A Baron for Becky

by Jude Knight

Her Grace repeated again. “A small barony, far in the future, when Overton and His Royal Highness are both dead, compared to a large and valuable present from the Orient, here and now.”

  “Rugs, lamps, and furniture from His Grace of Winshire,” Becky agreed. “He has been very generous. And I’m grateful, too, that His Grace of Haverford has withdrawn his opposition.”

  Aldridge and Her Grace exchanged glances. Aldridge had no idea what his mother had said, but His Grace had taken himself off to Margate, after telling his supporters to vote in favour or abstain.

  “You and Winshire are old friends, seemingly,” Aldridge said to Her Grace, expecting the comment to be ignored, as it had been every other time he’d made it these past weeks.

  But Her Grace surprised him. “It is not a secret, Aldridge. Enough people must remember. We met when I was seventeen. He danced with me at my first ball, and from that moment, I had eyes only for him, and he for me.

  “But he was a second son. My father accepted Haverford and rejected James... Lord James Winderfield, he was then. James, foolish man, challenged Haverford to a duel. Swords. They were both wounded, and it was thought Haverford might die. Lord James’s father sent him overseas. There was a great scandal.”

  She paused. Aldridge thought she had finished speaking.

  “James... we were told he had been killed by bandits. So I married Haverford, and I have you and Jonathan, Aldridge, dear, and you have both been a great joy to me, so no doubt it has all been for the best.”

  And now the rejected second son had come home and was Winshire. No wonder he and his successful rival had barely spoken to one another these past two years.

  The door was flung open, and they didn’t have to ask Overton for the news; it was written boldly on his face.

  “We won!” Aldridge said, beaming, but Overton disagreed.

  “You won,” he said to the duchess, and forgot himself enough to give her a great hug. “Thank you, thank you.” He then recollected himself and stepped back, shifting from foot to foot as he apologised. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace.”

  The duchess, though, was flushed and beaming. “Not at all, dear Overton. I quite think of you as a son, you know. Which is to my advantage, of course, since if you and Becky are my adopted children, then your daughters are my grandchildren, just as it should be. And our dear Belle will be a baroness.” She smiled with great satisfaction. “Who would have guessed that, Becky, my love, when we first met?”

  “Not I, Aunt Eleanor, certainly,” Becky returned. She had only part of her attention on the duchess, stealing looks at Overton, who was not even pretending to listen, simply grinning at his wife like a fool.

  The duchess laughed at them both. “Go and kiss your husband, child. It does my heart good to see you together.”

  Becky needed no further encouragement, and she and Overton were soon locked in an embrace that did Aldridge’s heart no good at all. It made him maudlin. He’d need to be either drunk or properly bedded, and soon. Both, probably.

  He started when his mother touched his arm. “You did a good thing, Aldridge, putting the two of them together. Overton needed her, and she needed him. You did well.”

  He smiled, then. Yes. Mama was right, as always. Overton and Becky were good for one another, and his daughter—his goddaughter, he corrected himself, careful even in his thoughts—would grow up heiress to a barony. And all because Becky had dared to dream, and Aldridge had made her dream come true.

  Suddenly much happier, he grinned. He had a dream of his own, the same one Becky had outlined for him long ago. If he dared reach for it.

  Meanwhile, the world was full of beautiful women just waiting to be pleased—or at least pleasured—and the Merry Marquis was the man for the job.

  Epilogue

  Home was best.

  London had been a triumph, and Becky had thoroughly enjoyed the house party at Longford Court afterwards, as had the girls. The weather was glorious, the schoolroom on holiday, and the visiting families mustered nearly two score of children between them. The nursery floor was crowded to overflowing, and Lady Daisy Redepenning was promoted to a second-floor bedchamber which she shared with Sophie, Sarah and Antonia.

  Indeed, Sophie and Sarah were upstairs this minute writing letters to those dear friends. And Belle had wept when parted from Lady Mary Redepenning, a spare three months her junior. But home was best. The girls had erupted from the house this morning to rush around the garden, reclaiming their favourite play places. Becky sympathised. She might not shout and run, but she found herself moving around the house, running her hand along the back of the chairs in the parlour, reordering the flowers in the bowl in the hall, straightening an ornament here and a cushion there.

  The parlour needed no more attention than any other room, but she twitched a fringe on a tablecloth, shaped the carvings at the side of the mantelpiece with her finger, and tucked a rose more firmly into the bowl of flowers on the sideboard.

  Becky was startled by an unexpected noise. Snuffling behind the curtain proved to be a miserable little girl, curled up on the cushioned seat in the deep window embrasure.

  “Belle, baby, whatever is the matter?” She swept her daughter onto her lap. At three and a half, Lady Isabelle Overton normally strongly objected to being called ‘baby,’ and Becky measured the child’s distress by her willingness to overlook her mother’s slip of the tongue.

