The Headstrong Ward (19 page)

He laughed. “Splendid. I shall tell him precisely why I did so. Do not trouble yourself about the announcement. I will inform
The
Morning
Post
first thing tomorrow.”

Looking chagrined, Lydia Branwell turned on her heel and stormed out of the room. She nearly collided with Edward as she did so, throwing him a searing glance and twitching her skirts to the side as if to avoid contamination.

“Hurrying straight to Harry Hargreaves, I wager,” said Edward as he strolled into the room. “Wants to make sure of him at once. I daresay the announcement of their engagement will be just below the one calling yours off.”

Laurence stared at him incredulously. He was still breathing hard after his confrontation with his intended. He turned his head to look at Anne. “Did you plan this?” he said finally.

Anne nodded, eyeing him apprehensively. She was uncertain how he would take their interference in his affairs.

“We took care of the rumors, too,” put in Edward. “Charles gathered all the old cats in the next room and saw to it that they overhead the Branwell's confession.”

“Overheard?” Laurence looked dazed.

“There is a door behind that curtain,” explained Anne. As a horrified expression crossed Laurence's face, she added, “It is shut now. Charles closed it when you came in.”

“I see.” The Reverend Debenham still looked bewildered, but he was also quite obviously relieved.

“They're probably spreading this juicy new tidbit around the
ton
already,” commented Edward with satisfaction. “Before the night is out, everyone will know that Lydia started the lie about Miss Castleton.”

Laurence shook his head as if to clear it. “I can't quite take it in. You arranged all of this?”

“The three of us,” agreed Edward. “Oh, and Mariah. She's done heroic duty with Hargreaves. Kept him talking for an hour.” He chuckled. “I daresay he knows as much about roses as his future father-in-law by now.”

“I…I don't know what to say.” Laurence sighed.

“I have a suggestion,” replied Anne.

“What?”

“I think you should go and tell Bella what has happened. Not about Miss Branwell, of course, though she'll hear that soon enough, I suppose. But you could tell her that the rumors have stopped
and
that your engagement is at an end.”

Laurence met her eyes, realization dawning slowly in his own. He began to smile, then to nod. “I believe I will,” he agreed. “Yes, I believe that is what I will do.” Anne and Edward exchanged a grin as he hurried out of the room.

The Huntington ball moved to its conclusion in the customary fashion. The gossip was perhaps a bit more animated than usual, and the Branwell party left very early, but otherwise all was more or less predictable. The Debenham group had no opportunity to gather and discuss the night's events. Anne was asked to dance the moment she reentered the ballroom, and though she wanted very much to speak to Charles, she felt she must accept. Her absence had already caused some remark, for in soliciting her hand, the gentleman had said, “Where the deuce have you been, Lady Anne? We've all been looking for you.” She saw Edward join the set, then watched Laurence lead a radiant Arabella into it. With a sigh, she resigned herself to wait for the end of the ball.

At the first interval, Arabella sought her out. “Anne!” she exclaimed. “Have you heard?”

“Heard?” repeated the other girl, smiling.

“That Laurence is no longer…that is…his engagement is broken off.”

“Oh, yes.”

Arabella smiled tremulously up at her, and Anne nodded, her smile widening. All the necessary communication passed between them in that moment. Then Anne took her friend's arm. “Let us get some lemonade, shall we? I am terribly thirsty.”

The evening ended at last. All three Debenham brothers rode home in the coach with Mariah and Anne, and the party was very merry despite the crowding. “The Branwell's face as she went past me out of that parlor was worth twenty guineas,” declared Edward. “She knew we'd given her her own back.”

Seeing Laurence frown, Anne nodded. “I am sorry it was necessary, but I fear she brought it on herself.”

“I should say so!” cried Edward.

“I have a great deal to thank you for,” said Laurence quietly. “All of you. And I do thank you. I have not quite…recovered from the events of the evening.” He put his forehead in one hand. Edward closed his mouth with a snap and after a moment, Charles laid a hand on his brother's shoulder. Anne felt tears start in her eyes.

“Here we are,” said Mariah cheerfully as they pulled up before the house. “And I, for one, am exhausted. I am going straight up to bed.”

“I'm not at all sleepy,” protested Anne. The brothers smiled at her.

“Perhaps a last drink in the library?” suggested Charles.

“Oh, yes!”

