Regency Christmas Proposals Page 4

  She drew a long breath, feeling her body unwillingly respond to the memory of the desire she had clearly read in Guy Wakefield’s eyes.

  Ridiculous, she thought determinedly. He was years younger than she. And, as Hannah had so aptly put it, far too fine. Too much the London gentleman.

  Besides, if he desired her—and she was too experienced at being desired to have mistaken that emotion—it was not in the way William had. No, Mr Wakefield had no doubt made the same mistake a few of her husband’s compatriots had made when they’d discovered the Captain’s wife had come campaigning with him.

  If Guy Wakefield believed that she could be had in exchange for a morning ride and some words of gratitude, he would soon realise his mistake. Of course, she acknowledged with a slight smile as she pushed away from the door, she would have to give him credit for the rather singular nature of his courtship.

  Chapter Four

  ‘He’s here again,’ Hannah said, sotto voce.

  ‘Who?’ Her intellect completely occupied by the difficulty, despite the sale of her jewellery, in making so little money satisfy so many debts, Isabella truly had no clue what the housekeeper meant.

  ‘The London gentleman.’

  ‘Mr Wakefield?’

  It had been two days since their dawn ride, and, given her abrupt denial of his offer to repeat the experience, she’d not been surprised when she had not heard from him again. She had even wondered—despite having vowed to put all thoughts of the man from her mind—if the business that had brought him to the area had at last been completed.

  Apparently not, she thought with a flutter of something that felt annoyingly like anticipation in her chest.

  She stood, stripping off the apron she’d donned that morning to help Hannah with the cleaning. As she laid it on the back of her chair, she realised her fingers were ink-stained and more reddened than usual from their immersion in the soapy water she and the housekeeper had used to scrub the floors. Once again Mr Wakefield had caught her at her worst.

  ‘The same.’ Hannah reached out to straighten her collar. ‘And this time he’s brought flowers,’ the housekeeper added, a smile tugging at her wrinkled lips.

  ‘Flowers?’ Although she had no doubt as to what she’d seen in Guy Wakefield’s eyes that morning, Isabella had believed she’d been discouraging enough that she would not have to deal with this sort of romantic nonsense. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake…’

  She stormed towards the hall, only to have Hannah call after her, ‘He’s in the parlour.’

  At least after their morning’s labours the room was clean, she thought as she marched resolutely to where her unwanted suitor awaited. If she had not been forceful enough before—

  She stopped on the threshold, the peculiar sensation she’d experienced during his first visit roiling in her stomach again. Guy Wakefield stood with his back to her, looking out on the front garden.

  The breadth of his shoulders was clearly delineated by the impeccable cut of his jacket. Just as the muscles of his long legs were revealed by skin-tight pantaloons that disappeared into the tops of his Hessians. His hair gleamed blue-black in the light from the window.

  Every inch the London gentleman, she thought again.

  Then she remembered, despite his age, the broad sweep of grey at his temples—something that indicated as surely as did the fading scars on his cheek—that there was more to him than the shallow man-about-town his dress indicated.

  And no longer the frightened boy she had comforted all those years ago.

  He must have sensed her presence. He turned to smile at her, holding out a bouquet of field flowers tied together with a blade of grass.

  ‘I couldn’t resist,’ he said, blue eyes twinkling. ‘You particularly admired these during our ride, and they seemed to be blooming even more prolifically this afternoon. It seemed a shame you couldn’t enjoy them, too.’

  Her mouth had been opened to give him the set-down she had come to deliver, but something about that endearingly bedraggled collection of wildflowers made her close it again.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked instead.

  He didn’t pretend not to understand. ‘I am attempting to win the favour of a lady I admire.’

  ‘Why?’ She schooled her features to express displeasure, although surprisingly that was not the only emotion she felt.

  ‘Because I find I very much desire her favour.’ The soft words were almost apologetic.

  ‘I believe that what you desire, sir, is the lady,’ she said bluntly.

