by Dawn Brower
“No.” She thought about it. “No. It’s better this way.”
“Then head up there. He’ll be here soon.” Laughing, she gave Hope a push. “And don’t come down until you’ve got him.”
Hope started to go, but paused as several footmen entered, carrying trays of canapés. “Lobster patties,” she said. “Save some for me? They might end up being my only consolation.”
“You can serve them at your wedding,” Miss Nichols told her. “Now go on.”
Tensford was striding into the Montbarrow’s party when it hit him.
He saw the butler fussing, overseeing the comings and goings of a fleet of footmen, all carrying trays of food and drinks. And he knew what had been nagging at him. Suddenly his mind flashed back to the afternoon at Le Cygne.
He remembered what Madame had said. Everything is fine, yes? And then, Lady Hope and her friends are always welcome, and they do not pay here.
Why not? Why would Madame be so grateful? Because . . . because Lady Hope was a benefactress of Madame’s program? He thought of what she’d said about the young woman who had opened the newest arm of the project. Was it her? Had she been introducing him to her qualities and concerns, rather than those of anonymous ladies of the ton? But then, what of the other one? The letter writer? Had that been her, too?
But that would mean . . .
He stared up the stairs, but then turned and stalked resolutely into the crowd. He looked around wildly—there. He approached Lady Kincade and bowed.
“Lord Tensford,” she said sourly.
“How nice to see you again, my lady. I understand you had guests to dinner tonight.”
“Guest,” she corrected. “Weatherby.”
“Ah, of the Stud Book family?”
“Yes. Tiresome, to be so consumed with horses. I vow, we would have been here ages ago, had Hope not quizzed the man on generations of horseflesh. As if one must know all of that history before buying a mount for a young girl. But I suppose she’ll write it all in one those tomes she sends her sister.”
He straightened. “You mean letters to her sister?”
“Yes. She’s lucky her brother can frank them, thick as they are,” she grumbled. “Nothing but dresses and horses.”
“Letters to her lame sister?” he asked tightly.
“Have they another?” the countess asked snidely. “If they do, I remain unaware.”
“Yes. Thank you, Lady Kincade.” His mind was racing. “Good evening.”
He turned on his heel without waiting for a response and nearly collided with a footman carrying a tray.
A tray of lobster patties. He froze for a moment, then reached out and deftly took the platter from the startled servant. “I’ll return the tray, sir, do not worry.” He left the ballroom and took the stairs, two at a time.
The parlor door burst open. Hope nearly burst out of her skin.
“Lord Tensford! Here you are,” she said pedantically. Why did he carry a silver serving tray?
“Here we are,” he corrected. He looked around. “But are there no other young ladies? No one for me to meet?”
“Well, I—”
“Never mind,” he interrupted. “We’ll enjoy these before we go to make the introductions.” He approached her and held out the tray.
“Lobster patties,” she said weakly. Her stomach was aflutter. She couldn’t eat a bite.
“Yes. We never did share any of it, that first night. The night we met. We spoke of sharing the last lobster patty—and other things. Do you remember?”
Oh, she remembered.
“In any case, I have these. And a question. I’ll trade you for the answer.”
“Of course.” He was in a strange mood. How was she going to explain if he would not stop going on about lobster patties?
“Mmm.” He held the tray beneath her nose. “Don’t they smell wonderful? But wait—that is not my question. I was just wondering about the tokens you mentioned earlier. The new tokens for the chophouse, they won’t have a swan on them, I wouldn’t think. What image is carved on the new tokens?”
“A meat cleaver,” she said absently, watching him move the tray before her. She had to bring this conversation around.
“Why did you choose a meat cleaver?”
“It fit the chophouse and I thought the boys would like it bett—” She stopped suddenly and looked up at him. “Wait.” She pushed the tray away. “You know!”
“I do know.”
“But, how?” And how did he feel about it? She was in a panic. His expression was so . . . bland. Clutching her fists, she lifted her chin and tried to calm her racing heart. “I have questions of my own,” she said finally.
“Ah, but what will you trade for answers?”
She drew a deep breath. “Pots and pots of money.”
He winced. “That’s what I thought it would be.”
She searched his face. “I am sorry for deceiving you. But do you understand? Why I did . . . everything?”
“I think I do. You said it yourself. I had no liking for being rejected because of my lack of funds. Nor do you wish to be courted for your possession of them. But how? How is it not widely known?”
“I made my brother promise not to tell. I told him he owed it to me, after leaving me to care for our mother alone while she suffered and withered away, so slowly.”
“Then your father left you more than the two thousand?”
“No. That was my dowry. But my Aunt Margaret died before my mother, her sister. Her husband was a nabob and had made a fortune in the East. They had no children and we had been close. She left it all to me. I was in the midst of nursing my mother and barely registered it at first. But afterwards, I forced him to promise. No one knows except the family.”
“And Bardham, one assumes.”
She made a face. “Not even Catherine knows the true extent of it.” She grinned. “And in any case, I think that tonight, I dealt with Bardham at last.”
