Arabella’s mother finally found the conversation of some interest and turned her gaze toward True. “His father’s, the Earl of Leathorne. But Drake will one day own it. For the time he has a pretty little estate not too far from here, I have been told.” Lady Swinley’s sources went deep into the nobility, and she had cultivated, over Arabella’s three London Seasons, acquaintances in every noble house of the realm. She likely knew Lord Drake’s income down to a farthing.
Her green eyes wide, Arabella said, “Lady Drake . . . I shall like being called that, Mama.”
“And you will be an enchanting viscountess, my dear. You will be an even more remarkable countess one day; you shall be Lady Leathorne.”
“Not too soon, I hope,” Arabella said. Her smile was natural and unforced as she added, “I very much like Lord and Lady Leathorne.”
“Jessica is one of my oldest and dearest friends,” Lady Swinley said, with satisfaction. “And I have long thought this match to be the happiest outcome for my darling daughter. It will serve to make everyone happy.” She sat up straight and peered out the window. “Look! There is the house!”
True’s gaze flew back to the window and her mouth dropped open in an unladylike manner. Lea Park was lovely, majestically rising above the parkland in a series of terraced gardens that led the eye up to the house—if one could call it by such a homely name—its mellow gray walls turned golden by the angle of the afternoon sun. From the four stories of the main section of the house, a conservatory, with high roman-arched windows, stretched out to the left side, and a rounded library wing stretched out to the right. Formal gardens flanked the terraces and square boxwood hedges lined the walkways.
Lady Swinley and Arabella had already looked back down to gather their reticules and various accouterments, but then they had seen Lea Park before, and as recently as the year before when they had made an extended visit there. True had no such preparation, and she gazed in awe at the lovely home she was to spend at least a fortnight, and very likely a month or more in.
The carriage swung around a long approach that coquettishly turned away from the house before submitting and finally turning once more to bring the carriage up to the front portico that stretched over marble steps. The huge front doors swung open, and two footmen descended the stairs as Lady Swinley’s groom leaped from his seat to put the step down for the ladies.
Annie saw to the baggage, while Lady Swinley regally sailed up the steps, followed by Arabella and an abashed True. She had never met a countess, nor an earl. Would they be dreadfully condescending? Lady Swinley was just the widow of a baron, and she could be terribly intimidating at times, cousin or no cousin!
A butler ushered them in, led them through a cavernous hall and reception room to an equally enormous saloon, and announced them. “Lady Swinley, the Honorable Miss Arabella Swinley and . . . and Miss . . .” He waited for the name to be supplied to him.
Lady Swinley swept forward without giving it, but True didn’t mind. In this one case she wanted to remain anonymous for just a while, until she got over her awe. It would not do to look like a moonling with these people, her hosts for a lengthy visit.
Like a formal portrait, Lord and Lady Leathorne sat in matching chairs at one end of the magnificent blue and white saloon. They stood as one, as Lady Swinley and Arabella approached them. Lord Leathorne was a plump, peevish-looking man with sparse hair swept back from a high-domed forehead. True thought he looked worried, but she could not fathom why a gentleman with everything in life would look worried.
Lady Leathorne was plump, too, but her erect carriage and uptilted chin hinted at pride and something else . . . defensiveness? True hung back and observed, as she was wont to do, not willing to interfere in the reunion of old friends. She drifted over to a painted screen near the fireplace and gazed out of the high-arched windows at the terraced gardens filled with late-blooming flowers, taking a moment to compose herself. This house was so very grand! She had visited her cousins at their home of course, in Devon, but Swinley Manor—the title had lapsed with the death of the baron four years before, and so the home was still Lady Swinley’s—was smaller, a dark granite manse that did not compare to this enormous, bright . . . palace! To her it was a palace.
“Isabella!” Lady Leathorne’s greeting to her old friend was one of heartfelt welcome. Lord Leathorne hovered behind his wife, looking like he did not quite know what to do.
“Jessica!” Lady Swinley’s face was wreathed in a genuine smile as they exchanged brief hugs. Finally the plans she had made for her daughter in the cradle, a brilliant match with an old and monied house, looked to bear fruit. The two older ladies, bosom bows from their long-ago London Season, embraced. They all settled down to a happy reunion, but still True held back, staying in the shadows, not willing to thrust herself on the notice of the gathering. She had been plagued with shyness as a child, and still struggled with that affliction on meeting new people for the first time.
