Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  Joshua regarded his estate manager before lowering his head to the ledger and allowing it to rest there for several sec­onds, not caring if any wet ink might stain his face or hair. My face hurts, he thought then, surprised by the sudden sensation he was feeling where there shouldn’t have been any. He lifted his left hand and carefully touched the leather mask that cov­ered that side of his face, aware he could feel the pressure of his fingers but not the actual sensation of touch through the leather. Moving one finger under the mask, he carefully slid it over the raw skin. He winced as he realized he truly felt pain. “Not yet, Garrett. Just give me … give me a few more days. I have another month’s worth of bills to pay and some people who wish to speak with me. I just want to get caught up before I start something …” Else, he thought with frustration.

  “I’ll let the foreman know you’ll have an answer by the end of the week,” Garrett suggested, knowing his friend was feeling a bit out of his element when it came to making decorating decisions.

  If truth be told, Joshua Wainwright was a bit out of his ele­ment when it came to making any decisions having to do with his duchy. He was simply too new at being a duke, and having been born the second son meant he hadn’t planned to be a duke anytime during his life.

  Garrett hadn’t planned to be an estate manager for a duchy, either, when he set out from Edinburgh all those years ago. He had intended to make his fortune in the gaming hells of Lon­don, convinced he could beat the house odds and live off the winnings. But after meeting Joshua while playing faro, Garrett found a fast friend in the second son of the Duke of Chich­ester. The two proved inseparable as they gambled their way through London’s clubs and finished their evenings at brothels in Covent Gardens, spending as much as they made in win­nings whilst sharing a terrace in Grosvenor Square. During the Season, they attended balls and mingled with members of the ton, Joshua their ticket into the best events. An unmarried son of a duke, Joshua had been considered a good catch by all of the mothers who paraded their chits past them during their coming-outs. The most difficult decision the two men had to make was to decide which event to attend or which club to go to for drinks and a look at the betting books. All was well with the world.

  “Thank you, old man,” Joshua replied in kind, lifting his head and returning his attention to the ledger. Garrett took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then left the room, remembering how he had come to be in his current position when only a year ago he was enjoying the life of a bachelor in London.

  Joshua and his older brother John had been called back to Wisborough Oaks by their father, the elder John Wainwright. He claimed it was time his two sons learned how to run the duchy. The elder Wainwright was sure his days were num­bered, citing his own father’s early death as an excuse to get his sons back to their childhood home.

  Reluctant to leave his carefree life, Joshua sent word he would join the family after a late Season ball he had already committed to attending.

  Garrett would remain in their terrace in London, opting to live a more respectable life by obtaining an overseer posi­tion for an estate in Chiswick. While the landowner and his wife toured the Continent, Garrett would manage the garden­ers and groundskeepers who worked on the ten acres immedi­ately surrounding the house and the other two-thousand acres farmed by tenants. With a full staff to oversee the inside of the estate house, he found the position comfortable and satisfying, especially when he could spend some evenings in London as he had done with Joshua.

  When Joshua finally arrived at Wisborough Oaks, his brother, the Earl of Grinstead, had begun his duty as the heir apparent and was learning everything he could about the estate and ducal lands. And, as he had done in London, he had become well acquainted with the available trollops in the area.

  Not particularly interested in managing the estate, Joshua took up the accounting, spending hours pouring over the numbers associated with the upkeep of Wisborough Oaks and the nearby village. He’d had no idea how much went into owning lands—dealing with tenants, overseeing the village of Kirdford with its meager iron production and forest glass industries, ensuring the inn and pubs were bringing in monies from other parts of England—and he’d had no knowledge of his mother’s hand in seeing to the running of the household. Meals were served, servants appeared when needed and dis­appeared when they were told to leave, the house was always clean and the furnishings and carpets and drapes were simply … there. The duchess always seemed to be off to a social event in Petworth or Shipley or visiting the elderly or poor in the village, taking baskets of food and fabric on her forays into the small town.

