Lord Dashwood Missed Out

  Her husband said, "Miss Browning, may I present your hostess. My wife, Her Grace, the Duchess of Halford."

  Miss Browning dropped in a deep curtsy. Pauline inclined her head in greeting, as it befit a woman of her wedded rank to do. She didn't know if she would ever get used to this, but for Griff and her children's sake, she tried.

  "Miss Browning," she said. "I'm so delighted to see you here."

  "I am delighted to be here." She cast a look about their surroundings. "I wonder, is there some place where I might wash up? And a bite to eat would be most welcome. It's been quite a journey."

  "Yes, of course."

  Colin and Charlotte escorted her guest to the Queen's Ruby inn, and Lord Bramwell and Captain Thorne expressed their desire to retreat to the Bull and Blossom for a hearty breakfast.

  Pauline and her husband were left alone.

  "I'm so sorr--"

  "About yesterd--"

  They both spoke at once, and then they both laughed. Griff made a ladies-first motion.

  "I'm so sorry about yesterday. That was hardly the welcome home you deserved. The sherry didn't matter. I don't want to be one of those nagging wives who demands a complete accounting of her husband's every step."

  "It was my fault for being so forgetful. And secretive. But can you blame me?" He took a glance at the snow-capped church steeple. "It is nearly Christmas, Pauline."

  From his pocket, he withdrew a slender oval on a gold chain and pressed it into her hand.

  "A locket?" She pried open the tiny clasp, and inside was a miniature. "Oh, it's you."

  He made a self-effacing grimace. "I've been searching London for a decent portrait painter. This seemed the best way to get a sample of his work."

  Portraits. They weren't something that Pauline had really thought to have. For girls who grew up in homes like hers, portraits were unimaginable luxuries. She made memories instead.

  She looked up into her husband's face, gazing on those strong, handsome features preserved in her memory and etched on her heart, down to each faint laugh line and whisker of shadow.

  "I meant to surprise you at Christmas," he said. "Mostly so we could arrange a proper portrait of the children. But I hoped perhaps you'd want this one, too. You know, so long as it was already made." He sounded a touch uncertain. "I know it's not perfect. We were pressed for time. My forehead can't possibly be that big, and--"

  "It's wonderful." She closed the locket and held it tight in her hand, until she felt its shape imprinted on her palm. "I love it."

  And I love you. Love you, love you. With all my heart.

  "Good. Then I hope you'll give me a present in return."

  "Oh?"

  "I want you to sit for a portrait, too."

  She started to object. "But surely that's not necessary. Unlike you and the children, I'm not in the noble line. And I'm not really a portrait sort of lady."

  "I don't give a damn about posterity. This is me we're discussing, and you know I'm entirely selfish. I want this for myself. The past three weeks have been a trial." He touched her lips. "I miss you like hell when we're apart."

  "I missed you, too."

  "And if you need any extra convincing, did I mention I found you some very fine sherry just off the ship from Spain?"

  "You did? How on earth did you manage that?"

  "Found a little country spot. Open late."

  With a slight smile, she relented. "Very well, then."

  "You'll sit for a portrait?"

  As if she could she deny him anything. "Yes."

  He rested his forehead to hers. "Good."

  She whispered coyly, "With clothing, or without?"

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Later that afternoon, cleaned up and freshly coiffed, Nora read aloud to an audience of dozens in the Two Sisters subscription library. Ladies, mostly. But the gentlemen who'd come to her aid that morning lined the wall, as well.

  She could think of no more perfect occasion to refresh her memory of these words. If she could, she would sit down and write them all again.

  "As the new day dawns, and my inkwell runs dry, I hereby make a vow. Not a vow to the man I once hoped to marry, but a promise to myself. From this morning forward, I will never shed another tear for him. There is no need. Because everything Lord Da--' " She cleared her throat, then began again. "Everything Lord Ashwood rejected when he so callously walked away--is mine to claim. Mine to use. My wit, my strength, and most of all--my heart. I will not put any of these on the shelf.' "

  There was a moment of silence. Then polite applause rippled through the crowded subscription library.

