Lily George (10 page)

Macready watched him coolly, his mocking, black eyes half closed. “I’d rather be a lesser gentleman than you and have a fine young lady to squire about. I’ll say it again. You’re a coward, and you’re refusing to see the truth. If she pitied you, she wouldn’t have come to the shop to see you. She’d have gone about her business and found some other poor fellow to assist. There are plenty of candidates at the veterans’ group. Many of whom would be happy to have a lovely young lady to talk to.”

For a moment, Rowland heard nothing but the buzz of anger in his own ears. He took several deep, calming breaths. As his sudden rage ebbed, he sank back onto his chair.

Macready spoke again. “Dare I hope that the kitchen table is no longer in danger of being abused?”

Rowland rubbed his hand across his brow. “You may.”

Macready grinned. “Glad to hear it.” He paused, as though unsure whether he should continue. “You know, Rowland, you don’t stutter when you’re angry.”

Lucy had pointed that out, too. Not that it mattered. He couldn’t go around roaring at people. He’d have to find a way to overcome the stammer, whatever mood he was in. “Do you think I’m a coward? Really?”

“I don’t blame you or consider you a coward for what you did at La Sainte Haye. I think you reacted as most young men might, when entirely unprepared for battle, outranked and outflanked, with the cavalry charging down upon them.” Macready paused, rubbing his scarred hands together slowly. “But to do penance for it the rest of your life—to shut out youth, beauty and kindness in its name—then yes. I would say that is cowardice.”

Rowland nodded. He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing Macready’s words to sink in. What if he did attempt to court Lucy? What would be the worst that could happen? She might reject him, surely. And a sizable part of himself still believed that she should—that she deserved better than he could offer. But...for a moment, the possibility of Lucy returning his affection flooded his being, leaving him breathless. Could such a chance be worth the risk?

Yes. A million times yes.

“Fine.” Rowland tried to keep his tone light. “I accept your challenge. But if she throws me over, it’s on your head.”

Macready shrugged his shoulders. “So be it. But I imagine I shall be dancing at your wedding.”

Chapter Ten

J
ames took his seat in Lord Bradbury’s library, awaiting Lucy’s arrival. He’d pondered over Macready’s words the entire night through. Upon arising, he vowed he’d be a coward no longer. Starting today, as a matter of fact. He wasn’t well-versed in the art of flirtation, but he would find a way to show Lucy that he enjoyed her company. Women liked flowers, so he’d selected a few bright, cheery buds from a street vendor on the walk over. But now, sitting beside him on the library table, the small bouquet seemed a trifle too brash. Should he chuck them in the wastebasket? No, she might see them there and wonder what he was about.

He loosened his neckcloth. There was little ventilation in the room, which faced full east and caught glimmers of the morning sun. It was a room obviously designed for winter’s enjoyment, when the pale sun would stream in and a great fire in the hearth would make things perfectly cozy for reading and reflection. But what about the other months of the year? What could be done to make it livable and pleasant when it was not cold and rainy outside?

He had an idea.

He stalked over to the nearby window and opened it as far as the sash would allow. A tepid breeze drifted in, fanning his papers and the petals of the flowers on the library table. He breathed deeply. The air smelled fresh, like mown hay. This was much, much better. He took another gulp of air—for it calmed his nerves.

“I agree. It’s rather stuffy in here,” a familiar, lilting voice chimed behind him.

He whirled around. Lucy was alone, her charge nowhere in sight. Oh, good. That made giving his gift of flowers easier without a young miss eyeing him and giggling boldly. He caught them up and extended the bouquet toward her. “F-for you. A p-peace offering.”

“For me?” Her warm brown eyes widened. “How lovely they are. I do love peonies.” She buried her nose in the bouquet and closed her eyes. “They smell of spring. Thank you, Ensign.”

“I m-must ask your f-forgiveness,” he began haltingly. “I have a d-dreadful t-temper. My worst f-flaw. And you’ve caught the wrong end of it l-lately. I am g-grateful for all you have d-done for m-me.”

“A dreadful temper, eh? Well, then, I shall give you the same advice I give my charges. Count to ten and breathe deeply. It works wonders.” She gave him a shy smile and began arranging the flowers in a china vase that rested atop a nearby plant stand, using a pitcher of water to fill it.

He smiled, too. At least she seemed amenable to reconciliation. “Where
is
your charge?” If Miss Louisa were to come bounding in at any moment, any attempts at flirtation would be sadly dashed.

“She’s upstairs studying. I have her ideas for the library, but I cannot spare her from the schoolroom today without risking running behind on her lessons. I shall be chaperoning her sister for the next fortnight, as Sophie is going into Brightgate to visit Lieutenant Cantrill’s family. So we shall be rather busy, and even I can hardly spare the time to work on the library.” She gave the flowers a final pat and put the vase back on the plant stand. “Don’t they add a nice splash of color? Just what this room needs. Anyway, I’ll give you our ideas and get you started, Ensign, and then I’ll have to attend to Louisa.”

