A Sensible Lady: A Traditional Regency Romance

by Judith Lown

  Dear God. Was marrying Sir Clive Brampton the only way she could give Miguel the life he deserved? Would marrying Sir Clive indeed guarantee Miguel’s future?

  Katherine stood, startling Princess, who had just decided to nap, but dutifully followed Katherine back to the hearth.

  That was the real question, Katherine decided. She sat on the slipper chair by the hearth, staring at the coals. The important question was: would Clive really act in Miguel’s best interests once Katherine had delivered both herself and Miguel into Clive’s keeping? She looked down at the black-and-white spaniel, who cocked her head as if asking her own question.

  “A very good question, indeed, Princess. I cannot even be sure that Sir Clive Brampton would permit me to bring you with me, should I return to Oak End as his wife.”

  Once more she made the journey from hearth to dressing table then returned to the hearth and the slipper chair.

  She needed a husband. That was a fact she forced herself to face. But Sir Clive Brampton was not the only eligible gentleman in the world. Not even the only eligible gentleman in Drayford Vale. There was, of course, Lord Dracott himself.

  Katherine laughed. Princess looked up inquiringly.

  “Lord Dracott. I find that I was, indeed, compromised on that September morning by the lake. And I must insist that you wed me; take on the care of my dear great-aunt Prunella Summersville; provide for my putative nephew, Miguel; and, of course, accept my busy spaniel, Princess, into your household. Your daughter, Lizzie, after all, believes that you will be able to teach Princess to hunt.”

  Of course, the more conventional way of attaching a prospective husband was through the art of subtle flirtation and display of feminine accomplishments. As Sir Clive had implied, a suitable wardrobe was essential to this task.

  Cousin Leticia had all but announced that she intended to launch just such a campaign with an eye toward becoming Lady Henry Dracott. Katherine would soon know if Leticia was successful. But it was impossible for Katherine to play that game, too. Furthermore, as distasteful as entering a loveless marriage with Sir Clive was, entering a loveless marriage with Lord Henry Dracott seemed particularly daunting. She chose not to examine why.

  Who else?

  Katherine strode back to her dressing table and examined her hairbrush.

  It was unfortunate that Charles Hamilton was off in Spain. Of all of Richard’s acquaintances, Charlie Hamilton had seemed most approachable. Not that Katherine had ever engaged him in lengthy conversation. She was a friend of his younger sister, Jane. But two years ago, Jane had been dispatched to Bath, to an aunt who had promised to launch her into society. Squire Hamilton had judged Jane’s local prospects to be unpromising and London beyond her ambitions. Katherine and Jane corresponded from time to time. And when Captain Hamilton returned from war, Katherine might very well be a part of his social circle. But only heaven knew when Napoleon would finally be defeated. Perhaps Captain Charles Hamilton would return from Spain and ride to her rescue. But she had better not depend upon such a fairy- tale resolution to her problem.

  Katherine made her way back to the fireplace and rearranged the shepherd and shepherdess figures on the mantelpiece.

  There was one other possibility. There was the Reverend Mr. Augustus Aeneas Wharton. She quickly dismissed the lurid stories told about him. That was all in the past. He has clearly changed, she reassured herself. And she had never found a gentleman who was so easy to talk to, who listened with such sympathy and understanding. Never the predatory sense that she felt when she was with Sir Clive Brampton. Never the tension, just below the surface, that was present with Lord Henry Dracott.

  Perhaps Mr. Wharton had taken a vow of celibacy. Katherine blushed in the darkness. How difficult could it be to live with the vicar as a sister? She would miss children, of course. But Miguel was her child. He had to come first.

  She rubbed her eyes, suddenly tired and ready to try to sleep. At least she had formulated an alternative to marrying Sir Clive. And really, she would rather do nothing until a year had passed after Richard’s death. That would be late June. She would allow herself that much time before making any fateful decisions.