  So it was an utter shock to Joshua when he found himself suddenly in charge of everything.

  And all because of an overturned candle.

  “Your Grace,” his butler Gates said from just inside the library door, apparently for the second or third time.

  Joshua lifted his head from the ledger, giving his head a shake as if to clear it of the reverie in which he had just indulged. “Gates,” he replied, not wanting to appear as if the butler had awakened him.

  “A private coach has just turned onto the drive,” Gates announced as he stood at attention.

  Moving quickly to the window that faced the front of the estate house, Joshua peered out. Visitors at Wisborough Oaks were few and far between these days, and they rarely came by coach. “I am not familiar with the horses,” he commented, realizing he rarely recognized people by their equipage but rather by the team that pulled it. “And I am not expecting any­one today,” he added under his breath, suddenly imagining a fairy godmother. Perhaps she could conjure a decorator to deal with the decisions regarding the rebuilding of the house.

  He could only hope.

  “I really do not have time to see anyone. Unless one is a decorator, in which case, please send him in,” Joshua added with a hint of amusement.

  Gates nodded, understanding his master’s odd comment. “As you wish, Your Grace,” he said before stepping out of the library and closing the door behind him.

  Joshua continued to watch out the window, noting the black coach was marked and of good quality, but he couldn’t make out the coat of arms from his angle at the window. A groom had rushed to open the door and put down the steps before handing down a passenger.

  A female passenger.

  Straightening as much as he could, Joshua regarded the woman as she surveyed the house, unaware she was being watched by the duke. She straightened her pelisse with a dainty gloved hand before taking a step toward the house. Due to the small size of the stylish bonnet she wore, he could tell she was blonde.

  Was her expression one of excitement, perhaps? Or was that trepidation? When another woman, apparently a maid, given the style of her traveling clothes, was handed down, the first turned and smiled.

  Joshua froze.

  He knew that smile. Knew the mass of blonde curls piled high under the small bonnet. Knew the peaches and cream complexion and full lower lip and generous bosom …

  Lady Charlotte Bingham. She was here.

  The one woman in all of London who could get him out of the card room and onto the ballroom floor. She was here.

  My late brother’s betrothed.

  Chapter 2

  Lady Charlotte Contemplates the Parlor

  Even before she reached the steps leading to the wide entry of Wisborough Oaks, Charlotte felt nervous, her heart beating a tattoo she was sure could be heard (if not seen) by anyone within a few feet of her. Lifting her skirts, she took a deep breath and climbed the stairs, her eyes darting about as she took in the sight of the rebuilt estate home. The exte­rior repairs had apparently been completed. There was no evi­dence of the fire that had burned most of the west side—the wing that included the rooms of the duke and duchess and the two offspring who were in residence at the time. Nor was there any visible damage to the sides of the house facing the drive or the parkway. Fire had burned most of the west side—the wing that included the rooms of the duke and duc
hess and the two children who were in residence at the time.

  Charlotte caught her breath as she remembered the duke’s daughter, a tall, skinny blonde who would have looked just like her mother in another five or ten years. Jennifer, she thought when she realized the girl should have one day been her sis­ter by marriage. She had looked forward to that, looked for­ward to becoming part of a family that cherished one another, looked forward to taking up her responsibilities as the wife of a future duke, even if she didn’t relish the idea of being mar­ried to John Wainwright II, Earl of Grinstead.

  She was sure John preferred a steady stream of varied mis­tresses and ladies of the evening. He, in fact, had informed her of his preference whilst dancing with her at one of the balls the Season prior. “You do realize, my sweet, I have no intention of giving up my current lifestyle once we are wed,” he had said during a waltz. And when she had responded with a light, “Of course not, my lord,” never allowing the wan smile she had displayed throughout the dance to waver one bit. His upraised eyebrow told volumes, as if he realized, just then, she was quite aware of his reputation as a rogue and even more aware she was only marrying him because it was her duty to do so. Mutual feelings of affection wouldn’t be involved in their union.

