Susan Johnson - Again and Again

Louvois looked up from his lounging pose, his expression amused. “Do yourself a favor. Marry her.”

“Do you miss her?”

“Not as much as you.” The Comte gave a nod to his surroundings. “I’ve sufficient compensation for my bruised ego. By the way, she once told me you were unrivaled in bed.” He grinned. “Maybe that’s why I didn’t leave her anything.”

Simon didn’t speak for a time. “We’ve known each other all our lives,” he finally said.

“I suggest you hie yourself to Yorkshire.”

Simon drew in a breath and slowly exhaled. “I suppose maybe I should.”

“Do you still want some jewelry?”

Simon waved away the offer and began moving toward the door. “I’ll buy some in London.”

“Caro used to admire rubies.”

Simon stopped at the door and reached for the latch. “She used to own rubies.”

“Ah. That explains it.”

“I didn’t ever think I’d be saying thank you to you, but… I guess I am.” He blew out a breath. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t ever think I’d be saying I hope you two are happy, but,” Louvois smiled, “I hope you are. Au revoir.”

The door shut on Simon a moment later and Louvois leaned his head back against the soft green leather of his chair and sighed.

He envied the young cub.

Viscount Fortescue was intent on paying suit to Caroline and to that end he convinced the Carlisles that their children could do without a governess for the remainder of Twelfth Night. He took Caroline riding each day, bought her presents in the village-little, appropriate gifts from a suitor: beautiful leather-bound books, a hand-knit scarf, a pretty little lappet of fur to wear under her red cape, a necklace of garnets. He sent her short poems he’d written and read to her one night from a travel journal for which she’d expressed an interest

Caroline was grateful for his attention, for the holiday he’d procured for her, for all his lovely gifts. But she was unable to return his affection and in as gentle a fashion as possible, she informed him of her feelings.

“I’m a patient man, darling,” he replied.

She didn’t have the heart to tell him she wasn’t looking for patience. And what she wanted, she couldn’t have. Or whom to be precise. Although she was a fool to pine for someone as selfish and faithless as Simon.

Nevertheless, she’d not been able to resolve her emotional dilemma in the weeks that had passed since she’d last seen him. Or more aptly, last screamed at him.

Wasn’t it odd, she thought walking up the last flight of stairs to the third floor after another evening with Will, that she didn’t have the good sense to love someone as gentle and kind as the viscount? He would inherit his father’s title someday. He offered her undying love and affection, along with a compatibility of interests that was almost eerie. And he would be faithful unto death.

Why couldn’t she respond like a rational human being?

Why did she yearn for a rogue and a rake who had broken her heart?

As though nature was conspiring in Simon’s impassioned mission, the Channel crossing was perfect light waves, a steady wind, and not a storm cloud in the sky hastened his journey home. The moment they docked in Dover, he jumped ashore. Too impatient to wait for his coach to be offloaded, he hired the fleetest mount in town and made for London.

The instant he arrived at Hargreave House, he called for his secretary. Within the hour, the entry hall was filled with tradesmen, solicitors, various men of the cloth and the most fashionable modiste in the city, all waiting for their audience with the duke.

His wishes were unequivocal and to the point when he met with them, each personage given their instructions and dismissed. He was traveling north the following afternoon. He expected all his purchases and orders to be fulfilled and in his coach by then.

He didn’t relish traveling for three days in the company of the minister he required, but his secretary, Gore, suggested a young cousin of his he felt would be inoffensive. A younger son of a younger son, it wasn’t as though the man had chosen the church as his profession for love of the Lord.

“My cousin likes to race most of all, Your Grace, but can’t afford the bloodstock.”

“Capital. Have the grooms ready Templar and Castor. We’ll ride ahead and have the coach follow. He’s not churchy, now. You said he wasn’t.”

“Not in the least, sir.”

“He is able to read the correct marriage service though? He knows that much, does he?”

“I’m sure he does.” But Gore made a mental note to mark the appropriate pages in the Anglican liturgy just in case. Cousin Aubrey hadn’t seen the inside of a church since he’d been granted the stipend for the honorary bishopric of Coultrip four years ago.

“Good.” Simon nodded. “Excellent” He glanced out the study window at the twilight sky. “It’s still early, isn’t it?”

“Nearly six, sir. Would you like the chef to speak to you about dinner?”