“James,” he insisted. That was a fair way to establish a friendship, wasn’t it? First names? Of course, it was rather bold—

She glanced up at him, her cheeks turning a rosy shade. “Beg pardon?”

“You should c-call me James,” he repeated. “W-we’ll be w-w-working together after all.”

“Certainly, James. And you must call me Lucy.” She cast her eyes down to the table and began rifling through her papers.

His mind worked rapidly as she began arranging her papers on the library table. If she were chaperoning the elder Miss Bradbury, then she might be seen at social events. His mother had been after him to attend one of these functions since he moved to Bath, but he’d laughed off her pretensions. But now, the Rowland name—impoverished though it was—might come in handy.

“What will you be ch-chaperoning d-during this f-fortnight?” He schooled his features into nonchalance. He didn’t want to seem like a predator going after prey. After all, he’d only just begun to apologize for his past rudeness.

“Oh, you know. The usual social functions. Amelia is quite excited about the Assembly Rooms ball, and I shall be accompanying her to that.” Lucy’s voice grew a trifle cold and distant. “She rather wanted Sophie there, but I shall do in a pinch.”

“I am sure you and Miss Bradbury will have a g-good t-time,” he added heartily. “L-let’s see your p-plans.”

Though he feigned interest in all of Miss Louisa’s suggestions, he really only gave his undivided attention to Lucy. She had a habit of twirling a lock of hair around one slender finger whenever she was at a loss for words. The silken strand curled around her finger like a piece of mahogany, satiny-smooth to the touch. But he said nothing of these observations aloud. There was still too much doubt in his heart as to whether he could truly win her affection. There was every chance that Lucy was simply being kind. He needed to have more time with her, to get to know her better, to learn the truth of her feelings toward him and to show her that he wasn’t an ill-bred cripple with a habit of estranging well-meaning governesses.

When the clock on the mantel began chiming the hour, Lucy stood up, uttering a little cry. “Oh, dear. I must get back to the schoolroom. Is this enough for you to get started with? I wish I could stay longer, but I need to work with Louisa on her penmanship.”

He nodded and rose. “This will give me p-plenty to d-do. I shall return in a few days with a g-group of m-men to b-begin the w-work.” If only he could detain her—but she was devoted to her work. She wouldn’t be deterred from her charge, not even for a little harmless flirting.

“Oh, good. His lordship will be most pleased with how quickly you are progressing. He does love efficiency.” She handed her papers over to him, brushing his hand with her own. A tingle shot up his arm, though he suppressed any expression of embarrassment or pleasure from showing in his expression. This one lesson he’d learned well while in the army—never show surprise to anyone.

If Lucy was surprised, she kept her countenance too, except perhaps for her cheeks turning a little brighter pink. But then, that could just be his imagination. She scooped up the vase from the plant stand. “Our schoolroom could do with some brightening up,” she explained and bobbed a slight curtsy.

“I w-wish you well in all your upcoming s-social d-duties, especially the b-ball,” he responded with a slight bow. “B-but knowing you—as I d-do—I am sure you w-will even outshine M-Miss B-Bradbury.” That was nicely put—not too flowery yet genuine.

She glanced up at him with something like amazement kindled in the depths of her eyes. “Do you really think so?” she breathed.

“Yes, I d-do.” Why was she so astonished? Surely she knew how very wonderful she was. Any man would be proud to call Lucy Williams his.

“Well, if that’s true, then you’re the only person in Bath who thinks so.” Her tone was quiet, subdued even, and as she left the room, she tossed a little smile his way as though she tossed a blossom at his feet.

* * *

Ever since her meeting with the ensign—no, James—Lucy lived in a sort of daze. He was so charming, yet his kindness seemed genuine. So many other men allowed compliments to flow from their tongues like honey from the comb, and you couldn’t believe a word they said. But James was different. His words were few and halting, and so when he spoke admiringly, you simply had to stop and listen.

’Twas silly, of course, to devote all her waking moments to wondering if James really thought well of her. But she couldn’t shake free of the spell his words had woven over her world. The peonies did not grace the schoolroom after all. She placed them in her room, on the little white desk, and kept them until the petals faded and fell. Now bereft of those blossoms, all she had was the memory of his words, so she played them over and over in her mind until they wore a path through her very brain.

She sat in her room, a week after their conversation, dressing for the Assembly Rooms ball. His words bolstered her courage, for on this night of all nights, she felt distinctively plain and unremarkable. She stared into her looking glass. If only Sophie were here. She would arrange Lucy’s dark hair to make it look passably pretty. But then, if Sophie were here, Lucy would have no need of attending the ball tonight. She could while away the evening reading a book and nibbling a bar of chocolate and wouldn’t have to worry one whit about chaperoning Amelia through innumerable waltzes and quadrilles.

