Page 6 of A Spinster’s Folly (Courting the Unconventional #2)

He leaned slightly closer. “You will allow me to call you by your given name.”

Eugenie looked at him in surprise. “That is your condition?”

“It is,” he said, rocking back slightly. “Take it or leave it.”

A smile played at her lips. “I suppose that is only fair,” she said, secretly pleased by the request. “Does this mean I may call you by your given name?”

He nodded. “I would prefer it, Eugenie.”

The way he spoke her name, effortlessly and naturally, sent an unexpected thrill down her spine. It sounded comfortable, intimate even.

“All right, Charles,” she replied, savoring the sound of his name on her tongue.

A bright smile broke across his face. “I rather like the way you say my name.”

Her gaze flickered to his lips, and she remembered how much she had enjoyed their kiss. Clearing her throat, she quickly looked away. “Good day,” she said briskly.

“Good day,” he echoed, extending a hand towards her.

Eugenie glanced down at his outstretched palm before whispering, “What are you doing? Gentlemen do not assist other gentlemen into carriages.”

Realization dawned on his face, and he swiftly withdrew his hand, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “You are right. My apologies.”

She stepped into the coach, settling onto the plush seat across from her lady’s maid. The footman closed the door behind her with a solid thud. A moment later, the carriage lurched forward, the rhythmic clatter of hooves against cobblestone filling the space between them.

Alice watched her intently, a knowing look in her eyes. After a brief silence, she finally spoke. “So…” she drawled. “I see that Lord Bedford saw through your ruse.”

Eugenie exhaled, tilting her head back against the cushioned interior. “He did,” she admitted. “But he has graciously agreed not to tell my brother or Elsbeth.”

“That is rather kind of him.”

“It is,” Eugenie agreed with a slight nod. “But this isn’t over. I will try again.”

Alice’s expression held a mixture of exasperation and resignation. “I was afraid you were going to say that, my lady.”

Eugenie reached up, unpinning the cap and peeling off the scratchy wig that had made her scalp itch. Today had not gone according to plan, but that did not mean she would give up. She couldn’t. Her desire to learn and be challenged was too great to let one failed attempt deter her.

No, this was only the beginning.

Charles stood on the pavement, watching as Eugenie’s coach disappeared down the cobblestone street.

A sigh escaped him as he pondered the risks she had taken to attend a lecture.

He couldn’t bring himself to fault her since he understood all too well the thirst for knowledge.

He had been on the path to becoming a professor before his uncle and father had died suddenly, leaving him to inherit the title.

Now, instead of lecturing eager students, he pored over estate accounts and managed the endless duties of an earl.

Eugenie reminded him so much of his late sister, Mary.

She had always defied societal expectations, preferring trousers to gowns and books to needlework.

But unlike his feelings for Mary, his feelings for Eugenie were far from fraternal.

No, there was an undeniable pull towards her that left him wondering what it would be like to kiss her again.

Shaking off his thoughts, he turned and strode towards the entrance of University College.

The stone buildings loomed with an air of solemnity, their ancient walls steeped in knowledge and tradition.

As he reached the building that housed the Master’s office, he stepped inside, immediately noting the musty scent of old books and parchment.

A lanky clerk sat at a desk, his nose buried in an open ledger.

The man didn’t bother looking up as Charles approached. “State your business,” he muttered.

Charles halted before the desk. “I wish to see Master Griffith.”

“I’m afraid he is unavailable,” the clerk said dismissively, flicking a glance at Charles before returning his attention to the book. “Try again later, if you don’t mind.”

Charles wasn’t about to be turned away so easily. Clearing his throat, he stood straighter and spoke in a commanding voice. “Will you inform Master Griffith that the Earl of Bedford wishes to speak with him?”

The clerk’s eyes widened, his complexion paling slightly. “You are Lord Bedford?”

“I am,” Charles confirmed. “And Master Griffith sent word that he would meet with me this morning.”

The clerk practically tripped over himself as he pushed back his chair and rushed towards the inner office. “Yes, my lord. Please remain here, and I shall inform him of your arrival.”

Within moments, the man returned and held the door open. “Master Griffith will see you now.”

“Thank you,” Charles said, stepping inside.

