London Ladies (The Complete Series)

by Eaton, Jillian

  And he would never touch Charlotte again.

  “If not for her, I would choke the life out of you with my bare hands. You hurt the one person most precious to me in the entire world. If you had killed her…” Unable to finish the threat for the rage pulsing through him, Gavin stood up and wiped the blood off his hands.

  He swiftly made the necessary arrangements, and Dobson was dealt with accordingly. Still unconscious, he was loaded into a carriage and taken to Newgate where Gavin’s money and influence would ensure he remained imprisoned for the rest of his miserable life. He sent Ernie along to ensure the butler ended up where he was supposed to, and went upstairs to find Charlotte.

  She was sleeping curled up on his side of the bed, her hands tucked between her thighs and a line of worry creasing her brow. Smoothing away the line with a kiss, Gavin silently undressed and stretched out beside her.

  She had changed into an ivory nightgown with a high neck and long sleeves trimmed with lace, but the soft fabric was unable to cover all of her bruises. They were already turning purple and would be darker still by morning, temporary tattoos that spoke silently of the abuse she had suffered.

  There had been bruises on Dobson as well, he recalled. Bruises not delivered by his own hand. Charlotte had fought for her life. Even faced with outstanding odds she had not given up, nor given in. She was a true warrior, both inside and out. It would be a foolish man who ever thought he could stand against her. Thankfully Gavin no longer considered himself foolish.

  If his soul had not already belonged to his wife, he would have given it to her now. She deserved it. She deserved everything: his love, his adoration, and his devotion. Without her by his side he was only half of a whole, and while it had not taken her near death to make him realize what he felt in his heart was real, it was all the urging he needed to tell her his true feelings as the thought of something happening to her without her knowing the depth of his love was more than he could stand.

  It was early yet–the sun was only just setting–but with his arms wrapped protectively around her slight body and his eyes drifting closed, sleep came almost at once.

  Charlotte’s dreams were of Gavin.

  His voice. His touch. His heartbeat.

  He consumed her, and when she woke it was not in a blind, fearful panic, but slowly and softly, summoned by the gentle stroke of his fingertips along the long, sweeping curve of her arm.

  When her eyes blinked open she stared into his eyes, and when he smiled she smiled, and when he kissed her she kissed him back.

  “Good morning,” she murmured sleepily once they had broken apart.

  “Good morning,” he returned, his voice husky and deep.

  For a long time they simply basked in the glow of each other; accepting and receiving each other’s love in a silent ebb and flow that filled Charlotte with contentment. When Gavin’s expression grew serious, she knew the time had come. Taking a deep breath, she shared everything that had happened with Dobson as thoroughly as she could, leaving no part, no matter how trivial, unspoken.

  Her husband listened without question, his face expressionless save the darkening of his eyes when she divulged the duke’s involvement.

  “Paine will never plague you again,” he vowed when she had finally finished. “You have my word.”

  Charlotte did not ask what Gavin intended to do. That chapter of her life was closed, and she was ready for the next to begin. Whether Gavin liked it or not, she was going to tell him exactly how she felt. Whether he chose to share those feelings would be up to him. Her depth of love for him would remain unchanged either way.

  “Gavin, I have been meaning to tell you—”

  “Charlotte, there is something I must say—”

  Wide-eyed they stopped speaking at the same time, and Charlotte laughed. “Go on,” she said, gesturing with her free hand. The other was tucked snugly against Gavin’s chest. She rested her head comfortably on his pillow, breathing in his scent, a scent that had become as familiar to her as her own.

  Gavin leaned up on an elbow. He stared down at her, his expression softened by the warmth in his eyes, and said, “I know what I am and I know what I am not. I am not a high born lord, no matter how hard I strive to play the part, and I know I do not deserve a high born lady as my wife.”

  “Oh, for goodness sake—”

  “Hush.” His scowl was fierce and completely feigned. “I am speaking, woman.”

  “Woman, is it?” A russet eyebrow arched. “Say that again and we shall see if you can speak without a tongue in your mouth.”

  He grinned. “You take down one butler and turn blood thirsty. The poor man never had a chance.”

  “He didn’t, did he?” she agreed happily. In the light of day with Gavin by her side, she felt as though she could have taken on a hundred Dobson’s. “But go on. I am sorry for interrupting.”

  Gavin tugged on the long braid looped over her shoulder. “Where was I?”

  “You were telling me how you do not deserve me. Which is positively absurd,” she scoffed. “I could have been a duchess, you know, and if titles and status meant a farthing to me I would be one now. But I am not. I am not because a handsome stranger came to my rescue and swept me off my feet. You are not a lord, Gavin. You are a knight. A knight who rescued a damsel in distress.”

  He snorted. “I am about as much of a knight as you are a damsel in distress.”

  “You do not think I am a damsel?”

  “A red haired hellion more like it.”

  She bared her teeth. “Be nice.”

  “I am trying. You are making this exceedingly difficult.”

