Love by the Letters: A Regency Novella Trilogy

by Kelly Bowen

  “Not stupid,” Henry said, squeezing her fingers. “Human.”

  Maeve smiled wistfully. “Yes.” She gestured at the angel surrounded by wildflowers. “For Alfred and his wife, they do not have the luxury of a grave for their two sons. Nor does Isaac for his brother, all lost on the continent during the wars. Or others, who have lost loved ones at sea or abroad. They can come here. To remember those gone but not forgotten.” She let go of Henry’s hand and crouched down, pushing the grass and flowers away from the base of the angel.

  Henry lowered himself to his knee beside her. Across the front of the base, names had been carved. Beside each name a small hole had been drilled into the wood, a fresh flower placed in each. Some names he didn’t recognize. Others he did. Ewan Baxter. Edwin Baxter. Miles Dunlop.

  Charles Blackmore.

  Henry’s throat closed.

  “Alfred wanted me to put your brother’s name on here. Charlie touched his heart too in the short time he knew him. He didn’t want him to be forgotten.”

  “Baxter was there that day,” Henry whispered. “When Charles fell. My brother was walking on the edge of one of the ruined walls and it collapsed. Baxter helped me pull the stones off him.”

  Beside him, Maeve was silent.

  “I thought Charlie was all right. He was dazed and scared and told me his head hurt but otherwise he seemed fine. I took him home to London, got him the best doctors, but his headaches got worse and worse. In two days he was dead.” He stared sightlessly at the angel. “It was my fault he died.”

  “It was not your fault. It was an accident.”

  Henry barely heard her. “I told Charlie to stay away from that chapel. He should never have been climbing on such an unstable structure. By the time I realized where he was, it was too late.” He rubbed his face with his hands, helplessness and guilt building and pressing down on him. “I should have had that chapel demolished at the very beginning.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  Henry pushed himself to his feet. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  She gathered her skirts and stood as well. Her eyes bored into his, green fire flashing. “Maybe you should.”

  He looked away.

  “Then I will.” She reached out and caught his hand again, her fingers wrapping around his.

  He could have pulled away. Should have pulled away. But he stayed where he was, unwilling to meet her eyes but unwilling to lose her touch.

  “It took my father two months to die,” she said quietly. “It started with pains in his chest and there were increasing numbers of times he couldn’t catch his breath. He was fatigued all the time and fainted more than once. Until then, I had believed him to be invincible. By the end, every breath he took was a struggle. I stayed with him until he stopped struggling.” She blew out a shaky breath. “Even though I knew his death was coming, I wasn’t prepared for how angry I felt. For how guilty I felt.”

  “Guilty?” Henry’s gaze flew to hers. “What the hell could you possibly feel guilty about?”

  “If I had taken on more duties when he was still well, if I had insisted he rest more and not push himself so hard, perhaps his heart wouldn’t have weakened. He couldn’t say no to someone who needed help and I never stopped him. Not once.”

  “If your father was anything like you, he would never have let you stop him from helping someone. He would have found a way to do what he was going to do anyway, no matter what you said or did.”

  Maeve gazed up at him as his words faded in the clearing.

  She let go of his hand and reached up to touch the side of his face, her fingers gentle and warm against the side of his cheek before they dropped.

  “Yes, he would have,” she said. “And so would have Charlie.”

  Chapter Ten

  Northbrook Manor, the crown jewel of Gerald Newton’s estate, sat in the centre of a complex, manicured garden that featured neatly raked gravel paths, beds of roses climbing gleaming white trellises, and marble benches scattered amongst the flowers. No less than three fountains bubbled away, cherubs and winged horses spouting water without pause.

  The house itself had been started a half-century earlier, abandoned when the owner ran out of money and then finished when Gerald Newton had bought the property. It was three stories of rose-colored stone, with rows of square windows, each framed by ornate carvings. A quartet of tall, alabaster columns rose from the ground to support a gabled overhang and frame a lavish entryway.

  People wandered through the gardens and in front of the house, their laughter carried on the breeze.

