pace, bearing his charges toward the seashore and the haven of Rock Rose Cottage.
* * *
How could she possibly?
And yet here she sat on the balcony overlooking the very lovely gardens of Fencroft House with the dratted notebook in her lap.
Her brain nearly ached with the studying she had been doing. If it had not been for pleasant memories of a darkly handsome man flitting through her brain at odd times, she would be completely addle-brained by now.
Where had he come from—where had he gone to?
Sheaves of paper fluttered on her lap. The afternoon breeze lifted the scent of roses from below. She shook her head. It didn’t matter about the man.
She was not intended for him, knew nothing about him. For all that she stared down at the fountain she was not likely to see him again.
Glancing back at the notebook, she frowned, wanting to rip the pages to shreds and rain them down on the garden.
She felt part saint for going along with Grandfather’s machinations, also part pawn, and completely a fool.
If she felt a fool to herself she would appear thrice so to others. She was a foreigner to the ways of the British aristocracy in every way she could be.
“Correct forms of address,” her grandfather had written in the bold script he always used.
She had read it so many times that the paper was limp. How did Londoners keep everyone straight? Perhaps one had to be born to it.
If she closed her eyes and thought hard she recalled that she would address the earl as Lord Fencroft, but only for the first meeting. After that she would call him “my lord” or, perhaps in time, Fencroft.
But under the stress of a face-to-face meeting she might forget. The American in her might blurt out something like: How pleasant to meet you, Mr. Cavill. Or what if she accidentally called him Mr. Fencroft—or Oliver! That might result in a great scandal.
But if she became his wife? What did she call him then? Something a bit more personal than his title, she hoped. And if that familiarity was allowed, was she permitted to use it in public or only in private?
And what would he call her? Madeline? She had urged Grandfather to send a telegram to the earl informing him that it would be Clementine who was coming and not Madeline. He’d only laughed and said it was not necessary because Lord Fencroft was a lucky man to get either of his girls.
Pressure built in her head, pounding behind her eyes. She could see it all too clearly—after she made a fool of herself and disgraced Grandfather by incorrectly addressing the earl, she would need to address his siblings.
“Lady Olivia” would be right and easy, or perhaps it was “the Lady Olivia”? She squinted at the note Grandfather had written in the margin. Olivia had married Victor Shaw—the younger son of an earl—which meant she retained her own precedence.
What did that even mean?
Does that change what I call her? Would not “Mrs. Shaw,” or Heaven help them all, “Olivia” suffice for most occasions?
The one thing she did know for certain was that Grandfather was going to regret bringing her here. No doubt he was going to have to take her home a shamed woman without the title he considered so vital to the survival of the Macooish line—which at this moment in time did not exist beyond her and Madeline.
Lost in puzzling out exactly why she had agreed to cross the ocean in the first place, other than perhaps being a martyr to Grandfather’s cause, Clementine found her mind drifting back to the stranger in the garden—again.
She was prone to do that far too easily. Truly, she had no business considering marriage to anyone until she could put that dashing fellow out of her head.
With a sigh she returned her attention to the notebook on her lap and reminded herself that one day she would have to live her life without her grandfather. And how could she possibly do that knowing she had let him down?
She could not and so here she was.
But even now all she had committed to do was to seriously consider the marriage. She would need to meet the earl before she would make such a monumental decision.
While Grandfather had agreed to offer his granddaughter to Oliver Cavill and the earl had agreed to accept her—well, not her so much as Madeline—she, the granddaughter sitting on a balcony in Mayfair needed to know that the man she would spend her life with was someone she could respect.
Love might or might not follow wedding vows and the marriage might still be adequate. But without respect? No, without that a union could only end in misery.
Grandfather seemed convinced that she would be content with his choice for her groom.
Indeed! He’d been confident enough to have invested a fortune in the venture, surely half of it in ball gowns. He would need to succeed in his Scotland venture in order to recoup the cost.
Since Clementine was not convinced that fluff and satin ruffles would ensure happiness, or even basic contentment, she was withholding her final decision. Or so she told herself.
Deep down she knew the Earl of Fencroft would have to be quite unworthy in order for her to break Grandfather’s heart.
So, for now, she had to practice. “It is lovely to meet you, Lady Olivia, or whoever you are in whichever social situation is at hand.” Being alone on the balcony, she allowed a frustrated and unladylike snort to escape her lips. “I’ll need to marry quickly so I can call you good sister and be done with it.”
“And in the meantime Lady Olivia should suffice nicely.”
Clementine turned her cheek up for her grandfather’s kiss.
“Is not your new home grand?” He grinned at the impressively stately building across the way.
Oh, it was grand, but not so formal-looking as to be unwelcoming. A pretty vine twined up the west side of the house while flowering trees bordered a private patio on the east side.
Still, to call the town house home was premature.
“And tomorrow, your season will begin.”
“What was that?” Absorbed in looking at the town house as she had been, she must have misheard.
“Your social season. Your coming out, so to speak.”
“You will recall that I am twenty-three years old and a good five years past time for that.”
“Folderol. I do realize it is late in the season but I still hope to have you presented at court.”
“No, Grandfather. Perhaps I will wed to your liking, but I will not be paraded about like a blushing innocent. It would be humiliating.”
“You are an innocent, are you not? And in the moment you are blushing. I’ve got to warn you, my dear, that as an American you will be suspect. As a foreigner sweeping in to claim a plum of a prize you must observe all the customs.”
