Lady in Waiting Read online

  Dedication

  To my husband, Gary, who after listening to me talk about writing for years, kindly told me to get to it.

  I love you.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  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

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  A Letter from the Editor

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  The Start of the Season

  London, England

  Spring 1845

  The pit in Clara’s stomach grew deeper as they rode farther away from their London townhome. She glanced uneasily at her sister, Lucy, who was seated beside her, looking pale and grim within the open interior of the hansom cab. The horse’s hooves sounded loudly upon the road, and each strike against the cobblestone felt like a conspicuous advertisement of their plans, although she supposed it was only her guilty conscience that made it seem that way.

  Still, Clara winced at the noise and reached over to tug the edge of Lucy’s hood further down in an effort to better conceal her features. Her sister turned to regard her with her large blue eyes and an anxious sigh.

  “I wish there was another way, Clara. You know I do.”

  Clara reached over to grip Lucy’s trembling hand tightly in her own. “We’ve discussed this.” Her eyes scanned the passing landscape and the darkened windows of the nearby homes, looking strange and haunted in the gloom. “This is the only way for you and Douglas to be together. You’ve already tried talking to Papa.”

  “Yes, I know,” Lucy replied sadly, “but I am less concerned with Papa at this point and more worried for you.”

  Despite the extremity of the circumstances, Clara fully supported her sister’s choice, even though she knew that when news of Lucy’s elopement spread, the ensuing scandal would mean a . . . difficult . . . season for her, to say the least.

  The cab rounded a tight corner and sent Lucy sliding into Clara, who took advantage of the sudden closeness to wrap her arms firmly around her sister. She planted a kiss on her cheek and leaned in close.

  “Do not worry about me.”

  Clara knew Lucy had not taken this elopement lightly. She’d considered all the possible options and had tried approaching both their mother and father separately. Her sister had even contemplated an unimaginable future without the man she loved, weighing the likelihood of cementing a sensible but joyless marriage for herself during the season.

  In the end, however, her love for Douglas had won out. Despite his lack of connections and fortune, the two were an incomparable match for one another, and over the past six months they had manufactured new and creative ways to see each other, even if it were only for a glimpse from across the street. It was simply bad luck that he was so far removed from their social sphere, a fact Lucy had often lamented since meeting the charismatic tradesman unexpectedly on a walk through their village. But he was proud of his lineage, he worked hard, and he was not shamed by the discrepancy of rank between them. Lucy couldn’t help but love him for all the down-to-earth qualities that made him so different from the pompous, fluffy aristocrats of the ton.

  They rode that way, arms wrapped around one another, until the gas streetlights of London had given way to the less reliable lighting of the roads that led out of the city. Soon the cab jerked forward, the driver’s authoritative whoa and jerk on the reins slowing the horse’s pace from his elevated perch. Lucy immediately sat up straight and Clara craned her neck, at last discerning the shape of a wheeled cart on the side of the road. They pulled over and a man stepped forward into the road, holding his lantern aloft.

  “It’s him!” cried Lucy, scrambling to gather her skirts.

  The driver tugged on a lever to open the folded wooden doors by their legs, and Douglas rushed forward as Lucy nearly leaped into his arms, setting the yellow glow of his lamp swaying. He exhaled harshly in what sounded like anticipation and joy.

  “At last—”

  He set his lantern down on the ground to fully embrace her. Lucy’s hood slid off her caramel-colored locks while they kissed with abandon, and Clara averted her eyes with a grin while disembarking. She noticed the driver had likewise chosen to busy himself by retrieving Lucy’s bag from inside the cab.

  They slowly pulled away to gaze at each other, then laughed in breathless disbelief at their moment of indulgence. Clara was happy to see that the earlier pallor of her sister’s cheek had now been replaced with a glorious blush of color—further clarification that they were doing the right thing. She would do anything to see her sister that happy forever.

  Douglas clasped Lucy’s hand and glanced away from her to focus on Clara, his gray eyes shining with gratitude. “Thank you for bringing her.”

  Clara smiled. “I daresay she would have brought herself just fine had I been unavailable to assist. I’ve never seen a woman so determined in all my life.”

  His expression turned serious. “Will you be all right? Your parents—”

  “All will be well for me, if you can promise all will be well for her,” she said, tipping her head in her sister’s direction.

  “I see,” he said, his warm gaze drifting downwards over Lucy’s countenance. “Well, that is a promise easily kept.”

  A noise in the distance caught their attention, and Lucy quickly tugged her hood back over her head. Clara, too, ensured hers was in place as a carriage barreled past them in the empty lane. She sought her sister’s eyes.

  “I should be getting back, before Mother and Father find something is amiss.”

  Lucy came forward to hold her close, and Clara breathed in the sweet smell of her sister’s hair. She was desperate to commit every detail to memory, for she had no idea when she might next be able to see Lucy. In spite of their brave faces, saying good-bye was hard, and both women were wiping away tears by the time they pulled away from each other.

