Alcott Hall: Second Sons Book Three

Lord Everton was, in fact, not ready to fall in love with Madeline. That would be impossible, for Bryson Everton, second son of the Marquess of Ely, already fancied himself very much in love with a bay racing filly named Turkish Delight.

It had to be love, right? What else did you call it when a man could talk for twenty-six minutes without taking a breath about every facet of a horse’s form, fitness, and family pedigree. Poets had less to say about the wonders of love than Lord Everton did about his filly’s well-shaped stifles.

In a way, it made things easier for Madeline. She could keep one eye on the clock and use her cup of tea as a shield, brandishing it between her and the lord. Whenever it sounded like he was about to run out of things to say about Turkish Delight, Madeline made a little hmm sound in her throat as she brought her cup to her lips. That was all the encouragement he needed to keep going.

“We meant to start her under saddle when she turned two, but my trainer said we ought to give her another year entire. You can ruin a horse by starting them too soon. Some fillies need the extra year, you know, to gain much needed muscle mass.”

Madeline offered him a weak smile and a nod. “And where do you intend to race her, sir?”

Taking a deep breath, he launched into a one-sided discussion comparing the merits of dirt tracks to turf. Each time he paused to take a bite of cranberry scone, little crumbs dusted down onto the lapels of his coat. With his full chops and bushy mustache, he put Madeline very much in mind of a well-dressed squirrel.

Her mother’s choice for ‘most eligible bachelor’ may have been a bit more eccentric of late, but Lord Everton went beyond the pale. In what world did Lady Raleigh really consider him the most eligible match in England? Was Madeline truly such a hopeless case?

Yes, came the easy answer in her mind. It used the same shrill, calculating voice as her mother.

Madeline couldn’t help her mind from wandering as he droned on. She was seated in the corner of her aunt’s cozy drawing room, near to the fire. That, at least, was a blessed relief. After nearly forty-five minutes in the freezing cold, she was only just starting to feel completely thawed out. The fire crackled and hissed in the grate, working overtime to heat the chilly room.

All around her, the other guests sat on chairs and poufs, the ladies gaily chatting with their own eager suitors. Her cousin Charlotte even sported a fan, fluttering it before her face in a way Madeline assumed must be seductive, only it was December, and this room was bitterly cold. Madeline fought the urge to smirk. Lord Tewksworth hardly seemed to notice, lost in the dazzle of Charlotte’s smile.

On the sofa opposite Madeline, even her youngest cousin Mary was making good progress with the Earl of Lindsey’s son. Just as Lady Raleigh feared, the little frippet seemed poised to land herself a match by year’s end. Madeline smiled. Mary wasn’t a frippet, in fact she was highly clever and emotionally sensitive. She was just better at this game than Madeline, which annoyed the viscountess to no end. It wasn’t about Mary’s success. It was always only ever about Madeline’s repeated failure.

The handsome young lord let out a loud chortle at something Mary said, leaning forward to snag a biscuit off her plate. She swatted at him playfully. “Oh, Lord Allen, you are a thief! Mama, Lord Allen has stolen my last biscuit!”

There was a flurry of squeals and laughter across the room as Mary launched from the sofa, determined to replace her biscuit. Lord Allen hurried after her, nearly tripping on the carpet as he gave eager chase.

Madeline had to clutch her cup and saucer to herself, pressing back against the cushions to avoid the whip of his coattails. Next to her, Lord Everton sighed, checking his pocket watch for the third time. He was bored of her. She didn’t blame him. She’d contributed all her useful knowledge about horse racing twenty-one minutes ago.

But it was finally her turn to lead the conversation, and her mind was blank. What could she possibly say at this man that he would want to hear? What were her mother’s talking points again? How did Madeline bring one up naturally?

It suddenly felt as if the whole room were spying on her, ready to watch her fail. She felt the prickle of eyes on the back of her head. Oh yes, how entertaining to watch Mu-mu-muttering Madeline make a fool of herself yet again.

She dared a glance across the room to where her mother sat, pretending to be in conversation with Aunt Judith. Lady Raleigh was such a stately woman—tall where Madeline was short, poised where Madeline was tense, verbose where Madeline was silent. Not for the first, time, Madeline felt envious of her mother. The only thing they shared was their coloring, fair blonde hair and sky-blue eyes.

She didn’t miss the pointed look the viscountess gave her, those narrowed eyes darting from her to Lord Everton and back. “Say something,” she mouthed.

Madeline cleared her throat, her finger curling tighter around the handle of her teacup. Why did she make this so difficult for herself? What was wrong with her that she couldn’t just say one of the thousand and one thoughts currently rolling around inside her head? The pressure to perform felt overwhelming, even when the stakes were as low as failing to impress Lord Bryson Everton. But she had to try. She had to set her confounded shyness aside. She had to say something!

“So…do you…umm…”

That’s it. That’s as far as she got with a coherent thought.

The fire crackled and popped, the hiss of the flames loud in her ears. Atop the mantle, the handsome carriage clock went tick, tick, tick, tick, counting up the seconds of Madeline’s mortification. All around her, the other ladies laughed and chittered, easily letting words pour forth like so many musical fountains. While, across the room, she could practically hear the silent groan her mother suppressed.

“Stables,” she blurted, feeling as if the word had been squeezed from her throat.

“Pardon?” said Lord Everton, his mouth full of his fourth scone.

