The Season of Lady Chastity (The Undaunted Debutantes Book 4)

by Christina McKnight

  Suddenly, it wasn’t the words of love and adoration Chastity thought of, but her mother’s mention of separation. When had their mother and her dearest Cam been separated, and why? Never had she questioned their mother’s love for their father, even though his many trysts were common knowledge to all who lived at Downshire Place. To learn that her father’s heart lay with another would have not surprised her—or Pru. But their mother?

  She looked at her older sister, needing an answer. The only explanation Chastity could grasp hold of was that their mother had loved another. That she’d been forced to be away from him…yet, they’d found another way to be together.

  But where had they fallen in love?

  When had they planned to meet on the terrace?

  …and their separation? The only time the girls had heard word of their mother being away from society once she’d made her debut was when Clara was with child. In her girlhood, Clara had lived a sheltered life at her family’s country estate. Any chance of meeting eligible gentlemen would have been small in such a rural area. Chastity and Prudence had heard whispers from the servants surrounding their mother’s quick passing soon after giving birth to Chastity. She had never found the opportunity to return to her family home, and neither had her daughters met any of their mother’s family, though certainly some existed.

  That meant…

  Chastity could very well be a child born of a bastard’s beginnings. She retained her father’s name and status, but what if someone learned of her mother’s dearest Cam? What if dearest Cam knew of Chastity’s existence? Or, possibly worse, was utterly unaware? What would happen to Chastity if their father learned of his wife’s unfaithfulness?

  Her mother…an adulteress.

  Chastity’s knees trembled, and she wished there was a seat nearby. Chastity had never done anything to cause concern about her reputation, but her good standing in society may be taken out of her hands. No men of the beau monde would knowingly entangle themselves with a lady who was a known by-blow and born out of wed lock. Yet, there had never been any whispers surrounding Chastity’s birth. Certainly, her father’s third wife, Esmee, would have been delighted to provide proof that would deem any of Downshire’s children from his previous marriages illegitimate and, therefore, make it so they were unable to inherit any land or be worthy of the precious funds needed for a marriage dowry.

  Her sister must have noticed Chastity’s ashen complexion because she clucked, folding the paper with a firm shake of her head. “This is drivel. Besides, we found it in her gown. Obviously, dearest Cam never received the note and, therefore, they never met on the terrace.”

  With a frown, Prudence dropped the letter back into the trunk, slung the royal blue dress over her arm, pivoted, and stalked from the room. She didn’t wait to make certain Chastity followed. The solid thump of her half boots on the wooden floorboards did not falter. And her chin remained high as she started down the stairs.

  In stark contrast, Chastity’s entire body quaked as her feet remained rooted to the spot, fearful if she attempted to follow Pru her knees would give way, and she would slump to the floor.

  Her mother had been in love with another man.

  Despite the undelivered letter, their mother could have met Cam—and shown him the limitless bounds of her love.

  What did that mean for Prudence and Chastity?

  Did their father know Clara’s heart did not lie solely with him and that Chastity’s parentage may not be of Downshire blood?

  “Do collect the candelabra before you follow,” Prudence’s command drifted up the stairs and into the attic.

  It had been a mistake to return above stairs and to her mother’s belongings. They’d been stowed away for a reason—a very good reason it seemed—but now that Chastity knew her mother’s secret, it was not so easily locked behind the closed door and forgotten. Chastity’s own identity was forever entwined with her mother’s past, as was her and Prudence’s future.

  In that moment, Chastity was uncertain which truth she wanted to discover: her mother’s past as a bold, brazen woman of the ton who was not afraid to claim what she wanted and who she loved, or finding proof that Chastity’s entire existence had been built upon a lie concocted by the one woman who, had she still been alive, should have cared for her daughter above all else. How could Clara perish with such an enormous secret waiting to be discovered?

  Chastity retrieved the undelivered letter, grabbed the candelabra, and hurried from the attic in Prudence’s wake.

