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Authors: Victoria Alexander

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He raised a brow. “Go on?”
“Well, one does have to wonder, given all the other flaws in your character, if your
reformation is truly permanent.”
“Good Lord, Lucy—Lucille!” He stared. “Just because a man doesn’t always wear a coat
in the privacy of his own home or is more witty than you think proper doesn’t mean
he will take up with every tart that passes by.”
“No, I suppose not,” she said without so much as an iota of conviction. Her firm gaze
met his. “I did think you and I were perfectly suited, but it is now obvious to me
that I was mistaken.”
As much as he did so hate to lose another fiancée, she was right. All things considered,
it was for the best that she had reached this conclusion, even if he had begun to
realize much the same thing himself.
“Very well then.” He studied her for a moment. “I am curious though, given that I
have these numerous flaws that have driven you mad, what was the final straw?”
“You mean aside from dragging me out to the middle of an insect-infested nowhere to
see a crumbling ruin?”
“It’s scarcely crumbling, but yes.”
“It was the story, I suppose.” She heaved a long-suffering sigh. “That endless story.
You fancy yourself a fine storyteller, indeed you have a great deal of dramatic enthusiasm,
but I find your stories only passably interesting.”
“It was a great story,” he muttered.
“As you droned on and on I simply realized I could not spend the rest of my life listening
to you tell stories.” She shook her head. “And I realized as well, while I do have
a great deal of affection for you, should I be told your ship had been lost at sea,
I would certainly mourn the appropriate amount of time, but I would go on. Without
any problem at all, really.”
“I see.”
“We have never discussed love between us and I am under no illusion on that score.
Indeed, we share a certain affection and I thought a certain sensibility as well,
but it’s really not enough to overcome the differences between us.” She thought for
a moment. “It does seem to me that when one is madly in love one forgives all those
little flaws—”
“Like being overly amusing.”
“I didn’t say you were
overly
amusing; I said that you think you’re amusing. It’s not at all the same.”
“My mistake.”
“As I was saying, if we were head over heels for one another, those qualities that
I find so annoying wouldn’t bother me at all. I might well find them endearing.”
He smiled in a wry manner. “I would hate to spend the rest of my life annoying you.”
“I don’t doubt that I might possibly annoy you in return.”
He shrugged.
“Winfield, I agreed to marry you because I thought you were an excellent, indeed a
sensible, match. I thought you were a man I could spend the rest of my days with.
Now I see I was wrong.” She laid her hand on his arm and stared into his eyes. “Isn’t
it better that we face this now rather than after we married?”
“You do have a point.” He sighed. He was not at all pleased about cancelling another
wedding. At least this one was small. Still, she was right. Better to part now than
spend the rest of their days annoying one another. “Shall we be friends then?”
“Good Lord no!” She snatched her hand away from his arm as if he were on fire. “Acquaintances
perhaps, but nothing more than that.”
He stifled a grin. “Lucille, in many ways you are a delight. I believe I shall miss
you.”
“There is a possibility I shall miss you as well.” She moved to her horse and waited
for him to assist her. He helped her on to the saddle and stepped back. She gazed
down at him, a slow smile creasing her lovely lips. “But every time I hear an endless
story told by someone who thinks he is most amusing I shall certainly think of you.”
Win laughed.
“I will admit it was a most romantic story. Even the ridiculous part about the ghosts.”
She raised a shoulder in a casual shrug. “Perhaps when you next consider asking a
woman to marry you, you should tell her the story and show her your folly first.”
“Perhaps I shall.”
And perhaps, the next time he headed toward the altar, he would choose a lady who
was interested in more than his title and his fortune. And a woman who enjoyed the
more amusing and frivolous aspects of his nature. Perhaps he should make a list of
those items as well, lest he forget.
And then perhaps the next time he headed toward the altar, he might actually make
it.
October 1881
 
Dear Gray,
Once again I take pen in hand to inform you that yet another wedding of mine has not
taken place. This time, however, I write with an abiding sense of relief and the firm
conviction that I have escaped a fate far worse than death.
Lady Eustice decided we did not suit after all, a conclusion, I confess, I was reluctantly
coming to myself. A conclusion, I suspect as well, Father had already come to, although,
in his infinite wisdom, he refrained from interfering in my decision. For once, I
rather wish he had.
