Chapter Three

T hough George had already drunk two cups of tea, he didn’t mind sitting down and having another with his sister. With Arabella’s hint in mind, he scrutinized Caro’s appearance carefully, but could not see any signs of illness. On the contrary, she appeared to be in blooming health. He relaxed and let his body slump against the back of his well-padded armchair. He hadn’t exaggerated about being exhausted by his travels.

“When’s the blessed event to be, then?” he asked.

Caro’s lively face froze, and she hunched her shoulders up. Blast! He ought not have worded it that way.

“Ah, sorry,” he corrected. “I mean...” He glanced away as he mentally scrambled for the right words.

The lines of worry smoothed out of Caro’s face. “It’s all right,” she said quietly. “You needn’t apologize. I hope to be confined in January. But it could be later.” Her lips tightened. “Or never. It is early, you know.” Her blue-gray eyes—usually sparkling with humor—looked dispassionate and remote.

“I know.” George stared into his teacup, wishing he had some comfort to offer his sister. When they were children, he’d often had to reassure her after a tumble or bump that left her in tears. His parents taught him that such was his responsibility as an older brother, and he had taken his duty seriously. But this wound was neither a scratch that could be easily plastered over, nor a pain that could be soothed with a sweet biscuit or a cup of chocolate. He felt thoroughly useless in the face of Caro’s continued grief.

“I am doing quite well at the moment.” The cheer in Caro’s voice sounded forced, but the way her face softened as she met his gaze looked genuine enough. “But enough of that! What are you doing here? We did not look to see you again until September.”

George grinned. “Am I that predictable? I must take advantage of your hospitality too often.” His parents owned no estate of their own, and thus had no hunting rights, but his brother-in-law maintained excellent coveys. George generally visited Newton Park during the first sunny weeks in September or October, joining in Leland’s shooting parties. But he had no such excuse this time. “No, the fact of the matter is that I had to pay a visit to Uncle William, and I thought I’d stop here on my way home.”

“Well, it is good to see you.” Caro handed him a fresh cup of tea. “I hope Uncle William is not doing poorly?”

George snorted. “Only if by ‘poorly’ you mean ‘taken a new crotchet.’ He invited all the young men of the family to dine with him, he wants to bribe one of us to get married posthaste.”

Caro had taken a sip of her tea and the expressions that flitted across her face as she tried to avoid choking or spitting it out were priceless. “And why would he do that?”

He shrugged and took another biscuit. “I believe he is worried about the Kirkland line ending.” Now that he was away from Uncle William, he could afford to be amused about it. The Kirkland family had always been respectable, but they were hardly an illustrious or noble house. They were only the cadet branch of the Kirklands of Cheshire. What did it matter if their family line died out? There would still be plenty of more distant Kirkland relatives! “But you’ll never believe what he promised to whichever of us marries first.”

“Half his fortune?” Caro suggested. “Or, even better, an estate with an immense pinery?”

“Why a pinery?” George’s eyes widened. Where had that come from?

“I’ve been craving pineapple,” Caro admitted, “but no one I know keeps a pinery. At least, no one who lives nearby. My friend Eustacia sent me one, but by the time it got here, it was half rotted away.” She scrunched her face up at the memory.

“Ah. Well, I am afraid I cannot help you with that.” George took another bite of his biscuit, still amused. Then, rudely talking around the food in his mouth, he added: “But I suppose whoever wins Dogwood Cottage will have all the cherries and apples a man could want.” Assuming any man wanted sour, wormy apples.

“Uncle William’s giving Dogwood Cottage away?” A line formed between Caro’s dark brows. “But he loves that house! I can’t believe he’d part with it.”

“He says his health is too bad to use it himself, so he wants to see a young family growing there. Or something like that. He’s hoping treasure seekers will stop breaking in if the cottage is occupied.”

