Love Comes Softly (A Regency Rogue Novella Book 1)

by Rebecca Ruger

  Warily, Christian stepped inside. Isabelle closed the door behind him before he could disappear unto the other side, as perhaps part of him yearned to do. In all his years he had never encountered a circumstance such as this. The cottage, while outwardly attractive, was within as nothing Christian had ever seen. To the left was a room which might have served as a parlor, if not for the stacks and stacks of books, piled on tables, on the sofa, on shelves, and on the floor, so that one might never know if the floor be carpeted or not. To the right of the foyer, what should have been the dining room was filled nearly to overflowing with bird cages of varying shapes and sizes, perched everywhere, and then suspended as well from the ceiling. Not in any one of them—the silence told him—did there reside a live bird. But a studied glance did confirm to Christian that indeed each cage was occupied by a bird.

  “Uncle Herb is a budding taxidermist,” was all she said to Christian’s near gaping show of amazement. She led him down a hallway then, toward the rear of the house, while he wondered where they might be dining. As they walked, he was aware of the darting presence—seen and then not—of those siblings of hers. They were silent, though, as if they moved upon light feet, or walked not upon the floor at all. Christian found himself, as he followed Isabelle, glancing over his shoulder more than once.

  At the end of the hallway, Isabelle pushed open a swinging door, which opened up into the kitchens. Completely baffled as to why she might bring him here, his puzzlement was quickly rewarded with answers as it was quite apparent from the huge square table well set in the middle of the room that this was to be where they dined.

  This room was large and filled with as much activity as the other rooms were not. Noise hit him first; the clamor of pots and pans as a round and apron-adorned woman searched for and claimed a medium sized sauce pan; in the corner, seated at another table, this one round and small, sat two men, playing a hotly contested games of cards; at the hearth, a strange looking dog lay sleeping, his snoring nearly in tune with the singing of the heavy woman; and then the children all appeared from another door, running about, two boys chasing two now screaming girls around the dinner table. Without turning from the hearth, where she now stirred something in a big pot, the woman called out with good cheer, “Get it out o’ your systems now, loves, before the earl arrives and you’ve to sit still for the entire length of the meal.”

  And Isabelle, apparently thinking nothing of such a ruckus as all this, laughed and told the woman, “But Aunt Ester, he has arrived already.”

  “Oooh,” crowed the woman, coming upright and turning toward them, wringing her hands to dry them upon her cloth sack apron. She intoned something which Christian was quite sure was an ebullient welcome, but he heard little of it, being as the children continued to dash about as if they were not indoors, and the gentlemen at the game table began to argue over one man’s purportedly tricky sleeve.

  The woman shuffled over to the pair, extending her plump hand after pushing a frizzy mass of hair off her forehead, her round face wreathed in a jowly smile, her brown button eyes dancing in glee at his arrival.

  “Thank you, Mistress, for including me in your family’s meal,” Christian replied, nearly shouting to be heard over the din, while the woman pumped his hand quite vigorously.

  Isabelle then formally introduced them, and the earl was instructed by the woman to address her as Aunt Ester, which emerged sounding more like ‘Aunt Easter”, to which the children began chirping, “Aunt Easter Bunny! Aunt Easter Bunny!” This woke the dog and had him prancing around on all three of his legs until one of the girls decided to dance with him and thus took up his front legs, which then tipped him over as he could not maintain balance on the lone hind leg.

  And the little round woman, not even of a height to reach Isabelle’s shoulder laughed and blushed at this funny business, then turned and screeched—yes, she actually screeched, Christian would later recall—for her husband and the vicar to lose themselves of their cards and greet their guest.

  The two men gave one last harrumph to their argument and came to stand before Christian as well. Isabelle again presented the earl, this time to Vicar Wyatt and her Uncle Herb, the latter bearing an uncanny resemblance to his own wife. Vicar Wyatt stepped forward to shake Christian’s hand, excited for his presence, he said, and hoping to reserve a pew for him come Sunday morning. And all the while the vicar posed before him, speaking between his enormous teeth of the good village to which he’d come, Isabelle’s young brothers were at the floor near to his feet, tying his shoelaces together. Christian looked around, wondering that no one saw this but him, debating whether to alert the poor, self-exalting man—the village would not have made the recent strides it had if not for his fine stewardship, he wasn’t afraid to say—or to let the children have their amusement at someone else’s expense.