Simon cast his eyes about the room, tapped his fingers on his desktop. He suddenly smiled. “Why not.”

The chef was so alarmed when he received his summons, his knees went weak. Quickly sitting down, he wondered what disaster had precipitated his being called upstairs. He’d never personally spoken with the duke. On the rare occasions when a dinner was given at Hargreave House, the dowager duchess or Lady Adele gave him his instructions.

Mounting the stairs to the main floor, he was certain he was about to be sacked and trembling, he entered the duke’s study.

Simon looked up and smiled. “Good evening- er-”

Fenellon, sir,“ Gore interposed.

“Ah, yes, Fenellon. May I compliment you on your fine work.”

“Thank you, thank you, Your Grace.” The chef’s hands were tightly clasped in an attempt to repress his agitation.

“Gore tells me you might make some suggestions for dinner tonight.”

Fenellon almost fainted on the spot. It was already six o’clock. “For… how many… guests, Your Grace?” he whispered.

“Just myself. Don’t take alarm.” The man’s face was chalk white. “Anything will do.”

The duke never ate at home. Never. Fenellon had no idea what he liked. Meat, fish, game? Did he eat salads, ices, vegetables? How important was presentation? And the wine list? He had no notion what the duke preferred.

“Maybe a sandwich,” Simon suggested, kindly. The man appeared distrait.

“A sandwich!” The chef’s face turned from white to red in an instant. “Impossible, Your Grace! A sandwich! It would be a disgrace to my kitchen!”

Moving to the chef’s side, Gore spoke quietly to him as he guided him from the study.

Returning to the study a few moments later, Simon’s secretary rendered clear the chefs sudden explosion. “I believe you startled Fenellon, sir. But rest assured, we’ll find you something you like for dinner.”

“It’s not a concern. I could go out.” Simon leaned back in his chair, rested his head against the tufted leather. “On the other hand, I have no interest in going out.”

“Very good, sir. Should I have Manchester bring you a brandy?”

Simon sat up. “Yes, please, and have the lights turned on.” He glanced at the clock. “Good Lord, it’s only quarter past six.”

“Would you like to look at your mail, sir?”

Simon surveyed his secretary with an amused gaze. “If I wanted to look at my mail, I wouldn’t need you, now would I?”

“No, sir-er, yes, sir.” Gore began backing out of the room. “I’ll call Manchester.”

The duke felt as though he were a boy waiting for class to end, the hands of the clock moving as slowly as they did when he was a young student. It took four-and-three-quarters minutes for Manchester to arrive with his brandy and nine-and-a-half very long minutes before Gore came back with a tentative menu for dinner. A minute more to glance over it and give his approval.

And then twenty-one long hours stretched before him.

He had his coach ordered for half past three.

Sipping on his brandy, he mentally reviewed the required items for his journey to Yorkshire: a ring-promised by noon; a marriage license, ditto; a wedding gown-even under intense pressure, not until three; numerous pieces of jewelry from various jewelers, ten sharp; all the papers from his solicitors, first thing in the morning. If he didn’t need that damnable wedding gown, he could leave London by noon. He frowned. Sighed. Poured himself another drink.

Women liked fripperies like gowns, though.

He’d wait until three.

But it wasn’t going to be easy.

It was the last night of the holiday festivities and whether she was weary from the frantic pace of the last fortnight or touched with the amorphous melancholy that had plagued her of late, Caroline found herself fighting back tears.

The party had retired to the great hall after dinner to enjoy hot punch and the last night of the yule log. Hundreds of candles decorated the chamber, the scent of pine boughs was fragrant in the air, the sound of laughter accompanying a rowdy game of charades resonated through the room.

And Caroline felt like crying.

Pleading a sudden headache, she excused herself and left the room. Running down the corridor until she was well away from the great hall and any guest that might wander out, she leaned back against the wall, her hands against the linen fold paneling. Drawing in great gulps of air she swallowed hard, trying to quell the building pressure of tears.

She tried to tell herself it was senseless to cry; she was so much more fortunate than most. The problems she faced were trivial compared to those without the basic necessities of life. She was well treated; her employers were kind. Her teaching duties were far from difficult; her small bedroom was cozy and warm. She should be grateful for what she had. As she tallied all the positive virtues of her life, she found herself able to swallow her tears and breathe a little easier.