I do so hate making mistakes of this sort, as I have done twice now. One would think,
given the many mistakes I made in my younger days, I would be accustomed to making
unwise decisions. So it is as surprising to me as it may well be to you that choosing
the wrong bride yet again bothers me.
I have come to think of myself as being more than moderately intelligent and yet,
in one of the biggest decisions I shall ever make, I have been in error twice now.
One can only hope I have learned my lesson. Although I did think the lesson was Miss
Whitingdon, and Lady Eustice was the result of what I had learned. Apparently not.
In some respects, I blame you for my misfortune. In a most superstitious manner, I
have begun to think that fate, or some higher power, will not allow me to be wed if
I have invited you to the wedding and you have failed to appear. Therefore, as I suspect
your presence can never be assured, I shall simply not tell you of my impending nuptials
in the future. You will receive an announcement of my wedding only after it is an
accomplished fact.
And, yes, Gray, I will attempt this again. It is my duty after all to provide an heir
and as you have failed to assure the continuance of the family name, that too falls
to me. The burdens of responsibility are great, but I do attempt to bear them without
complaint. Do try not to laugh.
There is a beneficial side to all this. While dreadfully disappointed, Mother has
already thrown herself into attempts to find a perfect bride for me. She has begun
discussing the current offering of debutantes in a most casual manner, as if I will
not notice what she is doing. She is never so happy as when she, and her friends,
are attempting to make a match. Although, my latest failure at matrimonial bliss has
oddly enough made her question her own judgment in this arena. She did believe Lady
Eustice was a perfect match for me.
Father now claims he never liked her. . . .
Part Three:
Caroline
Sir William and Lady Hibbitt
request the honour of your presence
at the marriage of their daughter
Miss Caroline Gwendolyn Hibbitt
to
The Right Honorable
The Viscount Stillwell
on Wednesday, May twenty-first
eighteen hundred and eighty-four
at half-past ten o’clock
Fairborough Hall
Chapter 5
April 1884
 
My dear Gray,
Is there a more optimistic time of year than spring? I think not. Why, the very air
itself is imbued with the promise of better days ahead. Days of warmth and light and
frolic. Do not scoff at the poetic nature of my words, Gray, as I am certain is your
inclination. Perhaps you have forgotten, but I can be quite lyrical when the appropriate
mood strikes. Regardless, my humble words can only approach the delight of this season
of new beginnings.
Would that the glory of budding primroses and blooming violets work their magic and
lure you home. While there is no lack of pride in your accomplishments, it has been
nearly nine years since you have last set foot on England’s shores. Your family and
friends agree that is entirely too long. Do consider returning, if only for a short
time. Mother fears she will no longer recognize you or worse, with the passage of
time, you will not recognize her.
Until then, I should acquaint you with some of the more interesting bits of news that
I have happened upon of late. You may recall, my first engagement came to an end when
Miss Whitingdon decided she preferred marriage to Mr. Hedges-Smythe over marriage
to me. As Mr. Hedges-Smythe was the sole heir to the elderly Duke of Monmount, Miss
Whitington looked forward to one day becoming the Duchess of Monmount. What is it
they say about even the best laid plans?
Forgive me, Gray, if I seem decidedly snide or smug or even wicked in the telling
of this tale, but I cannot seem to help myself. Indeed, since I heard the news I have
had the most disgraceful tendency to grin like a lunatic. Last year, much to everyone’s
surprise, the duke wed a lady some forty years younger than himself. A few weeks ago,
the duchess gave birth to twin boys, thus ending Mrs. Hedges-Smythe’s ambitions.
I suspect you too are now grinning like a lunatic....
Win strode down the walkway on the west side of the broad stretch of lawn that ran
the length of the Fairborough Hall formal gardens. The breeze whispered through the
twelve-foot-tall beech hedges that effectively boxed in outdoor rooms on either side
of the lawn.
There were six such rooms, each concealing a different purpose or landscape. One sheltered
the rose garden; a large fountain and pool filled another; two more were devoted to
tennis and croquet courts respectively; and the remainders were dedicated to whimsical,
some might say confusing, gardens with a profusion of blossoming plants, arbors, statuary
and whatever else struck his mother’s fancy in any given season. She had long ago
surrendered the planning and design of the rose garden to the gardener, but these
two areas she retained to rule over and do with as she pleased.
The center lawn was bounded and crossed at right angles by crushed stone walkways.
