If all went as he hoped, there would be daily letters, endless walks, and countless balls where they danced together until dawn. He would court her and charm her, tempt her into giving him her heart. If all went as he hoped, he might never have to endure another one of his mother’s matchmaking schemes. There would be no more need for them.
If all went as he hoped, Miss Penelope Snowley would very soon be his.
* * *
True to his word, Andrew stopped into the parlor to make the acquaintance of Lady Clara and her over-eager mother. The lady was pretty enough, with light brown hair and a smattering of freckles across her nose. She was painfully shy, however, and seemed to have a difficult time even looking at Andrew.
He felt a small amount of pity for her. As the daughter of an Earl with a handsome dowry and plenty of accomplishments, she should have no trouble landing a husband. He only hoped she did not land a bully, as she did not appear capable of standing up for herself should the need arise.
Lady Westerford and his mother chatted away with each other, appearing to all but ignore their two children after introductions were made. It was a ruse, of course. Andrew knew they were paying close attention to him and Lady Clara, casting quick glances their way and perking their ears to try and catch what bits and pieces they could of his conversation with her. Not that there was much to hear. Lady Clara struggled to link complete sentences together when talking to him.
When she had finished stumbling through a painfully quiet explanation of her latest triumph on the pianoforte that he could only half understand, Andrew asked in a soft tone, “Lady Clara, I beg your pardon, but may I ask why you seem so nervous?”
Her eyes shot up to him for the first time in almost half an hour, and they were wide with fright. She looked like a helpless little deer, staring down a hunter’s barrel.
“My Lord, I…” Her mouth opened and closed as if she were fighting to speak, but was physically incapable.
Offering her a gentle smile, he said, “I apologize if my question caught you unawares, My Lady. It is just that I hope I am not doing anything or presenting myself in a way that frightens you.”
Her mouth pressed closed and twin dots of red colored the apples of her cheeks. He was instantly reminded of Miss Snowley and the way her cheeks had turned a subtler shade of pink as he had held her gaze. Her lush lips had parted on a breathy gasp, and he recalled the sudden and desperate need that had come over him to mingle her breath with his own…
The thought sent a jolt of pleasure shooting through him, and he crossed his legs in his chair to avoid embarrassment. Shaking himself from his increasingly inappropriate thoughts of Miss Snowley, he forced himself to focus back in on Lady Clara.
“No, it is nothing you are doing. I…I am simply nervous.”
He raised his brows when she managed to speak at a discernible level.
“What is there to be nervous about? This is only a social call.” He watched her carefully for any hints that she was aware it was more than that.
She peeked up at him, a small frown tugging her mouth downward. “Yes, of course it is.”
There was a dryness in her tone that belied her words. So, she was aware of their mothers’ shared intentions, but she did not seem overly pleased by them. He leaned closer to her, but not so close that he could be accused of inappropriate conduct.
“Lady Clara, you and I both know this is not a simple social call.”
She stared at him for several moments before slowly nodding her head. “No, My Lord, it is not.”
“Our mothers wish for us to become acquainted with each other.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
“They hope to form a match between us.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
“Is that what you want, Lady Clara? A match with me?”
Silence stretched between them for a heartbeat’s time. “No, My Lord.”
As he suspected. “Is there, perhaps, another gentleman that has already caught your eye?”
Her cheeks reddened once more. “There is.”
Interesting. “Do your parents not approve of the match?”
She shot a glance toward her mother, before replying in a whisper, “It is not that, My Lord. He would make a decent match for me, as he is of the peerage and well-off, but…”
“But what?” he prompted, fascinated by this revelation.
“He is not a Marquess.”
Ah, there it was. He could imagine what had occurred. She had a suitor in mind, a gentleman with a title, though perhaps lower in rank than her parents had hoped for her. Still, how could they turn down anyone who showed interest in their wallflower daughter? Then, his own mother, the Duchess, must have stepped in and offered an even greater prize. A Marquess, with a Dukedom as his inheritance. So, the first suitor was put aside in favor of the new, more fortuitous one. An unfortunate turn of events for Lady Clara, who had already given her heart to the first gentleman.
Andrew wanted to rub at his temples. The politics of marriage gave him such a headache.
“Lady Clara, thank you for clarifying our situation. Let me assure you that, although you are a lovely lady with many distinguishing qualities, I have no interest in this match.”
At first, her gaze was stunned, but then it melted into one of hopefulness.
“Truly, My Lord?”
He nodded. “Truly, so there is no need for you to fret. I will make it clear that any hopes of pairing us together are to be laid to rest.”
She smiled for the first time since Andrew had walked into the room, and was even prettier for it.
“You are too kind, My Lord.”
He returned her smile, then pushed up from his chair, startling their mothers from their own conversation.
