Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  Would the Earl of Gisborn come looking for her someday? To claim what he might consider rightfully his by arrangement with her father? I wonder how much of my dowry he demanded? she found herself considering. And was the dowry still in an escrow account somewhere in London? she wondered, silently cursing her ignorance of the details that had been made when she was just three years old.

  Even if a decrepit earl came to claim his rights to her as his wife, she knew she would marry none other than the Duke of Chichester.

  It was that or escape to a convent, she decided stubbornly before falling into a deep sleep.

  Chapter 6

  Mr. McFarland Attempts Murder Most Foul

  Angus McFarland had been riding for nearly two hours as he made his escape from Kirdford. Although he was saddle sore and tired, he was still excited at the memory of what he considered a spectacular explosion next to an estate house near the small village. Certainly no one present on the east side of the house could survive the impact of the exploding dynamite. There had been no need to destroy the rest of the house, he discovered from eavesdropping on some carpenters who were drinking at the Foresters Arms pub. No one was liv­ing in the newer west wing.

  And the best part of all?

  He had found the explosives near an abandoned mine, the wood crate containing them already cracked open. The cyl­inders, covered in dark red paper, had spilled out around the crate and were simply there for the taking. He scooped up a few for each pocket and, when the last of the lights had gone out in the house, he piled them into the crook of a large oak tree that grew right next to the middle window on the east wall of the house. The impending storm provided plenty of wind and thunder to cover any sounds he and his horse might have made.

  His biggest challenge had been to get a fuse lit. Most of the tinders he had with him were damp from his ride through a rainstorm outside of Chiswick. Thinking it would be too dif­ficult to light the fuse directly, he instead lit up a cheroot from a lamp near the stable yard, the cheroot still dry from having been tucked snugly into his waistcoat. Then he lit the fuse from that and quickly remounted his horse. As he hurried from the estate and headed north, he found himself enjoying the che­root as if it were some kind of early reward for work well done.

  At the sound of the blast, he had glanced back through the trees to see a magnificent fireball engulf the old oak, the sound of the explosion reaching him after a few seconds. Sure his work was done, he had dug his knees into the side of his horse and ridden halfway back to London before his horse refused to go on. Eager to collect his earnings from his employer, a gentleman he had seen at several gaming hells over the years, he completed the trip to London the following morning.

  The meeting had been perfunctory. Nicholas Bingham warned him that no one could know what occurred, and that if anyone were to hear of the incident in London, it was to be attributed to a severe lightning strike. McFarland readily agreed, pocketing the heavy purse as he took his leave of his employer’s small townhouse in Golden Square.

  He had the wherewithal to change his attire at his small apartment near Covent Gardens before making his way to a pub for an ale or two. Then he would head to his favorite gam­ing hell. He didn’t consider he really should bathe if he had any hope of winning over the pretty faro dealer he planned to see.

  Or that he might be a bit late in his pursuit of her.

  Perhaps, when Miss Jane Wethersby saw the size of his purse, she would seriously consider his offer. He rather fancied the faro dealer—had for many years, in fact—and thought he had as much chance at gaining her favors as any of the other gamblers who thought her a good catch. Not for marriage, of course, but didn’t every hard working man deserve a pretty mistress?

  Chapter 7

  His Grace and Lady Charlotte Go Riding

  Joshua watched as Charlotte regarded the horse he had chosen for her. The bay wasn’t large, nor was he particularly fast, but Joshua’s concern was how long it had been since any­one had ridden the horse. He wondered if it might have been his sister’s. A twinge gripped him as he remembered the young girl. Long blond curls, skinny and tall and barely fifteen when she died … in my arms. She had been full of life, the spitting image of her mother and as stubborn as the duchess, accord­ing to his father. And the duke and duchess had just arranged her marriage to an earl from one of the middle counties when their lives were all cut short.

  “What is he called?” Charlotte wondered as she approached the horse from the front and reached up with a gloved hand to stroke the bay’s forehead. The horse nickered and leaned into her hand. Her attention back on the horse, she began whispering.

