From Wallflower to Countess

by Janice Preston

  The Duke of Cheriton—Cousin Leo—was Felicity’s joint guardian, together with her mother, until such time as she married or reached the age of thirty, whichever came sooner.

  Felicity must hope he would find some pleasant, unremarkable gentleman with whom she might be content.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Stan. Good to see you.’

  Leo Beauchamp, Duke of Cheriton, clasped the hand of Richard Durant, Earl of Stanton, in a firm grip as they met in the elegant hall at Fernley Park in the County of Hampshire, Richard’s family seat.

  ‘Your Grace,’ Richard said, grinning, fully aware Leo hated his friends to stand on ceremony. ‘Have you come up from Cheriton today?’

  ‘No. Bath, as a matter of fact.’

  Richard raised his brows. ‘Bath? I had not thought you were in your dotage quite yet, old chap.’

  Leo cuffed Richard playfully on the ear. ‘Enough of your cheek, pup,’ he said, although he was only seven years older. ‘I was not there to partake of the waters.’

  ‘Care to enlighten me as to why you went there?’

  ‘I was summoned by my cousin Baverstock’s widow on family business.’

  Richard knit his brow. ‘Baverstock? Oh, yes...quite the beauty, his widow, if I remember rightly.’

  ‘Yes, she was...is... She remarried in April. Farlowe.’

  Richard whistled. ‘Went to welcome him into the family, did you?’

  Leo snorted. ‘Hardly. I tried to warn her off, but she was as determined to have him as he was to secure her. Her income alone will be enough to allow him to live like a nabob.’

  ‘Fortunate fellow, falling on his feet like that. I could wish Charles such luck. Mayhap a wealthy widow would remove him from my back.’

  Charles Durant, a distant cousin, was Richard’s heir, and regularly applied to Richard to settle his debts. Richard thrust aside his momentary qualm at the thought of Charles ever inheriting the title and the estates. He was fit and healthy and had every intention of living a long time.

  A footman opened the salon door as they approached and they dropped the subject as they joined Richard’s other guests—gathered for the first evening of a shooting party. It was an all-male event, as Richard’s mother was away from home, visiting an old friend.

  * * *

  The messenger arrived as dusk fell on the second day of the shoot. The weather had remained fine, the birds were plentiful, and beaters and shooters alike were happily exhausted after a successful day. The news of the death of Lord Craven—an old school friend of Richard’s—in a fall whilst out hunting shook them all but, for Richard, it was particularly painful, resurrecting the dark, agonising time when his older brother, Adam, had been killed in a shooting accident sixteen years before. Richard had been away at school at the time and, poignantly, it had been Craven who had comforted him when he heard the news.

  He had returned home to find his parents changed beyond recognition: his father almost mad with grief, scarcely eating or sleeping, and his mother bitter and withdrawn. His parents had barely communicated with each other or with him. Richard had inherited the earldom at the tender age of seventeen, after his father had followed Adam into the grave and, since then, it seemed to Richard that his mother’s only interest in him was as a means to secure the succession of the title.

  Many an argument had raged over his refusal to contemplate marriage to protect the title and estates, but he had held fast. He was one of the most accomplished sportsmen in the ton. He led a full and active life and was universally admired and feted for his prowess on a horse, his precision with the ribbons, his expertise with an épée, his shooting skills, and even his invincibility in the ring. He was in no hurry to don leg shackles. The only obstacle to his contentment was his mother’s persistent harassment about the risks he took, and her refusal to retire to the dower house until there was a new mistress to run Fernley Park.

  But now...Craven’s death made Richard question his stand. If he did nothing, might his mother’s great fear of Charles laying waste to the estates be realized?

  * * *

  The atmosphere after dinner that evening was sombre. Most of his guests settled down to play cards after dinner, but Richard declined to join them, in no mood to play the convivial host. He wandered into the library, where he found Leo, alone, pushing chess pieces around a board in a desultory manner.

  ‘Care for a game?’

  Richard shrugged, and pulled up a chair. Preoccupied and uneasy, he found it nigh on impossible to concentrate on the game, his thoughts dominated by his mother’s diatribes about sporting activities and premature death.

  He moved his bishop and cursed under his breath as Leo swooped with his knight to seize the piece. He looked up to meet Leo’s quizzical gaze.

  ‘Things on your mind, Stan?’

  ‘Craven; hard to believe, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sad business. It must bring back unpleasant memories for you.’

  ‘It does.’

  Leo had been a close friend of Adam’s and a frequent visitor to Fernley Park during his youth. He had supported Richard through those lonely years after his father’s death, having experienced for himself the pressures of inheriting such power and wealth at an early age. They had been friends ever since.

  Richard reached for a bishop, hesitated, then withdrew his hand. Moving it would expose his queen.

  ‘How old was he? Thirtyish?’

  ‘Two-and-thirty: the same age as me. We were at Eton together.’ Richard fell silent, still contemplating his next move. He reached for a pawn. ‘It’s brought home my responsibilities, though. There’s no shying away from it: I’ve decided it’s time to settle the future.’

  Now the words were out in the open, Richard, paradoxically, felt better. The tension that had plagued him throughout the evening began to dissipate.