The office was stately yet functional. A large desk sat in the center, with two chairs positioned before it.

Bookshelves lined the back wall, brimming with books, while a warm fire crackled in the hearth.

Seated behind the desk was Master Griffith.

He was an impeccably dressed man with dark hair and long sideburns.

He carried an air of refinement, precisely the image one would expect of a Master.

Gesturing towards a chair, Master Griffith said, “Please, have a seat.”

Charles settled into the proffered chair. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

“The pleasure is mine, my lord, but I fear we do not have much to discuss,” Master Griffith replied. “I expelled your cousin for a myriad of reasons.”

“Can you be more specific?” Charles asked.

Master Griffith reached for a thick file stuffed with documents. He opened it and read aloud, “Cheating, plagiarism, vandalism—just to name a few.”

Charles stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

“I am unsure what your cousin told you, but he scarcely attended his classes,” Master Griffith revealed. “We took into account that he was your heir, but the Fellows and I unanimously decided to expel him.”

Frowning, Charles asked, “Dare I ask about the vandalism?”

Master Griffith flipped to another page and picked up a paper. “Ah, yes. Here is the bill for the removal of paint Philip so generously left on the inner wall of Radcliffe Quadrangle. It was quite the artistic endeavor.”

Charles accepted the paper and scanned the sum. He resisted the urge to groan. Why had his cousin done something so inexcusably foolish?

Master Griffith leaned back in his chair. “I understand this is not what you wished to hear, but we are an institution of higher learning, not a refuge for misfit boys.”

“I understand,” Charles replied, though disappointment churned within him. He hesitated. “Would a generous donation ensure Philip’s re-enrollment?”

“I’m afraid not,” Master Griffith said firmly.

Charles sighed. “I had to try.” Rising from his chair, he added, “Thank you for your time.”

As he turned to leave, Master Griffith spoke again.

“If I may, my lord…” he began. “University College has a reputation to uphold, as do all Oxford’s colleges.

Your cousin’s antics would be better managed elsewhere.

Perhaps buying him a commission in the Royal Army would provide him with the discipline he so desperately needs. ”

Charles winced. “I am not certain the Royal Army is prepared for someone like Philip.”

Master Griffith gave a wry smile. “It is well known that Wellington was once a gambler and got into some trouble because of it. Perhaps there is hope for your cousin yet.”

“I certainly hope so,” Charles muttered. “Good day.”

Exiting the office, he walked aimlessly until he reached a stone bench in the courtyard.

He sat down heavily, running a hand through his hair.

What was he to do with Philip? Perhaps he should simply marry a wife who would bear him sons, and then he could wash his hands of his cousin’s antics entirely.

A familiar voice interrupted his thoughts. “What brings you here?”

Charles glanced up to see Professor Addington—a tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in his academic robes, his cap perched neatly atop his dark hair .

“I came to speak with Master Griffith about Philip,” Charles admitted.

“Ah,” Addington said, lowering himself onto the bench beside him. “I take it that it did not go well.”

“No, it did not,” Charles admitted.

Addington tilted his head. “What will you do?”

Charles leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Master Griffith suggested I purchase Philip a commission in the Royal Army.”

“That would be highly unorthodox, given that he is your heir.”

“I know,” Charles replied. “But we cannot continue as we are. His mother will be devastated when she learns there is nothing that can be done about Philip being expelled. Their family has upheld a long-standing tradition here. She won’t take it lightly.”

“What of Cambridge?” Addington suggested after a pause.

Charles shook his head. “Philip would be expelled just as swiftly,” he remarked. “Did you know he defaced Radcliffe Quad?”

Addington blinked. “That was him?” A chuckle escaped him. “Perhaps he has a future as an artist.”

“I hope not,” Charles stated. “Few artists make a decent income.”

“It could be a hobby,” Addington mused.

Charles rubbed his temples. “What he needs is a purpose. And I haven’t the slightest idea how to give him that.”

Addington stood. “Come, let me buy you a drink.”

“It isn’t even noon.”

“When has that ever stopped you?” Addington grinned. “Besides, you look like you could use one.”

Rising, Charles conceded, “You’re not wrong.”

