A Hasty Betrothal (13 page)

The smile stiffened as Powell resumed his usual professional stance. “We had a conversation about Shakespeare, which I found most enlightening.”

“Indeed...” Miles tapped his fingertips on his desk. “Did she say what she is here about?”

“Her arms are filled with papers, but she declined to leave them with me. She said she must see you immediately on a matter of grave importance.”

Grave importance? How like her to rely on melodrama. Sighing, he stood. “Thank you, Powell. Show her to the study, and I shall be there in a minute.”

When he arrived, it was to find Elizabeth draped across the sofa, a book spread before her feasting eyes. She wore a purplish dress and a bonnet with fewer frills than he'd expect from a woman of her station. Her hair was put up, but two shining curls twirled over her feminine shoulders.

His breath caught within his chest cavity, a painful pressure he could do without. She looked at home in this place, as though she belonged. An unlikely notion.

He took one more moment to study her, the girl who had blossomed into a woman when he least expected it. Her small size did nothing to detract from her womanhood. An image of her standing before the society speaking on matters he'd never expected her to even know about rushed through him. How her eyes had flashed and how her voice filled with the strength of her thoughts. There had been no self-conscious twisting of her face, no burying her gaze in the floor.

She'd met the eyes of everyone in the room while exhorting the benefits of astronomy. She had been magnificent. Uncomfortable with the direction of his thoughts, he cleared his throat.

No response.

He cleared it again, louder this time, and walked to her. She glanced up then, her eyes blinking as though wiping dreams from her mind so that she could return to the here and now. He'd seen that dreamy gaze far too often.

What must it be like to live in one's imagination? He could not fathom.

Though he'd made good headway with the pile of papers on his desk, there was still much to be done. Fingers itching, he placed his hands on his waist and gave Elizabeth a stern look. “Grave importance? Is all well with your grandmother?”

“Oh, my, why yes, she is altogether her usual self.” Elizabeth pushed herself into a sitting position, closing the book and setting it to the side. “I apologize for importuning you during your workday, but I wanted to offer you important information.”

His brows rose.

“Do not give me that expression, Miles Hawthorne. The past few days have been a vicious madhouse of planning and inviting and researching. All to prove to you that I will make a wife worthy of a gentleman. That your sacrifice is not in vain.”

He couldn't help the smile that tickled the corners of his lips. Amused, he sat beside her on the sofa. This close he could study the pale smoothness of her complexion. Besides the mark on her face, which curiously resembled the shape of a heart, her skin held a gentle flush. Not pasty as one would expect from a young lady who cloistered herself within libraries.

Though perhaps that was an unfair assessment, as he'd seen himself that she visited the people of her grandmother's estate and often walked into the village.

“Are you laughing at me?” Eyes wide, she shifted away from him. “I don't appreciate your amusement. Are you ever serious? Oh, yes, when it comes to work you are the icon of drudgery.” She sniffed, the subtle lifting of her nose an aristocratic trait he found immensely charming.

“Get to the point, Elizabeth. You are not writing a novel in my house.”

Certainly it was only manners that kept her from scowling, but he couldn't resist needling her. Giving Bitt trouble had been a source of pleasure for him for as long as he could remember. A part of him wanted to go back to those days of childish freedoms, before life intruded.

University, expectations, responsibilities...

Unbidden the memory of Elizabeth crying in the stables flashed through his mind. Was that when their relationship had changed? He recalled the sound of her weeping and the accusation in her eyes as he'd tried to comfort her.

Ever since, she'd chosen to be rather prickly with him.

Even now, her nose in the air and her shoulders stiff, he noticed the distance she put between them. As though she did not want him close.

And he agreed.

Only moments ago his head had told him what was best: a distant relationship based on nothing more than a good deed. Yet sitting next to her, the heat of her skin palpable, the sweet scent of her hair floating about his senses, made logic difficult. She fiddled with a pile of papers beside her while he ruminated. Completely oblivious to his inward struggle, he'd wager.

“Here we go.” She flourished a sheet of vellum through the air and thrust it in front of his face. The words wiggled on the page without his spectacles. “Notice the part where Mr. Listley states that his factory's profits have increased. I thought that tidbit rather intriguing. He sent me much-needed information on several mills across England that have implemented these policies.”

Miles stared at the paper she held. He didn't take it. “To what are you referring?”

“Why, the reforms you're making.” She glanced at him then, her eyes astute and not an ounce of timidity in her manner. “The Littleshire Mill is in need of an overhaul, and I've taken the liberty of contributing a spot of research to your cause.”

