The Wild Passion of an Eccentric Lady: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Emily Honeyfield

  He felt Rose’s eye-roll. It seemed to beam off of her, making the air taut with tension. Grace flashed a smile, agreeing and slipping her porcelain hand into his. Everything about it felt entirely wrong. But within seconds, they had stitched themselves into the centre of the brimming crowd, taking up the steps of the dance.

  Grace was an immaculate, fluid dancer, and she kept her face just-so—on the brink of a delicious smile. Prior to their engagement, Ernest had heard several men speak in hushed whispers about how beautiful, how entirely perfectly Grace was, in their eyes. “No man could ever say no to her,” they’d said. “She has the world in the palm of her hands.”

  “Darling, your eyes look lost again,” Grace said now, in a voice low enough to ensure no one could hear.

  “How could they be lost? I’m just looking around the room,” Ernest offered.

  “You have to remain confident,” Grace returned. “These people, they can sense weakness from a mile away. Lord Garrison, he looked all but flustered when you mentioned how strange it was, you taking your father’s position. You must demand respect. I would have thought your father would have burned this information into your skull.”

  Ernest toyed with several responses. He burned with the desire to tell her that, no, his father hadn’t busied himself with training Ernest for the earldom; rather, their relationship had had depth and emotion, had centered around literature and art and morals. They’d spoken endlessly about how to become an honest, worthy man, the sort that left behind a legacy that mattered and that altered the course of mankind. Nothing of that conversation had had the slightest to do with how to operate socially at countryside balls.

  “Rose is clearly up to her tricks,” Grace continued, scoffing.

  “She’s fifteen, darling,” Ernest pointed out. “Whatever tricks she has, she’s allowed to use them. You were something of a wild child at fifteen, if I remember correctly.”

  “I wasn’t apt to poke fun at members of society with higher social standing than I,” Grace retorted, knocking her head to the side to make her blonde curls quake. “She looks at me like she’s about to say something deliciously evil. You absolutely must speak with her, Ernest. If we’re going to enter into a proper union…”

  “I really think you’re overreacting.” Ernest’s words were heavy with a sigh.

  When the song ended, another parade of the upper echelon of the London elite approached, shaking Ernest’s hand and greeting Grace with glittering eyes. Grace played her part seamlessly, dipping into frequent little curtsies and tossing her head back, letting out melodic laughter.

  Ernest tried to find solace in her beauty, in the smooth line of her perfect, thin neck, in the natural curves of her frame. He sensed himself to be the envy of countless men at the ball—could feel the darkness of their eyes upon him, the whispered words of confusion that they, themselves, hadn’t been blessed with such a title and woman. All they could do was curse God himself.

  Yet, Ernest felt wholly that he didn’t want it.

  His eyes flashed toward the far end of the ballroom, landing upon Rose, who’d laced her hands over her cheeks. Her shoulders shook. He pulled his hand from Grace’s lower back and boomed to the collection of onlookers, along with Grace herself, that he had something to attend to. Grace’s eyes were solid as bricks. He felt sure he would pay for this.

  But moments later, he appeared beside Rose, wrapping his arm around her. The music felt like a scream. Rose’s little body quaked. She dropped her hands to the side to reveal eyes like pools, filled with tears.

  “Rose, follow me,” Ernest murmured. He tugged at her elbow, directing her toward the shadowy doorway, the canal between dark halls and the vibrant belly of the ball. Rose dragged her toes as she walked, allowing her tears to drip down her cheeks. She didn’t bother to fix herself.

  “Ernest, I’m terribly sorry,” Rose whispered, sniffling. “You’re meant to be out, socializing, displaying yourself as this—this—”

  “Don’t worry yourself about it,” Ernest said. “What is it?”

  Rose furrowed her brows. “I can’t imagine that he’s really gone, Ernest. Every single day for the rest of our lives, he won’t be here. It’s one thing to hear everyone say how sorry they are. I hear how ridiculous I sound in response. ‘Oh, that’s all right. We miss him, but we’re going to make it through.’ How foolish! It’s absolutely a lie. I don’t know what to do without Father.”

  Ernest felt the honesty like a stone in his stomach. Without thinking, he yanked a handkerchief from his back pocket and passed it to her, seeing in his sister’s expression the very same look his father had worn throughout his final days, as he’d cooked to death with fever in his deathbed.

  “And it’s another thing to be entirely an orphan, now,” Rose whispered. “The pity they’re casting upon us. It’s staggering. How many times I’ve heard people whispering about me—saying, ‘Oh, how wretched. Her mother died in childbirth, and now, at just fifteen, her father has passed. What will become of her?’”

  “You mustn’t listen to what others say.” Ernest shifted his weight, watching as Rose mussed her makeup with his handkerchief. His stomach felt sick, as he knew Grace would make it a mission later to tell him just how wild Rose looked—untamed and entirely unlike a girl meant to be displayed as the new earl’s younger sister.