  “I am making what difficult?”

  Gavin grimaced. “I am trying to tell you that I love you, but you will not be quiet enough for me to get the words out.”

  For the first time in her entire life, Charlotte was shocked into true and absolute silence. Her mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. Then, to her utter humiliation, she burst into tears.

  “Charlotte.” All of the blood drained from Gavin’s face. “I did not mean to upset you. I…please stop crying.”

  “You–you–you love me,” she wailed.

  “I do. I mean, I do not, not if you do not want me to. You do?” he asked uncertainly when she frantically nodded. “Then why are you crying?”

  “Because I am so h-h-happy.” Hiccupping, Charlotte used the edge of the sheet to blot at her face and took a deep, shuddering breath. “I love you too. I have loved you, almost since the beginning.” It felt as though something were blooming inside of her chest. Something brilliant and beautiful and oh so perfect. Smiling through what remained of her tears, she nestled into the crook of his arm. “Even when I was so angry at you I could scream, I still loved you. You make me very angry sometimes,” she confessed in a low whisper.

  “I can assure you the feeling is mutual,” he said wryly.

  “I do not suppose that will change.”

  “No, I do not suppose it will.”

  Wanting to say everything that was in her heart, she gazed up at him in earnest. “And I truly do not care that you are not a lord. That does not matter to me. It never did. I love you for who you are, not what you are. If you never worked another day in your life and I had to–to bake bread I would do it with a smile on my face, as long as you were next to me.”

  Gavin rubbed his chin. “If you know how to bake bread, why am I paying for a cook?”

  “You are impossible.”

  “But you love me,” he said with a contented sigh.

  “But I love you,” she agreed. “Every stubborn, disagreeable inch of you.”

  “And I love every stubborn, disagreeable inch of you.”

  In the end, it was not the perfect declaration of undying love Charlotte had always dreamed of. But it suited her far better, and in the years that followed, when their stubbornness led to arguments and their arguments to fights and their fights to lusty bouts of lovemaking, she often thought of that mor
ning and was content in knowing that she would not have changed a single word.

  Spinster and the

  Duke

  { London Ladies, Book Two }

  JILLIAN EATON

  Dear Readers,

  There aren’t a lot of historical romances–or romances, period–that feature an older heroine, and I’m especially proud of Abigail. I’ve always felt that love between mature adults can be just as profound (if not more so) than the heated passion of 20-somethings, and I hope you find that to be true within the pages of this novella.

  Along with a new cover and complete re-edit, there are also 10+ pages of never-before-read bonus content. I hope you enjoy!

  Fondly,

  Jillian

  Old Passions Still Burn…

  “You never thought of me during all this time?”

  Abigail’s lips compressed to form a hard, flat line. “I would be lying if I said I hadn’t. Of course I thought of you, Reginald. I loved you. I was going to marry you. What I felt for you…it did not vanish when you left.”

  He took one step towards her, then another. He saw the quiver of her pulse in her neck and smelled honeysuckle on her skin. She had her hair pulled up in a bun, coiled loosely beneath a lace cap. A few tendrils had escaped and dangled down on either side of her flushed cheeks, tempting him to reach out and see if her hair felt as silky as he remembered.

  “Is what you felt for me gone now, Abby?”

  She stared at him, her hazel eyes unflinching even as her bottom lip wobbled.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Liar.” He dipped his head, closed his mind to what should have been, and indulged in what was…

  Spinster and the Duke is a work of fiction.

  All of the characters, organizations, and events

  portrayed in this novel are either products

  of the author’s imagination

  or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © by Jillian Eaton 2013

  2nd Edition © 2020

  Cover by Wicked Smart Designs

  Website

  Facebook

  All Rights Reserved.

  Except for use in any review, the

  reproduction or utilization of this work in whole

  or in part in any form is strictly forbidden.

  Prologue

  September, 1775

  Ashburn Estate

  The ring felt heavy on her finger.

  Staring down at the thick gold band with the Ashburn family crest engraved into the middle, Abigail blinked back tears.

  Do not cry in front of him, she ordered herself silently. Don’t you dare.

  “Abby, I…I am sorry.” Looking supremely uncomfortable, Rocky–better known to his peers as Reginald Browning the Third, Marquess of Rutherford and future Duke of Ashburn–ran his fingers through his thick brown hair and scowled down at the floor. “I never wanted it to end like this.”

  Abigail had never wanted it to end at all, even though some small part of her knew–had always known, perhaps–that it would. She was the third daughter of a baron. Reginald was the sole heir to a dukedom. Their love was never meant to last.

  “I want you to take the ring,” she said softly.

  “No, Abby, you keep—”

  But it was already off her finger. She clenched it tight in her fist, feeling the weight of it, the smoothness. It had felt so right on her hand that she’d almost let herself believe…but no. Some things were simply not meant to be, no matter how much you wished otherwise.

