Ladies of Disgrace Box Set Read online

  “My wife passed away last year,” he announced grimly. “It was quite sudden. An aneurysm in her brain the doctors tell me.”

  I brought my hand to my mouth, suppressing a gasp at the shocking news. “Oh dear Lord, I am so very sorry, Mr. Spencer. My sincerest condolences.” My heart broke for the poor man.

  “Thank you.” He continued to avert a direct gaze, fiddling with the menu.

  What a dreadful thing for a man to endure. Probably only in his early thirties and he suddenly becomes a widower. Afraid to focus on such sadness, I kept silent not wanting to pry further. Thankfully, our waiter approached.

  “May I get you anything to drink before taking your order?”

  “Do you drink wine?” he asked.

  “Not usually,” I replied. “Tea for me, if you please.”

  “Coffee,” he ordered.

  “No, please, if you wish a glass of wine, do not hesitate on my account,” I assured him.

  “Well, if you don’t mind.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I’ll have a glass of Chardonnay,” he requested.

  The waiter left, and I picked up my menu again. “Well, I better decide what to eat.” When the server returned, I ordered baked chicken, and Mr. Spencer chose fish. As we drank our wine and tea, I considered what polite conversation I should raise.

  “So tell me,” he began first, “did you enjoy your stay in Geneva this past year?”

  Thinking back when we first met, I replied with a straight face. “As a matter of fact, yes, but I decided to forgo wearing any red dresses.”

  A soft chuckle left his throat. His regard contained no condemnation. In fact, being in his presence felt relaxing—much like being with his parents.

  “Your mother was most kind to me, Mr. Spencer.” My hand reached up and felt my locket, wondering if he knew what it contained. “As challenging as the experience had been personally, their unwavering support and care for me helped immensely.”

  “Mother is the most compassionate soul I know,” he admitted. “It’s been difficult since the death of Catrina with my family in London and my parents in France. I prefer that they be nearby.”

  Family. His sentiment made me wonder if he had a child, but I refused to pursue the matter further.

  “Are you looking forward to returning home?” he asked, leaning forward with interest.

  At that moment, I looked at him more carefully, taking particular attention to his blue eyes and handsome features. A thin, neatly trimmed mustache, matching the color of his dark brown hair, added to his maturity. Still, a distinct sadness darkened his eyes. No doubt the death of his wife had left a painful scar, much like my own.

  “Somewhat,” I honestly replied halfheartedly.

  “I would have thought you would be pleased to return to life at Kentwood.”

  “As you know, I didn’t leave on good terms with my parents. I don’t think they care if I return or not.” The thought of seeing my mother again instigated an ill-at-ease pull in my stomach as I dreaded facing her apathetic personality. She didn’t even bother to write to me the entire time I had been away. Only the occasional letter from Father arrived with my allowance accompanied by a few pointless sentences.

  “Well, I’m sure they will be happy to see you again.”

  Wanting to change the subject, I turned the conversation back in his direction. “Are you still a solicitor in London?”

  “Yes, on holiday at the moment.”

  “Do you like what you do?”

  “It’s a job,” he answered neutrally.

  “At least you have a skill,” I added. “As a young woman, I have no skill, except to be finished, primed, and educated how to be a proper wife and run a household. It’s not exactly what I’d like to do in life.” I wanted to add that my mother believed me to be unmarriageable material, so I might as well think of a career as a spinster.

  “Is your father willing to send you to university?”

  University. The thought didn’t cross my mind. “Well, I’ve never asked, and he’s never offered. I’ve always had the impression that he only wanted to marry me off.” I grinned thinking of my grandfather. “You know, he comes from a generation where the education of women wasn’t a high priority. My grandfather sent his sons to Oxford and married off the daughters.”

  Mr. Spencer considered my comment but balked at the idea. “Well, I think you can do anything you put your mind to,” he encouraged.

  “Perhaps,” I answered, not actually believing in the possibility.

  “Do you have a particular interest you’d like to pursue?”

