“I have no doubt you saw something and your imagination simply—”

“We saw Thomas and Anne.” His jaw tightened. “You don’t believe me.”

“Of course I don’t believe you. What utter foolishness.” She turned on her heel and started toward the horses. “There are no such things as ghosts.”

“I know what I saw.” He hurried after her. “It may be unusual, but I don’t think foolish—”

She swiveled back toward him. “What is foolish is this, Winfield—you and me.”

He stared. “What do you mean?”

“I was a fool to think that we suited. It’s obvious now that marriage to you would be an enormous mistake. One I have no intention of making.”

He drew his brows together. “Because I saw a ghost?”

“No, of course not, although I do think your insistence as to what you saw is silly.” She waved off his comment. “But you are not the man I thought you were. May I say you are an entirely different person in London than you are here.”

“I am not!”

“In London you are serious and dignified, concerned with matters of finance and business. You are quite responsible as well. Here you are . . . you are . . .” She struggled to find the word. “Frivolous! That’s what you are. You’re frivolous.” She shook her head. “I am sorry, Winfield, but I cannot marry a frivolous man.”

He ignored the immediate sense of relief that rushed through him. “I’m not at all frivolous. Perhaps I was when I was younger but I’m certainly not frivolous now.”

“People warned me about you, you know. You have a most disreputable reputation.”

“Had a most disreputable reputation,” he said firmly. “I have reformed, for the most part. Indeed, I have been entirely too busy acquiring the skills necessary to manage my family’s interests to be disreputable.”

“And now that you have acquired those skills?”

“Now, I am going to be married!”

“Not to me.” She shook her head. “Goodness, Winfield, do you realize there have been times this week when you have appeared improperly attired? Without a coat?”

He gasped in mock horror. “Good God, not that!”

“Blasphemy is not the answer, Winfield. Nor is sarcasm.” She squared her shoulders. “I cannot marry a man who disregards the tenets of proper dress simply because he is in the country.”

“That’s absurd.”

“It’s not the least bit absurd and that’s not all. You are entirely too lax with your servants. Indeed, you treat them to a certain extent as if they are members of your family.”

“As they are.” He drew his brows together. “Many of them have been in our employ for most of my life.”

“Even so, they should be treated as befits their stations.” She raised her chin. “I have certain standards I adhere to, proper rules of behavior, if you will, and I have no intentions of allowing those to fall by the wayside.”

He drew a deep breath. “Lucy, this is—”

“And my name is not Lucy!” She glared. “I have told you that over and over again. I do realize you think it’s a sign of affection to call me by an abbreviated version of my own name but I do not like it. It’s Lucille, not Lucy. Lucy is the name for a scullery maid. Or a spaniel!”

“My apologies,” he said slowly. “I didn’t realize it was that important.”

“Neither did I. In truth, I found it rather sweet the first time you called me Lucy. And perhaps the second. But by the third . . .” She huffed and tucked a strand of hair that had had the temerity to escape, under her hat. “It’s silly perhaps, I do realize that, but honestly, Winfield, it drives me quite mad. And it’s only one of many things I have noticed since our arrival.”

“Do tell, Lucy.” He crossed his arms over his chest and glared. “Where else have I fallen short this week?”

“Well . . .” She stared at him for a long moment, then drew a deep breath. “You’re entirely too witty for me. There, I’ve said it. I know it sounds odd, but it’s true.” She shook her head. “Sometimes you say things that you, and other people, think are most amusing and I just think they’re silly.”

“I gather your late husband was not especially witty.”

“Absolutely not. Charles was never amusing.” Indignation sounded in her voice. “Charles was serious and somber, steadfast and stalwart. He was concise and intelligent. He was eminently proper and had never been touched by so much as a breath of scandal—”

“He sounds fascinating,” Win said under his breath.

She ignored him. “Charles had no need for reformation as he did not have a past to live down.”

“And I do.”

“You say you have reformed and I have no reason to believe otherwise, although . . .”

He raised a brow. “Go on?”

“Well, one does have to wonder, given all the other flaws in your character, if your reformation is truly permanent.”

“Good Lord, Lucy—Lucille!” He stared. “Just because a man doesn’t always wear a coat in the privacy of his own home or is more witty than you think proper doesn’t mean he will take up with every tart that passes by.”

“No, I suppose not,” she said without so much as an iota of conviction. Her firm gaze met his. “I did think you and I were perfectly suited, but it is now obvious to me that I was mistaken.”

As much as he did so hate to lose another fiancée, she was right. All things considered, it was for the best that she had reached this conclusion, even if he had begun to realize much the same thing himself.

“Very well then.” He studied her for a moment. “I am curious though, given that I have these numerous flaws that have driven you mad, what was the final straw?”

“You mean aside from dragging me out to the middle of an insect-infested nowhere to see a crumbling ruin?”

“It’s scarcely crumbling, but yes.”

“It was the story, I suppose.” She heaved a long-suffering sigh. “That endless story. You fancy yourself a fine storyteller, indeed you have a great deal of dramatic enthusiasm, but I find your stories only passably interesting.”

“It was a great story,” he muttered.

