The Forbidden Valentine_Lady Eleanor Hawthorne_Regency Romance Novel

by Isabella Thorne

  “I am so sorry, Mother,” Eleanor said, coming forward to kiss her mother on the cheek. “We did run into a bit of trouble. A stanchion cracked on the sleigh, but all is well now.”

  Arthur gathered her packages from the back of the sleigh and a groomsman came to take Mouse back to the stables to be unharnessed and bedded down for the night.

  “Come inside at once and have some tea,” Mother said bustling them through the door. “Oh, dear. We should probably get you out of those wet clothes straight away” Mother continued tutting. “Arthur, cook has been holding some dinner for you in the kitchen. You look like you could use a hot bowl of soup.”

  “Or a drink,” Lord Hanway added as he came up behind Mother. “Go on, Junnip. Get your rest. You have my thanks for delivering our daughter home safely.”

  Arthur threw a glance at Lady Eleanor, but she waved him away. It was not possible for him to be a buffer between her and her parents. She knew that. She had to deal with this mess alone.

  With tea and a late supper of cold meats and cheeses from the earlier meal,” Eleanor told the story of how she came to be stranded on the side of the road with minimal explanation.

  “Oh, how dreadful,” Lady Hanway exclaimed.

  “And who exactly aided you?” Father asked.

  Eleanor blushed as she said. “A gentleman. As it happened we had our incident nearly in front of his lane. He noticed us and came to offer his assistance.”

  “That was kind,” Mother said.

  “Indeed. We should send a card with our regards and thanks,” Father said.

  “We should, of course,” Mother agreed. “What was the gentleman’s name?”

  Eleanor froze. “Well, I do not think thanks are necessary,” she said. “In fact, he was dressed rather poorly. He looked like the stable lad of some manor house…” she trailed off, her face aflame.

  “Eleanor?” said her mother with a worried frown.

  “I do not know Mother. I am home safely. That is all that matters. And I am very tired. Might I be excused?”

  “Of course, dear.” Lady Hanway agreed and Eleanor fled the room.

  As she was readied for bed Eleanor only hoped her parents would forget about her small misadventure. Still as she watched the snow buffet her bedroom window she found she could not forget Lord Firthley. She sat up in bed and hugged her pillow to herself thinking of their conversation about Mister Shakespeare’s plays and poetry. She had never met a gentleman who actually enjoyed poetry as much she did.

  Aside from his height, which made her feel quite petite, David William Firthley seemed a curious sort of man. He seemed intelligent and he did not stand on ceremony. That was clear from his mode of dress. The thought nearly caused her to giggle. It was obvious Lord Firthley had been in the stable when she knocked on his door. What he had been doing? Riding or perhaps brushing his favorite horse? Did he have a favorite horse? He must like horses, she thought, for he had no reason to be at the stable otherwise. He obviously had a stable master to attend to his mounts. Eleanor wondered why he had sent the servants away this night. Did he want to be alone or was he just magnanimous?

  Lord Firthley was not the sort to insist upon a servant to aid him at every moment, nor had he called a servant to aid them with the sleigh. He could have done so; or he could have sent someone in his stead. Perhaps a servant should have aided him in his dress, she thought with a wry smile. She would have chosen a better fitting great coat, with a longer skirt and sleeves fit for his height, tall boots and some rather large gloves…She halted her thoughts there. She should not be thinking of what clothing would make his tall frame look attractive…more attractive, she corrected herself, for there was no doubt that he was a handsome man. She shivered as she thought of his hands, so large but gentle, buttoning her coat against the chill. It was such an intimate thing, his dressing her. Her mouth was suddenly dry and her heart beat fast.

  Eleanor could think of nothing but his hands. His hands were quite strong, lifting two logs at once with no effort at all, his hands on the sleigh runner, fixing it, his hands on her coat, fastening it. Breath was suddenly lost to her. She stood and got out of bed, letting the cool air fall over her, her feet bare on the cold floor. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself as she watched the snow fall, softly.