  Relieved, she stepped away from the hearth…and trod on Princess, who jumped and yelped. Katherine staggered and caught her balance on the panel next to the fireplace. She heard a faint creak, and the panel she was leaning against began to move. She looked, amazed, into a narrow passageway that ran beside the chimney. A priest hole.

  Katherine collapsed on the slipper chair. Princess sniffed curiously at what appeared to be the stub of a candle some long-dead popish priest had left behind.

  Dracott barons had always been loyal to the Church of England. But one of them—or more likely, his wife— had had a big secret.

  Chapter Nine

  Harry surveyed the spacious drawing room with satisfaction. When his housekeeper, Mrs. Lamb, cleared her throat and declared she had a matter of “some importance” to discuss with him, he felt a sense of dread that had only worsened when he learned the matter involved obligatory entertainment of the local gentry during the time between Christmas and Epiphany.

  Knowing his reluctance, Mrs. Lamb had fixed Harry with a stern look and informed him that his father, Lord Cecil, had never failed to provide lavish hospitality during the waning of the old year and greeting of the new. It was expected. Mrs. Lamb knew better than most that the key to guaranteeing Lord Harry would do as she thought he ought was to convince him that his father, Lord Cecil, had done so. Mrs. Lamb had assured Harry nothing out of the ordinary was required; the usual country hours would be kept. The last afternoon of the year was settled upon for Harry’s debut as a host.

  Harry admitted that his housekeeper had done her part to contribute to a successful event. The room, whose elegance had been enhanced by his mother’s last decorating project, shone with multiple coats of beeswax polish. Light from the candles on twin chandeliers reflected on jewel-toned brocades covering sofas, chairs, and footstools.

  Harry stood in front of the hearth, over which hung a family portrait painted when he was Lizzie’s age. Later that year, his domineering grandfather, the man for whom Harry had been named, had died, leaving the cares and concerns of Drayford Vale to Harry’s father. But in the painting, both parents and son were carefree. The Honourable Cecil and his wife, Lady Elizabeth, were gracefully elegant. Harry, built on the larger, stockier lines of his grandsire, had a devilish twinkle in his golden-brown eyes that hinted he might not remain still for much longer. Today, it was comforting to be receiving his guests with his beloved parents behind him, even if only in a painting.

  “Squire Hamilton,” Jenkins announced.

  Harry prepared himself to greet his guests. From his perspective, the real work had just begun. Mrs. Sythe-Burton, Gus Wharton, and the party from Oak End, which included Sir Clive, Dorothea, and Leticia Brampton, arrived after Squire Hamilton.

  Miss Summersville, Katherine Brampton, and Miguel were last. Harry concentrated on greeting the arthritic old lady to distract himself from the impact Katherine Brampton’s appearance never failed to have on his breathing.

  “So very kind of you to send a carriage for us, Lord Dracott,” Prunella Summerville said as she offered Harry a hand whose brittle bones were palpable through her glove.

  “Not at all. Could not have you frisking through the snow, now could I, Miss Summersville.”

  Harry was relieved to see the amused smile on the old lady’s face. Gratitude made him uncomfortable. So did Katherine Brampton. But he could no longer delay greeting her.

  As she curtsied, Miguel, unprompted, silently bowed to Harry with the grace of a trueborn aristocrat. Lizzie rushed forward to escort the little boy upstairs to the nursery. Conversation halted as the pair progressed across the drawing room. Katherine’s eyes followed her nephew, a soft smile on her lips. Harry wondered what sort of man he was to envy an orphan of uncertain parentage.

  “He seems to be thriving.”

>   Katherine turned to Harry, glowing with love and pride in the solemn little boy. Harry would have sworn that the floor beneath him shifted just a fraction. Soft, flame-colored curls framed a pale cream face; cheeks faintly blushed from recent exposure to the elements; and finely arched brows over limpid green eyes with candlelight reflected in their depths. Only once before had he been so mesmerized by beauty. No, he had never before been this mesmerized.

  Cold fear seized his heart. He had promised himself, sworn by all that was holy, he would never again subject himself to the risk of such pain and loss. Harry resolved to take immediate measures to prevent disaster. Would he have to seek out Leticia Brampton, or would she find her way to him?