Had the cottage had always attracted so much attention from treasure seekers? Certainly, George and Caroline had grown up hearing stories of treasure hidden in the kitchen, but he didn’t remember anyone breaking into the house to find it. Maybe Uncle William was right about the house needing occupants to protect it.

George chased down the biscuit with the last of his tea. He pondered the teapot for a moment, but decided he’d had enough. The tea had already worked its usual magic, clearing the cobwebs out of his mind.

“You don’t think he could be growing senile, do you?” Caro looked genuinely worried.

George shook his head and put his empty plate back on the tea table. Uncle William had not seemed the least bit senile to him. On the contrary, he’d looked and acted like a man who was vastly entertained by the game he wanted his young relatives to play.

“I believe he is just having fun in his own eccentric way,” he told Caro. “And I suppose it is harmless fun, more or less. But I regret that one of Ambrose’s boys will win the wager, or whatever you call it.” His stomach soured as he imagined Augustus or Benedict lounging by the fire in the front parlor, snacking on a plate of home-grown fruit.

“And why should they win?” Caro raised her brows, a question in her eyes.

“Vincent refuses to play,” George explained. “He says it’s immoral to encourage people to marry rashly. And of course, I’m out of the running. It’s not as if I know anyone who would marry me in a hurry.” There might have been women willing to marry George for the sake of twenty thousand pounds and a comfortable home, but he did not want to marry a stranger. He might spend the rest of his life in a miserable marriage! “Maybe Vincent has the right of it after all,” he conceded.

Caro frowned. “It is a pity though. I always liked Dogwood Cottage. We made many happy memories there, didn’t we?” The line between her brows deepened. “Do you really not know anyone you could marry, George? Surely there must be some agreeable young lady of your acquaintance you could ask!”

George chuckled bitterly. “A man who earns his living by his pen does not have many chances to circulate in good society,” he reminded her. “It’s not as if I spend my afternoons squiring young ladies about Hyde Park, like a young nobleman.” Getting solicitations from streetwalkers was more like it, but he could not say that to his sister! A few of his friends did have sisters of marrying age, but none that he knew well, or particularly wanted to know better.

“No, I’ll have to leave it to Augustus and Benedict. But you’re right that it is a pity. I would have liked...” His voice trailed off. What point was there in talking about what he would have liked to do? He would do better to try to forget about Uncle William’s ridiculous contest. “So, anyway, how is Leland?”

To his surprise, Caro did not answer. She stared down at the floor, tapping her foot restlessly. The expression on her face made him uneasy. She looked deep in thought, and he suspected he was not going to like whatever she was thinking.

“Caro?” he prompted.

“George.” She lifted her chin and fixed him with a steely gaze. “Why don’t you ask Belle?”

He stared blankly at his sister. “Ask Belle what? How Leland is doing? But wouldn’t you know that better than she would, what with him being your husband?”

“No,” she said impatiently, “ask Belle to marry you.”

It was a good thing George no longer had a plate in hand, because he probably would have dropped it in shock. As it was, the only thing he could drop was his jaw. Which he did, while he continued to stare at his sister.

“Oh, stop gaping at me,” she grumbled. “It’s the perfect solution. You are both of marrying age. She has no prospects at the moment, so it might be a good thing for her. And you can hardly object to her, since you have been friends all your life.”

George finally found his tongue again. “Belle was your friend, not mine!” Even as he said it, though, he knew it wasn’t true. Not so very many years ago, he had played cricket with Caro, Arabella, and Joshua Canning on the village green at Norton Combe. They had all been friends together, though Joshua was nearly four years his junior.

“Don’t be silly.” Caro dismissed his objection with a wave of her hand. “You like her well enough, don’t you?”

Well enough for what? Well enough to have a comfortable chat with her, yes. Well enough to trade family gossip or listen sympathetically to her current troubles and cares. Well enough to call her by an old nickname, even. But well enough to marry ? Well enough to…? His ears burned with embarrassment as he considered some of the duties marriage entailed.