So the younger members of the party settled in the library, the gentlemen with brandies and Anne with a rare glass of Madeira, which soon made her feel the slightest bit light-headed.

“So,” sighed Edward after a quarter hour of desultory talk, “all is well again. It is hard to believe.”

“Not quite all,” answered Anne, a glint in her gray-violet eyes. Charles looked sharply over at her.

“What do you mean?” asked Captain Debenham. “The rumors are stopped, Laurence is a free man, and he has told me that he means to offer for Miss Castleton after a decent interval. What remains?”

Anne had continued to hold Charles's eyes during this speech. “There is something to be settled between Charles and me,” she said.

“Couldn't that wait until tomorrow?” replied Charles.

Anne giggled. “No!”

“Good Lord, she's foxed!” Edward laughed. “Drunk as a wheelbarrow. We shouldn't have given her the Madeira.”

“I'm not!” asserted Anne.

Laurence nodded. “She's not used to it. We should have thought. I'll ring for her maid to take her up to bed.”

“No,” exclaimed Anne, who was not really drunk but merely recklessly elated by the wine. “I want
everything
settled. Charles!”

The two younger Debenhams turned puzzled eyes on the viscount, expecting him to be annoyed at Anne's persistence. But Charles was smiling at her. “Are you certain you wish me to ask
now
?” he said. “It is not very private.”

“Yes.”

Still smiling, he walked over and took her hand. “Very well. Will you be my wife, Anne?”

“Of course I will!”

“By Jove!” cried Edward.

“My dear Charles!” exclaimed Laurence.

The viscount smiled indulgently at them both. “Now perhaps you would leave us…”

“Congratulations, old man,” added Captain Debenham. “A capital notion.”

Laurence nodded slowly. “I suspected something of the sort, and I…I am very glad.” He went and shook Charles's hand, dropping a brief kiss on Anne's cheek. “I am delighted that you are to be truly our sister at last.”

“This calls for another round!” urged Edward, picking up the brandy bottle and beginning to fill his glass. “And toasts!”

“No, it does not,” replied Charles firmly, causing him to pause with the bottle tilted in midair. “I will endure all the toasts you like when we announce this publicly, but now I wish you would both go home.”

“Laurence lives here,” protested Edward.

“Then I wish you would go home and he would go to bed,” retorted Charles. “Really, can't you see that you are both de trop?” He softened this rebuke with a wry smile.

“Of course,” agreed Laurence, taking Edward's arm and urging him toward the library door. “Come, I'll see you out. Fallow's gone to bed.”

“But I haven't even—” Edward's protest was cut off by the closing door, and Anne and Charles were left alone.

“Now you can kiss me again,” suggested the girl, smiling saucily up at him.

He laughed. “I am much more likely to beat you. Why did you insist that I propose before my wretched brothers?”

“You have all been getting on so well together. I thought it would be nice to share it with them.”

“Did you indeed?”

“Yes. And it was. But I am glad they're gone now. Aren't you going to kiss me?”

“I am not in the habit of kissing inebriated ladies.”

“Oh? What sort do you kiss?”

“Anne!”

“Charles?”

He laughed and swept her into his arms, kissing her long and hard.

“Oh,” breathed Anne when he drew back. “That was even nicer than the first time!”

“I'm so happy you're pleased.”

She looked up at him. “Are
you
pleased, Charles?”

He returned her regard in silence for a moment. “I am far more than that.”

“Really? You aren't daunted at the prospect of spending years and years with me?”

His arms tightened round her waist. “Daunted? I am overjoyed. I ask nothing more from life than to care for you.”

“
Care
for me? Oh, no, I won't have you feeling
responsible
!” She wrinkled her nose at him. “You must think of another word.”

He laughed again. “Then I shall say, rather, I love you, Anne, with all my heart.”

She considered. “That will do very well.”

He kissed her again, so thoroughly that she was left breathless and shaken. “I love you too, Charles,” she whispered when they drew apart. She stroked the place where his hair curled on the back of his neck. “I truly do.”

He was bending to kiss her yet again when the library door opened and Mariah looked in, clad in a nightgown and wrapper. “I just wanted…” she had begun when she saw them embracing. Her eyebrows rose; then she smiled. “Oh, good, it is settled. I can take my lavender home for some proper sun.”

Anne giggled. “You may take that blasted parrot as well.” Charles laughed.

“Augustus?” protested Anne.

“Yes, my love.”