“Where are you off to, Lord Romwich?” the Duchess asked, her tone laced with disappointment.
“Unfortunately, I have some pressing matters that I must attend to,” he said, offering her a grin to try and ease the sting of his rejection of her plan. Turning to Lady Clara, he bowed his head. “Lady Clara, it was a true pleasure to meet you.”
Her grateful smile warmed his heart. “You as well, My Lord.”
Facing the Duchess and Lady Westerford, he continued, “Please excuse my abrupt exit, Mother. Lady Westerford.” With a bow to each of them as well, he quickly left the room. He knew he was in for a firm talking-to from his mother later, but it was a small price to pay. When he explained his reasons and told her about Miss Snowley, he was positive she would be put at ease.
After all, her greatest wish was for him to marry, and he found himself growing warmer to the concept. What better way to assuage her fears of his eternal bachelorhood than by presenting her with the first lady to ever snare his attention? She would be thrilled.
All that remained was to meet Miss Snowley face-to-face, and pray his hopes in her were not all for naught.
Chapter Six
The small manor was depressingly quiet. Harry stood in the middle of the foyer and gazed around with a dejected sigh. The house was a fine piece of property that belonged to his family, but he rarely looked forward to coming home to it in the evenings. The emptiness and lack of activity made his chest ache and he missed his parents’ home. Only a handful of servants were needed to maintain the house, and they were not enough to give the place life. His father had insisted he establish his own household, however, so here he was.
Harry moved toward the staircase, taking the stairs two at a time to the second floor. It was late, and the servants were all to bed. He had spent the evening with his father at White’s, smoking cigars and sipping brandy as other members of the aristocracy talked politics and gambled small fortunes away. Harry was never one for gambling, and politics held little interest for him. He went to the club because his father enjoyed it, and they could often speak of trade with their colleagues who frequented the establishment as well.
Secretly, however, he could most often be found at White’s because it delayed his coming hom
e for a few more hours. Though the irony was not lost on him that the house was the most silent at this late hour.
I hate this suffocating silence.
It was merely a reminder that he was alone here, with no wife or children to fill the space with laughter and warmth.
Harry was desperate for a family. Whereas most of the gentlemen he knew considered marriage simply as a duty they must perform in order to secure their family line, he dreamed of finding a loving woman to take as his wife, and of the sons and daughters she would gift to him. To him, marriage and family were not just means to an end. They were the greatest prizes to be had.
Yet, they eluded him. It was not for lack of effort on his part. He had attempted to become acquainted with more than one lady of the ton who, in theory, seemed a suitable match. It was no chore to attract their attention, as many knew him as the writer of their favorite novels.
However, though he had tried, he had never felt a true connection with any of them. Each time he considered formal courtship, he would picture the lady in question in the role of his wife, and the image never felt right. He could not bring himself to pursue the matter further once that image failed to clarify.
Meandering down the hallway toward his bedroom, Harry considered his predicament.
Why can I not simply settle on a lady? Why do I have to be so damned particular?
His selectiveness belied his desperation to lay the matter to rest. He wanted a wife.
It should not be so difficult to find one!
He clenched his jaw in frustration as he reached the door of his room. He blamed those cursed books which bore his name. They had put fanciful ideas into his head that should only be reserved for ladies and their imaginings. He was too overly concerned about love. It was foolish of him, really. Harry knew love was not necessary to build a strong and lasting marriage. Though his parents professed their love for each other now, he knew it had not been there at the start and had developed for them over time as they had built their life together. Logically, he knew this.
His heart was not logical, however.
Stupid and naïve like a child. That’s what you are, fool!
Pushing into his room, Harry shouldered the door shut behind him and leaned against it. He stared at his empty bed across from him. It seemed to mock him, or perhaps that was just the brandy toying with him. Either way, he resented it. Releasing a breath in resignation, he pushed away from the door. Another night alone in his cold empty bed awaited him. Another night of wishing the lady meant for him would appear.
Another night not knowing if she even existed.
* * *
Penelope clutched her hands in her lap as the barouche bounced along the road. She hardly noticed the jostling, however, as she was so nervous she could barely focus on anything but her riotous thoughts. She was on her way to Lockeder Manor, to take tea with Lady Dorothy Wilson who she did not know, and the Lady’s brother, whom Penelope wished very much to know. The thought made her cheeks heat.
Will he be as handsome as I remember? Surely not.
She was certain she had embellished his image in her mind. Her memory of him was too beautiful, too tall, too fit. His eyes were too honeyed. What eyes could possibly be so breathtaking?
“Miss Snowley? Are you well? You appear flushed.”
Fighting back a groan, Penelope glanced at Mrs. Stewart out of the corner of her eyes.
