Chapter Ten

A Rake for A Day

Frederica tugged on her short gloves as she left her borrowed bedchamber at Tradenwood. Her gloves, shawl, bonnet, and stays were the only things that truly belonged to her.

She sighed, bent her toes to keep her ankles steady. She’d stuffed Theodosia’s riding boots with tissue paper to make them fit better. Luckily, one of Frederica’s special talents was sewing, a skill she taught at Magdalen’s on Tuesdays. She’d tailored Theodosia’s riding habit to perfection. No stranger would look upon her as a sad waif.

No, that was what her friends were for.

She’d miss Magdalen’s this week and probably every week she stayed at Tradenwood. What would her future husband think of her charity ideas?

Would he approve?

Convincing a man of something was another talent, but how would things change once vows had been exchanged and she was controlled by someone who was not the duke?

Pushing away dread, she smoothed the plum habit about her stomach, smiling at the rich velvet. A sweet ride would make everything better, even her doubts.

Holding tightly to the rail, Frederica made it down the stairs without falling. She’d have to retrieve her own boots from Downing, somehow. Not thinking, she’d left them under her bed. She tiptoed past the now quiet parlor and bounced onto the portico, her feet slipping a little.

Outside she filled her lungs with the cold air. The sky was gray and endless. So different from London’s crowded horizon. A light dusting of snow had fallen, but it was melting. It was peaceful out here away from the city.

From the corner of her eye, she saw her friend, tall in his seat. He waved his dark hat as he rode closer. Lord Hartwell was upon a strong, ebony horse, one of her friend’s most spirited beasts.

But there wasn’t a second horse.

“Miss Burghley. Are you ready?”

Arms folded, she trudged down. “Very funny, my lord. I thought you said we were going to ride together.”

“I did.” He waggled his brows and chuckled.

“But there is one horse, my lord.”

“Yes. The stable hands are short, so only this one horse could be readied.”

He climbed down and looped his fingers together to give her a boost when she climbed up into the saddle.

So she was riding by herself.

A bit of disappointment ushered through, sending her stomach into a tizzy. She lost her smile, took the reins, and climbed up.

Hartwell turned, as a gentleman should, and she hooked her leg about the pommel and then recovered her skirts in the very large saddle.

“Lord Hartwell.” She made her voice honey sweet and low to coax him as she did when he’d run errands for her. “Do I wait here for you to go and get another horse, my lord?”

He winked at her. “No, Miss Burghley. I have other ideas.”

She shouldn’t have looked at him directly, for she was captured in his striking gray-blue eyes. Then his smile turned wicked and blinded her with warmth.

In a blink, the horse was moving. Hartwell had climbed behind her, scandalously sharing the horse.

“I want my own, sir.”

“This will be better, Butterfly. No waiting. We both know you are terrible at waiting.”

One heavy arm draped about her middle as he held her tight. The horse flew over hills and gullies at speeds she could only dream of riding, especially by sidesaddle.

Her breath had departed, as had every bone in her body. She melted into him, holding on for dear life.

“I have you, Miss Burghley.”

He did, but deep down she knew the hold was temporary. Everything but her friendship with Theodosia and Ester was borrowed or ephemeral. Frederica refused to be seduced by a fleeting joy.

She gave Hartwell an elbow to his ribs. “Take me back to Tradenwood at once. This isn’t funny.”

“Ouch, Miss Burghley. This isn’t the first horse we’ve shared. You didn’t complain then.”

“That was different.”

“My dear, do you truly want to go slower? Don’t you want the freedom of flying over the earth like a beautiful butterfly should? Trust me.”

She did trust Hartwell. And she liked going fast, something she hadn’t done since her saddle had been cut.

He’d saved her from falling and being trampled, and they’d ridden like this. Actually, even closer, with her tucked in his arms all the way to Ester’s house, Nineteen Fournier.

She relaxed her death grip on his buttons. For a moment, she enjoyed the speed and the confidence with which he handled the horse. London didn’t afford much time for riding, so she wasn’t perfect at it, not like the piano.

But sitting so close to Hartwell was scandalous. It was an abomination to enjoy the heat of him, the heft of his arms holding her. “Please stop now, or I’ll jump.”

“Will you?” He made the horse go faster, and she fell back against him, tangling more into his jacket. The muscles of his chest were hard, and his heartbeat strong and loud.

“Sir, I’m already in fear for my life. Please. Slow down.”

“Slow down? From the woman determined to marry in six weeks? No, I think you like fast.” He spurred the horse, making it shoot forward over a fence. They were airborne for at least five “Lordys” and a desperate, “I don’t want to die.”

“Please.” She beat on his chest, even as she hooked her arm around his neck.

“As you wish.” He pulled the horse to a slower trot then stroked her back. “Only teasing, my girl, only teasing.”

Her chest heaved, and the space between them evaporated.

His lips stroked her ear. “You’re shivering.” He tipped her chin back. “Don’t you know I’d let never let anything happen to you?”

“I depend upon you, Hartwell.”

His mouth was dangerously near hers.

And his heavy breath matched her panting—in out, in out.

He moved a curl that had fallen from beneath her bonnet. He wrapped it around his finger. “There’s a good reason for absconding with you, Miss Burghley. Why do you think I have?”

If he read her mind, he’d be shocked, or maybe it would confirm his darkest thoughts of her being wanton—for she wanted to kiss him, to muss up his hair and surrender to his mouth.

Then she’d know if she liked the taste of him or if he was relegated to pasty marzipan forever.

But he didn’t move.

And she wouldn’t reach for his kiss. That would be too much, especially if she was to be marrying someone else in six weeks. She pushed back, a good six inches. “You said you absconded with me for a reason.”