  Besides, marrying will have the added bonus of removing Mother to the Lodge.

  The thought of Fernley Park without his mother made even marriage seem appealing. Her presence constantly reminded him of his failure as a son and he was conscious he avoided coming home, leaving more and more of the business to Elliott, his bailiff. Remorse filled him at his antipathy towards his own mother: all he could feel for her was filial duty and responsibility. Since Adam’s death, she had withdrawn any hint of affection for him. And then his father had... He swallowed hard. If only he had tried harder. Been a better son.

  Could I have stopped him? Would he still be here?

  His father’s death had rocked what remained of their family and shifted their world on its axis. Scandal had been avoided but neither he nor his mother had been the same since.

  ‘Much as I like Charles,’ he added, placing his pawn on a square at random, ‘I cannot risk him running the estate to ruin.’

  ‘Indeed. He is a somewhat profligate young man.’ Leo moved his queen, capturing the pawn Richard had just moved. ‘I hear the duns are sniffing at his heels again.’

  ‘So soon? I only bailed him out last year. I thought his debts were all cleared.’

  ‘I have no doubt they were. I believe I cautioned you at the time not to throw good money after bad.’

  ‘You did, and I should have heeded your advice. You’ve never steered me wrong yet.’

  Leo smiled. ‘I like to think I still have some uses,’ he murmured, moving a rook. ‘So, you are thinking of marriage. Might I enquire as to the identity of the lucky lady?’

  Richard huffed a mirthless laugh. ‘I have no idea. There is no one who springs immediately to mind. As long as she’s well born, is of an amiable and compliant nature, and is not minded to interfere with my life, I am sure I can find someone to suit.’ He picked up his bishop, hesitated, then took one of Leo’s pawns.

  ‘Aha,’ Leo said, with satisfaction, as he swooped on Richard
’s queen. ‘Mine, I believe.’

  Richard sighed. His mind was definitely not on the game. They had barely begun but, studying the pieces left on the board, he could see he was in trouble.

  ‘A marriage of convenience?’ Leo said. ‘Are you certain that is what you want? A compliant wife?’

  ‘Why ever not? I have no interest in a love match and, if I crave excitement, I can find plenty outside my domestic arrangements. No. A nice, compliant lady, content to run a comfortable household and to look after my children—that will suit me very well.’

  ‘In that case,’ Leo said, ‘I might know just the girl for you.

  ‘Checkmate.’

  Chapter Three

  Mid-September 1811

  Felicity sat before the mirror in her bedchamber at Cheriton Abbey as the maid loaned to her by Cousin Cecily—the duke’s younger, unmarried sister, who had raised his children after the death of his wife—dressed her hair. It was hard to garner any enthusiasm over Anna’s efforts, although Felicity did silently admit—with a twinge of guilt at her disloyalty—that the result was an improvement on poor Beanie’s usual effort.

  Miss Bean, nursemaid to all three Weston children, had acted as Felicity’s maid since her sixteenth birthday, but her advancing age and failing eyesight had made travelling to Cousin Leo’s estate impossible. It was time, Felicity had finally accepted, for her beloved Beanie—more of a mother to her than her own mother had ever been—to retire.

  The house party had been organized for the duke’s seventeen-year-old daughter, Olivia, in preparation for her début the following spring. A party of fourteen, plus the family, Cecily had told Felicity when they arrived from Bath an hour ago. Felicity was stomach-churningly aware, however, that she was also to meet her prospective husband.

  ‘There, milady, you’re ready,’ Anna said. ‘I must go now and help Lady Cecily—the family usually gather in the drawing room at six o’clock.’

  ‘Thank you for your help, Anna. Have all the guests arrived?’

  ‘I believe so, ma’am.’

  Felicity’s palms turned clammy and her stomach seemed to rise up. How she wished she could simply turn up at church one day to find a stranger awaiting her at the altar. Surely that would be preferable to this wretched charade? She forced her thoughts away from the ordeal to come, recalling that Dominic, Lord Avon—Cousin Leo’s eldest son and Felicity’s childhood playmate—would arrive tomorrow. Buried in Bath, as she had been for the past six months, she was eager for news from Westfield, the orphan asylum in London both she and Dominic supported whenever they could.

  A thought struck her. What if her husband disapproved of her charitable activities? Might he ban her from involvement with Westfield, as her stepfather had tried? He would have that right—the right to command and control her. A chill raced over her skin, raising gooseflesh on her arms.

  It is nerves. You will feel better once you have met him.

  Fretting over something to come was the worst part: it was the lack of action—the sense of being tossed and turned by events without any control, like a piece of driftwood caught in a current—that allowed such fears to tease her. She could stay alone with her thoughts no longer. Dragging in a breath, Felicity left the sanctuary of her bedchamber and headed for the stairs.

  At the head of the magnificent staircase, she looked down and pictured that scene a year before. Stanton. A pleasurable feeling coiled in her belly at the mental image of his lordship in his shirt sleeves and breeches. Would he be here this weekend? It was likely, she realized, with a shiver of anticipation she swiftly banished. Despite their encounter on the stairs, Stanton had barely noticed her again as he had flirted with and charmed the other guests during the remainder of that weekend, living up to his rakish reputation.