  “It was never mine to keep.” She opened her fingers and the ring fell with a quiet plink onto the table between them. Straightening in her chair, Abigail gazed past Reginald to the window. It was partially open, allowing a warm breeze to flutter through the stuffy parlor. She pulled at the high collar of her gown and took a deep, steadying breath. “I should be going now.”

  For one fleeting moment, she thought Reginald was going to change his mind. A tiny flame of hope flickered within her, only to be abruptly extinguished when he stood up and formerly offered his arm as though she was a passing acquaintance instead of the girl he had pledged his heart to.

  Do not cry. Whatever you do, do not cry.

  Her chest aching with the force it took to hold her tears at bay, Abigail walked beside him in stiff legged silence. When they reached the grand foyer she hesitated, her gaze trained on the door that would not only take her outside to the carriage that waited to take her home, but out of Reginald’s life forever.

  “Abby…”

  She detested the quiet plea in his voice. He wanted her to leave without a fuss, so he could go on with his life as though she had never existed. So he could sweep the memory of her beneath the rug as though she were dust.

  Abigail lifted her chin. She may not have been the woman the Duke of Ashburn wanted his eldest son and heir to marry, but that did not make her dirt. She was not some secret mistress or scandalous affair. She was Reginald’s fiancée–or at least she had been, before she took his ring off her finger and put it on the table.

  “I am going to live with my sister in Leeds,” she informed him.

  Reginald’s blue eyes went wide. “I do not want you to leave.”

  Abigail regarded him steadily, schooling her countenance to hide the fact that she was perilously close to tears. “But you do not love me enough to want me to stay.”

  He dropped her arm and stepped back, his jaw tightening and clenching as he fought to disguise his own emotions. At twenty years of age to her seventeen, Reginald was a boy on the verge of manhood. He was undeniably handsome with dark hair, piercing eyes the same color of the sky on a cold winter’s day, and chiseled features. He would be handsomer still in time, and Abigail felt a renewed sense of loss as she realized she would never know the man he would one day grow to be.

  “Do not do this Abby,” he said gruffly. “We said our goodbyes. There is no need to make this harder than it already is.”

  There was every need, but Abigail merely nodded. The time for words had passed. There was nothing else she could say. Nothing else she could do.

  “I hope you have a happy life.” Shoulders pulled back, hazel eyes sparkling with unshed tears, she took a deep breath and walked out the door.

  As he watched her leave, Reginald knew only one thing for certain: with his Abby gone, he would never know true happiness again.

  Chapter One

  Forty Years Later

  Marseilles, France

  The funeral was short and bittersweet.

  Standing over the freshly dug grave of the woman he had called his wife for twenty seven years, Reginald disguised his quiet grieving behind a mask of stoicism. The stiff autumn air pulled at his cloak, sweeping it off his shoulders. Beneath the swath of black fabric he stood tall, a formidable man even at the progressed age of sixty.

  His hair was more gray than brown now, and wrinkles creased his face, but time had treated him fairly and aged him well, rather like a fine wine that grew more potent as the years passed it by.

  Murmuring a quiet prayer, Reginald knelt to lay a single white rose on the overturned earth and with a final, lingering glance, bowed his head and walked away from Theresa’s final resting sight. She was beside her parents now, which he knew she would have vastly preferred to being brought back to England and buried at Ashburn, an estate she had only visited twice and never cared for.

  Their lives had been in France. It was where they built a home. Where Theresa bore him three daughters. Where one of them died before her fifth birthday. Where they learned to live, and even occasionally laugh, together. Their union was never intended to be a love match, but there had always been affection and respect both given and received.

  If they found physical comforts beyond the marriage bed, neither complained, and in the later years of their marriage when they lived completely separate lives, both of them were content in the knowledge that they had always been kind to each another.

  Leaving the privat
e graveyard behind, Reginald followed a narrow footpath to the bluffs that ran along the edge of the property. It was a cold, blustery day, and the salt air stung his eyes, summoning tears he wiped briskly away.

  Soon it would be winter. Theresa’s beloved gardens would go dormant and the cold would gnaw mercilessly at his bones. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Reginald wondered when the bloody hell the time had gone. Four decades spent, in the blink of an eye. Years given to a wife he cared for but had never loved. To children he loved but did not know. To a country that had welcomed him but never felt like home.

  With Theresa dead and buried, there was nothing left for him here. His two daughters had moved on years before, drawn back to England to raise families of their own. He missed them, but as he stood on the edge of the cliff and stared down at the waves crashing violently in a spray of raging white against the rocks below, Reginald did not think of his daughters or his grandchildren or even his deceased wife. He thought, as he always had, as he always did, of Abby.

  And he yearned.

  Abigail had only one thing on her mind.

  Crumpets.

  Bustling through her small, tidy townhouse–the past forty years have given her more gray hairs than she would have liked, but it had done nothing to dull her energy–she zipped through the parlor, whisked through the foyer, and came up short in the kitchen, an expression of horror slowly dawning upon her face as she took in the porcelain plate sitting empty on the table.