Regency Romances for the Ages

by Grace Fletcher

  “How dare you presume to speak to my wife in such a way,” Rowden snapped, coming alongside Dorothea and resting a hand on her back. Dorothea leaned into his touch, breathless with relief. She could feel the sting in her eyes, the wetness on her cheeks. “I must ask you to leave.”

  “My Lord,” Lady Sharp started.

  “Abigail.” Dorothea did not recognize the voice, but Lord Sharp was striding towards them, his face thunderous. “Lord Durham has asked us to leave and we shall leave.”

  Lady Sharp looked disgusted as though she was going to say something else. Her husband looked at Dorothea and she was struck by the sympathy and kindness in his eyes.

  “My deepest apologies, my Lady. Had I known what she was saying, I can assure you, I would never have left her alone with you.”

  “It is quite alright,” Dorothea said, managing a weak smile as Lord Sharp led his wife away. Closing her eyes, Dorothea felt Rowden’s arm around her waist.

  “I will be taking my wife to her room,” Rowden was saying, though Dorothea did not know whom to. “Please allow the guests to stay if they wish, but Lord Herron, if you would, take over for me until I can return?”

  “I shall,” a man’s voice intoned, and Dorothea assumed it was Lord Herron. Penelope’s husband would be helpful. Speaking of, Penelope was standing in the doorway to the ballroom, a hand to her chest. She opened her mouth.

  “Would you come by tomorrow, Penelope?” Dorothea asked, hating how weak she sounded. “I would like to speak with you.”

  “Of course. You need only ask,” Penelope offered.

  With that, Rowden whisked Dorothea up to her room, Granger and Greta in tow. Dorothea felt uncomfortable, skin prickling with awareness at how weak she seemed.

  “I am so sorry,” she said, as Rowden lowered her to sit on the edge of her bed.

  “Whatever for?” Rowden still looked angry, his hands now clenched into fists by his side.

  Pressing a hand to her stomach, Dorothea felt a wave of sadness. “That I cannot be the wife you deserve.”

  Granger muttered something, ushering Greta back out of the room. Dorothea did not know where he was sending her. Rowden looked angry again, though this time he crouched in front of her, something that must aggravate his wound, but he made no sound.

  “Dorothea,” it was the first time he had used her name in such a long time, and she could not help but take notice. “Has she been uttering such things since we arrived?”

  Dorothea did not want to answer, but Rowden was calm, hands on hers and she closed her eyes, breathing slow. “Yes.”

  Rowden rubbed at his forehead. “Why did you not say anything to me?”

  “You were preoccupied,” Dorothea said, pulling away from him and resting her hands in her lap. “I did not wish to seem ungrateful for the life you have given me, or upset the fact that you were adjusting to society just as I.”

  Rowden’s anger gave way to disbelief, frustration, and then understanding. “Dorothea, nothing is worth having to listen to those comments and take them to heart. I will not stand for it, not at functions and not in my own home.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “My Lady,” Granger said, as he let Greta back into the room. She had a tray of tea. “We have brought you a drink. Greta shall remain with you until you have no further need of her.”

  Dorothea shook her head. “I must return to the party.”

  Rowden took her hand, squeezing it once and pressing a kiss to her palm. “Dorothea, please. Remain upstairs and I shall see to the rest of the party. Later, I would like to discuss how remiss I have been in letting these things occur to you.”

  Knowing that she would not be allowed back to the party, and aware that she could not handle everyone staring at her, Dorothea nodded. “Very well.”

  Chapter 11

  The Right Solution

  Rowden was pensive the following morning, sitting at the dining room table long before breakfast was due to be served. After the last guests had left the night before, Greta had informed Rowden that Dorothea had retired, exhausted, but in good health. Rowden doubted that had been completely truthful, but he was glad she was at least partly comfortable.

  Granger was standing in the doorway, and Rowden was glad to have the man in his employ. He had been justifiably angry the night before, and had let Rowden curse and stalk his room, muttering about the intricacies of society and how people could be allowed to spit such venom at a woman who had suffered.