  “Good Lord,” Henry said, breaking his self-imposed silence as they rode up the drive.

  Maeve glanced at him and found him scowling at the manor. “It’s very…ornate,” she agreed.

  “The style is called Baroque,” he told her. “And the ratio is all wrong.”

  “What does that mean?”.

  “An opulent design like this needs open space to balance it,” he muttered. “Orderly, simple grounds as so not to overwhelm the lines of the house. Instead, it’s crowded by busy borders and over-elaborate gardens.”

  Maeve tipped her head, picturing what he was describing. “It needs a wide lawn with a single fountain in the center. Maybe a simple curved drive in front.”

  He glanced at her, an odd look on his face. “Something like that, yes. You have a good eye.”

  “Well.” She gave him a small smile. “Maybe if I decide to do something other than stewardship, I should study to become an architect.”

  “Maybe you should.” He held her gaze. “Thank you, Maeve.”

  “For what?”

  “For taking me to that clearing. For listening. For what you said about Charlie.”

  “Those were your words, Henry. And you need to believe them.”

  He nodded. “I’ll try.”

  “Thank you for trusting me with your memories of him,” she said quietly.

  He was staring at her, an intense, raw emotion in his face. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”

  “Henry—”

  “Your compassion and your strength and your honour leave me humbled, Maeve Murray.”

  His words left her breathless.

  This newfound intimacy between them was constructed of truth and honesty and vulnerability. Combined with the physical magnetism she felt every time he was near, it was a powerful, dangerous elixir. It made her feel reckless, like she was balancing on the edge of a roof, unsure of her footing and unsure of her fate.

  And not caring about either so long as Henry was beside her.

  Maeve was the first to look away, bringing her horse to a stop and sliding down. Henry joined her and within moments servants dressed in lavish livery materialized to whisk their horses away. Henry offered her his arm and Maeve slid her hand into the crook of it, feeling the hard strength of his muscles beneath the fabric. His heat bled through his sleeve and fused with hers, sending electricity dancing over her skin. Her breath shortened and desire crackled through her, settling with a throbbing ache between her legs.

  She wondered what would have happened if they had stayed in that clearing. If she had left her hand in his, if they had finished this conversation not in front of a Baroque manor but in the privacy of—

  “How long must we stay?” Henry asked beside her, his voice sounding strained.

  “Not long.” Her fingers tightened around his arm and she looked up at him. “Are you unwell?”

  He made a strangled sound. “Maybe.” He covered her hand with his free one, his thumb sliding over the back of her hand as he gazed down at her.

  Maeve shivered, every muscle in her body clenching in overwhelming anticipation. She had never been looked at in the way Henry Blackstone was looking at her right now. It was insane and terrifying and exhilarating all at once. His gaze dropped to her mouth and Maeve thought she might come out of her skin.

  “I want to kiss you,” he whispered.

  Not ever was the correct r
esponse. She could not kiss Henry Blackmore. She could not kiss a man whose ambitions were so opposite hers, who would disappear forever as soon as those ambitions were completed. Her mind knew this.

  “Not here,” is what she said.

  “Not here,” he agreed, his voice hoarse.

  “Miss Murray!” someone cried. “I’m so glad you’re here!”

  The enthusiastic greeting came from the garden just off to their right.

  Henry jerked back as though he had been struck. He had almost kissed her. Right here, in the middle of a bloody driveway, guests and neighbours and servants be damned. He had never wanted a woman like he wanted Maeve Murray.

  “Mr. Newton,” she said, her hand slipping from Henry’s arm.

  He wanted to snatch her hand back but he refrained, trying to compose himself. And trying to remind himself of all the reasons why he could not kiss Maeve Murray in front of an entire assembly of her friends and neighbours. Why he should not be kissing Maeve anywhere.

  He turned his attention to the man approaching instead. Gerald Newton was blue-eyed and of fair complexion, with neatly styled blond hair that seemed impervious to the breeze. Henry guessed him to be about ten years older than himself and dressed as he was in a finely tailored coat and breeches, he appeared every inch a prosperous country gentleman. A prosperous, besotted country gentleman, by the way he was looking at Maeve Murray.

