Papa's Desires (Little Ladies of Talcott House Book 2) Read online

  “Good afternoon, sir,” she replied, finally finding her voice. Who was he? she wondered. A wealthy, powerful duke? One of the benefactors of Talcott House, perhaps? She’d heard whisperings that Talcott House survived off the generous donations of wealthy families, and the conversation she’d recently overheard between Miss Wickersham and Nurse Lister about financial difficulties had confirmed those rumors.

  “Would you mind if I joined you while I await the return of Miss Wickersham?” he asked, with a gesture at the seat beside her.

  How different he was from the men she’d encountered on the streets. He was actually asking for her permission to sit next to her. Truly, he was a gentleman of the highest order. She flushed from head to toe, feeling like the luckiest girl in all of Talcott House. There were plenty of benches and sitting areas in the gardens, but he had chosen to approach her, rather than any of the other girls outside sunning themselves on this beautiful day. Her heart fluttered and a curious pulsing sensation affected her between her thighs.

  “I would be delighted if you joined me, sir.” She smiled up at him, knowing her smile was her best feature, and her flowing golden tresses were a close second. Perhaps this man had come to Talcott House in search of a wife. She decided to charm him as much as possible, because while she was betrothed to another, if he found her pleasing maybe he would decide on another girl, perhaps one of her friends. In any case, on behalf of Talcott House, she ought to try her best to make a good impression.

  He took a seat and turned toward her, his dark brown eyes sparkling with intelligence. He seemed interested in her, and she had to force herself to sit politely with her hands folded in her lap, rather than squirm or fidget with her hat.

  “What brings you to Talcott House, sir?” She flushed, worried her question was too bold. “That is, if you do not believe I am being too forward by asking.”

  He cast a glance around the gardens, before returning his gaze to her. “I had a business matter to discuss with Miss Wickersham.” He pressed his lips together, and she knew he wouldn’t divulge the details of the business matter. He also hadn’t formally introduced himself, and that bothered her. Perhaps he wasn’t as gentlemanly as she’d first believed.

  “How many years have you lived here, Miss—?”

  “Miss Heathrow,” she supplied. “I’ve lived here for quite a few years. However, I won’t be here for much longer. I am to marry Lord Kensington next Saturday.” She couldn’t help but beam with pride, though she hoped her proclamation indeed came true. She resolved to check with Miss Wickersham soon and confirm that plans had not been changed or postponed, or God forbid, entirely cancelled.

  His eyebrows scrunched together, and he appeared to be studying her. She wasn’t sure she liked the way he was looking at her, as if she were a charity case. As if she were a former thief and miscreant who used to roam the streets of London. She lifted her chin, as if in challenge, and didn’t break eye contact even as he continued to stare at her for an unseemly long time.

  “Forgive me for not introducing myself earlier,” he said, surprising her by taking her gloved hand and bringing it to his lips. “I am Lord Grayson, and I am pleased to meet you, Miss Heathrow.” And then he kissed the back of her gloved hand before releasing it and straightening on the bench. The pressure of his lips lingered long after he let go of her hand.

  “This business with Miss Wickersham you speak of,” Cynny said, not one to let an issue rest. Although she was promised to another, she felt a strong compulsion to know if he were here in search of a wife. “Are you in need of a bride, sir? Is that why you have come to Talcott House?”

  The smile faded from his eyes and he chuckled briefly. “Your question is a bold one. While I think the young ladies of Talcott House are lovely and refined indeed, yourself included, Miss Heathrow, my bride awaits me in London, where I am headed after completing my business with Miss Wickersham.”

  Her heart plummeted to the ground, but she was careful not to let her emotions show. She smiled brighter and tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear, once more resisting the urge to readjust her hat. She didn’t want this spoiled lord to know she’d just been imagining him as her papa and as her husband, even if the thought had only flitted through her mind for the briefest of moments. The very briefest of moments, as she ought not think of anyone in an intimate manner except Lord Kensington, despite the fact that she had yet to meet her betrothed. She tried to push away the guilt that had settled on her shoulders over her secret improprieties.

