by Kim Bowman
“I will do just that.” He folded his arms over his chest. “The way I understand him, this Shipley fellow, he has very strong reasons for keeping to himself.”
“Oh? And what might those be?”
“You see, he doesn’t put much importance on parties and dances.”
“He doesn’t?”
“Oh, no. He’d rather use his time to pursue activities that bring him joy. And purpose.”
“And what might those activities be?”
“Lucy, I know you’ve never met this Shipley man, but, do you happen to know what his Christian name is?”
“No. I don’t.” Why is he rattling on about this family? It makes no sense.
“Oliver.”
“Pardon?”
“That’s his name.”
Lucy tilted her head. “You and he share the same name?”
“In a way.”
“You’re doing it again.”
“What’s that?”
“Talking in riddles.” As much as she was enjoying their banter, surely Conrad would come for her soon. And she had no wish to waste precious minutes with Oliver discussing that Shipley fellow. A glance over her shoulder showed them to still be alone. But it couldn’t be long before…
“He’ll not be coming.”
She turned back. “How can you be sure? He’s the greediest man I know and won’t let anything stand in his way of getting his hands on—” She looked down at her lap.
“You. And your inheritance?”
She nodded.
“Lucy, if I may ask, how do you feel about your betrothed?”
“As I would feel about a snake that slithers into the room, frightening everyone away with his disgusting—” She gasped and her eyes widened as she stared at him. “Oh! That sounded—”
“Honest.”
“Still, I shouldn’t speak of him… of my intended in such a fashion.”
“How should you speak of your intended?”
“If I loved him, which I don’t, I’d love to talk about him. His pleasant manner, the way he held my hand…” She glanced down and pulled hers from Oliver’s.
“I see. But you don’t love Lofton.”
“Of course not.”
“Then why are you marrying him?”
She shrugged. “I’m not being given a choice.” Tears burned at the back of her eyes, threatening to emerge any moment.
“And why is that?”
“In a word, Father. He wants me to marry above our station so he can benefit the most from it.”
“And what if there were someone who wanted to marry you who had even more wealth than Lofton?”
“I’m sure there are many who have more assets than Conrad, but none so far who have asked for my hand.”
“But that’s where you’re wrong.” His voice came out as nearly a whisper.
“What are you about, Oliver? Why all this talk, when it can lead to nothing but my own sadness and heartache?”
“Lucy, do you remember the day you entered your father’s study and I was there?”
“Yes, of course. And I’ve long pondered the reason you were there.” She flicked a glance at his coat. “And why you were dressed much as you are now.”
“I was there to discuss a matter of great importance with your father.”
“Was it about employment?”
He smiled. “No. Something much more important than that.”
“But what could you possibly have had to discuss with my father?”
“You.”
“You were there to discuss me? But why?”
He swallowed and looked down at his hands, which rested in his lap. “I was there to ask for your hand in marriage.”
“Ahh!” Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a second gasp. “But…”
He edged closer to her and reached up to remove her hand from her face. He clasped it and instead rested her palm against his own cheek. He closed his eyes and then opened them. “Lucy. I love you. I want to marry you.”
“Oh, Oliver.” Tears now hovered just on the edges of her lashes. He did love her! He did! “But I’m sure my father said no.”
“That’s correct.”
Her shoulders slumped, even though it was the answer she knew she would hear.
He took her hand away from his cheek and pressed his lips to her palm.
“Oh, my. Um. Oliver, we shouldn’t be—”
“Let me finish, all right?”
She nodded. But what could he possibly say now? Her father had declined his offer of marriage to her.
“Lucy, I have loved you since that first day I saw you sketching the nuthatch.”
A smile touched her lips. “In the cutaway coat?”
“Yes. Do you… have you any feelings… for me?”
“Oh, yes. Yes.”
“And what might those be?”
She swallowed. “I… have loved you since the first… as well.”