The door to the saloon opened again, and she was conscious of a swirl of movement behind her. She turned and a shaft of brilliant sunshine pierced the gloom of the farthest reaches of the room. Through it, from out of the darkness, came a young Galahad, a tall gentleman with a tumble of tawny, unruly hair swept back from a high white brow. He leaned on a cane and limped, favoring his left leg as the sunlight danced across golden streaks in his hair and lit up his golden eyes. True took in a deep breath. He was gorgeous, dressed in pale biscuit-colored pantaloons and a coat of dove gray. This must be Lord Drake.
He made his way across the expanse of marble floor as Lady Swinley and Arabella turned to greet him. Arabella blushed—with only a swift, frowning glance at the cane—showing a becoming sensibility for a girl who had come to Lea Park to be matched to the heir. True, unable to resist the magnetic pull of Lord Drake, was drawn across the floor too, toward the grouping of elegant lords and ladies.
Lady Leathorne spoke. “Drake, you remember Lady Swinley, and of course her lovely daughter, the Honorable Miss Arabella Swinley? They were visiting on your last leave, when that French upstart was first incarcerated.”
Lord Drake bowed before the ladies. “Of course I remember, Mama. How could I forget?”
“I’m sorry,” Lady Leathorne said, glancing at True and then turning to her friend. “I am afraid I did not catch your companion’s name?”
Lady Swinley looked startled for a moment, then noticed True hovering just at the fringe of the group. “True? Oh, yes, of course. Lord Drake, may I introduce my cousin?”
“Miss Truelove Beckons.”
Drake, who had been barely listening and had turned automatically at some gesture Lady Swinley made toward her young cousin, was riveted. Miss Truelove Beckons! He smiled and gazed into eyes the color of periwinkle. Startled into gallantry, he said, “What a lovely name for a lovely lady! Miss Truelove Beckons.”
Rising from a kiss laid on her gloved hand, he watched, fascinated, as a deep rose flush flooded her pale, softly rounded cheeks and a sweep of dark lashes veiled her eyes. My, but she was a pretty maiden, he thought, suddenly reminded by the color of her eyes of a dell near the woods, carpeted in periwinkle in the spring. She was not richly garbed as Miss Swinley was, but neat and sweet in a pale blue day dress of some soft, clingy material. And her brown hair under her unfashionable bonnet looked like spun glass, soft as a catkin, probably. His fingers itched with a reprehensible and uncharacteristic urge to reach out and touch one drooping curl, to see if it could possibly be as soft as it looked.
“Not Beckons, my lord.” Arabella tittered politely behind one slender gloved hand. “Her name is Miss Truelove Becket!”
Classic Regency Romances
The Viscount’s Valentine
A Rogue’s Rescue
A Scandalous Plan
Reforming the Rogue
Lord St. Claire’s Angel
Noël’s Wish
The Earl of Hearts
The Mad Herringtons
Romancing the Rog
ue
Married to a Rogue
Taming the Rogue
The Rogue’s Folly
A Matchmaker’s Christmas
Miss Truelove Beckons
Books by Donna Lea Simpson
Lady Anne and the Howl in the Dark
Revenge of the Barbary Ghost
Curse of the Gypsy
The Viscount’s Valentine
A Rogue’s Rescue
A Scandalous Plan
Reforming the Rogue
Lord St. Claire’s Angel
Noël’s Wish
The Earl of Hearts
Romancing the Rogue
Married to a Rogue
Taming the Rogue
The Rogue’s Folly
A Matchmaker’s Christmas
Miss Truelove Beckons
Courting Scandal
About the Author
Donna Lea Simpson is a nationally bestselling romance and mystery novelist with over twenty titles published in the last eleven years. An early love for the novels of Jane Austen and Agatha Christie was a portent of things to come; Donna believes that a dash of mystery adds piquancy to a romantic tale, and a hint of romance adds humanity to a mystery story. Besides writing romance and mystery novels and reading the same, Donna has a long list of passions: cats and tea, cooking and vintage cookware, cross-stitching and watercolor painting among them. Karaoke offers her the chance to warble Dionne Warwick tunes, and nature is a constant source of comfort and inspiration. A long walk is her favorite exercise, and a fruity merlot is her drink of choice when the tea is all gone. Donna lives in Canada.
The best writing advice, Donna believes, comes from the letters of Jane Austen. That author wrote, in an October 26, 1813, letter to her sister, Cassandra, “I am not at all in a humor for writing; I must write on till I am.” So true! But Donna is usually in a good humor for writing!
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