“Yes.” His voice was husky. No mirth lit his eyes. Something dark and rich was there. “Imported chocolate, Miss Burghley.”

“What?”

“Yes. Rich imported chocolates.”

The urge to search his pockets whipped through her head, but she doubted he had them on his person. And touching him might allow him the same liberty, something very dangerous on horseback, so far away from Tradenwood. “Sir, are you finding a new way to tease me?”

“New way? Hmmm. I do have imported chocolates. ‘Tis true. My chef is making treats out of it as we speak. I had procured some of the finest chocolate as a present for you, for Yuletide.”

“A present, for me?” She felt like a child awaiting the small gifts of Christmas.

“Yes, for you and you only.”

In the middle of the thick woods on a cloudy day, with a light breeze blowing wayward fresh snow that hadn’t the sense to melt, a girl looked up at a fellow who’d just made her fly and promised her the world. And then he offered her chocolates.

Chocolate was Frederica’s weakness, but Hartwell’s kindness and care were becoming a bigger weakness. So much for him being marzipan. She smoothed her shawl. “Why would you do this?”

“I knew you to be in low spirits with your father’s remarriage. It was a gift to cheer you, and I was a little selfish. I thought it might return your attention to me. You’ve been so distant these past three months. And now I can’t see giving it to you at Christmas, as it would be a wedding present, and you’d have to share it with someone other than me.”

“No, we can’t do that.”

“I have a few errands to run, enough time for Cook to work his miracles, then I’ll take you to Grandbole. We can eat chocolate delights, discuss your offers, and build a strategy.”

She offered him a weak grin. Her mind whirled, at the thought of the sweets and riding for a little while longer in Hartwell’s arms, then soured at the notion of a husband, someone unlike the viscount. Why did she have to like Hartwell?

“Miss Burghley? I won’t move forward without permission.”

“I’m unsure.”

“Imported chocolate, Miss Burghley. Decadent chocolate. The price for a shared ride, a few errands, and your patience. Say yes to me.”

“Yes.”

The word was out of her lips before she could stop it.

A rumble of a laugh started in his chest. Then he started the horse at an even gait. Everything was smooth, leaps and all.

A little perturbed with herself, she sat back, thankful he hadn’t asked something more substantial, such as, would she be his? Or, “do you like-like me?”

Crossing her arms, she waited for her heart to settle and prayed she could concentrate on Hartwell’s plan to sift through her offers.

A husband was what she needed, not a temporary chocolate euphoria or this new vice—a romantic, unpredictable viscount.

…

Frederica followed Lord Hartwell as he guided her through the quiet halls of Grandbole. Unlike the noise of last night, it was hauntingly silent.

He took her hand in his. “I hope you weren’t too bored with my errands.”

His tasks consisted of checking on his hothouses and racing end to end across Grandbole’s property as if he were jousting. The cold had left the fields vacant—no pickers or vendors, just frost and patches of slush or snow. Except for a groom at the edges of the property, they were alone, and the vastness of the land had amazed her.

Yet, her mind stuck on the groom and the visible sword at his side. “No, my lord. It was fine.”

“You seem sullen. Am I boring you, Miss Burghley?”

“No just wondering about things, about you.”

“Thinking about me is a good thing.” He chuckled and then led the way. He’d shed his heavy flap coat but now strode in a dark tailcoat. He seemed so at ease.

“What is it you are thinking? That I’m drawing you into Grandbole’s bowels to seduce you?”

“No, my lord. Should I be fretful?”

“Be at ease. I’m your protector as I promised the duke. But you should be a little wary. I can be unpredictable.”

That pulse of hers sped as she absorbed what sounded like a promise. “You could’ve brought the treats to safe Tradenwood, if your unpredictable side could get out of hand.”

He led her into a room filled with bookshelves and so many books. “That would mean sharing again. I think that’s something we both have difficulties with. And then I couldn’t dazzle you.”

A table had been set with all the treats he’d mentioned. Bonbons, chocolate-dipped biscuits, a pot that offered the scent of warmed chocolate. Bliss.

“All for you to enjoy. Taste and see that I am good.”

She tore her gaze from his then reached for a rounded ball of decadent goodness, before putting her plate down, not indulging. “This could be dangerous.”

“Yes.” He smirked like he possessed a secret then patted his huge chest. “It’s good you know when to stop.”

She chuckled, hiding the racing in her heart at the challenge in his voice.

His stare was intense now. It wasn’t indecent. She’d had enough masculine attention to know the difference.

And how different this was. A year ago, his gaze had been easy, gracious, and very patrician—distant, aloof, superior. It had softened when she’d made his Lucy laugh at the Maypole, then even more when she’d played the pianoforte.

Now his eyes weren’t distant, nor easy, or amused.

Her fingers clutched the collar of the riding habit.

He shuffled his feet and looked down. “No, Miss Burghley, you’re a model of self-control.”

She separated from him and the tempting treats and went through the glass-paned doors to the patio. A light coating of snow covered the stone rail. Without her gloves, touching it chilled her fingers. “From here, Tradenwood looks doll-sized. Like a house Papa once gave me as a toy.”

“My middle girl wants one for her birthday. She’ll get one if she can stop misbehaving with her sisters.”

“Lydia will love it. Make it grand with stairwells and high balconies like this.”

“I didn’t know you had opinions on architecture.”

“I do. The duke brings me sketches or paintings from his travels. I love limestone bricks the best. They seem so permanent and lasting.”

“I should seek your counsel on procuring a dollhouse for Lydia. Miss Burghley, you keep surprising me.”

