A Dash of Romance (Romantic Encounters: An Anthology Book 1)

by Paullett Golden

  Somehow, Miss Walsley had to fix this. She was a serious impediment to his matrimonial pursuits.

  The image of her was all too clear for Percy. An adventuress of the worst sort. She was one of those conniving women who acted insipid to mask her skills at manipulation. Tight blonde ringlets, an enticing figure, likely the beauty of the county, but between marriage to Dunley and marriage to a Randall, regardless which was titled, she knew she could win the more sought-after prize with a bit of cunning and craft. Percy would not be surprised to find she had forged a stream of love letters between the two of them. The entire county must know of their betrothal, including the innkeeper, although he did not act as though he recognized Percy’s name outside of the advanced missive booking the suite.

  Percy was the last to know, the victim of this master manipulator.

  A noise at the private parlor door drew his attention from his tea and the newspaper he had heretofore ignored. A group of drab women were leaving the room, too lost in conversation to notice him.

  One poor girl was too tall for her own good, all long limbs and elongated neck. Another was on the short and plump side, not at all displeasing to the eye, though, with what looked at this distance to be shockingly long lashes. The third girl had deliciously bronzed skin and an enticing smile. The fourth was the plainest, chestnut hair styled in a simple knot at the nape of her neck, dress of dowdy blue with a limp ribbon about the waist, and no figure to speak of, although there was an undeniably attractive pink to her cheeks and brightness about the eyes. The four were exactly how he imagined a Ladies Literary Society would look.

  Given the available goods, he was rather thankful to be in Sidvale hoping to lose a bride, not find one.

  Abigail laid a page on the chair next to her and continued to read aloud from the next page:

  The knight bowed to the lady with a wink and a smile. It was not every day he saved a damsel from an out-of-hand swordfight. This village, as with the many others before in his traveling adventures, would remember his brave deeds and sing songs of his valor.

  She looked up after placing the final page atop the others on the chair. “Well?”

  Her three friends looked between each other and then back at her.

  Miss Hetty Clint spoke first, “The imagery of the battle is vivid, but…” Her words trailed off, and she glanced to the other two girls.

  Abbie circled her hands in the air. “But what? Tell me. Be honest.”

  “He’s one-dimensional,” said Miss Isobel Lambeth, tugging at her too-snug sleeves until they covered the heels of her hands.

  “Sir Bartholomew is one-dimensional? But… but… He’s charming and handsome and… perfect!” Abbie defended, looking from one friend to the next.

  Today was her day to read aloud at their Ladies Literary Society. Her turn only came every four meetings so she had saved the best chapter, one in which Sir Bartholomew risked his life against two swordsmen to save a lady who had been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was, she had thought, a wonderfully romantic chapter that showed her knight to advantage. Judging from the grimaces on her friends’ faces, they did not feel the same.

  Miss Leila Owen confirmed. “Your writing isn’t the problem. It’s the knight. Yes, he’s dashing, but that’s all he is. There’s no substance. What’s his motivation? What are his fears?”

  “What does he dream?” Isobel asked, nodding to Leila. “I don’t feel I know him.”

  Abbie sighed. He was so vivid in her mind, but they were right. He was one-dimensional.

  Hetty reached a slender hand to clasp Abbie’s. “Don’t fret. You’ll know how to breathe life into him.”

  Nodding and trying not to appear too downcast, Abigail squeezed her friend’s hand then focused on shuffling her pages together, rolling them, and tying a ribbon around them.

  “Now,” said Leila, the prettiest of the group with her East Indian tones, “the most important question of our meeting is not how you’ll give Sir Bartholomew depth, rather how you’re going to resolve your betrothal problem.”

  Abbie flushed, her grip on the rolled pages tightening. “I’ve not sorted it yet, but I will. I want to wait until Lord Dunley has his eye on someone else, and then I can tell Papa my betrothed and I exchanged letters, had a disagreement, and I’ve cried off.”