  He was capable, she told herself. It was pleasant to see a man of the Ton who was not but a hanger for his opulent clothing. Lord Firthley had knelt right down in the snow and helped Arthur with the sleigh and had the work completed in a short order lending credence to the fact that he was indeed skilled. That was admirable. She was quite certain Arthur had no idea that Firthley was a member of the gentry when Arthur ordered him to hold the wood just so to brace the stanchion.

  But for all his attributes, for all his masculine beauty, he was a Firthley. Eleanor knew she must put him out of her mind. She would do so, this moment, she thought as she crawled back into bed and pulled up the covers. She had never felt so warm as she had when she stood before his fire.

  As she lay in her bed, she could not quite erase the feel of his arms around her as she slipped on the step, the span of his hand nearly across her back, the strength of his arm like a sure and solid support in the wind as he pulled her close and kept her from falling. Or perhaps, she had already fallen.

  ~.~

  The first candle began to gutter, and David lit a second one from the stub. The hour had grown late and he was no closer to expressing his feelings than he had been immediately after Lady Eleanor had left his side. For inspiration, he had read through nearly half the volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets, but none quite expressed the sentiment he wished. Beauty of course, he thought, pulling imagery from the ether.

  Your cheeks are like pale roses, soft as velvet.

  A rose by any other name…

  He sighed.

  Your eyes, the color of a night sky, scattered with the stars of heaven.

  Her eyes, Lud. He crumpled the paper and tossed it in the fire. He watched it flare and burn, the air, hot upon his face.

  He remembered the feel of her clutching his arm as she slipped, and how very pleasant it was when she leaned against his frame. Certainly Lady Eleanor was beautiful, but she had more than beauty. David was sure he understood the Bard’s conundrum when he had written:

  Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

  Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

  Like that long ago miss; Lady Eleanor was so much more than a summer’s day. David thought of the kindness that she extolled, walking through the snow to save her elderly driver the trek, and the sweet words she spoke to her carriage horse. Yet she was also intelligent, conversing with wit and wisdom during their brief conversation before the fire. Had she not said that she enjoyed Coleridge? The man’s work was filled with allusions to previous works and to enjoy it fully, surely she would have to understand the references.

  Dear Lord, was she a blue-stocking? Surely not, she was entirely too beautiful to be a blue-stocking, but he had never met a woman who intrigued him so, blue stocking or diamond of the first water. She expressed a preference for sonnets and Shakespeare. Was it only a lark or did she appreciate the grandeur of Milton, the eclecticism of Shakespeare? David wanted to speak with her again, to discuss poetry, and plays… or perhaps her horse, or the weather, or the slipperiness of those ridiculous shoes she wore, or anything at all… and yet, he could not. She was a Hawthorne. Her parents would be …livid…as would his own.

  George said that a Hawthorne woman had bewitched his twice great-uncle; which was all nonsense, of course. It was a modern age of burgeoning science. Witchcraft and such petty pursuits were things of the past.

  David dipped his quill and began again. What harm could there be to send a single letter; a small poem in her honor. Who should know of it but the two of them? He would flatter her and if nothing came of it, he would forget her. But if she answered his letter; oh if she answered, then…then what? He held the quill aloft, dripping ink.
Then he would see where the correspondence took them.

  Would there really be any harm in discussing poetry or perhaps seeing a play? Desire thrummed through him at the thought of Lady Eleanor’s imagined nearness. To sit beside her and enjoy a play, perhaps with their hands laced, hand in glove, and then perhaps to spend the evening afterwards discussing the playwright’s choice of particular lines… or the motivations of the players. But this was folly. Such a thing could never happen. Someone would spread the tale to his parents, and as much as they were anxious for him to marry, they would not abide a Hawthorne. At least according to George, they would not. Perhaps it was not as bad as all that. Perhaps they could be persuaded. First he would have to persuade the lady, and to do so, he would first have to send the letter.

  Resolute, he chose a new quill, trimmed it and began to write.