“How?”
“I sent him off after Miss McNamara and her forty thousand pounds.”
He laughed. “They will be perfect for each other.”
“I’m sorry for putting you through so much, but I had to know . . . I wanted to be chosen . . .”
“For yourself,” he said, taking her hands.
“And it was important that you should know, too. We both deserved to know we chose each other.” She sighed—but then tossed her head. “But I don’t care, I want—”
“No! Throw that thought right out of your head. I did. I made my choice tonight at the Sterne’s dinner party. Before I suspected the rest of it. Barrett invited me because he wanted to make a point and I listened. To him, and to my heart, at last. I imagined the bride I would bring back to Greystone and I knew it couldn’t ever be anyone but you.”
He took her hand. “I’ve thought for so long that all that Greystone needed was money. But Barrett made me realize—there was money at Greystone once, before my father died—and yet it was never really a home, not even then. What Greystone needs, what I need—is something that we’ve never had. It needs you. I need you. I need your heart, your love. It’s the only thing that will make it a home—a life—worth living.”
She blinked back tears, but he was grinning now. “And if you need confirmation, then ask anyone at the Sterne’s dinner. I made an ass of myself, running out in the middle of the fish course.”
“Truly?”
“I swear it. It wasn’t until I arrived here that I put it all together. I saw the butler worrying over the food—and I remembered what Madame said yesterday, about never allowing you to pay.”
She groaned and laughed. “I thought I would sink beneath the table when she said it, but you never seemed to connect her words with what I had to show you, so I just moved forward.”
“Yes, I was slow. But I was learning about you, even if I did think you were speaking of some other young lady.” He sighed. “I shouldn’t ask. I have nothing to give you except . . . me. These
hands, a drafty, leaking estate, hard work aplenty—but we will do it together, Hope, and you will have my heart—and all of my love.”
“I was hoping for a few other things.”
“Anything,” he vowed. “Anything I can give you, I will.”
“A dance,” she whispered. “A jaunt into dangerous territory . . .”
He remembered. “And bliss,” he finished.
And she was in his arms and the kiss lasted quite a long while, as they shared their happiness, forgiveness and relief. They planned a lifetime of love with heat and passion instead of words. They kissed and touched and whispered together until a knock sounded on the door.
“You’ve been in there long enough,” Miss Nichols said through the panel. “The countess is looking for you.”
They went out then and followed her friend downstairs, still with eyes only for each other.
But Tensford’s mind had turned to their future. “We can get the large saws we need for the mill and perhaps the steam engine. It may be, if we can turn enough profit, that we will need only to cut part of the forest acreage.”
She pulled him to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. “No. We will not cut down even one tree. I have enough to do all that we could wish at Greystone.”
He frowned. “Hope—just how much does pots and pots of money work out to be?”
“A lot. Far more than Miss McNamara’s paltry forty thousand.”
He blinked. Then stumbled back a step to sit upon a nearby bench.
She followed and perched upon his knee. “We’ll have lobster patties every day!” she cried, throwing an arm high.
“And bliss every night,” he murmured, pulling her down.
And so they kissed again, while the footmen snickered and inside, the ton danced on.
About the Author
USA Today Bestselling author Deb Marlowe adores History, England and Men in Boots. Clearly she was destined to write Regency Historical Romance.
A Golden Heart Award winner and Rita nominee, Deb grew up in Pennsylvania with her nose in a book. Luckily, she'd read enough romances to recognize the true modern hero she met at a college Halloween party--even though he wore a tuxedo t-shirt instead of breeches and boots. They married, settled in North Carolina and produced two handsome, intelligent and genuinely amusing boys. Though she spends much of her time with her nose in her laptop, for the sake of her family she does occasionally abandon her inner world for the domestic adventure of laundry, dinner and carpool. Despite her sacrifice, not one of the men in her family is yet willing to don breeches or tall boots. She's working on it.
Thank you so much for reading Love Me, Lord Tender. I hope you enjoyed it! If you are interested in hearing when my next book will be released, you can join my newsletter at http://www.DebMarlowe.com
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Also by Deb Marlowe
And don’t miss the Half Moon House Series
The Novels
The Love List
The Leading Lady
The Lady’s Legacy
The Novellas
An Unexpected Encounter
A Slight Miscalculation
Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness
A Waltz in the Park
Beyond a Reasonable Duke
Lady, It’s Cold Outside
The Earl’s Hired Bride
The Lady Loves A Scandal
USA Today Bestselling Author Christina McKnight
To my readers,
Never let a little scandal dull your shine!
Prologue
After nearly a year of courtship, I, Lady X, am fairly confident in announcing the betrothal of one Viscount Galway of Barrow Burn, Northumberland to Lady Sybil Anson, most recently of London, by way of Paris, France and sister to the newly entitled Eighth Earl of Lichfield. As you, my dear readers, may remember, Lady Sybil is new to town after spending her childhood in the city of love. This author can do naught but imagine the draw between the stoic, reserved Lord Galway, and the young, impish foreigner, Lady Sybil. I am certain all of society will agree, both Lady Sybil and Lord Galway come with sordid pasts.