“Caro, you ought to stop matchmaking,” he said sharply. “You will spoil our old friendship. Belle does not fancy me, and I do not fancy her.”

“But you don’t have an aversion to her, do you?” Caro pressed.

“An aversion?” His whole face felt aflame with embarrassment. “This entire conversation is improper. I am certain that Belle would not want to marry me.” He hated the priggish tone in his voice, but he needed to nip this in the bud.

“How can you be sure of that if you haven’t asked her?” Caro retorted. “I believe she is fond of you. The two of you might suit very well.” A smile crossed her face. “And it would be pleasant to have such a dear friend as my sister-in-law.”

“Caroline, that is enough!” He glared at her, hoping his use of her full name would silence this nonsense.

It worked. She bit her lip and averted her gaze. “It was only a suggestion!” She used much the same tone she might have used to soothe Charlie in the middle of a tantrum. “You may take it or leave it.”

“I will most certainly not take it!” George glanced at the mantel clock. “But I will take my leave, if you do not mind. I’d better dress for dinner. Assuming, of course, that I am invited to dinner.” He grinned at his sister. He was, after all, an uninvited guest.

She dismissed his concern with a wave of her hand. “Of course you are invited, foolish boy!”

Foolish boy, indeed! He was a whole year older than her! He refrained from pointing that out, since he did not want to start another quarrel with his sister. Instead, he dressed for dinner, resolving to put his conversation with Caro out of his head. What nonsense it was to think he should marry Arabella Canning just because they’d been friends in childhood!

Unfortunately, it wasn’t easy to set aside Caro’s proposed solution. He could not get the suggestion out of his head at dinner, because Belle sat beside him at the round dining table. Every time their eyes met, he wondered what Belle would say if she knew about Caro’s matchmaking attempt. He knew she would turn him down if he proposed, but would she be offended? Hurt? Amused?

Fortunately, Belle seemed to have gotten over her shyness of the afternoon. She talked readily about books and essays they’d both read. He discovered, rather to his surprise, that she had read his reviews of Guy Mannering and Emma , though she disagreed with his assessment of the latter novel. They spent much of the evening arguing about which heroine was worse: Emma Woodhouse or Fanny Price. George found Fanny insipid and too moralistic, while Belle thought Emma Woodhouse’s wealth and status sheltered her so much, she didn’t understand the world around her.

“Perhaps I am partial to Fanny Price because I fade into the background just as she does.” Belle stared down at her half-empty plate, looking bashful again.

“No, you do not! You have much more personality than she does!” George insisted. Then he caught his sister watching him from across the room, a knowing smirk on her face. He glanced away, embarrassed. He lowered his voice, not wanting his sister to overhear. “She is defined only by her judgment of other people’s amusements.”

“And by her concern about her family’s well-being.” Belle lifted her eyes from the plate and looked George full in the face as she argued. “As well as her love for Edmund.”

“I consider her love of Edmund to be one of Fanny’s flaws,” George explained, “because it prevented her from pursuing a more advantageous match. If she had accepted Henry Crawford, he might have become a reformed character. He was an intelligent man who only needed a little moral guidance.”

Belle vigorously shook her head. “It ought not be a woman’s job to reform a man. Or to guide him. Men are responsible for their own lives, just as women are. And why should Fanny give up the man of her heart merely because she might have helped improve Henry Crawford?”

“I suppose women want every marriage to be a love match.” George glanced out of the corner of his eye at his sister, hoping she overheard this part of the conversation. Maybe Caro would realize there wasn’t the least chance of Belle accepting George. Clearly, Belle was a romantic at heart. She would not want to marry for the sake of a fortune.

George meant to put the whole question of matrimony aside after dinner, but that was easier said than done. Tonight, everything reminded him of marriage. When he picked up a copy of yesterday’s paper, the wedding announcements promptly caught his eye. Even after he set the paper aside, he had the example of his sister and her husband sitting cozily on a sofa together, talking privately.

