Hopes and Brides: Regency and Mail Order Bride Historical Romance Collection

by Joyce Alec

  “Miss Grey.”

  The words were rushed, harsh, and brash as he looked into her face. Miss Grey came to a dead stop, her mouth a little open as though she had been in the middle of saying something to her friend but had been interrupted by his sudden, unexpected greeting. A flush rose in his face as he realized that he had come across as a little rude in his interruption.

  “Good evening, Lord Marchmont,” Miss Grey murmured, giving him nothing more than a cursory glance which gave him no hope of encouragement in his pursuit of her. “I did not expect to see you here this evening.”

  His flush deepened. “Lord Blackridge is a close friend,” he said, by way of explanation. “Although why you should think that I would not wish to attend something such as this, I cannot imagine.” He saw her glance back at him, a wry smile touching her lips, and felt his embarrassment mount all the more. They had managed a few conversations together when he had first courted her and knew full well that he had told her on more than one occasion that he did not derive pleasure from filling his life with nothing more than one social occasion after another. She, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy every moment of them.

  “I see,” Miss Grey murmured, sounding entirely unconvinced. “Might I then introduce you to my dear friend?” She gestured to the young lady beside her. “This is Viscount Marchmont,” she began, talking to her friend before returning her attention to him. “And this is Miss Louisa Smallwood, daughter to Baron Churston.”

  Peter bowed at once. “Miss Smallwood.”

  Miss Louisa Smallwood was smiling at him with a brightness in her eyes that would have given him pause had it not been that his attention was being drawn, once again, to Miss Grey. It was she that was his quarry, not her friend, not any other young lady in this room. He had to find a way to speak to her alone.

  “Are you enjoying this evening, Lord Marchmont?”

  Miss Smallwood’s cheeks had turned pink as she spoke to him, her eyes holding a little anxiety as she waited for his answer. Was it because she had seen just how caught up he was with Miss Grey?

  Clearing his throat, he managed to give Miss Smallwood a small smile, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. “It has been most enjoyable, yes,” he lied, having found no joy in his time thus far, given his worry. “And you?”

  Miss Smallwood made to speak, only for someone to strike up at the pianoforte.

  “Oh, they are to dance!” Miss Grey exclaimed, clapping her hands together in apparent delight. “How wonderful. I know you greatly enjoy stepping out onto the floor, Miss Smallwood.”

  Miss Smallwood blushed furiously and Peter found himself wincing inwardly, suddenly fully aware of what Miss Grey was attempting to do. She was trying to encourage him towards Miss Smallwood instead of towards herself, as though that would make all the difference to his intentions.

  He groaned quietly, lowering his head for a moment as the delighted exclamations from the other guests surrounded them. Couples began to make their way to the space now prepared for them, leaving Peter to look into the faces of both Miss Smallwood and Miss Grey, seeing the hope in both their eyes. Miss Grey was hopeful that he would take Miss Smallwood to the floor and, thereby, remove all thought of pursuing her from his mind, whilst Miss Smallwood, it seemed, wanted desperately to be noticed.

  “Miss Smallwood,” he said, all too aware of Miss Grey’s immediate sigh of relief. “Might you be willing to take to the floor with me?”

  “Oh, I should be delighted,” Miss Smallwood stammered, going pink with evident pleasure. “I thank you, Lord Marchmont.”

  “And you thereafter, Miss Grey,” he stated, not looking towards Miss Smallwood but fixing his gaze intently upon Miss Grey. “I shall not accept a refusal, Miss Grey, I should warn you.” Looking at her steadily, he saw how she frowned, her expression slightly wary and her eyes now holding some frustration. There was no easy way for her to refuse him given his apparent steadfastness. Some moments passed and still Peter waited, determined to have what he wished.

  “Very well, Lord Marchmont,” Miss Grey muttered, clearly exasperated that she had been forced to accept him. “I shall wait for you here.”