  The question caught me off guard. Frankly, I had never thought much about a career of any type. What did I want to do? My thoughts drifted to my daughter. Be a mother, I pondered inwardly.

  “Literature. I would enjoy studying the classics and writing, perhaps.” It sounded somewhat plausible as I offered the only inclination I could think of at the moment.

  “You could be a teacher if you’d like,” he said.

  “A teacher?” As much as I hated to giggle in front of anyone, I couldn’t help respond to his statement with a bit of hilarity. “Can you imagine my father, an earl, allowing his daughter to teach children?” I shook my head negatively. Unfortunately, I knew what awaited me when I returned home. It would be either Mother’s continued reminder that I had turned into a useless and unwanted daughter, while Father in the meantime would attempt to wed me off and get me out of his care.

  Our food arrived, and my empty stomach welcomed the moist, baked chicken, mashed potatoes, and greens. Not feeling like idle chitchat, I ate quietly but noticed that Mr. Spencer had fallen into a contemplating silence of his own.

  “How’s your fish, Mr. Spencer?” I asked, attempting to make polite conversation.

  “Quite good. And your chicken?”

  “Moist.” We simultaneously lifted our eyes to each other and grinned.

  “Call me Reggie,” he said.

  “Oh, dear, much too familiar.” I recoiled. “I will agree, however, to call you Reginald.”

  “Oh dear God. Much too formal, Lady Isabella.”

  “Bella, I replied. You may forgo the lady.”

  “Much too familiar,” he replied, smirking. “I will agree to call you Isabella.”

  We both laughed at our bantering. It felt comfortable to be around Reggie though I did prefer Reginald and decided so for future references mentally and verbally.

  “Do people ever call you Izzy?”

  My face contorted into its usual grimace upon hearing that name. “Please, no Izzy. I hate the name.” His brow rose over my clipped reply.

  “All right, Isabella. Point noted.”

  After we had finished dinner, he suggested we have a drink in the lounge car. Of course, the thought of crossing to another Pullman brought no joy.

  “I will lead the way and help,” he announced. “I’ll even escort you back to your quarters if you’d like.”

  Remembering how he tugged me across and the fact that I landed pressed against his torso brought a slight concern over a repeat performance. As I recalled the moment of feeling the warmth of a male body next to mine, it had been the first in years. Of course, when I initially saw Mr. Spencer, I assumed him to be a married man. Now the situation had altered, which amplified my intrigue.

  “All right,” I replied.

  He insisted on paying for my meal, and I politely accepted the offer. As I rose from my chair, like a gentleman he pulled it back, giving me room to move. The dining car had filled with patrons, and I followed him as he headed to the adjoining car. When we reached the door, he pulled it open, swiftly stepped across, and held out his hand.

  “Nothing to be afraid of,” he said. The assurance in his eyes told me that he would be a bit more careful on how I landed this time. I grasped his hand, and he gave me a slight secure tug, stepping to the side to give me enough room to avoid a repeat collision. However, he held me around my waist to keep me i
n a firm stance.

  Once on the other side of the wobbly barrier, we chose two chairs by a large window.

  “Please have a glass of wine with me,” he pleaded.

  “Well, I suppose that would be all right,” I agreed. “I’m not much a wine connoisseur, so please choose for me.” The fact of the matter at my young age I had barely tasted alcoholic spirits. Since he offered, I decided to relent.

  He rose to his feet and walked to the bar, ordered two glasses, and returned handing me one. Thankfully, the carriages glided smoothly over the tracks. I attempted to position myself comfortably, crossing my legs like a lady and sitting up with poise. As soon as the alcohol touched my tongue, I feared red blotches would soon travel up my neck.

  “If my cheeks turn rosy, it’s just the alcohol,” I casually warned.

  “I’m sure your cheeks look quite adorable with a pink tint.”

  He took a taste of his wine and lounged back into the chair. The compliment took me off guard. As I pondered his choice of words, I wondered if he inferred he still thought me a child rather than a young woman.