  But Christian was saved any further conjecture as to the extent of his own charitable nature when Aunt Ester noticed what the boys were about, and what had the younger girls giggling and twittering like two magpies as they stood upon the dining chairs to watch. And somehow, it astounded the earl not at all to hear the woman laugh and chortle herself.

  “Oh, gracious. Vicar Wyatt, look what the dears ‘ave done to your shoes,” laughed Aunt Ester, holding her chest in some animated attempt to contain her humor.

  Rather nonplussed, Christian glanced about as the family as a whole, and indeed, the vicar as well, chuckled over these near perilous antics of the children. Only Isabelle seemed, while not quite angry, less impressed with the lads’ jest. She cast a quick glance at the earl, who then found himself chuckling as well, lest the maid be anxious over his reaction to such unruly behavior.

  In good time, the family and their guests did sit around that large square table, adorned quite prettily with fine china and delicate linens. The earl, while impressed with such a display, did wonder how these pieces managed to be preserved with such little wretches as these about the home. Then, as wild and boisterous as this house had been upon his entrance, it equaled in severity the sedateness of the actual meal. If you’d had insisted to him that these children—indeed, this family—could sit and dine as true bluebloods, he’d have not believed it possible.

  But it was. A civil and unexpected delight of a conversation took place, but the earl could barely manage to participate as he continued to throw cautious glances at the children, waiting, it seemed, for all hell to break loose again. Yet it did not.

  Aunt Ester inquired of his visit to their little hamlet of Sudbury, and its purpose. The vicar spoke of the former condition of said hamlet, having been under the yolk of an absentee landlord, one Sir Nigel Hackenbush. Uncle Herb contributed as well, describing to the earl the benefits of one particular brand of tractor over another. Isabelle herself said little, but the earl was aware of her near constant regard and the slight blushes which accompanied her awareness of his consciousness of this.

  The meal was an unhurried affair, seeming rather surreal, the dignity of it; but then as they rose to remove themselves from the table, Christian was peripherally aware of one small tip of an asparagus flying across the expanse of cloth, missing the side of the vicar’s head by mere inches.

  Aha! He thought to himself, they are the same little buggers after all.

  The autumn sun would still be in the sky for several hours when they had finished, and Aunt Ester abetted the earl’s cause when she suggested that Isabelle and the earl should take a stroll about the lane and down the hill.

  Chapter Three

  Having settled in her normally clear head that this man was to be her mate, Isabelle happily walked beside the earl upon the lane. She thought him just about the most attractive man she’d ever met. He was, by far, larger than any one man she knew, though trim throughout, without the paunch that accompanied the form of most of the men in Sudberry, Uncle Herb and the vicar included. His hair was cropped close, though it waved quite generously at his nape, and was just the color of the sweet chestnuts in Old Ma
n Melvin’s field, which would soon lose their prickly coats and fall for gathering. His eyes, Isabelle saw plainly this afternoon were a shade darker than his hair, but so intent as they devoured a person as to cause her to blush and flush repeatedly, she knew. His nose was straight; neither too thin as Mr. Quincy’s beak, nor too bulbous as Mr. Rodney’s, from whom she bought all her pretty ribbons. Below, his lips were, while today mostly drawn a bit, loveliest when he smiled as he had earlier upon her reception of him at the cottage.

  “How long have you lived with the Throckmortons?” He wondered, making conversation as they strolled. Isabelle thought she might never grow tired of his voice. Deep and resonant, it moved through her with liquid precision, soothing her as the midday sunshine at this time of year.

  “My parents passed more than four years ago—why, little Molly had just turned one. Uncle Herb and Aunt Ester came to fetch us from the Tyndale’s Home for the Bereft within a few months.”

