Lord Darlington's Darling

by Gayle Buck

  Lord Darlington’s Darling

  Gayle Buck

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2014 © Gayle Buck

  All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Chapter One

  Lord Darlington, the Marquess of Darlington, Earl of Thursgood, the Viscount Hart, contemplated the gray wet day outside the lead-paned window with resignation. The gentle rain that was falling meant another afternoon spent inside. He’d had hopes of being able to take his gun and the spaniels out for a few hours of tramping in the home woods.

  Instead, he supposed, he would while away the hours with the estate ledgers. Once such a prospect would have filled him with acute foreboding, but now he felt only boredom. There would not be much to sustain his interest in such drudgery; gone were the days when it had taken all of his fortitude and determination to figure yet another way to avoid ruin. His saving grace during those nightmarish years had been his man of business, a trustworthy and competent fellow who had been delighted that the new marquess had no desire to follow in his sire’s footsteps and plunge the family further into the yawning abyss of debt. Years of struggle and discipline had finally retired the mortgages and made the young marquess into an excellent steward of his estate.

  Lord Darlington allowed a seldom-seen smile to touch his handsome aquiline face. The smile merely pointed up the weariness in his brown eyes, startling in one so young. Life had dealt him a harsh hand, but he had played it to the best of his ability. He had been all of fifteen when his father had been killed driving in an ill-fated curricle race. Desperate, still wet behind the ears, and not knowing where to turn, he had felt fear twisting his gut each and every day. The family had been on the verge of losing the roof over their heads, and he had been unable to turn to his mother for support and advice. The Dowager Lady Darlington, widowed with six children younger than her eldest son, with no knowledge of mortgages or other worldly concerns, had been helpless in the circumstances with which her husband’s death had left the family.

  At too young an age, Lord Darlington had inherited his father’s debts and responsibilities, including providing for his younger siblings. Now, at twenty-five, he could justifiably look back at his accomplishments with satisfaction. The mortgages that had encumbered the estate had been retired, so that his mother, sisters, and brothers were free of the fear of losing their home, Darlington Hall. In addition, most of his siblings were in a fair way to being established in the world. The sister closest in age to him, Lady Cleo Hart, had been married the preceding year and another, Lady Sybil Hart, was betrothed, both having accepted offers from solid gentlemen of worth. One of his brothers, Lord Evan Hart, was up at Oxford, and the twins, Lord Daniel Hart and Lord Lionel Hart, were at Eton. That left only his youngest sister yet to provide for, and Lady Bethany Hart, at seventeen, was a budding beauty so there would be no lack of suitors.

  However, Lord Darlington’s reflections did not lead him to a feeling of satisfaction. Under the exquisitely cut frock coat he wore, he moved his well-made shoulders in a restless fashion. For too long he had been tied to the estate.

  Not that he did not make a practice of occasionally showing his face in London, he thought, but it was never with the intent of simple enjoyment. He understood how important it was to establish and maintain social connections. His siblings needed him to be able to curry favors and provide social introductions to secure their futures. He had never regarded the Season and its round of entertainments with anticipation, but rather, with world-weary cynicism.

  The estate, duty, responsibility. How tired he had grown of it all. His boyhood had been suppressed and fettered until there was nothing left of youth. He had become staid and old long before his time. But now, when he could finally look around and draw a breath, something was happening to his outlook. Something was stirring to life inside him. There was something in him that yearned for some slight liberty, a loosening of the tight rein that had governed his life for the past ten years.

  The door behind him was pushed open with a whisper of well-oiled hinges. “Sylvan?”

  Lord Darlington turned quickly. His half-formed thoughts were thrust away to oblivion as he greeted his mother. For her alone did his expression ever truly warm. “Mama!” He stepped around the end of the massive dark mahogany desk, which was a potent symbol of all that had dominated his life, and met his surviving parent midway across the study. Reaching for one of her hands, he bent slightly to kiss her.

