A Ladies’ Guide to the Pursuit of
Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment
by Charles Brightmore
Andrew leaned his shoulders against the white marble mantel in the drawing room and tried his best not to glare at the monstrous floral tribute that dominated the room. Clearly he was not entirely successful-either that or Spencer was clairvoyant-because the lad said, “Dreadful, isn’t it?”
He turned his attention to Spencer, who sat on an overstuffed brocade settee next to the fireplace. The boy’s attention was fixed upon the trio of fruit tarts remaining on the silver platter Milton had served with their tea.
“Dreadful,”Andrew agreed. “Whoever sent that bouquet must have emptied every flower shop in the district.”
“The Duke of Kelby,” Spencer said, plucking a strawberry-topped tart from the tray. “Horrendously wealthy, although I’m certain the flowers came from his private conservatory, not a local shop.”
Bloody hell. The quizzing glass sporting, carplike duke was horrendously wealthy. With his own damn private conservatory.
Before Andrew could comment, Spencer looked up at him with a worried frown. “Is my mother all right?”
Wariness skittered through Andrew. “What do you mean?”
“She seemed worried. Did something happen in London to upset her?”
Damn it, he didn’t want to lie to the boy, yet he couldn’t ignore Lady Catherine’s request not to mention the shooting. “I think the journey back to Little Longstone exhausted her,” he said carefully.
There was no mistaking Spencer’s relief, and Andrew felt like a cad of the first order for not being honest with the lad. God knows he’d uttered an uncountable number of lies over the years without so much as batting an eye, but being less than truthful with this young man did not sit well at all.
Anxious to change the subject lest he be forced to say something else less than truthful, he asked, “Tell me, what sort of man is this duke?”
“Don’t really know. But he looks like a carp. I’d say he belongs in your museum with the rest of the relics.” Spencer stuffed half the tart in his mouth with a huge, enthusiastic bite that had Andrew holding back a grin. He swallowed, then added, “But it’s not just that he’s carplike. He doesn’t care about my mother.”
“And how do you know that?”
Spencer jerked his head toward the flower monstrosity. “Because he sent her those. She hates large, ostentatious displays like that. If he knew anything about my mother, he’d know that she’d prefer a single bloom.”
Andrew made a mental note of that useful information, and, burying the guilt that pricked him at questioning Spencer, he asked, “What else does your mother like?”
Spencer screwed up his face, clearly giving the matter serious thought. “Girl things,” he finally said.
“Girl things?”
“Yes. You know, gowns and ribbons and flowers and such. But simple. Not like that.” He pointed toward the huge bouquet.
Hmmm. Not much help there. “What else? Jewelry, I suppose?”
Spencer shook his head. “No. Or at least not very much I don’t think, as she rarely wears any. Mum likes animals. Walking in the gardens. Tending her flowers. Taking the waters. And strawberries. She’s very fond of strawberries.” He popped the other half of the tart into his mouth and grinned. “Me too.”
Andrew smiled in return. “Me three.” He leaned down, to help himself to a strawberry tart, which he ate with only marginally less gusto than Spencer, eliciting a laugh from the boy.
“Well, I’m glad that the duke doesn’t know what Mum likes,” Spencer said, his expression sobering, “or any of those other gentlemen who are trying to win her favor. She doesn’t need them. We don’t need them.” His gaze wandered down to his misshapen foot, and his jaw tightened. When he raised his gaze, Andrew’s heart lurched at the thousand hurts he read shimmering in Spencer’s eyes.
“I wish I could make them all just take away their flowers and invitations and gifts and leave her alone,” Spencer said, a quiver evident in his fervent voice. “I wish I was strong and could fight. Like you. Then they’d leave her alone.”
“I fight gentlemen in the pugilist’s ring,” Andrew said gently. “I don’t make a habit of going about popping dukes in the nose-even if they do send horrible flower arrangements.” Of course, I could change my policy on that…
Spencer didn’t respond with the smile Andrew had hoped for. “Uncle Philip said you are also an expert fencer.”
“I’m passable.”
“Uncle Philip said you’ve defeated him, and he is an expert.” Before Andrew could reply, Spencer rushed on, “Who taught you to fight with your fists?”
“My father gave me some instructions-after I arrived home one afternoon with a bleeding nose, swollen lip, and two blackened eyes. The rest I learned the hard way, I’m afraid.”
Spencer’s jaw dropped. “Someone hit you?”
“Hit is an understatement for the thorough thrashing I received.”
“Who would do such a thing? And why? Weren’t they afraid of you?”
Andrew laughed. “Hardly. I was only nine years old at the time, and as scrawny as they come. I was walking home after a successful afternoon of lake fishing when two local boys set upon me. They were both about my age, but far less scrawny than I. After they blackened my eyes, they relieved me of my fish.”
“I wager they wouldn’t attempt such a thing now,” Spencer predicted.
“I’d certainly give them a better showing than I did back then,” Andrew agreed.
“Did they ever do it again?”
“Oh, yes. They waited for me every week, the same spot, on my way home from the lake. I changed my return route, but they quickly caught on to that ploy. They made my life excessively miserable for several months.” Memories swept over him, of his shame at returning to his father without the fish he’d been sent to catch. The humiliation of shedding tears of pain and frustration, in spite of his best efforts not to, in front of his tormentors. His father looking at him through shrewd, yet calm eyes. How many more times you gonna let those whelps beat the tar out of you and steal our dinner, son? Wiping his bloody nose with the back of his hand, fighting back tears. None, Pa. They ain’t gonna beat me next time. Show me again how to fight them…
“And then what happened?”
Andrew blinked and the memory dissipated as if blown away on a gentle breeze. “I learned how to fight. How to protect myself. Then I bloodied their noses. Only had to do it once.”
Spencer’s lips pressed together into a thin line. “I’d wager your fattier was proud of you when you succeeded in subduing those ruffians.”
There was no missing the pain in those words, and Andrew’s heart squeezed for this young man whose hurts obviously ran so deep, and who, in spite of having all his mother’s love, still longed for a father’s love and acceptance as well. “My father was proud,” Andrew agreed softly, refusing to acknowledge the lump of emotion threatening to clog his throat. “And very relieved that we wouldn’t be losing our fish any longer.”
“Why didn’t your father go with you to the lake so the boys wouldn’t set upon you?”
“You know, at the time, I asked myself, and him, that very question. And I’ve never forgotten what he said. He told me, ‘Son, a man doesn’t let anyone else fight his battles for him. If someone else has to fight for your pride, then it isn’t yours at all. ’” He smiled. “My father was a very wise man.”