She pinched her fingers together to measure Tradenwood. “I pay attention. I make notes of things. It’s one of my mother’s traits used for good.”

“You think badly of her choices?”

Frederica bristled, maybe from the cold or the judgment that would come from Hartwell. “Don’t you and all of respectable London?”

“She wasn’t exactly given to ministry and alms to the poor.”

She turned and stared at him—a gaze between equals. “Put aside your prejudice of her choices. Did you know she gave half the income the duke afforded her to charities that tried to keep girls like her off the streets? And isn’t there some ministry in making someone feel as if they were the most important person in the world.”

“Yes.” He nodded. “I suppose.”

Frederica lowered her tone. She shouldn’t punish Hartwell for the judgements most had. Even Frederica possessed them at times when her reputation suffered for being Burghley’s daughter. It’s why she worked so hard to be perfect and punished herself for failing.

“But my dear,” he said, “I’ve never heard such a spirited defense of flesh peddling.”

Frederica winced. That was what her mother had done. She’d just wrapped her actions in love and exclusivity to the duke.

Hartwell hooked his finger with hers. “I shouldn’t be so abrupt in my words. Or so coarse. If not for their arrangement, you wouldn’t be here. That would be a loss to the world. Mine definitely.”

Frederica turned from him and returned to the cold rail. “Tradenwood. It looks small enough to put in my pocket.”

Hartwell came to her side. “You said that already. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Judgements are the tools of the masculine world. You think Burghley had a choice? Surely, she must be morally bankrupt. She should’ve kept her ideals and starved on the streets. And there are so many places that welcome castoffs like her or me.”

“Miss Burghley, I just wanted to understand.”

“What’s to understand? She could eat moldy bread being used up by any man for a few bits. Resist, then cry rape by a man so powerful nothing would be done—no charges, no crimes, nothing. And there wouldn’t even be a convenient thief to blame. Yes, I think the choice to be the sole mistress of the Duke of Simone was a good one, her only one.”

She saw the pained look in his eyes and softened her tone. “See, now I’m boring you with things you can’t understand.” She sighed and scooted past him back into the warm library. “Let’s start with those treats. What is this room?”

“My study. What can’t I understand? Prejudice?”

“You’re the Viscount Hartwell, someday the Earl of Crisdon. No, you can’t understand what it’s like to be excluded or belittled solely because you exist and don’t look how everyone expects a peer’s daughter to appear.”

“Miss Burghley, I’ll never know the depths of things you’ve suffered. I’m a man, a peer. But I can imagine a few things. I still remember my first governess chatting with my nanny about how the blight of bearing a red-haired child caused the fever which took my mother. Or a hundred little jokes of how my mother, desperate because of Crisdon’s affairs, might’ve taken a Jewish lover, one of father’s financiers.” He tapped his temple. “To explain this hair.”

Jewish populations were as derided in many parts of Society as the Blackamoors. Her heart whimpered for Hartwell, but Frederica bit her lip to make sure no pity escaped.

He ran his fingers over her mouth. “Too honest for you, Butterfly?”

She clasped his hand to her heart. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I wouldn’t blame any woman for finding comfort. We both know my father can be pretty horrible. But he’s my father. My grandmother assured me of it. She lived here and was a good friend to my mother, kept her company when she cried. She even attested to it on her Bible. It’s over there on my bookshelf. She did it on a day when the teasing was particularly difficult.”

The hurt in his eyes, it was difficult to bear. She wanted to pivot and find every treasured book on his dusty bookcases, but she couldn’t turn, not from this man and the naked truths he offered. Instead, she became emboldened and stroked the slight tremor in his cheek. “Hartwell, is that why you are the dutiful son, to protect yourself from these slights? So that people will know you’re Crisdon’s?”

“Is that why you do everything for the duke? So people will know Simone made the right choice by acknowledging you?”

She lowered her gaze, and he folded his well-meaning arms about his stylish indigo waistcoat. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too.”

“Since we are being very transparent, why marry, Frederica Burghley? Why can’t you wait?”

“Isn’t it every woman’s dream to marry, Lord Hartwell? Don’t you want that for me?”

“I like you unmarried. It means I always have a dinner partner who’s guaranteed to have the best conversation. It means I get to cut in and whisk you away without threats of duels. It means I can stand here debating taking you in my arms to remember what it felt like to hold you.”

“Don’t say such. You’ve given the duke your word to protect me.”

Hartwell trailed his thumb down the arch of her neck. “Your father suspects… He knows that I’m attracted to you. Are you attracted to me?”

“You must’ve misunderstood. Papa is very good with pistols.”

The viscount’s hand slid to her shoulder, and he pulled her close, as close as when they’d ridden to Grandbole, but now they faced each other. “Yes. And I won’t forget his killer bloodhounds. That’s another way the duke could inflict harm. But you smiling at me, admitting to liking me, would be worth the risk.”

She moved from him to the table of sweets, but her stomach swirled too much from his bold talk. “This is such a lovely room, but it needs a little dusting. And these treats look nice. But this biscuit has been cooked a little too—”

“Miss Burghley,” he said, “you don’t seem to be a runner.”

“And you’ve never chased, not really.”

“Maybe I have, but I’m slow and subtle. How better to draw you in?”

A hundred moments spent with him sailed through her head—his charm, his humor, his playful but respectful attention. Is that how she’d let him touch her heart?

She looked up at him and became lost in his attentive blue-gray eyes. “Have you done this on purpose? Has this year been to lower my defenses?”

He put a finger to her jaw and smoothed his rough knuckle against her skin, toward her lips. “You lowered mine. Seems only fair.”