  “I’m not sure how we’ll keep in touch.” Lucy sniffed.

  Fresh tears blurred Clara’s vision. “It’s probably better if we don’t. At least for now.”

  She kissed her sister, then turned to place a kiss on Douglas’s cheek as well. “Take good care of her for me,” she whispered.

  He gripped her shoulders. “Thank you, Clara. For everything.”

  She nodded mutely, then aimed a tiny smile at her sister.

  Get in the cab, before you beg her not to go.

  Clara was going to miss her so much. But she would take comfort in the fact that Lucy was living a life of her own choosing, with a man who truly loved her. Most women were not so lucky.

  Clara would likely not be so lucky.

  She turned with stiff, leaden legs and forced herself to board the cab. There was time for one last wave before the whip of the reins propelled the horse into action, and it was only when the cab pulled around on its return route that the gravity of what was happening sank in. Her sister was leaving everything, leaving all of them, leaving her behind for a new life. Tomorrow when their parents awoke, everything would be different. And even though she wasn’t going with Lucy on her journey, Clara felt as if her life had just shifted in some massive, unchangeable way. A sudden panic closed in around her chest.

  Desperate for one last glimpse of her sister, she lurched to the side of the cab and peered around the edge of the window, but the yellow glow of Douglas’s lantern was already fading gradually away, taking Lucy along with it.

  Sinking back into the seat, she battled her tears back into submission. She knew in her heart with all certainty they had done the right thing. But she also couldn’t help but wonder, bleakly, if she had just contributed to her own ruin.

  Chapter One

  The End of the Season

  London, England

  August 1845

  William, Lord Ashworth, was not going to the ball tonight.

  Having finally made the decision, he reached up to loosen his white cravat with a sigh of relief. He strode to the sideboard to pour himself a brandy, seeking to numb himself from this acceptance of his failure. It was a pity. After all, he had endured the carriage ride from his country estate in Kent to make an appearance at one of the final and most fashionable events of the season. Were he actually to attend, it would have served to satisfy the ton’s annoying demand to see the new Earl of Ashworth in the flesh, and perhaps quieted their rumormongering for a time. On the other hand, it could just have easily stirred the flames of gossip to unbearable heights. The ton was an unpredictable lot.

  Sweat broke out upon his brow, and he unfastened the top button of his linen shirt before gripping the tumbler with shaking fingers and throwing back the drink, sending fire cascading down his throat. He uttered a groan, then slammed down the glass and only the sudden appearance of his friend, Viscount Evanston, stayed his hand from pouring another. In contrast to William’s own state, Thomas looked crisp and perfectly at ease in his formal black-and-white attire. He glanced first at the decanter in William’s hand, then with a raise of his brow, cast a critical eye at the state of his clothing.

  “I wouldn’t normally recommend attending a ball with your shirt open and cravat untied, but no doubt the ladies will approve,” he said lightly, crossing the study to join him. The viscount’s tone was teasing, but William did not miss the note of concern that was also present.

  “I am staying home tonight,” he said stonily.

  His friend paused, then slipped the crystal container from his hands and replaced the stopper. “Come now, Ashworth,” he chided gently. “Don’t force me to be the responsible one. We waited until the end of the season, as you requested. You went through the motions. Accepted the invitation, traveled to London—”

  William shot Evanston a leaden stare, silencing him immediately. “Yes, I went through the motions. As it turns out, that is all I can offer.”

  The disappointment that briefly flickered across his friend’s face set William’s teeth on edge. Inevitably, people would be upset by his inability to come out in society, especially after he’d finally relented for the event in Mayfair tonight. But even if he were to show up, there was no guarantee that the ton could be appeased. Any answer to their questions would be ruthlessly scrutinized for a sign that he was failing in some regard. A moment’s hesitation could be the difference between projecting an air of self-assuredness and creating more fuel for their stories.

  William knew there were fewer things more fascinating than an eligible lord who had suffered a calamitous loss, and for the past eighteen months he’d given them very little in the way of entertainment. Instead he’d shut himself away in the country, spending the time mourning three loved ones while recuperating from his own injuries, physical and otherwise. They would not take kindly to his absence tonight.

  He closed his eyes wearily. They could all go to hell.

  “Look, I don’t care what you do,” said Thomas, although the statement rang untrue. “And I certainly wouldn’t bother yourself with what the ton thinks at any given point in time. But might I remind you that this was something you wanted to do . . . both for yourself and for your sister?”

  Yes, William could admit that Eliza had probably been his most important consideration. Especially now that her house had been entailed to the next male in line for her late husband’s estate. He needed to smooth their way back into society to make things easier for her, should she choose to remarry. And he needed to represent the earldom in a way that would have made his father proud, and his older brother, too—though they were no longer of this world.

