Chapter Twenty-Seven

Garrett stood outside for several minutes after Ravensdale’s entourage disappeared. Watching the coach grow smaller, he mused that doing the right thing was not gratifying in the least. She’d looked ravishing this morning. He’d wanted to pull her from the carriage and announce their betrothal after all. It required all his resolve not to do so.

So very poised at times, had she experienced the same tumult as he? Or was her love already cooling? An impractical impulse within him hoped not, but the practical side knew this would be best. For if she still considered herself in love with him, then perhaps this was not finished at all. For Lady Natalie Spencer, with a notion in her head, could be like a dog with a bone. It would be unlike her to concede so easily.

A smile tipped up the sides of his mouth. Although delicate and genteel, she possessed the tenacity of her father. Hell, she was the perfect woman for him.

He hoped her family would pounce upon a quick resolution to right her social situation. Struggling to be free of her went against the urges of his heart…and other urges. He’d nearly changed his mind about everything this morning. She was just so…damn it, if he allowed his mind to continue in this vein, he’d be saddling Rumble and chasing her to ground within the hour.

Garrett pivoted on his heel and returned to the house. He’d just received some drawings from an architect he’d met with before leaving London. Best look them over now. He needed to move forward. And if Natalie continued to be a thorn in his side, then so be it. He would deal with that problem when the time came. If the time came. Best for all if the earl sent her off to America. He swallowed hard at the thought.

****

Natalie spent the next couple days in a solitary mood, her inability to remember why she had climbed into the trunk clawing at her. For she did remember doing just that. But why? What on God’s earth had compelled her to embark on such a foolish errand?

At first, she rested.

And when she’d had enough of that, she prowled.

She retraced the walks she’d taken with Garrett, the wilderness path around the lake, the forest where Baby Bear liked to go, and the meadow where they’d been together that last afternoon. She even rowed herself around the lake a few times. She did not jump into the water. Much like a fatal disease, Garrett had taken hold of her. She lurked about the estate just as he lurked within her thoughts.

She told her parents she was not willing to travel to the Continent nor America. They discussed forgoing the Little Season in London that fall, but her father retained obligations in Parliament and felt he had little choice in the matter. He did not relish the thought of leaving his wife and daughter in the country without him for several weeks. Many thought it fashionable to spend time apart from one’s spouse, but in this matter, he chose to forgo fashion. He would have his wife with him, if possible. And leaving Natalie alone was not an option.

If they were to leave, it would be in a few short weeks, as the entertainments were to begin in early September.

But would Natalie be shunned? Had she pushed too hard against the rules of society? There was as yet, no solution to her problem. So very un-Spencerish to ignore the situation, but her parents still had concerns for her health. Nobody wanted to cause her undue stress. Even her mother avoided the subject of the Earl of Hawthorne.

Nearly a fortnight after her return, late in the afternoon, Natalie found herself wandering around the manor on the third floor. She’d done much of this as of late, wandering, like an aimless ghost. She’d lost both her appetite and her ability to laugh, or so it seemed. Upon reaching the end of the corridor, she realized she’d arrived at the threshold to the room where she, Garrett, and Aunt Eleanor had unveiled his mother’s paintings. She pushed the door open and entered the room. It smelled of lemon oil, having been recently dusted and cleaned. The sheets had been replaced on the chair, and an emptiness met her where the crates once sat. Natalie relaxed into one of the covered chairs and took a few deep breaths. Closing her eyes, she remembered that day.

She remembered the vivid colors of the paintings and Garrett’s reaction to seeing his mother’s work. He had been moved emotionally, she was certain of it. She also remembered Aunt Eleanor recalling the sad time when her brother had been killed. And the scandalous portraits of him.

The portraits!

The dimple!

She sprung to her feet.

Garrett’s dimple had been drawn on the face of…what was his name?…Arthur. Yes! She’d climbed into the trunk to look at the portraits again! She’d needed to discover if she had merely imagined it.

And she had not! When she’d climbed into the trunk, she’d verified that Lady Sheffield’s brother and Garrett Castleton shared a dimple in precisely the exact corner of each of their respective mouths. Could it be a coincidence? It could not. It was too uncanny.

Hurrying into the hallway, she felt a spurt of energy she’d not experienced for days. She must find Lady Sheffield. She must ask her. Aunt Eleanor would know the truth. Surely she would have the answers.

Where would she be now? What time was it? Glancing at the large clock at the end of the corridor—half past three—Natalie considered her mother’s schedule. Lady Sheffield and Mama would be in the drawing room. Taking tea most likely.

Natalie dashed down the stairs, not willing to waste a moment. Upon throwing open the doors of the drawing room, Natalie faced two sets of eyes. Both her mother and Lady Sheffield seemed quite taken aback at her abrupt entrance.

“What’s is the matter, my dear?” her mother enquired, setting her teacup and saucer to the side. “Are you unwell?”

Natalie could not hold back her excitement. “I have remembered! I have remembered how I ended up in the trunk! Oh, Mama, I was not being foolish.” And then she looked over at Aunt Eleanor. “I needed to view the portraits again, the portraits of your brother.” Seeing the woman’s brows rise, Natalie made her way into the room and took the empty seat beside her on the settee. “Arthur was Garrett’s father, was he not? Your brother fathered a son before the old earl killed him.” Natalie held her breath as she awaited the older lady’s response.