  The duchess moved forward. "Thank you so much for that reading, Miss Browning. We have sherry and teacakes for everyone, and Miss Browning has agreed to sign copies of her work. But first, are there any questions?"

  "I have a question." The male voice came from somewhere in the back row. Near the entrance.

  Her pulse stuttered.

  Dash.

  He jostled into view. All six broad-shouldered, darkly handsome feet of him.

  She averted her eyes before she could drink him in any further.

  He repeated, "I have a question, Nora."

  "Just who the devil are you?" the duke asked.

  "I'm George Travers, Lord Dashwood."

  With a little squeal of excitement, Charlotte Highwood lifted her copy of the pamphlet. "Do you he's mean the Lord--"

  "No," Nora snapped. "Dashwood, not Ashwood. The pamphlet isn't about him."

  Charlotte's shoulders fell. "Well, that seems a great coincidence."

  "Precisely my thoughts on the matter," Dash agreed.

  Nora spoke through clenched teeth. "You have a great deal of nerve, coming here."

  The crowd bustled with excitement. Whispers chased from one set of lips to the next: It is him. It must be.

  "I must speak with you," he said.

  "Why? So you can tell me more falsehoods?"

  "No, I--"

  "You lied to me," she bit out. "About the road, the coach, the bridge. Everything." She skewered him with a glare. "I'll bet you weren't even a virgin."

  The bustling of the crowd abruptly ceased. One could have heard a snowflake twirl to the floor.

  Lord Payne tossed back a swallow of sherry. "I really must attend these things more often."

  Dash cleared his throat. "Yes, I lied. About a few things. Not everything. But I did pay off the coachman. Well, both coachmen. And the innkeeper in Canterbury."

  Her jaw dropped. "You're the reason the first coach left without me."

  "Yes. And the bridge was never out, and the hitch was fine. You're right. I lied. I'm sorry for the deceit, but I was desperate for time alone with you, and I knew you'd never agree. I needed to know if I had any chance."

  "Any chance at what?"

  "At convincing you to marry me."

  Now every woman in the library gasped in shock.

  Nora could only conclude their collective gasp had sucked all the air out of the room--because she could no longer breathe at all.

  Dash threaded his way through the rows of chairs, came to stand before her, and went down on one knee.

  "Stop," she told him, finding her voice.

  "No."

  "Go away."

  "Marry me."

  "Do get up," she pleaded.

  He gave her a teasing look. "Say yes first."

  "I won't agree to this. I can't."

  "You can, and you should. We'll be perfectly not-perfect together. If we can just stop fighting ourselves long enough to be wed."

  "How can you say that? You mistreated me, abandoned me, used me, and deceived me."

  "I also carried you, kissed you, warmed you, and gave you pleasure." In a devilish murmur, he added, "Twice."

  Her face heated. "You can't even propose to me without being infuriating. What makes you think I'd even consider marrying you now?"

  "Because you're remarkable, Nora." He reached for her hand and held it in bot
h of his. "And every brave, brilliant accomplishment in your life began as something you did to spite me."

  The truth of his words sank into her bones. He was right. Beginning with their lessons as children, continuing with the pamphlet and her speaking career . . . not to mention, everything they'd done last night. Even riding away from the cottage this morning--on horseback, for the first time in years.

  In every instance, she'd wanted to get the better of Dash. And she'd ended up making something better of herself.

  "If that's the case," she said, "then I should continue to spite you."

  "And what better way to keep me within spiting distance, than to marry me and spend life at my side?"

  Oh, he was impossible. Nora didn't know what to say to that.

  "This is what you wanted," he said. "What you still want, in your heart. And it's what I've wanted, too."

  Now that irked her. He'd gone too far with that claim.

  "You never wanted this. You want a convenient bride, and you want to soothe your pride. That's all. In all these years, you never thought of me."

  "You're so wrong. I've wanted this. I came back to England solely with the intention of courting you. I thought of you all the time. Every day I was away." His Adam's apple bobbed in his unshaven throat. "Every night."

  "No. You're only saying so now."

  "I'm not. It's true."

  "There's nothing in the world that could convince me of that."