  Chapter 1

  Oxburgh Hall

  Norfolk, England

  December 1815

  Four days until the Montrose wedding

  Bastian Stanhope, the Earl of Mansfield, kept a steady, easy pace as he eased down the garden path he suspected would bring him to the moat’s edge and away from the gathering inside the open terrace doors. He didn’t quicken his pace when the obnoxious chuckles from the terrace chased him on the chilly winter breeze. He didn’t turn back when the laughter cut off, and he heard his mother’s melodic voice asking his friends where he’d gone. He refused to be drawn back into the mocking embrace of his old schoolmates.

  It had been nearly six years since he’d returned home to care for his family estate and look after his mother due to his father’s failing health. Seven years since he’d been locked in his dorm room’s dressing closet. Eight years since he’d been pushed into the pond bordering the school property on a freezing January winter day—and nearly drowned but for the kindness of the school’s groundskeeper who’d pulled him from the waters. And nine years since every boy at Eton had taken to calling him by his father’s moniker: Manny.

  Matters had only worsened when his mother arrived nearly every week to visit her only son.

  Manny evolved into Manny, the mama’s boy.

  “Manny!” James Colton, now Viscount Something-or-Other, shouted after him. “Come back, it was only a jest.”

  Bastian. My bloody name is Bastian.

  And James’s name: Lord Comstock…an unfortunate title but one that wouldn’t cause the jests Bastian’s did.

  Comstock’s taunt echoed in Bastian’s head louder than a thousand stampeding stallions.

  However, he kept his anger to himself. Speaking out against his old schoolmates would make matters worse—it always did.

  Instead, he did the one thing he swore he wouldn’t.

  Bastian followed a curve in the path and broke into a run, his boots finding purchase despite the hard-packed ground beneath him.

  He’d only accepted the invitation to Montrose’s wedding because his mother, Isabella, had been childhood friends with Montrose’s mother. Bastian was at Oxburgh Hall for that reason alone. If not for that, he’d relish never setting eyes on Montrose and his comrades from Eton again.

  Blessedly, the foliage cleared, and Bastian found himself at the edge of the moat they’d crossed when arriving at Oxburgh Hall only a few hours prior. The stale waterway was nearly frozen over due to the winter weather, but the ground remained free of snow. Bastian supposed that was another blessing bestowed upon him by the fates.

  Receding garden vegetation and no precipitation.

  Was that the best reprieve Bastian could hope for during his five-day stay in Norfolk?

  The lack of snowfall made it possible for him to seek the outdoors and escape the gathering in the main house. It also proved advantageous in other ways. There would be an excursion, including an afternoon in the local village, a walk about the estate, and even a fox hunt that would surely empty the manor of some guests.

  And give Bastian the opportunity for a few moments of solitude.

  If there was anything Bastian thrived on, it was privacy. Peaceful moments of thoughtful contemplation. Reflection on the past, and planning for the future. Sometimes, it was simple things, such as what meal to request for supper, or grander plans such as what crop to rotate on his lands.

  In the last two years, all his thoughts had revolved around his mother
and her well-being. If that led others to call him Manny, the mama’s boy, then so be it. It was deserved.

  His mother, Lady Mansfield, was all Bastian had.

  She had given him life, raised him with love and devotion, and made him the man he was today.

  And Bastian would not accept his mother’s turn to melancholy and sorrow due to the death of his father. No, he would not allow his mother to wallow, wasting away in the country to slowly shrivel up before her end took her from Bastian, as well.

  There was far more to life than years of perpetual mourning.

  At least, that was what he had attempted to tell his mother.

  Now, he needed to show her.

  Yet, he wondered if his acceptance of Montrose’s wedding invite had been a disastrous first step.

  Bastian sighed, kicking a small rock off the shore and into the murky depths of the moat. The stagnant water could not be more than a foot or two deep, but the bottom was hidden by thick, umber liquid.

  How was he to survive for the entirety of the Christmastide wedding celebration and convince his mother he was actually enjoying their holiday?

