The Forbidden Valentine

by Isabella Thorne

  Also By Isabella Thorne

  The Mad Heiress and the Duke

  The Mad Heiress and the Duke ~ Georgette Quinby

  The Mad Heiress' Cousin and the Hunt ~ A Short Story

  The Duke's Wicked Wager

  The Duke’s Wicker Wager ~ Lady Evelyn Evering

  Mischief, Mayhem and Murder: A Marquess of Evermont ~ A Short Story

  The Duke’s Daughter

  The Duke’s Daughter ~ Lady Amelia Atherton

  The Baron in Bath

  The Baron in Bath ~ Miss Julia Bellevue

  The Forbidden Valentine

  The Forbidden Valentine ~ Lady Eleanor Hawthorne

  Other Short Stories by Isabella Thorne

  Mistletoe and Masquerade ~ 2-in-1 Short Story Collection

  Colonial Cressida and the Secret Duke ~ A Short Story

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  The Forbidden Valentine ~ Lady Eleanor Hawthorne

  A Regency Romance Novel

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Forbidden Valentine Copyright © 2018 by Isabella Thorne

  Cover Art by Mary Lepiane

  2018 Mikita Associates Publishing

  Digital Edition

  Published in the United States of America.

  www.isabellathorne.com

  Table of Contents

  Also By Isabella Thorne

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  The Forbidden Valentine

  ~Part 1 ~

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  ~Part 2 ~

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  ~Part 3 ~

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  ~Part 4 ~

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Sneak Peek of: The Baron in Bath

  ~Part 1~ The Baron’s Betrothal

  Chapter One

  The Forbidden Valentine

  ~Part 1 ~

  Chapter One

  Snow flurried down around Lady Eleanor Hawthorne. It clung to her eyelashes, her stylish hat and her fur cloak. Eleanor’s boots were made of the finest smooth leather, but they were somewhat slippery and not very warm. She was up to her shins in snow as well, standing beside the sleigh with one arm wrapped around herself, and the other holding the draft horse’s head. Her poor elderly driver, Mister Arthur Junnip, was down on his knees in the snow, his grey head bowed as he sought to deduce the problem.

  With his head beneath the sleigh, the driver’s words were muffled. “One of the stanchions is cracked, Lady Eleanor. Rotten luck, that. Had ‘em checked before the season and there was not a hint of rot on ‘em.” He sat back on his heels, and doffed his hat. “I am terribly sorry, but I cannot see making it back to Sweetbriar in this state. If it cracks clean through…” He let the thought hang. “I am sorry, Milady.”

  “It is not your fault in the slightest,” Eleanor said. “You could not have seen that rock, buried under all this snow, and it is just a lucky thing old Mouse here did not stumble over it and hurt himself.” She rubbed the horse’s shaggy nose and he lipped at her glove, looking for treats. She edged closer to the horse, borrowing his heat in the cold wind.

  Arthur got to his feet and brushed snow from his trousers. He rolled his hat in his hands. “I might walk back to the Albemarles’ residence and secure a means of repair, but that does not solve anything, as I cannot be leaving you out in this weather with naught but a horse for protection.”

  The weather was nothing more than a snow flurry at present, but to Arthur any amount of risk was too much for Eleanor. She peered up the road in the opposite direction. It was difficult to see through the haze of falling snow in the low, failing light, but there was a golden glow upon the hilltop, less than half a mile’s distance.

  “What of that house?” Eleanor asked. She gestured towards it.

  Arthur shook his head and yanked his cap back on. His ears were rimmed a bright red. “I could not go there, Milady. That is the Firthley house, as you well know.”

  Lady Eleanor sighed and stamped her boots, trying to bring some life back to her frozen feet. She slipped slightly in the wet snow and clutched onto the horse’s mane to steady herself. The big gelding turned his head to look past his blinkers at her, and then stood stoically in the cold.

  Eleanor’s boots, like her clothing were quite fashionable, but the boots lacked the fur lining to make them warm enough for the weather and the new leather soles were treacherously slippery. What had begun as a pleasant day of shopping in town had turned rather difficult. Her packages sat neatly boxed in the back of the sleigh, covered by canvas. She, however, was becoming quickly covered by snow.

  “Yes, I do know it is Firthley Manor,” Eleanor said, “But I think under these exceptional circumstances, it may be reasonable to disregard the absurd feud of our families and ask for some assistance. I am certain they would lend a hand to a lady stranded in the snow. We are practically neighbors, after all,” said Eleanor.

