An Unbending Lady for the Desperate Earl: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Emma Linfield

  Victoria eyed the box with suspicion.

  “Are you not going to open it?” Christian urged.

  “I guess it would be rude not to.” Tentatively, she untied the ribbons that bound it, to reveal another box inside. Wooden, and sleek with varnish, it had a clasp at the front, which Victoria duly opened.

  Inside, lying upon a cushion of velvet, sat a necklace. One Victoria recognized immediately, from the portrait that had been painted of her mother and father, on their wedding day. It was also the necklace that her mother had placed into her father’s casket, the morning before he was to be buried.

  He must have taken it, without us knowing… He must have been watching us, all that time. Despite what her mother had said about her father not loving her anymore, Victoria realized that her mother had been mistaken. Her father had never stopped loving her, or his daughter. He had merely been so bogged down by the grief of losing his sister, that he had forgotten how to show affection.

  But this necklace proved that he had thought of them, and that he had wanted something to remember his wife by. Just as Victoria once stayed away from her mother’s home, in order to protect her from any harm that might come her way, her father had done the same thing. Only, he had pretended to die, so that he might free his wife, once and for all.

  “What a beautiful necklace,” Christian said. “Who is it from?”

  A tear fell down Victoria’s cheek. “There is no sender.”

  “Perhaps they forgot to put a message inside?”

  Victoria nodded. “Yes… perhaps they did.” She didn’t need a note, for the message was clear. She was loved. Her father was thinking of her. He was safe, and he was watching, looking out for her. And, what was more… she was forgiven.

  Her joy had finally come full circle.

  “Are you sad?” Christian held her face in his hands, his eyes filled with consternation.

  She shook her head. “No. These are happy tears. The happiest.”

  “Oh… good. You had me worried for a moment.”

  “There is nothing to be worried about. All is well now.” She pressed her palm to his chest and felt the steady beat of his heart. The heart that loved her the most.

  Slowly, he leaned in, until their lips grazed in a tender kiss. His thumb brushed across the pink apple of her cheek, sending tingles through her body. Spurred on by her happiness, she kissed him more deeply, and he responded in kind, his arms wrapping around her and pulling her close. Here, in his arms, she was safe. Here, she could hide when things overwhelmed her. Here, she never had to be anyone other than who she was. And she would never let that go, not for anything.

  In this churchyard, where joy and grief, life and death, converged, she could bury the ghosts of her past at last, and look forward to the future with Christian at her side. Her father had allowed himself to be haunted to the point of insanity. But she had Christian to keep her steady, and she would cling to him until they returned to this place, one day, to walk into the Kingdom of Heaven together.

  What greater reward could a person ask for?

  The End?

  Extended Epilogue

  Eager to know more on how Victoria and Christian's relationship evolved? Then enjoy this free complimentary short story featuring the beloved couple.

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  But before you go, turn the page for an extra sweet treat from me…

  Preview: His Duchess in Disguise

  Chapter 1

  The former Admiral Leo Brady didn’t want to be the next Duke of Menhiransten; he had other goals in mind. He had risen quickly through the ranks. But here he was, back in London and about to return to the ancestral home.

  The grim irony of all this is that my father all but threw me out the door of Menhiransten the last time I was home for refusing to lend him the blunt for a new carriage. Now I shall be obliged to take care of Menhiransten and all her people. She was a lot more profitable as a figurehead on my last ship.

  Garth, his older brother, had been the result of the late Duke’s first marriage, which had doubled the size of the estate and given him connections to the King. The Duke’s first wife had birthed Garth readily enough, but her second lying in had not gone as well. She died of childbed fever along with her infant daughter.

  Leo was son to Lady Miriam, the late Duke’s second wife, a gentlewoman of impeccable breeding but little fortune. Or, to put it another way, the late Duke had fallen in love with her. His father and his mother had a wonderful relationship. She had gladly extended her love to the Duke’s oldest son and heir apparent. Unfortunately, Lady Miriam had gone into the arms of the grim reaper some weeks before Leo declared his independence and ran away to sea.

  I am not sure whether I am more grieved for the loss of my kin or the loss of my ship. Damn, but I miss her deck already. And if one more schmoosing nincompoop approaches me about “good investments,” I’ll find a yardarm to hang him from.

  Wooden faced, Leo took up a handful of earth from the mound beside the graves and sprinkled some over first his brother’s then his father’s casket. Garth was a good man. He just had a little too much tutelage from my father. Had my mother been able to sway him just a tiny bit more, my brother would have done well. I believe I shall miss him after all.

  Leo walked away from the ceremony, leaving the priest, his cousins, and the retainers to finish decently burying his father and brother. It was rude, but he could bear no more of the false wailing of the mourners, the worried faces of the servants, and the general air of uncertainty.

  Leo was not poorly dressed. His impeccable mourning attire was from Scott, the tailor who did for many military men. The black broadcloth of his coat fit his broad shoulders perfectly, narrowing to a slim waist that required no corseting to look trim. The skirts of his coat shrouded neatly fitting breeches that were by no means as tight as was fashionable but were still well made and nicely fitted. The clocks on his stockings were modest gray silk, depicting the standing stones from which his estate took its name. His shoes had sensible heels. The buckles were well burnished but plain. His dark brown hair was neatly cut militarily and topped with a well-made stovepipe hat of modest height.