  “Oh, Abbie. Why haven’t you told him the truth?” Leila asked. “You assured us you would consider confessing.”

  “I don’t know which is worse: the hurt of having kept an engagement from him or of having lied about the whole thing. This is a big lie. I won’t put Papa in a position that could jeopardize his standing in the church or community. It seems so much tidier to cry off. Then it’s done. But not until I know his lordship won’t renew the offer.”

  “Then, what did you end up telling your father?” asked Hetty.

  “That we met in East Hagbourne this summer when I was visiting my aunt. I didn’t say much beyond that, not wanting to exacerbate the problem. I’ve never lied to Papa about anything. This is awful. But what other choice do I have? Without a good excuse, the Dunleys could make life difficult for us to force my answer.”

  Hetty rounded her shoulders. “And life would be so bad as Lady Dunley?”

  “He’s so handsome and fashionable. And a viscount!” said Leila.

  Touching a hand to the knot at the nape of her neck to ensure strands had not escaped, Abbie shook her head. “I’m flattered. But he couldn’t even remember my name. And I don’t think he would approve of me writing or reading. I’d spend all my time with his mother.”

  “But you could write and read whenever he wasn’t around or when his mother’s asleep,” Isobel offered.

  Leila nodded. “His mother won’t live forever—don’t look at me like that! It’s true! As much time as he spends in London, you’d have the house to yourself to do as you pleased.”

  “I suppose.” Abbie remained unconvinced.

  It all felt wrong. Lord Dunley had only looked at her once during the proposal and seemed disinterested. She felt insignificant, even dowdy, next to him. Hiding her writing was not on her agenda, nor was sneaking into her husband’s study to steal paper and ink when she was sure he would forbid her to write. She wanted more from a marriage than to live separate lives steeped in secrecy. No, she could never accept his offer. The deception was necessary. Better to remain unmarried and happy than to be married and miserable. She was not in desperate straits and did not have to marry as some women did.

  The meeting at an end, the four members of the Ladies Literary Society each slipped their submissions into the newspaper box then saw themselves out of the private parlor of The Tangled Fleece.

  For their next session, Leila would read her poetry. The daughter of an Indian heiress whom her father had met while working in Bengal, Leila had a love for writing romantic poems inspired by Shah Latif. Hetty preferred writing about more practical matters with her book of manners. Isobel, a lover of Ann Radcliffe, aspired to write Gothic tales.

  With a smile to the innkeeper, Abbie turned into the public room. Her breath caught and her heart skipped a beat.

  She stopped so abruptly, Hetty collided into her back. Thankfully, the object of her attention did not look up from his newspaper to witness the stumble. Sir Bartholomew sat in the public room of the inn, taking tea as though it were the most natural of actions. How could this be?

  Blinking to clear the delusion, she stared at the living figment of her imagination. No matter how many times she blinked, he remained seated, newspaper in one hand, tea in the other.

  He was not Sir Bartholomew, of course. That would be silly. Nevertheless, the resemblance was uncanny. Brown hair with a touch of gold, cut short except for the top which was just wavy enough to invite her fingers to sink into the curls. His physique. His long nose. His strong chin. They all belonged to her knight. Did he have hazel eyes
too?

  Hetty linked arms with her. “What are you staring at? I’ll walk you home.”

  Isobel caught up to them and whispered, “He’s out of place, isn’t he? From London, I’d guess. His boots are so shiny he could see his reflection.”

  Hetty tutted. “Hush. He’ll hear you.”

  Abbie made a point to look away as they passed him. Only when she had one foot out the front door did she take another look. The man had turned in his chair, an arm draped over the back, the newspaper limp in his hand. Hazel eyes stared back at her, dimples deepening as his lips stretched into a charming smile.

  The nicest suite in the inn yet Percival’s bed was lumpy. He tossed left. He tossed right. He alternated between staring at cracked plaster and counting the floorboards. There were no curtains around the bed, and a distinct chill that no fire could dispel seeped from a window.