  Like Henry was one to cast stones on that account.

  Newton stopped in front Maeve, offering her a bow that was more suitable for a royal court than a country garden. “Miss Murray, you look positively enchanting,” he said, still beaming. “You are an orchid among daisies.”

  “It’s the dress,” Maeve said politely. “I thank you for your generosity.”

  Newton grasped her hand and pressed a kiss to the back of her knuckles. “A mere token of my regard. I don’t need to remind you that I would give you so much more if you’d allow me, Miss Murray.”

  Henry gritted his teeth.

  “The loan of your plough was enough, Mr. Newton.”

  “It was nothing,” Newton told her earnestly. “It pains me to see you having to deal with such things. You deserve so much more—”

  “Allow me to make introductions.” Maeve stepped away from Newton and gestured to Henry. “Mr. Blackmore, may I present Mr. Gerald Newton, Esquire, owner of Northbrook Manor and this fine estate. Mr. Newton, this is Mr. Henry Blackmore, son of the Duke of Rutledge, and currently residing at Greybourne. I took the liberty of asking him along tonight.”

  Newton seemed to falter before he recovered. “I’m very glad you did, Miss Murray,” he said. “Welcome to Northbrook, my lord.”

  “Thank you. But like I told Miss Murray, I prefer to avoid the use of my title.”

  “I see,” Newton replied, sounding baffled. He looked between Henry and Maeve but received no further explanation. “Well, I do hope you appreciate what a rare gem you have in your beautiful steward,” he forged on gamely. “I confess, I’ve been trying to steal her for years.”

  “As a steward?” Henry asked, not caring if he sounded rude.

  Newton only smiled and looked adoringly at Maeve. “It’s absurd that Miss Murray is a steward. She is far too lovely. She doesn’t belong in the fields, she belongs in diamonds. I tell her this all the time.”

  Maeve’s neutral expression didn’t even waver. Henry suspected that she would be a very dangerous card player.

  “May I ask what brings you to Greybourne, Mr. Blackmore?” Newton asked, not missing a beat.

  “Greybourne House,” Henry replied shortly.

  “Mr. Blackmore is an architect,” Maeve injected. “He is doing some repairs.”

  Newton seemed to digest that with a faint frown. “Indeed. Interesting.”

  Henry didn’t know how to interpret Newton’s response but he didn’t get a chance to ask anything further because the man’s attention had swung back to Maeve.

  Newton gave her another delighted smile. “Allow me to see you inside for a refreshment? And I do hope you’ve left a space on your dance card for me tonight.” He extended his arm toward Maeve.

  Henry’s jaw tightened further, and his molars threatened to crack as he watched Maeve politely accept Newton’s arm. He had told Maeve that he was good at soirees but now as he followed Maeve and her besotted host into the lavish country house, he wondered how he was going to survive this one.

  Henry stood at the edge of the glittering ballroom and glowered at the dance floor where Maeve waltzed with Gerald Newton.

  For a country soiree, the event would have put any number of London balls to shame. Perhaps the titles floating about the room were not so abundant, but the gowns were just as extravagant and the jewels just as ostentatious, the latter serving as a reminder that titles and wealth were no longer exclusively mutual. The food and drink and musicians were of impeccable quality, and like the opulent house, meant to impress and awe. Henry wasn’t awed or impressed. He was hating every second.

  “Every marriage-minded mama in this ballroom is having an utter apoplexy right now.”

  So focused was Henry on Maeve, he hadn’t even realized he was no longer standing alone. He nearly sloshed claret over the rim of his glass as he turned to find a stunning blue-eyed, auburn-haired woman at his elbow. Her cream-colored gown, edged with sapphire trim, made her fair complexion look flawless.

  “Lady Katherine.” He smiled with genuine pleasure, catching her offered hand to press a chaste kiss to her knuckles. “You look lovely.”