In the plays Ester raved about, this would be that scene where declarations would be made, kisses exchanged. But this was the man she couldn’t have. Nor did she feel like borrowing him.

Heart sputtering, she stepped away. “I hadn’t intended anything but friendship, but why have you not remarried or taken a mistress? That’s what peers do. My father tells me that after his second wife died, he took up with Burghley. A twenty-year affair from 1788 to 1808. Then she died, and the duke moved me to Downing. I was ten.”

“Twenty years, that’s longer than some marriages. I thought of remarriage once, but it would’ve been purely for financial reasons. My pockets are much stronger now, and my girls will never be Crisdon’s pawns. As for a mistress, I suppose the right woman hasn’t come along.”

Games and riddles of the heart had fools for players. Frederica closed her eyes for a moment, then glared at him. “Is that an offer, my lord?”

“If it was, would you accept?”

“Never. I won’t accept less than an offer that can be said in front of God and all my friends. The whispers about me will never stop, not until I’m married. Then maybe London will take me more seriously, and the most scandalous thing said will be that her orphanage burst at the seams from taking in so many children.”

“Orphanage?” His long lashes fluttered as he blinked. “You never fail to surprise me, Butterfly.” He turned toward the large desk on the other side of the room. “Let’s review your offers. Wouldn’t want you to think our outing was a planned seduction.”

The amorous play in his eyes had changed. It was foreign, something that she didn’t get that often when men looked at her. Perhaps it was respect.

She grabbed a biscuit, but it was burned underneath. She placed it in a napkin and followed him to the desk.

He opened the drawer of the ornate thing constructed of the deepest mahogany. “You have four very different offers, and unfortunately none of the handwriting matches the threatening note. Four offers, one set of threatening notes from our thief. That’s five men who want to capture you.”

Six if you counted the question the viscount had sort of asked a moment ago. “No matches? So the thief isn’t one of my offers. I can be safe choosing one of them?”

Hartwell’s groan was deep and sharp. “I didn’t say that, but yes, that is probably true. The handwriting doesn’t match. See for yourself.”

She peered over his shoulder at the notes, arrayed unrumpled, each equidistant and perpendicular to the desk’s edge. “The loops, the lengths of the straight lines of the t’s—nothing.” Her heart sank—more men to fret about. “But could one be in league with the thief?”

“An accomplice or an employee? It is possible. Do you remember something? Mrs. Bexeley made it sound as if you had.”

“I think I do.” She put a hand to her head and pressed hard at the slight bruise she’d hidden in her curls. “The sound of glass breaking—that had awakened me. I saw…I think I saw…a dark black glove reach in.”

Hartwell was out of the chair, his arms clutching her shoulders. “I’m here. Don’t be afraid to remember.”

Frederica realized she was shaking, trembling hard, but nodded her head. “He said, ‘I hear you. I’m coming for you, my sweetest. Just need the latch to obey, Sweetest.’ Isn’t that the wording in the threatening notes?”

“It is. That confirms that the thief and the threatening note writer are the same.”

Everything shook, then those big arms of Hartwell’s went around her, almost hauling her from the ground as he swept her to the safety of his chest. “No one will hurt you. And the fool should know better than to ask you to obey.”

She wanted to laugh and cry but had become breathless from Hartwell’s embrace.

How long they stayed like that, him holding her, her off-balance in her borrowed boots, she didn’t know. But she didn’t want it to end—she knew that in her soul.

“Listen to me, Butterfly. Whether it’s four or five besotted buffoons, I’ll protect you and help you choose a husband.”

The one she wanted wouldn’t have her, not in marriage. So she kept her arms from finding Hartwell, palms flat against her side.

Like she had in the carriage, she listened to his big happy beating heart, but didn’t return his embrace.

And before she became more used to the heat of him, Frederica pushed on his waistcoat, and he released her. She went back to the desk. “The Lord Mayor will find this thief, and you’ll select a safe pick of these four. Someone who will be proud to have me in his life, one who thinks me very fine, good enough to wife.”

“To wive. My brother’s the one with rhymes. Leave the poetry writing to him, Miss Burghley.”

“But is it not funny, my lord?”

Hartwell leaned over, his finger thudding the desk like a justice’s gavel. “Let me be clear on this. You’ll be a good wife, a very fine one. But you need a husband to care for you, to be good to you, and to ply you with the best bonbons. I don’t think any of these men are suitable.”

“How do you know? Is the stationery selection not up to your standards?”

His face saddened, the hint of rose in his cheeks dulled. “What did your advertisement say?”

“Something like: heiress of twenty-two, looking for gentleman of distinction for matrimony.”

“What? No ‘must love sweets’?” He scratched his ear as he examined each offer. “You’ve stated you have money and are of legal age. That’s an invitation to fortune hunters.”

“Ah, a man’s view. What’s it called when you go to Almack’s looking for fresh blooms with dowries and proper connections?”

He opened his mouth, snapped it shut, then rubbed at his collar. “I see your point. I thought it a rather dreary business, then the countess invited Maria and her parents to one of her dinners. My late wife played the pianoforte. It was good.”

“Anne says that she played very well.”

He stuffed her biscuit into his mouth, his lips twisting a little as he devoured the overbaked end. “How much time have you spent with my girls?”

“Enough to know that they are sweet, and they love you very much, in spite of their antics last night. I think they thought that if the governess quit, you’d not send them away.”

“You know all of this from observing last night? They didn’t set pranks on you at Tradenwood?”

“No. I just recognize the antics of lonely daughters.” Frederica walked to the massive bookcases shadowing the desk. “They love being around you.”