  “I imagine it is difficult to have lost your parents so young, and then to have the care of your brothers and sisters,” he commented, his tone intimating that she needn’t remark upon this if she didn’t want to, should she find the subject matter too painful perhaps.

  But Isabelle, adrift somewhere between her very young siblings and her much elderly aunt and uncle, craved this attention from the earl. Moreover, if they were to be mates, he would need to learn of her travails, and then too her triumphs, though admittedly they were fewer by far.

  “I miss them terribly. My father had a way about him that infused whatever he touched, wherever he went, whomever he loved with laughter and joy. Mama was beautiful; I liked to watch her—just sit and watch her do anything. She had a grace about her that I might only dream of; she spoke softly and walked smoothly, and one could not help but smile when near, she cast off such glory.”

  Isabelle wondered if she had given up too much of herself, of her loneliness, for the earl had turned his head at her words, staring at her with a bit of a frown, studying her.

  “You think you haven’t that aura about you as well?”

  Isabelle laughed at the absurdity of that. The same aura of allure as her mother? “If you had known my mother, you would not ask me that?”

  She watched him shake his head at this, but she could not read his thoughts and he said no more immediately. They had reached the end of the lane, which was also the top of the hill, and stopped without comment to view the scene below.

  Autumn was everywhere. It was truly Isabelle’s favorite time of year. She never thought of it as a prelude to death—to the loss of green and trees, and blooms and blossoms—but rather as a climax, before all about them settled for the winter. It was the lullaby before bedtime, the sweeping close of summer, all that brightness shuttered by the darkening hues of fall, gently breezed into slumber.

  It was below them now. The poplars and mountain ash and willow oaks had turned from summer’s green to the yellows and red and oranges of autumn. The tawny daylilies, spread so capriciously throughout Sudberry below them, had given up their hold upon freshness. Even the dirt of the road had taken on a deeper hue, readying itself, it seemed, for the onset of the harshness winter might lay upon it.

  “I have seen this view,” she said to the earl, “so very many times, yet always it is new to me. See the edelweiss, upon the rock at the bottom of the hill there? I only just noticed that for the first time the other day. That will not survive the winter. Likely, Muriel Otto planted that. She does that. One morning I came out of the cottage to find a strand of hollyhocks standing still and tall by the garden gate. They’d never been there before, and the soil was freshly turned. And Muriel Otto was trotting down the lane, basket in hand.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “Why would she not?” Isabelle wondered. Herself, she’d never asked why Mrs. Otto had brought hollyhocks to their yard. She’d thought it kindly, and that was all. “Have you never been visited by such a kindness, my lord?”

  He seemed to consider this, chewing his lip a bit as he did. He shook his head and glanced at her, his grin almost amazed by the truth. “I guess I have not.”

  “I imagine you just haven’t been consorting with the right kind of people,” Isabelle told him, as if that was all there was to it. Something came to her mind then, but she would save that for later. “In about an hour, when the sun sets at the far end of Sudberry, this valley will be aglow with the burst of an orange light so peculiar a shade, you cannot imagine it to be in God’s repertoire.”

  So it was that Isabelle Covington did not arrive home until shortly after the sunset, as the earl had an easy time convincing her that he should be treated to her glorious sunset. Aunt Ester and Uncle Herb made nothing of her late return, asking only if she had enjoyed the earl’s company.

  She had. Oh, true, he had continued to stare at her in the most curious way, seeming at times, she thought, to find great amusement in her. But he had listened to her talk—Isabelle had always been very adept in this regard—and he had laughed as she shared little vignettes of her life here in the tiny little hamlet of Sudberry. Then he had walked her home and thrilled her as she’d never been in all her nineteen years by taking her hand and bowing over it to plant a kiss upon it. His lips had been smooth on her skin, and there remained, long after his departure, a curious twirling in the pit of her belly.

