Page 15 of The Trouble With Titles
“Things will settle down, and you are always welcome to take a respite at our home if you need to.”
Molly reached to pat Madeline with a grateful smile. “I appreciate I can visit with you. I count the days until I am done with this mourning period. My mother would hate to think of me so listless on her account.”
“Dear friend, I assure you, I need you just as much as you need me.”
It was true. Usually they discussed books they had read, or Molly asked questions about her work. Their burgeoning friendship had been the distraction Madeline needed as she made plans for her future.
She must do something to help her new friend. Something to lift her companion’s spirits. Madeline tried to think of activities suitable for a young gentlewoman that would not be considered improper during her time of grieving.
“Perhaps we can go visit a bookshop together? I could ask Mama to escort us.”
Simon staredat the contract on his desk. Lord Boyle had finally signed it, sending it with a footman just minutes earlier. All that remained to make the betrothal official was for Simon and John to put their signatures to it. He and Olivia Boyle would be tied into a single legal entity. The culmination of his duty to the Blackwood title.
He was finding it difficult to draw air in his lungs. The walls seemed to be moving closer, and his starched collar and cravat conspired to strangle him. Scraping his chair back, Simon stood up, unable to tear his gaze from the neatly written contract. The desire to run was overwhelming. He wished he could bolt off to the walled garden. So he could breathe. But, alas, the garden was out-of-bounds because he was … about … to be …betrothed!
He could think of nothing other than the horrible truth. He was to wed the wrong woman. When he signed the contract, Madeline would be lost to him forever. Any hopes he had that he was only dreaming this suffocating life, that he would wake up to learn he was still a student at Oxford, and that Madeline was still his intended, slipped away as the pages taunted him with their cruel intentions.
Simon realized he needed to take a respite before his panic turned into hysteria. Leaving the contract where it lay, he stalked off to request his overcoat. Soon he was slippingon his gloves, donning his beaver, folding the morning news sheets under his arm, and heading out the door to a nearby coffeehouse. He sat alone, recovering from the shock of receiving the elusive paperwork from Boyle by reading his sheets and sipping on a mug of coffee. The tightness in his chest gradually eased as he took his time to enjoy some time alone.
Just as he thought he might survive the day, a sense of unease gripped him. He had the sensation he was being watched. Simon raised his head to flick a glance around the establishment as the feeling grew. Across the room, at a corner table, sat two gentlemen. They did not appear to be watching him, but he found it odd that they had kept their hats on. Even their overcoats were on and buttoned up despite their being inside on a warm day. Stroking his beard, Simon considered if he was imagining it, but then the smaller one of the pair, whose soft features spoke to his youth, flickered unusual silver-gray eyes in his direction.
Simon made up his mind. There would be more privacy at his clubs, so there was no need to analyze if he was being watched, preferring to trust his instincts in case someone had noted his trappings of wealth and was planning to fleece him.
He rose, tossing some coins down on the table, and headed out the door, casting a surreptitious gaze back to see if anyone followed him out.
Through the window, he saw that the odd pair in the corner had risen to leave. Simon narrowed his eyes, picking up his pace. He veered at the next corner to enter St. James’s Street. His club was nearby, and scoundrels who intended him harm could not follow him in to that guarded dominion.
Inside, he went to the library to find a book, realizing he had left his news sheets behind in his haste to put distance between himself and the men that might be pursuing him.
Settling on a leather settee, he ordered some coffee and stretched his legs out to enjoy the quiet of the oak-paneled room. His nerves were on edge, and likely the entire thing had been a figment of his imagination brought on by the stresses of what awaited him on his desk. Be that as it may, he still needed to calm himself, so it was a pleasure to relax in the cool interior. Thankfully, regardless of how trying his marriage turned out, Olivia and the Boyles’ annoying chatter would never find him in this hallowed retreat.
CHAPTER 4
“As he flew away from her, Psyche called after him, but her cries could not reach his ears.”
Lucius Apuleius, Metamorphoses
OCTOBER 1, 1821
“That is when I told Miss Simmons that as a lady to marry a handsome future baron, I outrank so she must enter behind me!” Olivia’s voice grew high-pitched and mirthful as she completed her story with a giggle of triumph.
“Brava, daughter! Well-done of you!”
Simon shot a glance over at Lady Boyle, uncertain if she was serious in her congratulations or being facetious. His heart sank. It was genuine pride.
His spirits dropped even further than they had been. The Boyles were visiting for a Sunday meal after joining his family for church services, and Simon was considering going down to the local docks to join any merchant ship setting sail. He would be a hardworking deckhand, dodging scurvy and terrible storms rather than eating at the dining table with this ridiculous family.
There are things to like about her. She is … a pleasing songbird.
Or, at least, rumor had it. Simon had yet to hear her sing because he found an excuse to keep their visits short each time they met.
His mother was seated across from him, barely touching her meal, with a vacuous expression as she stared over his shoulder into the distance and fanned herself. Perhaps Simon should try laudanum himself, as it evidently got Isla through these encounters.
“It is quite the social advantage, being the betrothed of a handsome future baron!” Olivia’s shrill voice was grating on his nerves. They had been at lunch for a good half an hour, and the conversation had been dominated by the joys of a woman betrothed.
“I could have secured you a viscount if you had but waited,” Lord Boyle replied with a sour tone, still put out that he had had to settle for Simon.
I wish you had.