“They have a horrible way of showing it. Mrs. Jacobs was the fourth governess this year.”

She resisted turning back and offering a hug. There was so much pain in his voice. Instead, she returned to the beautiful table of chocolates. One, two, four bonbons gobbled, then she turned back to Hartwell. “Your girls are sweet, like these mostly good bonbons.”

He shook his head and chuckled. “Sweet? What did Mrs. Jacobs call them?”

When bonbon six went down, she said, “I believe the woman said something like creative cretins. She didn’t realize that they are like their father. They like to test boundaries.”

“That sounds like a compliment.” The too-pleased-with-himself man chuckled and sat on the edge of the desk. “I suppose it depends upon the boundaries, but you’re one to complain. The duke sets your boundaries. He commands, and you jump with vigor.”

“Don’t talk about the duke.”

“Miss Burghley, it’s a little late to censure my opinions. I admire the duke, truly I do.” Hartwell stretched out his legs, his highly polished boots gleaming. “He managed to raise a remarkable woman, despite his shortcomings. Gives me hope for my daughters. And he brags to my father all the time of your pianoforte and how you have catered to him. Then he talks of his dogs.”

“I made his list in the right order this time.” Bonbons nine and ten went down in one gulp.

“You might want to slow down, Miss Burghley. Although, what does the duke do if you become drunk on chocolate?”

“Nothing, for I don’t drink. Mother told me it was a disadvantage, as were other vices like laudanum, belladonna, or Dover’s pills. I’m never to be vulnerable to such drugs.”

“Brandy is a nice drug of choice. It deadens things.”

“I hear Crisdon let you imbibe and deaden things for months without saying anything.”

“Chocolate does loosen your tongue, my dear.”

“I suppose it does. Very good chocolate, but your staff—they need to pay attention to details. I think that you may be disserved.”

“You make me sound helpless.” He patted his chest. “I’m far from helpless, but being tended to like the duke would be enjoyable.”

“He needs someone to take care of him. I was very good at running his house. He likes his rooms warmer than you do. Unlike you, he hates tea but has a fondness for warmed milk flavored with honey and brandy. And biscuits dipped in chocolate must never be overdone.”

“That does sound good, but how do you know what I like? Have you been watching to see if I overindulge?”

With enough chocolate courage inside, she put down her fourteenth bonbon. “No, but you’ve been my favorite dinner partner, too. For a long time.”

The gaze he offered was the one he had when he’d sort of propositioned her. “Even these last three months when you seemed to avoid me?”

Frederica didn’t feel embarrassed or silly for admitting this truth. She did like him. She was woman enough to own it. “Yes. I thought if I were more careful in showing or accepting your favor, the fiend would go away. And he wouldn’t threaten you or your girls.”

“He’ll not harm them or you. I won’t let him. Miss Burghley, couldn’t we be each other’s dinner partners a little longer? We could forget about these offers and go on as we were. These last three months when you avoided me were difficult. A lifetime of not talking with you will be horrid.”

“What are we, Hartwell?”

“Good friends.”

She moved to him and almost scooped up his hands but didn’t. “You’ve been a dear, but this must end.”

“Why? You haven’t determined if you like my kiss yet. Awake, I can do much better. I know that I can.”

“I’m going to be promised to another. I don’t want to tease you or be teased by you. So let us get back to picking between these offers.”

“I know I can do better.” He put a finger to her ear, tracing circles on her sensitive lobe. “I would like to try. Just a kiss between friends.”

The feel of his pinky outlining her chin then crossing to her lips had started to convince her that he could be good. But what would happen next? How would things change between them? “I don’t think it wise, my lord.”

“There is wisdom in settling this small point of contention. And I can be good. I will be good.”

“Oh, but this is bad. We’re supposed to be plotting…”

“I have been plotting and thinking and dreaming. Three months of wondering if I offended you, if you missed me in the littlest ways, of hating that someone else had your smile. Then you tumbled into my bed.” He put his lips to her jaw. “Let me kiss you. Say yes.”

His touch was so soft. Lips that had seemed thin suddenly possessed a grin and the knowledge of how best to make her pulse race. Her toes curled in her borrowed boots, and her neck started to arch to afford him more access.

“You need to say yes to me.”

The question wasn’t yes to a kiss. It was yes, I’ll like-like you for as long as we both should live. She couldn’t. “No, Hartwell. As you said, I don’t like to obey.”

He stepped back. “As you request, ma’am.”

She held his gaze and reclaimed her power over her feelings. Lord Hartwell wasn’t going to move her from her truths any more than she could move him from what he was, a widower in love with his late wife with no room for anything but a flirtatious friendship.

He went back to his seat. “I’m confident that none of your offers is your thief, but we will be cautious. I’ll write to your vicar, barrister, shop owner, and your baron asking a few questions. Then I’ll set up meetings.”

“Cautious is good. But a baron? A peer? That’s unexpected.”

“You put an advertisement in the paper that read young with money. Of course, a peer would come calling.”

“Must be a desperate peer. Right?” She didn’t back down from Hartwell’s gaze, but this time, he did from hers.

“Everyone has reasons to be desperate.” He lifted his head. “You’ve no need to be.”

Yes, she did. As someone who wasn’t in a precarious situation, how could he understand?

“We’ll meet with them in Town or public places,” he said, “We shall take care. These replies will be sent to your box at Burlington Arcade today.”

He pulled out stationery along with his quill and ink set. He started to pen something, then stopped. “Last chance. We could be alone, together.”

