Page 6 of Miss Harvey's Horribly Lovable Fiancé
Then two weeks ago, he had reappeared at Courtland Hall with a special license in hand. He apologized for his absence, but gave no explanations. Then he had promptly taken her out into her mother’s parterre and had kissed her senseless.
“May second, I want us to wed, darling.”
Not a question. A statement.
And she—twenty-three and aglow from head to heart to breasts to quivering belly—was in lust with him. She marveled, for she was no twit. No foolish woman whose daydreams ruled her life. No. She’d entertained numerous swains over the years. After all, she was a wealthy catch. She’d refused six gentlemen in marriage. She hadn’t found any of those fellows—titled, well-healed and accomplished in their own rights— interesting or even vaguely exciting.
But this man, this Northington, mesmerized her.
Truth be bald and bold, she pulsed to feel him wholly devoted to her. And soon, all things to her, dear and vital, tender and lusty, sacred and nakedly profane.
That, she concluded, or she was going to run off with him without benefit of marriage and allow him all sorts of liberties.
But that was two weeks ago.
And this morning as she looked out upon the rolling meadow, rosy in the rays of a rising sun, she questioned if her unmaidenly ardor to have him was enough to bind him to her for the next thirty or forty years.
Or did she need much more?
Chapter 2
“He’s a busy man, my dearest.”
Esme folded her arms and gazed down the drive as another carriage headed for their home. She wished she was as sure of Northington’s appearance here today as Mama.
“Do not worry our Esme, wife!” Her father could tame her mother even while he winked at Esme. Skillful man. “He will come.”
Not soon enough to greet the guests, however.Esme shifted from one foot to another as the ebony and gold coach of the Earl of Seaford approached the Hall. She’d wanted Northington here from the start of this party. Where was he and why had he sent such a brief apology for his tardiness?
“You look lovely.” Her mother patted her cheek. “That apple green gives you a glow. Oh, I am so pleased with how your new gowns complement your complexion.”
Esme was more interested in how her fiancé complemented her desire to appear beloved. Northington was a charmer, a wit, a man of the town. But he had also given her evidence that he disappeared when it suited him.
Evidently, he also appeared when it suited him.
“You mustn’t fret, Esme.” Her mother told her as an aside, her attentions riveted on the elegant carriage of Esme’s two school friends, the twin daughters of Seaford, Ivy and Grace. “Once all your school friends are here, you can have a wonderful chat with them. Take your mind off him!”
Esme wanted that. One of her decisions this morning was to have private conversations with a few of her friends. Particularly, her cousin, Fiona, with whom she’d shared many years at Miss Shipley’s School and far too many contretemps. Fiona was to arrive with another of their former school mates, Lady Mary Finch. Fifi and Mary lived in Bath and both were to come today via public coach. And Papa said he’d send his own coach to Chippenham to fetch them up to the Hall.
Seven years was a long time to spend together at school, with a few days off to go home during the year. Ten of the girls had gotten to know each other well. Six had become the core with Esme tagging after the older girls, hoping they’d include her. Over their years together, they’d shaped each other’s views of politics (messy), their French tutor (handsome), their dance instructor (a stickler for liveliness) and mathematics of household management (at which she had excelled).
The girls had studied those elements meant to make them ladies in form as well as fact. The headmistress declared she would turn them into spouses worthy of the best gentlemen in the land. Yet, considering the wars had taken many eligible young men away to the Navy and the Army, only two had married. Ranging in ages from twenty-three to twenty-five, her friends approached that most prickly of conditions, spinsterhood.
Esme regarded all her friends with affection. She hadn’t always merited it in return. No, she remembered how eager she’d been for their praise. Yet she’d gone about it in the oddest ways, being foolish, often too boastful of her gowns and her abundant pin money. She’d also for a few years been far too competitive. Her passion to be first and foremost at every subject, every art with every person, teacher or parent or brother, had created disharmony. Even when she’d shared her expertise with them that was not often enough to lure them to her side. Taking her mother’s urging as law, she’d striven to be first in grades in French and English literature. She’d been obnoxious about it too. She’d seen how her schoolmates avoided her and she hated being so alone. An only child, she was often alone and did not mind the solitude. But she knew the difference between that and loneliness. When the others out of pique left her to herself, she understood their censure.
The year before all of them went home to prepare for their debuts, Esme had changed her ways. Then most of the others began to include her in their activities and in their confidences. She in turn became generous with her knowledge, her advice and her empathy. A few had accepted her change of heart. Lady Grace Livingston and Lady Willa Sheffield were two. Both would attend this party, as they had often in the past few years. Among those who had never quite accepted the new Esme was her cousin, Lady Fiona Chastain.
So before Esme went on to her new life as a married women, she wished to change her relationship with her cousin. And she’d start with apologies to Fifi before she made her way down the chapel aisle.
Esme followed her parents toward the door as Ivy alighted from her father’s carriage.
Ivy’s smile was broad, as ever. “Wonderful to see you, my dear.”
“I’m delighted you’ve both come,” Esme greeted her, then her sister Grace who was right behind her. The twins, Ladies Ivy and Grace were unmarried and at twenty-four, a year older than Esme. The two looked alike with dark green eyes and dimples in their left cheeks, but Ivy had blonde hair and Grace bright red. Ivy—heaven help her—was more biting in her view of the world. Grace, more welcoming, and as a result, Grace was more Esme’s confidante than Ivy. “This would not be a party without you.”
“You’re kind,” Ivy said with genuine feeling which Esme often found lacking in Ivy. “We want to wish you well as you start your new venture.”
“Indeed we do!” Grace beamed at her. “Are we first to arrive?”