He didn't know why, but her words rankled. “I have another mill besides Littleshire, and I plan to follow the outline of that one.”

“Ah yes, but that mill is not filled with small children.” Her gaze bored into him. Accusatory.

He was becoming rather tired of these looks of hers. His eyes dropped to her lips, soft and rosy and pursed in absolute disapproval.

“The children weigh on my mind. I'm exploring options,” he said stiffly, shifting his body away from hers. “Have you come here to lecture me?”

“No, not at all.” She returned the vellum to the stack beside her and then heaved the entire thing up, unceremoniously dumping the pile on his lap. “Here is all the necessary information. I have included several addresses of mill owners and supervisors who have found ways to educate the children and factory workers whilst increasing production. You'll find their methods fascinating. Now, I have a modiste appointment today and must be gone. Evidently, a house party formally announcing a betrothal requires a new wardrobe.”

“Is everything set for that, then?” Miles eyed the massive stack, dread sinking his gut to new lows, even as the pressure of the papers cut into his thighs.

“Invitations have been sent to a broad spectrum of persons. Despite the crossover of gentry, peers and commoners, I believe this party shall be a raging success. Grandmother will make it so.”

“I'm sure she will,” he muttered.

Elizabeth rose, the silk of her dress rasping against his every sense as she flounced out of the room.

Chapter Fourteen

T
hree weeks later, Elizabeth studied her grandmother's ballroom, admiring the sparkling chandeliers and shining fixtures. Their staff had done a magnificent job in readying the house. All of the previous days' activities had been enjoyable. Tonight was the last night of the ball, and it was moving along without a hitch.

People milled about the floor as the orchestra played a quiet Mozart piece. She spotted Lady Danvers speaking with Mrs. Johnston, wife to one of the gentleman on Miles's list.

“A varied guest list, my dear.” Grandmother's perfume reached Elizabeth before the duchess herself did. “Were these...commoners...your choice or Miles's?”

“What does it matter?” Elizabeth scanned the crowd for her fiancé. They had planned to make their announcement before dinner. “This is the last night, and not a person has complained of sharing the house with those of lower stations. In fact, this party has been everything I hoped for it to be.” And she prayed Miles agreed. If he ever showed up. She had much to tell him.

“Miles participated in the activities, I presume?”

“Yesterday he joined in the shooting.” Not an event Elizabeth enjoyed but many of the guests found it exhilarating, and they'd brought home a few grouse for their efforts. “He's been at Littleshire much of the time.” She had not liked his haggard look yesterday. Her heart squeezed painfully as she recalled the circles beneath his eyes.

Grandmother put her quizzing glass to her eye and made a tiny sound that passed for disapproval. “He should be here with you.”

Elizabeth set her shoulders, prepared to defend him when she saw Lady Danvers floating their way. The elderly matron of all things respectable was a longtime friend of Grandmother's and a titled woman. By her side was Lady Kimball, a marchioness with a reputation for kindness. One of the main reasons Elizabeth had invited her.

They greeted Grandmother and then turned to Elizabeth. Lady Danvers's silvery brows rose as she inspected Elizabeth head to toe. Her gaze lingered on the birthmark, but no pity entered her expression. Then she met Elizabeth's gaze.

“Imagine my surprise when I received your invitation in the post and learned that a duke's granddaughter was to be married to a gentleman. A man with neither pedigree nor title.”

“He is a respectable man of honor,” Elizabeth said quickly, hardly thinking as the words poured from her mouth.

“Is that so?” A knowing look passed between Lady Danvers and Lady Kimball.

“It is.” She pressed her lips firmly together, little wanting to offend these women but unwilling to allow them to disdain Miles. Certainly, she could point out his flaws to him, but she was not about to let women who did not know him one tidbit damage his reputation.

“We have heard of his charitable bent,” Lady Danvers continued. “It is rumored he runs his factories with precision and fairness. His father had the reputation of being a gentleman and has obviously passed it down to his sons.”

“Are you acquainted with Mr. Hawthorne's brother, then?”

“I am. He is quite the businessman. Or so I've heard. I certainly am not involved with trade, but I do take note of children and their fates. On that note, Lady Elizabeth, I have been speaking with one Sir Rigby. He is a guest of yours who is involved with a society that studies scientific developments and the impact of inventions on our world. Fascinating character. I must say that Lady Kimball and I are immensely impressed with this house party. You have created a novel mix of people.” And then Lady Danvers tapped her cane against the floor, a sharp rapping that startled Elizabeth, who had begun to daydream just a smidge during the lady's monologue.