  His silence lasted so long she became aware of the pounding of her heart. Why did he have this effect on her?

  ‘Forgive me, Mrs Stowe, but I cannot deny the truth of that. Nor would I wish to,’ he added.

  ‘Whatever fault of character you may have read in my having accompanied my husband to Iberia, it is, I assure you—’

  His face changed abruptly. He took a step forward, the outstretched bouquet allowed to fall to his side. ‘You could not be more mistaken, ma’am, in thinking I have found any fault in your character. Indeed…’ He hesitated before finishing earnestly, ‘the fact that you accompanied your husband to war only increases my admiration.’

  ‘It was not an admiration of character I saw in your eyes the day of our ride, Mr Wakefield.’

  The stern line of his lips ticked upward slightly, but he quickly controlled what appeared to be an impulse to smile. ‘I confess. It is not only your character I am enamoured of.’

  ‘Are you bowled over by my beauty or my charm?’ As if to emphasise her point, she spread the meagre skirt of her gown, a dark grey bombazine, and dropped a low curtsy.

  ‘Is that so difficult for you to believe?’

  ‘Impossible,’ she said succinctly. ‘I can tell you the true source of your infatuation, Mr Wakefield. Even a blind man could see it.’

  Although her choice of words had been deliberate, she regretted them immediately. His face closed, hardening so that for the first time she could imagine him carrying out the highly dangerous missions he would have undertaken as one of Wellington’s aides.

  ‘You have come to believe that I played some role in your survival and subsequent recovery,’ she went on ruthlessly. ‘You are, understandably, grateful for both, but I assure you I had no more to do with either than did the bells we heard. Whatever I said or did that encouraged you was a fortunate accident at best. And nothing I hadn’t said or done for dozens of other wounded men. Many of whom didn’t survive, despite my miraculous presence at their side. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have household matters to attend to. Hannah will see you to the door.’

  She was halfway to the hall before his words stopped her.

  ‘I have no right to ask it, I know, but I’d be very grateful if you would hear me out.’

  She turned. ‘I think you’ve been quite grateful enough, Mr Wakefield.’

  ‘I can hardly deny my gratitude, since I readily admitted it to you the first time I came.’

  She inclined her head, feeling vindicated by this confession.

  Until he added, ‘That wasn’t, however, why I returned.’

  She hesitated, waiting for him to go on. When he didn’t, she was forced to voice the question that begged to be asked. ‘Then why did you return?’

  He lifted the bedraggled bouquet, the gesture unthinking, before he shook his head. ‘Because I have never in my life felt about a woman as I feel about you.’

  Exasperated, she looked down at her fingers, tightly intertwined at her waist. She lifted her joined hands, holding them together at heart’s level. ‘You are infatuated with something that does not exist.’

  ‘You exist.’

  ‘Not as you believe me to be.’

  ‘And what do I believe you to be?’

  She ignored the amusement in his voice to plough on. ‘Some sort of romantic figure you’ve created in your head. Someone responsible for your survival. Someone to whom you owe something. None of that is true.’

&nbs
p; ‘No, it is not.’

  Caught in mid-tirade, it took a moment for her to register his agreement. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘None of those things are, true. Or at least if they are they are not the reasons for how I feel.’

  She swallowed against the unexpected surge of emotion his denial created. ‘Then to what do you attribute your…?’ She hesitated, beginning to fear that she was making a fool of herself by having read too much into a bunch of wildflowers and a pretty sentiment.

  Because I have never in my life felt about a woman as I feel about you. What other interpretation could she possibly put on that? Had she been out of society so long that she had forgotten what being courted felt like?

  ‘My attraction to you?’ he finished for her.

  She allowed her hands to separate, holding them out before her, palms up. ‘You can’t possibly be attracted to me.’

  ‘Why not?’ This time he made no attempt to conceal his amusement.

  ‘Because…’ She shook her head, for some reason unwilling to list for him all the faults she had quite forthrightly been cataloguing to herself since she had met him. ‘We do not suit, Mr Wakefield.’