  “The big girls told me not to bother them, Mama,” Belle complained, “and I miss Mary.”

  “We shall invite her to visit, dearest. And when you learn your letters you will write to her.”

  “But that will be forever,” wailed the child.

  “I know! I shall find you some paper and you shall draw her a picture!”

  When Hugh joined them they were at her desk in his study, Becky leafing through a pile of correspondence, Belle working intently on a drawing for her friend that looked like a collection of misshapen blotches, but was really, so Belle said, an image of the carriage that had brought them home.

  “Becky, my love, I thought I’d ride out. Just for a look around.” Becky smiled. Hugh, too, felt the need to circle his estate and reassure himself that home was still home.

  “Take Belle?” she suggested. Lord Chirbury rode out most days with his son and heir. The Earl’s tenants had known their future lord and master since he was old enough to perch on the saddle before his father, and at nearly seven, young Viscount Longford already expressed opinions about the wool clip and the wheat harvest.

  “The Overton tenants should get to know their future lady, Hugh.”

  Hugh chuckled, and ran an affectionate hand over his daughter’s head, who brushed it away, intent on her drawing. “She need not worry about the estate, Becky. We shall find her a good husband, when the time comes.”

  What a typically male thing to say. “Belle will be the baroness, Hugh. In her own right. She will be responsible for passing on the title and the estate, intact and improved, to her children. Belle. Not her husband.”

  Hugh looked wary, as well he might. “I only meant...”

  “Do you think women are less competent than men?”

  “No, but...”

  “Or less intelligent?”

  Hugh shook his head. “Definitely not.”

  “More fragile, perhaps?” she asked, sweetly. “Or do you believe your daughter less capable than Lord Chirbury’s son?”

  Hugh spread his hands in defeat.

  “Very well. I surrender. You are right, heart of my heart. You are the least fragile person I know. And you and I working together run this estate and the mill better than ever I could on my own. We shall train our daughter. Though, what the tenants will make of it, I do not know.” He turned to the little girl.

  “Lady Isabelle Overton, is today a good day for your first lesson in how to be a baroness?”

  Belle looked up at the use of her full name, eyes slowly refocusing. “Papa?” she asked, not sure what he was asking.

&n
bsp; “Would you care to ride with your Papa, my sweet?” he asked.

  With the little girl on one arm, Hugh stopped to give his wife a fierce hug. “We will not go far today, Becky.”

  He brought Belle home two hours later, tired but starry eyed, chattering so fast about what she and Papa had done and seen, and who they had met, Becky could only understand one word in three.

  “Belle seemed to enjoy herself,” she said to Hugh, as she finished dressing for dinner, and he lounged against the wall of her dressing room to watch.

  “We visited the Turners and the Wilsons, and we met up with Mrs Dean and her son bringing in the cows. They love her already, Becky. They all knew about the Letters Patent, and they are as happy as we.”

  She smiled at his image in the mirror. “I am so glad, Hugh.”

  “Do you know why?” She turned to face him, and shook her head.

  “Turner told me. He said she is the image of you, Becky, and if she grows up to be just like you, then Overton is safe for another generation.”

  Becky’s smile widened into a grin, and she held her hands out to her husband, blinking away happy tears.

  He bridged the gap for a kiss that lingered and deepened, leaving her breathless. The physical attraction between them was never far below the surface. The lightest touch, even a look, reminded them of the joys they found in one another. Another kiss and they would be late for dinner. And not for the first time. The cook would not be amused.

  Hugh’s next words sealed the cook’s fate. “I agree with Turner. I hope Belle grows up to be just like you. I am so proud to be your husband, Becky.”

  Becky opened her arms to her baron. There would be other dinners.

  THE END

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  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to my beta readers: Carol, Sue, Jocelyn, Tray-Ci, Sandy, Angie, Cathy, Jo, Jocelyn, Jan, and Doreen. Your comments and suggestions led to many changes that made the book stronger.

  Thank you to Catherine Curzon, who played a story game with me and created the germ of the idea. My Becky is no Mrs A., but Catherine will recognise one or two of the events that prevented Aldridge from consummating his desires before he arrived in London with Becky, and the concept of a man brokering a marriage for his mistress also came out of our game.

  Thank you to fellow Bluestocking Belles, especially Mari and Carol, who let me ramble on about plot ideas, talked me through holdups and hiccups, and encouraged me when I panicked.

  Mari also worked with me through multiple rounds of editing, fitting this into a tight timeframe without a word of complaint.

  As always, a special thank you to my husband, without whose support I would probably forget to eat when I get stuck in the early nineteenth century, and to my sister Sue, who is always my first reader.

  Bluestocking Belles

  If you love historical romance, then you’ll love the Bluestocking Belles.

