Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  Nodding to the driver as he stepped down, Henry gave the man a coin and asked if he could wait. He silently chided himself for not yet having visited Tillbury’s to claim his newly built coach for the trip from his townhouse. Besides the added comfort of his new coach, the marked equipage would signal to the household staff that he was a member of the peerage. He had considered riding in his late uncle’s ancient coach— the one he had used to get to London from Oxfordshire—but the springs were long gone, and the condition of the exterior made for a poor first impression. The only other equipage the earldom owned was a curricle, but he had left it behind on the off chance Sarah might require it for a trip to Bampton. She might not be his wife, but everyone in his earldom knew she was under his protection.

  In lieu of a marked carriage, he made sure he had a calling card to hand to the butler.

  Taking the risers with quick and efficient steps, Henry found one of the front doors opening even before he could pull the brass lion head knocker. “Is Lord Devonville in resi­dence?” he wondered, handing the pasteboard to the butler.

  The stout servant took only a quick glance at the card before nodding to Henry. “Indeed, my lord. If you’ll follow me, please, I’ll see you to the drawing room.” He took Henry’s hat and placed it rather fastidiously on a polished shelf before leading the earl down the ornately decorated hallway.

  Henry had to resist the urge to answer; the butler’s wel­come was spoken with more words than he heard from his own butler in a entire day.

  If there was any question as to the financial status of the marquess, a quick look at the artifacts displayed on caryatids throughout the alcoves they passed would hint that he was quite flush. The thought of the dowry associated with Lady Hannah hadn’t even crossed his mind; he already held the title to Ellsworth Park free and clear, despite not having convinced Lady Charlotte to marry him.

  The time he had spent on the ride from Kirdford to Lon­don gave him time to reflect on the situation, though. Lady Charlotte and Joshua Wainwright, the new Duke of Chich­ester, were a perfect match for one another. He could only wish them well in life. Joshua had been most accommodating despite Henry’s poor treatment of the disfigured man when he had first arrived at the recently rebuilt estate home. Any evi­dence of the fire that had left the new duke with burn scars had long been washed from the exterior stones of the west wing. From the whiffs of new cut lumber that made their way to the east wing of the house, it was evident the west wing interior was well on its way to being restored to its former glory.

  The butler waved Henry into the drawing room and asked if he wished for refreshment. Henry considered the offer for only a moment; with any luck, William Slater would offer an alcoholic beverage. He politely declined and made his way around the room, studying the paintings, listening to the faint strains of music coming from another part of the house, admiring the tasteful decor and the fashionably current furni­ture, including a Grecian couch set in front of a window over­looking the side yard where he had witnessed Lady Hannah and Harold MacDuff playing the night before.

  The vision of Hannah’s head, thrown back in delight as the dog licked her neck, came unbidden to his mind. He found himself wondering if she would look like that when she was in ecstasy, her long, dark lashes resting on the tops of those beau­tiful cheekbones, her rosebud shaped lips parted slightly, her nipples ruched and ready for his mouth to plunder. His loins stirred at the thought.

  Stunned at his body’s reaction to the thought of Lady Hannah in ecstasy, Henry had to resist the urge to look down at his breeches. Sarah was his first and only love. He couldn’t remember having such a reaction to any other woman, at least not since his days as a randy student at Oxford. Nor could he remember having daydreams about how a woman might look like in ecstasy!

  He shook himself from his reverie. In order to get him­self under control, Henry had to concentrate on the painting of some stern looking naval officer staring down at him from above a velvet settee.

  “My father probably never looked quite that serious.”

  The comment was made in a deep Scottish burr that spoke volumes of its owner. “Ya can’t when you have eyes that give away your penchant for mischief.”

  Henry turned to find a distinguished looking man regard­ing him from the doorway. When he was younger, the mar­quess had no doubt been quite popular among the ladies of the ton; even now, he carried himself as one who was aware of the effect his very presence had on a room. His salt-and-pepper hair was long but pulled back into a queue and secured with a black ribbon. His dark blue suit coat and dark breeches set off the snowy white linen of his cravat and the red waistcoat he wore beneath. Crinkles at the sides of his eyes suggested he was in his late forties or early fifties, but his darkened skin was a surprise for one from the northern counties. The man obvi­ously enjoyed riding or other outdoor pursuits.