  Rose sniffed again and stretched the handkerchief back across Ernest’s palm. She blinked tired eyes into the crowd, directly back toward the small circle Ernest had just abandoned. Somehow, Grace’s laughter pierced through the low hum of conversation.

  “She really is wretched, Ernest,” Rose said, her voice scratchy.

  Ernest hadn’t the words to respond. He knew Rose was correct—Ernest’s very moral code felt challenged with his union to Grace. Yet, it had been his father’s dying wish—one of very few—that Ernest settle with Grace, the first daughter of his father’s best friend, Lord Bragg. Ernest had promised his father that such a thing wouldn’t be difficult for him, that he would extend the family line and unite with the Braggs. At the time, Ernest had felt a unique pleasure, knowing he was giving his father one of the only things he truly wished for.

  Now, it felt like a death sentence.

  “Here she comes,” Rose muttered. She swiped her fist across her right cheek, seemingly trying to fix up the mess she’d crafted of herself. “She has death in her eyes.”

  Rose was entirely correct. Ernest’s eyes switched up to his young fiancée’s, finding them heavy and somber, entirely in contrast with the rest of her appearance, which was like a fine dessert. She bounced toward Rose and Ernest, her smile fixed, and then perched herself in front of them, placing her hands at her waist.

  “Ernest, it’s been far too long since we had a dance. Don’t you agree?”

  Rose shifted, tilting her elbow into her brother’s side. Although Rose was a good thirteen years Ernest’s junior, it seemed she still had a firm grip on his mental state. But Ernest’s hands were tied. He felt the burning eyes of countless members of the party, watching him, casting judgment. It was essential that he project a healthy image. He knew Grace was right about this, if only this.

  Together, Ernest and Grace embarked upon the dance floor once more. The air felt heavy between them, despite the lightness of their feet.

  “I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” Grace finally uttered, as though she’d been bursting with it.

  “Rose was ill. As her older brother—and her only remaining family member, I really felt that I—”

  “Oh, goodness, Ernest,” Grace blurted. “How long are you going to go on with this endless tirade? It’s a tragedy your father died, yes. But he wouldn’t wish you to linger on with such sadness. Don’t you remember when I found you, weeks after his death? You had whittled yourself down to nothing. You looked wretched, just days from the grave. But I reminded you of what had always been said about us. I gave you something to live for. Always remember that.”

  Ernest’s l
ips parted. He felt hungry with the desire to tell her just how little he felt for her, that he’d regretted falling into this relationship nearly every day since it had begun. He felt faced with an impossibly grave future, one of glittering balls and uppity discussions and—worst of all—words of disdain toward his favourite human, Rose.

  “Did you manage to meet Lord Hayward yet?” Grace asked then.

  “I don’t believe so,” Ernest returned, cursing himself for his inner weakness.

  “Oh, you absolutely must!” Grace spat back. “He’s incredibly rich, you know. He informed me that he worked frequently with your father when they were in their 20s and 30s, before losing touch for a bit. He says he’d loved to meet with you, to discuss how you could work together in the future. Isn’t that wonderful, darling? You can make these old connections back. For the good of us.”

  “I really care only for the good of the earldom,” Ernest said. “We have enough money for ourselves, darling.”

  The word ‘darling’ felt almost mocking in his ears. He marvelled at how easy it was to fling it off his tongue, directing it toward someone he felt in increasing increments was a stranger.

  After this next dance, Grace slipped her slim arm through his and directed them back toward Lord Hayward, muttering that it was essential for the conversation to happen now, rather than later. “He’ll be terribly insulted if you don’t make an effort, darling.”

  As Ernest and Grace swept through the crowd, Ernest’s gaze was again drawn to his sister, who’d found her own collection of tittering teenagers to giggle with. Of course, her own eyes looked a bit hollow, and her face powder remained caked oddly across her cheeks and forehead. She gave Ernest a strange look, her nostrils flared.

  Ernest forced himself through yet another round of drivel-conversation, then found himself in another. His energy depleted, he forced his shoulders back all the same, letting out raucous laughter at all the proper times. Grace seemed to feed off this energy, piping up with compliments regarding Ernest’s ability to lead.

  “Always such a stunning man. We grew up together, you know,” she offered. “My father and his father were the very best of friends. How many blissful summer days I spent at the Bannerman estate! Ernest was five years older than me, and thus perfectly in-line to pick fun at me, if he so chose. But he never did. Once, I fell off a horse, smashing my arm across a rock. You should have seen it. I was perhaps 13 years old, an absolute mess. I thought surely I was going to die. But Ernest arrived seconds later, lifting me up and carrying me back to the house. In that moment, I felt sure of it—I would marry this man one day.”