“As you droned on and on I simply realized I could not spend the rest of my life listening to you tell stories.” She shook her head. “And I realized as well, while I do have a great deal of affection for you, should I be told your ship had been lost at sea, I would certainly mourn the appropriate amount of time, but I would go on. Without any problem at all, really.”

“I see.”

“We have never discussed love between us and I am under no illusion on that score. Indeed, we share a certain affection and I thought a certain sensibility as well, but it’s really not enough to overcome the differences between us.” She thought for a moment. “It does seem to me that when one is madly in love one forgives all those little flaws—”

“Like being overly amusing.”

“I didn’t say you were overly amusing; I said that you think you’re amusing. It’s not at all the same.”

“My mistake.”

“As I was saying, if we were head over heels for one another, those qualities that I find so annoying wouldn’t bother me at all. I might well find them endearing.”

He smiled in a wry manner. “I would hate to spend the rest of my life annoying you.”

“I don’t doubt that I might possibly annoy you in return.”

He shrugged.

“Winfield, I agreed to marry you because I thought you were an excellent, indeed a sensible, match. I thought you were a man I could spend the rest of my days with. Now I see I was wrong.” She laid her hand on his arm and stared into his eyes. “Isn’t it better that we face this now rather than after we married?”

“You do have a point.” He sighed. He was not at all pleased about cancelling another wedding. At least this one was small. Still, she was right. Better to part now than spend the rest of their days annoying one another. “Shall we be friends then?”

“Good Lord no!” She snatched her hand away from his arm as if he were on fire. “Acquaintances perhaps, but nothing more than that.”

He stifled a grin. “Lucille, in many ways you are a delight. I believe I shall miss you.”

“There is a possibility I shall miss you as well.” She moved to her horse and waited for him to assist her. He helped her on to the saddle and stepped back. She gazed down at him, a slow smile creasing her lovely lips. “But every time I hear an endless story told by someone who thinks he is most amusing I shall certainly think of you.”

Win laughed.

“I will admit it was a most romantic story. Even the ridiculous part about the ghosts.” She raised a shoulder in a casual shrug. “Perhaps when you next consider asking a woman to marry you, you should tell her the story and show her your folly first.”

“Perhaps I shall.”

And perhaps, the next time he headed toward the altar, he would choose a lady who was interested in more than his title and his fortune. And a woman who enjoyed the more amusing and frivolous aspects of his nature. Perhaps he should make a list of those items as well, lest he forget.

And then perhaps the next time he headed toward the altar, he might actually make it.



October 1881


Dear Gray,

Once again I take pen in hand to inform you that yet another wedding of mine has not taken place. This time, however, I write with an abiding sense of relief and the firm conviction that I have escaped a fate far worse than death.

Lady Eustice decided we did not suit after all, a conclusion, I confess, I was reluctantly coming to myself. A conclusion, I suspect as well, Father had already come to, although, in his infinite wisdom, he refrained from interfering in my decision. For once, I rather wish he had.

I do so hate making mistakes of this sort, as I have done twice now. One would think, given the many mistakes I made in my younger days, I would be accustomed to making unwise decisions. So it is as surprising to me as it may well be to you that choosing the wrong bride yet again bothers me.

I have come to think of myself as being more than moderately intelligent and yet, in one of the biggest decisions I shall ever make, I have been in error twice now. One can only hope I have learned my lesson. Although I did think the lesson was Miss Whitingdon, and Lady Eustice was the result of what I had learned. Apparently not.

In some respects, I blame you for my misfortune. In a most superstitious manner, I have begun to think that fate, or some higher power, will not allow me to be wed if I have invited you to the wedding and you have failed to appear. Therefore, as I suspect your presence can never be assured, I shall simply not tell you of my impending nuptials in the future. You will receive an announcement of my wedding only after it is an accomplished fact.

And, yes, Gray, I will attempt this again. It is my duty after all to provide an heir and as you have failed to assure the continuance of the family name, that too falls to me. The burdens of responsibility are great, but I do attempt to bear them without complaint. Do try not to laugh.

There is a beneficial side to all this. While dreadfully disappointed, Mother has already thrown herself into attempts to find a perfect bride for me. She has begun discussing the current offering of debutantes in a most casual manner, as if I will not notice what she is doing. She is never so happy as when she, and her friends, are attempting to make a match. Although, my latest failure at matrimonial bliss has oddly enough made her question her own judgment in this arena. She did believe Lady Eustice was a perfect match for me.

Father now claims he never liked her. . . .


Part Three:

Caroline



Sir William and Lady Hibbitt


request the honour of your presence


at the marriage of their daughter


Miss Caroline Gwendolyn Hibbitt


to


The Right Honorable


The Viscount Stillwell


on Wednesday, May twenty-first


eighteen hundred and eighty-four


at half-past ten o’clock


Fairborough Hall


Chapter 5



April 1884


My dear Gray,

Is there a more optimistic time of year than spring? I think not. Why, the very air itself is imbued with the promise of better days ahead. Days of warmth and light and frolic. Do not scoff at the poetic nature of my words, Gray, as I am certain is your inclination. Perhaps you have forgotten, but I can be quite lyrical when the appropriate mood strikes. Regardless, my humble words can only approach the delight of this season of new beginnings.