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his clipped baritone still sent a skitter up my spine.
A handsome, irritating boulder.
It was no happy accident, Tristan’s delay in travel and then his fortuitous arrival. It was precisely the sort of scheme Lord Beauford would instigate, cad that he was. He could not bear to lose to me, and so he’d made certain he would not—with the help of his society’s most skilled archer.
I’d been watching the ceramic industry closely the last few years, and when I’d heard of a kiln in Stoke-on-Trent that was seeking new investors, I leapt at the opportunity.
I liked to invest in businesses and people who knew their craft. People who simply needed someone to take a chance on them.
I started away, glancing back a few seconds later. Mrs. Penrose had moved close to Uncle’s elbow, gazing up at him with fluttering lashes. He had a silly look on his face as he regarded her, smiling and happy.
She had a sense about me, finding moments to talk with me when I most needed it.
“She is frustrated, that is all. This is her only chance to compete.”
Marigold had been tired, while I’d been—well, not exactly fresh, not after my night at that awful inn. But I’d been keen. Ready. Eager. Too eager.
“If ever I heard an offer of marriage from you, I would laugh before the words finished leaving your mouth.” “And I’d hope Uncle would send for the doctor because surely I would be suffering from an episode of madness.”
Cora cleared her throat. “Do you think he shall finally propose then?” I shook my head. “I cannot guess what goes on in that head of his. They are both such flirts, it is difficult for me to imagine either of them actually marrying.” Cora nodded, and her gaze seemed distant. I eyed her curiously. What had caused this strange mood? But then Mr. Howard finally appeared before me, lemonade in hand.
“That sounds perfectly reasonable to me. Let the ladies shoot with ladies, as it should be.” “I do not think we shall be content with that,” I said, my voice laced with sharp edges. “Not with the Lady Patroness’s Meeting approaching.”
But an archery society is only as good as its members, and I cannot see this becoming anything more than a social club.”
Papa patted me on the shoulder. “We can only hope Mr. Eastbrook sees your love of archery as a positive recommendation rather than an unhealthy obsession.” “Ha,” I said, handing him back his handkerchief. “I am perfectly healthy, thank you.”
Oliver stepped out onto the terrace. He sent her a wink, clasping his hands behind his back. “Speaking of eligible, handsome gentlemen,” she said, full lips widening. “Do excuse me.” I wrinkled my nose as she left. “She must stop saying things like that. She seems to forget he’s my brother.” Cora laughed, the sound mildly forced. “Never fear. It is not something I ever forget.” I sent her a strange look, but she quickly straightened.
Her eyes sparkled with her secret. “Have I ever told you that the Countess of Englefield and I were schoolmates when we were girls?”
“she was so thrilled at the thought of a women’s society that she extended an invitation for you to participate in the Lady Patroness’s Meeting.” “Participate?” I blinked. “Do you mean as an exhibition?” “No,” she said. “As part of the competition with the men.”
He shook his head. “You do not know Lord Beauford as I do. The Lady Patroness’s Meeting is of the utmost importance to him. Must you force this? Is it not good enough to have your own society?” I blinked in disbelief. “Good enough?” I echoed. Was he in earnest? “I beg your pardon, but when have you ever settled for good enough, Tristan?”
I was trying to help you, but I can see you have already decided what to believe.”
Well, I’d tried. If Lord Beauford now declared a personal vendetta against her, I could wash my hands of the whole affair. I’d done my gentlemanly duty.
Gentlemanly? Have you not goaded and teased her since the second you arrived this evening? Strange that my inner self sounded just like Uncle.
Besides that, I still felt unsettled about our conversation the other day. I’d told her more than I should have, and I did not like it. Tonight, I’d wanted to reaffirm that things had not changed between us. I had perhaps . . . overcorrected. But her behavior just now surely nullified any of my boorishness from earlier.
Belinda by Maria Edgeworth.
On a whim? Who proposed on a whim? But it made sense that Mrs. Penrose would wish to keep it quiet until they could make a grand announcement. Then there would be less of a chance of anyone stopping such a foolish decision.
He gave a short laugh. “I do not care what you think of me, Miss Cartwell. But I am concerned by those who think they can trample over my wishes.” Oh, how I had to bite my tongue. What did he know of trampled wishes? “It is the earl and countess’s decision, not mine,” I said, forcing my voice to remain even. Lord Beauford’s jaw tightened. “And I will do everything in my power to convince Lord Englefield that they made the wrong one.”
“If you lose, you will not shoot at any public meetings and you will disband your society.”
I eyed Lord Beauford, my lungs tight. If I agreed, if I lost in the prize shoot, I would not truly lose anything. But if I won . . . If I won, then I won a victory for every woman ever belittled by a man. “Very well, my lord,” I said. “You have an agreement.”
It was an escape. The familiar motions soothed my mind, numbed my worries. It was part of why I’d taken up the sport in the first place, the other reason being that I’d wanted to see if I could beat Marigold.
Her skirts billowed behind her, spray from the waves spotting her skirts, and yet she did not back away. Neither could I look away.
I turned away, my blood pulsing in my veins, pounding in my ears. I needed to focus on anything besides her.