Her godmother sat the teacup aside and let out a long, deep breath. “He is.” And then as though in agony, she turned to her dear friend, Natalie’s mama, and said, “He did. Perhaps it is time for the truth.”

Natalie, experiencing great relief, thought she would have fainted if she had a more delicate constitution. Garrett was not the biological son of the Earl of Hawthorne. But did it affect his inheritance? Surely not, for legally, he was the son of the earl. He had been born to the earl’s wife. The earl never denied paternity.

“It is your truth to tell, Eleanor,” Lady Ravensdale said. “You lived through the scandal once. It is your choice if it is to be unearthed and bandied about again.”

“Please.” Natalie implored the woman beside her. “Garrett has decided he will not sire any children, ever, because of the old earl’s mental deficiencies. He refuses to marry because of this…well, in part because of this.”

“Oh, you poor child.” Aunt Eleanor turned and took Natalie’s hands in hers. “It is true, then? You have developed a tendre for Garrett? For my…nephew?” Tears glistened in the woman’s eyes.

“I love him. I do not want to go through life without him.”

Her aunt stood and paced the room slowly, her hands steepled in front of her lips. After a few tension-filled moments, she announced her decision. “Well, goddaughter of mine”—she smiled—“I will do whatever I can to assist you. I cannot bear to see you unhappy, especially after what you did for Lilly.” She dabbed at the corner of her eye and took her seat once again. “Now explain to me how things were left between the two of you when you last spoke.”

And so, Natalie poured out everything—well, not quite everything—to her godmother and her mama. “He has promised, given me his word, he would marry me if I insist. I would never insist he do such a thing for my own sake, but I believe now that I might do so for his, for our sake. For I do believe he loves me—I think so anyhow.” She said this bravely, for there were a few niggling doubts. “If I demand the marriage, and he comes to terms with the fact that he is not predisposed to sire an unhealthy child, then he maybe—well, perhaps then, he will allow himself to love me.” The last words were nearly a whisper. It terrified her to speak the possibility out loud.

“But there is more to it than that.” Lady Ravensdale spoke in a cautioning tone. “He does not wish to expose you to more scandal. And you, my dear, must admit your reputation cannot absorb much more if you ever expect to return to society again.”

Snapping her fingers, Natalie’s dismissed such a notion. “I could care this much about the ton, Mama.”

“But,” her mama said, “it is, and you must respect this, one of his reasons. It concerns the earl greatly.”

The room fell quiet as the three women pondered this new obstacle.

It was Aunt Eleanor who finally broke the silence. “A large wedding,” she declared with no uncertainty whatsoever. “At Saint George’s on Hanover Square, at the peak of the Little Season, in mid-October.”

Both Natalie and her mama turned toward Lady Sheffield, Mama with dawning understanding and Natalie with horror.

“But nobody will come!” Natalie said.

Lady Ravensdale nodded. “We must take measures to assure the church is full to bursting. Of course, Lord Hawthorne will be in town for the same special Parliamentary session Broderick must attend. We must do everything in our power to assure he is received. For if he is not a social pariah, then neither shall you be, when you marry.”

“It’s awfully risky.” Natalie was stunned, but then as she considered it, she knew it must be done.

“You must write to Lord Hawthorne to notify him of your decision to marry, along with when and where, and also inform him of the true identity of his father.” Natalie’s mama had been addressing her but then turned toward Aunt Eleanor. “You are quite certain, Eleanor, this is what you wish?” At a nod from her friend, Natalie’s mama then forged ahead. “He will need some time to absorb it. And by the time the Season starts, the campaign to restore him to society will be well underway.”

“I think,” Aunt Eleanor added, “the best tactic is to inform the world he was not sired by the Earl of Hawthorne as soon as possible. For his greatest sin, according to the ton, is having a madman for a father.”

Natalie felt hopeful but not entirely convinced. “But would he not be shunned then, for being a bastard?” And Garrett would most likely not appreciate having such personal information about him aired for all and sundry. But if it worked…

Lady Ravensdale mused, “Technically, he is not a bastard. In addition to that, he is a very wealthy man who, as luck would have it, holds one of the oldest titles in England. With enough support, he will be received. As your godmother says, his circumstances will have become the lesser of two evils.” She waited a moment and then with a gleam of anticipation added, “It’s all a matter of execution, my dear.”

Allowing no room for further argument, Lady Ravensdale rang the bell pull and requested her lap desk. “Eleanor, for all of London to hear the news, we need only send letters to a few select acquaintances, particularly those who are patronesses at Almack’s. I’m certain we won’t be disappointed.” And with that, she began listing names, stopping only for a moment to address Natalie. “You had best inform the groom of your plans to marry, my dear. He’ll need to arrange for the church and the banns.” Then turning back to Aunt Eleanor. “Now how ought we to word this…?”

Natalie took a piece of parchment from her mother and rose slowly, her hands shaking. Oh, God, if this didn’t work, her entire life would be ruined. And Garrett would never speak to her again.

Even if he was her husband!