  Once finished, David studied the work. He was no Shakespeare, but it said what he wanted it to say. For the most part. The longer he looked at it, the more he thought that it was bloody awful. It was at once too insipid, or too forward. Perhaps the whole idea of correspondence with Lady Eleanor was mad. He should forget the woman, but the very thought of purging her from his mind was painful. No, he would send the poem. If he couched the correspondence as a valentine, he could send it anonymously and her family would be none the wiser. Yes. A secret valentine. That would do. David re-read the poem a final time, folded it neatly, and blew out the candle.

  ~.~

  Chapter Five

  After his late night writing poetry, David Firthley woke late to the sound of horses in the yard. His parents and younger sister were home from York, he assumed. He did not particularly wish to speak with them this morning. If the servants were talkative, there was sure to be questions about the lady who he entertained last night, and he hoped if he just waited a few days to approach the subject, it would no longer be an issue.

  David picked up his letter and considered posting it to the Lady Eleanor, but there was like to be some innocent query about it. He would have to be more discrete. He debated ringing for Beaton, but in the end just dressed and went to the stable before breaking his fast, the letter tucked in his jacket pocket for later posting.

  “Good morning to you Lord Firthley. I assume you will have a ride?” the groom said smoothly. “Which horse would you have me saddle?”

  “Good morning, Ritley” David replied, making his way down the row. “Saddle Midnight, if you please.” he said, as he turned his attention to the nearest stall box. It housed one of their newer acquisitions, a tranquil mare named Daisy. She was a sweet thing and David had considered training her for side saddle. She would be a perfect mount for a lady. A summer ride with Lady Eleanor Hawthorne appeared in his mind and he shook his head to clear it. Perhaps he would have Daisy trained for his young sister, Luella but before he completed the thought David heard a familiar voice call his name.

  “Ho! Firthley!”

  David turned to see his favorite cousin, Harry Westlake enter the stable. Harry had returned to Firthley Manor with David’s parents for a short visit, before he continued on his way to London for the season.

  “I knew I would find you at the stables, my country cousin. When are you going to return to Town with me?” Harry asked. “Or do you insist on moldering away here in the wilds?”

  “I like the country,” David replied as he continued to walk the row, feeding small treats to the horses, and giving his favorites a good rub between the ears and under the chin.

  “It is a wonder all of your horses are not fat and slow,” Harry joked. “You spoil them so.”

  David chuckled. “Fancy a jaunt, Westlake?” he asked.

  Harry nodded. “Let me guess. You wish to make fresh tracks through the virgin snow.”

  David just smiled. “And what is wrong with exploring new vistas?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” Harry said. “Nothing at all, although it has been my experience that most boys out grow their wonder with snow by the time they are five and twenty. There are other warmer vistas to explore.”

  David merely lifted a shoulder in response to his cousin’s teasing.

  “Fine, then.” Harry continued “Have your man saddle us a pair of horses, and it will be like when we were boys. When we went racing off pell mell and your old tutor could not catch us up and make us finish our revisions. Do you remember, Cousin?”

  “I remember. Though I completed my lessons,” David said dryly.

  “Oh yes, one for the rules, you were. Never makes waves. That’s our David,” Harry mocked. “My parents were always after me to be more like my level headed cousin. You were a thorn in my side, Firthley. Do you know that? It is a great wonder how we ever became friends.”

  “Hmm,” David said, keeping his own council. Oh but if Harry only knew. David had never been one for waves, but was he not now brewing a typhoon, with his missive to Lady Eleanor Hawthorne burning a hole in his pocket? The thought brought a smile to his lips.

  “What is it?” Harry asked noticing his cousin’s strange look.

  “Let us ride,” David said. He considered speaking to Harry about the Hawthorne girl, but could not quite bring himself to do so. Although he trusted Harry with most secrets, this one was precious. He could not take the risk of discovery if his parents were truly so rigid in their opinion of the Hawthornes. At the very least, he had to wait until he and his friend were well away from the stable and the listening ears of the grooms and stable lads.