  We spent a few moments conversing about inconsequential subjects. His second glass of wine had replaced the sorrowful gaze in his eyes by one of male interest, causing my anxiety to rise tenfold. Perhaps he no longer considered me a child but an object of admiration, so I nudged the conversation to confirm my speculation.

  “I enjoy being in your company,” I sincerely stated with a coy glance. “What I admire the most is your gracious acceptance of my personality in spite of my past.” My hand trembled slightly while holding my wineglass, having just brought up my illegitimate pregnancy. He appeared to notice and cast an empathetic look.

  “We all make mistakes, Isabella. Even I have made poor choices while growing into manhood.”

  “Really?” My interest piqued, but he didn’t elaborate.

  “It’s how we handle ourselves during the trials and learn from our blunders that define our personality.”

  Blunders. The word chosen pricked. I didn’t consider my daughter a blunder but a gift in spite of my foolishness. Instinctively I brought my hand to my locket and fingered it with affection.

  “Mother told me she gave you a gift,” he said, looking at it curiously. “Might I ask if that is the jewelry piece?”

  “Yes,” I responded. My eyes lowered to my glass of wine. “It reminds me of my daughter, which by the way I don’t consider a blunder.”

  Sounding offended by my terse reply, I took a sip of wine and glanced out the window. The sun had set, and suddenly I felt tired. My belly was full, and the wine had relaxed me. After his awkward statement, I felt compelled to return and rest for the next few hours.

  “I didn’t mean to infer that the result of your mistake in itself is a blunder, Isabella. Please, I beg your pardon. It’s not my intent to make you ill at ease.”

  By the worried glint in his eyes, I sensed his remorse. Perhaps my tiredness had caused my grumpy response.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Frankly, I’m feeling tired and should get some sleep.” I glanced at my watch, noting the time. “How much longer until we reach Calais?”

  Reginald took out his pocket watch, flipped the lid, and noted the time. “At least another six to seven hours, I’m afraid.” He shoved the watch back in his vest pocket. “You do have a room reserved for the evening, don’t you?” he asked with a concerned squint. “There are no ships to Dover until the morning.”

  A room? Good gracious. I fell into an instant panic. What had I been thinking? Reginald was quite right. The train would arrive well after midnight and empty us into a city that would be sound asleep. The thought passed through my mind earlier, and I had forgotten.

  “Oh, my gracious,” I gulped. “I’m afraid that I do not.”

  “Well, don’t worry,” he assured me. “I booked a room, and I’m sure they’ll have something open when we arrive.”

  After heaving a sigh, I flashed a smile of relief. “May we travel together back to London?” The words flew out of my mouth before even thinking of the consequences of my question. Since I had been so empty-headed about traveling alone, I suddenly wanted the assurance that Reginald would see me safely to Kentwood.

  “Yes, of course, I’d be delighted,” he replied. He searched my anxious gaze. “I will escort you back to the estate.”

  “Thank you,” I replied. “That puts me at ease.”

  We finished our drinks, and I set my glass down on a side table. “I should get some sleep.”

  “Let me walk you to your quarters,” he remarked. Reginald rose to his feet and held out his hand. Without hesitation, I took it and smiled. As I felt the warmth and secure grasp of his palm, I regretted that I had suggested wanting to return. His eyes searched mind as if he, too, were hoping that I would change my mind. Unable to confess that I wanted to stay, I took the first step toward the car that led back to my sleeper. As before, he helped me across the joined railcars, and by the time that we arrived at my door, I realized that affectionate emotions had blossomed in my heart.

  “Well, here we are,” he said. “Safe and sound.”

  “Yes, safe and sound,” I repeated. A warm smile spread across Reginald’s face, and a look of interest flashed in his eyes.

  “I admire you, Isabella,” he admitted.

  “Why?” His surprising confession startled me. Naturally, I thought it a bit ludicrous based on the circumstances of my past behavior.

  “I just do.” He paused. “It’s difficult for me to express exactly why, except that I find you a fascinating woman.”

  Lowering my head, I fiddled with my purse, feeling embarrassed over his admiration. I had begun to wonder if Catherine had put in a good word for me during his visit to France.

