Andrew muttered something but left them alone at last, just Edward, Olivia, the fire, and pages and pages to read together.
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Annette Lyon is a Whitney Award winner, a three-time recipient of Utah’s Best of State medal for fiction, and a four-time publication award winner from the League of Utah Writers, including the Silver Quill Award in 2013 for Paige. She’s the author of more than a dozen novels, almost as many novellas, several nonfiction books, and over one hundred twenty magazine articles. Annette is a cum laude graduate from BYU with a degree in English. When she’s not writing, knitting, or eating chocolate, she can be found mothering and avoiding the spots on the kitchen floor.
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Chapter One
Bishopbourne, England, October 1819
Eleanora Whitticomb half walked, half ran across the meadow leading from the stables to her father’s stately country manor. The riding crop dangling from her hand swung jauntily as she breathed in the crisp autumn air and enjoyed the season’s splendor, bursting all around her in burnished gold and the brilliant reds of Goresley Wood. She loved this time of year; she loved her home. And on glorious mornings like this, she loved life.
If only Mother and Father were here to enjoy it with me.
As quick as it had come, she pushed the melancholy thought from her mind. It was too beautiful a day to feel sad. She would not allow it. Pulling the ribbon from her hair, she shook her tousled curls loose and forced a smile to her face. Her mother likely was enjoying the changing season, watching over her from heaven.
And Father . . . Ella sighed. Father was enjoying other grandeur right now. Perhaps even this very minute standing in the stirrups of his camel—
Do camels have stirrups? Perhaps not.
She amended the picture in her mind and imagined her father leaning forward on his camel to better view the pyramids rising in the distance.
Someday she would view those pyramids too, as well as the other wonders Father traveled to see. She was twenty now—just last week—and surely her gift from Father would be arriving any day. Soon he would keep his promise to send for her so she might accompany him on his adventures.
Though I shall miss the horses.
As she crossed the drive, her stomach growled, so she took the steps leading to the double doors two at a time and arrived not breathless, but with cheeks rosy with cold from her early morning ride, and with an appetite most young ladies would be ashamed of.
The front door swung open, and Peters welcomed her. “Pleasant morning, Lady Ella. I trust your ride was satisfactory.”
“Far more than that.” She removed her gloves and placed them in his outstretched hand. “Chance is coming along so well with his jumping, and the hillside is awash in color. You really must get up there to see it.”
“Perhaps some afternoon, if my duties allow,” Peters said formally as he closed the door behind her.
“I shall see to it that someone else attends to the door and the silver and whatever else it is keeping you indoors during such a marvelous season.” Ella reiterated the promise she made almost daily. That the butler never availed her of it did not surprise her, but neither did she understand his refusal to leave his post or the house. It wasn’t as if they ever had any visitors.
“A gentleman is here to see you,” Peters said, as if he’d discerned her thoughts and was eager to point out how imperative it was that he maintain his duties.
“A man? Here?” Ella’s brow furrowed, and her stomach growled again, reminding her of the scones waiting on the sideboard in the other room.
“A gentleman,” Peters corrected. “He comes bearing a letter for you and insists he is to give it to you personally. He has been waiting in the drawing room nearly an hour.”
“It must be from Papa!” Thoughts of breakfast fled as Ella raced across the foyer, slowed to a brisk, purposeful walk just before the doors, and entered her least favorite and the most seldom used room in the house. She walked directly to the stranger, rising from a stiff-backed chair near the empty fireplace.
“He sent you to bring my birthday present, personally, didn’t he?” She beamed at the messenger as she held her hand outstretched, her fingers practically itching to snatch the envelope held in the hand at his side. “Did he tell you where he’s going next? Where we’re going?”
The man did not return her smile, but appraised her most solemnly. “If by he, you are referring to Lord Benton—”
“Who?” She paused. The name was vaguely familiar. One of father’s friends? For the first time she considered that this messenger might be delivering something other than birthday greetings, something other than a ticket for her passage and the long-awaited invitation to join her father. But if not that, then—
“Has something happened?” That would account for the messenger’s aura of gloom. “Has Papa fallen off of his camel or had some other mishap?” Her chest squeezed with anxiety, though she told herself all was well. If he was hurt, it wouldn’t be the first time. Fortunately, nothing too serious had happened before. Only serious enough that he felt it too risky for me to accompany him. But Papa was getting older now and, in the years since her mother’s passing, reckless as well. If he is hurt—
“I am not aware of your father’s well-being at present. We are not acquainted,” the man said.
Ella felt further frustration—more with herself and Papa than the stranger. She should never have supposed that the man would know her father, as fine and fashionably as this gentleman was dressed. From his smartly tied silk cravat to the polished buttons on his double-breasted waistcoat to the tips of his shiny top boots, he looked as if he might have come straight from the social pages of London, something Father avoided at all costs. What sort of messenger dresses so fine?
“You are Lady Eleanora Theodosia Whitticomb?” The stranger tilted his head slightly to peer at the writing on the envelope still clutched stiffly in his hand.
