man’s words were partially to blame for this whole beastly business. She must rely on his words to make everything right again. His words and her determination.

“How did you come to write for a ladies’ magazine?” she asked.

He did not answer right away, and Eleanor thought he had not heard. She was just about to repeat the question when he finally spoke.

“I am acquainted with some of the others who write for
The Ladies’ Fashionable Cabinet
. They were in need of someone to offer advice to readers on affairs of the heart, and I imagine they figured I—”

“Was the most qualified?”

“I suppose so.”

“Why? Have you had an extraordinary amount of experience in affairs of the heart, Mr. Westover?”

He smiled. “Not extraordinary. Just the usual sort of thing, I should think. No, I was asked to write the column because my friends knew that I had modest literary aspirations and an affinity for…romance.”

“You are a sentimentalist, sir.”

He gave a noncommittal shrug.

“It is a wonder that with such strong inclinations
in that direction, you have never fallen in love and married. At least, I assume you have not.”

“I am still seeking my heart’s desire,” he said, and wry amusement glimmered in his eyes. “I fear I have yet to meet the right woman. Not for want of seeking, I assure you. But I keep a great deal to myself. I don’t go out much into society. My mother will drag me to an affair now and then, but I confess I have never particularly enjoyed
ton
events.”

“Then I am more than ever astonished that you should take it upon yourself to offer advice to young girls when you have so little experience of society. No wonder that advice is so often misguided.”

“I am not without experience of the world, Mrs. Tennant. In fact, I—”

“You view the world from the lofty heights of your ivory tower. If you lived more
in
the world, you would understand how unrealistic it is to so cavalierly advise young girls to follow their heart’s desire. The romantic heroes of their fantasies either don’t exist or are completely unsuitable.”

“I write from the heart, Mrs. Tennant, with fond hopes that every young woman, and young man, will set high expectations and strive to achieve them. My responses are based on what I think will bring the most happiness.”

“I wonder how many of those girls who followed your advice found happiness?” she said. “Or how many ended up alone and brokenhearted, or bound forever to a sham hero who makes her
life a misery, or ruined forever by some cad. Like Belinda.”

The carriage hit a deep rut, and the two of them were bounced clear off the bench. Eleanor was almost certain Mr. Westover had knocked his head against the ceiling, but he ignored the discomfort and continued as though they sat relaxed and at ease in his Mayfair drawing room.

“I choose to trust in a more felicitous future for the majority of my correspondents,” he said. “I have more faith in love. And dreams. Do you never dream, Mrs. Tennant?”

“Yes, of course I do, but I dream with my eyes open. I know exactly what it is like to live in the real world. For women especially, it is often a bitter reality.” The carriage took another bounce and she was thrown hard against his side. She pulled herself away but not before intercepting an intense look in those bright blue eyes. She ignored the odd stirring in her breast set off by that look, and continued the conversation as though no awkward interruption had occurred.

“Your encouragement of romantic ideals in a young woman,” Eleanor continued, “does nothing to prepare her for life in the world. It is irresponsible at best, dangerous at worst, to dole out sentiments that offer false hopes of everlasting love and devotion.”

“I am afraid I cannot be so cynical on the subject of love. I rejoice in those tender emotions that refine and exalt the human character.”

He smiled as she raised her eyes to the ceiling in silent exasperation.

“Nothing is more important in life than love,” he said. “And nothing more joyful than two hearts bound in mutual affection.”

“But one must be mindful of the future. Those tender emotions of the moment do not last, and that temporary burst of mutual affection most often dissolves into indifference or contempt.”

His brows lifted in surprise. “You do not believe love can last?”

“Not your ideal of love, which is based on an illusion of passion and desire. But passion fades.”

“And so you would forbid your niece even a short-lived joy? You feel compelled to nip the blossom of love in its full blooming, like a killing frost, simply because you do not believe it will endure?”

Good heavens, when he got wound up he sounded just like the Busybody—overwrought, florid, and oh-so-grandiloquent. “I’ll wager you write poetry, too,” she muttered under her breath.

“I…um…I do dabble a bit in verse now and then.”

“Yes, of course you do.” And she would also wager it was perfectly dreadful stuff.

“I am afraid I do not understand what my attempts at poetry have to do with your opposition to your niece falling in love.”

“I am not opposed to Belinda falling in love. With a girl like her it is bound to happen. If it had been almost anyone else, I would not have ob
jected. There was a very nice young man, Mr. Pendleton, who was mad for Belinda. He would have been a perfect match for her. But he did not answer her dreams of a romantic hero. She found him tedious and uninteresting. Now that I think on it, he had reddish hair, too.”

Mr. Westover winced. It had been a low blow, but no less than he deserved.

“No, as I have told you and told you over again, what I most object to is the offhand manner in which you sent Belinda running straight into Barkwith’s arms without the least concern that he might be objectionable. I do not trust him. If his intentions were honorable, I could accept his lack of fortune. But I know his type. He is not honorable. He will not marry Belinda. Not unless someone holds a gun to his head.”

“And when we find them, will you be holding that gun?”

She gazed out at the rain, sheeting down the window like a waterfall, and considered the question. “I don’t know. I daresay it will have to wait until we discover if it is necessary.” Eleanor sighed with a sudden rush of renewed concern. “Poor Belinda. Poor, foolish girl.”

“They ain’t been difficult to track.” Obidiah Hackett removed his dingy white gloves and dropped them into his upturned leather hat. “Miss Chadwick has very distinctual looks what all the ostlers and postboys recollect in fine detail. Pretty
little thing, I gather. But they still got a prodigitous lead. Can’t go on in this rain tonight, though. I’ll ride out at daybreak and catch up with Mumby.” He rummaged in his saddlebag and pulled out a thumb-worn copy of
Cary’s Itinerary
. Running his finger down a page, he said, “I’ll leave word for you at the Black Bull in Redburn. In the meantime, you can find me in the taproom where I plan to nurse a pint or two and work the chill out o’ me bones. If you’ll be excusin’ me, guv’ner. Ma’am.” He nodded toward Mrs. Tennant, then hoisted the saddlebag over his shoulder and made his way toward the public rooms.

Simon noted the concern in her eyes. “Well, at least we haven’t lost their trail,” he said.

“Yes, I thank heaven for that. I only wish the rain had not forced us to stop so soon.”

“We might as well make the best of it. I understand the food here is quite good. I suggest we shake off the dust of the road and settle down to a pleasant dinner. Will half an hour do?”

She agreed, for which Simon was grateful. He had thought she might ask for a meal to be sent to her room. Instead, he was to be given an opportunity to make a better impression on her than he had done so far. He hated that he had got off to such a bad start with her, that she thought so poorly of him. A leisurely dinner in a private parlor would be just the thing to turn the tide in his favor. A bit of flattery, a bit of flirtation—Simon knew a thing or two about wooing a lady.