Elisabeth Fairchild (24 page)

Chapter Seventeen

All along the muddy road back to Brighton, Nell worried that by some sign, everyone around her must realize what folly she had just committed. Her lips felt swollen, marked by kisses. Her cheeks glowed with inner heat. Her pulse was erratic. Her stays felt too tight. What had she been thinking, to behave in such a foolish fashion? Kissing a coachman, wanting to be kissed by him again. It was absurd! Could she hope to find happiness as a coachman’s wife? Such a prospect seemed highly unlikely, until her eyes strayed to the back of Mr. Ferd’s neck, and then anything seemed possible, and her heart fluttered in her throat and forced her to smile. It was absurd how much happiness this man stirred in her.

He wished her to marry him! Ludicrous notion. Her heart leapt. And yet, she could not turn away from the thought, away from the idea of a future with this man. She stole another glance at the straight backbone before her. Dear Mr. Ferd looked cold-- soaked to the skin. His poor hat steadily dripped a stream of water onto his coat collar. Nell was possessed of an unbidden desire to reach out to wipe away the wet, to feel the heat of his flesh against hers. Perhaps the idea of marriage was not completely ridiculous. Never had she felt so inclined to care for a gentleman before. Certainly she had never cared to kiss any man in the cravenly passionate manner she had surprised herself by just doing. Might another man fire such desire within her breast? She thought not.

He
could not bear life without her
, he had said. Could she bear to think of a life without him? The life he offered her was one to which she was unaccustomed, but he offered too, his heart, his lips, his arms, and the intention to do his utmost to see her happy. What more did she want or need?

There was no one to whom she might turn for advice. All who cared for her would, without doubt, encourage her to abandon mere thought of such a union. They would be amazed that she so much as entertained the notion of marrying beneath her station.

What would life bring to her as a coachman’s wife? She liked horses, and the smell of stables did not sicken her, but she wondered if it might not prove daunti always to be fighting the smells and flies and dirt that accompanied such an existence. As wife of a man who must travel, might she not find herself lonely a great deal of the time? And what of the absence of ready money? Would she become discontented and resentful, forced to make do on scant means? She would make a miserable wife if such were the case.

Survival without the extras in life, the frills and furbelows and geegaws that so captivated Aurora, would not be too terribly difficult. Late night dancing, balls and fetes and polite company she could do without, could she not? But what of the skills required to manage a household, no matter how small, without benefit of servants? Could she keep a house in good order?

It devastated her tender heart to think what her mother would have to say to such a match. Father would have forbidden it in an instant. Mother, who would not leap so quickly to bar her happiness, had yet taken pains to make sure she was educated in the finer arts; watercolors and music, polite conversation and needlework. She could not but be disappointed. Nell had been versed in the skills required of a woman of means, a hostess and landowner’s wife. What could her own children expect, should she be blessed with them, with their father a coachman, and their mother misplaced gentry? She lowered her progeny as well as herself in taking such a social plunge.

It was ridiculous! She could not marry a coachman.

The decision wrenched at her physically, twisting her stomach into knots as complex as the ones she busied her mind untangling. Her heart needed no convincing. It beat steadfast in its certainty that with Mr. Ferd at her side she could make a happy life. It was her mind threw the barrage of doubts and questions at her. And yet, she knew the value of good horses and cattle, and the way of balancing a budget. While schooled for a far different lifestyle than the one that was proposed to her, she might yet fit into it with some grace. Who was to say she and Mr. Ferd could not cut a comfortable niche for themselves in the coaching world? Mr. Ferd claimed excellent connections amongst the upper crust. Perhaps they might be used to good advantage.

She knew Beau Ferd to be a kind and thoughtful man, a plain, honest man who reached out without hesitation to help those who were in need. He was gentle, self-educated, loved animals, laughter and music.

To his detriment, he cared little for possessions or money, and yet she could not fault him in it, his inner drive for advancement was not stilled. His work habits were to be admired. She could in fact, think of no single vice which she had witnessed in the entire time she had observed Mr. Ferd‘s behavior, other than his recent inappropriate pursuit of her affections, and she was as much at fault as he, where that was concerned. She could not help but be flattered that she would seem capable of driving such an exemplary young man to distraction. There was something undeniably wonderful about the passionate side of his nature. An irrefutable energy had leapt between them, from the moment she had first set eyes on him, and he had fumbled about beneath her skirts. Was it the heady lure of passion, the promise of love, she had seen smoldering in his eyes, these many weeks?

She closed her eyes against the consideration and reconsideration of that single breath-stopping moment, when the world and all its objections to such a match had been stilled. There was magic in the meeting of their mouths. She could not conjure up the memory of it without lifting a finger to graze, ever so softly, against her lips, in an attempt to reproduce the strangely mystic sensations to which she had so recently been introduced.

The thought of kissing Beau Ferd again, flushed her entire being with a throbbing heat. Her pulse quickened as she considered the strange appeal of having a man’s tongue thrust between one’s lip. Her breath caught in her throat. Her heart and mind did, for the moment, abandon all hold on weightier and more sensible considerations. Never in her short life, had she felt so wondrously desirable and guilty and improper in her happiness all at the same time.

What struck Nell most profoundly in her ruminations as the coach rattled and splashed its way through a countryside that had never appeared more beautiful to her, was the realization that she had known he meant to kiss her, had known, and yet not stopped him. She had seen the intention of the kiss in the softened quality of his eyes and mouth, in the steady advancement of his head to hers. She might have stopped him at any moment. She could have pushed away, for he was not such a brute as to force himself on her. He had in fact, paused, his eyes searching hers, before he tilted his chin so that their noses would not knock against one another, and eyelashes skimming his cheek, feathered his lip against hers.

