Love Comes Softly (A Regency Rogue Novella Book 1)

by Rebecca Ruger

  Love Comes Softly

  A Regency Rogue Novella, Volume 1

  Rebecca Ruger

  Published by Rebecca Ruger, 2019.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Some creative license may have been taken with exact dates and locations to better serve the plot and pacing of the novel.

  ASIN: B06XKX796M

  Love Comes Softly

  (previously published as Autumn Splendor)

  All Rights Reserved.

  Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Ruger

  Written by Rebecca Ruger

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Rebecca Ruger

  rlruger0220@gmail.com

  www.rebeccaruger.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  The End

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Isabelle Covington peered around the side of the cottage in which she lived. Happily spying no one about, she scrambled from her spot to race across the back lawn, down the slope of pebbled moss and grass, and across the expanse of a rough planked bridged, which covered a meandering but mostly dry bit of creek. Another glance over her shoulder, bonnet strings flapping against her cheek, and she slowed her pace, certain as she was that not one of her four younger siblings had followed her today.

  With less necessity for speed now, Isabelle was better able to appreciate the winding trail and its bounty. Along the path grew summer’s fading blooms—clematis and dahlias and fuchsia and myrtle—but these would soon give way to autumn’s glory. Isabelle waited anxiously for this. She liked to watch, to feel, to know the seasons changed. Seeing it unfold thusly, the colors and textures differing, was a thing she’d rather not miss. She thought of leaves themselves, so much a part of the landscape they were often overlooked and wondered that not so many valued their beauty or their lore.

  As she pondered this, she came upon an ash tree, youngish and appearing rather shrub-like still, its light gray bark concealed well by the newly sprouted red-orange berries which might seem to overtake the tree itself in early fall and would indeed draw many a bird for the fruit. Carefully, Isabelle plucked a cluster of leaflets from the tree, as a stem of leaflets made up for one leaf. These bunches were normally found in odd numbers; should a person be lucky enough to find an even number of leaflets, the border folk would tell you “...you’ll see your mate ‘ere the day is over.”

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

  Isabelle blinked. Eight? That could not be right. First, she’d never counted an even number, ‘twas truly that rare. Secondly, eight was a particularly small number of leaflets to be contained here; usually these ash leaves were composed of a dozen or more. She counted again.

  Still eight.

  Rather guiltily, her stomach giving a little jump, Isabelle glanced around her. Surely this was a jest; a prank either Donald or Timothy had played upon her. But no, her brothers were nowhere to be found and how could they have managed this? The small twig of a branch had still been attached to the tree when she’d plucked it away.

  Eight, she mused, her step a bit lighter as she moved away from the tree and again followed the path to her spot. She would keep this her secret, she decided as she tucked the leaflets into her sketch pad, flattening the bunch as she closed the book upon them. If she should be so lucky as to meet her mate today, she certainly didn’t want her siblings spoiling it or— more likely— scaring him off.

  In another minute, having bent and weaved as the trail necessitated, Isabelle came to her favorite spot. She sat her bottom on a flat but wide rock and removed her shoes and stockings while she considered her surroundings. The creek here was more generous than that pitiful one nearer to the cottage, its water clear and moving, shining over smooth river stones and through small marsh grasses. Above her the sky was brilliant blue, the air yet tickled by an early fall breeze.

  They would find her eventually, those siblings of hers, so she hadn’t better waste time but went immediately to sketching and putting down to paper her thoughts for today. These musings often sounded much like they might have the day before, but this was Isabelle’s only comfort, only solitude; since coming to live with her aunt and uncle here in Yorkshire, her life had taken on a theme she’d not have imagined for herself, completely lacking any shred of solitude. Her brothers and sisters, the four of them being of an age between six and thirteen, seemed to have lost any shred of proper manners they’d ever been learned, and Aunt Ester and Uncle Herb seemed to have neither the wherewithal nor the inclination to school them properly. Somehow, Aunt Ester thought the little imps lovely just as they were. In the minds of her aunt and uncle, there was absolutely nothing wrong with children behaving like children and that was all.

  Isabelle, being the oldest at nineteen, was given a fair share of household chores to attend, and this she did not mind, being ever thankful that these did not include keeping charge of the younger ones. She rose early every day, specifically to have her work done in a timely fashion to be able to escape as she had today.

  Dipping her bare toes into the cool glassy water of the creek, she took up her pencil and began to sketch a particularly bright strand of mignonette. The plant was often disregarded as it was rather unremarkable in appearance, its spiky flowers being of a blending shade of greenish-white. But this grouping was more yellowish-green and as ever, the mignonette’s aroma perfumed quite a large area.

  Thus bent to her task, she was not at all aware of being watched, had no sense of the presence of the figure further down the creek bed, across the shallow divide.