  “Where did you live before you came to Talcott House?” His question surprised her, and she fumbled for an answer that wouldn’t leave him scandalized.

  But what did it matter? He wasn’t here for a bride, and even if he was, there were many girls at Talcott House who were more well-behaved and refined than she was, many girls Miss Wickersham would likely recommend over her. Stop it! You are to marry Lord Kensington and that’s that. Don’t be so ridiculous.

  She met his eye and sucked in a deep breath. “I lived in London, in an outbuilding behind a tavern. You see, Lord Grayson, I was a member of a vicious gang of thieves called The Weasels. Perhaps you’ve heard of us? Everyone feared us, and a tavern owner allowed us to live in his outbuilding for free, in exchange for our promise not to steal from the clients who frequented his establishment,” she said with dramatic flair. “I spent my days prowling around London, picking pockets and breaking all sorts of laws, and that is how Miss Wickersham found me. I tried to steal from her, and she caught me. She saved me from the magistrate by offering to take me into her care at Talcott House. And that, Lord Grayson, is how I came to live here.”

  He stared at her, white-faced, for several seconds, before his shoulders relaxed and he gave a brief chuckle. “You have a wild imagination, Miss Heathrow.”

  He didn’t believe her.

  She blinked at him, a sense of numbness taking over.

  He actually thought she’d made the whole story up!

  It was all true, though. Every last word. In fact, she hadn’t even told him the half of it.

  Truth be told, she’d omitted the darkest details of her life story. Like how she’d watched her parents die of a fever at the tender age of five, and how she’d been dumped on the streets of London by her drunkard uncle not long after. If The Weasels hadn’t found her and taken her in, no doubt she would have starved to death, alone on the streets while she cried for the parents who were never coming back.

  Winter. Her uncle had abandoned her in the midst of a brutal winter, on a particularly blustery day when the streets were covered in fresh fallen snow. A member of The Weasels, Mary, had discovered her walking aimlessly in a dangerous part of town, and the rest was history. She’d learned fast in the gang. The will to live, despite her bleak circumstances, had burned bright within her and drove her to become the most exceptional thief The Weasels had ever seen. She’d liked making Mary proud, and in return the older girl had sheltered Cynny from as much danger as she could, at least until she disappeared one fateful day and never returned—a mere fortnight before Cynny stuck her hand into Miss Wickersham’s pocket and her life changed forever.

  Cynny regarded Lord Grayson, wondering if he’d ever known fervent desperation or cold fear. Likely not. His life was probably a fairytale compared to hers, an endless parade of lavish dinners and fancy balls. Of course, she had much to be grateful for and resolved to stop feeling sorry for herself in moments of weakness. The worst of her hardships were behind her. She believed it in her heart.

  A thought struck her. What if Lord Kensington, like Lord Grayson, also thought her stories of belonging to a notorious street gang and stealing to survive were naught but fiction? A tale she’d concocted for her own amusement? She sighed inwardly, as worry encased her heart, squeezing until she feared for an instant she might burst into tears in front of her handsome companion. Thankfully, she quickly regained her composure before Lord Grayson noticed anything was amiss. But in the wake of Miss Wickersham no
t believing her tears and her remorse over her most recent misbehavior, such a prospect left her uneasy.

  Miss Wickersham appeared in front of them, having returned from whatever crisis had required her attention.

  Lord Grayson stood and uttered some polite words of departure to Cynny, but in her frustration toward him—not to mention her frustration with herself for being drawn to him—she could only nod her goodbye. As soon as he walked away in the company of Miss Wickersham, she curled her fingers around the gold watch hidden in her lap and stealthily placed it into the pocket of her dress.