  Whoever her prospective husband might be he would be bound to show to disadvantage against the earl. Most men did.

  And is that not precisely what you want? Did you not stipulate a quiet, ordinary gentleman for your husband?

  She swallowed the nerves playing havoc with her insides as she descended the stairs and entered the drawing room to await the other guests and her future.

  * * *

  Leo ushered Richard to one end of his magnificent library, where a small leather-upholstered sofa and two matching armchairs were placed invitingly around a stone-carved fireplace in which logs crackled merrily.

  ‘Well? Are you going to tell me who she is?’

  All through dinner Richard had been trying to guess the identity of his prospective bride. Why on earth had he not demanded to know before travelling all the way to Devon? All he knew was that she had asked her mother to arrange a match for her.

  Leo’s silver-grey eyes gleamed. ‘Patience, dear boy.’

  Richard glared at Leo, who met his look with raised eyebrows and a bland smile. He’s enjoying this, the wretch. They had been friends for fifteen years—Richard knew that look. Biting back his irritation, he sat on the sofa whilst Leo poured them both a brandy before settling into one of the armchairs. Richard tipped his glass, savouring the warmth of the fiery spirit, waiting.

  ‘My ward, Lady Felicity Weston.’

  As he digested Leo’s words, Richard conjured up a mental image of Lady Felicity. They had not been neighbours at dinner and so had not conversed, but she had appeared monosyllabic and subdued throughout. Perhaps it was nerves, knowing she was to meet her future husband? He dredged up the memory of their encounter last year, but this girl had shown none of the spark and wit she had exhibited then.

  Her mother, in contrast, was the life and soul of the gathering, but too loud and foolish for his taste. The other daughter—she had died young, he recalled—had inherited her mother’s beauty, but not so Lady Felicity. No wonder she had jested about being overlooked, for it was no more than the truth. Certainly, next to her flamboyant parent, she slipped into anonymity.

  A further image arose, from his perusal of the occupants of the drawing room before the meal. Lady Felicity—head to one side, eyes bright, hands animated—had been chatting with Leo’s sister, Cecily, who had clearly found it hard to contain her giggles. Then Felicity had looked up. Their eyes met, and immediately all her liveliness had leached away. He had barely noticed at the time.

  He chose his words with care. Leo, he knew, was fond of her.

  ‘She is a little insipid, is she not?’

  An image of his mistress of the past year materialized in his mind’s eye. Harriet—now there was a woman: curvaceous, experienced, uncomplicated, fun. He frowned into the amber liquid swirling in his goblet. What had been his stipulations for his future wife? Well born, of an amiable and compliant nature, and not minded to interfere with my life. He had said nothing about appearance and, indeed, why should her looks matter? She was not ugly. She was...plain.

  ‘She doesn’t show to advantage next to her mother,’ Leo said, ‘but she’s a good girl, she has a kind heart, she wants a family, and she’s the daughter of an earl. And Lady Katherine’s father was a marquis, so her breeding on both sides is impeccable. Or have you changed your mind, and now desire a love match?’

  Richard glared at Leo, who met his eyes with a grin. He leaned forward and gripped Richard’s knee.

  ‘Are you sure you want this, Stan? Neither Felicity nor her parents know your identity, and need never know if you do not wish to proceed.’

  Was he sure he wanted this?

  No. He had not thought to wed for several years to come.

  But Craven’s death weighed on his mind, as did the premature deaths of his father and his brother. He was loath to agree with his mother but, if anything should happen to him... It was not about what he wanted any longer.

  It was his responsibility.

  His duty.

  His decision.

  ‘My mind is made up. I must
secure the future of the title and estates.’

  Leo leaned back. ‘So, given that you are still minded to wed, how do you wish to proceed? Is it to be Lady Felicity?’

  He had a choice. He could either choose to settle the matter now or he must seek another bride. The thought of suffering the matchmaking efforts of determined mothers and importunate fathers during the coming months in London was enough to bring him out in hives. Which left...

  ‘She is very young.’

  ‘She is almost five and twenty; older than she appears.’

  Richard felt his brows lift. He had thought her younger. At least she had a spark of personality, although her dress sense was appalling—that pale-pink gown she was wearing tonight had done her no favours, and her figure, probably the reason he had thought her so young, was almost boyish. But, on balance, would he prefer someone like her mother—beautiful, but empty-headed and fluttery? No, that would drive him demented in a trice. At least Felicity had demonstrated a sense of humour and a down-to-earth manner he could countenance.

  As long as she did not entertain girlish notions of his falling in love with his own wife, he thought Lady Felicity Weston would suit nicely.

  ‘Very well, Lady Felicity it is. At least I can deal with you, and not Farlowe, over the settlements and so forth.’

  Leo grinned and gripped Richard’s hand. ‘Welcome to the family, Stan. I will go and extract Felicity and Katherine from the throng, hopefully without causing too much speculation.’

  It was not long before he returned with Felicity and her mother. Richard stretched his lips into a smile as he stood up, pushing a hand through his hair, smoothing the unruly curls back.