When Caro laughed softly at something Leland said, George had to glance away. He did not want to observe his sister’s domestic happiness, given how unlikely it was that he’d experience the same happiness any time soon. It could take years for a literary man to establish his career well enough to support a wife and family. Normally, that did not bother him, but Uncle William’s ridiculous absurd offer made him think wistfully about what might have been.

“You look unhappy, Mr. Kirkland,” Belle observed. “I hope you have not met with some disappointment.” She sat in the armchair by the fire, a tea table separating her chair and his.

George’s frown deepened. “You did not used to call me Mr. Kirkland. When we were children, you called me ‘George.’”

“We are not children anymore.” She studied the piece of needlework in her hand. She was embroidering the borders of what looked like a blanket for Caro and Leland’s hoped-for baby.

“I suppose it would be most proper for us to address each other formally.” George ought to call her “Miss Canning” rather than “Belle” now that she was a grown woman. How strange that sounded! But it ought not bother him that she called him “Mr. Kirkland.” Why did it bother him? The corners of his mouth turned down in disgruntlement, and he shifted uneasily on his chair.

“Have I said something to distress you?” Belle’s eyes looked soft with concern as she put down her embroidery.

They were, George grudgingly admitted, very lovely eyes. Belle’s eyes were gentian blue—not quite purple, but the closest to it that he’d ever seen. He had never met anyone else with eyes that color. Framed with thick lashes of dark gold, they beautified Belle’s whole face, making her otherwise unremarkable features sweetly appealing.

Sweetly appealing ? He caught himself in horror. He would never have thought such a thing if Caro had not made that ridiculous suggestion about marrying Arabella Canning! Before, those eyes and lashes were just part of Belle’s face. Never before did they have the least effect on George’s breathing, heart rate, or blood circulation.

Not that he had ever been completely oblivious to his friend’s appearance, mind you. He generally noticed when a new dress or hat Belle wore was particularly becoming. And if anyone asked him, he would have said that Arabella Canning was a rather pretty girl.

But though he might have described her as an attractive girl, he had never paused to consider more specifically whether he was attracted to her. He did not want to consider the question now. He would rather keep Belle neatly labelled as a neighbor, a childhood playmate, and his sister’s good friend. He did not want to think of her as a girl who might be courted, kissed, or bedded. It was one thing to fantasize about bedding a flirtatious barmaid; it was another thing entirely to imagine such things about one’s own friend.

“Is something wrong?” Belle asked innocently.

George’s face flushed, not so much in shame as in horror at what he had just pictured. Or maybe the horrifying thing was how much he liked what he saw in his mind.

“I am not feeling my best, but I’m probably just tired. It has been rather a long day, you know.” He set down his book and got to his feet. “If you will be so kind as to excuse me.” He could not bear Belle’s look of wide-eyed innocence. How shocked she would be if she had any clue what he’d just contemplated doing with her!

Caro sent a questioning look across the room. “I believe I ought to turn in early,” he announced. “Good night, then.” Perhaps he would be able to curb his unruly imagination once he was away from Belle.

That night, he dreamed he was a child again, playing in Dogwood Cottage. He and his sister were searching the house from the root cellar to the attic, looking for the treasure that locals claimed had been hidden in the cottage centuries ago. In real life, the treasure was nothing but a legend. Though George and Caro had looked for it many times, they succeeded only in getting dust and cobwebs all over themselves, to the dismay of their nurse.

In his dream, however, the siblings found the treasure chest: not buried beneath the kitchen floor or behind a wooden panel but simply tucked under a bed. But when George opened up the box, it contained only a plain gold wedding ring. He picked up the ring and promptly woke with a jolt. He sat up in bed, his heart pounding as if he’d just had a nightmare.

But the solution that came to him was not terrifying. It was brilliant . There might be a way he could win Uncle William’s contest without the risk of spending his entire life in an unhappy marriage. What could it hurt to try?