  She hadn’t stolen anything in a long time, not counting her recent theft of the sugar, and she was surprised by the immense guilt she felt in the aftermath of her thievery. Taking a priceless golden pocket watch from a lord was much worse than swiping a few cups of sugar. Oh dear. What had she done? For a second, she considered approaching Lord Grayson and telling him he’d dropped his pocket watch.

  She stood up and started following him, but then she hesitated.

  No, she couldn’t.

  What would she give her new papa as a wedding gift if she returned the pocket watch?

  She swallowed past the burning in her throat and returned to the bench.

  Please God, let me get married soon to Lord Kensington as planned, and let him be a kind papa who will love me and care for me forever and ever. Then I will be perfect and good and never steal anything ever again. I promise. She repeated the prayer in her head over and over again. I promise, I promise, I promise.

  Chapter 5

  Grayson, is that you again?” A jovial voice interrupted Lord Grayson’s solitude on the veranda of Burberry Park, the home of the Duke of Wellington, in the Mayfair district of London.

  Lord Grayson turned and greeted his old friend, Lord Caldwell. “Yes, I am afraid it is.” Grayson pulled a flask from his pocket, unscrewed the cap and took a hearty swig.

  His companion did the same and the two men stood in the darkness collecting their thoughts and getting some fresh air, as they buoyed their spirits with the contents of their flasks.

  “You seem to be taking this marriage thing quite seriously now that you have inherited your father's title, Grayson,” Lord Caldwell observed with a hint of a smirk.

  “I am not opposed to having a wife. I have no particular need of a dowry or female companionship, but an heir, as you well know, is of utmost importance.”

  “And a willing partner who does not object to the activities necessary to produce an heir would make things all that much better, would it not, my friend?” Lord Caldwell said with a chuckle. Grayson studied Caldwell. They had been companions at school and even in those often dour circumstances, Caldwell had always kept a cheerful countenance. Grayson may not have understood the jocularity then or now, and he had often wondered at what he considered an unrealistic point of view, but this evening Lord Grayson set all of that aside and was simply grateful for a bit of conversation with a man who was not intent on marrying him off to his sister or daughter.

  “It is true,” Lord Grayson said. “And what of you, Caldwell? Have you had any luck here in the marriage market?”

  “I find,” Lord Caldwell said, “that though all of the young ladies are accomplished and attractive and would be most suitable wives, there is something missing in each of them that does not quite suit me. I am not sure precisely what it is I am looking for, but it seems that each of these ladies is just a tad bit too independent for my liking. I suppose it is the modern way of things, but I cannot help but wish for a time when young ladies were a bit more shall we say…pliable and submissive?”

  Lord Grayson had been ruminating upon the same question for several days now, though at this juncture his thoughts also included fond, and sometimes disturbing, memories of his brief conversation with Miss Heathrow at Talcott House. Though he had been charmed by the sweet young lady, he was not convinced, though his father had been, that a young lady could be made into a proper wife for an earl simply by means of education and training. There still remained in his mind the belief that certain characteristics were inborn and could not, regardless of good intentions and hard work, be imbued upon a person who was born to a lower rank.

  Yet one question still troubled him. Why had he told Miss Heathrow his bride awaited him in London? In theory, the statement was truthful if he believed he would marry an as yet unknown young lady whom he expected to meet during his time in London. But, Grayson knew himself well enough to admit he was not a man who spoke in hyperbole. Had he lied to Miss Heathrow in order to protect his pride once he learned she was betrothed to another? If he believed she was inferior due to her lack of family or connections, why would he lower himself to deceit in order to save face in front of someone he was unlikely to ever encounter again?

  Well, he told himself, since I have stated my bride awaits me in London, I ought to find her and thus eliminate my lie. And hopefully eradicate all thoughts of Miss Heathrow from his brain.