  While the bulk of his insomnia could be attributed to his lingering indecision on a plan for the morrow, the room contributed to a hefty portion of his wakefulness. No, not only the room. The country. Percy hated the country. Nothing to do. Nothing to see. And all the blasted quiet. His fingers laced behind his head and his ankles crossed, he listened to the unnerving silence beyond the inn. Nothing could be more disturbing than that silence. He strained for the sounds of hoofs on cobblestone, drunken laughter, the groan of the building, anything.

  Silence.

  He could not get back to London fast enough.

  His first course of action in the morning would be to visit the vicarage. The top of the hill, the innkeeper had directed him, the stone cottage next to the church. That was where he could find the Reverend Walsley and his lovely daughter. The emphasis had been the innkeeper’s, not Percy’s, reconjuring the image of his voluptuous and ringleted betrothed, all batting eyelashes and wicked wiles.

  Go in, give her a stern talking to, and then leave. The confusion would be cleared up before noon.

  Twit-twoo.

  Twit-twoo.

  Percy jerked upright, eyes wide. What was that?

  Silence.

  He dared not move. Was someone outside? Was someone trying to burgle him? Did a monster lurk in the dark waiting to devour him?

  Hoohuhuhuhu.

  The sound repeated. One part prolonged, resonating, the other part grating, as though two separate sounds merged as one. Owls? Sheep? Ghouls? Devil take it. He was going mad on his first—and hopefully only—night in Sidvale.

  After long minutes of sitting rigid, he relaxed. The sound was intermittent, but clearly an animal of the night. An owl or two, he wagered. Such vulgar country sounds set his nerves on edge, but he forced himself to recline, lacing his fingers once more as a barrier against the lumpiness.

  Should he explain the situation to the vicar, inform the man that his daughter was a conniving witch? Tell him outright that Percival would not be played a fool? No doubt the two were in this together.

  His conscience interrupted.

  Percy would be seen as a brute, a first-rate villain. To accuse her in such a baseless manner could ruin him as well as her. Regardless of the truth, he would be seen as the worst sort of rogue who had used her and tossed her aside. She would be ruined beyond repair, shunned from society, shunned everywhere word of the situation followed her. Her family, be they siblings or extended, would be dragged into ruination over the scandal. Her father would likely lose his position. Percy could not allow so many people to be hurt, no matter who was at fault. The situation would not leave him unscathed, either, his name forever tied with hers. His family would be beyond disappointed, either at his roguish behavior or his ungentlemanly treatment in calling her out. A man did not accuse a lady of not being a lady. It was not done.

  This situation needed the gentlest of caresses. Dashed if he knew how to handle it, though.

  As his mind worked in circles, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips—such an absurd situation! The grin masked his underlying fear. This was beyond his experience. All gentlemen knew the tales, some wise enough to heed them while others were too lovesick to listen. At how many balls, routs, or otherwise had he witnessed it? The young lady begging to see the garden only to accuse the gentleman of kissing her, thus compromising him and forcing his hand into an unwanted marriage with a fortune- or title-hunting seductress. The young lady seeking out a gentleman in the library only to be caught alone, thus trapping the man. The stories were too numerous to count, all orchestrated by crafty misses or their mothers. Usually by their mothers, although he had heard tales of some groups of friends who set out to win their trophies no matter the cost.

  Not all the ladies got what they wanted, for not all their targets were honorable. Reputations on both sides were ruined, always worse for the young lady; but it was no day at the park for the gentleman, either. Invitations stopped, rumors started, good marriage prospects removed from the table.

  How could he not feel the tightness of fear squeezing his heart, the tremble of his limbs? If he should have to marry the chit, he would be stuck with her. That was it. She would have the Randall name and an inseverable connection to the Earl of Camforth. He would have a loveless marriage with a smug adventuress.

  Turning onto his side, he counted the floorboards.

  Goodness, Sidvale was small. The distance from the inn to the vicarage was barely a half mile. As he crested what the innkeeper had called a hill—more of a bump in the road—Percy took in the cottage. The innkeeper needed to sort out his proportions.