  “Lord Sharp sent a missive this morning,” Granger told him after a long silence. “He cannot apologize enough for his wife’s behavior.”

  “Thank you,” Rowden said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I understand that it is a husband’s duty to speak for his wife, but I cannot help but think Lady Sharp should be the one apologizing.”

  “If I may sir,” Granger asked. At Rowden’s nod, his lips thinned. “I do not think Lady Sharp would send such a letter, even if it was required.”

  Rowden sat back in his chair. “I only wish I knew how long this has been occurring.”

  Granger’s eyes flickered to the door and then back. “According to Greta, My Lord, I believe it first happened at the society ball Lady Sharp herself threw to welcome you.”

  Nausea rolled through Rowden. How could he have been so blind? Dorothea had been suffering for so long. He had left her to her own devices, ignoring her withdrawing and quietening down, assuming it was her own adjustment to their new life. He had no idea that she was enduring constant ridicule for her condition.

  “Is my wife due down for breakfast?”

  “Yes, sir,” Granger said. “Greta informs me she was up and getting ready.”

  “Please call for breakfast,” Rowden asked, wanting the room to be free when Dorothea finally arrived. He owed her a conversation and assurances that he didn’t want anyone else to hear but her.

  Granger disappeared and a quarter of an hour later, the door opened to admit Dorothea, looking pale in her blue gown, but smiling as soon as she saw Rowden. There was an apprehension in her expression that Rowden did not allow to fester.

  “Good morning, Dorothea.”

  As it had last night, Dorothea’s smile widened at Rowden’s use of her name and he cursed himself once again. “Good morning. I trust you sleep well?”

  Rowden pressed a hand to his lips and then dropped it to the table. “I fear I slept as well as you.”

  Dorothea slipped into her seat, looking far too demure. It was such a vast change from the woman who had welcomed him into her home so long ago. “I had hoped we wouldn’t have to talk about this again.”

  “Dorothea,” Rowden pressed. “I will not tolerate anybody talking to you as though are fair game for ridicule.”

  There was a moment’s silence, and then Dorothea straightened in her seat. “I have been enduring it thus far.”

  “You are my wife,” Rowden said. “You suffered much as a child and as such, have been left with a life-altering condition that affects you still. These were things out of your control. Being in society does not give someone the right to use their status to bully and cast aspersions on someone over whom they have no information.”

  Dorothea’s eyes widened, her lips parted slightly. Her cheeks were tinged pink, and there was a wonder in her face that Rowden hated himself for. For this to be the first time he was talking to her in such a way was a testament to his own failings.

  “I apologize that I have not done a better job of being your husband. It should not have taken this long for me to tell you of my high regard—and my feelings—for you.”

  “Rowden,” Dorothea said, using his old name, and Rowden reached across the table, clasping her hands in his hands. “I dared not hope.”

  “I have been remiss,” Rowden told her seriously. “We may not have had the conventional beginning to our relationship, but I assure you, Dorothea, that my love for you has only grown.”

  There were tears gathering in Dorothea’s eyes, but she was sm
iling enough that Rowden was not concerned she was upset for wrong reasons. “I love you,” she said, brushing away her tears with one hand. “I had hoped—but I dared not assume.”

  “Assume away,” Rowden said, smiling in return, pulling back only when the breakfast was ready to be served. “We have an engagement this afternoon.”

  Dorothea nodded quickly, unable to keep from smiling, and Rowden was pleased. Seeing her happy was more important than his own placing in society. “I am aware.”

  Rowden thanked the kitchen maid and then picked up his fork, pausing before starting to eat. “If you wish to cancel it–”

  “No,” Dorothea said quickly. She was brave, beneath her insecurity, and Rowden was proud of it. “I cannot allow this to affect me greatly. I will not allow Lady Sharp to drive me into hiding.”

  Pride swelled once more in Rowden, and it had not diminished by the time Lord and Lady Herron arrived, staying for luncheon before riding out with them to the Matherson estate. It was a small affair, much like the Heron’s own home, but Rowden had had few dealings with the Mathersons, so he had no idea what to expect.

