Lady Cecily’s foyer was bursting with arrangements of flowers which Anthony surmised had been gifts from gentlemen seeking her favor. Upon his first visit, he’d found himself somewhat intimidated by the lavish displays, assuming—rightly, he supposed—that had he sought to court her in earnest, he would have no small amount of competition for her hand.
Knowing what he now knew of her, he realized that none of those who had delivered those extravagant arrangements were any true contenders for it, for she had either not cared enough for them to confess her honest opinion on cut flowers—or if she had, it had been ignored.
Except for one. Amidst the wild sweep of blooming hothouse flowers which dominated the table there sat an unassuming clay pot which held a few scraggly fuchsia blossoms. Half-hidden beneath a spray of hydrangeas, the bedraggled flowers looked for all the world as if they were cowering from any comparison to their prettier cousins.
Anthony hadn’t the slightest idea of what the mysterious flowers held within the clay pot might be, but he knew enough to understand that Lady Cecily would find them the most precious of the lot. Possibly, he hoped, they meant enough to her to make the ordeal of this last morning call somewhat less awkward than he had anticipated.
The muted sounds of conversation within the drawing room grew louder as the speakers approached the door, and the butler waiting outside cleared his throat, with a subtle nod toward Anthony. His fifteen minutes had come at last.
Lady Cecily and her prior caller appeared in the doorway, and…she sparkled. Absolutely radiant with a glow of pleasure, of happiness that lit her from within. She might not have had any great need to marry—but she was going to. And it would be to the man standing with her now; a gentleman of some middling years with an almost threadbare look about him. He hadn’t come garbed in any particular finery. The coat he wore was patched upon one elbow, and his trousers were woefully out of style. His gloves were old, and a bit stained at the fingertips. His hair, greyed at the temples, was badly in need of a trim. But even in profile, he had a jovial air about him, the brackets lining his mouth suggesting a propensity to smile a great deal.
A sense of profound relief swept through Anthony as the gentleman left, offering him a small nod of acknowledgment as they passed one another in the foyer. He hadn’t wanted to wound Lady Cecily, who had offered him nothing but kindness and friendship—and now, at last, he knew that he would not.
“Captain Sharp,” Lady Cecily said as he came into the drawing room.
“How lovely to see you.” There was still a pink glow to her cheeks as she settled once more into her seat across from him.
“And you,” he said.
“No roses today. I brought this instead.” He proffered his own clay pot, filled with the spiky fronds of the Venus’s Flytrap.
“Dionaea muscipula!” she exclaimed, popping out of her seat once more as she reached for it eagerly.
“Oh, it is just lovely! However did you find it? Even John—” She stopped herself, her color ratcheting higher still.
“That is to say,” she said softly, gently, “while I have the utmost appreciation for your efforts, Captain, and it truly is just—just beautiful…” A wistful little sigh of regret as she retracted her hands, settling once more in her seat.
“I’m afraid I cannot accept it.”
“But you must. I can’t send it back, and I’m afraid it will come to a bad end if left in my care. Of course you must take it.” And then, because it was clear enough that she could not accept a gift which might imply that she would be amenable to courtship, he added, “Call it a gift given in friendship. Lady Cecily, I have no intention of asking to court you.”
The poor woman practically wilted with relief.
“I mean no offense, Captain Sharp,” she said.
“I am fond of you, of course—”
“But you love him,” he said, with an inclination of his head toward the door through which her last caller had left.
“I do,” she said on a sigh, as if warmed her heart to admit to it at last.
“I truly do. I didn’t expect to—”
“You owe me no explanations,” Anthony said.
“I came here today to make my own apologies to you.” He offered the plant once more.
“So. Friends, then?”
“Friends,” she said.
“Yes. Of course. I should be delighted.” She nipped the pot out of his hand, cradling it gently in her own.
“John is a horticulturist,” she said softly as she reclaimed her seat.
“He has a position at Kew. He is neither titled nor wealthy, but we share so many similar interests.”
Anthony smiled as he sat down and allowed her to prepare him a cup of tea. Charity had told him, once, that Lady Cecily had no great need to marry at all; that she did not require money or position. That she could, and would only, marry as she pleased. She had meant it to be heartening. An assurance that if he managed to win her, it would be because she truly wanted him. Now, he could only find himself happy that Charity had been entirely correct in her assessment, and that Lady Cecily had chosen to marry elsewhere.
To exactly the man of her choosing.
