Lady Caraway's Cloak, page 1
AT YOUR SIDE
Lord knew she herself—calm, capable Serena—was flustered enough. “Do you frighten me? Yes, a little.” She did not elaborate, but he nodded, satisfied.
“Good, for you frighten me, my little charmer, make of that what you will.”
Serena laughed. “Well, let our charade begin! I only hope I do not lead my pretend suitor too merry a dance!”
“I shall be forever at your elbow, dancing attendance at every soirée you should happen to dream up for the Season. An excuse to be close to my ‘intended,’ you understand!”
Serena scolded herself for trembling at so lighthearted a promise. But no matter how much she scolded, she simply could not help herself. It was several moments that they gazed at each other, half with promise, half with unspoken understanding, and another half—yes, impossible in the mathematical sense but nonetheless true—held altogether with something else.
It was almost as if he had kissed her again, but this time with something more than just gloved fingers brushing over soft, much too yielding lips.
This time, the gaze between them had been like a brand, and the strangest thing was neither the earl nor Serena had moved so much as a step.
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LADY CARAWAY’S CLOAK
Hayley Ann Solomon
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
AT YOUR SIDE
BOOK YOUR PLACE ON OUR WEBSITE AND MAKE THE READING CONNECTION!
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
Copyright Page
To my family:
My magician, my artist, my gymnast, and
my handsome prince: I adore you all.
Chapter One
“The hartshorn, oh, give me the hartshorn! I fear my nerves are shattered, utterly crushed!” The Dowager Countess Caraway—Lady Fanny to her intimates—moaned a little, grinding a perfectly crisp wafer into nothing more than an unrecognizable piece of pulp. Her listeners glanced at one another and tried very hard not to roll their eyes rudely.
“Of all the impertinence! I can scarce credit it! Oh, Julia, woe is upon us! Depend upon it, the man has no sensibility at all! None! How could he have, when he uses us this shamefully?”
Miss Julia Waring did not reply, but her young aunt, more vigorous and lively than she, most certainly did.
“It is hardly shameful, ma’am, when he has given us a full ten months’ grace to vacate ...”
But Lady Caraway, once cast in the role of the oppressed, could not let such small considerations weigh with her. She closed her eyes dramatically and placed one jeweled hand against her heart.
“And us in mourning besides!”
“Half mourning,” the honorable Lady Serena murmured, though she could have pointed out that though my lady’s gowns were the requisite dove grays, this was more because she knew very well the color suited her. Indeed, she had long since cast off her blacks, and had fully resumed her round of social calls and recreational pursuits.
Uncharacteristically, Lady Serena held her peace. She still wore muted colors, though of late had softened the mourning a little, with bright sashes, or wildflowers from the moors. These she bunched into her hair on impulse, and was scolded later by her dresser, who despaired of the withering things that had been forgotten about all day. Serena was many things, but not vain, a fact that mortified both her abigail and Larson, the Countess of Caraway’s fastidious dresser.
Miss Julia Waring, on the other hand ... oh, Miss Julia was delightful! And she took a proper interest in her baubles and stockings and gowns. Now, however, Miss Julia was looking troubled, not surprising when her mama was wafting smelling salts in her face and insisting that she, too, must be quite overcome with shock.
“No, indeed ... oh, Mama! I am quite perfect, I assure you! No, no, I do not need ...” She turned her head away, causing her charming ringlets to glint in the sun. “Oh, truly, I do not need revival, I hate smelling salts, they make me cough ...” True to her word, Miss Waring began to cough violently for one of her delicate constitution.
Lady Serena, sighing, saw that it was time to intervene.
“Madam, I must implore you not to dose Julia like this. See what an undesirable effect the salts have upon her?”
“It is not the salts that are causing her fit, but her sensibilities! Oh, dear, dear Julia, how are we to manage? Cast out as we are, on the hard world, wrenched from our very home ...”
Lady Serena bit back the retort that the dower house was anything but hard, especially since it had just been refurbished in the first style. That the bill had been sent on to the current earl was common knowledge. Only the extent of that bill was known to Serena, whose eyes had widened at the extravagance of the matter.
She had written some such thing to his lordship, but the man—himself, by all accounts, as rich as Croesus—had written back something cryptic, something caustic, but had not in any way caviled at the outrageous price. Which brought Serena back to her own particular problem. It was a small pickle, one which she had known would arise soon enough, one she had meant to scotch.... Oh, but she was in the basket now!
For what would his lordship say when, returning from the Americas, he should discover that the bailiff he had been corresponding with for nigh on a year was none other than herself, the Honorable Lady Serena Caraway? Would he consider himself grossly deceived or would his wicked sense of humor save her from humiliation?