  Lady Darlington accepted her son’s salute upon her powdered cheek and pressed the well-shaped hand that he had held out to her between both of her own. She smiled at him, scarcely tipping up her head to meet his gaze since she was almost on eye level with her son. She had always privately thought it a shame that he was of no more than medium stature. She blamed herself since his father had been of a fair height. “You are too good to me, Sylvan.”

  “Not nearly as good as you deserve,” said Lord Darlington. Though his mother had not been able to lend him practical support during the hellish years just past, she had always given him an unconditional love that had gone far in shoring up a young boy’s determination to succeed. He recognized the fact and was grateful to her to a depth that he had never articulated.

  Lady Darlington laughed and shook her head. She glanced over at the neatly arranged desktop. There was a ledger lying open. “Am I interrupting, dearest? Shall I come back later?”

  “Of course not, Mama. Truth to tell, I was bored with my own company. Pray sit down,” said Lord Darlington, drawing his mother over to one of the wing chairs situated in front of the crackling fire. The chill in the air was scarcely noticeable in the welcoming heat.

  Lady Darlington seated herself, looking up with another of her warm smiles. “Thank you, Sylvan. It is so comfortable here. I always feel quite, quite peaceful when I join you in your study.”

  “You are always welcome, Mama. You know that,” said Lord Darlington. Many, many nights when he had wrestled with the books, she had sat in this chair with her knitting or mending and offered, by her very presence, reassurance. The bond was deep between them, and if Lady Darlington regarded her eldest son as the bedrock of the family’s existence, he in turn regarded her with a depth of affection that would have astonished his acquaintances if they had known of it. Lord Darlington’s rather cold demeanor did not allow many to become his intimates.

  With his own peculiar grace, Lord Darlington seated himself across from his mother in the other wing chair. The chair’s upholstery was faded, making a startling contrast to the marquess’s sartorial elegance. He was attired in the usual frock coat and breeches of a gentleman of substance, but the close tailoring of his coat, the elegance of his striped silk waistcoat, and the fobs dangling from black ribbons at his pocket, betokened one most conscious of the impression he made upon others. Lord Darlington smoothed a minute wrinkle in his coat sleeve, crossing his immaculate boots at the ankle in a relaxed pose.

  “Yes, I know, and it is particularly gratifying to me,” said Lady Darlington. Her smile faded a little. “However, I have not just come to visit with you for a few idle minutes, Sylvan. I have a particular reason for seeking you out this afternoon.”

  Lord Darlington’s nonchalant posture remained unchanged, but he had tensed. He was peculiarly sensitive to every nuance of his mother’s voice and he
unerringly detected a thread of unease. His brown eyes studied her ladyship’s face with the same keenness that had often discomfited his younger siblings. “What has overset you, ma’am?”

  Lady Darlington frowned slightly. “I am not overset, precisely. I think anxious is more like it. Sylvan, have you noticed anything . . . anything different about Bethany?”

  At mention of his youngest sister’s name, Lord Darlington’s attention became fully engaged. His dark eyes intent, he said, “Bethany? Why, she seems the same as she has always been, ma’am. Flighty, frivolous, thoughtless—is that what concerns you, Mama? Had you hoped to see her to have grown steadier during this past year? I wish I might believe that my sister shall ever be aught else but a pretty butterfly.” He smiled and a teasing note entered his voice. “Has Bethany fatigued you beyond all bearing with her foolishness? Shall I pack her back to the stern headmistress before her holiday is up?”

  “Oh, no, that will not do at all,” said Lady Darlington decisively.

  Lord Darlington was disconcerted by his mother’s pithy reply. All levity vanished from his expression. “Just what do you mean, Mama?”

  “Forgive me, dearest. I can see I have alarmed you without explaining anything to the purpose.” Lady Darlington was silent a moment, seeming to choose her words with care. “Sylvan, I very much fear that Bethany may have formed an ineligible connection during these last several months.”

  “I see.” Lord Darlington was silent in his turn and his mouth hardened. “What leads you to think so, Mama?”

  Lady Darlington smiled and held out her hand toward him. “Now pray do not look so grave, Sylvan, or I shall be afraid to tell you the whole.”