  They mounted up and had a good run. Both young men were quickly lost in the exertion and easy comradery of each other’s company. When David pulled up, Harry brought his horse alongside of David’s mount.

  “Tell me, Westlake,” David said reaching down to pat Midnight on the neck. “Just hypothetically, mind you, if I were to say, take up with a Hawthorne, just what do you think my Father would do? How would he react?”

  “Lord Perrilyn?” Harry was silent, for a moment and then nodded succinctly. “Apoplexy,” he said, and then laughed. “You are having me on, Firthley. As if Lord Perfect would ever do anything so out of line as...” Harry broke off frowning. He turned in his saddle to study his friend’s serious countenance. “No,” Harry said disbelieving. The cool wind blew between the trees and there was a soft thud as a mound of melting snow slid off a branch and hit the ground while Harry waited for an answer, not forthcoming.

  “So you have met a woman.” Harry said finally “A Hawthorne is she?”

  David nodded sharply, but he could feel a heat fill his face and color the tips of his ears.

  “Oh Firthley,” his cousin said sympathetically. “You look positively smitten, but the devil if I know how you are going manage this.”

  David did not answer. Instead he kicked his mount into a gallop and left Harry and his questions to follow in his wake.

  ~.~

  Later in the day, after giving a good deal of thought to how he might do so, David attempted to broach the subject of the Hawthorne family with his mother. She was sitting with her sewing in the parlor and looked up brightly when he came into the room.

  “Did you enjoy your time with your cousin, dear?” She asked.

  “Very much so.” David replied and bent to kiss her cheek.

  “Did you go shooting?”

  “No, Mother. Just a ride,” he said. “I was thinking of having the new mare trained for side saddle in time for Luella’s birthday this summer. What are your thoughts?”

  “She will be ecstatic I am sure,” Lady Perrilyn said returning to her sewing. “I do not suppose there is anything you could offer her that she would like more, but I did hope to interest her in some formalities before she comes out next spring. I shall have quite a time getting her to London. If you give her a horse of her own, I fear shall not be able to remove her from the stable.”

  “Oh folly, all girls love London, what with the all the balls and the parties.”

  “Would that my son enjoyed the joys of Town just a tad more.”

&nb
sp; “Oh, Mother there is plenty of time for me,” David said as he flipped aside the tails of his coat and sat.

  “Now, just a moment,” she began but David interrupted. “Is that a new cap, Mother?” He asked.

  “Why yes.” Her hand went to the lacy confection on her head. She beamed. “You noticed. Your father did not.”

  “It is very fetching.”

  Laughter sprang to her eyes. “Ah, David, you must be an outrageous flirt.”

  “Me, mother? Surely not,” he said, smiling.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Did Luella tell you I bought a new cap?” she asked. “She put you up to this flattery.”

  “Mother, I am wounded. I am capable of seeing with my own eyes. I have noticed ladies attire on several occasions. Why just the other day I noticed…” He trailed off thinking of slippery boots and a violet-eyed beauty in his arms.

  “Truly, is there a young lady who you have taken notice of?” Lady Perrilyn asked.

  It was not an unexpected question. She had been asking such on a regular basis since he had turned twenty-three and was, as his Mother touted, the most eligible bachelor of the Season, and the next Season, and the next. The question continued for the succeeding years.

  “There may be,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

  “Oh, pray tell. Who is she?”

  “Well, no one yet to speak of, but as you continue to tell me, I should be looking for a bride, and I have. Only, I feel I am not yet particularly fond of being leg shackled.”

  Lady Perrilyn began to speak and David shrugged. “Though I do know it is a necessary part of life.

  “My dear boy, it is not leg shackled no matter what the young gentlemen at your club tell you. A wife is a helpmate, a friend and a lover. You simply have not yet met the woman who will inspire you to a lasting passion.

  Oh, but I have Mother, thought David. At least I think I have, if only I could convince you and Father of her virtue. “I think that such sentiment is unlikely,” was all he said aloud.