  The hill was not a hill, and this was notably not a cottage. A hall, perhaps? Not quite a manor, but sizable, nonetheless. Percy whistled. It made for a pretty picture with the church a few yards to the west and a sweeping landscape of sheep- and hedgerow-dotted pasture behind. Grey stone framed the not-cottage. A conservatory adorned by bare but bold wisteria branches extended to one side, arched windows interrupting the stone in the center block. Columned by yew trees, the two-story building welcomed him as a friend.

  Despite the situation, he smiled.

  Not for long did he wait at the door before the vicar himself answered. The moment of truth, and Percy stood speechless, an illogical grin on his face.

  “You must be Mr. Randall,” the vicar said, offering his hand.

  Percy accepted, finding a firm grip from Mr. Walsley. “Ah, yes, I’m delighted you received my card in time. I would have hated to arrive unannounced or find you from home.”

  “My pleasure to receive you.” The vicar ushered him into a pretty little entrance hall. “Is this a study or parlor visit?”

  “Does my name sound familiar to you by chance?” Percy asked rather than answer the question.

  Mr. Walsley tilted his head, his brows drawn in thought. “Should it?”

  Fascinating. Either the father was playing a peculiar game, or he was not in on his daughter’s tricks.

  “Second son of the Earl of Camforth.” That should jog his memory.

  Shaking his head, the vicar’s smile slipped. “I’m afraid I don’t leave Sidvale often other than to visit my daughters in Sidbury or my sister and eldest in East Hagbourne.”

  “Ah, yes, East Hagbourne. Then you’ll know of my older brother, Freddie, or Baron Monkworth rather.” He saw the dawning in the man’s eyes.

  “East Hagbourne, you say?” The vicar crossed his arms over his chest, a quizzical expression replacing the furrow.

  “I’ve spent my fair share of time in East Hagbourne to visit my brother, as well as Oxford, of course, and at my father’s estate near Aylesbury.” Percival hesitated for a moment before saying. “If I’m being honest, sir, I’m hoping for a word with Miss Abigail Walsley. Not that I wouldn’t mind exchanging pleasantries with you, but best be upfront about these things, I say.”

  Any remnants of a smile disappeared. The Reverend Walsley straightened to his full height, an easy head taller than Percy. The man did not loo
k hostile, exactly, as Percy did not think a vicar could ever look hostile, but the penetrating stare made him feel as though he were the one guilty of wrongdoing rather than the crafty Miss Walsley.

  Under such scrutiny, Percy shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his own smile slipping as his eyes darted around the room for anything to look at besides Mr. Walsley. Did the vicar think him a wrongdoer? What exactly had Miss Walsley said about the betrothal? Percy gulped. Had she painted him in a bad light, as a libertine, perhaps? Oh dear.

  Mr. Walsley said, “She delivers charity baskets in the morning. If you’ll wait in the parlor, I’ll see if she’s left yet.”

  His tone was crisp, his words clipped, not at all the warm welcome of his original greeting. In stilted steps, the vicar showed Percival to the parlor. The door was unceremoniously closed behind him before Percy could say more. For this not to be going as planned would imply he had a plan, which he did not, but really, it was not going as planned.

  Chapter 5

  The frown and narrowed eyes signaled her father’s displeasure. About what, Abbie could not guess. That there was a caller this early in the morning? That the caller asked for her? The only possibility could be Lord Dunley come to renew his offer by convincing her to cry off her fictitious betrothal. Another visit from the viscount would certainly discomfit her father.

  She followed him to the parlor in silence, more apprehensive than curious.

  When they reached the door, Leland turned and said, “You have ten minutes before I join with tea. Never say I’m not compassionate, but don’t mistake my kindness for approval.”

  With that, he left her alone at the parlor door. Abbie watched him depart, confused and concerned. How was leaving her alone with Lord Dunley compassionate? A hand to her heart, she opened the parlor door and stepped inside.

  Only, it was not Lord Dunley who awaited her.