Regency Romances for the Ages

by Grace Fletcher

  “Have I offended you?” Hudson says.

  “Oh hardly my Lord,” she replies, “You couldn’t offend me if you turned your head up to me in London square when I greeted you.” She knows that this response sounds a little too enthusiastic, but she has said it already and there is no taking it back.

  “I would never do that…”

  “Not now,” she says, again before she has had the sense to filter her comment.

  “Beatrice,” Hudson says, turning her slowly towards him again. “I have always seen you. Circumstances just denied me the opportunity now afforded me by your new position. You of all people should know how it is…”

  “Yes, I do know how it is. How do I know that your current pursuit of me has nothing to do with my new position? There are other less complicated ways to ensure your family’s fortune stays intact. Love is the most delicious of life’s complications, and while it is true that I love you, I find myself divided as to your intentions.” Beatrice has had enough of this back and forth with Hudson, and she has just decided to let the words that have been pressing too long in her mind, out.

  “Society is what it is Beatrice, to deny this is foolishness. And while it is a fickle beast, it is one we must feed, or risk utter and total chaos.” Hudson still hasn’t said the words that Beatrice so desperately wants to hear him say. So she thinks that she might be right as to his intentions. She makes up her mind to just give his family a loan to resurrect their fortunes, and then to be done with him. When she finds love, she tells herself, it will be with a man who can, at least, say that he loves her back, especially when she has confessed as much to him.

  But Hudson Carter is a proud man, and he has never been good at expressing his feelings. He is a kind and gentle man, yes, but with matters of the heart, he is more than a little coy. He knows how he feels about Beatrice, and he knows what he wants to say to her. He knows too that if he doesn’t say it now, he might lose her forever. But how, when she has so blatantly stated her concerns, suddenly profess what he knows to be his truest feelings for her.

  Beatrice looks at him, the frustration inside her manifesting itself as a single tear down her cheek. He reaches for it, glistening in the moonlight, arresting its progress down her face. Then, with the gentlest of touches, he wipes it away. He pulls her to him now, embracing her fiercely, trying himself not to cry. He too is as frustrated with this situation as she is. He is, however, more frustrated at himself.

  Then he holds her face towards his again, and slowly, gently, touches his lips to hers. She tastes every bit as he had imagined, and he lets the kiss linger. He pulls away from her, and looking in her eyes, at her and through her all at once, he finally lets the words fall from his lips in half whispers.

  “I love you, Beatrice Davenport. I have always loved you. And if you will have me, I promise to love you forever.” He lets out a very big sigh, part anxiety, but mostly relief.

  Beatrice is the one who holds his face now, pulling him down so that their mouths meet again. “I will never, ever polish your riding boots again,” she says, kissing him passionately.

  “And I, will never polish yours,” he says, when he manages to pull himself from her lips briefly. They kiss long and deep, letting each other know without words, that everything is at last as it should be…

  *** The end ***

  Refined Beauty

  Regency Romance

  Grace Fletcher

  Chapter 1

  The Statue

  T he heir to the Earl of Abingdon took one look and knew immediately that he must possess her at all costs.

  She stood tall, neck extended, her hand thrown over her face, palm out as if shielding her from a great light. Even though one leg was broken at the hip, the other at the knee and iron rods supported her weight, the beauty of the sculpture could not be denied.

  In a placard below the statue, a neatly handwritten sign said:

  “Persephone/Prosperina, early roman, (100-130 BCE)”, unknown sculptor. Statue discovered by George Haskett and Co., in the Cutch Desert of Hindustan (India)

  Drake Browning, future Earl of Abingdon, gazed at the statue feeling an unfamiliar tumble in his chest, an ache that whispered, “Seize her!” to the most primitive parts of his brain. Yet, simultaneously, another part of him, some deep place in his brain, said, “This is wrong. All of it.”