She had done nothing to stop that first kiss, or the ones that followed. She had known what was coming, had anticipated it, full of wonder, barely daring to move, or breathe, in the face of her own audacity. And she had enjoyed the sharing of their lips, thrilled to the closeness of their bodies. She could not deny that, to herself or to him, and reading as much in her eyes, he had dared to kiss her again and again and again. The passion they shared left her ready to abandon all reason, all practical considerations. Falling in love, she decided, was not a practical business.

Marriage however, was generally nothing but a practical consideration. Marriage, as she knew it, was the joining of names and title, wealth and land. With her father’s untimely demise, she was left with naught but her name with which to bargain a worthy match. Mr. Ferd would take that from her too, along with all that it stood for. Was the love and devotion he offered in return, enough to keep her happy?

Was she completely depraved to allow such freedom with her person if she had no intention of marrying this man? His request for her hand was nothing but honorable, considering the circumstances. Did she dishonor herself in refusing him? Nell knew she must come to a conclusion. Yes or no, she must devise an answer to Mr. Ferd’s proposal.

When Nell went to give him answer to his proposal of marriage, Lord Brampton Beauford, seventh Duke of Heste, was rehearsing the delivery of what he long since should have told her. He stood ankle-deep in manure, and as flies buzzed about his grace’s ears, and a sheen of hard-earned sweat dewed his brow, he threw his weight into the shovel with which he mucked out a stall, as energetically as he threw his heart into verbalizing aloud what it was that he meant to say to his beloved.

“Bandit, old boy, I must tell her I’m a l-l-liar, and telling is far more difficult than I had anticipated.” He sighed. Bandit, who curled up near the wagon into which Beau shoveled manure, raised his head, ears at the prick.

The duke leaned on the shovel to think, and then stepped back to address the implement as if it were Nell. "My dear Miss Quinby, I a-a-am . . .”

A shadow filled the sunlit doorway to the stall.

“You are what, Mr. Ferd?”

Beau looked up guiltily to see none other than the young woman whose mouth fit so perfectly to his. Nell stood in the shaft of light that gilded the dust motes and penetrated the doorway.  She stood, bathed in the glory of sunlight, looking calm and collected, all in white, her appearance angelic, perfect, pure and untouchable. Her high-necked, high-waisted dress was in danger of being soiled, should she choose to step any cser. The dress became a shroud of brilliant, back-lit white, an outward expression of the inner light Lord Beauford had always felt in Miss Quinby’s presence.

Must he now reveal himself to her, sweat dripping down his nose, boots clumsy with straw and manure?

“Mr. Ferd?” Her sweet voice held an uncertain quaver that sent a chill down his spine. “Was there something you meant to say to me?” She looked at him with an intensity that gave him the uncomfortably vulnerable sensation that she knew exactly what it was he meant to disclose.

He opened his mouth to speak. No words came. With great effort, he managed to whisper. “I am . . .I am . . .desperately in love with you.”

He smiled as he said it, all his love for her shining in his eyes. She surprised him by blinking and turning away.

“I have come here to respond to your proposal, Mr. Ferd,” she said stiffly. And even as she said it, Beau, who in that moment felt completely unworthy of such a prize, lost all ability to say a word, for he could not convince himself that she meant to tell him anything but no.

She bit down on her lip a moment, straightened her shoulders, and drew a deep breath.

He leaned into the support of his shovel.

“I cannot deny the truth of what encompasses my heart, Mr. Ferd,” she began.

Beauford frowned. What was she getting at?

“I have never felt drawn to a man as I am drawn to you.”

She regarded the toes of her kid boots.

The shovel slid unnoticed from Beau’s flaccid grasp. This was not at all what he had braced himself to hear. He could not believe his ears.

“I have never allowed a man to so invade my dreams, my thoughts—“ she blushed, and slid a troubled look in his direction, “to so sway my better judgment. I have never felt for any man the rush of feelings that undo my sense of decorum whenever I am in your company. Did my decision affect only myself, I should readily trust you with my heart, my happiness, my very future, Mr. Ferd, for I cannot imagine a more honest, open, and trustworthy husband. But, such a decision . . .” Her voice faltered. She seemed unable to continue.

Beau’s felt as if he had just had a net dropped over his head. How in heaven’s name could he now reveal himself to her? He advanced, mouth half open, mind reeling, and stopped within arm’s length of a pristine white sleeve. He could not touch her with mucky hands! He could not kiss her reeking of manure. Above all, he could not sully her opinion of him in admitting himself devoid of all the qualities she most admired in him. He felt like a maggot, a dung fly, a flea.

“I fear that I must disappoint.” She regarded him intently, and Beau felt all strength, all joy, all hope, depart body, heart, mind and soul.

“A decision to marry me concerns someone other than ourselves?” he pressed, stomach tensing as if for a blow.

She nodded, expression troubled and sad. Her chin trembled. “I will not lie to you. My decision, with regard to marriage, has the power either to save my family, or to lead them into greater financial ruin than they already face.”

Beau wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. Odd, how money figured into things, even when he went to great lengths to see it did not. “Miss Quinby . . .“

“No!” She impaled him with the intensity, he might almost have said, ferocity of her gaze, as she batted a fly away from her face. “I cannot stay, Mr. Ferd. I cannot allow you opportunity to sway my better judgment. This has beenthe most difficult decision I have ever considered.” She closed her eyes in order to gather herself together, for it seemed she was on the verge of tears. “I am sorry to disappoint you.” She gave a watery sniff. Her hand lifted to dash away a tear. “I hope it may content you somewhat to know that I am heartbroken in refusing you, for I feel as if I deny myself all hope of ha-happiness . . .” As her words broke on a sob, she fled.