  "My darling Nora. The world is exactly what will prove it." Rising to his feet, he turned to Pauline where she stood behind the counter. "Fetch me a copy of Sir Bertram Coddington's World Atlas, if you would. The newest edition."

  The duchess said, "I don't have a copy of Sir Bertram Coddington's World Atlas. In any edition."

  "Is this not a bookshop?"

  "No. It's a subscription library of books selected to interest young ladies on seaside holiday."

  The Duke of Halford glowered at him. "And unless you want to become intimately acquainted with our local waters--by way of the nearest cliff--I suggest you address my wife as 'Your Grace.' "

  Dash quickly recovered his manners, inclining his head in a bow. "I beg your pardon, Your Grace."

  "My father has a copy of that atlas at Summerfield, I believe," said Lady Rycliff. Nora had taken an instant liking to her when they met. Ginger-haired, freckled ladies needed to band together.

  "Then do let's go to Summerfield," Dash replied.

  "I'm not leaving here," Nora protested. "I have a lecture to give."

  "You just finished that. You were on to questions."

  "Then I have questions to answer." She looked around and nodded at a round-faced girl who'd raised her hand. "Go ahead, dear. What was your question?"

  The round-faced girl looked at Dash. "What's in the atlas?"

  Nora sighed.

  He grinned. "Perhaps someone else can fetch the book."

  She looked toward the gentlemen who'd made up her search party. "They're not going to help you. None of them will help you."

  "Charlotte will fetch it," Mrs. Highwood declared.

  "I will?" Charlotte asked.

  "Yes." The matron nudged her daughter's side and whispered loudly, "Can't you see? The spinster is going to refuse him, and then he'll be on the market again. I know he's only a baron, but he is a handsome and wealthy one. This is your chance to be first in line."

  "Oh, Mama." Charlotte covered her face.

  "I'll go with you, Charlotte," Lady Rycliff volunteered. "It's my father's house, and I'll admit--my curiosity's piqued, too."

  Once they'd departed, Dash gestured in invitation. "Go on with your talk, if you like."

  Nora sighed. How could she, with him standing there? She would wait for his atlas, and then she would be done with him.

  In the meantime, she sat down, poured herself an inch of sherry, and downed it in one swallow.

  Time had never passed so slowly. Nora tapped her boot heel against the chair leg. The assembled ladies sat staring and whispering among themselves. Their hostess passed around teacakes.

  For his part, Dash merely stood a few feet away, hat in hand, gazing at Nora. Boldly. Unabashedly. Even, she fancied, adoringly.

  "Do you know," he said, "you're ravishing when you're trying to hate me forever."

  She couldn't even look at him. "This ends today. When she returns with that atlas, you're leaving."

  "When she returns with that atlas, you're going to be overwhelmed. You might even cry."

  "I will not. You're mad."

  He smiled. "Yes. But only a little, and entirely for you."

  Another several minutes passed. "It doesn't matter what's in that atlas. I couldn't marry you. I've spent years telling young ladies that their value isn't bound up in their marital status. What message would I send if I abandoned my career to marry you and bear your children?"

  "To begin, there is no better way to prove the worth of one's mind than to display a willingness to change it. Secondly, who said anything about abandoning your career? I'd never ask it. I believe it's possible to write on board a ship."

  On board a ship?

  She turned to look at him. "You'd take me with you?"

  "If you wish to go. And I suspect you do, if only to castigate me on other continents. There's an idea. Come with me to Tahiti and insult me on a white sand beach. Berate me on a South American mountaintop--so loudly, the echo sets off an avalanche."

  Despite all her intentions to dampen it, a flame of excitement kindled in her heart.

  And then he threw a log on the fire. "Aside from a thrilling honeymoon, you must admit it would make quite a book."

  Curse the man. He understood exactly how to tempt her.

  "Just imagine the memoir. You could call it Lord Ashwood's Ship Has Sailed. I'm certain the reading public would be fascinated."

  Several of the women in attendance nodded eagerly.

  "Here it is!" Charlotte came dashing through the door, breathless. She plunked the immense volume down on the counter. "Lud. It weighs as much as a small mule."

  "Do you often carry small mules?" Dash asked her.