Addington clapped him on the back. “I’ve missed this,” he said. “I barely see you now that you’re a high and mighty earl. ”

“That’s because you’re busy trying to secure your fellowship.”

“Which is precisely what you would be doing now if you hadn’t inherited an ancient title,” Addington remarked.

As they started down the well-trodden path, Charles took a deep breath. “Is it odd that I miss the smell of musty books?”

“Yes, it is,” Addington retorted with a smirk. “But I do understand, considering how much time we spent in the library when we were studying here.”

Charles glanced at his friend. “How is your mother?”

All traces of humor vanished from Addington’s expression. “She is alive, for now,” he revealed, his gaze shifting towards the overcast sky as if searching for answers among the heavy clouds.

Charles nodded solemnly. “That is most fortunate.”

“I suppose I am working so hard to become a Fellow before she passes. I want her to be proud of me.”

“I don’t think you need to become a Fellow for that,” Charles said. “You have already accomplished so much. Anyone would be proud.”

A small smile spread across Addington’s lips, but it faded quickly. “Thank you for saying so, but being the younger son of an earl carries certain expectations,” he said, his tone laced with quiet frustration. “I am expected to make something of myself, despite not inheriting a title.”

“Which you have,” Charles insisted.

Addington let out a humorless chuckle. “My father is not too impressed that I am a professor of history,” he shared. “He believes he wasted his money on my education.”

Their conversation was momentarily interrupted as they stepped inside a grand hall, its vaulted ceiling and towering stained-glass windows casting an almost reverent atmosphere over the room.

Finding an empty table near the hearth, they took their seats at one of the round tables, the flickering glow of the fire offering a welcome warmth.

A short man with a neatly pressed waistcoat approached them, bowing slightly. “Would you care for something to drink, gentlemen?”

“We would,” Addington said. “Two brandies.”

As the man disappeared into the bustling hall, Charles turned towards his friend. “Just ignore your father,” he advised, his tone more earnest than before. “He has never been the most supportive of you anyway.”

Addington ran a hand over his face. “No, he hasn’t been,” he agreed. “Which is why it will be difficult when my mother passes.”

Charles regarded him with sympathy. “I can only offer this—treasure the time you have left with her,” he said gently. “I miss my father every single day. He always knew the right thing to say and the right course of action to take.”

“Your father was a good man.”

“He was,” Charles responded, growing pensive. A familiar ache settled in his chest as he thought of his father’s wisdom, the quiet strength that had steadied him in uncertain times. If only he were here now. He would know exactly what to do about Philip.

The short man arrived, bearing a tray with two glasses. He moved with practiced efficiency, setting their drinks down on the polished wooden table before stepping back. “Will there be anything else?”

“No, thank you,” Addington replied, reaching for his glass. He held it up slightly. “I propose a toast.”

Charles picked up his own glass. “And what exactly are we toasting?”

Addington’s lips curled into a faint smile. “To our friendship,” he declared. “Since that fateful day we were assigned as roommates at Eton, we have found ourselves in all manner of scrapes, yet we always managed to remain friends.”

“That, I can drink to.” Their glasses met with a satisfying clink, the sound echoing softly in the hall.

Addington took a thoughtful sip before lowering his glass to the table. “Don’t worry, Charles. You’ll know what to do with Philip when the time comes.”

Charles scoffed lightly. “I wish I had your confidence.”

Addington smirked. “If we survived having Arthur Drake as a roommate, we can survive anything.”

A genuine chuckle escaped Charles’s lips. “Do you remember how he used to leave notes for us around the room?”

“How could I forget?” Addington groaned, though amusement flickered in his eyes. “He took particular issue with me not hanging up my clothing. I daresay I received a note reminding me every single day.”

Charles grinned. “You did start hanging up your drawers just to irritate him.”

“And it was worth every moment just to see the sheer outrage on his face,” Addington said. “The man even had the nerve to report me to the headmaster.”

Charles leaned back in his chair. “I wonder what Drake is up to these days.”

Addington shrugged, lifting his glass once more. “Quite frankly, I neither know nor care. He aggravated me to no end.”

Charles laughed again, savoring the rare moment of lightness between them. Amidst all the burdens and uncertainties, it was good to remember that, no matter what trials lay ahead, some things—like friendship—remained constant.