  And now that John Wainwright II had perished in the same fire that took his parents and sister, Charlotte sighed and allowed a bit of relief to wash over her. For it was his brother, Joshua, for whom Charlotte truly had feelings. The two had danced at that same ball, Joshua appearing from the card room just as she finished the waltz with John. Despite not having claimed the dance on her card, he simply stepped up, bowed and took her hand, his face lighting up as he watched the look of shock cross her face and be replaced with a brilliant smile. He seemed to know exactly how to lift her low spirits, and within a few minutes, she was laughing with him, secretly wishing it were him to whom she was betrothed.

  Perhaps her wish had come true.

  She wondered if Joshua could ever have feelings of affec­tion for her. Wondered if he would at least honor the arrange­ment their fathers had made in the name of the duchy so many years before. Eighteen years ago!

  A stout butler, dressed in a black topcoat and breeches and sporting a mustache in place of a full head of hair, opened one of the massive double-doors even before she had reached the top step of the landing. Charlotte nodded to him as he stepped aside, and she passed him to enter the huge vestibule, her maid, Parma, pausing before she followed. Once inside, Parma moved to a chair off to the side and took a seat, her gaze settling on a painting.

  An eerie feeling of familiarity settled over Charlotte as she glanced around, undoing the buttons of her pelisse while handing over a white pasteboard. “Gates, isn’t it?” she greeted him as she removed the pelisse. “Lady Charlotte Bingham to see His Grace,” she stated, trying hard to keep the growing nervousness out of her voice. “Is he in residence today?”

  Gates’ eyes widened just a bit as he took the calling card and draped her pelisse over one arm. “Yes. Of course, my lady. But he is quite busy with estate matters,” he countered, sud­denly remembering his master’s edict.

  “Oh, I can wait,” Charlotte replied with a bright smile, removing her bonnet and giving it to him. I have been waiting my whole life, she thought suddenly. It was one thing to know your destiny and quite another to realize you had arrived.

  “Allow me to show you to the parlor,” Gates responded, his glance taking in the rich fabric of her deep blue travel­ing gown, the ornate style of her blonde hair, the regal way in which she stood, her perfect posture making her seem several inches taller than she was. “Do you have a trunk or two that needs to be brought in?” he wondered, having sent a footman out to the coach to determine what help the driver and groom might require.

  “Yes, thank you,” Charlotte replied, her nervousness dis­appearing as she recognized the surroundings from her visit as a child. “My maid, Parma, will see to my things once they’re in a bedchamber. Do you have a spare servant’s quarters she might use?” she wondered, not sure how much of the inte­rior had been restored since the fire. If there were no spare rooms, Charlotte was not adverse to having the maid share her bedchamber.

  “Of course, milady,” Gates replied with a nod as he led her to the parlor. Familiar paintings and gold sconces adorned the light cream walls of the large hall, its floor covered with a scar­let Aubusson carpet. None of this area had been affected by the fire, it seemed.

  The parlor was a disappointment, though. She wondered why it seemed to be in the wrong place and … so shabby. The furnishings certainly didn’t match, the upholstery was quite worn, and the drapes looked a bit sun bleached.

  Aware of Charlotte’s reaction to the room, Gates sighed. “Please excuse the parlor, milady. It is merely temporary until the new one can be completed.” At Charlotte’s look of confu­sion, he added, “The original was lost to the fire.”

  Charlotte had to fight the impulse to roll her eyes. “Oh, of course,” she replied, trying to remember the parlor’s original location in the large house.

  The butler bowed and backed out of the room, leaving the door wide open. She wondered why she hadn’t been offered refreshment—a cup of tea, at least—and began arranging her skirts as she sat primly on edge of the worn settee.