  “And you look like the ultimate prize for every eligible daughter in a hundred-mile radius.” She raised the glass she held in her other hand in a mock-toast. “It’s good to see you. And since when have you ever called me Lady Katherine?”

  “Since never,” he conceded. “And it’s good to see you too.” Henry had always liked Kitty. She was a few years older than he, and for as long as he’d known her, she had never seemed to do what was expected of her either.

  “I thought my eyes were deceiving me when I saw you skulking back here. Not that you skulking in the back of a ballroom is unusual but I didn’t expect you in this one.” She shook her head. “Whatever are you doing here?”

  “I’m staying at Greybourne.” Henry released her hand. “I didn’t realize that you still spent summers in Essex.”

  Kitty sprouted from his father’s branch of the Blackmore family tree, a daughter of the late Duke of Rutledge and his second wife. Kitty’s mother had brought a small parcel of land into that union, a patch of thick forest complete with a well-appointed hunting lodge situated alongside Greybourne’s western borders. From the time she had been a child, Kitty had often stayed there during the warmer months.

  “It’s not quite summer yet. And I’m not here for long. I just arrived yesterday. Mr. Newton is always lavish in his entertainment, and I attend his spring soiree whenever I get the chance.”

  “And yet here you are skulking with me in the back of a ballroom.”

  Kitty made a face and her eyes drifted to the table laden with food and punchbowls. Henry followed her gaze. A man dressed in a chartreuse coat, clearly foxed, was openly leering at the décolletage of a young woman helping herself to sweets.

  Recognition tugged at Henry’s memory. “Isn’t that Lord—”

  “Yes.” Kitty cut him off sharply.

  “Didn’t you almost marry him?” Henry asked.

  “Must you remind me?” She brought her glass to her lips and glared at the man over the edge. “Though ten years ago, his proclivities for chasing skirts and over-imbibing weren’t as apparent.” She shuddered delicately. “I’d be trapped in a marriage of misery if not for…” She stopped.

  “If not for?” Henry prompted.

  “A certain solicitor who made sure I learned the truth of my fiancé’s character. I regret to say that it was a truth I didn’t want to hear at the time and my treatment of the man who had my best interests at heart was less than kind.” She frowned
unhappily. “I regret that too.”

  “Solicitors are adept at dealing with people who don’t react well to what they have to say,” Henry muttered. “I’m certain it’s a skill that they learn on their first day of studies.”

  “Perhaps.” Kitty grasped the fan dangling from her wrist and pointed it accusingly at Henry. “Enough about me. I want to hear about you. No one told me that you would be at Greybourne. Last I heard, you were headed to Brighton.”

  “That’s been…postponed. I’m doing some work on the manor instead.”

  “Oh.” She turned her attention to the dancers twirling under a canopy of crystal. “And what does Maeve have to say about that?”

  Henry didn’t particularly wish to answer that. “I didn’t realize that you knew Miss Murray,” he said instead.

  Kitty sipped her lemonade. “Miss Murray had the occasion to assist me in an…unfortunate situation. I owe her a debt that I don’t feel that I’ve been able to repay adequately.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What sort of situation?”

  Kitty studied the rim of her cup. “I erred in judgement and trusted a gentleman who turned out to be no gentleman at all. Miss Murray happened upon us and intervened before he could— before anything regretful happened.”

  “When did this happen?” Henry demanded. “You should have told me.”

  “It happened a long time ago,” she sighed. “When I was utterly self-absorbed and did not have enough sense to recognize it. I told no one. I was humiliated enough as it was.”

  “Kitty—”

  “I shouldn’t have spoken of it. And now we’re talking about me again. Can we move on to a different topic of conversation?”

  Henry frowned but nodded. “Like what?”

  “Maeve Murray.”

  “That’s not really a different topic.”

  Kitty fluttered her fingers dismissively as if this detail was inconsequential. “She’s beautiful.”

  “She is.”

  “And smart and kind.”

  And resourceful and capable and oh so kissable.