  Joshua let out the breath he had been holding while won­dering how the horse would react to Charlotte. His own mount was content to stand perfectly still while they waited. It wasn’t as if Charlotte had taken too long to get ready for the morning ride; the woman was quite punctual, in fact. But a side saddle had to be found and secured on the bay. Now they were just waiting for a groom to bring the steps that would allow Char­lotte to mount her horse. Joshua thought briefly of dismount­ing and simply lifting her up to the saddle himself, but the thought that his wounded shoulder might not hold up while lifting her above shoulder-height gave him pause. He had been able to lift her the night before because he had kept her low and against his body. “I think my sister called him ‘Blackie’,” Joshua replied, almost embarrassed by the name Jennifer had bestowed on the poor horse.

  A giggle escaped Charlotte as she climbed the steps and settled into the saddle, her dark green riding habit and match­ing bonnet a perfect complement to the color of her horse. “It appears ‘Brownie’ would be a more appropriate name now,” she replied as she took the reins from the groom and thanked him. She made a couple of experimental moves, the horse following her commands as expected before the two moved alongside Joshua and his jet black stallion.

  “Indeed, and I doubt he would mind much if you did rename him,” Joshua said, his lips curling up. The left side of his face was covered by the leather mask, its ties secured around the top of his head and around his neck. His top hat, a low-profile version, featured a brim that kept most of his face in shadow. Charlotte thought he looked quite smart in a dark blue riding coat and bright blue waistcoat atop buckskin breeches that met a pair of Hessians. Quite smart, indeed.

  Joshua gave Charlotte another cursory glance before heading toward the west, suddenly conscious of the snug fit of her habit around her waist and bosom. From her ease in the saddle, he realized she had probably been riding since early childhood.

  Charlotte scanned the tree-lined horizon as she rode alongside Joshua, amazed at the vista and the nearly cloudless sky. The air, fresh from the night’s rain and wind, was cool but portended a warm day. Given the good weather, Garrett had taken off on his horse just moments ahead of them and headed north to look for storm damage and to check in on some ten­ant farmers.

  “Stay on my right,” Joshua ordered as he urged his horse to quicken its pace. “And let me know if you’re not able to keep up,” he added as he noticed her testing the bay’s reactions to her movement with the reins.

  “Of course, Your Grace,” she replied, somewhat miffed he doubted her riding skills. When he dug his heels into his stal­lion, she was ready and did the same with her left heel. The bay responded as she had hoped, obviously glad of the opportu­nity for exercise and a rider.

  “It’s really too bad about the oak tree,” Charlotte com­mented as she looked back towards the house. The loud crack they had both heard the night before was the tree splitting, almost down the middle. The roots were partly exposed while the tops of the two halves leaned toward the ground. Several low-hanging branches had already been trimmed away by the groundskeeper in preparation for the tree to be completely cut down and chopped into firewood and building materials.

  Not looking back, Joshua shrugged. “The village will not lack for wood this winter,” he said as his horse’s speed increased to an easy trot. “N
ot that it ever does. About a third of the land around here is wooded. I believe we’ll use the larger parts of the oak for the house, though. There is still a good deal of inte­rior framing to be done,” he added when he saw Charlotte’s curious expression.

  “I must say, I was very surprised at just how much of the house had already been rebuilt,” she replied, her horse’s trot easily matching his. “I half expected you’d be living in another house on the grounds.”

  Joshua considered her words. Had he not had to spend so much time in hospital and then several more months in Lon­don recuperating from his burns, he might have had to live in a cottage meant for a dowager duchess. But Garrett, who unbeknownst to Joshua had appointed himself to oversee the estate in his friend’s absence, managed the arrangements to get the grounds cleaned up, the burned debris removed, and the undamaged wing of the house in livable condition. His prior experience as an estate manager had proven invaluable. In just a few months, he had completed what might have taken Joshua years to accomplish.