“I am quite well, Mrs. Stewart. No need to worry. I am sure it is just the wind reddening my cheeks.”
The abigail frowned. “Perhaps you are getting to much sun? Shall we have the driver pull over and put up the hood?”
Penelope shook her head. “That is not necessary, I assure you. We will arrive at Lockeder momentarily, and besides, it is far too lovely of a day to drive with the hood.”
It would likely be one of the last good days before the winter cold began to creep in. Even now as they rode, there was a briskness in the air that made Penelope thankful she had thought to put on her spencer before she and Mrs. Stewart had left the house. Without it, the ride would not be nearly so comfortable. The waning days of summer and the increasingly limited opportunities to enjoy the fine weather did not seem to matter so much as Penelope’s precious complexion to Mrs. Stewart, however.
The woman still did not seem convinced, but she made no further argument, simply squinted at Penelope, as if keeping an eye that her cheeks did not color further. Penelope had hoped not to have to bring the abigail with her today, and not only because of her over-protectiveness. She worried that her chaperone would recognize the gentleman from the bookstore, if he was indeed Lady Dorothy’s brother.
If Mrs. Stewart did realize who he was, there was no chance she would believe the ruse that Lady Dorothy had extended the invitation on her own and not at her brother’s insistence. The abigail would tell Penelope’s mother, and she was sure to be reprimanded.
Still, the risk was worth it, in Penelope’s mind, if it meant seeing him again. If it meant learning his name and knowing definitively if her interest was reciprocated. Her heart raced a little faster.
“Your mother is very excited for you to be making this visit,” Mrs. Stewart said, settling back into her seat as if settling in for a long chat. “Such a favorable acquaintance the Lady Dorothy would make. What connections she could provide for you, Madam.”
Penelope nodded half-heartedly. She was not keen on engaging in conversation with Mrs. Stewart, but her proper upbringing demanded the upmost politeness from her.
“Yes, Mrs. Stewart. Very favorable, indeed.”
“I imagine Lockeder Manor must be very grand,” the abigail continued, and Penelope had the feeling that she did not necessarily need an active participant to converse with so much as a warm body to speak at. “It being the home of a Duke and all, it must be like a palace.”
“We shall soon find out.”
“Indeed. It’s quite exciting…”
Mrs. Stewart droned on and on, and Penelope only half-listened as they continued down the street. She let her mind wander, and the gentleman from the bookstore occupied her thoughts once more. No surprise, as he seemed the only thing she could think about for any extended period of time. As Mrs. Stewart filled the space around them with her incessant chatter, Penelope became lost in her mind, the rest of the world melting away.
Her imagination began to run away from her as she recalled the details of his appearance. She imagined curling her fingers around his broad shoulders. How solid he must be. How strong he would feel beneath her palms. That strange feeling returned to her middle, and the heat spread through her body. He smiled down at her in her mind, and she could not stop her eyes from falling to his full lips. They appeared soft and inviting. What would they feel like pressed against hers?
Her breaths grew short and her chest heaved. She pressed a hand to her heart and felt its vibrations in her palm.
What is this? Why do I keep feeling these things when I think of him?
Would these sensations dissipate once she saw him again? Or intensify? The latter was a startling thought. How much stronger could they become?
“Ah, this must be it!” Mrs. Stewart’s words suddenly penetrated Penelope’s occupied mind.
She blinked and the world came back into focus. They were rolling through a large gateway along a gravel drive that wound its way to the largest house she had ever laid eyes on. She gaped as they drew nearer, in awe of the magnificent structure. Her parents’ manor was very fine, but it was perhaps half the size of the Duke’s home, if that. Lockeder was an enormous building of gray stone, with three floors of paned windows lined all across its front. The drive circled into a loop in front of the manor, and a large fountain stood sentinel in the grassy center.
Penelope could not tear her eyes away from the beautiful house. A shiver went through her, and she felt a twinge of intimidation at the prospect of entering the manor. She could only imagine the type of people that lived in such a veritable palace. Would they be snob
bish? Would they look down their noses at her in scorn? Self-conscious, she pulled her mother’s shawl over her spencer more tightly around her shoulders, as if to shield herself from the potential judgement of the Duke’s children.
“Madam? Shall we go?” Mrs. Stewart frowned up at her, her brow furrowed in clear confusion.
It was then that Penelope realized the barouche had come to a stop and a footman had appeared to assist her down from the vehicle. With a start, she moved to take his hand and step down onto the drive. Mrs. Stewart was close behind.
The abigail stood slightly behind Penelope as they both stared at the imposing front door of the house. Penelope felt rooted to the spot where she stood, suddenly afraid to go inside.
Lustful Memoirs 0f A Bewitching Lady (Steamy Historical Regency Romance) Page 4