  He took her hand and pressed it briefly, reassuringly. “Believe me, if I appear grave, it is because of the responsibility I feel toward Bethany. Tell me what Bethany has done. I promise you, I shall take her firmly to task for upsetting you.”

  “You must first realize, Sylvan, the notion occurred to me months past, and I dismissed it as foolish imagination. But since then, I began to realize that there was something, for there began to be scattered references in Bethany’s letters—you know, little innocent remarks—about ‘Mr. Farnham this’ and ‘Mr. Farnham that.’ At first I paid scant attention. And then all of a sudden, there was not another syllable about the gentleman.”

  “Perhaps it was merely a schoolgirl’s fancy, and Bethany realized swiftly enough that she was heart-whole,” suggested Lord Darlington.

  Lady Darlington nodded. “So I thought and would have continued to do so, if it had not been for a singular circumstance. You see, Sylvan, in my letters I asked Bethany about this Mr. Farnham. She replied that he was a mere acquaintance, one of a respectable house party whom she had met at a private supper. She said that he was attentive and charming and, indeed, all of the girls thought him very personable but a bit old. Well! Naturally I thought no more about it, especially since Bethany did not mention him again in her correspondence.”

  “What has happened to change your mind?”

  Lady Darlington drew a letter, much creased, from her pocket. “I received this in yesterday’s post. I have read and reread it. It is from my bosom bow, Mrs. Clara Montague. We attended seminary together and came out the same Season. We have known one another all of our lives and I trust Clara implicitly.” She looked up at her son, the trouble clear in her blue eyes. “Mrs. Montague took a house in Bath several months ago. She has met Mr. Farnham, and believes him to be a fortune hunter of the worst kind. She naturally knows who Bethany is and how Bethany is situated, for I wrote her at the time of the behest from Bethany’s godmother. I doubt Bethany realizes that Mrs. Montague is a friend of mine, for she and I have not visited many times through the years and not at all since Bethany went away to seminary.”

  “You are leading up to the problem in fine style, Mama,” murmured Lord Darlington.

  “Oh, dear! I am going on, am I not? But I only wished you to understand the whole,” said Lady Darlington. She drew a breath. “In a nutshell, Sylvan, quite by chance, Mrs. Montague discovered Bethany and Mr. Farnham together in what was obviously a clandestine meeting. This was just before Bethany returned home.”

  “Bethany has been home for several weeks now. Why has Mrs. Montague taken so long to write you?” Lord Darlington asked quietly.

  “Clara has never been a talebearer. She wrestled with the decision whether to write me or not. Here, you may read her letter for yourself.”

  Lord Darlington took the much-crossed sheet and read it. At the end he looked up. There was a flinty expression in his eyes. “Indeed, Mrs. Montague’s distaste for her role is all too plain. She communicates the sordid details in so bald a manner that it is brusque.”

  “Yes, it is quite unlike Clara’s usual friendly style,” said Lady Darlington on a sigh.

  Lord Darlington folded the letter and returned it to his mother. “What is it you wish me to do, Mama?”

  Lady Darlington frowned. “I have given the matter considerable thought, Sylvan. As you saw, it is Mrs. Montague’s opinion that Mr. Farnham was attempting to persuade Bethany to fly away with him, which means the affair has progressed to the point that the man believes Bethany to be besotted enough to do as he wishes. If that is the case, I do not believe simply talking to Bethany will bring her to a realization of her folly.”

  “Yes, I know all too well Lady Bethany’s streak of obstinacy,” said Lord Darlington, smiling a little. “She is remarkably single-minded when it suits her.”

  “Then, you will understand why I fear sending her back to Bath when the holiday is over. And that is precisely why I have come up with another solution.”

  “Medieval as it is, perhaps being locked up and kept on bread and water until she submits is the answer,” remarked Lord Darlington.

  “What?” Lady Darlington looked over at him. “Oh, I see! You are funning in that odd way of yours. Now, do be serious, dearest. I have something quite else in mind, and I need your considered opinion.”