She knew he had a wicked sense of humor—he had amused her vastly in his correspondence, one of the reasons she had continued with the deception. The man was most diverting. In all her two Seasons and her careless hostessing of my lord’s larger entertainments, she had never yet met a gentleman who was not tedious or affected.
She had little expected to find such an acute mind in the incumbent earl, but she had, and had rebelled against giving up the correspondence for reasons she could only describe as absurd missishness.
Only now that the earl was returning, her cool assessments wavered and the missishness she deplored looked more, to her, like becoming modesty. Her calm management of the estate, which she had always considered capable, now appeared to her as grossly high-handed. What was more, the behavior, which would have been acceptable in a male—could not, under any circumstances, be condoned in a female.
How many times had the dowager countess railed at her about this? How many times had she positively implored her not to talk of farm plows? But Lady Serena had been stubborn and simply refused to listen to sense.
Worse, she had been horribly inclined to reveal her familiarity with the classics, a failing that the dowager countess still trembled at, she herself genteelly dismissing Aristotle and Hippocrates as “fusty old bores, no one knew why dear Lord Caraway kept so many of their books, but for the fact that the vellum covers matched so passing well with the wine-colored carpet ...”
Serena had not paid the slightest heed to this voice of placid reason. Instead, she had managed to simply smile politely and nonetheless pursue her chosen studies. It was all perfectly clear to her now. She was stubborn and headstrong, though she had always considered herself to be merely disciplined and resolute. Now, the current Lord Caraway was coming to claim his own, and Serena felt ... well, she did not know how she felt. Sadness, she supposed, that the great correspondence was at an end.
The last letter, arrived only two days back, was firmly lodged in a volume of Miss Austen’s Sense and Sensibility. Not Pope, who was somehow too austere for the merriment the missive engendered. Oh, but he had a wit, this newest Lord Caraway! How reassured her brother would have been to know that he was not at all the empty-headed simpleton he had come to fear, when despite his best efforts he had been unable to achieve an h
It was to this end that later in life he had married Lady Fanny, and thus blessed Serena with the most trying of sisters-in-law. Lady Fanny’s daughter, however, was all that was charming, so Serena came to overlook his peculiar choice, or the fact that she was a mere four years older than her niece.
Now, however, she could no longer ignore the inevitable. Lady Caraway, casting her eyes about for the strongest footman, chose this moment to swoon, causing both him and one other unfortunate individual of the household staff to march forward and carry her up to her chambers.
“Oh! I do hope Mama will not fret herself into a fever!”
Alarmed, the younger of the two ladies assembled rose to her feet. She was dressed in a charming dimity, adorned with outrageous ruffles that threatened to dwarf her delicate features. Fortunately, her bonnet sat high upon her head, so her eyes were not quite obscured, and her sunny ringlets tumbled about her face artlessly, so you could still see glimpses of her pink cheeks and pale brows, which were puckered into a worried frown.
Serena’s answer was dry, and slightly exasperated.
“Nonsense! I am persuaded Lady Caraway will recover just as soon as she finds herself alone in her chamber, without the benefit of an audience.”
“Serena!” Julia shot her aunt by marriage a doubtful glance, then smiled. “Oh, I daresay you are right, but it is perfectly dreadful to say such a thing!”
“Perhaps if it is your mama of whom you speak, but since Lady Caraway is not my mama, I need feel no qualms. Now tell me, Julia, are you anxious about moving to the dower house?”
“Why no, not a bit of it! I have always found Caraway Castle a little daunting. I shall be much happier in a smaller place, though, of course, Mama ...”
“Your mama shall be quite happy, Julia, once she has resigned herself to the fact. The current earl, I believe, shall be more than generous.”
“Oh, Serena, I am certain of it! Why, he sent me a posy of flowers for my birthday and how he should have known, I can have no notion, for I am certain Lord Caraway never corresponded ... Serena, are you quite the thing? You look shaky.”
Indeed she did, for it seemed that every second she was to be reminded of her folly in pretending to be the wretched bailiff. Mr. Addington ... oh, why had she not chosen a more original name? But the earl, surely, could not be expected to know that her christened name was Serena Addington Winthrop Caraway, or indeed, anything about her at all ... she must make plans to leave at once.
“Julia, I shall tell you a secret.,”
“A secret? What can it be? Serena! Never tell me the squire actually proposed?”
“Don’t be such a goose, the man cannot be a day younger that forty-five! It is not I, but my perigord pie that he holds in such high esteem! I have told him time and time over that Mrs. Blakewell would make him a fine housekeeper ...”
“Serena!”
“What?”
“You prattle! Tell me your secret!”
