The Ladies’ Secrets: A Historical Regency Romance Box Set

by Ayles, Abby

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of yourself,” Elizabeth had replied. “At least men know that I have substance in my head.”

  Natalie had been so certain that she would be proposed to. She had tried every trick that she knew to appeal to the men who had come calling and whom she had called upon with her sister.

  Yet here she was, with Lord and Lady Morrison’s masquerade ball nearly upon them. And she had yet to be proposed to.

  The latest man, Mr. Gentley, had been perfectly charming when Natalie had seen him last. They had danced twice with one another at the last ball she had attended.

  He had been very attentive to her. He’d seemed to greatly enjoy her comments about the other dancers assembled. When she had coyly told him that he must wait another five turns before he could dance with her again he had laughed.

  And so, Bridget, through Father, had extended an invitation for him to come calling. Mr. Gentley had come and she had made sure they were served tea.

  Bridget had then been kind enough to sit in the corner and read a book, only interjecting occasionally. It was as alone as Mr. Gentley, or any suitor, and Natalie could be.

  She had started by engaging him about some gossip she had heard regarding a Miss Florisant.

  Yet Mr. Gentley hadn’t wanted to talk about that.

  Instead he had asked her about things such as household staffing. Had she ever hosted a ball of her own? What sort of books did she read? Did she enjoy sewing?

  Sewing! Sewing was Regina’s hobby, not Natalie’s. It was as though Mr. Gentley did not know her at all.

  Or, worse, that he thought the way that she was at balls was merely a front. That she was hiding herself in order to appeal to a man at a ball and was another way at home. Or—and this was the worst possibility of all! Perhaps he wanted her to simply change who she was now that marriage was on the table.

  Natalie couldn’t stand that idea.

  In any case, conversation had come to a standstill. She had faltered horribly. What could she discuss besides dancing and gossip?

  Bridget had to step in. It was mortifying for Natalie to watch her sister sweep in to save the conversation.

  Surely, she could continue a conversation with a gentleman for the space of an hour or two?

  Yet, Mr. Gentley had left looking as though he had turned to wood. Stiff, his eyes without expression. His complexion was even, however. He did not look pale or flushed.

  In other words, he looked like a man climbing out of love rather than one falling deeper into it.

  “We are about to be ruined,” Bridget said. She ran her fingertips over the spines of the books on the shelves.

  She had always enjoyed books. As had Regina, actually. Natalie hadn’t seen much point to them. Talking to other people was far more interesting.

  “You talk as if I’m unaware of this fact,” Natalie replied.

  “You behave as though you are unaware of this fact,” Bridget said.

  “If I’m to wed then I need to have some measure of compatibility with my husband, do I not?”

  “Normally, yes,” Bridget said. “But we no longer have the luxury of that choice.

  “Louisa is encouraging Elizabeth to marry Mr. Denny—whether she is amicable to him or not. I am to choose a husband by the time of the masquerade ball, whether I like it or not.

  “I hope that Elizabeth is amicable to Mr. Denny. He is a fine man. And I suspect he has a greater backbone hidden beneath his modesty than most people give him credit for.

  “And I hope that I shall be able to choose someone for whom I feel some fondness. That has always been my goal.

  “But we have no choice anymore. Do you not understand that? We may hate our husbands but if they are of means and name and they propose, we have to say yes.

  “If we do not… Natalie.” Bridget turned to look her dead in the eye. “Do not make me tell you what will happen if we do not.”

  Natalie could see the frustration in her sister’s eyes. That did not startle her. What did startle her was the panic.

  Bridget never panicked. She was calm, even after Mother’s death.

  Natalie would never forget that day.

  She had been fighting with Elizabeth over something and desperately wishing for Mother to come home. Everything was better when Mother was around. Louisa was livelier, and Elizabeth was gentler. Father was happy. Baby Regina grew bolder.

  Miss Cora had been visiting. She was an old friend, though Natalie knew not what had happened to her after Mother’s death. It was all a blur. The messenger had arrived.

  Bridget had taken the letter, Miss Cora reading over her shoulder. Those two had done everything together.

  After reading it, Bridget had gone very still. Miss Cora had wrapped her arms around her from behind, offering comfort. The intimate touch had told Natalie all she needed to know: something was dreadfully wrong.

  But Bridget had not cried. Had not panicked. She had leaned into Miss Cora for a moment, and then pulled away and told her sisters,

  “Sweethearts, I’m afraid we need to talk. Please gather in the drawing room while I speak with Father. I’ll be right back.”

  And that had been that.

  All through the funeral and the mourning. All through handling Father as he spiraled. All through raising Regina. Bridget had never once panicked.

  Yet, here, now, there was cold fear fluttering in her blue eyes like a trapped butterfly.

  Natalie let out the breath she was holding and dismissed what she was going to say. It was petulant anyhow. Instead she nodded meekly.

  “Yes, Bridget, I understand,” she said. “The next man that arrives, I shall do my best to please him.”