As a child, Win had always thought it was a pity that those long past designers of
Fairborough’s gardens had decided to train hedging for rooms rather than mazes like
those at Millworth Manor. Although at the moment, Win was grateful that he was trying
to find his fiancée in easily navigated boxes rather than a puzzle of a maze.
Caroline’s maid said she had gone for a walk in the gardens but had no idea which
one. As the day was so delightful, Win thought he would join her. He had checked the
first two rooms on this side of the lawn and was headed toward the third. The spring
in his step matched the lightheartedness of his mood. He was about to be married to
the woman who was surely his perfect match. This time, he had nothing to worry about.
Not that he had worried before, an annoying voice in the back of his head noted. He
ignored it.
Winfield Elliott was not the sort of man given to introspection. He was not prone
to melancholy, brooding or the writing of dark poetry late in the night. Nor was he
the type given to searching his soul even if, on occasion, his conscience might bear
further examination. No, on the contrary, he considered himself quite a jovial, friendly
sort. He hid no deep secrets, no skeletons in his closet as it were. Indeed, he was
very much an open book sort of person.
Life, he firmly believed, was a pleasant adventure.
Certainly, in his younger days he had often come perilously close to full-fledged
scandal, but in nearly every instance he had escaped relatively unscathed. And because
he had far more intelligence than most usually credited him with, he had learned a
lesson from every misadventure. He had never known real tragedy or true heartbreak.
But with Caroline, while he knew he wasn’t truly in love with her, he suspected he
was very, very close to it. He suspected as well that he had resisted giving her his
heart as something of a precaution. After all, he had already experienced two failed
engagements.
There was nothing about Miss Caroline Hibbitt not to love. She was much younger than
he, which struck him as beneficial, as his previous fiancées had been close to his
own age. She was lovely, of course, with hair a shade of red so pale it seemed more
like gold, creamy flawless complexion and eyes the color of summer skies that sparkled
when she laughed. And she laughed a great deal, finding amusement in much the same
things he did. She was clever and funny and at ease with her place in the world. She
was not overly outspoken, but she was not especially quiet as well. Win considered
himself fortunate to have found her. Caroline was surely his destiny. The woman he
had been waiting for, even if he hadn’t known it, and well worth waiting for. This
was a woman he could gladly spend the rest of his days with. A woman he could—he would—easily
love. And in a scant four days, she would be his wife.
The faint murmur of voices sounded on the breeze, apparently coming from the last
garden room on this side of the lawn, the one sheltering the croquet court. It appeared
someone had already joined Caroline in the gardens.
The rooms did not open directly onto the lawn. Indeed, from the lawn one would have
no idea of the hidden gardens behind the hedges. One had to follow the walkways between
the hedges to find the arched openings on the north and south sides of each separate
room.
Win turned and approached the opening. In spite of continued trimming, the hedges
had grown thicker through the years and were now nearly ten feet in width. He started
through the archway. That was indeed Caroline’s voice. He didn’t recognize the second
voice, but it was definitely male.
“What are you doing here?” Caroline’s voice rose. Win slowed. What on earth was going
on? “You shouldn’t be here.”
“You can’t marry him, Caro.”
Win stopped short.
Caro?
That was rather affectionate. Who was this man?
“Oh, but I can,” Caroline said firmly. “And I fully intend to.”
The right thing to do at this point would be to make his presence known. But right
would not answer the questions that immediately came to mind. Win stepped back, moved
to one side, found a small break in the leaves and bent to peer through the hedge.
“But you don’t love him.” The young man addressing Caroline appeared to be perhaps
a year or two older than she. He was smartly dressed and entirely too handsome to
suit Win.
“I am, however, extremely fond of him.”
Excellent. Win was extremely fond of her as well. Why, he was practically in love
with her.
“I know any number of couples who have married with far less affection between them,”
Caroline said.
The young man gazed at her with an intensity Win could almost feel. “But you love
me.”
For a long moment she didn’t say a word. Win held his breath. At last she heaved a
resigned sigh. Her voice was so soft Win could barely hear it.
“Yes, well, I always have.”
“I knew it.” The young man pulled her into his arms. “Then you can’t marry him.”
“Stop that, Lawrence.” She pushed out of his arms. “I can’t not marry him. I have
given my word after all, as has my father. Besides, Lord Stillwell is a very nice
man—”
Win bit back a groan. Didn’t all men hope their fiancée considered them very nice?