  He did not stroll, but neither did he hurry toward the somber carriage that awaited him at the edge of the graveyard. Each footfall was placed with calm authority. When he reached the carriage, he stepped up into it and settled himself on the comfortable leather seats. Taking his hat from his head, he leaned back against the cushions and closed his eyes. This was his third funeral of the day, the other two had been to pay respects to members of his crew lost in his last battle at sea. They had won, and he had brought home both his own ship and the one they boarded, but it had been bloody hard work, with the emphasis on bloody.

  “Are you well, Your Grace?” a small man clad in the self-effacing modest clothing of a personal secretary asked.

  “As well as can be expected, Hamilton. Too many graveyard visits today. What is next on my itinerary?”

  “You are expected in chambers to discuss naval and military efforts, Your Grace. The Prince Regent will not be in attendance, but . . .”

  “Thank heaven for small favors. How did you manage to wrangle that, Hamilton?”

  “I? How could I possibly arrange such a thing? It seems that His Highness was called to an exceptionally important dinner across town. A certain lady has a new cook and called upon him for his opinion.”

  “Hamilton, you are a complete hand. But I thank you. This meeting will go much better without Prinny’s input. In fact, if I pace it just right, I might get to lay my head upon my pillow before daybreak tomorrow.”

  “Oh, no, Your Grace. Your presence is required by her Majesty, Queen Charlotte. It seems that tonight is presentations.”

  Leo groaned. “Did you not tell her that I am in deep mourning, having only
just buried my father and brother today?”

  Hamilton permitted himself a small smile. “You must realize, Your Grace, that I did not speak with Her Majesty myself. Rather, I spoke with her secretary. He assures me that you need not dance, but merely attend. I believe the Widow Pearthorne will be in attendance.”

  Leo sat up in astonishment. “Jemmie Pearthorne is dead?”

  “I am sorry, Your Grace. I thought you knew. He fell last fall, not long after you sailed.”

  “Well, that explains it. I am sorry to hear it. Captain Pearthorne was a good man. I’ll be sure to say a word or two to his widow. How is she carrying on?”

  “Rumor has it that she is writing a memoir. Everyone is in a twit because she has a very caustic way of looking at things, and all the members of the court are sure that they are about to be lampooned by her rapier wit.”

  “That somehow does not seem quite like her.”

  “You would be amazed, Your Grace. But as it happens, I have spoken with her. While she is not above letting the courtiers fret, she is actually writing about her experiences in France.”

  “Well, well, that does sound like her. Hamilton, if you would, please see if you can find some excuse that I might come away shortly after dinner. It will not do to leave before since that would upset Her Majesty’s table arrangement.”

  “Quite so, Your Grace. I believe that after brandy is served, you could handily make your excuses. Her Majesty is worn to a thread with His Majesty’s illness and Prinny’s antics.”

  “His Majesty grows no better?”

  The little secretary shrugged. “It is not my place to say, Your Grace.”

  “Ah, Hamilton. You were more outspoken as my first mate.”

  “Other times, other places, Your Grace. We must don our masks and dance the social quadrille.”

  “True enough. True enough, my friend.” Leo leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The carriage swayed, but it was nothing like the HMS Menhiransten as she rode the waves. Nor was he likely to be back onboard a sailing vessel any time soon.

  Chapter 2

  Miss Emma Hoskins surveyed herself in the dim, crackly mirror. Her sunny blond hair was neatly done up in a figure-eight knot, which was not at all modish but easy to manage on her own. She scarcely needed to wear a corset and was, therefore, able to get away with one that was only lightly boned and that laced up the front.

  Her gown was of her own design. The neckline was higher than was fashionable, cut well above her modest bosom. The lace edging was starched and pressed, creating a neat frill that framed her delicate skin. The soft, sprigged muslin of the gown was also starched and pressed in an effort to refresh the fabric that had, in truth, seen better days.

  Emma’s skin was lightly tanned, and there was a dusting of golden freckles across her pert nose. She had high cheekbones, a generous mouth that seemed ready to laugh, and her blue eyes were framed in long, dark eyelashes that curled just a little at the corners. These features were set in a delicate, heart-shaped face. The effect was such that she could have easily been cast as an angel or an abandoned castaway had she been inclined to take to the stage.

  Alas, such an undertaking was unlikely, even though Emma fancied that she might enjoy it. As the only daughter of Gilbert Haskins, Baron of Calber, becoming an actress was undoubtedly one of her many ambitions that were proscribed.

  “Although,” Emma remarked to her mirror, “I’m not sure he would notice. I might as well still be in the nursery with a governess.”

  It would hardly be charitable to say that the Baron was a stingy nipcheese, but it would be accurate to say that whatever fortune he had rarely trickled down to Emma. She received a tiny allowance from her mother’s dowry investments, and the occasional largess when her father had won at cards or when betting on the horses. Otherwise, he tended to ignore her.