A heavy sigh, as if from somewhere deep inside, came from his lips. “I’d hoped as much, but I’m glad to hear the words, just the same.”
“But my father…”
“Don’t worry about him.”
“But I must.” Was Oliver going to ask her to elope? She would, of course. But then they would be nearly destitute, wouldn’t they? He had no money, and if she eloped, she wouldn’t either.
“While it’s true that your father said no to my offer… my original offer, his answer for my second was quite different.”
“You mean he…?”
“After a long discussion, yes he accepted.”
“Oh!” She jumped up and landed on his lap.
“Oof! Lucy! Have a care!” He glanced downward.
Heat suffused her whole person. “Oh dear. I’m…” She stood and moved away. But he grabbed her hand. “Just because I don’t want you jumping on that particular uh, part of me at present, doesn’t mean I don’t desire you to be close.” He wrapped her in his arms and pressed her head against his chest.
“But how did you get Father to agree? He’s so… greedy, and you have no…”
“That’s where my story gets interesting.”
“It does?”
“Remember when I mentioned that the young Mr. Shipley and I have the same name?”
“Yes.”
“Then perhaps you’d like to meet him.”
“Who?”
“Oliver Shipley?”
“But why would I?”
“Because he and I are one and the same.”
She pulled away and stared at him. “What? Oliver. You mean you’re—?”
“Yes. Wealthy and then some.”
“So that’s why my father—?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. Oh my. This is all so… unexpected.”
He tilted his head. “But a good surprise, I hope.”
“The best. The best possible surprise.”
“You know, you haven’t answered my question.”
“I don’t believe I remember hearing one.”
“That you haven’t.” His smiled widened. “Lucy Ashbrook, will you marry me?”
“Yes, Oliver Shipley, I would love nothing better than to be your wife.”
He pulled her onto his lap, this time gently. Fitting her tightly against him with one arm, he caressed her face with his other hand. He peered into her eyes and pulled his lips upward in a smile. And again, two dimples appeared, Lucy sighed. It was all so perfect, so right. Her gaze fell to his lips, after he glanced at hers. She was ready. Oh so ready.
His breath was warm and inviting, feathering across her cheek before he touched his lips to hers. And then, his lips, so soft and warm, pressed against hers. First only lightly. Then with more pressure. Heat shot downward, all the way to her toes. She placed both hands on the side of his head and tugged him closer. She wanted more. Much, much more.
Alas, he broke contact and drew back. Lucy sighed. “I can’t believe we’re going to be together. Married. It’s my dream come
true.”
“I can’t believe it either. May I kiss you again, my little dove?”
Lucy raised an eyebrow “Little dove?” She smiled. “At least you didn’t call me a little cuckoo.”
If Oliver's laugh was any indication, Lucy would have a joyful life. She smiled. Yes, a joyful life indeed.
The End
About the Author
Bestselling author Ruth J. Hartman spends her days herding cats and her nights spinning sweet romantic tales that make you smile, giggle, or laugh out loud. She, her husband, and their three cats love to spend time curled up in their recliners watching old Cary Grant movies. Well, the cats, Maxwell, Roxy and Remmie, sit in the people's recliners. Not that the cats couldn't get their own furniture. They just choose to shed on someone else's. You know how selfish those little furry creatures can be.
Ruth, a left-handed, cat-herding, Jeep driving, farmhouse-dwelling romance writer uses her goofy sense of humor as she writes tales of lovable, klutzy women and the men who adore them. Ruth's husband and best friend, Garry, reads her manuscripts, rolls his eyes at her weird story ideas, and loves her in spite of her penchant for insisting all of her books have at least one cat in them. Or twelve. But hey, who's counting?
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Other Regency Romances by Ruth J. Hartman:
Romancing the Dustman’s Daughter
The Matchmakers
The Unwanted Earl
A Courtship for Cecilia
Romance at the Royal Menagerie
Rescued by a Duke
Time for a Duke
Duke by Day, Rogue by Night
by Katherine Bone
Dedication
To Johnnie, my rogue, rebel, and rake, my husband and beloved friend.