  ‘Believe me, you suit me very well, Mrs Stowe.’

  ‘I am older than you.’

  ‘And undoubtedly wiser. My family would not find that amiss, I promise you.’ The curve of his lips increased slightly.

  ‘Are you mocking me, sir?’

  ‘Only myself, Mrs Stowe. Is age the only impediment you see to my courtship? If so—’

  ‘Our positions, of course. I am not…in society. Actually, I have never been in society. I married young. You know what my life was like before William’s death.’

  Something shifted in his eyes. His body, which had been relaxed despite the strong tension in hers, straightened. ‘Forgive me. I had hoped that five years would be long enough…’

  His words trailed, and her mind struggled to finish his thought. When she finally realised what he believed, she wondered if that would be enough to put an end to this. But for some reason—perhaps her inherent aversion to lies—she could not bring herself to use the weapon he had placed in her hands.

  ‘There is no one who would wish for my future happiness more than my late husband, Mr Wakefield. I loved him deeply. Too much so to falsely claim that what we shared would keep me from falling in love with another man. That is the last thing William would have wanted.’

  ‘Another man? But not with me? Should you like a letter of recommendation from my commanding officer, Mrs Stowe? I promise you I served my country to the best of my ability.’

  ‘I’m sure you did. That isn’t what I meant. I meant to a man I loved.’

  ‘The ultimate impediment,’ he said. ‘An undeniable one, I admit, which is why I’m trying so hard to win your favour. If you tell me what you find objectionable about my suit or my person, I promise I shall try to remedy it.’

  ‘I don’t find you objectionable, Mr Wakefield.’ Quite the contrary, she thought, before she banished that admission from her mind. ‘It’s just that we do not suit. There is too wide a gap between us.’ She braced for his denial, and was surprised when it did not come.

  ‘Am I allowed to try and bridge that gap?’ he asked instead. When she hesitated, he added, ‘Please understand that today’s attempt is far from my best effort. I did not wish to frighten you off by rushing you. Perhaps I could bring you a bouquet from a conservatory the next time?’

  She raised her eyes to find that he was again holding out the roadside flowers, which were now even more bedraggled than when they had begun this conversation.

  ‘You cannot court me, Mr Wakefield.’

  ‘I can indeed, Mrs Stowe. You may refuse me, but you cannot in all good conscience forbid me to try. Not having given me your husband’s permission.’

  ‘Did I do that?’

  ‘I believe that you did. Let me look after you as he would surely have wished someone to.’ There was no doubting the sincerity in his voice.

  Hearing it, she felt her eyes sting with tears she resolutely denied. She could not succumb to that lure. If she gave herself to this man, in spite of all the very good reasons she saw against doing so, then it must be because she loved him as much as she had loved William.

  ‘No,’ she said resolutely, and then softened the denial by adding, ‘But I will let you give me those.’ She gestured towards his offering by tilting her chin at them.

  Her voice had been unsteady. His answering smile was not, as he stepped forward to present them to her. ‘Only until I can find the conservatory flowers I promised you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said as she raised the fading blossoms to her face. ‘These are lovely. In all honesty, I much prefer them to any others.’

  ‘I suspect that we have a great deal in common. Then…until I am fortunate enough to see you again…’ He inclined his head, his eyes holding hers.

  ‘Your business in the district is not yet complete?’

  His smile widened. ‘No, but I am greatly encouraged that it might yet have a satisfactory resolution. Don’t bother your housekeeper. I can see myself out.’

  When she heard the front door close behind him, she raised the flowers once more, breathing in so deeply that she sneezed.

  A fitting conclusion to a most peculiar courtship, she decided. But she was smiling as she returned to the kitchen.