  He swallowed hard against the inevitable memories that always lurked, ready to invade his consciousness. They were actually less like memories, and more like the reliving of a horrid tale that often insisted upon its own retelling.

  The sickening tilt of the vehicle . . . the screeching of the horses . . . the last time he’d seen them alive, eyes pale in the gloom and wide with terror. His father reaching for him from across the carriage—

  “William!”

  William blinked to stave off the nightmarish recollection, and he could feel the blood draining from his face. Evanston must have noticed, for his gaze dropped down to the sideboard. Going against his earlier censure of William’s drinking, the viscount removed the stopper to pour another drink while waiting for his reply.

  “I would do anything in my power to make things easier for her,” William managed at last.

  His friend cocked his head. “Is this not in your power tonight?”

  He seriously considered the question, then shook his head gruffly and looked away.

  Evanston surveyed him calmly, then heaved a large sigh.

  “I know you don’t think I understand, but I do,” he said, sliding the tumbler towards William, then retrieving a glass for himself. “But rather than viewing this as the aristocracy cornering you in a ballroom, you need to see it as a strategic move on your part, designed to—”

  “I can tell myself anything I like,” he said sharply, cutting him off, “and don’t think I haven’t tried. But I was in the carriage too, Thomas. My scars are not visible, but still they show. This isn’t simply a matter of losing family and moving on. It’s a matter of losing control, and of those selfish bastards finding any sign of my struggle so vastly entertaining!”

  Throwing his glass down, it shattered loudly despite the carpet on the floor. The amber contents splashed out unceremoniously to soak the ground, and silence hung heavy in the air as he and Evanston stared down at the messy aftermath of his temper. William ran a hand impatiently over his face.

  “Christ.”

  Thomas leaned casually towards the wall to tug on the bellpull. Then he came close again to grip William’s shoulder.

  “You will not be able to exert perfect control over every situation. This is a truth you need to accept.”

  William rolled his eyes. “Says the man who can command a room, and everyone in it, simply by entering.” He sighed. “Besides, you know this is different.”

  “Not true,” Thomas corrected. “It is more similar than you know. My success in navigating society comes from being adaptable. By changing course to suit what the situation demands, not the other way around.”

  “And given the reality of what this situation demands of me and my inability to provide it, I am changing course by not going to this ball.”

  Even as he spoke, he knew his friend was right. But being out among society was not the effortless exercise of his past. With no notice at all, he could get pulled back into the carriage to relive his family’s final moments. It was a risk he was, quite simply, unwilling to take.

  Evanston squeezed his shoulder, bringing him back to the present. A crooked smile brightened his face.

  “Fine. Perhaps it is best for you to skip the ball tonight.”

  William laughed weakly in spite of himself. “I believe I already knew that.”

  “Not a word more,” said Thomas with a shake of his head. “Only come with me to Brooks’s. You can distract yourself at the card tables.”

  He scoffed at his friend’s suggestion. “Surely you must be joking. To roam about London after declining to show at the ball? That would not help matters in the least.”

  “No, I suppose not.” Evanston’s grin lingered. “What about a woman? They can sometimes be the most effective kind of distraction.”

  William shrugged out of his black tailcoat, ready to make a biting retort, when his footman Matthew appeared in the doorway.

  “You rang, my lord?”

  He gestured to the crystal shards surrounded by a pool of liquor, now almost completely absorbed into the dark cerulean carpet. “I have made a mess, Matthew. Please have it cleaned up immediately. Also, please have Lord Evanston’s carriage brought back around as he’ll be leaving shortly.”

  The viscount’s eyebrows shot up. “Have I done something to offend you?” he asked with a laugh, although clearly worried.

  “Not at all, but it’s obvious you’ve got other places you’d rather be,” William answered heavily, “and I am suddenly very tired.”

  The two friends shook hands firmly. Evanston lowered his voice.

  “Shall we return to Kent tomorrow?”

  William hung his head in silence, his teeth clenched.

  Thomas nodded succinctly. “Tomorrow it is, then. There will be other balls, William,” he added reassuringly. “You’ll see, all will be well.”

  And while he nodded in agreement, the Earl of Ashworth did not feel overly optimistic.

  Clara sighed and folded her gloved hands carefully upon her lap while gazing longingly at the couples waltzing by on the dance floor. After her failure of a season, she had no delusions of actually securing a suitor, but what she wouldn’t do for just a dance . . . she loved to dance.

  As she had expected, the disgrace of Lucy’s elopement had made association with the Mayfield family not only undesirable, but unthinkable. Dressed in all her finery, Clara had spent the duration of her season in the stuffy drawing rooms and ballrooms of London ignored, relegated to standing alone in corners or seated against various walls.

  Well, not quite alone. Because of Lucy’s chance meeting with her lowborn beau, her father was taking no risks. The constant watchful eye of her mother ensured there would not be a repeat of the scandal that had claimed her older sister, and this last great ball in Mayfair was certainly no exception.