  His smile of welcome was genuine when she approached him. He concentrated on appreciating her appearance and conversation.

  “A charming family portrait, Lord Dracott.” She looked up at the picture over the fireplace. “And one cannot mistake the identity of the little boy. However did they bribe you to stand still long enough for the artist to get your likeness?”

  “Cannot say that I remember, precisely.”

  Harry was happy to note that he could look into Leticia Brampton’s hazel eyes without the least sensation of drowning. He could even choose the words he wished to say without any difficulty. His heartbeat and breathing remained reassuringly regular.

  “I daresay it had something to do with a pony or a dog, or perhaps just a new toy soldier.”

  “Your parents were so handsome. Truly elegant. And kind, I understand. In the short time I have been at Oak End, I have heard their praises, particularly those of your father, Lord Cecil.”

  “All deserved. I have a challenging example to follow.”

  “They must have been very much in love.”

  “Whatever makes you think that?”

  Harry glanced sideways at Leticia, who, if she had heard the surprise in his voice, gave no indication.

  She cocked her head, dreamily regarding the powdered and wigged pair.

  “Why, they look so happy, not a care in the world.”

  Harry chose not to mention his domineering grandfather and his demanding grandmother.

  “I believe their contentment lay in each understanding the other’s expectations, and their decision to accommodate those expectations as best they could.”

  “I cannot believe you! That is too awfully dull. You must be mistaken to assign them such ordinary feelings and motivations!”

  Leticia seemed cross to the point of anger. She might have town sophistication, but Harry reminded himself that she was young…very young. Too young to know she should end a discussion that had wandered into personal matters that were no concern of hers.

  “Whatever really serious disagreements could they have had?” she challenged.

  “There was the matter of town and country. Mama adored London. Papa, while happy within a small, familiar social circle, found the London society intimidating and shallow. But he dutifully made his way to the metropolis every spring.”

  “I am certain that making your mama happy, made your papa happy.”

  “That sounds like an interesting philosophy of marriage, Miss Brampton.”

  Leticia fluttered her lashes. Harry wondered if it was flirtation or a nervous reaction.

  “Lord Dracott! I am not one to formulate high theories of God-given institutions!”

  “Perhaps the important lesson is that if one’s wife and parents agree, it makes for a more pleasant life for a husband to go along with them. Mama had allies in Grandpapa and Grandmama, whose natural world was society.”

  “Your grandfather is that imposing figure in the entry hall?”

  Harry was tiring of the conversation. He nodded and glanced over Leticia Brampton’s shoulder.

  “Has anyone ever remarked on how very like him you are? Allowing, of course, for the differences in fashion,” she added with a giggle.

  Contrasts with his father and comparisons with his grandfather had been the bane of Harry’s life.

  “You detect some similarity, Miss Brampton? I shall have to study that portrait again and see if I can discover what you see.”

  Harry smiled fulsomely and bowed.

  “A pleasure chatting with you, Miss Brampton. I believe Squire Hamilton has a letter from Captain Hamilton that he is about to read aloud. If you will excuse me.”

  But as Harry approached the sofa where the squire sat, letter in hand, the old gentleman gave the missive to Katherine.

  “Here, Miss Katherine, if you would be so kind. My eyes are tired, and your reading voice will be a pleasure to hear.”

  Harry would have liked to forgo listening to Katherine’s slightly husky contralto. It affected his breathing almost as much as the sight of her face did. But there was no escape, and he wanted to know the latest news from Charlie Hamilton.

  Just a brief note to assure you that I am alive and well. I write you from France. Yes, we have, at last, taken the fight into the enemy’s territory. Saw a deal of action a few days back, but are now settling into winter quarters along the River Nive, not far from Bayonne, which no doubt will be our object come spring, unless the Emperor of the French has the good sense to realize his cause is lost and surrenders before that time. Cannot say I am counting on good sense from that quarter, though! Regardless, this war is winding down, and I have fond hopes of returning to Sussex before the end of 1814.