“I don't mind,” responded Mariah. “I shall hang his cage in the dining-room window, where he can see my roses.”

“Splendid,” answered Charles. “Good night!”

Mariah withdrew. “I thought you liked Augustus,” protested Anne.

“Then you are much less intelligent than I thought you, my darling.”

“What if I want to keep him?”

“Do you?”

Anne considered. “No, but I might have. You didn't even ask me!”

“I thought I knew what you would like, and you see that I was right.”

She thought again. “Next time, you must ask.” Anne's gray-violet eyes met his seriously. “I am
not
your responsibility, Charles. I am your love; it's quite different.”

Very slowly he started to nod. “Yes, I begin to see that it is.”

Her arms still around his neck, she leaned back and smiled up at him. “Good. It's much more fun.”

He laughed as he pulled her to him again.

Brand-new Regency romance
from bestselling author

Jane Ashford

Married to a Perfect Stranger

Coming in Spring 2015

from Sourcebooks Casablanca

Read on for a sneak peek

John Bexley stood at the rail of the HMS
Alceste
and watched the gray water race by. Foam streaked the waves under an overcast sky. The sails belled out in a fresh wind, and the current in these narrowing straits, halfway across the world from England and home, pushed them even faster. It wasn't a full-fledged storm, but the weather was certainly what the navy men called “lively.” And the roll and heeling of the ship made the small cabin he shared below feel like a cage being shaken by gigantic hands. Far better to brace yourself on deck, endure the salt spray and the roar, feel the full thrill of their swift progress. It was like flying.

He tightened his grip on the rigging as a gust tilted the ship further toward the sea. Rushing water gurgled and hissed along the timbers. The exultation of this run before the wind was a scrap of compensation for the failure of their mission. They were heading home with nothing accomplished, due to intransigence of the Chinese emperor. And as a junior clerk on the diplomatic mission, he'd had no great role to play in their thwarted attempt to sway the monarch. Still, he'd seen and experienced things he would never have been able to imagine. His mind teemed with new ideas. John grinned in the teeth of the wind. The huge expanse and buffeting energy of sea and sky matched his mood. He had the oddest sense that something had come to life inside him on this long voyage.

There was a crack like a cannon shot. The ship shuddered all along its length and stopped dead in the water, throwing John to his knees. Then the vessel slewed around until it wallowed broadside in the waves, sails snapping like pistol fire. John sprang up and looked wildly around for the source of the attack. The masts shook. There was a grating splintering sound, as of tortured wood. They'd hit something in the sea.

Clinging to rail and ropes, John peered over the side. Foam sucked and surged over a rock just below the surface. The wind pushed at the sails and shoved them harder against it. He could see that the hull was breached, water pouring in. They must have veered out of the channel through the straits. He straightened. Sailors swarmed the deck, some getting in each other's way. Where was the captain? The first mate? Someone should do something, give orders.

He remembered that the senior officers were dining with Lord Amherst and the top members of diplomatic group. But why hadn't they come up on deck? John looked to the helmsman. He was leaning against the big ship's wheel. The impact had apparently stunned him.

The prow of the ship sagged and dipped. They were sinking. He was going to die thousands of miles from home, his fate unknown to his family and friends for weeks. And Mary. He and his newlywed wife were just beginning to get acquainted when they'd been separated by this voyage. Now he would leave her a widow, pulled down into these cold foreign seas. John clutched the rigging so tight his nails dug into his palms.

By God, he was not! Denial rose in John, fierce and fiery, along with a surge of confidence stronger than any he'd ever felt before. He knew what to do. The
Lyra
was following not far behind them. It could pick them up. “Ready the dinghies,” he shouted to the nearest sailors. “Everyone must get off the ship. We're going down.”

Some of the crew had already gone to the pulleys. At his command, others joined them. John ran for the hatch to see what was keeping Lord Amherst and the others.

The moment he entered the narrow gangway, his fellow clerk Edmund Fordyce careened into him. “Where is Lord Amherst?” John asked.

“How the devil would I know?” replied Fordyce. He pushed John against the wall, trying to get by him. “Get out of my way, you idiot. There's water pouring into my cabin.”

“We've struck a rock. We have to find the…”

“All I'm finding is a way off this crate.” Fordyce shoved harder, squeezing past John and heading for the hatch.