  “Manny boy,” a voice called to him. “The ladies are playing shuttlecock on the lawn after their meal. You will not want to miss such a thrilling feminine pastime.”

  Bastian glanced over his shoulder as the group of men chuckled, the laughter rumbling deep in their chests and sending a booming baritone of merriment in his direction as they finally moved off, their fun cut short when Bastian did not react. Though most of them—noble by birth and wealthy beyond Bastian’s wildest imaginings—were nearing their thirtieth year, they’d yet to mature to a level past immature boyhood.

  In the distance, Bastian spied his mother and the other ladies descending from the terrace to the expansive lawn as servants scurried around with games. His mother caught Bastian’s eye, and he smiled, praying it was enough to convince her that he was having a swell time.

  With a wave, he turned back to the moat.

  “Are you going to throw yourself in?” There was a discernable hint of annoyance in the woman’s voice. “Because I must warn you, I will not muddy my gown to save you, nor risk my health jumping into the freezing water.”

  Bastian turned toward a strand of trees that bordered the garden path he’d walked down. Tucked into the greenery was a slip of a woman, sitting on a blanket. He must have walked right past her when he arrived at the moat, yet he hadn’t noticed her sitting there—nor had she announced her presence.

  “Your assistance will not be necessary,” he retorted, knowing his irritation was aimed at his old schoolmates and not at the woman.

  Her brown brow, a shade or two lighter than her hair, rose. “You mean to drown?”

  “Certainly not,” he scoffed. “The moat cannot be deep enough for that.”

  “A babe can drown in an inch of water—or so I read in one of Francis Glisson’s educational pamphlets on pediatric care.” The woman averted her stare as if she’d only now spoken out of turn. Her light brown curls fell over her shoulder, reaching her waist. “As it is, I am relieved to hear that you were not contemplating such a drastic action.”

  That the thought of casting himself into the frigid moat hadn’t crossed his mind as a remedy to his current dilemma only perturbed Bastian more. His mother would have likely reiterated that melodramatics were impractical and often overused.

  Bastian looked around. The area where he now stood was rather secluded. It was the reason he’d chosen the barely detectable path through the garden when he’d spotted it from the terrace. “What are you doing out here alone?” He took in her attire and noticed a thick woolen cloak covering her slight frame, and a discarded muff by her side, although she still wore her gloves. “Night will come shortly, and I’ve heard the temperatures drop quickly in Norfolk.”

  “Is it only men who can seek moments of seclusion?” Her pinched expression conveyed the fact that he’d displeased her in some fashion, though Bastian was unsure how.

  “Solitude is important for the mental health of any person, miss.” He stepped away from the moat’s edge and moved closer to the young woman. She appeared not long out of the schoolroom; however, her narrowed stare held a refreshing maturity. “I am Lord Mansfield. Bastian Stanhope.”

  His curt bow felt out of place and awkward given the locale in which it was issued.

  The woman pushed to her feet, her cloak parting slightly to reveal a walking gown beneath.

  Bastian moved closer to assist, though she ignored his proffered hand.

  “Lady Chastity Neville.” She inclined her head with the introduction. “Are you attending on behalf of Lady Lucianna or the duke?”

  She did not await his answer but turned around and bent over to retrieve her blanket, a paper fluttering to the ground at her feet as she did. With deft fingers, she grabbed the note and attempted to hide it in her skirts.

  “I cannot admit to knowing either as anything more than an acquaintance,” he replied. “However, my mother, Lady Mansfield, was once friends with Montrose’s mother. And you?”

  “Lady Lucianna is a close friend.” She folded the blanket neatly over her arm and collected her muff. All the while, she clutched the paper in her hand, the yellowed slip wrinkling with her tight grasp.

  “What have you there?” His interest was only further piqued when she endeavored to stuff the letter into her muff. “A love note, mayhap?”

  Bastian had meant it as a jest to lighten the woman’s mood—and his own—but when Lady Chastity’s cheeks tinted scarlet, he was disheartened to realize he was likely correct in his guess.