  With Dorothea on his arm, and the previous incident in the back of his mind, he was aware of the stares and the whispers. Whereas before he had put it down to their status, he was well aware of their content this time.

  Lord Matherson was a well-built, handsome man with a booming laugh, and he either had not heard of the altercation the night before, or did not care for it, for he greeted Dorothea warmly, sweeping her away for a dance.

  Rowden kept to the edges of the room, surveying the gathering. Lord and Lady Sharp were amongst them and Rowden had to push down the anger, even as they made their way towards him.

  “I apologize once again,” Lord Sharp said, gesturing at his wife.

  Though she pursed her lips, looking furious, Lady Sharp’s nod was respectful. “I cannot explain the reasons behind my actions,” she started.

  “I do not know,” Rowden said, keeping his voice loud enough that he could not help but draw attention. He was loath to do it at Lord Matherson’s party, but the man himself was keeping Dorothea on his arm, staring at Rowden and giving nothing away. “Perhaps it is jealously, perhaps something else, but it was unacceptable.”

  “I have already offered my apologies,” Lady Sharp bristled, at the same time her husband furiously whispered her name.

  “An apology does not make up for months of harassment,” Rowden continued. He was clutching at his glass tightly enough that he feared it would break. “My wife’s condition, as has no doubt made its way throughout the gossip mill, is of nobody else’s concern. It is a conversation only for my wife and myself. If you have something to say on the matter, I would keep it in private circles. If I ever hear you—or anyone—bringing the subject up with my wife, or ridiculing her for it, I will take firm action to bring it to a close. Am I understood?”

  Lady Sharp had paled, and though her husband wouldn’t meet Rowden’s eyes, he nudged his wife angrily. “I understand, My Lord.”

  “Good,” Rowden said, with a sharp nod, and left Lord and Lady Sharp behind.

  Lord Matherson clapped him on the back as he gave Dorothea a kiss to the hand. “I thank you for the dance, Lady Durham. My Lord, that was very well handled. I trust I will see you for my weekend hunting party?”

  Rowden knew of it, of course, but had never been invited. The friendship branch was clear and given what Rowden had seen of Lady Matherson—a young, demure thing, who looked as out of her depth as Dorothea had once been—he would appreciate having a wider circle of friends. “I would not miss it.”

  “Splendid,” Lord Matherson said, and disappeared into the crowd.

  “Are you well?” Rowden asked, guiding Dorothea over to a couple of chairs in the corner. Lord and Lady Herron were there, both with drinks enough for the four of them.

  “I will be,” Dorothea assured him, leaning into his shoulder. “Thank you, Rowden.”

  “No thanks are necessary,” Rowden told her, leaning across to kiss her gently. It was, perhaps, not expected in society, but Rowden was finding he cared less about social mores than he had for a good long time.

  Dorothea’s answering smile was worth whatever complications may arise from now and for the rest of their lives.

  *** The End ***

  Charlotte

  & the

  Chivalrous Duke

  Regency Romance

  Grace Fletcher

  Chapter 1

  Her New Position

  “Have you got everything, Charlotte?”

  Charlotte Roberts watched as the driver loaded her trunk onto the back of the carriage. She couldn’t feel anything except a heavy heart despite the excitement going on. She swallowed, her chest tightening.

  “I think so, Mama.”

  Lucinda Roberts frowned and bustled about her daughter, checking that her cloak was on properly and her bonnet wasn’t askew.

  “I don’t want you to forget anything.”

  “You mean apart from my daughter?”

  Charlotte couldn’t stop herself from saying that. Her child was the only reason she was reluctant to leave. Her position required her to work far away from her parents’ home in Surrey and there would be no one to look after her daughter while Charlotte worked. Charlotte would be expected, in her new position of housekeeper, to keep the household running. She couldn’t do that if Mary was around.

  She didn’t want to leave her daughter behind, but her parents said it was the only way. This was a position with the Duke of Westminster’s staff, one of the best positions you could get at Charlotte’s age. She had an opportunity to make more money than before and Charlotte needed to take it, especially now that both her parents were too old to work and needed the money. Her parents and her daughter were her priority.

