All That I Am
Grace Hartwell
Book One of the Hesitant Husbands Series
Copyright © 2020 by Grace Hartwell
Cover Design by Wicked Smart Designs
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First edition September 2020
For Laurie Judd
Without your suggestion, this book would never have been written. I am forever grateful.
And in memory of Christopher Weed, my real life romantic hero. I love you with all that I am, and miss you with all that I have.
But in a crowd of thousands, I’ll find you again.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Prologue
Derbyshire, July, 1868
The sound of shattering glass pulled Leighton from sleep.
The scream that followed yanked her bolt upright.
What was happening? Leighton sat, paralyzed, as the sounds of scuffling feet and men's angry voices reached her ears. Furniture was being knocked over as whoever had broken into the house fought with…whom? Her parents? The servants? She slipped out of bed and crept to the door, but she froze when her mother cried out.
“No! Leave her alone!”
The desperation and panic in her mother's voice signaled danger, and when footsteps pounded on the stairs, Leighton backed away from the door, her heart in her throat. She glanced frantically about, and when her eyes fell on the tapestry on the far wall, and she made a mad dash for it. She dove behind it and shoved open the door that led to the secret tunnel. She was no sooner safely ensconced in the tunnel than the sound of men bursting into her room reverberated on the other side of the hidden door. She tried desperately to overcome her ragged breathing as she tiptoed over to the tiny peephole. She could just see her mother, her arms held roughly by two terrifying-looking men, face streaked with tears, hair falling from its pins. There was a third man in the room, out of Leighton’s line of vision. The sound of his angry snarl carried through the wall.
“Where is she?” he demanded.
“I don't know,” her mother sobbed. Leighton gasped when the man struck her mother hard across the cheek.
“Do not lie to me, Mrs. Courtwright. Where is she?”
“I don't know,” she repeated, desperate. “There are hundreds of places she could be hiding!”
But Leighton knew her mother knew exactly where she was.
“Please,” Kate begged, her voice fearful. “Please, leave us alone. My husband just thought he was protecting—”
“You expect mercy?” The deadly calm in his voice sent chills down Leighton’s spine. “Your family for mine, Mrs. Courtwright. What’s fair is fair.”
“No!”
“Your husband should have thought it through before he opened his mouth,” the man snapped. “Forget about the girl,” he said to the others. “She's in the house somewhere. She won't get away—I will hunt her down myself. Make no mistake about that.” And then, “Kill them. And burn the house to the ground. We’ll smoke the girl out or she can die here.”
Leighton clapped her hands over her mouth to stifle a scream.
“No! NO!” Her mother was sobbing. “Please! Don’t do this. Please!” Leighton watched helplessly as the two men dragged her mother from the room. “Leighton! Leighton!” she screamed, the sound of her voice fading as she disappeared from view. Silent tears streamed down Leighton’s face, and her throat ached. Blood roared in her ears as she sank to the floor, trying to comprehend what was happening. Who would want to hurt her parents? And why would they want her, too? She was only fourteen, a good girl. What had Papa done to—
A pungent smell met her nostrils. Smoke. They’d already set the fire! She sucked in an unsteady breath and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to thwart the rising panic in her chest. Panicking wouldn’t get her out alive. She forced herself to think.
London. Papa had told her they were leaving for London in the morning to visit an old friend of the family. A Mr. Mac…something. No matter, it would come to her. The thought of traveling to London alone made her stomach clench, but she wasn't safe here, and she’d only put neighbors and friends in danger by going to them for help. Perhaps this person they were to visit had some idea of what was happening. She would find help in London, she was sure of it. She just had to get there.