  She was referring; of course, to the feud between the Hawthornes and the Firthleys that had existed since before she was born. The original cause for the argument had never been adequately explained to her. Eleanor suspected the reason for that was because neither of her parents actually remembered what had begun the whole affair, but were too stubborn to admit their ignorance. The feud had caused the odd tension in the local circles. Hawthornes would not attend, nor be invited to, events hosted by the Firthleys, and vice versa, and they did their best to avoid meeting at the social gatherings hosted by other members of society when they could. From everything Eleanor had heard, and she had asked about, the Firthleys were a perfectly ordinary family much like her own, and no one she asked had the faintest clue what had started all of the nonsense; or if they did, they would not tell her.

  “If your parents found out I asked at the Firthley house for aid…” Arthur tutted. He was clearly torn between finding help for Eleanor as swiftly as possible and earning the ire of her parents.

  Eleanor, with sudden inspiration, proposed a compromise. “Well then you shall not ask at the Firthley house. I will. Here,” she said, gesturing toward Mouse and passing Arthur the reins. “You take over this job and I shall find us some help.”

  This caused Arthur to turn as red as his ears. The loose, wrinkled skin at his nec
k trembled, but he came up beside her and took her spot at the horse’s head.

  “I do not think this is the best course of action, Milady” said Arthur, in a wavering voice. “Your parents will be livid.”

  “We shall not tell them, then. After all, they never speak to the Firthleys. How will they ever find out I went to their door? I shall return as soon as possible, Arthur. Perhaps you should climb beneath the blanket and try your best to keep warm. I do believe the temperature is dropping with the sun, and all this slush will turn to ice.” Before he could come up with any more arguments against the idea, Eleanor hurried off in the direction of Firthley Manor.

  Hurried was too generous a word. Even with the aisles of snow smoothed down by the passage of other sleighs, it was treacherous going in the middle of the road, and her boots were not equipped for such travel. The snow was deep enough at the side of the road that her boots sunk in, breaking through the top layer of frozen snow. That gave her an awkward gait, but at least the snowfall was not high enough to cover her boots, and the deeper snow actually gave her some footing in the slippery slush. However, the drifts along the side of the road were large enough to wet the hem of her dress and cloak.

  By the time Eleanor reached the drive of Firthley Manor, she was warm from her exertion, and sweating in her layers of fur and wool, although her feet were still cold and the hem of her dress was sodden. She took a moment to straighten her clothing. Eleanor smoothed her chestnut brown hair back beneath her cap and brushed the snow from her shoulders with the back of her glove. It was the first time a Hawthorne would stand on the Firthleys’ doorstep, in who knew how long, and she did not want to be the cause of a bad impression. Somewhat decent, but hardly looking like the lady of quality she was, Lady Eleanor Hawthorne marched up the drive and knocked at the door.

  Eleanor waited. The sweat from her exertion began to dry, leaving her chilled and shivering. Just like that, all her warmth was gone. Her toes felt like hailstones in her boots. Eleanor knocked again. She could see a light in the entrance hall. Peering up at the house, one of the rooms above was also lit by what appeared to be a cheery fire, but there was no answer at the door. She huffed and knocked again. Briefly, she had the foolish notion that those within could somehow tell she was of the Hawthorne line, and were refusing to answer on principle. Of course that was absurd; she was so heavily bundled in winter clothing that it would be impossible to tell who she was unless they stood just in front of her. Still, no one answered.

  Thinking of poor old Arthur, waiting and freezing with the sleigh, Eleanor turned to go. Arthur would say it was all for the best that those within had not answered Eleanor and she and Arthur would be forced to walk back the way they had come; to the Albemarles’ house, over a mile away. Eleanor shot a last, sullen look over her shoulder at the house, and picked her way down the front stair. The steps were treacherous with snow and ice and she clung to the railing.

  “Oh, hello there,” a voice called from somewhere off to the left. The sudden voice caught Eleanor by surprise, so that she did not see a patch of ice on the final step, directly beneath her foot. Her boot slipped and her feet shot out from under her. Eleanor lost her grip on the railing and landed quite indignantly on her bottom in the snow.

  ~.~

  David had not expected the woman to have such a violent reaction to his innocuous greeting. He stepped forward quickly, but was too far away to save her in time. Hopefully, some of the padding of her winter attire had softened the fall, but the lady’s shoulders shook with the telltale signs of sobbing. Tendrils of dark chestnut hair peeked from beneath her fashionable hat. Feeling guilty for startling her, he approached.

  Had his mother not stressed to him that ladies were delicate creatures? She was dressed like a lady, but the trail through the snow behind her suggested she was made of stern stuff.

  “Goodness. Are you all quite right?” David asked concerned. “Here, let me help you.” He set his lantern down beside the front step and reached out his hand. The lantern’s soft glow lit the snow and the young woman’s face .David realized she was not crying at all; she was laughing. He could not help grinning at her in return as he took hold of her hand and helped her to regain her feet. She had a bubbling infectious laugh that reached all the way to her rather exotic violet eyes. Most of the ladies of the Ton would have been in tears after such a fall, but she was laughing. He could not help but share her mirth.