  Chapter Five

  ‘I know this is not all that is owed on my account, Mr Carter, but I promise you that the rest will be paid as soon as possible.’ Isabella placed the small sack that contained a few carefully counted out coins on the desk between them. ‘I have had some unexpected expenses that necessitated the delay in settling with you. However, I do not expect any additional drain on my finances. If I may ask for your continued patience…’

  She looked up to find the merchant’s eyes on her face, rather than on the money she had just presented to him. In them was a look she had seen before—particularly from those who, as she had accused Guy Wakefield of doing, judged her character based upon her having travelled with Wellington’s army. This man might not ever have heard the phrase ‘camp follower,’ but his eyes indicated that what he was thinking was something very much like that insult.

  ‘Is there some problem, Mr Carter?’

  ‘Not at all, Mrs Stowe. It’s just that…’ Carter’s thick lips pursed as he seemed to weigh his next words. Then, with the back of his hand, he pushed the bag towards her. ‘You owe me nothing.’

  ‘But there must be some mistake. I received a bill from you only last week.’

  ‘As you say, a mistake. Businesses make such errors all the time.’

  ‘A mistake?’

  ‘Another customer’s purchases credited to your account, perhaps? I shall speak to my bookkeeper to ensure nothing like this happens again.

  ‘Come, Mr Carter, your accounting was quite specific. The items listed were my purchases. I believe I have brought the bill with me…’ She opened her reticule to procure the document.

  ‘Please don’t bother, Mrs Stowe. That’s all been taken care of.’

  ‘Taken care of?’ Her fingers froze around the paper she had sought as she looked up at him. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  ‘Your account has been paid in full, Mrs Stowe.’

  ‘Paid? Paid by whom?’

  Nothing about this made sense, she thought in confusion. And then, in some dark corner of her mind, an idea fluttered to life. An idea she had no desire to give credence to.

  The merchant shrugged. ‘By a gentleman who wished to remain anonymous.’

  It was there again. The look she had seen in his eyes before. And it infuriated her.

  ‘No one has the right to settle my accounts but me.’

  ‘Come, come, Mrs Stowe. An act of kindness, surely? As you said, you have had some unexpected expenses. Perhaps a friend wished to make things easier for a lady he admires. The scripture tells us—’

  ‘Do not, I be
g of you, quote scripture to me. Who paid my accounting?’ As she made the demand, she laid the bill she had received only a few days ago from this very man between them.

  ‘I was not told his name. As I said, he wished his actions to be anonymous.’

  ‘What did he look like?’ Even as she posed the question she already knew the answer.

  ‘A relative, perhaps? What can it matter?’

  ‘It matters a great deal to me, Mr Carter. A description of my benefactor, if you please.’

  ‘I gave him my word, Mrs Stowe. He was quite insistent about that.’

  ‘Well-dressed? With an air that marked him as not local? A citizen of…London, perhaps? Someone with fading burn marks on his face?’

  ‘As I have indicated, the gentleman did not wish to make his kindness known.’ The unctuous smile did not quite reach his eyes.

  ‘And you believe that you know why?’ she asked. ‘Never mind answering that, Mr Carter. It is very clear what you think.’ She stood, reaching across his desk to pick up the small sack of coins that symbolised all she had given up through the years in order to keep her independence and protect her pride. ‘He is neither a relative nor a friend.’ Her voice softened as she added, ‘Nor anything else you have been imagining him to be.’

  He’s simply a meddling fool who is far too accustomed to having his own way.

  ‘I will bid you good day, Mr Carter.’ She rose, but stood a moment on the other side of the wide desk, looking down on the merchant. ‘From now on please remember that my accounts are my concern and mine alone and refrain from making them known to anyone else—no matter how well connected you perceive that person to be. Perception isn’t truth. And, whatever you think about the gentleman’s reasons, they are, I assure you, as far from the truth as what you have just now been thinking about me.’

  She turned towards the door, ignoring his sputtering denials. It didn’t matter what he said or thought. The man, as despicable as she found him to be, wasn’t the villain of this piece. But she knew exactly where to find the person who was.

  ‘A lady to see you, my lord. A Mrs Stowe. And quite insistent, I might add.’