  Throughout this story, Ernest’s heart dipped lower in his chest. He hadn’t a single memory of such an event. He glanced across Grace’s arms, trying to note any sign of once-breakage, yet nothing revealed itself.

  It came to him, now: had Grace possibly made up the entire tale?

  Once they retreated from this group, Ernest led Grace to the side of the room and leaned in to whisper, inhaling her perfume. “Did that actually happen, Grace? I don’t seem to remember.”

  She let out a twinkling laugh. “Darling, of course not. It’s only that these people need some sort of story to cling onto. Don’t you want the kind of story that people will tell to one another after the ball? The kind that shows you to be the passionate, caring, strong man… And the one that shows me to be the one who pined after you for years…?”

  “I thought you said you did pine after me for years,” Ernest reminded her, his throat tight. He needed a drink of water terribly. The music seemed louder and more harried, as though they were falling into a type of nightmare.

  “Darling, if we’re going to be married, I’m going to need you to understand how and when best to lie,” Grace whispered. She tapped a long, slender finger against her nose and arched her brow.

  Everything within Ernest’s body felt turned to ice.

  Just then, Grace’s eyes flashed toward the far end of the crowd. She sniffed, her perfect lips turning down. “I can’t very well believe Margaret would wear something like that,” she ventured, speaking about a girl she’d been friends with since she’d been a girl, Ernest knew. “Look at her. She’s coming this way. Surely, she wants to ride the coattails of my success. And I’ll be sure to tell her that would have been possible, if only she’d looked into a mirror.”

  Grace shifted, batting her lashes toward Ernest. “Darling, you know that will never be a problem with you and I, don’t you? I will always strive for the latest and best fashion. I will work tirelessly to ensure that I look the part of your wife, the countess. It’s quite good we found one another, don’t you think? What marvellous partners we will be.”

  When Margaret appeared before them, Grace’s demeanour changed entirely. She tapped two kisses upon Margaret’s cheeks, falling into glossy conversation. Ernest fell back. His collar felt tight across his neck, making it difficult for him to breathe. How could he possibly face life with this woman? He spun round and stretched his legs toward the enormous foyer, which echoed with the glitzy voices of the London elite. Once in the entry, he discovered his sister once more, her arms crossed over her chest.

  She glowered at him. “I really think it’s time for us to go,” she muttered.

  “Grace thinks it’s essential that we remain,” Ernest countered, sensing the lacklustre nature of his own voice. “She thinks we have to put our best foot forward.”

  “Whatever Grace thinks is quite evil, don’t you agree?” Rose’s nostrils flared.

  Ernest’s lips parted. As he stood, waiting for something, anything to fall from his mouth, a group of friends from his younger days approached—Lord Marvin Cottrill, Lord Adam Collingsworth, and Lord Peter Ellington. Looking at them was like looking at a memory. Their swagger, their charm reflected old days lost in gardens and moors, riding too quickly on horseback.

  “Well, if it isn’t the new earl!” Marvin called out, smacking his hand across Ernest’s shoulder. “Quite handsome, this one, don’t you agree, everyone?”

  “Quite,” Adam confirmed, his tone mocking. “I only trust a handsome earl. Why follow anyone who isn’t exceedingly good-looking?”

  “You’re all ridiculous,” Ernest said.

  “And look at little Rosie here, all grown up!” Peter added. He reached forward, pretending to grip Rose’s cheek. She let out a playful shriek, just as she’d done when they’d been younger men and she’d been eight or nine years old.

  “Don’t you dare! I’m a proper lady,” she reminded them.

  “I didn’t realize fourteen meant proper lady these days,” Adam retorted.

  “Excuse me, Adam, but I’m fifteen years old,” Rose scoffed. “I demand more respect than this.”

  “All right, all right. Fifteen. I suppose that puts you over the mark.”

  “And when are we going to properly meet the future countess, Ernest?” Peter asked.

  “You’ve met her before,” Rose insisted. “She’s been marching around our estate since she was a girl, like she owned the place.”

  “Of course, I remember the snide Grace Bragg,” Marvin said. “Always so beautiful, though. She could truly get me to do anything.”

  “Perhaps she’s the new earl, hey?” Adam offered, digging his elbow into Ernest’s side.

  “Oh! There she is,” Marvin said, his voice hushed.

  Again, Ernest felt his heart dip. He spun round to see Grace diving through the crowd in the foyer, her eyes burning with ill humour. When she arrived, she lent each of them a false, too-sweet smile. “Good evening, gentlemen,” she said. “Wonderful to see you again.”

  “Lady Bragg,” the men echoed back, bowing their heads.

  The air felt suddenly sterile, void of emotion. Ernest swept his hand across his black curls, willing himself forward to another year, another life. He felt the heaviness of his fresh title stretched across his shoulders. How could he possibly continue, forced down a path that felt entirely meaningless?