Incognita (Fairchild Book 2) (14 page)

Anna’s breath left her in a surprised huff. “But I’m not!” she said. Her eyes turned accusing. “You can’t afford to marry me.”
 

“True. But we could be engaged. I’m off to Spain in a few days. There will be plenty of time for you to meet someone who suits after I’m gone. You can break off your engagement to me whenever it’s convenient. There’s plenty of reasons. No one will blame you. My career, all the time apart—it’s perfectly understandable.” He smiled lopsidedly. “Always possible I’ll turn up my toes and you can save yourself the trouble.”
 

“Don’t joke about that.” She scowled at the ground in front of them.
 

“The important thing is that in the meantime, you’ll have charge of your son.”
 

She knotted her fingers together, looked at him once, then glanced swiftly away, to the walking path where a skinny housemaid with a giant basket of shopping listed by. They remained silent, waiting for her to pass out of earshot.
 

“You can’t want this,” she whispered. “I’m all wrong for you.”
 

Oh, but she wasn’t. She was so right that—
“I want to help you,” he said. “I’m not usually troubled with benevolent impulses. You may as well give me my way on this one. Who knows if it will happen again? I should have at least one good deed credited to my name.”
 

“It’s too much to ask of you. And your aunt.”
 

“You aren’t asking. I offered.”
 

“Then it’s too much to accept,” she said. “I can’t.”
 

“You’d rather go to Warwickshire, where they can continue stalling you at the front door?” It would happen, he was sure of it.
 

She ironed her lips into a stiff, starched line. “I haven’t anything to offer you.”
 

He understood exactly what she meant. No tumbles, no brush of skin on skin, no raking his fingers through her hair. He hadn’t let himself consciously explore the idea too far, but it had taken shape anyway, in the shadowy backstairs closet of his mind. Well, she was honest, so he wouldn’t pretend to be high-minded. If she’d been willing, he would have accepted. Gladly. With a boy’s eagerness, and perhaps even the shaking hands.
 

Thankfully, he had sufficient presence now to keep them perfectly still. “Anna, I haven’t asked for anything. I won’t. We don’t do things that way, you know. Keeping personal ledgers.”
 

Blood flooded into her cheeks and she retreated, shamed, behind the dusky shade of her eyelids.
 

“You’re uncomfortable with chivalry,” he said. “Fair enough. As an impulse, it’s new to me too. If you’d rather, we can stick to exchanges. Let’s start with a smile.”
 

Her eyes snapped up, confused and not a little suspicious.
 

“Well, I won’t object to a kiss or two, if I can get them,” he said. “But I’ll consider myself amply repaid if I see more smiles on you, and know that when I leave, you’ll be happy. No,” he said, stopping her again with a finger on her lips. “Don’t expostulate about refusing pity and charity. Just say yes.”
 

She struggled, her chest rising as if her heart were trying to climb out of it.
 

“You’re too proud, my dear,” he said.
 

“Fine! Yes! And don’t blame me when you regret it.” She scowled at him, now the words were wrung out of her.
 

“My smile?” he asked, hiding his jubilation behind a careful examination of his fingernails. There was no reason for it, after all. Their agreement was only pretend.
 

Her expression was more of a grimace.
 

“Your parents will think I frightened you into marrying me if you show them a face like that.”
 

“No, just that you browbeat me, and that’s the truth,” she said.
 

“I don’t think we want anyone to know that,” he said. “This won’t work if people think it a mere business arrangement.”
 

“I thought most marriages between your kind were,” she said, with acid sweetness. “That has been my experience, certainly.”
 

“Choose more carefully next time. I’d like to see you happy.” And because it seemed appropriate, he leaned in to kiss her. Pretend or not, she’d still accepted him. At the last second, courage failed him, and he limited himself to a brief, brotherly salute—an action as businesslike as franking a letter. She didn’t lean in, or hide her eyes from him when he pulled away, but her cheeks burned. He was satisfied.
 

“We can be friends,” he said. “Allies.”
 