  “My dear brother, you outdo your own dullness.” A soft voice at his elbow brought him back down to earth. “We could be out riding our new Arabic stallions, and instead, here we are forced to admire this… this positively decadent statue while old whiskered men drink wine and pretend to be amused.”

  “Hush Laura,” Drake said to his little sister. “You do not understand what you’re seeing. A statue like this is an amazing find. George is guaranteed to be accepted into the Society of Dilettantes now.”

  She looks confused, and he continued, “I’ve told you about the society, haven’t I? It has 60 adventure seeking members and is the most exclusive society in all of England. One may not apply, one can be selected only through a secret ballot. Since Sir Henry Wigham’s death, there is one position open this year.”

  “A position you have had your eye on, for three long years.” Laura clicked her tongue. “For it to be snatched away under your very nose is such a loss! Only because George was lucky enough to bumble onto that statue in India and have it become a huge hit! I do declare that you are a fine man, brother. A lesser man would have smashed that statue in anger at being deprived of what was rightfully his.”

  “It is not my moral fiber that causes me to refrain from smashing it,” Drake admitted. “I had come here prepared to find fault, to pour a verbal acid on the pedigree of this statue that would cause the Society to disregard it, and disregard George himself.”

  “But now?” Asked Laura

  “But now, I believe I am in love with this sinuous piece of marble. I could not harm this statue, not with word nor action, any more than I could harm you, little one. Curse George and his rottenly good luck!”

  “Oh, you had my hopes up at the words, “I am in love,” Ben! Mother, Father and I expect a marriage out of you this year.”

  Drake smiled at her, a kind smile, but one impatient at the edges. “I believe this marks the seventeenth time you have reminded me of the fact.”

  “Well, this seemed like the perfect opportunity. While you’ve been drooling over this statue, I’ve noticed at least three separate women drooling over you.”

  “Sister dear, your eyes deceive you. The women drool over the future Earl of Abingdon. I am not naïve enough to assume any womanly hearts would break over me alone.”

  “Your title is part of you.” Laura pointed out.

  “The least important part, I often feel.” He sighed.

  “Well, save the important parts for after marriage.” She teased. “Look there, to your right, Baroness Miller and her daughter Mary both seem to want to talk to us.”

  “Oh save me, please,” Drake begged. “I could not tolerate their titters and nudges at this moment.”

  “The dance is about to begin.” Laura smiled. “I must find my husband, and you must find another woman to rescue you from them.”

  “Where is Peter, by the way? I haven’t seen him since we came.” Drake asked.

  Laura sighed. “Discussing business, I suppose. Good lord, he would have been a stiff, boring turtle at 28, had I not come along and rescued him. He’d even started developing the whiskers for it.”

  “Funny, I only noticed gray hair on him after you’d been married.” Drake teased.

  With that parting shot, he took leave of his sister, and with a last longing look at the statue, left the room to escape any sudden conversation by the Millers.

  In the great hall next door, music was already underway, and Drake stood happily watching the scene. From the corner of his eye, he noticed yet another woman closing in on him, determined to dance. What he needed, Drake decided, was to dance with a sweet, wallflower
of a woman. Someone with no claws, someone he could simply dance with, without raising her hopes or expectations, without any chance of having to fight off her feminine wiles.

  He spotted a likely candidate almost immediately. Seated on a stool, she wore a demure lavender dress, and would fan herself occasionally with a delicate lace fan. Her eyes seemed lost and distant as if she were floating in a far-off world.

  “My lady,” He said, bowing to her. “I would be thrilled if you would honor me with this dance.”

  She looked up at him, and he felt that familiar quiver in his chest once more. Something about the way she held that fan, or perhaps her long neck and almond eyes, reminded him of the statue he had just left behind.