  He smiled and nodded, thinking that she was one of the most infuriating creatures he had ever had the chance to lay eyes on. Why, when he was not at all attracted to her, did he find himself forced to pursue her? What was it about Miss Grey that was, for whatever reason, forcing him towards her? It was almost galling that he should have to consider her as his future bride, given that they were so unequally matched in both character and temperament.

  “Lord Marchmont?”

  He was pulled from his thoughts by the quiet, anxious voice of Miss Smallwood, who was looking up at him rather cautiously.

  “I do apologize,” he murmured, clearing his throat and refusing to let his own embarrassment mount all the more. “Come, Miss Smallwood. I see the dance is about to begin.”

  Offering her his arm, he walked towards the other dancers, quite prepared to dance with her so that he might then have a few minutes to dance and speak with Miss Grey again. However, as he glanced over his shoulder, he saw that Miss Grey had already stepped away from where they had been standing, seemingly melting into the shadows. His irritation rose, his frustration burning all through him.

  Miss Grey was gone.

  4

  “There is a gentleman who wishes to see you, Miss Grey.”

  Ophelia looked up in surprise, her book now lying forgotten on her lap. “He wishes to see me?” she asked, seeing her aunt rise to her feet at once in apparent delight. “But I have no one expected this afternoon.”

  Her aunt clapped her hands together, an excited smile spreading across her face. “It seems that you have someone entirely unexpected,” she stated, hurrying around to ring the bell for tea. “Do you have his card?” She held her hand out to the footman who handed it to her at once. Lady Sharrow peered at it with small, narrowed eyes, as though she could not quite make sense of it.

  “It is Lord Marchmont, Ophelia,” she said eventually, dropping her hand and looking at her niece with confusion. “But I thought that you told me he brought your acquaintance to a rather swift end.”

  Ophelia managed a tight smile, her stomach twisting uncomfortably. “It is as you say, Aunt,” she replied honestly. “He did state that our courtship was at an end. However…” She trailed off, feeling all the more uncomfortable in telling her aunt the truth. “However, he has since stated that he feels as though he has made a mistake in doing so and now wishes to renew our acquaintance once more.”

  Her aunt stared at her, her mouth falling open just a little, her eyes widening.

  “I am not at all eager for such a thing, which is why I did not tell you at once what had occurred,” Ophelia continued hastily, not wanting her aunt to have the wrong impression. “I found it quite unacceptable for a gentleman to behave in such a manner.”

  Lady Sharrow blinked rapidly, then came towards Ophelia with a desperate expression on her face. “But you cannot be so flighty about such things, Ophelia. It is not as though you have a great many gentleman callers who are all eager to further their acquaintance with you.”

  Ophelia winced, feeling as though her aunt had slapped her hard with her words, but Lady Sharrow either did not notice or did not particularly care.

  “Lord Marchmont may simply have made a mistake!” her aunt continued, waving her hands about. “And he has attempted to rectify that mistake by coming to you to seek your forgiveness and to bestow on you the renewal of his affections.”

  “But what if I do not wish to accept them?” Ophelia asked, wishing that Lord Marchmont had simply done as she had hoped and begun to pursue Miss Smallwood instead. After all, last evening, she had stepped away and hidden herself so that Lord Marchmont would not be able to find her, and had seen him dance again with Miss Smallwood instead. It had been something of a triumph, she had considered, never once imagining that he would come to chase after her here.

&n
bsp; Lady Sharrow blew out an exasperated breath. “Then you are being quite ridiculous, my dear girl,” she stated firmly. “You have a gentleman who is affable, genteel, and quite able to give you a respectable life for the rest of your days. Might I ask why you would turn away from such a man?” And, so saying, Lady Sharrow turned to the footman and instructed him to send Lord Marchmont to them at once, without so much as consulting Ophelia as to what she wished to do.

  “Aunt, I do not desire to—”

  “You shall do as you are told, Ophelia,” Lady Sharrow stated, with a good deal more authority in her voice than Ophelia had ever heard before. “You may have convinced yourself that being a spinster is precisely what you wish for yourself, but I will not have it!” She drew herself up tall, her head lifting slightly as she gazed upon Ophelia. “Or do you wish me to fall into despair all over again?”