Chapter One
English Coast, 1804
Gently bred women did not disobey their fathers.
Constance understood what her mission entailed. Sail to Spain and plead for her aunt’s support, contrary to her father’s wishes. He detested Aunt Lydia and had refused any interaction between them. As a result, she had no idea if the woman was even still alive. That she ventured out onto the sea, risking life and limb to find her aunt, was due to her uncle’s insistence. Aunt Lydia was their only hope. Halfway to Spain, Constance lay in her cabin with one goal in mind, winning her aunt’s favor so the Danbury name would not come to ruin.
The reality of how far her family had fallen in so short a time hit Constance full force when a shrill whistle barreled over the merchantman Octavia’s deck. All at once, the ship recoiled and one thunderous volley after another exploded, vibrating the vessel from bow to stern. She stared wide-eyed at the ceiling, willing it to hold firm, fearing its collapse. Fighting back ghastly images of her mother’s death at sea proved almost too difficult a task. She knew well enough what awaited if the ship sank — a watery grave. She had borne that experience ten years earlier, survived, and found herself a motherless child as a result.
The handle on the cabin door jostled, heightening her anxiety. Hampered by the bolt she’d put in place before retiring for the night, her would-be intruder jerked the knob and thumped on the sturdy wood with vengeance.
“Lady Constance!”
Lieutenant Guffald’s voice sent her into action. Constance darted to the door. The gallant officer calling her name had nearly lost favor with his captain for promising her uncle to give her safe passage to San Sebastian. Constance suppressed a shiver. Matters were most grave, if Guffald attempted to enter her cabin without waiting for her admittance. He was a gentleman, one unlike the man she was trying to escape.
Constance glanced at her terrified governess, Mrs. Mortimer, and opened the door. The lieutenant brushed past her, pushing his way into the cabin. He turned and hurriedly grabbed her by the shoulders, casting aside propriety.
“Pirates have drawn alongside us and have every intention of boarding.”
“Pirates?” The barely audible word rushed out of her mouth, and the irony of the situation hit her with inescapable force.
“I’ve come to warn you,” the lieutenant continued. “Stay inside your cabin. Bolt the door. Admit no one until I return.”
Pirates. Heaven help her, not again!
The lieutenant spoke, his voice barely audible to her ears. “Mrs. Mortimer, I entrust Lady Constance into your care. I beg you — make sure no one enters this room but me.”
“I shall do as you say, sir.”
Another explosion pounded the ship. The Octavia listed. Constance screamed. Lieutenant Guffald wrapped his arms about her to keep her from slipping to the floor.
When the vessel stabilized, Guffald said, “I must go.” His grip on her upper arm tightened.
She nodded. “Thank you for coming to warn us.”
His lip curled to one side and an odd light illuminated his eyes. Though Constance yearned to beg him to stay, she preferred the lieutenant slay the enemy before the pirates arrived at her door.
“Do not leave this room,” he reminded them, his eyes an unblinking beacon of hope. He squeezed her shoulders with lean stable fingers, bent to kiss her hand, and then headed for the door. Before exiting, he turned and glanced over his shoulder. “Double bolt the lock. Do not be tempted to escape. I will return posthaste.”
The cabin door closed with a thud, and the thick scraping of the bolt gripped Constance’s already fraught nerves. Mrs. Mortimer assisted her in thrusting the heavier wooden bar into place. Secure, but unsure for how long, Constance held Morty close. How long would the sounds of murder and mayhem fill her mind with horror?
“Quickly, your clothes,” Mrs. Mortimer shrieked as cannon shots whirred by the window. The cabin shook. Tortuous sounds erupted all around them. Cascading veils of dust floated down on their heads, filling their nostrils with indelicate odors. Would the ceiling hold?