“Fordyce! We need to…”

“
I
need to not risk my neck.
You
can do as you like.” His tone suggested that he thought John was a fool. Fordyce staggered as the ship leaned, then lunged out onto the deck. The hatch slammed shut behind him.

John pushed off the wall and moved farther into the ship. Timbers groaned, and the floor heaved under his feet. Water sloshed out of a cabin on the left. At the end of the corridor, the door to the captain's cabin was shut. A long sliver of wood had somehow become jammed under it, John saw, preventing it from opening. Fists pounded on the inside. A chorus of voices shouted for aid. A knife jabbed through the boards at shoulder height, once, and again.

“Wait a moment,” he called. He bent and yanked at the piece of wood. At first, it wouldn't shift, but when he kicked it, it moved and finally came loose. John jerked it free and pushed at the door.

The panels burst open. The captain surged out first, cursing. His first mate and other crewmen were right behind him. Then came Lord Amherst and the senior diplomatic staff. En masse, they jostled toward the hatch. “We hit a rock,” John said. He wasn't sure whether anyone heard.

When the knot of men had rushed past, John followed. Water coursed over the toes of his boots. As he went, he checked quickly inside the cabins that lined the corridor. All were empty except the last. Reynolds, one of the troopers accompanying their group, was there, dazed and bleeding from a knock on the head. John put an arm around him and helped him up to the deck.

The scene there had become a more organized chaos. The captain was shouting orders. The helmsman had recovered. The ship's dinghies were being lowered into the thrashing sea. John saw Lord Amherst climbing down into one. The deck was listing badly now, the stern rising as water filled the front holds. John helped Reynolds across the shuddering planks. The grating of timber on rock was even louder now, audible even over the confused shouting.

A crewman gave him a hand him with Reynolds. And then John was sliding down a rope into a heaving longboat. He could see their sister ship, the
Lyra
, standing off not far away, waiting to take them aboard. Dinghies dotted the waves, rowing toward her. He grabbed an oar himself as the last men dropped into the boat, and they pulled hard toward rescue. Curiously, along with relief, John felt a rising excitement. He was intensely aware of the pull of his muscles as he rowed, the lash of spray, salty on his lips, the whistle of the wind. Had he ever felt this alive, this clear and certain? All his senses united to tell him there would be no turning back from this profound moment. From now on, everything was different.

Minutes later, they made it to the
Lyra
. Crewmen reached down to help them climb to safety. John vaulted over the rail and turned to look back at the
Alceste
. The ship that had carried them from England to the ports of China, and part way back again, was going down. Most of his possessions, including gifts he'd purchased for people back home, were going with it. Waves washed over the foredeck. Spars and coils of rope floated free. The prow went under. The hull tipped and seemed to hesitate, then slipped beneath the surging sea. It seemed fitting to bow his head briefly, as if saying farewell to a friend.

“Well, I had to see to it that we got everyone off, sir,” said a voice behind him. “Couldn't leave anyone behind.”

John turned and discovered Fordyce, speaking to Lord Amherst.

“One has to do one's duty whatever the risk,” added his fellow clerk.

Lord Amherst nodded, eyes on the spot where the
Alceste
had disappeared. John stared at Fordyce, amazed at the man's effrontery. Surely someone had seen him, rushing to the dinghies ahead of everyone else?

As if sensing his gaze, Fordyce's pale blue eyes flicked at John, then away. “I suppose it's just bred in the bone, sir,” he said to Lord Amherst. “Family tradition and all that.”

John didn't hear what Amherst murmured in response. He was distracted by the captain of the
Lyra
, ordering his helmsman to steer well away from the hidden shoals.

***

The small Somerset manor house lazed under the June sun, its red brick mellow with age, its bow windows and ruddy chimney pots aglow. Bees hummed in the garden, where summer blooms perfumed the air. Foliage hung heavy in the small park; lawns glowed green.

But in a pleasant parlor at the back of the house, Mary Fleming Bexley felt far from peaceful. Though she had asked her mother to come, indeed insisted that she must, the visit was not going well. “I've been living with Aunt Lavinia for eighteen months, Mama,” she said. “I know what she…”

“Well, we had to put you somewhere,” said her mother indulgently. “Married a month, and then your husband goes haring off to China.” She said it as if the mission that had taken John away was Mary's fault somehow.