“Keep writing, sir. I wasn’t meant to be alone. When you realize you don’t want solitude, there will be plenty of debutantes angling to be Lady Harwell, just like there were for the duke. Don’t wait until they are Lucy’s peers.”

Hartwell grunted, arched a brow, and started writing.

It was a man’s world. They had all the advantages—to indulge, to withhold, to remain in mourning or bachelorhood forever.

But Frederica was a woman who was going to have what she wanted—the next best thing to her favorite dinner partner. She’d have a Yuletide wedding to someone she’d make a friend, then use her caregiver’s magic, her powers to persuade, to make her husband’s heart love her.

…

With Miss Burghley quiet in his arms, Jasper drove the gelding away from the hothouses in the far field. His afternoon of being a rake had left him tortured and writing letters to find this woman a husband.

Horrid. And almost-holding her now was as horrid as almost kissing her in his study at Grandbole.

“Lord Hartwell, don’t you think it odd that none of your grooms at Grandbole could procure a second mount?”

He chuckled inside. “Yes, odd how that was. This winter sickness must be rampant, depleting Grandbole’s stables of grooms as much as Tradenwood. The rest, the healthy ones, are patrolling. That’s what Ewan and I were about this morning. Terribly inconvenient.”

“Yes, inconvenient.” The gruff tone in her voice barely masked her disbelief and that gave him some joy.

He was a vain man. He’d readily admit it, but nothing fed his vanity more than the way Frederica Burghley looked at him, teased him, or even stood her ground with him. At Grandbole, the woman had admitted to liking him, desiring him as a woman does a man. When those soft hazel eyes had lifted to his, he hadn’t been a cynic, a soured widower, but a powerful man, full of life. Half of him did not lie in the grave they were about to pass.

Maria’s grave.

Miss Burghley deserved to know why he wasn’t inclined to marry, not now. Maria had only been gone a little over two years. It wasn’t Miss Burghley’s background that stopped him. It rather intrigued him. No, his hesitations were in the ground. “I have something to show you.”

“Another hothouse.” She rubbed her hands together and seemed to burrow a little more against his jacket. “It’s a little a colder since we started out this morning. And those heat pipes and all the glass made it quite warm.”

“This will be a little closer to Grandbole. I could arrange for the cook to make us a little dinner or more chocolates, none burned this time.”

She put a hand to her stomach. “I think I’ve had too much of a good thing. And what good can come from another quiet meal with you, Hartwell? It’s best to be back amongst the living at Tradenwood.”

It wasn’t the living Miss Burghley had to contend with. It was a memory of lives that were no longer here. “This won’t take long. Indulge me.”

He slowed the horse and made it take the path to the old chapel. He’d introduce his friend to the Fitzwilliam graveyard and take care of cleaning the growth of the vines that may have bloomed in autumn. He’d been remiss in spending time here this past year.

“Is this a shortcut, Lord Hartwell?”

“There are no shortcuts, Miss Burghley. Not for the things we want.”

He felt her stiffen in his arms. Bundled in her cream shawl and plum colored skirts, the woman was a snow-covered gooseberry. “Be patient with me.”

When she touched his hand, he knew she would be. Then he blinked his eyes and shook his head of longing. He couldn’t be thinking this way and visit Maria.

He stopped the horse by an iron gate shadowed by a snow-dusted evergreen tree.

“Lord Hartwell, what is this?”

He jumped down and put his hands about her waist and brought her to earth. “I need you to see something.”

But Miss Burghley gripped his hand and tugged him away from the graves. “What a beautiful church.”

“It’s rubble, Miss Burghley.”

“You’re not looking at it correctly.” She tugged him farther from the covered holes and headstones to God’s old home. Her finger traced the limestone-arched entry. “Look at it. The architecture.”

“Miss Burghley, be careful. These old bricks could fall on you.”

She tapped on the solid blocks that made a dull sound. “It’s going nowhere.”

He smiled at the joy in her voice and decided she might be more nymph than butterfly. Leveling his hat back, he came along to her side. “If you are going to explore, we should do this right.”

Jasper went ahead into the structure and fingered cobwebs until he found the torch at the entry. The dim light coming through the century-old dirty glass panes wasn’t enough for his architecture-loving friend to view the beauty of the church.

With the torch, he came back outside, dusting his hands on his flap coat and leaving awful stains on the light material.

“Hartwell.”

She took her handkerchief from her pocket and brushed at it, but he caught her fingers. “Ranson will get this stain out. All of this personal attention, Miss Burghley, will make me wish to steal you away from your future husband. Stealing is a sin, one more that I don’t need. This is a church. I’m not looking for judgment again.”

He stuffed the cloth in his jacket before pulling out matchsticks.

One strike, a second strike, then sulfur from the match’s head sparked and fizzled. “The rotten fumes are the forerunner, my dear.”

She half-smiled and took the remaining stick and ignited it against the limestone.

“And He said, let there be light.” He took her hand holding the match, and brought it to the torch, and it ignited. He took her arm and led her inside.

The torch blazed and showed the way.

An aged stone floor covered the small sanctuary.

A kneeling altar, still holding stubs of candles.

A set of unforgettable memories—the cold November day when he’d come here begging for Maria to be spared.

Then a week later, he’d lit a candle after he’d laid Maria next to their son in the Fitzwilliam graveyard outside. At least his boy wouldn’t be alone anymore.

His throat closed up as he thought how completely without hope he’d been the day Jasper James had died. Not even a year later, he had been here again, begging for Maria, then begging for heavenly pianofortes to receive her. Begging. Pitying his lot.

The scent of chocolate swept near Jasper’s nose, then he felt warm, lovely fingers touching his face.