  With renewed determination, he capped his flask and returned it to a pocket on the inside of his waistcoat. Out of habit, he reached for his watch, and again, cursed the fact that the watch had come up missing. It was his prized possession and he found it difficult to believe he had misplaced it. But he found it equally implausible that he had allowed someone to get close enough to lift it from his pocket, particularly since it was kept so close upon his person. Regardless, it was gone and there was no point in allowing himself too much pique over it at this time. As he had signed his name to the dance cards of a number of eligible young ladies, no doubt they, or their mothers, would make sure he kept apace of the evening’s activities.

  “Shall we return to the festivities?” he said to his companion and the two men left the fresh air and clear evening sky to resume their social obligations.

  Lord Grayson quickly found his next partner, an attractive young woman by the name of Lady Cordelia Granville. They were to dance a quadrille together and Grayson forced himself to believe he would enjoy it.

  “It is a lovely evening for a dance, is it not, Lady Granville?” he asked.

  “Oh, I suppose so,” she replied. “I do wish they would close the windows as there is a draft in here and I find all of that night air disturbing.”

  “You don’t say?” Lord Grayson remarked, taking her gloved hand in his as they performed the steps of the dance. “You are not fond of evening air?”

  “No, I admit I am not,” was all she said on the topic, though Grayson found it an odd sentiment. How could someone object to a cool, fresh breeze on a stuffy evening? Apparently Lady Granville could.

  “Then you are a fan of getting air in the morning?”

  “No, not particularly. A young woman ought not to spend too much time in the out of doors. The sun plays havoc with youthful skin, you know. I take great pride in the care of my complexion.” She thereupon described to him in minute detail the creams, lotions and ointments which were involved in her regimen.

  Lord Grayson attempted to focus on his dance partner but his mind wandered to a vision of himself, a few years hence, seated across from Lady Cordelia at the breakfast table where nothing but silence—and stale air—filled the room. A brief shudder ran through him at the thought. Just as quickly, the image of the dour breakfast scene was replaced by one of Miss Heathrow laughing and playing with her friends in the warm afternoon, carefree and joyful.

  “When was the last time you ran?” The question escaped his lips before he even knew he had formed it and based on the shocked expression on Lady Cordelia’s face, it would have been preferred if he had kept it to himself.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said. “Are you asking me when I last ran?” She paused and shook her head as if in disbelief at the question. “I have not done such an unladylike activity since I stopped wearing my hair in ribbons. At least eight years, if not longer. Why would you ask such a thing?”

  “I am simply curious,” he replied. “I recently observed a group of young ladies playing to
gether, running and laughing, and it appeared to be great fun. I wondered if you had indulged in such an activity of late.”

  Lady Cordelia sniffed. “I am sure the people you observed might have been young and female, but what you describe is not the behavior of a lady. A lady is always composed and would never show such a lack of restraint.”

  Mercifully, the dance came to an end and Grayson returned Lady Cordelia to her mother, who proceeded to fawn over him in a most intrusive and unappealing manner. “Lord Grayson, you do our family great honor to show such favor for my daughter.”

  Lord Grayson found himself staring into the expectant gaze of Lady Granville, the mother of Lady Cordelia. He had shown her daughter no more favor than he had any of the other young ladies with whom he had danced this evening, or any of the preceding seven, for that matter. He had no desire to give the impression of favoritism to any young lady, and most particularly not the stale air loving, Lady Cordelia. Not wishing to be overtly rude to Lady Granville, though he believed her presumptuousness warranted it, he simply bowed to the two ladies, bid them good evening and went in search of his next dance partner.

  The participants in the next dance were taking their places as Lord Grayson made his way across the ballroom to his next partner, Miss Adaline Venture. In truth, he had been looking forward to partnering with her all night. Though not the daughter of a lord, Miss Venture still came from a family of distinction and had the added benefit of uncommon beauty. Golden curls surrounded her face, having escaped from the elaborate style into which her tresses had been forced. Her eyes, a lovely shade of blue, met his as he approached and a shy smile touched her lips. Whatever lingering thoughts of Lady Cordelia, if indeed there were any at all, disappeared as he took the hand of Miss Adaline.