“Prattle? Prattle? Now there is a fine case of the pot calling the kettle black! But if you pick me some cowslips—I need them for Mrs. Murgatroyd’s recipe—I shall tell all!”
“How dramatic! You shall have your cowslips, but please, please do not keep me in suspense! Mama might wake ...” Julia faltered.
“Oh, very well! I am going to set up home. In London. Not in the grand style, you understand, but ... genteel. I have purchased a property in Mayfair, about a mile from the more fashionable haunts like Grosvenor Square ...”
“Alone?” Julia gasped in astonishment. Nothing Serena could do would surprise her. Serena was so capable, so ... clever ... but this!
“No, not alone. I shall employ several servants of the first stare, and ...”
“You deliberately misunderstand me!”
“Oh, Julia! You worry so! You cannot be so starched up as to require me to have a companion, can you?”
“Not a companion but a chaperon!”
“Now I know you tease! I am past my last prayers. Way past the first bloom of youth. The whole of Caraway knows that.”
“Tush! When gentlemen line the very hallways to catch a glimpse of you!”
“Of my horses, you mean! No, Julia, you are a dear, but you cannot deny I speak the truth.”
“It is not as if you have not had proposals ...”
“But not the right proposals, Julia! I may seem like a radical and a bluestocking to you, but I value my independence too highly to be shackled to the first gentleman who comes my way.”
“But Lord Edgington ...”
“... is too sober, dearest. A goodly man, but I fear I might become gloomy and out of sorts married to him. Then your aunt would become a crosspatch and I cannot think you would like that.”
“Oh, now you are absurd! And try as I might I cannot think of you as my aunt, Serena! But what of Mr. Inglewood? I quite thought that he ...”
“Julia, the only thing one can think of him is how good his legs look encased in their doeskins!”
“Serena!” But Julia laughed, for it was true. It was impossible to think of Mr. Inglewood’s personality when his thighs, uncomfortably stretched into the tightest of unmentionables, practically begged to be remarked upon.
“He is very handsome ...”
“But sadly uneducated despite the best efforts of Cambridge, I am afraid.”
“Are you always so fastidious?”
“Always. It was a sad trial to my dear brother Spencer, who seemed to think my dowry and noble blood must make me respectable to any young man, and was therefore doubly annoyed with me for being so choosy. I had the pick, you see, of London’s eligibles, yet I was so indecorous as to turn not one, but all, down.”
“Are you perfectly certain that was wise, dear?” Julia’s ringlets fell into her eyes doubtfully.
“Not perfectly certain, but tolerably.” Serena looked amused.
“I daresay I might have succumbed to Lord Linklater, but unfortunately his odes always made me chortle, which somehow seemed to profoundly displease him. He gave up after the third sonnet to my winged stature, whatever that might mean. He was not, I recall, pleased.”
“No, indeed. But he is to be married to Miss Peterson. It was in the Tatler and I daresay the Gazette only yesterday. Do you not feel a little regretful?”
“Not a jot of it! Miss Peterson will suit him far better than I, though I trust you do not take offense, Julia, dear, when I tell you I find this trend of conversation quite tiresome!”
Julia looked guilty. Especially since she had been conniving with dear Mrs. McNichols, whose acquaintance she had made in Bath. Well, it made perfect sense, really, when Serena needed to marry and she had a son who sounded all that was respectable, not to mention handsome, amiable and suitable. It had not struck Miss Waring that this son might have ideas of his own, or if it had, the issue seemed only trifling, for it was but to set eyes on Serena than to fall in love.
Serena had poise and style and all the attributes Miss Julia Waring admired decidedly, but lacked in abundance herself. Now, however, she adopted a soothing tack, for she thought the topic must be depressing for her friend and scolded herself for introducing so painful a conversation.
“I shall say no more, then, dearest! Tell me about this house.”
“Oh, it is pleasant, not at all out of the ordinary way, but it shall suit me very well, I believe, for the stables are in excellent order and I shall be able to remove all but a couple of the bay horses to my London address.”
“Shall you not be dreadfully lonely?”
“No, for doubtless I shall still receive my fair share of invitations, and though the salons are not large, I can open two up to form a quite respectable reception room. Do not look so anxious, Julia!”
Miss Waring smiled. “I shall not, for it sounds like the greatest of good fun and I envy you your freedom, Serena!”
The wistfulness in her tone was poignant to her aunt.
“You shall visit me often and though I do not aspire to your dizzy heights of elegance, I fancy we shall make a pleasant enough stir.”
Julia laughed. “You are funning again! Only I shall miss you! I have become quite accustomed to your plain-speaking and good sense! You are more like a sister to me than an aunt by marriage.”