Miss Burghley had removed her riding glove and was reaching up, wiping at his eye. Then before he could stop her, she put her arms around him.

It was the first time she’d hugged him, and yet he hadn’t the strength to return it.

“Were you married here, Lord Hartwell? Was this place special to Lady Hartwell?”

He coughed, hoping she’d not think less of a sentimental fool. “Dust, you know. It’s an old building. No. No, we weren’t married here.”

“But it’s so lovely. Your father and the countess, perhaps?”

“No. Gads, no.” Jasper put the torch into place. “St. George’s in Town is where mine was, as was my father’s, I think, both times. For your big Yuletide wedding, too.”

“Yes, like the duke and new duchess. Hard to believe, my lord, that it’s only been two days since his brash wedding. Seems like a lifetime.”

“Brash? I’m not as astute as you at observing people, but I suspect St. George’s is not your preference.”

“It’s showy enough to proclaim to the world that I’m an honorable woman, honorably married, but—”

“But what? You’d want something like this relic of a church instead?”

She moved deeper inside, passing the smattering of pews, his pew. “This is such a pretty place. Can’t you feel the history? Maybe Norman lords or red-haired Celtic ancestors presented here.”

“Yes, I can see a greedy Fitzwilliam ancestor extracting tithes. But Miss Burghley, a history buff? You are Frederica Burghley, not Mrs. Ester Bexeley, the one my sister-in-law lovingly calls the Brain?”

“Yes, I’m the Bonbon.”

“Yes, you are, Miss Burghley. But please continue with your tour.”

“Patronize me, my lord. It’s your right. This is your church, after all.”

Jasper had witnessed this woman completely carefree, bubbly, as she’d been at the Flora Festival—nothing like how she’d been the past three months, or even the fearful girl he’d awakened with at Downing. He liked her this way. Taking his gloves off, he tucked them into his jacket. “So you’d want to be wed here?”

“Something like this would be divine.” She returned to him and tugged him down to the altar. “Picture this: the place is clean, no cobwebs, fully dusted, like spotless Grandbole’s books and shelves should be.”

“I’ll mention that to Ranson.”

“And every corner of the church has tall, white candles. Can’t you see roses rimming the aisle? Maybe silver bows—a lovely Yuletide wedding.”

“Sounds wonderful, but let me point out the difficulties of your plan.”

“Of course you would, Hartwell. I expect nothing less than one of your lectures.”

He winced a little at her words, but her tone was still light and playful.

“Roses, enough to fill this chapel, would be difficult. It’s winter, and we’d have to import them, but next year, the hothouses I took you to would be ready. Next year, there would be nothing to stop your plans.”

“The Fitzwilliams are the flower kings. You could fill the place with roses if it was important to you. No matter. Mrs. Fitzwilliam-Cecil has enough, unless they’ve been spoken for.”

“Yes, my industrious sister-in-law.” He made a flourish of respect, tipping his hat, which made Miss Burghley giggle. “But you were describing this wedding. I’m having a difficult time picturing it.”

“Lord Hartwell, this place isn’t clean enough for your vision. Scrub the stained glass and a few at Grandbole, too. And since the Yuletide season is upon us, this place should be festive, not lacking for anything. Evergreen fir branches and holly berries would make wreaths for the door. And something to tidy up the kneeling bench.”

She bent and tapped the dusty burgundy fabric of the bench. “The kneeling bench. Hmm. If it weren’t so dirty, I’d kneel to practice, but I wouldn’t want anyone to look at my dusty dress and think…”

“To think what?”

She straightened and glared at him. The plum of her riding habit with its full skirt made her eyes seem a little more sherry. “That you dragged me off to some remote spot.”

“Actually, Miss Burghley, you dragged me into this relic.”

“Or that you kissed me good and sound. Again ruining my reputation, like you attempted at Downing.”

“What? Is that all they’ll think, Miss Burghley?” He took her bonnet off and flung it onto a pew. Then he tossed his hat, too. He dove his hands into her curls, fingering them as he’d always desired to do, tugging at her braid and witnessing it become frizzy in the damp air. “What will they think now?”

She squinted for a moment, then her face lit with a grin. “Then, your cravat should be mangled. That way you’d look guilty, very guilty.”

One of her thin, pianoforte-playing fingers trailed his Adam’s apple. She loosened the knot until the cravat sort of flopped. “There you go. Guilty.”

“You have quite an imagination.” He took her palms within his. “But you know, with the two of us being guilty, your father would force us to marry. That is, if I survived Romulus and Remus chewing on my liver.”

“Yes, that would be unfortunate. And a forced marriage is the opposite of what a place like this should serve. This should be a place filled with love and two free people holding hands, holding gazes, making vows.”

She turned to him and said in a clear voice as if a minister were at the altar instructing them, “I will to the list—to living together, obeying and serving one another, to loving, honoring, and keeping each other in sickness and in health.”

He tightened his grip on her fingers. “You said ‘obey,’ and we both know you have a problem with that. Hmm?”

“It’s only pretending.”

“Then we should continue. I, too, would look deeply into your sweet eyes and promise the same list—living together, obeying and serving one another, loving, honoring, and keeping each other in sickness and in health, but I would add that you and I should forsake all others, and keep thee only unto me, so long as we both shall live.”

“Hartwell?”

“Yes. I’m waiting for your answer.” He put a hand on each side of her face and planted a kiss to her temple, edging his lips to the purple bruise mostly hidden by curls. “This is what you want me to imagine.”

“No. This was… I can’t have you…doing. Death hasn’t released you. You’re still bound to your vows, those said to Lady Hartwell.” Miss Frederica freed herself from his now limp grasp.