“All right.”
 

He studied her expression, tilting his head. “Nearly there. Let the smile show a little more in the eyes. Yes. That’s right. We want your parents to think you’re delighted with our engagement.”
 

“Are you?” She eyed him suspiciously.
 

“Of course I am,” he said, gathering up her hand and pulling her to her feet. Throwing away caution for just a moment, he pulled her close, until their bodies were nearly touching—close enough that the space between them turned alive and quivering. He held her there, letting that silent hum grow, consuming every other sense until he could stand it no more.
 

“Why wouldn’t I be happy?” he said, letting go of her hands and retreating a step. “I’m engaged to the most beautiful woman in London.” She would catch any man fool enough to look into those dark, dilating eyes. He’d have to take care.
 

“How old were you when you married Anthony Morris?” he asked. A beauty with a handsome fortune should have done better than Anthony Morris, no matter how plebeian her birth. “Why did you choose him? You must have had other proposals.”
 

She shook her head. “I was eighteen and just out of mourning for my brother. A lawyer friend of my father’s invited us for dinner practically the first evening we put off our blacks. Anthony was there. He must have arranged it all with my father’s friend, because he never ate at that house again once we were married. I think the lawyer worked for his family.”
 

Huh. Plucked her before she had bloomed even. Selfish bastard.
 

They stepped out of the dappled light of the park, back into the dusty glare of the street, Alistair moving to shield her as a coal wagon trundled by. Even the air around her was potent, making it nearly impossible for him to pretend to be unaffected when their shoulders brushed together. Yet it didn’t sound for a minute that Morris had lost his heart to her. “Was he dreadful?” he asked.
 

She mirrored his easy tone, slipping him a sideways smile. “Oh, quite. You can be sure I repaid him in kind.”
 

Before he could inquire, she went on. “If this were a real offer, I’d advise you to reconsider. You should, you know. What if I changed my mind and decided to keep you?”
 

Once they were engaged, he wouldn’t be able to call it off. Only ladies had the privilege of changing their minds. It was a tempting thought, but marrying Anna was no way to provide for his future. Their children would be practically paupers. And unless Anna turned shrewish and lost her looks—God forbid—they’d probably have about a dozen. Completely impractical.
 

His silence chased the humor from her face. “I wouldn’t repay you with such an ill-turn, you know,” she said, softly.
 

“Of course not,” Alistair said. “I’d make a bad bargain, you know, if you were stuck with me.”
 

She laughed at that, but he hardly heard. If Anthony Morris had never found her . . . if he’d come to her first, when she still had her fortune, it could have been different.
 

There was no point in thinking of it. A man could waste his life, lost in the world of might-have been. He couldn’t afford to be a dreamer.
 

“We are agreed then?” he asked.
 

“Yes.” She glanced at him, more tentatively than she had before. “Thank-you.”
 

The next morning when Anna sat down to breakfast, her father took the unprecedented step of folding his newspaper and setting it aside. He didn’t even notice the daily puzzle soaking up butter from his toast.
 

“Are you sure about this?” he asked.
 

“I’m sure,” she said. It was the same answer she’d given when she’d come running home without Henry, certain she’d soon have him back in her arms. It hadn’t been as simple as she’d expected. “Perfectly sure.”
 

She took a pear from the bowl on the table and sliced it in half with one clean stroke, laying it open and flicking away a stray seed with the point of her knife. It landed on the tablecloth, but she ignored it.
 

“It’s very sudden,” her father said.
 

She wished he’d pick up his fork, or find his way back to his coffee cup. Her engagement couldn’t stand this kind of scrutiny. The hopes that had prompted her acceptance last night seemed foolish this morning, but the fact was that most of her dreams evaporated while she slept. Happily ever afters only seemed possible in evening—by candlelight, over the dessert course. That was when she’d fallen for Anthony. Even now, she could remember him, smiling at her across the table, playing with his fork. She should know better. Dreams were always lost at breakfast, evaporating as soon as your eyes fell on the toast rack. No wonder so many ladies thought coming down to eat the meal was insupportable. You could cling to fiction in bed, with a cup of chocolate in your hand.
 