She would need money. She had quite a bit of pin money saved, and she could sell her jewelry if she had to. She stood on shaky legs and peeked through the peephole once again. She saw nothing but flames licking the walls in her room. She was running out of time. She moved to the door and rested her hand on the latch. “Lord help me,” she whispered, before tugging it open. She poked her head around the tapestry and immediately choked on the smoke, but she was alone. Taking a deep lungful of musty tunnel air, she shoved the tapestry aside and raced to her wardrobe, yanking out a valise and stuffing whatever clothing she could into it, followed by her sturdiest pair of boots and a cloak. Smoke clogged her throat as she stumbled to her dresser, eyes burning, and emptied her jewelry box into the valise as well, followed by her pin money. She spun around to make her escape, but the portrait of her parents in the small frame by her bedside caught her attention. Pain squeezed her chest, and she hesitated a moment, suddenly realizing that she might never see them again. Without another thought, she dashed toward the bed, which was now engulfed in flames. She shielded her face from the heat and fumbled around till her fingers brushed the frame. It was hot, and it scalded her fingers as she grasped it and ran for the passageway, only to skid to an abrupt halt. The tapestry, too, was now in flames, blocking her route to safety. She glanced behind her. She could still make it
out the door, but to what end? She would be captured for certain. Frantic, her eyes darted around the the room until she spied a heavy wool blanket on a chair in the corner. She snatched it up, tossed it over her head, and dove for the tapestry. She used the blanket to shove the flaming tapestry aside enough so that she could slip behind it and squeeze through the door, dragging her valise behind her. She quickly shed the smoldering blanket and tamped out the flame that had ignited on the hem of her nightgown. She collapsed on the stone floor, gasping for breath, limbs trembling, eyes watering. She allowed herself only a moment of collection before she felt around for her boots. Her hands were shaking so badly she could hardly put them on her feet. Blinded by tears and hampered by the darkness, she stumbled her way along the tunnel for what seemed like forever, panic threatening to overtake her at any moment. Finally, when she thought she would never make it, she burst forth into the moonlit orchard, a short distance away from the house. She gulped in the fresh night air, trying in vain not to cough. The acrid scent of smoke clung to her skin and clothes, and she was covered in filth from the tunnel.
A chill crept down her spine, and she glanced around, unable to shake the feeling someone was watching her. She slipped further into the protective shadow of the trees and donned her cloak, knowing her white nightgown would act as a beacon in the moonlight. Leighton turned to look back at her once grand home. Flames shot through the windows, the blaze lighting up the night sky. She could hear the shouts of the servants awakened by the melee, barking orders and trying to reach those who would be trapped. Muffled sobs wracked her body. Her entire life, gone in only a few moments. And for what purpose? Were her parents really going to be killed? Or had the man just said that to draw her out of hiding? She refused to let herself believe she would never see them again. “I will find you, Mama, Papa,” she vowed, choking back a sob. “I will find you.” She prayed for a miracle to save them, and then turned and headed for the secret tree house in the woods where she planned to spend the night. Tomorrow she would be bound for London.
A safe harbor awaited her.
Chapter 1
London, 1876
There were sixteen pairs of eyes focused on Aidan Lockwood, Earl of Ashby, waiting for him to say something. Anything.
The odor of cigar smoke hung thick in the air, the cloud in the room echoing haze in his head. He tried to pull words together in his brain, but after an evening of drinking with his friends, they were proving a bit more elusive than he cared to admit.
After a moment's careful thought, Aidan raised his glass in a toast and said, “To my dear friend, William Everett, on the eve of his nuptials. May a temporary loss of sanity lead to a lifetime of happiness.” He winked at William. “Congratulations on finding someone willing to marry you,” he finished with a grin.
A roar of laughter broke out among the men, and those nearest Everett pounded him on the back.
“Spoken like a true bachelor,” Will said, shaking his head, amusement twinkling in his blue eyes.
“Best wishes, my friend,” Aidan returned, clinking his glass of whiskey with Will's. “Better you than me.”
Will chuckled. “You're just jealous.”
“Hardly, my friend. Though Miss Barrington is a lovely woman,” he amended hastily.
“When will it be your turn, Ashby?” Donovan MacKavoy chimed in. “You can't keep running around breaking hearts with that scoundrel, Mayfield, forever, you know.”
“I'm still running around with you, aren't I?” Aidan saluted him with his glass. “I could be asking you the same thing.”
“Yes, but I'm only twenty-four.” Donovan grinned. “You're getting old.”
More laughter. Aidan narrowed his eyes. “Twenty-nine is hardly old, MacKavoy. I've a few good years left in me yet.”
“You'll be thirty in three days,” Donovan reminded him. Aidan sipped his whiskey and shot him a dark look over the rim of his glass.
“Come now, Ashby,” Donovan pressed. “You can't tell me there isn't some young lady who's tempted you at least a little bit thus far.”
Snickers could be heard round the table. The truth was; he did have to marry. Sooner rather than later. He had an obligation to continue the family line. The problem came in finding the right sort of wife. He mentally filed through the names of all the simpering young ladies who had been thrust at him in every ballroom across London over the past nine years. He didn't want just any debutante. He needed someone who understood him. Someone efficient, respectable, and trustworthy…someone with a good mind. Perhaps even a healthy dose of spirit. But most importantly, he needed someone who would accept that he could never offer her love. He had no intention of marrying for love.