  Charlotte wished her husband was still here. There was never a time more than now that she needed him. But he was dead. Charlotte couldn’t will him back to life; even though she wanted to kill him for what he had done. She was so angry with his actions that she decided to revert back to using her maiden name when he died.

  Lucinda sighed and brushed a strand of white hair from her face. She looked far older than her forty-four years.

  “What is the matter? You know this is how it has to be.”

  “I know.” Charlotte looked around and saw her father standing in the doorway, her daughter in his arms. “But it’s breaking my heart knowing I have to leave her.”

  Mary was her whole life. Four years old, bright as a button and a ray of sunshine, Charlotte couldn’t ask for better. Donald hadn’t cared about his daughter once she started walking and talking so Lucinda and John Roberts had made up for their son-in-law’s shortcomings.

  Charlotte didn’t want to walk away. Not now.

  “She’ll be fine with us.” Lucinda took Charlotte’s hands and squeezed them. “We’ll look after her.”

  “I know you will.” Charlotte bit her lip to stop herself from bursting into tears. “I’ll send whatever I can to you for her. And for you.”

  “I know you will. You’re a good girl, Charlotte.” Lucinda pulled her daughter into her arms and hugged her tightly. “We love you. Don’t forget that.”

  Charlotte wasn’t planning to. Wiping away a stray tear and seeing they were nearly ready to go, she went up the path to her father and daughter. Mary knew what was happening and while she was happy that they would have more money, she was devastated knowing that her mother was going without her. Charlotte had held her until she cried herself to sleep ever since she received the letter to start at the Duke of Westminster’s ancestral home.

  Mary reached out for her mother and Charlotte pulled her into her arms, falling to her knees as she held back a sob. Mary clung to her neck, burying her face in her shoulder.

  “Goodbye, sweetheart.” Charlotte kissed her daughter’s head. “Be good for Granny and Grandpa.”

  “I’m always good, Mama,” Mary whimpered. Her fi
sts tightened in Charlotte’s cloak. “I’ll miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you, too.” Charlotte eased back and kissed Mary’s forehead. “But I’ll write to you every day. I promise.”

  Reluctant to pull away, Charlotte stood. John stepped forward and embraced his daughter.

  “Take care,” he whispered, kissing her head before pulling back. “And don’t worry about Mary. She’ll be fine.”

  “I know.” Charlotte sniffed and drew back. “I just wish I didn’t have to leave her.”

  “I know.” John cupped her jaw and smiled, his eyes sad. “God speed, Charlotte.”

  Charlotte stepped back, easing Mary into her grandfather’s arms. Then she hurried to the carriage and got in before she could be persuaded to stay. Just seeing Mary crying but waving her farewell as the carriage pulled away was enough for Charlotte to bury herself into her seat and burst into tears. She didn’t want to leave Mary behind. She was her light, her world. But it had to be done. The duke wouldn’t appreciate a housekeeper with a child and no husband to take care of said child. This was the best thing for Mary.

  Charlotte just wished it wasn’t.

  The journey felt long. Very long. It was just after sunrise when Charlotte and her driver, Benjamin Beale, left her family home. It would be almost sundown when she finally arrived at the ancestral home of the duke’s in Kent, right near Margate. Charlotte hoped they didn’t have any problems along the way.

  As they travelled, Charlotte stared out the window and wondered about her new position. It had been fortunate that she had heard about it from a friend. The duke’s last housekeeper died, and he urgently needed a replacement. Charlotte didn’t think, at three-and-twenty, she would get a position like that so young, but she didn’t have anything to lose. Anything was worth a try. And now her mother had been taken ill enough that she had to stop working and her father had lost his job. Her family needed all the money they could get.

  To her shock, Charlotte had been accepted. Her references had been stellar, and the duke had been impressed. It felt like a fairy tale. And it would be even more of a fairy tale if Mary was allowed to come with her. But Charlotte had purposefully not mentioned her daughter in case that hindered things. She knew the duke would be displeased if she arrived with a four-year-old little girl.