  “But I am sure his officers were quick to obey him,” Henry countered, hurrying to stand before the marquess. He bowed formally before the marquess, hoping the man would offer his hand. He was not disappointed.

  “Probably,” the man replied. “William Slater, Marquess of Devonville,” he stated with a nod. “I have to admit a bit of sur­prise in seeing you here in London, Gisborn. I was under the impression you were quite busy installing upgrades on your estate in Oxfordshire. Not one for owning sheep, I take it?”

  Henry could barely hide his surprise that the marquess would even know who he was, let alone be familiar with what he was trying to accomplish on his lands. “Until I received a summons from Lord Ellsworth a week ago, I actually was,” he replied with a shrug. “And I am of the opinion that there are already far too many sheep in the Cotswolds.”

  Lord Devonville considered the earl’s words for a moment. “Oh, yes. That matter of his daughter,” he said with a hint of disappointment. “Can’t say I blame him for his concern, but …” He allowed the sentence to trail off, his eyes suddenly squint­ing in Henry’s direction. “Tell me, Gisborn. What exactly are you planning on that estate of yours?” he wondered, his hands sliding into the pockets of his breeches as he wandered farther into the room. He made his way to a sideboard, where a crys­tal decanter and several glasses were placed on a silver salver. Pouring a finger’s worth of liquor into one glass, he turned to regard Henry as he held out the glass.

  “Thank you,” Henry said as he took the heavy tumbler, knowing almost immediately the liquor within was scotch. Malt scotch. Probably from Scotland and no doubt aged at least twelve years. “I have designed a series of irrigation ditches for the farmland on my property as well as the neighboring estate. It’s my intention to be able to drain the lands during heavy rains as well as to provide water for the crops during drier times.” He didn’t add that he had purchased new seed drills for the planting and cradles for the harvest, nor that he was working on a design for a more efficient plow.

  The marquess regarded him for a moment and then poured a glass for himself. “So, you’re aware of what Alden­wood has prognosticated for this summer, eh?” he asked as he held his own glass out toward Henry.

  Not recognizing the name in association with predictions for the future, Henry regarded the marquess for a moment. “Aldenwood? I’m afraid I’m not familiar with him, my lord,” he replied as he noticed the marquess holding his glass out in his direction.

  “James Aldenwood. The world explorer,” Devonville stated, as if that was information enough.

  A surprised Henry clinked his own glass against Devon­ville’s before taking a sip of the amber liquid. The scotch burned his throat as it made its way down, but the effect was as comforting as it was restorative. “Oh, that’s very good, my lord,” he said with an appreciative nod.

  “Isn’t it? My brother makes the stuff up in the Highlands,” the marquess responded proudly. “Good thing he was born second. He’s not good for anything else,” he added with a mis­chievous grin.

  Henry smiled in response, realizing the younger brother of a marques
s was merely the spare heir in a ton family. “I am, of course, familiar with Mr. Aldenwood’s writings about his various travels,” he admitted then, wanting to be sure the mar­quess knew he had at least heard of the man, “But I was not aware he was a prognosticator,” Henry added as he wondered how his intent for his lands and Aldenwood were related.

  The marquess moved to the fireplace. “Aldenwood and I are old friends. I used to travel with him on occasion. He has seen things—amazing things. His writings do not begin to cover all that he has witnessed in his lifetime. Last year, he was in Australia when a volcano erupted in the Dutch East Indies. The thing apparently put so much debris into the air, the sky was completely black down there for several days. The sun was so dim, you could look at it with the naked eye for many weeks afterward. And the debris hasn’t come down. All that stuff in the air—he says it’s why we have these gorgeous sunrises and sunsets, you see,” he explained, finally taking a sip of his scotch. He seemed to hold it on his tongue for a moment before swallowing it with a great deal of relish.