“He’s a handsome dog,” her father said.
 

She agreed silently. Captain Beaumaris was far too handsome for his own good, or hers. But—“That’s not why,” she said.
 

“It isn’t? You fell head over ears for Morris.” He didn’t need to finish the thought. They both knew how that had turned out.
 

“This is different,” Anna said. “He cares about me, not the money.”

“He better. Won’t get more than a pittance from you, will he?”

She lifted a slice of pear to her mouth and chewed slowly. Alistair was getting nothing at all, except trouble. Hers. Of course, there was the possibility that he might still be hoping for—intimacies, she thought, quashing the sudden skip of her pulse. Last night he’d claimed he could be satisfied with smiles and perhaps a few kisses, but Captain Beaumaris was a man of the world, and she was a widow. He might expect more from her in exchange for the help he was offering than he would from a lady who’d never married. Well, if he did, he’d be disappointed. As far as he was concerned, she was as respectable as she ought to be. She wasn’t, of course, but she could kiss and be careful.
 

“He seems right enough. Of course, so did Morris,” her father said.
 

“I’m not rushing into marriage this time,” she reminded him. “There’s plenty of time for us both to consider the matter. He thinks he can help me with Henry.”
 

Her father fiddled with his knife. “That so? I hope he may. Frederick Morris is a slippery fellow.”
 

“We are going to speak to him today,” she said, looking down at her plate so she needn’t see her father blush. He wasn’t to blame for her current situation—she had her own foolishness to thank for that—but she felt an ache every time he retreated behind a shamed face. He had tried to help her, but he was too kindly a soul to trump the Morrises. He was a retiring sort of man, a persistent organizer who managed small details, not the god of her childhood.
 

Yet another vanished illusion. It had been many years since she and her brother had skipped fearlessly in their father’s wake, through dockyards or across the decks of Henry Bagshot’s clippers. No matter how rough the sea or how primitive the port, their faith in their father had been unshakable. It wasn’t fair, really, to trust a mere man like that. Her father’s shoulders were stooped now, his brown eyes turning cloudy at the edges. Every year since they’d lost her brother, he seemed to shrink a little. Her mother, on the other hand, took on more and more—organizing flowers for the church, sewing shirts for the parish poor, chairing the Benevolent Society. Her virtue shone bright as the plaque beside their pew, in memory of Richard.
 

Anna poured herself another cup of coffee. She hadn’t slept and now her eyes felt gritty.
 

“Let’s hope Henry doesn’t take after the Morrises,” her father said, unfolding his newspaper and reaching for the last point of toast.
 

“Little danger of that, I think,” Anna said, setting down her cup. It didn’t even clink against the saucer. “He doesn’t look like his father.” Praise God for that.
 

*****

Alistair set out to call on his aunt the next day as early as he dared, mulling over Anna’s qualms, and wondering if his weary muscles of persuasion were strong enough to bring another person round. Convincing Anna again had been hard enough. She’d suffered a second attack of conscience after telling her parents last evening, which worsened when he explained that he felt it best if he broke the news to Lady Fairchild alone. “For I don’t doubt she’ll be surprised.”
 

Anna had cast him an anguished look. “Don’t try putting a pretty face on it. She’ll think you’ve lost your senses. She’ll never go along with it!”
 

It had taken him a good quarter hour of soothing words to get her to agree to the engagement all over again.
 

“Trust me. We’ll have Henry tomorrow,” he said. She’d quieted then, believing his promise. He wasn’t as sure of himself this morning.
 

Despite the relatively early hour, Alistair arrived at Rushford House and discovered he’d missed the chance to corner his aunt alone. She was already entertaining her country neighbors, the Misses Matcham. Alistair entered the room with a broad smile, concealing his inward groan. One Matcham was bad enough. When confronted with the pair, he generally opted for strategic retreat.