Snatching at Mrs. Mortimer’s arms, Constance fought back the terror raging through her body. They were in grave danger. It wouldn’t be long before pirates breached their cabin. What then? What if pirates killed them, or killed Morty, sparing Constance for a more horrifying ordeal? Constance eyed the door. She wasn’t going to die, postured like a prophetic sentinel awaiting her doom. She was going to fight.
“Your clothes, Constance,” Mrs. Mortimer reminded her, stirred into action when Constance stepped away.
“No time,” she said, searching the room for a weapon. “What do you think will become of him?”
“Who, child?
“My father,” she said, panic setting in.
“You heard the lieutenant. He will not allow any harm to come to us. You will still be able to help your father.”
No matter how Morty tried to reassure her, the four walls of the cabin tapered in, making it harder and harder to breathe.
“This is my fault,” Constance shouted over her shoulder. “I’m being punished for refusing to wed the man my father chose.”
“You are not being punished,” Mrs. Mortimer scolded. “Here. Put this on.”
Constance began to step into a round gown Morty had hastily chosen, just as an eerie silence fell. An explosion rocked the ship. She was thrown backward as shouts of barbarity and elation rose in shrill octaves. Where was Captain Collins? Lieutenant Guffald? Were they still alive?
“Pirates won’t stop until they’ve plundered this entire ship and everything in it,” Constance gasped, choking back a frightened cry. “They’ll find us. And when they do, unspeakable things will happen.”
“No,” Mrs. Mortimer pleaded as Constance lunged for the door. “Guffald told us to stay in this room, and here we shall remain.”
Heavy footfalls sounded. Constance’s hand dropped away from the bolt. Mrs. Mortimer jumped back with fright as loud obscenities rose from the corridor. Merciless pounding beat on one door to the next, and the next, a staccato that intensified. Men screamed. Constance put a fist to her mouth to stifle a shriek. Just when she thought
she could take no more, a hysterical scream pierced the night. Mrs. Mortimer!
Constance covered the woman’s mouth and waited, half-crazed, for their inevitable discovery. Then, as though drawn like ravenous bees, their attackers massed outside the cabin door. Constance focused on the bolt, wordlessly urging it to hold fast. Voices converged, insistent, merciless, before an ominous object pelted the door, cutting the wooden exterior with a loud whack.
“They’re hacking down the door,” Constance whispered. “We’ve got no time to lose.”
Mrs. Mortimer snatched at Constance’s shift as she pulled away. Her nightshift tore in the woman’s grasp, but Constance was past caring. She began rummaging quickly through their trunks for a weapon but came up empty-handed. Nervously, she searched the room for something, anything she could use. A bedwarmer poked out of a pile of debris their belongings had formed near one of the cabin walls. It would have to suffice. She picked up the copper contraption and held it close to her chest then returned to Mrs. Mortimer’s side, ushering her companion to the far corner of the room. She flinched with every agonizing whack on the wooden portal.
“The Lord will save us, Constance. Have no fear.” Her mother’s fateful, haunting words were little consolation.
“We’ve tempted the devil,” Mrs. Mortimer said, sobbing.
Wood groaned, forewarning the cabin door’s collapse. Constance squeezed her eyes tightly shut as Mrs. Mortimer recited the Lord’s Prayer.
Wood splintered around the door hinges. Constance’s heart thumped wildly against her ribs. If Captain Collins was dead, there would be no leniency, no moral compass. She and Mrs. Mortimer would find themselves in gruesome circumstances indeed. Her heartbeat matched the hammering rhythm of her enemy’s labors, until the thrashing suddenly stopped.
Constance held her breath and prayed. The voice she heard in response to her prayers bellowed loudly in the bowels of the ship — deep, menacing, more ferocious and demanding than any other voice she’d ever heard before. Orders dispatched. Boots scraped against the floor, eager to fulfill the ogre’s directive. A foreboding chill saturated her shift. Prepared for the worst, Constance stood to the side of the door, bedwarmer in hand.