  CHRISTIAN NOBLE, THE earl of Somersby, sat atop his fine black stallion and watched the girl across the way with her head tucked into some book and decided there and then that the country was indeed a fine place to spend the autumn months. Never mind that he’d escaped London to remove himself from exactly this— young women in the blush of beauty. However, he’d had his fill of the ton’s deliberate schemes and debutantes’ contrived interest. Give him a country lass any day, Christian decided, his limited knowledge of them reminding him that they were normally bred without artifice or insincerity.

  He dismounted as silently as he’d approached only moments before, tying up the reins at a nearby branch, and wondered at his own contemplations. He had no intention, coming to Yorkshire, to tramp about with the natives, having come specifically to escape any and all form of humans. Lady Anna Hotchkiss had seen to that; she had been to one to drive him away, to remind him that the season, for all its entertainments, was nothing more than a movable marriage mart, and that he, Earl Somersby, was an available specimen. He’d barely escaped with his bachelorhood intact thanks to the machinations of said lady—a term indeed that spoke more of her birthright and less of her person.

  He should leave this area immediately, he thought with a trace of irritation. But as he wound his way along the bank of the creek, growing ever nearer the beauty with the bare feet, he knew he would not do that.

  There was a loveliness about her that he’d rarely seen in London, ag
ain harking back to that whole ‘bred without artifice’ thing, he imagined. She sat in sunlight, her bonnet removed and hanging upon strings still tied at her neck but leaving uncovered her glorious mane of golden hair. Not true blonde, nor completely pale, it was actually nearer to brown, Christian decided, but the glint of the sun off her crown cast it in shades of gold so bright and shining he guessed there had many a person who’d stopped to envy these amazing curls. Having watched her initial coming to the creek, he knew her form to be slender and graceful, the soft cotton of her modestly cut gown hiding little of this. And, too, the bare feet and ankles he spied now confirmed a trim figure. Not quite brown brows arched over eyes he’d yet to see but knew he soon would. Her nose was small, rather button-like, and beneath, her lips, as she chewed thoughtfully upon her charcoal pencil, were pink and temptingly full.

  Christian did not notice that his own pace had sped up as he grew nearer, as he saw her more clearly. But in this haste, he’d paid less attention to quiet and thus she was alerted to his presence just as he stood almost directly across the creek from her.

  She lifted her head and widened her eyes at his presence, having no idea what affect those bright blue eyes had on him, as she smiled. She smiled at him, he mused. She might have jumped up in alarm or looked about, debating her potentially precarious position, but she only smiled at him.

  “Hullo,” she called across the ten or so feet that separated them, her voice soft and pretty over the sound of slightly running water.

  Christian offered her a simple bow. “Good afternoon, miss.” Standing straight again, he watched in bemusement as she seemed then to gasp and dip her head to consult her book, or something within. He distinctly heard her count to eight and glance sharply back up at him.

  Giving no heed to her bare feet, she rose from her perch and faced him. “I am Isabelle Covington,” she told him quite happily.

  Delighted further with her artless manner, he smiled at her and introduced himself as well. “Christian Noble, Earl Somersby, Miss Covington. A pleasure.”

  “I was just sketching the mignonette,” she said then, pointing to copse of what Christian determined to be rather unsightly flowers.

  “Why?” He asked before he might have thought better of it.

  He watched her tilt her head curiously to one side to consider him. He thought her absolutely charming in the freshest sort of way.

  “Because, my lord, they come every fall, but never in so bright a showing.”

  They were still ugly, he thought, but smiled at her tone, which implied that any fool should have known her reasons.

  “Do you reside nearby?” he wondered.

  She tossed a thumb over her shoulder, though the gesture seemed fluid and graceful. “Up on the hill. The Throckmorton cottage.”

  He wasn’t familiar with it but imagined that he might soon be.

  “And you?” She asked.

  “Lately of London,” he said, but this she would have guessed. “Here presently to take advantage of Lord Makesly’s hunting lodge.”

  He knew she was familiar with the place by the way she nodded and chewed her lip.

  “It’s been empty for some time,” she said, her cheeks pinkening ever-so-slightly. Not meeting his eye, she added, “I believe it suffered some damage—high winds and all.”

  He raised an amused brow at this, wondering exactly what she’d had to do with this supposed damage for it was immediately apparent that deception was not her forte.

  “Do you mind if I cross?” Christian asked then. “I grow weary of raising my voice over that of the water.”

  “Please do.”

  He gave no thought to his very expensive riding boots, knowing they would be unharmed by a mere half foot of water and began to cross carefully toward her. He was nearly to the middle of the creek when there came at him a small and swift barrage of rocks, one particular stone beaming him high on the forehead. Stunned, and being at that moment upon the slippery moss of the creek bed’s rocks, Christian toppled quickly, landing on his backside in the water.

  Isabelle shrieked at this event, covering her mouth with her hands in shock. He watched her glance around; there was the conspicuous sound of laughter that came from neither her nor him.