“And quite dashing as well,” she added.
Much better.
“I suppose,” Lawrence said. “For an old man.”
Old? Win’s brow rose. Why, he had just passed his thirtieth birthday. One could scarcely
consider that
old
.
“I would not call him old,” Caroline said staunchly. That was something at any rate.
“Older perhaps but not old.”
“He’s ten years older than you.”
“Which is insignificant.” She shrugged. “There’s a greater difference in age between
my parents and between yours as well.”
“I know.” Lawrence blew a long breath. “I am simply trying to think of reasons why
you shouldn’t marry him. Although . . .” He paused and considered her. “One would
think the fact that you love me would be reason enough.”
She shook her head. “It’s not that simple. Indeed, it’s all rather complicated.”
What did she mean by complicated?
“You promised to wait for me. You gave your word.”
“I did wait for you,” she said sharply. “I waited for months past when you were originally
scheduled to return. When you promised you would return. Who would have imagined representing
your family’s interests abroad would have taken so long? If one was a suspicious sort,
one might have thought you were having entirely too good a time of it to bother with
returning home. To me.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “But I did wait. Until
your letters stopped and your sister informed me you had become betrothed to the daughter
of an Austrian count. Then, Lawrence,
then
I decided there would be nothing so foolish as my continuing to wait.”
“That was a misunderstanding,” Lawrence said quickly.
Win was intrigued in spite of himself. How was this young man going to extricate himself
from this?
“Oh?” She cast him a scathing look. “Which part?”
“We were never actually
engaged
.” He scoffed. “It was really nothing more than a, oh, misunderstanding, really. There
was simply a great deal of gossip and a fair amount of manipulation. But believe me,
Caro, I didn’t ask for her hand and I didn’t consent to marriage to her, nor did I
ever have any desire to do so.”
She stared with suspicion. “Your letters stopped. What was I to think?”
“I never stopped writing you,” he said firmly. “I don’t know why you didn’t get my
letters, but I did write.”
“That’s possible, I suppose.” Reluctance sounded in her voice and she thought for
a moment. “Entirely possible, really. My mother was delighted when we heard you were
engaged and wasted no time in encouraging me to put you completely out of my head.
She wouldn’t hesitate to dispose of your letters before I saw them. She doesn’t like
you, you know.”
“She thinks you can do better.” He paused. “She thinks you can marry a viscount.”
“As I fully intend to do,” she said in a lofty manner. “If you have said what you
came here to say, you may leave and—”
“I have no intention of leaving.” He stepped toward her. “I came home as soon as I
learned of your engagement.”
“You should have returned long before that.” She sniffed.
“Yes, I should have, but I didn’t. In truth, I couldn’t. It was all quite awkward
and convoluted and complicated.” He ran his hand through his hair. Win had no idea
what Caroline was thinking, but he felt a touch of sympathy for the young man. “And
yes, I admit, it has been rather exciting and I have enjoyed myself. But I am here
now and I never intend to leave you again.” Lawrence took her hand. “And I will not
allow you to marry another man.”
“Allow?” She pulled her hand from his. “You have no say in the matter.”
He stared at her. “But I love you and you love me.”
“And I fully expect to love Lord Stillwell. In time.” She shrugged. “It shouldn’t
be at all difficult. Why, I daresay I am already a bit in love with him. He kisses
extremely well.”
Win grinned. He did kiss extremely well.
“No doubt because he has kissed so many,” Lawrence snapped. “Do you really want a
man who has already been engaged twice and yet has never married?”
“I am certain the blame for both of those falls squarely at other feet,” she said.
Win did like that she came to his defense. “Why, his first fiancée broke it off with
him to marry a man who was expected to inherit a lofty title and huge fortune. My
sister says she’s a bit of a twit at any rate. The second, well, everyone says she
is overly proper and extremely stuffy. I suspect Lord Stillwell was entirely too .
. . too
nice
for her.”
True enough.
“If he is such a very nice man, surely he will understand when you tell him you are
in love—”
“Oh, but I can’t. I simply can’t.” She shook her head. “I could never do that to him.
He’s been wonderful to me. Really, all a girl could ask for, and I have no doubt he
will make an excellent husband. Besides, while he hasn’t said it, I suspect the failures
of his previous engagements have affected him deeply.”

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