  Never mind that she had been doing what she could to please her suitors. Bridget evidently thought she hadn’t been, and that was what mattered.

  Natalie squared her shoulders. She could do this. She could surely charm at least one man into marrying her.

  Couldn’t she?

  Chapter 2

  John Ridgecleff, heir to the Earldom of Mountbank, was finding himself in rather dire straits.

  He stared at the letter he had just received from England. He had been passing his time quite pleasantly in the Continent. The museums, the masters, the scholars!

  What more could a man of leisure possibly want in life? He had thought it only best to spend his youth soaking up the pleasures here. Italy, France, Switzerland, Belgium, and all the rest. Surely there was nothing wrong with that.

  And yet here was a letter from his father, speaking quite to the contrary.

  Dear John, the letter began,

  I hope that you are still at your hotel by the time this letter reaches you. I shall assume it has, and if I do not hear from you, shall presume you are ignoring my instructions.

  My entreaties that you return home have fallen upon deaf ears time and again. I understand that Europe has its temptations. The land is lovely, the history and art are of a fine nature, and I hear the women can be art in and of themselves.

  But it has been years since you have last darkened the door of your home. You are the heir to this land. It is time that you learned how to run it.

  Your sister and younger brother shall loathe to hear I admit this, but I am not well. They protest I have many years in me yet. I am not so certain.

  The pressing of my years upon me turns my mind to the matter of inheritance, more strongly than it has before. Edward has been helping me about the house and grounds these last few years. While you have been wiling away your time on frivolities, he has been the wall upon which I could lean.

  Even more concerning than your lack of presence and care in your duties as heir are the reports I receive of your behavior. If the women of the gentry should learn you are a rake, not a one of them shall have you.

  The ones that will still have you, of course, will not be the sort of women you want in charge of such a fine estate as Mountbank.

  You always spoke of wanting a sensible woman as your brid
e. You spoke of wanting one to accompany you on walks and read with you. What has changed you so that you indulge in playing with women like this?

  It breaks my heart that you seem to have no care for how you treat others or for carrying on your family legacy.

  I insist that you come home and show you are earnest in being the heir. This includes taking a wife. I shall expect you to return home in a month’s time with a well-bred and betrothed woman accompanying you and an earnestness in your heart for the hard work being a keeper of this fine land requires.

  If you fulfill neither of these duties—if you bring home a stupid, selfish woman, or if you bring home no woman at all, or if you show nothing but laziness and disinterest for the estate—then I shall disinherit you.

  Do not think that I do this in jest. It breaks my heart to write this. I have locked myself in my study at a late hour, so that your siblings might not stumble upon me in my current state.

  But my feelings of sadness must be pushed aside to do what must be done for the good of the estate. We are lords, John. We are tasked with upholding the tenants that keep the government running and taking care of England’s land and her people.

  Some men may take this duty lightly. I am not one of those men.

  You must prove to me your worthiness, or I shall instate Edward in your place. I know that he has long held a wish to travel as well. I know that doing this will upset everyone. And I do not wish to cause you pain or demote you in any way.

  But I must think of Mountbank’s future. I will not have our family’s legacy driven to ruin. If you will not rise up and be the man I know you can be, then I shall have to put your brother up in your stead.

  Please, do not disappoint me in this. I hope beyond words that you will prove me wrong. But do not think that I will not hesitate to make good on my threat, either.

  You have one month. I shall appreciate you writing me with updates to let me know you have received my letter and so forth. But in any case, if after one month I have not heard from you and you have not come home to fulfill my conditions, you shall be my heir no longer.

  * * *

  I remain,

  Fitzwilliam Ridgecleff

  * * *

  John supposed he was lucky that his father hadn’t bothered to list all of his official titles.

  He cast the letter aside, trying to ignore how his hands trembled. His father was trying to be gentle with his words. John suspected his sister Emma had her hand in that. Emma had long tried to be the peacekeeper between John and their father.

  It had only gotten worse after Mother had died. Father had always been stern with John but without Mother there to soften his temper he’d only gotten worse.

  Could he really—could anyone—blame John for fleeing to the Continent and staying there while he could?

  A part of him wanted to write Father and tell him to hang it all. He wasn’t going to be called home like a wayward dog and lectured like a child.

  But the idea of losing his inheritance…

  It made his blood run cold. He nearly had to sit down.

  Without his inheritance, he had nothing. His father wasn’t disowning him completely so he still had his family name at the least. It was a kindness.

  But without his inheritance he should have to enlist in the Army or Navy, or quickly become a lawyer. He might even have to enter the clergy.

  An eldest son, and of an earl, forced to swiftly take up an occupation to sustain himself?

  He would be a laughingstock. Oh, nobody would be so gauche as to do it to his face. He didn’t know of anyone rude enough for that.

  But behind his back? Oh, yes.

  He would find certain doors barred to him. Invitations would be fewer. Some of his higher-up acquaintances would find excuses not to see him.

  It would not be total disgrace, but it would be close enough.

  He could not bear it. He would not bear it.

