The Captain and the Wallflower. Lyn Stone
charges against you, but I doubt it will come to anything. Too many witnesses heard her accept your offer.”
“I suppose the town’s abuzz with last night’s antics,” Caine said.
“If that was your intention, it was wildly successful.
Still, public approval of your little romance doesn’t help clothe the lady, does it?”
“No matter. I’ll send for a dressmaker. Grace will need a trousseau. But absolutely nothing in yellow,” he added with a shake of his head. “Atrocious.”
Trent was staring at the doorway and wincing. Caine turned to see Grace standing there, wearing the awful garment he had just referred to. “Sorry you heard that, but you must admit …”
She nodded thoughtfully, staring at the floor. “I am well aware of how I look. No need to mince words on my account.”
Caine wished he could call her beautiful, but he did not want to begin their relationship with lies. She was not beautiful. The poor little dear looked pitiful this morning, even worse than last evening. Her light brown hair hung from a middle parting in stick-straight strands, the ends uneven about her shoulders. Pale as death, her features seemed far too small for the large blue eyes. Remarkable eyes. His heart went out to her in that moment.
“It’s the color yellow that I object to, Grace. And only that,” he said with conviction.
Trent cleared his throat, breaking the spell. “Yes, well, if you two will excuse me, I have errands of my own.”
Caine thanked him absently as he left.
“Mr. Trent is a good friend to do so much for you,” Grace said as she ventured farther into the library.
“It’s Lord Trent, Viscount Trent. His father’s Marquis of Alden. And yes, indeed he is my best friend.” Trent had been that since they were boys. “We schooled together and served under the same command in the army. I would scarcely know what to do without him,” Caine admitted.
She traced her fingers along a row of books before facing him with a sigh. “Would you grant me permission to go to the country alone while the banns are being called?” she asked.
“Not to Wardfelton’s estate. Unless you’ve changed your mind about the marriage.”
“Heavens no on both accounts,” she answered with a little huff of laughter. “I will go anywhere you say except there, but I would like some time to myself before the wedding if you wouldn’t mind.”
“If you would be willing to take a companion and the dressmaker I mentioned, you could go on to Wildenhurst. It’s one of Hadley’s minor properties, but well appointed. And I could remain here. I understand that my company is probably—”
“Oh, no!” She frowned and shook her head vehemently. “No, I swear, it isn’t anything to do with you at all!” For a moment, she looked at him with a plea evident in her expression. “You promised me freedom. I would like a taste of it.”
Yes, he had promised. He nodded.
“There you are!” Mrs. Oliver came marching in, hands on her hips. “You come with me now, miss. You’ve not had your chocolate and toast yet and aren’t even dressed proper for the morning, showing shoulders and such. Excuse us, sir, and go on with your business. I shall see to the little miss.”
In spite of himself, Caine liked the old lady, overbearing attitude and all. Everyone in the household, regardless of rank, obeyed her. Even Jenkins, the earl’s snobbish butler, didn’t dare oppose her. How she had gained so much power, he couldn’t guess, but she was one to reckon with. Still, he felt an urge to defend Grace. “Little Miss has a name, Mrs. Oliver.”
“Well, she’s Little Miss to me until she’s a married lady. Got to look after young misses, we all do, till they grow up and marry.”
Caine could see Grace hiding a smile behind her fingertips. So she understood and didn’t mind the heavy-handed martinet. Perhaps she would enjoy being fussed over and looked after. “Go with Mrs. Oliver then and have a good day. My aunt and uncle will want to meet you, but I think we should wait until tomorrow for that.”
“She’ll be ready,” Mrs. Oliver assured him. “Now, come along, luvvy, so I can put you to rights. A good feed and a hot bath should do the trick.”
“Could I have eggs?” he heard Grace ask her as they left.
“And black pudding. Good for strength and such,” Mrs. Oliver declared.
Caine smiled at Grace’s groan. A fair beginning. They had two dislikes in common. Black pudding and Wardfelton. He toyed with his pen as his gaze lingered on the doorway. He wondered idly whether they shared any likes. And then, why such a question should occur to him at all.
Chapter Four
Caine promptly went to work, but found he could not concentrate. Impatiently, he pushed aside the account books for his uncle’s largest estate. The figures were not in good order, but today there were more pressing matters.
There were inquiries to answer, orders for supplies and letters of instruction to be prepared for signature. He arranged the paper, dipped a pen in the inkwell and began to write.
In all his life, he had never thought to do anything but soldier. He liked the structure of army life in general, but had hated the chaos of battle and the incompetence of leadership. If not for his wounding and the earl’s illness, he would have continued trying to rise in rank until he could displace some of that inefficiency. But now here he was, facing the ever-increasing responsibilities of an earldom. So many people were dependent upon his ability to manage well. And soon, so would a wife.
Thankfully, Grace shouldn’t pose a problem or even much of an added responsibility. She would remain practically invisible, by her own choice, he expected.
She was easily led and apparently preferred solitude. An excellent match indeed with which to satisfy his uncle’s demand and Caine’s own need for time and space to acclimate to the nobility. Yes, he had his personal affairs arranged precisely as they should be. Well, almost. There were matters there that needed his attention before he could relax.
That afternoon, he put aside the earl’s business for his own. A meeting with Grace’s uncle was necessary and might as well be accomplished as soon as possible to get the unpleasant errand out of the way. He changed his coat, ran a comb through his hair, adjusted his eye patch and set off on foot for Wardfelton’s town house.
The man was not at home, but the maid who answered the door did advise Caine where the earl might be found at that hour.
Caine had avoided the clubs since returning from the war. Before that, he and Trent had frequented White’s on occasion. His leanings were Whig, as were his uncle’s. Apparently, Wardfelton preferred Brooke’s, overwhelmingly Tory.
Things had worked out well, after all, he thought as he strode down St. James road. A public place would be better than a private meeting.
Caine used his uncle’s cachet and feigned interest in joining in order to gain entrance. He strolled room to room. Attendance proved low in midafternoon, most of the cardplayers and drinkers still at home, readying for the next night’s revels, he supposed. He found Wardfelton upstairs, sitting alone in one of the assembly rooms and reading a newspaper.
Grace’s uncle certainly looked the part of an earl, though he, like Caine, had not been born to it. He was a third son. The elder brother had died accidentally, thrusting the title on Grace’s father. Then the country doctor, cum lord, had perished of cholera two years later, leaving Wardfelton to inherit.
Caine assessed the man who had not yet noticed him. The suit appeared to be Saville Row, tailored to perfection, the linen snow-white. His black hair, stiffly pomaded, showed no gray. The waxed mustache curled upward in direct opposition to his thin, pale lips. His hands were smooth, long-fingered and as delicate as