She cringed at all twelve syllables of her name pronounced so distinctly. “Lady Ella, if you please.” Such pomp had been all her mother’s doing. Ella hadn’t even been able to pronounce her entire name until she was four, much less spell it. Now that she was grown, she could hardly stand it.
His brow furrowed, and his look turned quizzical as he studied her again, as if he were not entirely convinced of the truthfulness of her answer.
She felt a twinge of embarrassment and regret over her lack of manners. At the very least, they should have had a moment of introductions, but his identity seemed of less importance than the contents of the correspondence in his possession. It still might be from Papa. “Peters said you have a letter for me.” She glanced at his hand and noted that it remained at his side, slightly behind him, so as to be out of her reach. Does he intend to give the letter to me or not? “May I read it, please, to reassure myself that my father is well.”
“I know very little of your father, save his name and that he is given to wandering the Continent and beyond.” The man paused long enough to peer down his nose at her, as if he were accusing her of being the reason for Papa’s absence. “The message I bring is not from him, neither has it anything to do with him.”
“Oh.” Ella sagged in both relief and disappointment and let out a long breath. She dropped her hand to her side, no longer concerned with whatever the packet held. Though it did seem rather odd that he had not given it to her yet. For a messenger, he was not very efficient. “Why ever did you not say so earlier? And here I was imagining the worst.”
“I am doing more than imagining it,” the man muttered. Ella’s head jerked up at this, and she caught his ba
leful expression as he finished a more thorough perusal of her.
“Who are you, and what is it you want?” she demanded, pulling herself up to her full height and gripping the crop firmly. Gentlemen never called upon her—nor did ladies for that matter—and this one was a reminder of how very little she cared about that lack of attention.
“Mr. Alexander Darling.” He gave a slight bow.
Another ridiculous name. Nothing darling about him, she thought as he righted himself and his blue eyes fixed her with a piercing stare.
“I have been charged with personally delivering this letter to you. It is from a longtime and dear family friend, Lord Henry Benton—your affianced,” he added at her blank look.
“Lord Benton is dead.” Though I ought to have recognized his name. Ella narrowed her eyes, appraising the man as he had done her a moment earlier. “He died five years ago. I shall ever recall that I was forced to wear black during one of the hottest summers of record. Because Lord Benton foolishly challenged a man and got himself killed.”
“It is unwise to judge something you have no knowledge of,” Mr. Darling said, a hint of menace in his voice. “And unfortunate you feel so inconvenienced by your fiancé’s death.”
She’d barely felt that at the time. “Lord Benton and I were not well acquainted. We met only once, and I was quite young. But that is neither here nor there, as we both agree he is deceased . . .” She waved toward the parchment in Mr. Darling’s hand. “It would seem—”
“I agreed to nothing, except that I would deliver this letter, written by Lord Benton. Mr. Darling took a step toward her, swung his arm forward, and rather awkwardly thrust the envelope at her.
Ella snatched it from him, lest he change his mind. “It appears the dead have powers from the grave.” She dropped into the nearest chair, then broke the seal and tore the envelope open.
Bold, masculine handwriting sprawled across the page.
Dearest Eleanora,
Ella felt her face redden at being addressed thus, and moreover, by a man unknown to her.
If you are reading this letter, then you have arrived at your twentieth birthday and are yet unmarried. As your betrothed, I must apologize for this, as it is likely my fault you remain unwed. I beg of you to forgive me my folly. The rashness of my youth has not served me well. Perhaps you will understand; I seem to recall that you were of a similar temperament—at least as a child. It was one of the things, so many years ago, that gave me hope we might someday suit each other well.
Or be an absolute disaster together, Ella thought, then immediately felt absurd for thinking of this at all. Lord Benton was deceased and had been so for a quarter of her lifetime. So how is it I am in possession of his letter now? Hoping to discover why, she continued reading.
I recall visiting you when I was sixteen and you were seven. Your father returned from a trip and brought you a doll. You were quite vexed with him when he gave you the doll and then gave a fishing rod to the servant boy. You said you wanted to trade, and when your father would not allow it, you accused him of loving the servants more than his own child. I decided then that we might just get along famously when you grew up. I very much hope you still enjoy fishing in the pond near your home. You took me there once, and it is a memory I cherish to this day.
Unexpectedly, Ella felt her eyes smarting. She blinked, then briefly closed them. She hadn’t thought of that fishing trip for years, had barely remembered it until just now, and even then it was only the vaguest of images that played in her mind. She certainly hadn’t remembered that her companion that day was Lord Benton, but she recalled catching fish after fish, while the older boy she was with couldn’t seem to catch anything. That he, Lord Benton, should remember that day somehow touched her.
She glanced up and found Mr. Darling watching her. Annoyed at his intrusion in what felt like a private moment, she turned sideways on the chair, facing away from him, and continued reading.
Any young lady with that much skill has no doubt grown into an extraordinary woman—one who ought to be happily married.