  Since there was rarely a lot of money for new gowns, Mrs. Able, the housekeeper, taught Emma how to mend and eventually how to make her own clothing. The Baron might have been mortified to learn of this, but since he blamed Emma for her mother’s death in childbirth, he avoided her as much as possible. Therefore, he was unlikely to be aware of any domestic arrangements.

  She carefully inspected her kid slippers, making sure Rags, her nondescript, pint-sized terrier, had not nibbled any holes in them and lightly hopped down the grand front stairs just as she had done since she was ten–at least when no one was looking. Emma liked the way her soft slippers tapped on the marble stair, and the spring in her ankles as she jumped down from one step to the next. Usually, Rags was right there with her, his shaggy coat displacing the dust on the steps. But he was shut in his kennel tonight so that he would not try to follow her.

  At the bottom of the stairs, she shook out her skirts, making sure that the point lace on the hem had not picked up any dust or dog fur. Then she stood in the foyer to wait because one of her father’s recent economies had been to dismiss the butler.

  In a few minutes, a very fine coach drew up in front of the house. Emma mustered up her dignity and walked down the steps from the front door in a proper, sedate manner as was appropriate for a young lady of nine and ten years of age.

  A liveried attendant let down the steps to the coach, opened the door, and offered his hand to assist Emma up the steps. Although she did not need it, Emma placed one gloved hand in his. “Thank you for your help,” she said, with a sweet smile. It was all she had to offer, although she was sure that the man really expected a coin for his efforts. However, he let his eyes flick down and up, taking in her attire, and said, “You are welcome, Miss.”

  Once she was inside the coach, her Aunt Alicia made the introductions. “Emma, this is my dear friend, the Honorable Janet Pearthorne. Janet, my niece Emma Haskins.”

  Aunt Alicia’s friend was dressed all in black, from the lace scarf draped over a high comb to the immaculate little kid boots that peeked from beneath the hem of her lovely silk gown. It was clear that the friend was in heavy mourning.

  “Ah-lee-cee-a,” said Janet Pearthorne drawing out the syllables, “She is wearing a walking dress.”

  “What do you propose, Janet? We shall be late. There really is no time.”

  “We shall make time.” Again, the woman spoke in soft, drawn-out syllables that made the most of each word. “It would be better to be slightly late than to give offense. I believe she and I are of a size. I have a sweet rose silk that I had set aside for Jemmie’s homecoming.” There was a little tremble in her voice, and she dabbed at her eyes.

  Aunt Alicia’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you certain? What if she soils it or spills something on it?”

  The Honorable Mrs. Pearthorne shrugged. “Then, she does. I do not believe I shall ever be able to bear wearing it. Just as well that it should do someone some good.” And she dabbed at her eyes again. “Dear me,” she added with a smile, “You must have such an impression of me. I do not ordinarily go about crying.”

  “It is quite all right,” Emma said. “I can clearly see that you are in mourning.”

  “Yes, well, actually it has been long enough that I could simply be in black gloves, but I find being in mourning rather useful. I do miss Jemmie dreadfully, but being a widow gives one a certain amount of personal freedom. I have been writing my memoirs,” she added, leaning toward Emma as if imparting a confidence. “My publisher assures me that I am likely to gain some interest. Jemmie and I were living in Calais when Napoleon began his campaign. While I cannot impart anything of confidence, my publisher thinks our personal adventures will garner interest. Even though it is difficult to write of those times, for a little while I can imagine that Jemmie and I are together again.” She dabbed at her eyes once more, then gave them both a bright smile.

  Without waiting for anyone else to say a word, the little widow tapped on the roof of the carriage. The driver pulled over to the curb, then opened a little aperture that let him peer back into the cab. “Yes, m’lady? Did you forget something?”

  “I di
d. Or I might. We need to stop by the townhouse for just the briefest moment. You can walk the horses up and down or whatever.”

  The man harrumphed, and there was the sound of spitting on the sidewalk. “Old family retainer,” Mrs. Pearthorne said. “And one of the members of my husband’s regiment. He lost a foot in the same skirmish that cost Jemmie his life.”

  Amazingly, considering that Janet Pearthorne never stopped talking, they were in and out of her townhouse in less than half a candle mark. It turned out that she and Emma were indeed of a size, so the rose-colored silk did not need to be altered.

  The gown was not a deep rose color, but instead a rosy off-white with the slightest bit of blush about it. The cut was of a style two years old, but still quite elegant. Mrs. Pearthorne’s abigail managed to work three modest ostrich feathers into the edge of the figure-eight knot on the back of Emma’s head so that they almost had the effect of a cap, with the one closest to the top draping over her head and tickling her brow.

  “You are beautiful!” Mrs. Pearthorne exclaimed.

  “Of course, she is,” Aunt Alicia affirmed. “Did I not say so?”

  “Oh, you did. And now she meets the criteria for being presented. I shall be the envy of everyone for having secured her to my circle first.”

  “Your circle?” Emma asked. “I don’t understand.”

  “Everyone at court has a circle of friends. The more influential, lovely, or well-spoken the members of your circle, the greater your standing.”