But what could he say? Not a single lie. They were in church.

The half of him alive and stirred by this blushing woman reached for her, caught her arm, and pulled her against his chest. His sharp intake of air had to tell her he wasn’t teasing anymore. “You told me you like me, that I’m stuck, and that my first kiss was subpar, but as God is my witness, I need another chance. Let me declare myself.”

“Hartwell, no. It was a jest. We were joking.”

“I’m not, not anymore. These vows are true. Part of me is living for you, Miss Burghley. Part of me is desperate for you to forsake all others. I’ve been trying all day to convince you to ignore these offers from strangers, but if I wasn’t clear, maybe a kiss will convince you. Let me right that one wrong.”

Her eyes had darkened to a deep passion-sated brown. “I know you care for me. Knowing the differences in our situations—I can’t have designs on you. None. But…”

Hallelujah. There was a blessed but. “Yes, Frederica?”

“Part of me wants to finally decide if I do like your kisses. It’s scandalous, Lord Hartwell, to want you, my dear friend, to kiss me and let this distracting confusion end. But what if you are good at it? What if that first dry offering was nothing, and this next everything? That would never work for my plans. It would be scandalous, to still be in want of your kiss while I’m entertaining offers of marriage to other men.”

“If I kissed you, truly kissed you, you wouldn’t need other men.”

“But I still wouldn’t have what I need—a respectable marriage. I’m not my mother. I won’t settle for anything less than my dreams.”

“If you were like your mother, and I was like the duke, there’d be a lot less talking, even in this house of God. Those letters won’t be sent until tomorrow. You’re still a free woman with no formal designs.”

She tied his cravat back into place. The action was slow. Her fingers had her way with his silk knots. “But you aren’t free. Not forty paces away is where you laid to rest the love of your life. I struggle to share my father with the memories of Burghley. I refuse to share a bed with a ghost.”

She knew.

Miss Frederica Burghley knew. “Then you know where we are?”

Righting pins, she turned to the biggest window of the three. The miracle of fading sunlight cutting through the glass panes cast emerald and pink shadows upon her, like butterfly wings curling about her. “Hartwell, you disappear sometimes, so I asked your brother. Over the summer, he took me here. I brought flowers to your son, and I paid my respect to the woman whose husband I want.”

Her tone was simple and plain, but had she just said that she wanted him? “You must think me a fool. I know I feel like one. You’re the first person in two years who makes me hopeful about tomorrow, and I must give you away.”

His Butterfly turned to him and touched his arm. “I understand. I’m ashamed that my attention has led us here.”

“It wasn’t just your sweetness. Look at you. You’re gorgeous, and your pianoforte playing stays in my head. And now I dream of you as often as I dream of Maria. Frederica Bu… dearest Frederica, I want you—can’t we?”

Frederica put her finger to his lips. “A Yuletide wedding will help us both to escape. Then I will be as committed to someone as you are to Lady Hartwell. We’ll both be safe.”

Safe.

Is that what the stew of his insides was? Safety?

He put on his hat and stashed his gloves in a pocket, then retrieved her bonnet. “Let’s leave. It’s beginning to feel claustrophobic in here.”

Jasper watched her float ahead of him. “I’ll be out in a moment. I need to extinguish the flames. Can’t have this perfect relic burn up.” No, only his soul would burn. For he wanted Frederica Burghley. On that, he had no doubts.

But she wanted marriage.

“Don’t take too long.” She headed out the exit.

He stood alone by the altar, praying that they’d find her a worthy match and that he’d be able to watch her take her vows to another without dying even more inside. That’s what friends did—suffered for one another.

After dousing the torch, he left the church and found Frederica kneeling between Maria’s and Jasper James’s grave markers, pushing snow away with her gloves. His insides roiled at the unfairness of life and death. He closed his eyes and, in that moment, claimed the strength to be unselfish. “Frederica, take the horse back to Tradenwood.”

“But, how will you—”

He escorted her back to the gelding. “I’m going to be a better a friend to you. That starts by walking and not enjoying your curves.” He lifted her into the saddle and turned until she adjusted her skirts. “Your tangible offers are comprised of a vicar, a barrister, a shopkeeper, and a baron. I will chaperone these public meetings. We will need to see their suitability for a marriage. Only the best situation will be yours, for you deserve nothing less. Frederica, you deserve a man’s whole heart, not half of one.”

“I know my worth, Hartwell. So I know what I will accept. But thank you for saying this.”

Jasper wanted to smile, but his lips refused to rise. “Go on to Tradenwood.”

“Will I see you later, and will you bring more chocolate, my lord?”

“I thought you were stuffed.”

“You know how cravings are. Some never die.”

Oh, he knew that. He knew that too well. “I’ll stay at Grandbole. It’s close enough to walk from here, but I’ll send you a treat by footman each day until we’re ready for our first appointment in Town. That way you won’t forget about me.”

She smiled turned the horse around. “I won’t forget you. You’re my friend.” She started the beast moving and didn’t look back.

He admired her and her seat.

Then he smacked his forehead and filled his lungs with the cleansing smell of the evergreens. Wishing he was a lesser man, he walked back to Maria’s marker and his beloved Jasper James.

He knelt beside the stones and traced the indentations; the letters and the dates Frederica had cleaned. “I can’t forget her, Maria. I know I promised to love you forever, but that won’t stop me from caring for Frederica Burghley.”

And the woman’s Yuletide marriage wouldn’t stop his admiration, either.

The breeze picked up. Fresh snow began to fall. With a sigh, he headed for Grandbole, hating he had to play matchmaker to the best woman alive.