  “Well, I should get some rest,” I replied, opening the door to my quarters.

  “When we pull into the station at Calais, wait for me here so we can leave together.” He put his hand on the side of my upper arm and stroked it softly as if he were reassuring me of his promise.

  “All right then.” Feeling awkward by his touch, I slipped into my cabin. “Good night, Reginald.” My hand slowly pulled the door closed between the two of us.

  Somewhat astonished that a man had stirred my emotions for the first time since my girlish crush on Roger, I sat down and pondered my rapidly beating heart. No longer a foolish girl, I had become a young woman who could explore the realities of love. He interested me immensely in spite of our age difference, which I decided would not deter me in exploring the possibilities.

  Chapter Eight

  No Room at the Inn

  Exhausted but unable to sleep, I felt relieved when the train finally pulled into Calais. I blamed the click-clack of the wheels for my insomnia, but in all honesty, I couldn’t keep my mind off Reginald. In a few minutes he would come to collect me. Gathering my things together, I slipped my arms into my coat, expecting the coastal night air to give me a chill. As I began to button my collar, a soft knock came at the door. Without hesitation, I slid it open to see Reginald standing there. A slight grin curled the corner of his lips, but he looked as exhausted and I did.

  “Doesn’t look like you got much sleep either,” I remarked.

  “You neither?”

  I shook my head but didn’t wish to let my gaze give away my reason. With both hands, I picked up my suitcases.

  “Here, let me get one of those,” he offered, grabbing it from me.

  Without protesting, I followed him down the train corridor to the exit. As I expected, the cool night air met my flushed face. A porter offered a cart for our luggage, which Reginald took, piling my two suitcases and his on top. He seemed to know what direction to head, and he grabbed me by the elbow gently leading me forward through the crowds.

  “There are always cabs waiting outside the station. We’ll catch one to the hotel.” A second later he yawned. “I’m exhausted and can’t wait to get some sleep,” he moaned.

  “Me too.”
After dragging my feet to the cab, we loaded our luggage and departed. It didn’t take more than a few minutes to arrive at our destination. I would have been lost if our paths had not crossed. Naturally, I felt grateful that in my absentmindedness at procuring lodging for the night, he would take care of my needs. When we reached the desk clerk and heard, “I’m sorry, but we are booked for the night,” I didn’t quite know how to react.

  “Are you sure you have nothing?” he asked. His voice carried a tone of frustration. “Are there other lodgings nearby?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but since this is a Saturday evening, hotels are usually filled this time of the night.”

  Reginald looked at me with a sad gaze. “It’s probably a foolish task to attempt to find anything this late,” he said. He glanced at the clerk. “Give me a minute.”

  After taking me by the hand and pulling me aside, I knew exactly what he was going to propose.

  “Do you mind sharing a room? I’ll sleep on the floor or couch or whatever, and you can have the bed.”

  Naturally, I worried about how it would appear to others, especially the clerk. I glanced over at him as he stood watching us. “Why don’t you ask if they have a rollaway bed we can use? Most hotels do.”

  “Good idea,” Reginald said, walking back to the counter. “We can share the room but were wondering if you had a rollaway bed we might borrow.”

  Since we apparently were not married, the clerk hesitated for a moment. Given the situation, I could only hope that we both would have a place to lay our head tonight even if it looked rather scandalous. I would probably never see him again, so what did it matter?

  “Yes, we can accommodate that request,” he said, turning the register around.

  “Are you sure it’s okay?” Reginald asked one more time as he picked up the pen.

  Hesitating at the possible consequences, I leaned into him and whispered, “You won’t tell my parents we had this arrangement, will you?”

  “Of course not,” he quickly countered. “I wouldn’t think of putting your reputation in danger.”

  Even though he sounded sincere, I flashed a coy grin. “Well, it’s a little late for anyone to save my reputation.” Confident that he would treat me respectfully, I nodded my head affirmatively. Frankly, I was so tired that I could have curled up on the couch in the foyer and spent the night. Reginald signed the register, and the clerk gave him the key.