The sticking point was that in a desperate moment, he had promised his dying father that he would do exactly that.
“Not a one,” he replied, a hint of resignation in his voice. Oh, how he dreaded the upcoming season. “Besides, you all know I have to get my sister married off first.”
“Coward,” Will muttered.
“What was that?” Aidan eyed his friend.
“He said you’re a coward, Ash,” Marcus Walker, the newly-minted Viscount Thorpe, replied blithely, grinning. There was a moment of stunned silence, and a flicker of warning skittered across Aidan’s face. The men glanced around the table uneasily, until Donovan reached over and removed the tumbler of whiskey from Marcus’s hand.
“That’s enough for you, Thorpe,” he said.
“Oh, come now,” Will chided, his words slurring slightly. “Despite what you may think, Ashby, falling in love is actually a wonderful thing.” He hiccuped.
Aidan rolled his eyes. “If it means turning into a sop like you, I want no part of it.”
“Ashby, Ash, my silly little friend,” Will said, clapping him on the shoulder as he leaned in to impart his sage advice. “When are you going to learn that you don’t have a choice in the matter?”
“Blast, you sound like my sister!” Aidan sputtered. Enough of this. Time to steer the conversation away from his situation and put the focus back on the reason they were all there. He stood abruptly, the chair shrieking as it slid across the floor. Aidan glanced at his friends and shot them all an unsteady grin. “Gentlemen, find me a woman with a sharp mind and a sharper wit who isn't more interested in gowns and gossip than family and friendship and I promise you, I'll make her a bride.” What on earth was he saying? Dear God, he must be drunker than he thought. “I'm quite sure Everett, here, has found the last one in London. Which brings me back to the point,” he said, raising his glass again. “To my good friend, Ev. May you and Louisa find all the happiness your hearts desire. God bless you both.”
“Hear, hear!” General shouts of congratulations rang out, and Will's eyes met Aidan's across the table. He nodded toward Aidan in thanks, and a small smile touched Aidan’s lips, his eyes filling with warmth. Will and Aidan had been through much in life together, and Aidan couldn't be happier to see him with a good woman. Louisa suited Will perfectly.
“Gentlemen, the hour grows late,” Aidan said, swaying just slightly. “I fear I must be getting Everett on his way or his fiancée will have my head when he falls asleep at the altar.”
There was general protest, but the men bid each other good evening amongst more laughter and congratulations, and then finally Aidan and Will were out in the peace of night, away from the noise and stale air. It was a brisk evening, the March wind whipping about them in a sudden gust. There was an ominous storm brewing, the thunder rolling down the cobblestone street. Aidan paused and smiled genuinely at his lifelong friend. “Are you ready for this?”
Will grinned. “I can't wait.” He paused. “You know, Ash, I meant what I said. I want you to be happy.”
“I don’t have to be in love to be happy, Ev.”
“I've known you almost my whole life, Ash. You’re a caretaker. What are you going to do when when your sister does marry? I think you need someone special in your life. I remember the person you were befo
re your father—”
“Don’t.”
Will sighed. “Mark my words, Ash. When you least expect it, love is going to slam into you so hard you won’t even know what hit you, and you will be powerless to stop it.” Will grinned. “I speak from experience.”
Aidan opened his mouth to protest when a scuffle across the street caught his eye. A man had latched onto a woman by the elbow, and she was clearly unwilling to be led away. Aidan squinted.
“Oh, for the love of—is that Smythe?”
Will followed his gaze. “'Fraid so.”
It was so like Smythe to pick on a weaker human being. The man was an absolute weasel.
The woman he had in his grasp was struggling in earnest now. It was enough to propel Aidan across the street. “Excuse me just a moment, Ev. Send Jack for the carriage, will you? I'll only be a minute.”
“Don't go getting into trouble. I need you tomorrow.”
“Rest easy. I'm just going to send Smythe scurrying on his way like the dog that he is,” he replied, stepping into the street. He had a deadly sort of calmness in his voice that Will recognized immediately.
“That's what worries me!” Will called after him. He sighed. “Always the bloody hero, aren't you?” he muttered to himself, chuckling. Aidan couldn't resist a damsel in distress. It made no difference to him that she was clearly the poorest of the poor—she was a woman, and one being bothered by a man Aidan couldn't tolerate under any circumstances. Will didn't budge from his spot in front of the club. He wasn't about to miss the show.
All That I Am: A Victorian Historical Romance (The Hesitant Husbands Series Book 1) Page 1