  Having just finished the replacement central hall and wing construction, matching the existing wing so the casual observer wouldn’t even notice there was at least a fifty-year age difference in the structures, the carpenters were beginning work on the interiors when Garrett announced he’d had quite enough of dealing with construction foremen and masons and carpenters and the decisions that had yet to be made. He had more than enough to do in managing tenant farmers and vil­lagers and forests and orchards and employees.

  A rather surprised Joshua now found himself trying to manage the household, oversee interior construction, and keep the duchy’s books. And just two days before Charlotte had arrived on his doorstep, he was asked by a foreman what color he wanted the new parlor to be painted. Horrors! Ask­ing if he could be shown some choices, Joshua found himself quite out of his element when the man left him with a book—a book—of dozens of possible colors.

  “I have Garrett to thank for that,” Joshua responded, his attention suddenly on the distant tree line. “But he claims he has had enough of rebuilding and needs to concentrate on other matters.” He scanned the horizon, looking for obvious storm damage. “What color should a parlor be painted?” he asked suddenly, his attention still on distant objects as he redi­rected his horse toward the south.

  Charlotte gave him a look of amusement. “It depends,” she replied with a one-shoulder shrug, directing her horse to move toward the south alongside his.

  “On what?” Joshua countered, his face turning towards her. She rides quite well, he decided, noting how at ease she seemed in the saddle, how her posture was so erect, her left boot firm in the stirrup but not pressed down too far while her

  right leg was bent around the pommel of the saddle.

  “Furnishings, carpets, drapes, where the windows are …”

  “Oh, the devil be damned,” Joshua cursed in annoyance. From his vehemence, Charlotte thought perhaps he had seen some evidence of damage in the distance. She glanced across the horizon.

  “What is it?” she wondered, not seeing obvious damage.

  “I cannot spend time considering such things right now,” he responded, a bit of impatience in his voice. “There are far more important matters to consider than how the house is to be decorated.” His aggravation was apparent when his horse, which had been cantering for several steps suddenly broke into an easy gallop. They rode in silence for several minutes, heading southwest toward the village. Although a few leaves and small branches littered the trail, there was no immediate evidence of downed trees or smoldering fires from a lightning flash.

  Once in Kirdford, they slowed their horses to a trot and nodded as villagers waved or bowed in their direction. Char­lotte recognized a few of the denizens, remembering them from when she had arranged Joshua’s move from the dowager cottage to London.

  When Joshua didn’t slow his horse, she wondered, “Have you no business in the village this morning?”

  Joshua glanced her way. “Not these days,” he answered, a bit of wistfulness in his voice. “Mr. McElliott is here nearly every day on estate business, so there’s really no need for me to ride over.”

  Charlotte considered his answer as she noticed the shingle for the village pub, the Forester Arms. “But you must come over for an ale now and then,” she hinted, hoping to draw out the lighter side of the man. She knew him capable of humor; she had witnessed his brilliant smile and easy demeanor at several balls and evening entertainments.

  Shaking his head a bit, Joshua sighed before answering her. “I haven’t been in the Arms since before the fire,” he finally said, nodding in the direction of the pub.

  Charlotte caught her lower lip with a tooth. “That is too bad,” she offered, not sure what she could say. He was obvi­ously bothered at not having visited the people in his duke­dom. “Perhaps we can come over for a luncheon later this week,” she suggested, hoping he would agree. He needs to get out of that house, she thought suddenly. He’s become a prisoner in his own home.

  “Perhaps,” he answered, his tone suggesting it was more likely they wouldn’t. Once they were through the village, he allowed his horse to return to a faster pace, and Charlotte’s horse followed suit, eager to return to the easy gallop they had enjoyed on the wooded trail. When the trail opened into a meadow and turned east, Joshua urged his horse on, allowing it to enjoy an outright run. Charlotte lowered herself over the front of her bent leg and let loose the reins, her horse quickly picking up speed to catch up to the stallion ahead of them. She laughed as her bonnet flew back, its ribbons around her neck straining as the bonnet billowed behind her. Looking back, Joshua saw her look of joy and smiled, unaware his mask had done the same thing. The leather ties loosened and the mask dropped away into the meadow grass. The horses slowed as they neared a spring-fed pond, and Joshua pulled on his reins to bring his mount to a stop next to the water’s edge. Charlotte followed suit, smoothing her gloved hand over her mount’s neck and murmuring her thanks for the ride as the horse bent its head to drink from the pond.

