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Chapter Seven
Summer, 1816, Mockingbird Square, Mayfair, London
Simon made his way into the garden at the centre of Mockingbird Square. Christina had told him that the ‘Mockingbird’ was an American bird, known for its ability to imitate.
“The Monksteads came from a family of thieves and raiders, or so the earl says,” she went on, with a wry smile. “They grew wealthy and great through nefarious means, and then they had to pretend they were as good as everyone else. So they imitated their betters.”
“I see.”
She had giggled at his puzzled face. “The name of the square is a family joke known only to us, and now you know it, too!”
It was a fine day but there were clouds on the horizon. Rather like a mirror image of his current situation, he told himself wryly. He had had time overnight to begin to worry about the future. What if, when he told Christina about his brother’s proposal, she was glad of it? What if, despite what he thought to the contrary, she actually preferred the heir to the crippled younger brother?
And then all thought left him as he saw her waiting for him in their usual spot. The fact that they had a ‘usual spot’ seemed precious, although there had been many times recently when he had wondered how much longer they could go on meeting like this.
Christina spotted him and smiled, her anxious expression changing to joy and her eyes lighting up with pleasure. He wondered if his face looked the same and knew it did. Any stranger coming upon them now would know in an instant that they were in love, and yet he couldn’t hide it. He didn’t want to.
“Your leg seems so much stronger,” she said shyly. “Soon you will be able to burn your cane.”
It was the joke he had made when they first met and she had never forgotten.
“Miss Beale . . . Christina . . .” he glanced around until he spotted a seat with no one close by. “Will you sit with me for a while?”
She smiled and followed him to the seat. She’d slipped out without her maid again and even Miss Willoughby wasn’t about—she was becoming very adept at losing her chaperones.
Simon launched into speech. “My brother has asked your uncle permission to marry you.”
Her eyes widened and then colour flooded her cheeks. She shook her head a little wildly. “I-I have not heard of such a thing. Your brother?” she repeated as if she couldn’t believe that was right.
“He told me so himself. I don’t know what your uncle said. Ash has gone to Crevitch for a visit. My brother was behaving a little strangely, but I am assuming one of his reasons is to tell our mother of his plans.”
Again she shook her head. She looked bewildered. “I don’t understand,” she said. “I have barely spoken to Lord Linholm! Why would he want to marry me?”
“He thinks you’re suitable.”
“I don’t want to be suitable! I don’t want to marry your brother,” she said decisively. A moment later her lip trembled and her eyes filled with tears as she met his gaze. “I-I want to marry you,” she said.
His heart beat hard as he reached to grasp her hands. If they had been entirely alone he would have kissed her. He’d been wanting to kiss her for weeks now.
“I want to marry you, too,” he declared.
The words were spoken. No going back. He was no longer the amenable younger brother. Simon was going to fight for the woman he loved and be damned to the consequences.
Chapter Eight
Summer, 1816, Montgomery House, Crevitch, Somerset
Juliet stared into the looking glass as Yvette brushed her hair. Earlier there had been an invitation to an intimate supper at Major Hardcastle’s house, which Juliet had refused. The Major had a reputation for allowing his hands to stray where they weren’t wanted, and Juliet had no intention of putting herself in the way of them. From the maid’s silence, it seemed she was displeased with her mistress—Yvette liked her to socialize—but Juliet didn't take any notice. Her own thoughts were occupied with Ash Linholm.
She had said goodbye to him at the gate, but she didn't really believe he was going to accept that. The Ash she had once known was not inclined to do anything he didn't want to. Which reinforced her belief that when he was sent away into the army it was exactly what he had wanted.
Excitement, adventure . . . it would have suited him down to the ground, whereas for Juliet things had been very different. She had been bundled into marriage with an old man who, kind as he was, was a very different prospect to Ash.
She had been very unhappy for a time, until she realised she was only making herself miserable. The Baron was willing to spoil her with pretty dresses and a house in Taunton which, although not London, was lively enough in comparison to their Somerset village.
They had had some good years until he grew too ill, and by then she had been very fond of him. She had nursed him faithfully until the end. The Baron’s debts she hadn’t known about and felt some guilt in respect to—he had spent money on her he couldn’t afford. Perhaps this was her punishment, to live quietly and alone, here in her childhood home.
One thing she knew. As fond as she was of the Baron, she would never again marry a man she didn’t love.