She took a breath. “My father’s stables are very grand.” She winced at the unnecessary superlative. They were, in fact, rather average. Lord Raleigh wasn’t much of a horseman. “We could see them,” she went on. “Or you could. I mean, that is to say, would you like to see them?”

God, she really was hopeless. She bit her bottom lip, waiting for his rejection.

He pursed his lips, glancing down to finally notice the spray of crumbs dusting his jacket. He brushed the off with a lazy wave of his hand, setting aside him empty plate. “Actually, I had rather hoped to ask about the stables at Leary House. I was curious as to their condition.”

Madeline stilled, her cup raised halfway to her lips. All the sounds in the room were suddenly muted. There was only a faint humming in her ears. This wasn’t possible. Could it be a coincidence?

No, Madeline didn’t believe in coincidences.

She rattled her cup onto the saucer and sat forward, eyes narrowed. “What did you just say?”

He slurped his coffee, his hands appearing overly large clutching the dainty, floral patterned china cup. “I said I was curious to know the conditions of the Leary stables. Are they in proper working order? Renovations are a chore, and the price of lumber has never been higher. I don’t want to be making a poor investment.”

Madeline’s heart was racing. Further proof. She could hardly draw breath. Her eye darted from Lord Everton to the place where her mother watched. She set aside her cup of tea with a soft clatter. “And why would that be a thing that came of your mouth?” she pressed.

He raised a confused brow, clearly off-put by her sudden rudeness. “I beg your pardon?”

She leaned forward, hands clutched tightly in her lap. “Why are you asking me about Leary House?”

His lips pursed under that thick mustache. “Well, because of the inheritance. It is part of your dowry now, no?” At her look of confusion he sighed. “Look, you’re a lovely girl, Lady Madeline. But if the Leary fortune isn’t part of your dowry, tell me now. I don’t like feeling as though I’ve wasted my time.”

She gasped, sinking back as if struck. “I…”

Without thinking, she was on her feet. Lord Everton nearly tumbled his plate off his lap in his rush to stand as well. “Lady Madeline—”

“I thank you, Lord Everton,” she said on a breath. “It’s been a pleasure, but I must go.” She didn’t even wait for his response. Feeling the eyes of the room on her, she rushed towards the door. Her cousins all called after her, polite words or worry and concern. But she didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop.

“Madeline?” her mother called. “Madeline, wait—”

But Madeline was already out of the drawing room, rushing away down the hall towards the front door.

“Madeline, what on earth are you doing?” her mother cried, hot on her heels. “Go back in at once, and apologize to Lord Everton. He came here expressly to see you—”

“No, he didn’t,” Madeline huffed, snatching her pale blue pelisse off the hook by the door. “He came here to see if my dowry had improved. He doesn’t want me, Mama. He only wants the money—”

“Lower your voice,” she hissed, stepping closer, one eye looking warily over her shoulder. “Do you want him to hear you?”

Madeline just shook her head, fingers fumbling as she buttoned her pelisse. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what? Madeline, what are you doing? Take that off at once, and go back to the drawing room,” her mother ordered.

“I can’t stay here. I have to go.”

“Where are you going?”

“Away.”

Her mother huffed an empty laugh. “You will go when I say you can go. Now, stop being petulant, and go apologize to Lord Everton. Then I think you should lie down for a quarter of an hour in Mary’s room. You’re clearly ill.”

Madeline paused, her fingers frozen on the last button of her pelisse. “Were you ever going to tell me?” She didn’t dare turn around. She didn’t want to watch her mother lie to her face.

“Tell you what? Madeline, this behavior is unpardonably rude—”

Madeline spun around. “The will, Mama! Were you going to tell me about Great Aunt Maude’s will?”

Lady Raleigh sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes darting to take in Madeline’s face. “Oh, this again? What are you on about?”

Madeline squared her shoulders at the woman who towered over her. “Your game is up. I know the truth, Mama.”

Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “How—oh!” She hissed like an angry cat. “When I see that shameless excuse for a law clerk again, I will ring his neck myself. How dare he upset you like this!”

“Patrick told me the truth, Mama,” Madeline cried. “Which is more than I can say for you. How long have you known she wrote me into her will?”

Her mother crossed her arms, still glancing over her shoulder towards the open drawing room doors. “What did your cousin tell you?”

“Enough,” Madeline replied.

That was a lie. Patrick only mentioned the will last night in passing. He’d meant it as a joke, voicing his surprise that she wasn’t making more of an effort to claim her new inheritance. When it became clear she had no idea what he was talking about, he’d gone slightly red in the face and scampered before they could finish their game of chess.

“Are you going to tell me about my inheritance? Or did you plan to keep trying to force me into a match with the likes of Lord Everton, a man so impossibly dull he makes watching the seconds tick by on a clock more thrilling than opening night at the theatre!”

“Madeline!” her mother gasped, one hand flying to cover her dainty mouth.

Madeline said that last loud enough to be heard down the hall, she was sure of it.

Good. I want this bridge burned.

“Just tell me the truth,” she pleaded. “Could this all be over?” She waved a hand, gesturing down the hall towards the drawing room. “Did Aunt Maude leave me money in her will? Could I be free of this hell at last?”

To her surprise, Lady Raleigh didn’t respond with anger. In fact, her eyes went glassy, and she sniffed back tears. “Oh, Madeline.” She gave her head a gentle shake. “No.”

Madeline blinked, fighting back her own tears now. “Mama, please,” she murmured. “Please, if you love me at all, just tell me.”