  There was no choice for it then, in the end. He would have to fulfill his father’s conditions.

  Coming home and helping to run the estate and learning how to occupy his inherited position would be the easy part. He had never truly wanted to evade it. Although his behavior might suggest otherwise.

  He would come to enjoy his duties. He was sure of it. Edward would be grateful and eager to help as well. His brother had written John a few times, expressing envy of his brother’s travels and freedom. This would afford Edward the opportunity to travel on his own at last.

  It would do him marvelous good to see Emma as well. She had inherited all of their mother’s shy grace and sweet, demure nature. A kinder and more thoughtful creature, John was certain, had never lived. She could help him in winning Father’s good graces back.

  No, it was not the prospect of the duties or of seeing his siblings that concerned him.

  It was more Father and his temperament, and the matter of a wife.

  John had been in no hurry to wed. He was not a woman, her bloom of youth there and gone in one season. He could afford to bide his time.

  Or so he had thought. Apparently, according to his father, time was something he did not have.

  And yes, he might have flirted around a bit. But how could he help it when many women he’d met were so vapid?

  He wanted a sensible wife, someone quiet and thoughtful, someone he could debate with. His father was right, he wanted someone to read with, to discuss things with, to go on walks with.

  Many women just seemed far more interested in dresses and gossip and the like. He couldn’t stand that.

  However, many women were also beautiful and good at flirting while at balls.

  So why not flirt back? Why not indulge himself? And if sometimes he indulged himself a little too much, well, what of it?

  Except that now he was out of time and needed to compress what would usually be months of courtship and selection into one month.

  John raked a hand through his hair in frustration. How was he to find someone in so short of a time?

  Then his eye fell upon the second letter he had received that morning.

  It was from Lord and Lady Morrison, who had long been acquaintances of his family. It was an invitation, done up in gold leaf, to their masquerade ball. Their masquerade ball was held annually and was considered by many to be the party of the year.

  If anyone would know of possible ladies for him, it would be the Morrisons. They knew everyone that there was to know. Indeed, they often knew things about people that they shouldn’t.

  He would find a wife at the masquerade ball, if not before. He would write to Father to let him know that he had received his letter.

  Then he would write to Lord Morrison and ask him and his wife to please reply with a list of eligible young ladies who would serve him well as the mistress of Mountbank.

  He could call upon these ladies in between now and the ball—but if nothing else, he did have the ball. Surely in the swirl of people he could find someone of good breeding who was to his tastes.

  John’s hands ceased trembling. This was nothing that he could not overcome. All he needed was to find a woman pleasing to the eye, with a good family name, who could stir in him the beginnings of fondness.

  He did not even ask for love, at least not at first. Just a nature that he found agreeable.

  And how hard could it be, really, to find a wife for an earl?

  Chapter 3

  The answer to that question was: very hard.

  John would have thought that his family name alone would grant him the favors of any unmarried lady.

  He had not been wrong in this, at least not entirely. Various women were ready and willing to be wooed by him. However, some of their fathers had heard of his exploits in the Continent and were less inclined.

  Furthermore, those who were so inclined had daughters who annoyed him to no end. Not one of them had beauty to justify their lack of brains. Those who did have brains turned them to cattiness rather than true wit and learning.

  Joh
n despaired. Where was the grace, the poise, the accomplishments? What had happened to young women while he’d been gone from England?

  Perhaps he was an old fogey, as Emma had sometimes liked to tease him. But was it really too much to ask that he wish for a wife who was sensible, capable of running a household, and enjoyed reading and his company? He wanted a woman of substance, not some ornament he could show off at parties. He wanted a proper life partner.

  Lord Morrison, when John wrote him of his despair, was sympathetic.

  My dear friend, I can well understand your frustrations. I would advise you to perhaps turn your attentions to the Hartfield family.

  There are five daughters among them. One is spoken for, although propriety forbids me from saying to whom, but the other four are quite unattached.

  The eldest, Bridget, is as sensible and controlled a young lady as you will ever meet. She is one of the few one can label as truly accomplished.

  However, while Bridget is said to be the brightest star of them all the other three are quite lovely.

  The second youngest has the wit you seek, Miss Elizabeth. Some find her a little too liberal with her words but I dare say you’ll find her a fair match for yourself.

  The very youngest, Miss Regina, loves reading and solitude. She could do to learn to stand up for herself. She is of a stronger temperament than she gives herself credit for. But I think that only commends her.

  The third, Natalie, you might find to your tastes. She is quick-witted and intelligent. She has captured the attention of many a man. And she is widely regarded to be the most beautiful.

  I believe that their family is scattered at the moment. However, as you are attending our masquerade ball, I can be sure to make the necessary introductions.

  One of them will surely be to your liking. Both my wife and I have known the family for many years and care greatly for all of them.

  The letter then continued on into other matters.

  John focused in on the part about the Hartfield family. Five of them, and only one spoken for? How odd. Surely if they were as lovely as Lord Morrison claimed, they would have all been engaged by this point?