She smoothed the bodice of the purple gown she borrowed from Sophie. At least she had something nice to wear. Her serviceable black-and-gray gowns would look distinctly out of place in the ballroom, even for a chaperone. The purple was dignified enough that she didn’t look like mutton dressed as lamb and festive enough that she would fit in well with the crowd. While Amelia would never want to become a wallflower, that title was precisely Lucy’s goal for the evening.

Her bedroom door banged open, and Louisa bounded in. “Lucy, you look so pretty! I love that dress. It suits you so well.” She kissed Lucy’s cheek. “Why don’t you wear colors more often?”

“Colors aren’t suitable for a governess, Louisa.” She jabbed one last hairpin into her coiffure in a last-minute attempt to make herself passable. “But for this event, I must look more elegant than I do in the schoolroom.”

Louisa flung herself across Lucy’s bed, causing the ropes under the mattress to squeak in protest. “Do you think someone will ask you to dance tonight?”

“Don’t be absurd,” Lucy replied with a snort. “I am there to chaperone your sister.
She
will probably have quite a few admirers. She is already considered a Diamond of the First Water.”

“I suppose so.” Louisa rolled over on her back. “Lucy, I have a question. What if someone asks Amelia to marry him this very night?”

“It isn’t done that way—except in novels.” Lucy rose and shook out her skirts. “But if anything is likely to happen, then perhaps your sister will find a young man who wishes to court her. And perhaps in time she will get married.”

“No elopements to Gretna Green?” Louisa pressed on, her face a study in romantic disappointment.

“I should say not.” Lucy walked over to the bed and captured Louisa’s hands. Giving them a tug, she pulled Louisa upright. “Remind me to go through your book collection tomorrow. ’Tis in need of a severe pruning. Now, mind that you go to bed on time tonight. I won’t have you loafing just because your sister is going to a ball.”

“Are you still going to church in the morning?” Louisa released her hands and danced backward a few paces.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Sometimes Louisa asked the strangest questions.

“Well, can I come, too? Papa and Amelia will likely sleep through the morning, and I shall be hopelessly bored. I’d much rather go to services with you.”

“Very well.” She’d overlook the fact that her charge was going to church as a means to avoid boredom. After all, Louisa would be setting foot in Saint Swithin’s of her own accord, and that was all that mattered at the tender age of fourteen. A deeper spirituality would have to be nurtured over time.

She gave Louisa a peck on the cheek. “I’m going to Amelia’s room to see if she’s ready. Want to come?”

“No.” Louisa lolled on the bed. “May I stay here? As long as I don’t disturb anything? Your room is nicer than mine.”

Lucy gave an inward roll of her eyes. It was hardly likely that her modest room was anything to compare with the Honorable Miss Louisa Bradbury’s quarters, but it did no harm for the girl to stay. And if it had the added benefit of appeasing any of Louisa’s lingering jealousy toward her sister then so much the better. “You may stay but mind you keep everything neat.”

She blew a final kiss at Louisa, who lay huddled on her quilt, and walked down the hallway to Amelia’s room. She knocked on the door. “Are you ready, my dear?” she called.

“Yes. No. I don’t know,” was the reassuring answer.

Lucy cautiously opened the door. Amelia slumped in front of her vanity mirror, her chin in her hands.

“Hello, Lucy,” she murmured as Lucy tiptoed in and closed the door behind her.

“You look lovely, my dear.” Lucy smiled in encouragement. And it was true. Amelia looked quite pretty in her buttercup-tinted gown, created expressly for this occasion by Sophie. Her lady’s maid had arranged her dark, curly hair in the Grecian fashion, and the hue of the dress brought out the creamy tint of her skin.

“Thank you.” Amelia managed a faint smile but did not change her position in front of the mirror.

Lucy laid her hands on Amelia’s shoulders. “What’s troubling you, my dear?” For something must be wrong. Amelia was usually so effervescent, so confident. ’Twas strange to see her looking so upset. And before a ball, too.

“Well, I miss Sophie. I wish she were here. She’s been guiding me through my debut from making my gowns to helping me with my dinner party. It just feels wrong that she’s not here—on this night of all nights.” Amelia heaved a gusty sigh.

“Well, that’s understandable.” Lucy drew a chair close to the vanity table and sat, looking at her eldest charge. “Sophie would be here if she could. But she had to make this trip to Brightgate—”

“Do you think she’s going to marry Lieutenant Cantrill?” Amelia began playing with the bristles of her hairbrush, keeping her eyes cast down.

Good gracious, the Bradbury girls were all atwitter about marriage tonight. ’Twas rather irksome. “That’s none of your affair,” she chided gently, using her best governess-in-charge tone of voice. “Now, stand up and shake out your skirts. The carriage is waiting. I am sure your papa has been waiting for us for an eternity.”

Amelia nodded and did as Lucy bade her. Lucy draped a pearl-adorned shawl about Amelia’s shoulders and drew on her own gloves.

“Lucy?”

“Yes?” Oh, they must hurry. His lordship would be furious if they were late.

“I am glad you are coming with me. I shan’t feel half so out of place with you there.” Amelia slipped her hand into Lucy’s and gave it a squeeze.