  “I wasn’t jesting in the least,” said Lord Darlington with a twist of his lips. “But what is your solution, Mama?”

  “You must tell me if it is even possible, Sylvan, for I don’t know how things stand,” said Lady Darlington, throwing a second glance toward the burdened desk.

  “Pray do not concern yourself, ma’am. I have matters well in hand,” said Lord Darlington, correctly interpreting the anxiety in his mother’s glance. His poor mother had not borne the responsibility of wresting the estate from ruin but she had nevertheless felt the weight of the burden.

  Lady Darlington nodded, reassured. “Well, then, this is what I have been thinking. I should like to give Bethany’s thoughts a different direction, so that she will stop thinking about this despicable man,” she said. “I know Bethany is only just seventeen and younger than either of her sisters when it was their turn, but I wish to take her up to London for the Season.”

  “London? For the Season?” repeated Lord Darlington.

  He appeared stunned and Lady Darlington rushed into anxious speech. “Oh, I do know how expensive it would be, Sylvan. And truly, if you don’t wish it, then nothing more needs to be said. I would never have considered such a thing, except for Mrs. Montague’s dire communication. If you do not think it possible, why, we shall simply have to deal with Bethany in some other fashion. Perhaps we could remove her from the seminary and hire a governess, for example.”

  “She would run off,” interposed Lord Darlington, rising from his chair and taking a quick turn about the room, his hands clasped behind his back. A frown pulled at his brows.

  “Yes, I suppose she would,” agreed Lady Darlington unhappily. “I am sorry, dearest. It is really my problem, I can see that. I shouldn’t have bothered you with it. After all, I am Bethany’s mother. She must listen to me!”

  Lord Darlington turned. There was a glint in his eyes. “She won’t, any more than she has ever listened to anyone.”

  Lady Darlington gent
ly pointed out the obvious. “Lady Bethany listens to you, just as all of the other children do.”

  Lord Darlington gave a short laugh. “Yes, in the end I have always had my way, haven’t I?”

  Lady Darlington was quick to sense a faint note of bitterness in his voice. “My dear! I am positive none of them sees you as an ogre or—or anything equally unpleasant,” she said quickly.

  “No, I stand in the unenviable position of being a surrogate father,” said Lord Darlington harshly.

  “And you have done very well by them all,” said Lady Darlington stoutly.

  “Thank you, Mama.” He appreciated his mother’s support, but it was not easily borne that his siblings stood in such awe of him. The gulf had widened over the years until it seemed unbridgeable. He was aware that none of his brothers or sisters regarded him with the same simple affection with which they regarded each other.

  The faintest of smiles touched his face as he thought about his youngest sister. Lady Bethany was stubborn to a fault. Perhaps in this one instance that awe would work to advantage.

  Lord Darlington made a swift decision. The mere suggestion of leaving for London caused in him a spurt of exhilaration, even if the object behind the removal to town was bound up in duty and his sister’s best interests. “Very well, Mama. London it is.”

  “Sylvan! Can you not be serious for one moment?” exclaimed Lady Darlington.

  “I am utterly serious, Mama.” There was a light in Lord Darlington’s eyes which hadn’t been there before. He gestured at his face. “Perceive that I have put on my gravest expression. The estate can stand the nonsense, if that is what concerns you. If you truly believe this is the best course to put an end to Bethany’s fascination with this fortune hunter, then by all means let us go to London!”

  “Dearest! I’m so grateful to you, Sylvan. You have never disappointed me, ever!”

  Lady Darlington stood up and kissed her son’s cheek. “I shall leave you now, for I know there is much for you to do if we are to go up to London. And I have a great deal to do, too. Sybil must go stay with your aunt, which she shan’t mind in the least, considering she will then be only ten miles from her ‘dear Charles,’ as she calls her betrothed.” The dowager paused and looked anxious again. “Do you think I might have a seamstress in, Sylvan? A new gown or two would help ease our wardrobes a bit.”