  Chapter 2

  Rekindling an Old Flame

  C atherine had danced all evening, and finally, hot and tired, decided to rest herself for only a little while. The dance had been amusing at first, but as always, her natural introversion made her loath to talk and long for the comfort of a warm fire and a good book. Of course, behind it all, there was the rising tension that had been following her all evening; so much was at stake, and so much could go wrong. Each man who mentioned the statue’s beauty and praised the “artistic ability of ancient Rome” made her more and more nervous. It was wicked. How she wished she could talk to George, but he was busy being feted by each and every guest he met, and she did not dare talk to him among his friends. She was shaken from her thoughts when a dark shadow fell over her.

  “My lady.” A man said, bowing to her. “I would be thrilled if you would honor me with this dance.”

  She looked up at him, startled, wondering if he had not recognized her. She certainly recognized him; Drake Browning, future Earl of Abingdon, arch rival of her cousin George Haskett.

  He looked at her expectantly, and she nodded her head, too shocked to say a word. He smiled, as if to soothe her, and said, “I beg to pardon, my lady if my invitation to dance interrupted your multitude of thoughts.”

  “My thoughts are resilient, they survive such interruptions.” She smiled as she raised herself and put her hand in his. “As a matter of fact, they were upon the statue in the room next to this. Considering my cousin George has thrown a party in the statue’s honor, it is a sore pity that she cannot dance.”

  It was only because they stood so close that she saw him wince slightly at the mention of George. “Did you appreciate the statue then?” He asked her, looking magnificently uncaring as they stepped together into the music.

  She bit her tongue before it could say that she appreciated his form more than that of the statue. He looked debonair in his dark blue tailcoat, with a gold laced top hat tucked under his elbow and a Lunardi lace cravat around his neck. His waistcoat was similarly cream and gold, with flourishes that caught the eye and directed the imagination to the muscle and sinew that lay underneath.

  “What I thought of the statue is inconsequential,” Catherine said. “I am only glad if it will help George achieve his goal of being inducted into the Society of Dilettantes.”

  “Catherine Haddington,” He said her name suddenly as if it had been on the tip of his tongue and he had only now remembered. “I beg your pardon for not recognizing you. Eight years have brought about a world of a change in you. You were only a chit of a girl then. I remember staying at Haskett Hall and finding your clay pottery in every corner of the house.”

  “Indeed. Father was a permissive man, to allow me such crude hobbies. But eight years have molded you well, Lord Browning. I remember a young lad fond of racing horses, and fonder still of his best friend George.”

  “Your father was a great man.” Drake Browning said. “I was truly sorry to hear of his passing last year. I would have attended the funeral if I were not away at sea.”

  “Father was fond of you,” Catherine said. “Almost as fond as he was of George.”

  “I was fond of him too.” Lord Browning said, although whether he referred to her father or George, she could not say.

  The music changed, and they stepped away from each other momentarily, carried away for a few beats by other dancers, before finding their way back to each other.

  “But, we were discussing the statue and you haven’t told me your view on it at all,” Catherine said. “I suppose, you thought it was beautiful, like every other man here?”

  He had a faint trace of mockery in his voice as he replied, “Ah but you are a woman, after all. The appreciation of a statue like that is best left to the men.”

  “Do you really think women to be so incapable of producing art?” She asked.

  “Women are art. Therefore, it is us men who must become the artist.” Drake shrugged. “A woman may understand art, she may even create it, but only a man can appreciate it the way it demands to be appreciated.” He watched in amusement at the effect his words had on her; a red flush started from her cheeks and made its way down to her neck.

  Drake had teased her often this way, and to this day, he could recall how angry Catherine would become when he implied that women could not fully fathom art. Sharp as she was on all other topics, on this one point she never had understood that he was only teasing. The truth was he thought that she, like her father, had always been a very talented artist. Her crude clay models had rivaled some of the finest work he’d seen in the country. But he enjoyed far too much the look of heat on her face to admit it. Even now, he could tell she was bursting to say something spiky and sharp.

  Instead, she arranged her face into a porcelain mask and matched his dance with grace. When the music ended, she curtsied to him and was prepared to leave. “You told me much about appreciation, yet mentioned not whether you did appreciate the statue,” She said.