“Indeed,” I said. “I daresay he shall miss you when you marry.” She lifted one shoulder. “I shan’t be going far.” “Not as far as Derbyshire.” “No,” she said. “And my first husband lived in Bath. It is a blessing to be close to family, truly.” Aha. This was my chance. “Your first husband?” Mrs. Penrose glanced at me, her gaze flitting back to the sea upon meeting my peering eyes. “Y-yes. I’ve been married twice before.” “I must offer my condolences, then.” She cleared her throat. “Yes, thank you.”
“I imagine it must be strange,” I said, “to be marrying for the third time. Especially considering some women never marry at all.” Mrs. Penrose was silent, her steps sending pebbles skittering. “Yes,” she said, her voice unsteady. “I am aware of my good fortune.” “Did your husband have a line of work?” I asked. “Your second husband, that is.” “No,” she said. “He was a gentleman.” “And your first husband?” A flash of panic crossed her eyes and she looked away. “I would prefer not to speak of him, Mr. Gates, if you would not mind.”
The sea caves were popular in Sandcliffe due to their relative safety. Unlike many other caves along England’s coast, these did not have dangerous fissures or winding tunnels in which to get lost.
I ought to have been filled with jubilation that my greatest rival and irritation from the last decade would soon be gone and married. But instead there was an unexpected emptiness. I could not account for it. Why should such news affect me at all? I tried to brush it off. I was used to having Marigold around, that was all. Someone to spar with when the winters grew long and dull. Life would be different with her gone, of course. Calmer. More enjoyable. But despite my rationalizing, the dullness in my chest did not dissipate.
“Love cannot be rushed, but neither has it a timetable.”
His lips hovered an inch from mine, and it was all I could do not to rise up on my toes and kiss him first. “Ah, there you two are.” I jolted, my teeth colliding with Mr. Eastbrook’s chin. “Oh!” I exclaimed, holding my mouth as pain flashed through it. Mr. Eastbrook swore under his breath, clutching his jaw.
“It was romantic,” I said stiffly. “But you would not know romance if it slapped you across the face.” “Like you are wishing to do right now?” “A lady would never.” “No, but you might.”
“It’s not another cave,” he said, surprised. “It’s a mine. Look, you can see the timbers there, and crates and tools and such.” “A mine?” Mr. Eastbrook joined him at the opening. “I did not realize Sandcliffe was a mining community.” “We aren’t,” Tristan said. “This must be the old chalk mine. I’ve heard my uncle speak of one that closed a century ago. I daresay we just rediscovered it.”
“Marigold,” he groaned. There was something in his voice . . . Something that caused a reaction in my stomach. A leap. A twist.
My lantern was within reach, knocked to its side but somehow still burning. I righted it. Tristan’s lantern was nowhere to be seen. I looked back toward where we’d entered. The opening was gone.
“Please let me look, Tristan,” I said, forcing my voice to be calm, quiet. He did not move for a moment, then he exhaled and leaned forward, pressing his forehead to his arms folded on his bent knees. I held up the lantern and swallowed a gasp. The back of his head was glistening red, soaked in blood. “Shall I live?” he asked. My stomach turned. I was not one to be afraid of a little blood. But this was not a little blood. “I . . .” I coughed. “Of course you’ll live. Now hush so I can work.”
Then I saw more than that. I saw the rips on the back of his jacket, how broken and dirty he was. And I realized why. Because he’d protected me. He’d pulled me away from the falling rocks. He’d thrown himself over me, using his own body to keep me from harm. I had a few bruises and cuts, but he—he was truly hurt.
He tried to untie the knot, but his hands shook and his fingers fumbled. I’d seen this shakiness before, when Hawthorne had fallen from a tree and broken his leg. The doctor had said it was normal when the body was in severe distress, and Tristan’s shaking now did nothing to calm the wave of anxiety that choked me.
My hands brushed his jaw, rough now at the end of the day, and the contact made me start, heat coursing up my arm.
But something—our situation, his injury, I could not say—had brought a strange openness to his face. It was the same face I’d seen for the last twelve years: angled features, long, narrow nose, dark eyes. But now I saw the dimple in his chin, the thick lashes of his eyes. I saw the determined set of his jaw as he fought the pain.
“Marigold?” I turned back to see Tristan sitting straight up, searching his jacket pockets. “What is it?” I called, trying not to shout too loudly, as though a sudden sound would startle the rocks around me. “I’ve lost something.” He looked over at me. I could barely see his face in the gloom, but his voice held a touch of panic. “A coin.” “A coin?” I repeated, baffled. “Yes, a shilling. It must have fallen out during the commotion. Can you see it?” “Do we not have more important things to worry about than lost change?” “It is not lost change.” His words were tight. Strained. “Please, do you
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“Your arm.” I started, looking up at Tristan. He was staring at my arm. I glanced down. I’d already inspected myself and written off my minor injuries, but there was a deep scratch on my arm that looked a bit nastier than the others. The skin was angry and red, blood smeared.
But once we escaped this wretched place, that would change. I would care that I had such a visible scar. I hated that he was right. That he knew me so well.
He frowned. “I did not mean to. Only I know what it is to live without, and it is frustrating that you sometimes seem not to know what you have.”
In truth, I was surprised she worried for me at all. Her unexpected gentleness when she’d tended to my head had taken me aback. She’d even apologized, for heaven’s sake. If that was not a sign of our true peril, I did not know what was.