“Pay attention, Elizabeth,” said Grandmother.

“We—” Lady Danvers gestured to Lady Kimball “—wanted to give you our blessing on this marriage. Mr. Hawthorne is an upstanding gentleman, and yours is clearly a love match.”

Elizabeth could not stop her own brows from ratcheting upward.

“Do not look so surprised.” Her smile warmed as she leaned forward, forcing Elizabeth's attention. “It was clear yesterday during our time in the salon that Mr. Hawthorne has eyes for only you. While the rest of us played with that fascinating invention called a telescope, his gaze never strayed from you.”

He had played his part well, Elizabeth supposed, though that had not been part of this plan. The words
love match
had nothing to do with his agreeing to rescue her from her dire situation. She could not fathom what Lady Danvers referred to, or why Miles may have been watching her, so she nodded her head in a docile agreement.

“That is all. If you will excuse us, I see the punch has been refilled.” The ladies sauntered off, leaving Elizabeth once again with her grandmother.

“I am feeling weakness in my legs,” said Grandmother. The elderly lady did appear pale. Concerned, Elizabeth grasped her elbow and led her to an alcove off the ballroom, designed for fatigued dancers.

“Shall I bring you punch and perhaps one of Cook's special tarts?”

Grandmother nodded.

Feeling a nudge of apprehension over her grandmother's health, Elizabeth hurried to one of the servants stationed at the punch bowl and gave him instructions for retrieving a pastry for the duchess. Then she filled a cup and threaded her way back to Grandmother.

“Congratulations on your love match,” Mrs. Shaunessy from across the way said as she passed.

And was it her imagination or did Lord Danvers wink at her?

Steadying her hand to keep the punch from spilling, she continued to the alcove where Grandmother waited. She searched for Miles, but saw him nowhere. Surely he had arrived? This had been his idea, after all. Why would he miss the party? She knew the reasons she would attempt to avoid such a crush. The loudness of conversations buzzing all around, the dance of perfumes tangling together, irritating and thick. So many people, so much talking.

She kept walking when what she longed to do was dodge to the right, through a door she knew would take her to her room. To peace and quiet.

If only Miles would get here. They could formally announce their betrothal and then she could speak with him about another idea she'd had for his Littleshire Mill. And then...plead a headache to facilitate escape.

She reached her grandmother, punch intact and emotions beginning to brim with irritation. Handing the glass to the duchess, she once again scanned the ballroom. Her parents stood cloistered with an earl and his wife. Sir Rigby held an animated conversation with Lord Danvers. Other guests swirled around the floor in cadence with music. According to Elizabeth's card, a waltz was to be played next.

The risqué dance was gaining popularity and, surprisingly, Grandmother had suggested it as part of the musical set.

She sank next to her grandmother, reaching for her gloved hand. “Are you feeling better?”

“These old legs only need a rest. I shall be fine. But where is Mr. Hawthorne? It is not like him to be so tardy.” Grandmother's querulous words grated on Elizabeth's already raw nerves.

Could it be that she missed Miles? Surely not...and yet he had such a ready laugh, and his eyes crinkled at the corners in a most becoming way. He always looked at her, really looked, and listened.

As though her thoughts had spoken aloud, Miles appeared. He sauntered toward her, passing guests without removing his gaze from her own.

She felt as though she were the subject beneath a microscope. Her stomach quivered. Her fingers pressed against the wall. He wore pristine breeches and an elegantly cut waistcoat, and his cravat was neatly knotted. The look in his eyes did her in, though.

It was as though they saw only her.

Which could not be, she tried to remind herself, but her thoughts were drowned by the heady rush of feelings pulsating through her.

He came to a stop before the alcove. Looking past her, he bowed. “Your Grace,” he murmured.

And then he turned to her, his eyes a tempestuous gray filled with mystery, his hand aloft. “My lady, would you join me for a waltz?”

Even as he spoke, the music swelled in the ballroom and couples crowded the floor. Heat flared through Elizabeth. Cheek to cheek, hand to hand...the dance called for a scandalous closeness, and now Miles was asking her to participate?

Ignoring his hand, which waited for hers, she glanced back at Grandmother. The duchess's lips formed a thin line but Elizabeth could not tell if she approved of waltzing with Miles or no.

Turning to him, limbs quivering, heart shaking, she placed her hand in his. He asked for a waltz, but it felt as though he asked for so much more.