  “Of sorts,” she confirmed.

  She was spoken for, as a lady so beautiful should be.

  They stared at one another for a moment, and Bastian marveled at how dark her eyes were, much like the depths of the moat at his back. She wore a simple, high-waisted, peach gown under her cloak, and her hair hung freely down her back, unclasped but tame. The bright sun, now setting on the far horizon, reflected off her pale skin as if she sparkled in the waning light.

  Beautiful. Bastian had never thought of a woman as such. Comely, yes. Pleasant, certainly. Elegant, often.

  But beautiful…no.

  Yet, Lady Chastity was far more than simply beautiful. She seemed witty, charming, delightful, and utterly captivating.

  And he realized he was aware of all this in the scant moments they’d spent together.

  It had been many years since he’d wondered after anyone beyond a cursory thought, except for his mother and those charged with her health.

  “May I escort you back to Oxburgh Hall? If I am not being presumptuous in thinking that is your intended destination.” He was almost sputtering by the final word, his nervousness showing as plainly as the crisp white of his cravat.

  In the distance, another lady called out to Lady Chastity, and her shoulders stiffened as she held the blanket close. “That is not necessary, my lord. It is not far, and my sister is awaiting my return. Besides, I do not wish to draw you away from your moment of solitude, Manny.”

  “Bastian,” he corrected harshly.

  “My apologies, I heard the other guests calling you—”

  “Think nothing of it. A harmless mistake, I assure you.” He smiled, hoping to ease her obvious discomfort. “My friends call me Bastian. Or Lord Mansfield if you prefer.”

  “It is lovely to make your acquaintance, Bastian.” Her smile mirrored his, though hers was genuine while Bastian’s expression was forced given their topic of discussion. Though she didn’t seem to notice. “I am certain to see you again. Until then, good day, and hold yourself to the shore. I am certain you would be greatly missed if you disappeared into the moat.”

  With a nervous glance at the letter in her hand and a low giggle, Lady Chastity turned and fled down the path toward the guests on the lawn.

  He’d sought privacy when he escaped through the terrace doors of the manor and fled through the garden; however, a heavy
sense of loneliness settled upon him as Lady Chastity joined a group of ladies and moved from the lawn and back to the terrace.

  Everything about him was moving—fast—while he stood helplessly by and watched.

  A spectator but never the winning horse.

  A gawker never brave enough to be a fighter.

  A wallflower, if a man could be labeled as such, always on the fringes but never catching the notice of those around him.

  He could not picture Lady Chastity hiding in the shadows, not with her quick wit and wide smile.

  Certainly not.

  The festivities at Oxburgh Hall had only just begun, and Lady Chastity had received a love letter “of sorts.” Bastian had never dared to write of his adoration or feelings for another.

  He shook his head to clear his meandering thoughts as Lady Chastity and her companions disappeared into the open terrace doors.

  Bastian supposed that was why she had a suitor and he, even after all of these years, was still teased with jests about courting his own mother.

  Chapter 2

  Chastity kept her stare trained on the ground before her, stepping over a protruding root before the path dipped and rose once more. The crisp December evening air brushed against her heated cheeks and bare arm where her sleeve had pushed up when she slipped her hands into her warm muff. The sun was indeed setting—quickly. She’d meant to seek out the moat, spend a few quiet moments with her own thoughts, and return for their late-afternoon repast with no one the wiser.

  What in heavens had come over her?

  She knew exactly what had overtaken her—what had been weighing heavily on her for nearly two months.

  And wallowing away her time at Montrose’s country estate on the matter would solve nothing but draw Prudence’s suspicions. Chastity had been so careful to keep her mother’s note always hidden. She’d stashed it within her writing desk, then in the pocket of her walking cloak, and in the depths of her half boot. However, she’d become careless when she was helping her maid pack for their trip to Oxburgh Hall…and Prudence had spotted the missive mixed in with Chastity’s belongings.