“He sounds like a fine fellow,” he said.
“How did you form an acquaintance?”
“Through letters, over several years,” she admitted with a blush.
“It is through his assistance that I have managed to acquire so many specimens of my own. I had little enough else to entertain me while I was caring for my father in the countryside, you understand.” A gusty little sigh.
“But I treasured his letters. They let me feel as if my world were a bit larger than it truly was. He sent sketches and books, and eventually cuttings and seeds for me to cultivate on my own.”
“May I assume that the pot upon the table in the foyer is a gift from him?”
She beamed.
“Echinacea purpurea,” she said.
“It is a plant native to America, purported to have medicinal properties. John grew it himself.”
A gift from the heart, then. One exactly to Lady Cecily’s tastes. How lovely for the both of them.
“He asked if he might pay a call upon me,” she said.
“Since we were at last both in London. Of course I agreed at once, as we have been friends of a sort for a great many years now. I simply did not expect to fall in love with him.”
A lovely surprise, then, to both of them—and a courtship conducted with a bit more privacy than most of those within Ton society. A fellow without a title or any significant wealth, and most especially one who worked for his living would not have been extended invitations to Ton events. And still he’d come out the victor, snatching her hand right out from beneath every other man vying for it.
She would be considered to be marrying beneath her station. But he didn’t think she cared whatsoever what anyone else might say of it. She would be happy nonetheless, with her plants and her horticulturist husband.
“I understand completely,” Anthony said.
“The truth is that I came here today to tell you that I have found someone of my own,” he said.
“Have you?” She dimpled, genuinely delighted.
“I have. And she is…not someone society will consider acceptable.” Something, he supposed, he and Lady Cecily had in common. That they had both selected a spouse quite outside of societal expectations.
“I don’t know if she will accept me, but—” He had to try. Nonetheless, he had to try.
“I think it is best, in all things,” she said softly, “to pursue happiness. What cold comfort the approval of society would bring, if one were to sacrifice one’s own happiness to attain it.”
“Yes,” he said, clasping his hands before him.
“You might recall that some time ago, you lent me a volume of poetry.”
“Keats,” she said.
“Of course. We had quite a lively discussion on Ode to a Nightingale.”
And so they had, since it had resonated with him more than he had expected. Because he, too, had experienced many of those same feelings contained within the lines of them poem. The profound sense of isolation, of loneliness. The futile longing to escape the harsh realities of mortal life.
“She is my nightingale,” he said simply.
“She has made me see the beauty there is to be found in life, even amidst the ugliness.”
A soft smile.
“Then I wish you joy,” she said.
“And it is my most sincere hope that soon I may congratulate you both upon the occasion of your wedding.”
“And I, you,” he said. His quarter hour had nearly elapsed, and already the butler had sent him a little glance intended to imply that he was soon meant to take his leave.
“If you’ll forgive me,” he said.
“I really must be going. I’m on my way to see her now; I only stopped round to say goodbye and to give you my apologies.”
“Not goodbye, Captain,” she said firmly as she rose to her feet to see him off.
“I have so few true friends in London. I would be happy to have more. Do bring her round to visit sometime; I should like to meet her.”
“I will,” he said.
“If she will have me, that is to say.”
“If she has any sense at all,” Lady Cecily replied as she accompanied him to the door.
“She certainly will.”
***
It was hours past nightfall by the time Anthony arrived at last to the estate he had been assured belonged to Baron Armitage, and already he was beyond exhausted—from the journey itself, which had been somewhat longer than he had hoped, and from the demands of the day.
First had come the chaos of struggling to pack for a trip of indeterminate length, since he could not possibly predict the length of it. For all he knew it was just as likely that he’d be turned away at the door as invited to stay. Then had come a visit to the solicitor, which had been a matter of several hours in and of itself. Which was just as well, because proper morning calls were done in the afternoon, and he’d been honor bound to explain himself to Lady Cecily, and to be fully free and unencumbered by even the possible suggestion of a potential engagement before he declared himself to Charity.
He’d finally made it clear of London by mid-afternoon, but the day—and the interminable carriage ride, in which he’d had nothing but time and silence in which to stew—had worn heavily upon him. And now he had arrived, at an inopportune hour, to call upon a woman he was not even certain was in residence here, in the faint hope that she might be persuaded to love him.
He was disheveled, his clothes wrinkled and travel-worn. He was certain he looked every bit as exhausted as he felt. And yet he stepped down from his carriage in resolute determination, striding for the door with a renewed sense of urgency.