I am happily unmarried, Ella thought.
And so it is that I request your presence in London, for the Duke of Salisbury’s November ball. If fate is willing, we shall be reacquainted there, and I shall at last discover if you dance as well as you fish.
With much affection,
Lord Henry Benton
Ella stared at the paper in her lap for several seconds while her normally placid emotions churned out of control. He remembers me. I am still betrothed. Impossible. He is dead! At last, with what she hoped was a composed expression, she turned in her chair and faced Mr. Darling once more.
“This letter is obviously a hoax. My father attended Lord Benton’s funeral. I was in mourning for an entire year.” Or she’d worn black at least. At fifteen, the news of her fiancé’s death had not caused sorrow. She’d not known anything of the man—their forgotten fishing excursion having been many years before.
Mother had told her not to fret, that she would find another to marry when she had her coming out. But when Mother had died the very next year, it became apparent there would be no Season. Father no longer had any use for London, and Ella had not felt much need for it either. She’d not mourned the loss of fancy gowns or balls. But along with no trips to the city, there had been no trips for her at all these past five years. Only lonely nights at home, while Father drowned his grief in traveling the world.
“I assure you, Lady Ella, it is no hoax.” Mr. Darling considered her a moment before continuing, “Furthermore, I am charged with escorting you to London Monday next.”
Ella rose from her seat. “You may uncharge yourself then, because I have no intention of going to London or any place else with you.” If only he’d been a messenger Father had sent. She took a step back, then walked swiftly toward the open doors. “If Lord Benton desires my company, he can remove himself from his resting place long enough to come visit me himself.” The image of a corpse rising from the grave sent an involuntary shiver down her spine.
As she opened her mouth to summon Peters to fetch Mr. Darling’s coat and hat, he brushed past her. Their arms touched for the briefest second, but long enough that she felt the heat radiating from him and caught the scent of whatever cologne he used.
He paused just outside the drawing room. “I will see myself out, and I will see you Monday morning. I assume you have a lady’s maid to travel with you as chaperone. Have yourself and your maid ready to depart by eight o’clock.” He turned away, walking toward the front doors, but continued talking to her as he went, much as she had done to him the moment before.
“I’ll be at the Woolpack Inn near Canterbury until then. Should you need assistance arranging for another chaperone, you may reach me there.” Mr. Darling collected his hat and coat from Peters without stopping, though he paused at the threshold and looked toward her once more.
“Lord Benton and I have been friends since childhood, and the bonds of that friendship compel me to do whatsoever he requests—including abducting his fiancée if need be.”
Chapter Two
Lord Gregory Benton removed his greatcoat and topper, placed them on the chair beside him, and sat down across from his brother-in-law at a table in the Woolpack Inn. “Tell me, Alexander, was your errand thus far as awkward as you feared it would be? How did the young lady receive your news?”
“She didn’t.” Alex sipped slowly from his mug of ale. “Eleanora Whitticomb is young, and her absentee father is a marquis, but going so far as to afford her the title of a lady is another matter entirely. She smelled like a horse.” And her wild mane of hair rather resembled one too.
“I should think that would have endeared her to you immediately,” Lord Benton said with a chuckle.
Alex sent him a sharp look. “It did not.” He wasn’t certain what he had been expecting Lady Eleanora to be like—a demure shut-in, shy and quiet perhaps. A young woman long forgotten and neglected and with only a life of
spinsterhood to look forward to. At the very least he had believed that as the daughter of a marquis she would be a well-bred, polite young lady.
The bold, vibrant female who had marched up to him and practically demanded that he surrender Henry’s letter had quite taken him by surprise, as had her ensemble. Women simply did not wear their hair in such disarray. And the top several buttons of her riding habit had been undone, revealing the white shirt beneath, while her skirt came well above her ankle and exposed a pair of breeches. He’d felt at once uncomfortable with her state of undress, and it caused him no little concern about the nature of her character.
“Did you explain to her why you’d come?” Gregory asked, sounding nonplussed. “It is difficult to imagine that a young lady so long in isolation would not be both grateful and excited for the opportunity of a trip to London—especially one whose cost is to be entirely sponsored by a benefactor.”
“Think again,” Alex said. “Lady Eleanora expressed nothing but displeasure at the idea.”
“I am astounded.” Gregory accepted a drink from the innkeeper, but instead of availing himself of it, leaned forward, apparently eager to hear details of the visit. “How did she react to my brother’s letter?”
“She did not believe it was from him,” Alex said, omitting the small detail of the reaction he had observed in her as she read the letter. For a woman who had claimed no attachment, she had been quite moved by something that Henry had written. Alex wondered if her reaction had surprised her as much as it had him. “I regret to tell you this, but she suffered no sorrow at his passing.”
Gregory nodded. “I suppose that is to be expected as they knew very little of each other. I once asked Henry if he regretted being bound to a marriage from such a young age.”
Timeless Regency Collection: A Midwinter Ball Page 17