And she did not know if she was capable of giving him what he deserved.

* * *

The slightness of Elizabeth's hand in Miles's stirred feelings he had longed to forget. They pinched at his chest, tightening the muscles, mingling pleasure and pain.

He drew Elizabeth onto the floor, her perfume heady, surrounding him, reminding him of dances long past. She wore her hair in elaborate auburn curls, which cascaded around her shoulders. Her dress, an icy concoction of frills in all the right places, emphasized the beauty of her eyes and the soft tones of her skin.

Had she ever looked so beautiful? The last waltz he'd danced had been with Anastasia in France, before the dance had arrived in England. He'd been there not only for business, but to try to cheer his wife. It hadn't worked and not long after she'd... The memory clamored within, struggling for release.

But with Elizabeth in front of him, so close he only inhaled the scent of her, he could barely remember what Anastasia looked like.

The lines of her face and the color of her eyes faded from memory. Fizzled away like foam on a seashore.

He tugged Elizabeth closer. They were hand to hand, swirling around the dance floor. Music undulated within him, pulsing to the beat of their steps on the floor. She followed his lead flawlessly, every inch an earl's daughter. Her hair tickled the bottom of his chin. She smelled like roses. Reminding him of the trellis they'd stood beneath weeks ago.

Her fingers closed in his, tightening. He couldn't see her face, but he was altogether aware of the fluidity of her movements, the grace.

That terrible pinching began again, somewhere at the bottom of his sternum. An ache he struggled to ignore. Piano chords strained, the notes vaguely registering within the cloud of uncertainty that overtook him.

He'd expected marriage to be like owning factories. He would wed Bitt. Make sure she could perform the most fundamental of wifely duties. Organize their lives so that she avoided ruin, and he would never have to worry about dealing with women again. After all, marriage ensured safety from the clamoring misses looking for a man with a fortune, even though a great bulk of his wealth was tied up in his businesses.

The entire plan had seemed very clear-cut.

And it still could be, his mind insisted. Even with Bitt in his arms, warm and soft and smelling like forever, it was possible to keep their marriage strictly platonic.

Was the music still playing? Faces blurred as they danced by. Sweet notes echoed through him. Bitt's dress rustled against his legs as they twirled.

She looked up at him then, tilting her head, meeting his eyes with that dreamy directness she often employed. As though part of her existed in another realm. The look always softened him, made him want to protect her. There was a gentleness in her eyes as she smiled at him. Laughter edged the corners of her lips.

Reflexively his arms tightened around her. He was as close to her as he possibly could be and still keep propriety, but he wanted to be closer. He wanted...more.

That acknowledgment shook him as nothing else had. Deliberately he loosened his hold. Her smile faltered. They were still sweeping along the ballroom, but her body stiffened beneath his hands and her eyes clouded.

Was he doing the right thing? He had believed he was but now...he didn't know. He hated not knowing. His entire life revolved around making choices. Being in control.

But this feeling...this constriction in his throat.

He didn't like it.

Not at all.

The music ended and he found himself releasing Elizabeth quickly. She didn't seem to notice as she took his arm and rather forcefully led him to the side of the floor.

“I have been awaiting your arrival, Miles.”

“There was an accident at Littleshire.”

“I do hope no one was hurt.”

“Thankfully not, but equipment was damaged and I had to oversee the ordering.”

“Let us go outside.” She cast a glance behind him. “It is too loud in here for what I've wanted to discuss with you.”

Taken aback, Miles wanted to say no. Outside was private. Moonlit. Everything within resisted, but Elizabeth practically propelled him out. He allowed her to lead him onto a quiet patio that overlooked a well-manicured garden. A different one than where he'd found her last time.

Lanterns traced light along the borders of the walled patio. Elizabeth paused at its edge, her back to him as she stared out over the gardens. It was not silent out here. Faint strains from the orchestra merged with the quiet song of insects. A bright moon created deep shadows across the garden and draped Bitt in a milky glow.

Miles had never felt so uncomfortable as he did at this moment.

“You wished to speak with me?” His voice scraped the silence.

She turned slowly, her fingers tapping the rail. “I was hoping to see you earlier today. With the week's festivities, I haven't felt that we've been able to communicate and I have an idea.”

He tipped his head. “For?”

“The Littleshire Mill. The children, Miles. Part of the problem is that these workers are uneducated. How can they better themselves, how can they find more stable and less dangerous occupations, if they cannot read?”

“And then who will make the cotton?”