An Honest Heart (26 page)

Oliver’s mother looked down at the green silk gown she wore as if she wanted to tear it from her person. “Yes, I do occasionally use Miss Bainbridge’s services. But if she has been keeping company with a reprobate, I am glad I do not currently have any gowns commissioned with her.” She pressed the back of her left hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear.”

“What is it, my lady?” Edith hoped she looked concerned instead of gleeful at her coup in eliciting such a reaction from the woman who seemed to know everything about everyone in Oxford long before anyone else.

“Oliver has invited Miss Bainbridge to the servants’ ball. Now that I know she is a loose woman, I am worried . . .” She let her voice fade out.

“About what?” A trickle of concern seeped into Edith’s consciousness.

“Worried that he might be planning to make her his mistress—if he has not done so already. The last time he did something like that, we were out a tremendous amount of money, after sending the girl off to the country to have the babe in secret before giving it up to a barren marquess and his wife to pass off as their own.”

Edith imagined that the fee they took from the marquess for securing the child in secret more than compensated them for whatever expenditure they’d laid out for the mother of Oliver’s illegitimate child.

Her stomach knotted at the idea that Oliver had a child—a son most likely—out in the world somewhere. Not that she looked forward to carrying or bearing children herself. But if it had happened once before, what was to keep it from happening again? And while little scandal would be attached to an unmarried
Mister
Carmichael getting a working-class girl pregnant, it would be different for a married
Lord
Carmichael. This proclivity must be ended now, before they married.

A glance at the enormous clock in the corner of the room told Edith her fifteen minutes had expired. “Lady Carmichael, it was lovely to see you. I hope we might meet again in London.” Edith stood.

“I imagine that with your sister’s presentation, you and she will be invited to all of the best gatherings, so I am certain we will see each other again within the fortnight.” Lady Carmichael inclined her head by way of farewell.

Edith dipped her curtsy, then turned and left the room.

It wasn’t until the carriage was almost twenty minutes down the road from Chawley Abbey that it struck her. Lady Carmichael’s revelation of the birth and subsequent hiding away of Oliver’s offspring—the baroness would not have told just anyone about that. Since Edith had never heard of it, and the Buchanans and Carmichaels had known one another for as long as she could remember, the Carmichaels had been successful in keeping the issue quiet. No scandal had ever come about from it.

Lady Carmichael was testing her. If the secret leaked, Lady Carmichael would hear about it, and then she would know that Edith could not keep confidences. And that would give Lady Carmichael more ammunition to use in her war against Edith’s marrying Oliver.

But if Edith could not find anyone else this season who would marry her—and who would elevate her at least as high as marrying Oliver would—she needed to still have the option of marrying him.

No matter how tempting sharing this information—at the right time, of course—with her friends might be, she must keep it to herself.

For now. If Oliver did anything to welsh on their arrangement, Edith now had the perfect ammunition to get him back in line. Perhaps, instead of testing Edith, Lady Carmichael’s purpose behind sharing the family’s deep, dark secret was the baroness’s way of telling Edith she wanted her to marry Oliver.

Caddy watched as Letty pulled the hot rod from the lock of hair and it bounced over her shoulder in a perfect ringlet. She’d noticed the apprentice’s skill with dressing her own hair long ago, so she’d offered Letty an afternoon off next week in exchange for helping her prepare for the ball at Chawley Abbey.

The mother-of-pearl comb sparkled at her crown, assisting the hairpins in holding up the high knot from which the cascade of curls fell to tickle her neck and exposed shoulders.

The ivory taffeta gown with its overlay of veil-thin silk embroidered with blue flowers had been made for Edith Buchanan . . . who canceled her order after the gown was mostly finished. The style had come from the spring
Godey’s
magazine, so she knew it was the height of fashion. She needed to be cautious with it tonight; she’d keep it and sell it ready-made from the shop later.

“All finished, miss. And a fine head of hair you have too. It’s hard to tell with it always in a chignon or a snood.” Letty eased a couple more long curls over Caddy’s right shoulder, where they rested on her collarbone. “You look so much younger this way.”

Letty’s face went pink when she looked up and caught Caddy’s gaze in the mirror. “I’m sorry, miss, I didn’t mean—”

Caddy laughed—but the sound ended as a choking cough at a knock on her bedroom door.

Mother stuck her head in. “He’s here. I have seen him into the sitting room.”

The tight-laced corset that allowed Caddy to wear the dress would not allow her to breathe deeply, so instead she held her breath and counted to ten. To twenty. To thirty. Finally, her heart rate moderated. She took up the pair of fingerless lace mitts from her small dressing table. With them securely in her left hand, she lifted the overly full skirts and petticoats to make sure the fragile silk tissue overskirt did not catch on anything and rip on her way out of her room.

Outside the sitting room, she paused, squared her shoulders, took a few shallow breaths, then opened the door. She measured her steps to make the bell-shaped skirt sway just so.

Neal Stradbroke stood facing the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back. He turned languidly. Then he stiffened, his eyes widened, and his lips parted, and a low breath huffed out between them.

Pleasure heated Caddy’s cheeks to what she hoped was a becoming color. “Dr. Stradbroke.” She practiced the deep curtsy she would make when presented to the Baron and Baroness Carmichael in about an hour.

To her delight, Neal flourished a bow that wouldn’t have been out of place in the court of Queen Victoria. “Miss Bainbridge.” He straightened and re-clasped his hands behind his back, rocking from heel to toe. “If I may say so, you look lovely tonight.”

“Thank you, kind sir.” Caddy tried to simper, then laughed at herself for even attempting it.