What would she have answered, Mary wondered, if John had said, “Will you marry me and then go live with your great-aunt for months and months while I sail off on an important diplomatic journey to China?” Her reply might have been a bit more complicated than “yes.” She'd had less than a month as a wife, actually, and then he was gone to the other side of the world and she was packed off to Somerset.

Packed off; there was the crux of it. It seemed she was always being packed off in one way or another. As if she was a misaddressed parcel or a stray shawl left behind at the end of a house party. “I'm twenty-four years old,” she began. “A married woman…”

“At last,” interrupted her mother. “Thanks to me. Well, and Mrs. Bexley, of course.”

Of course, thought Mary. Their families had come up with the match and pushed for it in a united front. Mary understood now, as she hadn't then, that the Flemings and the Bexleys saw their offspring as two of a kind. She, the least promising of five sisters, short on common sense. John, overshadowed by his three brothers' loud accomplishments, stuck in a junior position at the Foreign Office. Mary had actually overheard her mother and John's discussing their similar shortcomings, not long after he'd departed on his voyage. That had been when they were deciding what to “do” with her. She and John had been hustled into marriage like backward children being sent off to school. Why had she let that happen? “Aunt Lavinia is not herself,” she tried.

“Really? Who is she then?” Her mother laughed. “Do you remember how your father used to compare her to a frigate under full sail—‘prow jutting well out, a nose fit for cleaving waves.' I had to scold him so. I was afraid one of you children would repeat it.”

Mary did remember. Her four sisters had feared Lavinia when she visited, sweeping in like a scudding ship, shedding pronouncements and odd gifts and errant barks of laughter. Mary alone had been fascinated, trailing in the older woman's wake like an inquisitive seabird. But sadly, this was not the Great-Aunt Lavinia she'd found when she arrived to stay here. “She's older,” Mary said. “And…confused.” Worse than confused—uncharacteristically anxious, a shell of her former, formidable self.

Her mother frowned. “Confused about what? She seemed fine to me. A bit tired, perhaps, but as you say, she's nearly eighty. I'm sure her nap will restore her.”

Aunt Lavinia had been having a good day. Mary could not regret this, though it did make it harder to convince her mother.

“Really, Mary, don't you think you're the one who's confused? You call me here at a moment's notice, saying I must come, and I still have no idea why. I'm quite busy at home, you know.”

Her mother was always busy. She descended like a striking hawk whenever the least disorder threatened. Mary searched for the right words. But in the face of Mama's all-too-familiar impatience, she couldn't find them. “Let me show you something.” Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for her sketch pad.

“Oh, Mary.” Her mother sighed and shook her head. “I don't have the time to look at drawings. Please tell me you did not drag me thirty miles over bumpy roads to show me a book of sketches. It's all very well for a
child
to be slow and dreamy and lose herself in fancies, but…” She rubbed her forehead.

Mary felt an old despair. She couldn't stop drawing, any more than she could stop eating. Her mother would never understand this; she'd given up arguing with her about it years ago. She started to put the sketchbook away. But no. Then her mother would leave without agreeing to her plan. And what would become of Great-Aunt Lavinia when Mary left this house? John had to come home
sometime
. “Please, Mama, if you would just look.”

Her mother's tone grew sharper. “Mary, as you have pointed out, you are grown up. You must stop wasting time on such stuff and settle down to more useful pursuits.”

Part of her wanted to wilt and slink away, hide the drawings, hide herself, as she had so often done back home. Then, from somewhere, rose a determination that would not be denied. Mary had learned something important in these last chaotic months. In fact, her enforced sojourn in Somerset had brought her a revelation. She'd finally understood that in order to truly understand a situation, she had to draw the people involved. Drawing was her key to understanding the world. Only then did she see the truth of things. Only then could she figure out what to do and find the proper words to communicate it.

She'd known that her drawings captured emotion as well as appearances, through contrast perhaps, or juxtaposition. She couldn't explain how it happened. Sometimes, she had a hint about the feelings already. Other times, she had no idea until the drawing was done. For some reason, she learned subtle things with her hands, as they moved. Not through books, or lectures. No matter how hard she tried, words slipped out of her mind, while shapes and shadows illuminated it. Her mother, her sisters, could look and grasp and comprehend words all in a moment. They could remember all they read with ease. Her sisters found her inability to do so hilarious. Her mother just found it irritating. She looked vastly irritated now. But though Mary trembled under that well-known glare, she had to take the leap. “No, you must look.”