Page 32 of Miss Harvey's Horribly Lovable Fiancé
She took a turn to philosophic. “Do you ever wonder what would have happened to each of us had we not met that night at Lady Wimple’s Christmas Ball?”
“I do.” He gazed at her with adoration in his expression. “I would have gone on looking for you for the rest of my days.”
That stopped her breath. “Giles.”
“I claimed you as quickly as I could,” he said, his voice a rasp. “Any later and you would have found some other man to value you.”
“No.”
“Oh, yes. And he would be standing here now.”
She could hardly see him for the tears in her eyes. When had she taken up blubbering? “There will never be anyone for me but you.”
“No more tears. Tomorrow, all will be well,” he said as he led her toward the dance floor. “Tomorrow, we begin anew.”
She wanted to believe the fantasy in his words.
* * *
They’d finisheda waltz when a footman appeared at Giles’s side and told him that Chesters was in the yellow drawing room. Giles made his excuses to her. “Not to worry, Esme. All will be well.”
But after she saw his expression as he returned to her side in the ballroom, she saw his despair.
“Tell me,” she urged him with a façade that she assumed many could see was not viable. Acting had never been her forte.
“He refused.”
Had her heart stopped? Her chin came up but she did not cry in crises. Had never. Would not begin now.
Giles made a fist and his face grew red with anger. “I have sent my response. It’s not kind. Certainly not filial. I wish I’d thought of it sooner. But it is my last offer. A good one. The result is that you and I will marry on the morrow.”
But more than ever before, she doubted it.
Chapter 8
Her preparations took her minutes. That was no surprise. How much did one need if one were running away for a few days?
Once she’d rung for Jane and had the girl release her from the confines of her corset, she could breathe and think. The rest had been easy.
She’d bid her maid good night as she climbed into her bed. “Seven tomorrow, Jane. Awaken me no sooner.”
The girl bobbed, her smile wobbly with joy she could return to the party in the servants hall. “Of course, Miss.”
And off she’d gone.
Esme lay in bed, rigid as stone, daring herself to rise and commit to her plan to save both her father and her fiancé. She’d danced each new selection at the ball, most often with Giles, but with other gentlemen who attended. At midnight, she’d made her excuses to Giles and her parents with a bravado she did not feel. “A bride must have her rest!”
In the hall, she heard a few guests titter as they found their way to their rooms. The ormolu clock on her mantel struck three bells before she ventured from her blankets and looked out her garden window that faced the veranda of the ballroom. Faint candlelight flickered on the pebbled walk. The moon above shone in a haze through the clouds. The stars were obscured as they had been for weeks now.
She scurried about to gather her doeskin trousers, her linen shirt and thick woolen waistcoat. “Socks. Boots.” She ran a hand over her pelisses hanging in the wardrobe and chose a thick Scottish wool riding jacket, once her father’s, that she’d had cut down. She’d loved how she felt in male clothing, strong, resilient. Tonight, she’d summon the male swagger she’d often used when she had gone with her father on his expeditions.
And what else?
She stood in the middle of her dressing room.Ah, yes.
“Chemisette. Nightrail.” She counted off each as she stuffed them into her tiny leather valise. Then she grabbed up her silver necessaire with hair combs, tooth powder and brush. “Money!”
She dare not forget that. She went to her jewelry box and counted out money she’d saved here and there. Pounds and a few coins. Ten pounds. Two farthings and a crown. Enough. Certainly, if indeed she needed any at all.