“I see you have removed the bandage.” He came forward and reached for her, brushing an artfully arranged wing of hair from her forehead to reveal the scar underneath.

“I could not have my hair washed and coiffed with it in place, could I?” She swallowed hard as she leaned her head back to continue looking into his impossibly blue eyes. Robin’s egg blue. She had a bolt of brocaded silk just that color—it would make a beautiful waistcoat. Not that she had seen Neal wear any waistcoats that weren’t dark enough to hide the signs of his trade—black, brown, navy. Tonight, he wore one of a dark purplish-indigo that made his hair look blonder, his eyes bluer.

She sighed.

“Did I hurt you?” He jerked his hand back from where his fingers had been gently probing the scar.

“No. You did not.”

“Last night at tea, you mentioned you wanted me to come by tonight before you leave for your . . . event.” His voice turned strained and his mouth settled into a firm line.

Caddy’s heart gave a little thrill at the hint of jealousy. When she’d told him last night of Oliver’s inviting her to the Chawley servants’ ball, he’d almost choked on his tea. “Yes. I hoped I might be healed enough that you could remove the stitches.”

The stoniness in his mouth extended up to his eyes. “No. You are not healed enough. Besides, you will have to wear a bandage for several more days after I remove the stitches, as it might bleed a little afterward.”

Caddy knew she should be disappointed, but the continued need for medical attention meant more excuses for seeing Neal—and for being in close proximity to him.

“How much longer do you think it will be?” Her voice came out raspy and breathy due to the strain on her throat from leaning her head back so far to look up into his face. When had she moved so much closer to him?

“Hmmm?” Neal’s finger traced her hairline down her cheek to untangle her earbob from a wispy ringlet. “When?”

Caddy’s breath hitched. “The stitches . . .”

“A few days.”

“Oh.”

His finger trailed down the cording of her throat, pausing over the pulse pounding there. His face eased into a dreamy smile. “Your heart is pounding.”

“I know.”

“Why?” A bit of slyness entered his expression.

Caddy didn’t care. “Because you’re here.”

Neal bent and pressed his lips to hers, his hand stealing around to cup the back of her neck. Caddy raised up on her toes to get a better angle and slid her hand up his arm to encircle his neck.

When she’d told Alastair she would marry him, he’d kissed her. His dry, slightly rough lips had pressed to hers for the briefest moment. Until now, she had not known a kiss could be more—oh, so much more. Neal’s soft, warm lips moved over hers, and she knew she had never truly been kissed before. She arched her neck back and to the right, and Neal wrapped his other arm around her waist, pulling her closer.

Caddy’s limbs went numb, and the only things she could feel anymore were her lips and the heat building in her chest. She never wanted this moment to end.

Almost as suddenly as he’d started the kiss, Neal ended it. He released her and stepped back, breathing hard.

Caddy grabbed the back of the settee before she collapsed onto the floor in a melted heap.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Bainbridge. I should never have taken such liberty or forced myself upon your person.”

Strength fueled by incredulity flowed back into Caddy’s limbs, and she closed the gap between them, grabbing the lapels of his coat. “I do believe you may now call me by my Christian name, Neal. And you have nothing for which to apologize.” She released his lapels and pressed her palms to his cheeks, forcing him to look down at her. “You did exactly what I have been hoping you would do for some time now.”

Neal gently extricated himself from her grasp, capturing and holding both of her hands in his. “You say that now. But once you know the truth—”

A soft knock interrupted his thought. Mother entered the room, clearing her throat. “The carriage from Chawley Abbey is here for you, Cadence.”

Neal kissed her clenched fists, squeezing his eyes tightly closed in the moment he lingered over the gesture. “I will see you . . . another time.” He edged around her, took up his hat and kit, and with a nod to Mother, left the room.

Disappointment stung Caddy’s eyes.

“Caddy, the carriage,” Mother prompted.

“Tell them I am not coming. I cannot go to Chawley Abbey.”

Mother entered the room, arms akimbo, expression stern. “You must. You do not tell me much, but I hear the girls talking. I know you have lost the business of many of your regular customers recently. You cannot afford to alienate Lady Carmichael at this of all times. I do not know what passed between you and Dr. Stradbroke just now—though by the looks on both of your faces, I imagine he stole a kiss. But no matter your feelings for him, you have a responsibility to your business to make an appearance in society and to assure the baroness there is no reason for her to take her patronage elsewhere.”

Caddy’s jaw hung slack. Mother had not lectured her like that in years. Not since before Father died. Obviously Neal’s presence and attention had been good for her as well.

With a sigh—or as much of one as she could heave—Caddy accepted her shawl from Mother and swung it around her shoulders before stomping down the stairs . . . while still being cautious with the gown. Her kid dancing slippers did not make much noise, even on wooden stairs, more’s the pity.

When she stepped outside, she gave the footman who assisted her into the coach no reason to think she was anything but happy and excited to be going to the ball.

She would go. She would be pleasant to all. She would toady to Lady Carmichael. But no one could stop her from dwelling on Neal Stradbroke and the fire—now banked to glowing embers—caused by his kiss.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

O
liver paced the vestibule just off the great hall, where all was prepared for the servants’ ball. The coach bearing Cadence Bainbridge should have been here by now. Even though he could not lead off the dancing with her—no, that . . .
privilege
was reserved by tradition for his mother’s lady’s maid—he wanted to be certain to greet her and let her know, by deed if not by word, that she should consider herself the honored guest tonight.

That should soften her toward him.

He didn’t have much time left in which to woo and win her before the Great Exhibition started. Especially since M’lady expected him to travel with her and Father to London on Monday and, once there, to stay for the duration of the season. If he were there and Caddy were here, he would not be able to work on breeching her defenses.