  "Oh no, my lord. She does not," Mrs. Highwood interjected, sidling up to Dash with a coquettish giggle. "My Charlotte is accomplished in all the feminine arts. Music, sketching, dancing, embroidery . . ."

  "Mama."

  Charlotte yanked her mother away by force, leaving Nora and Dash with the atlas. Young ladies rose from their seats and gathered round.

  Dash opened it, flipping through the plates before opening the volume to a detailed map of Upper Canada.

  "Look." He pointed to a miniscule oval on the map, with a bit of barely decipherable lettering next to it. "Read that. What does it say?"

  " 'Nora Pond,' " she read aloud, squinting. "So that's it? I'm supposed to agree to marry you because you named a pond for me in Upper Canada?"

  "No, no. The pond doesn't exist."

  She stared at him.

  "Most land features are named already," he explained, "and for those that aren't, Sir Bertram has a miles-long list of patrons and royalty to whom he's promised landmarks. I don't get to decide on much of anything, in terms of reality. But we put a deliberately false feature in every map, you see. That way, we can tell if they've been copied. And these, I'm permitted to name."

  "So you named nothing after me."

  "Not just the once." He flipped through the pages of the atlas, pausing on each spread to point out some notch or pinprick. "Here's Mount Browning, you see. A total fiction. And Nora Creek on this one, also false. Ah, here we have Elinora Point."

  "You named several nothings after me."

  "Yes," he said, excitedly. "Do you understand now?"

  "No. I don't."

  He shoved the atlas aside and took her face in his hands. "I named all the nothings after you. Because, my darling Nora . . . no matter where I traveled, you were always what was missing."

  "Oh."

  Her eyes burned at the corn
ers.

  Drat him. She was not going to cry.

  She swallowed hard. She blinked. She tried to divert her mind to trivial, unpleasant things. Like tangled stockings, or raspberry seeds, or . . .

  But his eyes. There wasn't any escaping the rich, midnight darkness of his eyes--nor the affection she saw within them.

  Her heart overflowed.

  His thumb swiped at her cheek. "See. I told you you'd cry."

  She sniffed. "I despise you."

  "No, you don't." He smiled. "Not any more than I despise you. Trust me, I know how it stings when someone tells you the truth about yourself. It's like catching a glimpse of your reflection in a looking glass when you're not prepared. Intolerable. I was furious when I read your pamphlet--but only because I knew it was the truth. I'd known it for some time. The reality set in somewhere around the Tropic of Capricorn. When I left you behind at Greenwillow Hall . . . I'd missed out."

  "Then you should have turned back."

  "It was too late for that." He kissed her lips. "Luckily, the world is a sphere. I was always traveling toward you. I just took the long way around."

  "For a map-maker, you're shockingly bad with directions."

  He shrugged in admission. "Then you'd best stay close. So I don't lose the way."

  They stood that way for a long moment, just staring into each other's eyes.

  Really? she asked him without words.

  He nodded. Really.

  "I love you," he murmured. "You rode away before I could say it this morning, but I love every part of you, Elinora Jane Browning. Mind, body, soul. Send me away if you like. I'll honor your wishes. But this heart will always be yours."

  "I'm confused," Mrs. Highwood moaned from somewhere nearby. "What are my Charlotte's chances? Is the handsome, wealthy baron still single or not?"

  Without turning his gaze from Nora, Dash lifted an eyebrow. "Care to answer?"

  "This handsome, wealthy baron is not single. Not any longer." Nora smiled. "Lord Dashwood has met his match."

  He gathered her to him and kissed her soundly. Everything around them melted away. There was only the heat of sherry and the sweetness of teacakes and the delicious spice of the passion between them.

  Blended together, it tasted like victory. A triumph they could share, and savor for a lifetime.

  Applause greeted them when they parted at last.

  Except from one quarter of the room, where a displeased matron flicked open her fan. "Don't worry, Charlotte. There's still the Ashwood one, then."

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed Lord Dashwood Missed Out. If you feel so inclined, I invite you to recommend this book to a friend or post an honest review. Recommendations and reviews help other readers find new books to enjoy.