  “Does it matter if I did?” He asked carelessly. To his surprise, a tumult of emotions spread across her face for a brief moment, before vanishing. She gave him no reply, however.

  “Why does it matter to you if I appreciated the statue?” He asked curiosity aroused this time.

  She would neither give him an answer nor meet his eyes. He placed a finger under her chin and forced her to look up. What her face successfully hid, her eyes could not; it mattered to her. It mattered a great deal. For what seemed like an eternity, they stood with gazes locked.

  It seemed as if she would break as if she would confess to him what thoughts fled across her mind but a loud crash and raised voices in the room next door shattered their reverie.

  Chapter 3

  The Crash

  D rake rushed into the next room, just in time to catch a swooning matron in his arms. Releasing her gently to the comfort of an armchair, and the company of her anxious daughter, he turned to see at least twenty people milling around the pedestal.

  The pedestal itself was bare.

  “Broken!” came harsh whispers from the crowd. “And to think it had just been sold for a princely sum!”

  George Haskett stood in the center of the crowd, his hands raised in supplication, while Peter, Laura’s husband, agitatedly spoke to him. Drake noted the differences among the two men. Peter, with his blonde hair cut short, and his dress immaculately neat, looked tense and agitated, while George, with his wavy black hair, stood as dignified as the statue itself, raising a hand now and then to make his point.

  Before Drake could go closer, however, he felt a presence at his elbow and looked down to see Catherine standing there, observing George keenly.

  It must be a terrible shock to her, Drake mused, to see her beloved cousin’s claim to fame had shattered irrevocably. He expected her to swoon and prepared himself to catch her safely if she did.

  Instead, to his absolute confusion, she smiled.

  It happened only for the briefest of moments, and she replaced it quickly with an air of sorrow. But for just one moment, the curtains around her face had parted and revealed to him that she was not unhappy, far from it. At that moment, when only he had observed her, she had looked relieved, as relieved as a convict whose noose had suddenly slipped from hi
s neck.

  “My lady, I hope you have not been greatly shocked?” he asked.

  She looked up, startled to see him, then looked confused for a moment, before saying, “I do not know what the noise is about. I do wish someone would tell me.”

  A passing officer, a young lad of not less than twenty, happily barged into the conversation. “My lady, it gives me great sorrow to tell you, the statue that survived centuries of roman civilization has been demolished in a single evening of revelry!”

  Again, Drake saw it, the unmistakable look of relief, replaced immediately with a sorrowful, “My poor brother must be devastated.” What could it be? Could her pretensions of familial love hide a secret loathing of George? No, he had danced with her, talked to her and from what he remembered of her as a child, he knew she worshiped her cousin to the point of blind devotion. But why else would she be relieved and happy that the statue was broken?

  The officer, dressed in pleasing red, and intoxicated by the large blue eyes of the lady in front of him, continued a little too enthusiastically. “It’s a dashing pity, too. The Viscount Haskett is a lucky man, Sir Limonet less so.”

  “You’re talking about Sir Peter Limonet?” Drake asked sharply, alerted by the use of his brother-in-law’s name.

  “Why yes, Sir Peter had been interested in buying the statue for his father-in-law- the Earl of Abingdon, an avid collector of roman artifacts and he had, in fact, paid a princely sum to Viscount George Haskett, so I heard.”

  Lady Catherine’s demeanor changed perceivably.

  “I’m sorry, my good sir. I must confess I was unaware that my cousin had sold the statue. But surely, the sale cannot hold now that the statue is shattered?" she asked.

  “Oh, but that is where luck comes in.” The officer said. “You see, they agreed to the sale three months ago, even before Sir George bought the statue over. Since Sir Peter wished to surprise his father-in-law, he asked Sir George not to reveal news of the sale, and since Sir George wished to throw this party and be celebrated at least once for his remarkable discovery, I suspect he was only too happy to acquiesce.”