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  The Belles have committed to publishing at least one box set per year, the first in time for the 2015 holiday season. Proceeds from the Belles’ joint projects go to the Malala Fund, to support education for young bluestockings around the world.

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  The Bluestocking Belles have chosen the Malala Fund as the charity we support, and to which we donate communal royalties. Periodically, we take on projects intended to directly support this cause, which exemplifies our personal values and intentions: the right of girls and women to do whatever they choose with their lives.

  For more information about the Malala Fund and the founder, Malala Yousafzai, winner of the 2014 Nobel Peace Prize, go to www.Malala.org

  Published books

  Candle’s Christmas Chair

  When Viscount Avery comes to see the best invalid chair maker in the southwest of England he does not expect to find Minerva Bradshaw, the woman who rejected him three years earlier. Or did she? Older and wiser, he wonders if there is more to the story.

  For three years, Min Bradshaw has remembered the handsome guardsman who courted her for her fortune. She didn't expect to see him in her workshop, and she certainly doesn't intend to let him fool her again. Even if he is handsomer and more charming than ever.

  Farewell to Kindness: Book 1 of The Golden Redepennings

  Rede believes he has turned his back on compassion and mercy. But he is distracted from the hunt for those who killed his family by his growing attraction for Anne. His feelings for her are a weakness. Or could they instead be a source of strength?

  Anne protected her family from scandal and worse by changing their identity. Can she keep Rede from discovering who they are? Can she give him her heart without trusting him? Can she trust him when he has closed himself off to love?

  When their enemies link forces, Rede and Anne must face the past in order to claim the future.

  (Excerpt below)

  Coming in 2016

  A Raging Madness: Book 2 of The Golden Redepennings

  When Alex Redepenning comes to the funeral of Ella Melville’s mother-in-law, he does not expect Ella to turn up in his bedroom, seeking help. They have met twice in the last ten years: once when she married one of Alex’s fellow officers under dubious circumstances, and once when she arrived too late to attend her husband’s deathbed. They parted rancorously each time.

  After what he said at their last meeting Ella had hoped never to see Alex again, but an overheard clandestine conversation leaves her with nowhere else to turn.

  Danger follows them; Ella’s in-laws want her confined to Bedlam, and someone wants Alex dead. Joining forces is sensible. If they can survive their enemies, the only risk is to their hearts.

  Encouraging Prudence: Book 1 of The Virtue Sisters

  David and Prudence, operatives for one of England’s shadowy spymasters, are sent to investigate a spying ring that blackmails aristocrats for access to secrets. Both find friends and family too close to the investigation for comfort, including David’s brothers (the legitimate sons of the duke who sired him).

  After what happened last time they worked together, both David and Prue are determined they won’t surrender to the strong physical attraction between them. They’re professionals. They’ll find the blackmailer and the spy behind him, and part again.

  It is not until the danger that lurks in Bristol takes Prue that David realises what she means to him. But finding her again may mean choosing between his country and his woman.

  Lord Danwood’s Dilemma: Book 1 of Danwood’s Daughters

  On inheriting from a distant cousin who had no sons, Anthony Simon Wentworth, the new Earl of Danwood, finds his predecessor had a unique way of stacking the odds so that a grandson of his would one day be Earl. Tony has inherited the title and the entailed land, but has no way to support it. To win th
e non-entailed wealth, he must marry and have a child with one of the former Lord Danwood’s eight daughters.

  The legitimate daughters live at Danwood Castle in the North York Moors, and in a nearby coastal village, the former Earl had a second family by his wife’s sister. The eldest daughter, Sophia, keeps life on an even keel for her two sisters and two brothers, despite a lack of money and the general disapproval of the village.

  Tony thinks he will settle the by-blows somewhere out of sight and marry one of the legitimate daughters. But he is distracted by the need to rescue his baseborn relatives from smugglers, the coastguard, an angry farmer or two, the machinations of their aunt—and his growing appreciation of the feisty Sophia.

  Farewell to Kindness—excerpt

  Prologue

  London, 1801

  George was drunk. But not nearly drunk enough. He still saw his young friend’s dying eyes everywhere. In half-caught glimpses of strangers reflected in windows along Bond Street, under the hats of coachmen that passed him along the silent streets to Bedford Square, in the flickering lamps that shone pallidly against the cold London dawn as he stumbled up the steps to his front door.

  They followed his every waking hour: hot, angry, hate-filled eyes that had once been warm with admiration.

  He drank to forget, but all he could do was remember.

  One more flight of stairs, then through the half-open door to his private sitting-room, already reaching for the waiting decanter of brandy as he crossed the floor.

  He had a glass of oblivion halfway to his lips before he noticed the painting.

  It stood on an easel, lit by a carefully arranged tree of candles. George’s own face was illuminated—the golden shades of his hair, his intensely blue eyes. The artist had captured his high cheekbones and sculpted jaw. “One of London’s most beautiful men,” he’d been called.