It was well outside of normal visiting hours, and the grand manor house was buried in the countryside. No one was expecting him. But he rapped firmly on the door and heard the sound echo within.
And he waited. And waited. Until at last there was the distant sound of someone approaching, and then the click of a key in the lock—and the door opened at last.
It wasn’t a butler who appeared there at the door. Instead, a harried-looking woman peered out at him, a whimpering baby held against her shoulder. Her dark brows pinched together; surprised, no doubt, to find a stranger upon her steps at such an hour of the night. She wasn’t beautiful in the way that Charity was, and had made few enough concessions toward even appearing presentable, besides. But there was something familiar in the arch of her brows, in the shape of her chin, in the shade of her hair. A sort of vague family resemblance.
She could only be Mercy; Charity’s half-sister.
As she rubbed the baby’s back in soft, soothing motions, she said, in a voice rife with desperation, “Please tell me you are the duke.”
“I—” What was he meant to say to that manner of greeting? “I suppose I must be.” Unless she had been expecting a different duke altogether? Which seemed a bit of a stretch, as there were not a lot of them about.
“Thank God.” The door opened wider, and she reached her hand through it to snag at his lapel, all but dragging him through the doorway.
“What has taken you so long? I’ve never seen Charity so devastated!”
Anthony stumbled into the foyer, his heart catching in his chest.
“She’s here, then?” It had hardly been a day—but she was here. And devastated? But she would have no reason to be.
Unless she cared. At least a little. Perhaps even enough. His heart began to pound; a chaotic, hopeful rhythm beating behind his breastbone.
“Of course she is here! Where else is one meant to go in such times, if not to family?” She waved him with one hand toward what must be the drawing room, directing him to sit.
“I’ll send a servant to light the lamps and bring tea while I fetch Charity down,” she said.
“Here—you take Flora. I’ll not move half so quickly with her as without her.”
And she thrust the baby in his direction. Grimacing, Anthony attempted to fend off the child.
“I couldn’t,” he said, though he feared she had him well and truly cornered in his position upon the sofa.
“My face will upset her.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the woman said.
“Such prejudices are learned. One is not born with them. To her, your face is merely different than those she’s seen before. She’ll be fascinated.” And she settled the baby in his arms against his protests.
“Bounce her a little if she fusses. We think she may be cutting her first tooth a little early.” And then she was gone.
And Anthony was left alone in the drawing room.
With a baby.
For a moment he dreaded looking down, dreaded adding to the fussy baby’s discomfort with the introduction of his face. But she flailed her little fists and began that terrible whimpering once more, only this time she hadn’t the comfort of her mother’s arms to soothe her. Only his.
As instructed, he gingerly bounced her in his arms, and when she quieted once more, he glanced down at last. Flora had stuffed her fingers into her mouth, her yet-toothless gums gnawing upon them. She gazed back up at him, enrapt, her dark eyes wide and curious.
Anthony waited for the first wail of fear, the first flicker of distress. But they did not come. She was just…fascinated. Too young to have learned fear, as her mother had said.
Probably, if his presence in her life was not a distant, merely occasional one, she never would. He could simply be Uncle Anthony, and she would never have a reason to shy away from him or to flee from him.
Belatedly, he realized that Mercy had not flinched at his face, either. Charity might have told her—but still he could not have been expected to arrive at this hour. If Charity had been so devastated as Mercy had claimed, he could not have been expected at all. And even so, Mercy had exhibited none of the instinctual, visceral distaste to which he had become so accustomed.
A bit of a strange family, then, he supposed. But a kind one. One somewhat less predisposed to finding faults and flaws than he had expected.
After a few minutes, a maid crept in quietly to light the lamps and to leave behind a tea tray—which Anthony had no way to reach, given that his arms were still quite full. In the new light, Flora carefully examined his features with the sort of engrossed attention only a baby could manage. She lifted one small hand to pat his cheek, her tiny fingers exploring with intent interest the texture of his scars. Those fingers found the cloth of his eyepatch, curling into the fabric in a focused effort to pry it loose.
“Here, now,” he said, as he shifted her carefully to the cradle of one arm and watched her brows furrow in concentration. He lifted the patch from his eye, pulling it off his head. And still—not a lick of fear. And there was something gratifying in that.
From outside the room there was the sound of footsteps upon the stairs, growing closer by the moment. And Charity’s voice; sulky, chagrined: “Mercy, tell me. What is this about?”