~ Whispers from Lady X
London, England
February 1815
Lady Sybil Anson crouched ever lower until her rounded bottom nearly touched the rough, wooden slats of the floor of the hackney, her elbow resting precariously near a grease-covered metal piece. The constant jostle of the ramshackle conveyance as it moved leisurely through the crowded London streets was enough to loosen the pins securing her long tresses and sent shooting pains up her back to her neck. Certainly, a proper lady of the ton would never have used extreme trickery on her maid, fled her home under cover of night, traversed the dangerous alleys of London until she reached a well-traveled area of Regent Street, and hailed the first hack she spotted…all while keeping her hood pulled low, and the hem of her gown pulled high off the filth littering the streets.
Though no one claiming even a speck of good sense would ever describe Lady Sybil as proper.
Peculiar, maybe.
Entrusted with an odd sense of humor, commonly.
A lover of scandal, certainly.
However, it wasn’t that she was any more unusual than other debutantes, or in possession of a dryer wit than many men of her acquaintance. The main difference was that she saw no need to mask her true self.
Cast the blame on her upbringing in France; her finicky, absentminded mother; or the fact that her older brother raised her. Whatever the reason, Sybil stood silently by as others used her past as fodder during her first Season.
Little did any of them know that Lady Sybil Anson did not give a bloody fig about their staunchly held beliefs on the ways a proper English miss should conduct herself while in polite company.
The hack turned a sharp corner, sending her sprawling to the far side, her wrist and knee slamming against the high, wooden rail.
“Damnation and hellfire,” she muttered. She flexed her fingers and rotated her wrist to test the damage.
Pushing back to her seat, Sybil was encouraged to see they’d finally entered Grosvenor Square, where the roads were not riddled with potholes, and the evening traffic was sparse. Unfortunately, with the affluent neighborhood also came increased illumination from the row of townhouses flanking her on both sides of the street. Before departing her home, Sybil had made certain her hood shielded her from view and hid her long, dark hair. Even the sleeves of her cloak hung past her fingertips, the hem likewise long.
The guise was not to stay above scandalous gossip.
It was not her name—or that of her brothers—she worried over.
Blessedly, the hack slowed and turned once more, this time into a well-manicured circular drive, shadowed from above by the looming stone edifice of the Galway Townhouse.
“Stop here, sir,” Sybil called. The command earned her a questioning glance from the driver. “I have no plans to draw you into any unsavory dealings, I promise you.”
She knew the townhouse before her very well. Far better than any unwed lady should know a lord’s London home. If anyone were to ask, she’d deny ever stepping foot into Galway Townhouse without her aunt or another relation as her chaperone.
That Lady Sybil proclaimed herself in love with Gideon Lyndon, Viscount Galway, meant little to the gossips about London. That she was certain he held a tender for her as well was also of little import—at least until the betrothal contracts were signed.
It made little sense that her being outside Gideon’s home after dusk with no chaperone would be taken as proof of her ruined status and have scandalous repercussions on her family’s already tarnished name. But in less than a day’s time, after the contracts were duly signed and witnessed, a minor indiscretion between betrothed couples could be overlooked. And people thought her peculiar.
It made Sybil miss her time in Paris all the more. Days and nights spent
free from worry over societal ridicule. People, young women included, given the opportunity to explore themselves and the city without fear of scandal. There were still rules to be followed, of course, but nothing as crushing and oppressive as her British counterparts.
She shook her head at the thought. No, not her British counterparts. Her country, her home, her future.
“Ye get’n down, miss?” the driver hissed in a hushed whisper. “I got me other fares ta earn.”
“I need you to wait for me.” Sybil smoothed her cloak over her gown, made certain her hood was high, and checked the driveway for onlookers—it was abandoned, at least for the moment. “I will not be overlong—” At the driver’s hesitant stare, she continued. “And I shall pay triple your usual rate.”
She’d known the man would agree long before he nodded in concurrence.
Another lesson she’d learned during her time in London.
With the right amount of funding, anything was possible—the finest gowns by the most sought-after modistes, the agreement of kept secrets, the quashing of gossip, and London hackney drivers willing to pick up and deliver any passenger without question.
It likely also helped that her brother was the Earl of Lichfield and wed to the daughter of a wealthy marquess, eccentric as her new sister-in-law may be.
“Lovely.” Sybil stood, pulling her sleeves down to cover her gloves as she took hold of the side of the conveyance and swung her leg over the rail, finding the large wheel with her foot before bringing her other leg over to join the first as she hopped to the cobbled drive. Clapping her hands together to remove any dirt, Sybil turned a bright smile on the driver. “Thank you, sir.”
His birdlike eyes widened, and he appeared almost impressed by her resourcefulness.
Sybil’s mother referred to her daughter’s practicality in all matters as gumption.