  Send my love to Janie. I assume she is still husband hunting in Bath.

  Your devoted son,

  Charles

  Katherine returned the letter to Squire Hamilton.

  “What splendid news. How comforting to know he is safe and well.”

  Squire Hamilton patted Katherine’s hand with his gnarled paw.

  “Of course I am grateful, but my heart aches for your loss, my dear. How we all miss Richard, and how keenly we shall feel it when, and if, Charles returns to us safely.”

  Katherine swallowed hard and nodded, blinking rapidly and fishing in her pocket for a handkerchief.

  “And what do you hear of dear Jane?”

  Mrs. Sythe-Burton could be counted on to smooth over difficult social moments.

  The squire brightened.

  “From her letters, one learns only of teas, balls, and shopping. But her Aunt Sophie writes that she has attracted the attention of not just one, but two very eligible suitors. I have hopes that this time next year I will have seen my Janie secure and settled in her own home.”

  “Surely you are not speaking of the child who used to blubber over that incorrigible tom cat every time he returned bloodied from another fight?” Gus Wharton asked wonderingly.

  Squire Hamilton chuckled.

  “The very one, Wharton. Although I doubt you would recognize her. Not sure she has much thought for wounded animals these days.”

  Harry looked at Gus with satisfaction. It was comforting to know that Gus Wharton was feeling his age.

  Harry’s sense of satisfaction, augmented by a few tots of brandy, might have been why he unthinkingly greeted Dorothea Brampton with something warmer than his habitual reserve when he and the other gentleman rejoined the ladies in the drawing room after a repast that had sent unanimous compliments to Cook.

  Mrs. Brampton, not one to let an unexpected social advantage go to waste, patted the sofa next to where she sat.

  “Do sit down, Lord Dracott, I vow I shall suffer a permanent crick in my neck looking up at you.”

  Harry silently cursed the lapse in his defenses and cautiously took a seat beside Dorothea Brampton.

  “You will find this an excellent place from which to fully enjoy my dear Leticia’s performance.”

  Dorothea Brampton nodded to where her daughter was holding forth at the pianoforte, singing and accompanying herself. Leticia had enlisted Gus Wharton as a page turner. Harry knew a flattering remark about Leticia’s talent was required of him at this point. He searched frantically for something to say. Leticia’s voice sounded a bit shri
ll to him, but he had to admit he knew nothing about music other than singing with friends at a public house after a few rounds. He wished he had asked Jenkins to bring the brandy decanter to the drawing room, but the butler was bringing in the tea tray.

  “She is able to reach all the high notes,” was the best Harry could manage.

  But it was sufficient. Dorothea smiled wistfully.

  “I am most blessed. Three handsome, accomplished children. My other daughter, Rosaline, is married to the son of a viscount, you know. And Sir Clive. What more could a fond mama wish in a son?”

  Harry looked across the room to where Clive Brampton was engaged in conversation with Katherine. Was he imagining a hunted look on Katherine’s face? She glanced toward Gus Wharton, apparently in silent appeal for rescue, but Gus was fully occupied, grimly counting time under his breath for Leticia, who took the polite applause at the conclusion of each song as a request to continue her concert.

  “I think we might expect a happy announcement from that quarter before the year is out. Katherine and Sir Clive were engaged to be married at one time, you know. I never did understand why it was broken off. Bride’s nerves, I suspect.”

  If Katherine had suffered bride’s nerves in the past, it did not appear that she had fully recovered, from what Harry could see.

  “But she will insist on waiting until she is out of mourning, one assumes.”

  Dorothea sighed and shook her head.

  “If she had any understanding of how things are done, she would have shed her blacks months ago. Three months is quite long enough to wear black for a brother. Of course, she will have to choose her new wardrobe with care. Few colors flatter ginger hair, and many colors look dreadful with it. Not that she has ever shown much fashion sense. I trust Sir Clive will insist that she consult a London modiste. They can do wonders—even with ladies of problematic coloring.”