  “The little wretches!” She ground out quite vehemently, looking about and finding the culprits just as Christian himself did. There were four of them, all blonde headed, hanging in similar precarious positions from a giant oak not so far away from the creek. Christian found in each young hand a sling shot, obviously the weapon of choice for hurling rocks and creek pebbles.

  Now, being as he was indeed the Earl of Somersby, and such a happening should not occur to him without raising a great ire, he picked himself up from whence he had fallen and prepared to give the little hooligans a whatfor. But looking again at the quartet in the tree, combining this with the lovely Isabelle’s huge embarrassment, he surmised that the little blonde creatures were somehow related to the girl and decided—for future seduction’s sake—to make light of it.

  “Milord, I—I... are you alright?” Isabelle stumbled and inquired of him.

  “Perfectly,” he managed, being able to do so without gritting his teeth. “Friends of yours?” He tilted his head at the foursome as they scrambled from the tree and took off towards God only knew what further mischief.

  “Unfortunately,” was all she said then.

  Christian swatted his hat, which had landed in the water beside him, against his thigh to remove as much water as possible and finally reached her side of the creek. Standing now only a few feet from her, he was glad for certain he had spared the little monsters. Being now this close, he determined that there was none so lovely as Miss Isabelle Covington; she was blessed with both the sparkle of youth and an angelic amount of beauty. He knew those blue eyes were trained mightily upon him as he sat then where she had moments ago perched and removed his sloshing boots, tipping them upside-down to remove all the water.

  “Oh,” she groaned upon seeing this. “Milord, I do apologize. ‘Twas clearly ill done, rather beastly I suppose.”

  “Pray, Miss Covington, do not apologize for those... children,” he suggested, leaving aside the adjectives he’d so wanted to use.

  “But I fear I must,” this, forlornly, “as they are, after all, my siblings.”

  “In that case, please accept my condolences,” said Christian before he thought better of it.

  She laughed at this, a rather hearty, unexpected laugh, which had Christian then glancing up at her, marveling at all that she was. He liked immensely the sound of her laughter, he decided; he would try to get her to do that often.

  Having then returned his tall Hessians to at least a usable presence, Christian dug his wet feet back into the boots and stood again to face her.

  “Your parents, I am sure, have their hands full with such little... rascals,” he said briefly.

  Isabelle cast him a spare glance, her lips twisting sardonically, “Rascals is too fine a designation for those beasts, my lord. As it is, my parents are passed now.”

  Though well he might be sorry for the predicament this circumstance might put her in, Christian was ever devoted to his own pursuits, and thought rather cheerily that her current lack of parentage would certainly bode him well; it was, after all, somewhat difficult to seduce an innocent with a hovering mama or pistol-toting papa.

  “The Throckmortons, my aunt and uncle, have since taken us in,” she went on to say, then surprised him when she added, “Vicar Wyatt comes to dine today, my lord. Would you care to join us as well?”

  Now, being a practiced rogue as he was, Christian knew— perhaps had written— many of the rules. Do play nice. Do hasten to be forthcoming with compliments. Do make her feel as if no other had ever existed before her. Do feign delight at any siblings who should be strung up by their toes instead.

  Do not furnish her with a catalog of previous conquests. Do not tell her that the last one succumbed much sooner than she had. Do no
t become cozy with the family.

  But he turned to her, her unaccountable invitation pleasing him as he’d not expected. So much so, in fact, that he heard himself say, “I should be delighted, Miss Covington, if this were agreeable to the Throckmortons.”

  “Oh, Aunt Ester shan’t mind. It will give her something to crow about to Mrs. Herman come Sunday mass,” Isabelle told him with a bit of a giggle.

  Her frankness might be his undoing, Christian thought, completely charmed by the unaffectedness of this girl. In his world, there was no equivalent to this, and just for the space of a second Christian wondered if he might have been missing out on something, all his life spent living according to rules and protocol, and within the city limits.

  Chapter Two

  When Christian arrived later that afternoon to partake of dinner with the Throckmortons and their charges, he did so cautiously. If those little hooligans had been advised of his invitation, he’d not put it past them to make his coming an unhappy one.

  But he reached the door of a rather surprisingly well kept and larger than expected cottage at the top of the hill without incident. Lifting his hand to rap sharply upon the thick wood, he found instead the door pulled open before he could make contact with it.

  There stood Isabelle. She had changed from her traipsing-about dress of earlier into a modest and inexpensive empire seamed gown of white. Her hair, too, had been attended, lifted off her neck and away from her face, the heavy curls haphazardly pinned at the back of her head. She smiled happily at him, which had him likewise returning such a cheerful greeting.

  Before she could speak, however, one of those blonde little horrors stuck his head between Isabelle and the door.

  “You’re late and we ate,” he chimed merrily. And then he disappeared.

  Seemingly unaffected, neither by the child’s rudeness nor Christian’s embarrassed flush at this news, Isabelle waved an airy hand. “Pay no attention to Donald and please do come in.”