  The lady’s cheeks were rosy, as if she had been outside for quite some time. She wiped tears of humor, from her eyes, with a delicate kid-gloved hand, before she focused her full attention on him.

  “Only my dignity has taken a blow,” she said lightly. Her voice was different from her laugh. It was husky, almost rasping, with a timber of strength to it. She settled herself, and any doubt that the young woman was not a lady quickly disappeared. “Pray tell, are you the Firthley’s stable master?” she asked. “My sleigh has run into some misfortune and lay damaged perhaps just over a quarter a mile hence. My driver and I are in desperate need of assistance, if you would be so kind?”

  At first taken aback, David looked down at himself. He was in his most shabby great coat, the one his mother begged him to be rid of, but it was also his favorite for riding. The sleeves were a little short on him, not due to outgrowing it, but because the coat had not been specially tailored for his long arms, as was required of most of his garments. The riding breeches were marred with the usual stains of time spent within a stable. He had not been mucking out stalls, of course, but had spent the day exercising the horses, and seeing they were properly cared for in this cold weather. Truthfully, he liked horses better than some people he knew. Given his appearance if the lady mistook him for a servant, it was through no fault of her own.

  “Heavens, where are my manners?” David said as he stepped back and dipped his head toward her. A cascade of snow fell from the brim of his hat when he removed it. “Please allow me to introduce myself. I am David William Firthley; eldest son of Adolphus Firthley, The Earl of Perrilyn, upon whose door you have just been knocking.”

  The lady stood up a bit straighter. He thought she was about to introduce herself, but she surprised him, by wrinkling her nose with disappointment.

  “Then you have not the faintest idea how to fix a broken stanchion? How distressing. Is there no one here that might be of use?”

  She looked past him, as if expecting just such a useful person to suddenly appear. David, used to a rather different reaction to introducing himself, was more than a little perturbed. He was after all the son of an earl.

  “I am certainly capable of repairing a broken sleigh,” he said, stiffly.

  That at least was true. He had a knack for things made of wood or metal, and had always enjoyed tinkering, until his father deemed such activity an unworthy pursuit and forbid him from continuing in that vein. But even his father could not pry David from his horses, although he had tried, stating that riding hunters was one thing, caring for them daily quite another.

  “Simply give me a moment to gather the necessary tools,” David said.

  ~.~

  The man seemed to be knowledgeable despite the fact that he was a gentleman; the first son of the Firthley household no less. Would he have helped her if he knew she was a Hawthorne? Eleanor wondered. She decided to keep her own counsel. The young Lord Firthley did not need to know who she was. She only needed his assistance for this one problem and then she would be on her way. No one ever need know that they had even met. Eleanor would certainly not tell her parents and he could not tell what he did not know.

  Lord Firthley bent to retrieve his lantern and turned toward the carriage house and the stables. Eleanor followed him just behind, his towering form. He turned abruptly and she found herself suddenly face to face with him, or rather her face to near the center of his chest. She felt a blush heat her cheeks. Lud, he was tall.

  “Oh,” he said as took a hasty step back.

  “Well, you cannot expect me to stand
here waiting in the cold?” she snapped to cover her embarrassment. She could not help but notice he had soft friendly brown eyes. He did not look at all the monstrous villain her family had painted of the Firthleys, and he had offered his aid.

  “I will be far warmer moving about. Besides, it is already growing dark.” She pursed her lips, expecting a Firthley to argue, but he merely nodded once and proceeded towards the carriage house. Eleanor tucked her gloved hands into the sleeves of her coat. She wished she had brought her muff, but she had left it back in the sleigh. The sudden flush of warmth seemed to have left her even more chilled than before, and she shivered.

  Eleanor followed Lord Firthley at a bit more of a distance this time. His long stride broke easily through the snow and she stayed in the path behind him. His lithe form seemed quite fit, moreso than most of the dandies she had danced with at various parties. He was not just a Firthley she reminded herself. He was the Firthley heir. She determinedly fixed her eyes on their destination.

  The carriage house was not far from the manor, closer than the stables in fact, and a single light hung beside the door. Without the light, the low building would have been hidden by the increasing force of the oncoming storm. It was difficult to tell what snow was falling and what was blowing up from the ground. There was no tree cover on the path to the carriage house, and the wind buffeted them, sending Eleanor’s small form bumping into Lord Firthley during a particularly violent gust. He caught her, a delicate bundle of soft clothing, and they hastily drew apart both blushing furiously.