  Dismounting, Joshua tied his reins around the thin trunk of a tree next to the water and then hurried to assist Charlotte from her saddle.

  Still breathless, Charlotte turned sideways in the saddle, and as Joshua reached up to place his hands at her waist, she placed hers on his shoulders. She was careful not to press too hard on his left side. Noticing the raw burn scar that covered the left side of his face and extended past what was left of his ear, she schooled her features not to react and continued to smile. His face is healing, she realized, the ropy texture an unfortunate side effect of the burned flesh. Although still very red, it was an improvement over what she remembered from when he was at hospital.

  Joshua easily lowered her until her feet could touch the ground, but he didn’t remove his hands from around her waist. And his eyes focused on her joyful look. God, she is beautiful, he thought suddenly. “You look as if you enjoyed that a great deal,” he teased gently, trying not to imagine what he could be doing with her so far from prying eyes.

  “I did. Very much,” she replied smiling, her hands still resting on the front of his shoulders. As he continued to stare at her, the smile slowly faded. Is he about to kiss me? she won­dered, seeing a change in the way he looked at her. His eyes had suddenly darkened, his face had become unreadable. “I have never been properly kissed,” she murmured then, unaware she had said it aloud.

  “Indeed?” Joshua replied, an eyebrow cocking suggestively while he felt an odd sense of relief. “They don’t teach that in duchess school?” he said then, trying to keep the mood light.

  “No,” Charlotte said with a quick shake of her head, her eyes never leaving his. “Nor do they teach one how to …” She was about to say, “Make love to a duke,” when his mouth sud­denly covered hers, his lips sliding over hers until they seemed to lock into place.

  Charlotte thrilled at the sensation his lips created. Their touch was soft, but his hold on her was firm, as if he dared
her to break the kiss or back away from him. She did neither as she allowed herself to feel everything—the heat of his body as it pressed against the front of hers, her eyelashes brush­ing against his cheeks, his hands at her waist. She attempted to mimic his moves, returning the kiss just as her lips were parting at the urging of his tongue. An entirely new sensation overwhelmed her, a melding of pleasure and wanting and giv­ing and taking. Perhaps he will take me as his wife, she con­sidered, happiness surging through her as she lifted her right hand to the side of his face, gently cupping the scarred flesh as one of his hands moved to her cheek.

  The kiss might have continued if not for his lips’ sudden departure from hers as he straightened and his breath caught. He stepped back and stared at her. It took a moment before her eyelids opened and her eyes cleared enough so she could look back at him with a modicum of reason.

  “Did I … did I do something wrong?” Charlotte wondered, her voice so quiet it was almost a whisper. Oh, my, he thinks me wanton!

  Joshua’s brows furrowed as he stared at her, his left hand suddenly covering her right hand and forcibly removing it from his face. “What … what have you done?” he asked in a hoarse whisper, a hint of anger tingeing the words.

  Her eyes wide with fright, Charlotte stared back at him, not understanding his meaning. “Nothing, Your Grace,” she whispered in response, still not sure what he meant. Other than allow you to kiss me, she thought, and then wondered if maybe she had been the one to initiate the kiss. His hand still gripped hers, lowering it so he held it near his chest.

  “My mask! What have you done with my mask?” he asked then, the bit of anger more evident in his voice. How can she look at me as if nothing is wrong with my face? he wondered then.

  “Nothing, I assure you, Your Grace,” Charlotte replied, her head shaking back and forth. When she saw his bewildered look, she glanced around where they stood. “I thought you removed it after we left the village,” she added, finally realizing the reason for his panic.