  Henry stared at the marquess for a moment before taking another sip of his scotch. “And is all this … debris … the reason we’ve had a colder winter? More rain?” he wondered, a sense of dread settling into his stomach. Would the bad weather continue into the summer? Shorten the growing season? The spring was already proving to be cooler and rainier than usual. Although the Gisborn earldom was fairly flush economically, he could not afford to have a bad growing season. There were tenants who depended on the crops, several nearby villages that existed because of the farming done on Gisborn lands.

  Devonville pointed a finger at him. “You catch on quick, my son,” he said in a manner that suggested he was pleased with Henry’s deduction. “Aldenwood is convinced that North­ern Europe and all of Great Britain will have a terrible grow­ing season. So, anything you can do now to ensure a better yield on your crops will be beneficial. May keep your tenants from starving this winter.” The marquess drained his remain­ing scotch in a single gulp.

  Following suit with his own scotch, Henry stared into his empty glass before regarding the marquess. “I appreciate your telling me this. I may have the right idea about draining the fields of excess water. But now I may have to rethink what crops to plant.”

  What choice did he really have? Wheat, barley and beans were the only crops grown in his part of Oxfordshire. Although his words were meant to appease the marquess, on further reflection, an uneasy feeling was building in his gut; how much credence should he give the information? Devon­ville seemed pretty convinced of Aldenwood’s conclusions, though. Even if Aldenwood’s prediction didn’t come true, it wouldn’t hurt to be prepared in any case.

  “And while you’re doing that, tell me, Gisborn. About your meeting with Ellsworth, I mean,” Devonville said as he moved to the sideboard and refilled his glass. He motioned for Henry to bring his glass so he could pour more scotch into it.

  Henry held out his glass. “I was there to speak with him about property. Ellsworth Park is adjacent to the Gisborn lands.” He didn’t mention the discussion concerning his mar­rying Lady Charlotte as part of the deal.

  “Are you … planning to marry the chit?” Devonville asked then, his gaze so direct that Henry was forced to look away.

  He sighed quietly. The marquess certainly didn’t mince words. “Joshua Wainwright, the new Duke of Chichester, will have that honor, my lord. Probably in a day or two, in fact,” Henry added, trying not to allow his disappointment to show. Charlotte had seemed the perfect woman to be his countess. She would make Wainwright the perfect duchess.

  Devonville let out a grunt. “Can’t say I blame Lady Char­lotte. I think she is quite in love with the younger Wainwright. The older brother ..,” he paused for a moment and shook his head quickly. “Not so much. Most wouldn’t say so out loud, but I think the world is better off without his despicable char­acter staining the reputation of the Wainwrights.”

  Henry forced his face to remain impassive. So the mar­quess was not a fan of the Earl of Grinstead—the man who would have been the Duke of Chichester—had he not died in the fire. “Indeed,” Henry answered with a nod. “Lord Ellsworth was quite insistent that I marry Lady Charlotte, even gave me a generous dowry before the fact. And I would have honored his arrangement had she … wanted to marry me,” he stated carefully. Good God, I am here to inquire about Lady Hannah’s availability for marriage. I shouldn’t be commenting on my first choice in a wife!

  “A marriage of convenience is not always the best approach, lad,” the marquess said in a soft voice, his eyes sud­denly somber. “I miss my wife. Terribly. Didn’t realize what a catch she was until after she had borne me a fine heir, and a beautiful daughter, and put up with my philandering ways for a good decade. I must have had five mistresses before I came to my senses and realized I was in love with my own wife!”

  Henry stared at the older man, stunned that he would admit such personal details to someone he had only just met. “She must certainly have returned the favor,” he commented, cocking his head to one side.

  At this, the light in Lord Devonville’s eyes dimmed. His head lowered a notch. “She used to. She died a couple of years ago.”