  She thought of those who bid her goodbye this morn­ing at her parents’ townhouse in Mayfair. Her married friend, Lady Bostwick, who would have simply requested tea and bis­cuits if she wasn’t immediately offered some when she made her morning calls. Elizabeth Carlington Bennett-Jones was with child now, her belly rounding out so it nearly filled her gown, her skin glowing as if lit from the inside with dozens of tiny candles. A gloved hand would be resting protectively on her middle as she would giggle sweetly and say something like, “I find my appetite is simply insatiable,” not the least bit apologetic about her request nor about the fact she was prob­ably referring to an appetite that had nothing to do with food. Indeed, she was one of the few women of the ton who seemed to be enjoying the marriage bed.

  And there was Lady Hannah Slater, who had tears in her eyes this morning when she watched Charlotte step up into the borrowed coach that would bring her to Wisborough Oaks. A romantic at heart, Hannah had finally, at the age of one-and-twenty, had her first Season in London. She wished for a husband only so she might have children. “I have no need of a man for myself,” she would say when they attended balls together, her dance card always full, and her personality one that attracted a number of younger eligible gentlemen. She was after an older man, though. “I must find one to be a father to my children,” she said wistfully. “Someone who will appreci­ate his heirs and make room for them in his life.” Such an odd wish for the daughter of a marquess—to want only children on which to dote and love, because to expect a husband to love her was simply out of the question.

  Although Lady Hannah’s tearful farewell had been expected (she was, after all, Charlotte’s best friend), it was Lady Bostwick’s parting words that gave her much to think about on the trip from London.

  “I am sure you must wonder why it was I didn’t accept Gabriel Wellingham’s offer for my hand,” she had said as she placed her gloved hand on Charlotte’s arm, her manner sug­gesting she was sharing very privileged information.

  Charlotte had paused in packing the last of her prized possessions into a valise, recognizing Elizabeth’s serious tone. Lady Hannah had straightened in her chair, as surprised at Lady Bostwick’s comment as Charlotte was. “I suppose I was curious as to why you didn’t accept an offer from the Earl of Trenton, the most handsome and eligible bachelor in all of the British Isles,” Charlotte agreed with a glint of humor in her eye. “You two … seemed to suit,” she had added, stealing a glance in Hannah’s direction when Elizabeth didn’t appear to share her amusement. Of all the gentlemen who attended the prior Season’s balls, the Earl of Trenton was the most sought after. He could boast vast land holdings, an annual income said to be in excess of twent
y-thousand a year, and a seemingly pleas­ant personality, although both Charlotte and Hannah had expressed their reservations about the vain man.

  “I suppose we did,” Elizabeth agreed, her mass of upswept auburn curls catching the light as she shook her head in con­trast to her words, her hands resting on her rounded belly. “Although we certainly didn’t love one another.”

  Hannah had shrugged, not believing marriages among the members of the ton could ever be love matches. “So, why didn’t you accept his offer?”

  Elizabeth had swallowed and then said, “Because I … well, there wasn’t one.”

  Her brows arched in surprise, Hannah had regarded Eliz­abeth as a stunned Charlotte turned to lean against the edge of a bed post. “Trenton didn’t offer for your hand? Wait … did you know Bostwick would ask for your hand?”

  Lady Bostwick hadn’t allowed the Earl of Trenton to even make an offer on the day he arrived to do so. Instead, she had quizzed him about his mistresses, deciding she couldn’t be married to a man who would always dress better and look more beautiful that she would. And, finally, she decided she couldn’t possibly marry a man who kissed like Lady Hannah’s dog, Harold. Instead, she had proposed to George Bennett-Jones, Viscount Bostwick.

  The viscount, a rather unattractive man, owned little in the way of lands, but possessed three coal mines in the south and an annual income one-third of Trenton’s. Having met Elizabeth at an early autumn ball, he courted her for only a few days before he appeared at Elizabeth’s home, intending to make his offer, and had only done so an hour after Elizabeth turned away Trenton.