  LATE THE NEXT MORNING, Earl Somersby opened the front door of his borrowed and temporary home to find a small posy of chrysanthemums tied gaily with bright ribbons left upon his doorstep. He did not need to wonder who might have done this; Miss Isabelle Covington obviously thought he needed this kindness in his life. He picked up the offering and removed one perfectly colored red bud to fit into the lapel of his jacket. Perhaps even he was not quite immediately aware of the smile that turned his lips, or of a pleasant and warm feeling that coursed through him. But he did pause to consider that Miss Covington was indeed a thoughtful person, and he attached no other motive to her gift than that.

  He planned to see her today, thinking she would be excellent entertainment while he was here. She was unsophisticated and genuine and Christian knew not much of that in his life. He thought of the simplicity of things which amused her and wondered what she might make of a true London scene, but shook this off immediately as he’d not want to introduce Isabelle Covington to his rather dissolute bachelor’s life in the city. She was beautiful because she was artless, and London would erase that innocence in a fortnight. He would have none of it.

  Less apprehensive today of encountering any shenanigans from the little ragamuffins, Christian strode purposefully toward the Throckmorton cottage, choosing to walk today as the low slung sun warmed the otherwise cool air. At his approach, he wondered briefly if these simple folks had perhaps some type of watch tower as the door was again pulled open before he could rap out his coming.

  The oldest boy—Timothy, the earl thought his name might be—stood before him, all but barring his entrance.

  “Isabelle has gone to town,” he announced, and his eyes skinnied as he perused the earl. “And while my esteemed uncle and aunt seem unconcerned with your intent here, I find the duty of protector then falls to me. So, milord—” this said with something akin to disdain, “—what exactly are your intentions toward my sister?”

  While Christian did have a reaction to this stance and this query, he certainly did not let the boy see it. Inwardly, however, he wondered if this posturing were given merely to confound him, with no true care for his answer, and less with the actual aim to protect his dear sister. Whatever the case, he certainly couldn’t fault the boy his pluck.

  “My intentions, young man, are to visit with your sister while I am here,” he said in his best I-am-the-Earl-of-Somersby voice. And whatever the child might have responded to this was forgotten as Christian spied through the barely open door, Isabelle herself, coming down the stairs. “Gone to town, eh?” He raised a mocking brow.

  “Oh, hullo, my lord,” said Isabe
lle, spying the earl and pulling the door open further. “What a happy surprise!”

  Christian thought he might one day instruct Isabelle in the finer art of coyness—not, of course, while he was here—but of a certain for future use. She was an open book, which might one day cause her true harm, but for now he appreciated greatly her unhidden joy at seeing him.

  “Good morning, Miss Covington,” he said with a slight bow. When he stood straight again, he saw her eyes fix on the flower at his lapel. She smiled shyly though happily at this but said not a word. Ignoring Timothy, who remained still, his frown near to disgust as his gaze traveled back and forth between his sister and the earl, Christian said, “I was thinking to visit again that spot about the creek, as I found such great enjoyment there yesterday. Would you care to accompany me?”

  “Oh, I should love to,” and though this proposition clearly thrilled the girl, it was obvious to one such as Christian that merely his request for her presence thrilled her more. “I’ve only to grab my journal and tell Aunt Ester of my plans and I shall be ready. Please come inside.”

  He did, being quite a juvenile then as to give Timothy a superior and smug look. He then watched with great appreciation the figure she made dashing up the stairs. She returned in a moment, book and pencil in hand, and smiled at him before racing into the kitchen, returning this time with Aunt Ester in tow.

  The older woman trilled and tittered over his coming and his desire for Isabelle’s company.. “Well, my lord, what a beauteous suggestion. Our Isabelle loves the out of doors, you know. I’m of a mind the poor thing must have been born in a stable or alongside a pond for all her love of nature,” Aunt Ester stated with all good humor, and shooed the pair off, while restraining the still-scowling Timothy with a plump hand at his shirt collar.

  Shaking his head at Aunt Ester’s unusual ways and words, the earl offered his sleeve to Isabelle as they set off. This was new to her, he knew, and wondered that no other man had ever offered his arm as escort to this beautiful creature. She glanced at first with a question in her eyes, then understood what he was about and grinned at such chivalry as this and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow.