Once Upon a Maiden Lane (Maiden Lane #12.5)(9)

He straightened to her angry glare, coffee-brown eyes snapping with fire and life, and his heart positively crowed.

“There you are, sweetheart,” he murmured so low only she could hear.

“Let go of my hand,” she hissed like a scalded cat.

“Anything my lady desires,” he drawled, slowly surrendering her fingers.

When he turned to the waiting ladies, he met Lady Caire’s raised eyebrows and the marchioness’s thoughtful look.

The hell with it.

He’d risk losing Lady Caire’s favor to see Lady Cecilia’s spirits rise any day.

Henry bowed, said his farewells, and strode to the Caire House front door. Once outside he mounted his mare and urged her into a canter down the street.

He’d sat like a tame monkey through the farce this morning. Done everything expected of him as heir to his father—even at the expense of a lovely lady with fiery eyes. A lady who, in different circumstances, he might’ve wooed and won on his own.

Henry gritted his teeth at the thought, reining in his mare before they ran headlong into a cart and he broke his neck. He’d been born and bred to bend under his family’s expectations—the expectations of the title he would eventually inherit. That was the way it had always been.

That was the way it would always be.

There was no use fighting the bit and halter, and he knew it.

It was a pity, though, that Lady Cecilia had lost her freedom as well.



“You do know that you needn’t go to Angrove House if you don’t wish to,” Lady Caire said seriously to Mary Whitsun the next morning.

They were strolling arm in arm in the back garden of Caire House, just the two of them. Mary cherished the times that she could have Lady Caire to herself, and she felt a sudden pang. If she did go to live with the Albrights, she wouldn’t see Lady Caire as much, nor Annalise or Toby.

But if she did go, she’d have a family—a mother who’d cried at the sight of her, a grandmother, and a father and sister she’d yet to meet.

She’d barely slept the night before. How could she? To find out that everything she knew about herself was completely wrong. That the world as she’d understood it was upside down.

That she was expected not only to become an aristocrat, but to marry a stranger.

A stranger who provoked her so. The way Lord Blackwell had kissed her hand had been absolutely shameless. She might have lived her life as a maidservant, but she knew well enough that gentlemen weren’t supposed to actually kiss a lady’s hand. Had he been mocking her? Or did he simply delight in drawing her ire?

She’d felt out of control when he’d held her hand, his humid breath on her knuckles. As if he were snapping all the ropes that held her back.

If she let him destroy all her constraints, what would she feel then?

Mary shivered.

Lady Caire looked at her with concern in her golden-brown eyes, her lips pressed together. Mary knew that she and Lord Caire were as good as their word. That they would try to protect her if she didn’t want to become Lady Cecilia. But what if they couldn’t? An earl, after all, outranked a baron. And if the Albrights truly wanted her as their daughter, she didn’t doubt that they could force her to do as they wished. If Mary balked, would she bring ruin down on the woman who had shown only love and friendship to her all her life?

She didn’t think she could do that.

“Thank you, my lady,” she said. “I…I don’t know quite what to do. Lady Angrove seemed quite sure that I was her daughter.”

“She did,” Lady Caire replied gravely.

Mary sighed. What a very strange thing to consider: that the elegant daughter of a marquess might be her mother. She couldn’t quite think of Lady Angrove as Mother yet. Perhaps she never would, despite the lady’s kind air and obvious longing for her.

It was too much to take in all at once.

“You have several more hours yet,” Lady Caire murmured, sounding worried. “And if…if you do go to the Albrights and later decide that you don’t wish to remain with them, please know that you will always have a home with Lord Caire and me.” She turned and took Mary’s hands, squeezing them warmly. “I’ve long thought of you as a friend, Mary.” She smiled a little sadly. “A friend and an adopted daughter. I hope that whatever you decide, you’ll remain my friend?”

“Oh yes, my lady,” Mary said, feeling tears prick at her eyes. She blinked quickly, not liking to lose her composure entirely.

Lady Caire kissed her cheek. “You have much to decide, so I’ll leave you to think. Remember, though, that whatever you choose to do, I shall support you.”

Mary nodded, unable to respond for the swelling in her throat.

Lady Caire gave a last pat to her hands and turned to walk back inside Caire House.

Mary inhaled, pressing her palms to her cheeks, as she tried to consider what she must do. The garden was lovely this time of year. Michaelmas daisies were just beginning to flower, the small purple blooms nodding cheerily. She strolled slowly, her arms wrapped about her, along the fine gravel path, contemplating her future.

Contemplating Lord Blackwell and the…the things he made her feel.

Did she wish to lose her control? To experience again that wild heat in her belly, those rising, reckless emotions? It didn’t seem ladylike, what he made her feel. And she was wary of the emotions he provoked in her. Surely the man she married ought to make her controlled and serene—not urge her to anger and…and heat?