  Ophelia held back a groan and looked at her aunt, aware of what she was meant to say. “No, of course I do not wish that, Aunt,” she murmured, her tension rising with every moment as she waited for Lord Marchmont to arrive. “I shall do as you ask, of course.”

  Lady Sharrow appeared to be appeased by Ophelia’s response, for she gave Ophelia a curt nod and then turned away, walking swiftly to her chair before gesturing for Ophelia to rise to her feet in preparation. Ophelia did so at once, leaving her book to one side and smoothing her gown with anxious fingers. She did not want to speak with Lord Marchmont and had thought she had made that more than clear, but apparently Lord Marchmont was quite determined.

  The door opened and Ophelia felt anxiety surge through her, making her catch her breath. Just why was Lord Marchmont so insistent?

  “Lady Sharrow.” Lord Marchmont walked in and immediately bowed to Ophelia’s aunt, whom he had been introduced to some weeks ago at the beginning of the Season. “Thank you for allowing me to call upon you both without prior notice.” He turned towards Ophelia and bowed again, his eyes not lingering on her for more than a moment. “Miss Grey.”

  “Lord Marchmont,” Ophelia murmured, seeing out of the corner of her eye just how delighted her aunt appeared to be by the presence of the gentleman in the house. “I am very glad to see you again. It has been too long.”

  Ophelia resisted the urge to roll her eyes, for it had been less than a week since Lord Marchmont had last called upon them both. “Please,” she murmured, gesturing to a seat. “Be seated, Lord Marchmont. I am surprised that you called.”

  “Ophelia!” Lady Sharrow hissed, but Ophelia ignored her completely, knowing that her aunt would berate her later for her blunt way of speaking, as she had always done before.

  “I thought that I had made myself more than clear, Lord Marchmont,” she continued, not so much as glancing at her aunt. “Are you here to attempt to encourage me back towards our courtship?”

  There was a long moment of silence and Ophelia could feel the tension rising within the room. Lady Sharrow was blinking rapidly, her lips moving but with nothing coming out from her mouth. Lord Marchmont was staring back at Ophelia with a rather blank expression, his color rising a little. Ophelia arched one eyebrow, her question hanging in the air between them. She was not about to change her character despite what her aunt wished and certainly not even if it brought Lord Marchmont a deep sense of embarrassment. She wanted to know the truth.

  “You are within my heart, Miss Grey.”

  She blinked. This was not at all what she had expected to hear.

  “I confess that I am a man unused to sharing matters of the heart and certainly even more unused to experiencing the emotions that your very presence has flung into my soul. I will admit that I was a little afraid of what I was feeling and so decided to step away from you. That was a grievous wrong, Miss Grey.”

  Beside her, Ophelia’s aunt gasped softly at this declaration, but Ophelia was not at all convinced. Lord Marchmont was looking back at her steadily, yes, but there had been no passion within his speech. His expression had appeared somewhat stoic, his eyes holding no emotion whatsoever. The tone of his voice had remained unchanged, as though he were merely describing something of little value in the hope that she might find it interesting. This was why she had been relieved when he had brought their courtship to an end, for she considered him to be rather dull and certainly without any sort of passion for, apparently, anything in this world. He kept his opinions to himself without often feeling the need to share them, whilst she was more than willing to express almost anything and everything she felt. They were entirely mismatched and Ophelia was quite certain that Lord Marchmont had not only felt but also understood that when he had first spoken to her some days ago. Could he truly have had such a change of heart in only a few days?

  “I am truly touched by such a declaration,” she replied carefully, seeing something flicker in his eyes. “But yet, I must confess that my own heart has not changed as regards the relief and the… the gladness that I felt when you spoke to me some days ago, Lord Marchmont.”

  “That is enough, Ophelia.”

  Much to Ophelia’s astonishment, her aunt rose to her feet, her skirts sweeping about her.