  Stunned at the comment, Henry struggled for the cor­rect words to say. Why hadn’t Charlotte warned him that Lady Devonville had died? “I am so sorry for your loss, my lord,” he said in a solemn voice. “It must have been very hard for you. And for your children.”

  At the mention of children, the marquess lifted his head again. “William is the oldest. He has his own naval command, but Hannah … she isn’t yet settled. She’s had a harder time of it. Spent a year of what would have been her first Season in mourning for her mother and the second Season in mourn­ing when my when one of my sisters died. My other sister, Adele, has just become betrothed to the Earl of Torrington,” he explained with a shrug, waving a hand to indicate Henry should take a seat. Henry did so when the marquess settled himself into an overstuffed chair near the fireplace.

  Henry realized then that the woman he had seen with the dog the night before had to be Lady Hannah. “She had six suit­ors this past Season,” Devonville continued, a hint of pride in his voice. He took another sip of his scotch. “And not a one of them were worthy of my only daughter,” he added before regarding Henry with a critical eye.

  Although not surprised that Lady Hannah would attract so many suitors her first Season out, the earl had to struggle to hide his initial shock. So, I’m not the only one to find her beautiful, he thought, a sense of sadness settling over him. “It is Lady Charlotte’s opinion that your daughter would be a suit­able match for me,” he said as a way to introduce his reason for calling on the marquess. “I know we have only just met, but do you suppose you might find me worthy enough for your daughter?” Henry wondered, holding his head up and meeting the marquess’ direct gaze without flinching. Better to discover how he fared with the father before even trying to convince the daughter of his suitability as a husband.

  William Slater regarded him for several seconds before turning his attention to the fireplace. He drained his glass, set­ting the empty tumbler on the table next to this chair. “Did you ever meet your first betrothed?” he wondered in a quiet voice.

  Henry had to stifle a gasp. How did the marquess know about that? “I met Lady Jennifer when she was quite young. I … We did not renew our acquaintance prior to her death,” he stammered. “She was … quite young,” he repeated, not sure what else to say about his first betrothal.

  “Is it true you have a bastard son?” Devonville asked then, his visage suddenly so stern, Henry thought perhaps the mar­quess had already decided he wasn’t good enough for his only daughter.

  “I do, my lord,” Henry answered with a nod, not allowing his surprise to show. How does the marquess know of my son?

  “I have raised him as such since his birth.”

  Nodding, Devonville leaned forward. “And what of his education?”
/>   Henry wondered at the man’s curiosity. “He had a govern­ess until early last year, he has had a tutor ever since. He will go to Abingdon this fall and Eton when he is thirteen. I … hope he will wish to attend a university after that, but it will be up to him to decide which one and for what discipline.”

  Devonville’s bushy eyebrows hiked up on the man’s fore­head, as if he was surprised by Gisborn’s answer. “And what of the mother?”

  Bristling at the question but deciding it was better to offer the truth, Henry sighed. “I have wanted to marry his mother since we were quite young, but she has refused all my offers.”

  Devonville seemed taken aback by his response. “What­ever reason could a woman devise to turn down an earl’s offer of marriage?” he wondered, his bushy eyebrows now furrowed in disbelief. “Is she … frequently beset by the vapours?”

  At that moment, Henry wanted nothing more than to dis­appear into the expensive Turkish carpeting that covered the floor of the drawing room. The marquess had voiced the very question Henry had asked of Sarah the last time he proposed marriage to her. “She was not born to our class. She has known I would inherit the Gisborn earldom since we were in our teen years,” he explained quickly, wanting the marquess to know he had tried to legitimize the son. “She feels it is my duty to seek a wife at least equal to my station, so she has rebuffed all my offers to make her my wife.” Although he had given a very similar answer to Lady Charlotte just the afternoon before, somehow it seemed a rather lame excuse when he was saying it to a marquess.

  There were several instances of viscounts and earls who had married women from outside the aristocracy. Some of their wives had done just fine in assimilating themselves into the life of the ton in London. Some others, however, were never accepted by the fickle aristocracy. They spent their lives on their husband’s country estates, never to be seen in London.