“You must see for yourself,” Mercy returned, her voice pitched to a cheery sing-song inflection.
“Come now, you’ve moped long enough, haven’t you?”
“I would mope a bit longer if it is all the same to you,” Charity returned sullenly.
Mercy appeared first in the doorway, and she turned to call over her shoulder.
“Will you hurry? You have a visitor.”
“Surely you’re joking. What sort of visitor could I possibly have at this hour?” Charity arrived at last, a pout pulling at her lips as she reached the doorway. She drew to a halt as her gaze landed upon him, throwing out one hand to brace herself against the door frame as if she thought she might fall without the support of it.
“Anthony,” she whispered.
And whatever doubts he had had of his reception before he had set out this morning, they vanished in an instant. In this one unguarded moment, when he had surprised her with his presence, everything she felt was just…there. A sort of vulnerability he doubted she was even aware of, one he was certain she had not experienced in years. The new and painful softness of her heart scrawled across her lovely face so clearly it might as well have been writ in ink.
Mercy continued into the room, bending to take Flora from his arms.
“You see?” she said, as she positioned her daughter once more up against her shoulder, and patted the baby’s back.
“She’s far too young to be frightened of anything so silly as a few scars.”
Anything so silly as a few scars. The words nearly drew a laugh from him. Perhaps if he had had these people in his life years and years ago, he, too, might have learned better. Might never have lent them more weight, more credence to them than they had deserved.
“I’m sorry to have doubted you,” he said.
“Yes, and so you should be,” Mercy informed him.
“I really—”
“Mercy,” Charity interrupted in a tight little voice that suggested her patience was swiftly wearing thin. She released her grip upon the door frame and took another step into the room.
Mercy turned to glance over her shoulder. “Hmm?”
“Get out.”
“Well!” Mercy tilted her nose in the air and produced an offended sniff.
“Kindly get out,” Charity corrected.
“And do be good enough to close the door behind you.”
“Oh, fine,” Mercy said with a petulant sigh, as she turned to go. She paused just at the threshold, lingering to add, “You are welcome to stay the night, Captain Sharp. I am certain Charity can help you find a room. But you should find one before dawn, if you take my meaning. Thomas’ mother rises early and often takes tea in the drawing room. She will not be amused to have unexpected company.”
“Mercy.”
“Yes, yes, I’m going!” Mercy chirped. And she ducked her head to coo nonsense to her daughter as she passed Charity on her way out the door, which she closed behind her with a soft click.
Charity risked another step, from the shadows at the edge of the room where she had lingered into the full light of the lamp set upon the table between them. And now Anthony could see the details which those shadows had softened. The tangle of her hair, as if she’d not bothered to so much as run a brush through it, much less to affect one of the artful styles of which she was so fond. The wrinkles pressed into the skirt of her gown, which she ought not to have been wearing at such an hour, suggesting she hadn’t been able to summon even the will to change into a nightgown but had instead simply cast herself into bed fully-clothed to wait out the night. A sort of unkemptness which he had never before seen from her. The dispirited droop of her shoulders. Her eyes red-rimmed, as if she had recently spent time crying.
“Why…” Her voice cracked upon the word. She cleared her throat and tried again.
“Why have you come? Surely you must have received the same letter I did. We’re not married.”
“We never were, according to the Church,” he said.
“I also received your letter. I came because of your fee. I can’t pay it.”
She blinked, startled by the assertion.
“Are you mad? I’ll have you know it was really quite generous of me, and I am not often inclined toward such generosity.”
She was, though, he thought. Her own version of it. In the expense of her time, her attention. In her surprisingly delicate handling of awkward and uncomfortable situations. Anyone might casually toss a sum of money at a problem with the expectation that someone else would then resolve it, but Charity—Charity solved problems in her own way.
“I could have asked for a fortune,” she said testily.
“Or property and estates. Priceless jewels.”
And instead she had cut out her own heart only to give him what she had thought he wanted.
“Those I could have satisfied,” he said, and he rose to his feet.
“But that’s not what you asked of me. You asked for my happiness, and that is not something I can find in London.”
“Why not?” she asked, in a queer little croak of a voice, swiping at her eyes with one hand. “Why not?”
“Because you left it,” Anthony said.
“Because every hope I have for happiness is right here. With you.”
For a moment, she stared at him in mute disbelief. And then, with a terrible little sound wrenched from deep in her throat, she flew across the room straight into his arms.