  “Lord Marchmont, you must forgive my niece. She was, in fact, rather sorrowful over the ending of your courtship and has now allowed that sadness to affect her opinion of you. I shall not have it, Ophelia.” She turned her sharp gaze onto Ophelia, whose mouth had fallen open in astonishment. “No, I shall not have it. You will accept Lord Marchmont’s courtship, Ophelia, without question. You shall not hold his previous behavior against him, for that would be greatly unfair. I know that you were sorrowful over the ending of this courtship once before but you need not worry that it shall happen again.”

  “Indeed, Miss Grey, I have no intention of bringing any such thing to a close again,” Lord Marchmont said, with a firmness that had been absent from his words before this moment. “I will state henceforth that my intentions are singular and will not easily be deterred.”

  Ophelia could barely breathe, feeling her world begin to spin around her as she looked to her aunt and saw the pinched look on her face. Lord Marchmont was saying things that Ophelia could not quite understand, and she was beginning to realize that the man meant to propose to her should their courtship go well. It was, of course, something that most young ladies expected when they first began courting a gentleman, but to hear it spoken so from his lips rendered it almost impossible for her to reply succinctly. She had no wish to be courted by Lord Marchmont and certainly did not want to marry him, but for whatever reason, her aunt had shown a firmness of character that Ophelia had not seen before and had overruled any decision Ophelia might have made.

  “Why do you not call tomorrow afternoon, Lord Marchmont?” Lady Sharrow said kindly, as Ophelia struggled to find something to say. “I know that my niece would be glad of your company. As you can see, she is a little overcome at the present moment.”

  “I am quite all right,” Ophelia managed to say, pushing herself out of her chair and trying to stand tall, glaring at her aunt who did not so much as blink in response. “I think, Lord Marchmont, that I—”

  “Tomorrow afternoon.” Lord Marchmont rose suddenly, cutting off Ophelia’s speech and bowing low in front of them both. “A walk in the park, perhaps? I recall just how much you enjoy a summer afternoon.” He smiled but it appeared to be somewhat strained and there was no sense of gladness or joy in his eyes. “Good afternoon, Miss Grey. I look forward to seeing you again tomorrow.” He turned to her aunt. “And thank you, Lady Sharrow.”

  Lady Sharrow practically fell into a curtsy, her limbs soft and flowing as though she had achieved something of greatness and was now almost weak with relief over her victory. “Thank you for calling, Lord Marchmont.”

  It took Ophelia some minutes to regain herself once Lord Marchmont had quit the room. She was staring at the closed door, trying to work out what had occurred whilst her aunt smiled softly to herself as she sat down in her chair and waited for the late tea tray to arrive.

&nbs
p; Ophelia blinked furiously, trying to decide what to say and what to do. She had somehow managed to find herself in a situation where she did not have any sort of control, for her aunt had wrested that from her and stated that she would accept Lord Marchmont’s courtship all over again, even though she did not wish to.

  “Aunt,” she began, turning around slowly to face her aunt. “You know that I do not wish to be courted by Lord Marchmont. Why, then, did you accept him with such force that I had no other choice but to agree?”

  Her aunt arched a thin brow. “Because you are stubborn, Ophelia.”

  “But I am permitted to make my own path!” Ophelia exclaimed, as the first dart of anger lanced through her. “I do not care for Lord Marchmont.”

  “And yet, he cares for you, as ridiculous as that might seem,” her aunt replied swiftly. “You should not turn from that, Ophelia. It is very rare to find a gentleman who truly has an affection for you.”

  Ophelia shook her head, refusing to believe that what Lord Marchmont had said was true. “I doubt that he believes a single word he said.”

  “Then why say it?” Lady Sharrow asked, as the door opened to reveal the maid and the tea tray. The maid looked with wide eyes at Lady Sharrow as she set the tray down, obviously fearing that she would be blamed for being late, but Lady Sharrow said nothing, her attention still fixed on Ophelia. The maid escaped without notice, leaving Ophelia to try and come up with a response to her aunt’s question.

  “I do not know,” she was forced to admit, hating the triumphant smile that spread across Lady Sharrow’s face. “But I cannot believe that a gentleman’s heart can change so very quickly.”