A Curious Heart (Love Vine: A Regency Series)

by Diane Davis White

  A Curious Heart

  By

  Diane Davis White

  HeartSent Publications

  Cover design by Diane Davis White

  HeartSent Videos/Book Covers

  www.dianedaviswhite.com

  © 2011 Diane Davis White

  All rights reserved

  First Edition November 1, 2011

  Second Edition July 20, 2012

  HeartSentBooks.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information and storage retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  Special Thanks

  to my awesome editor, and good friend,

  Tiena-Kay Halm

  Pendleton

  Family Chart

  London 1822

  Chapter One

  ~~

  Sir Gordon Pendleton stood as he heard the carriage approach. Striding into the foyer, he accosted his guest with some agitation, just as Rothburn delivered his hat and cane to March, Sir Gordon's elderly butler.

  "Rothburn! Thought you'd never get here! We must talk before dinner." Sir Gordon's tone was dissonant, his face grim with purpose.

  The earl raised a questioning eyebrow.

  Sir Gordon, seeing this, went on to explain, "I want you to understand my position regarding Allie and—"

  Pausing, he threw out his hands in bewilderment, abandoning restraint. "Damnation! Your behavior toward my sister last night was unconscionable!"

  Clivedon George, Sixth Earl of Rothburn, looked astonished at the attack as he queried his host, "Whatever do you mean by that tone? Of course we must talk! Why else would you have sent 'round a note requesting my presence so early?" His face relaxing, the peer added with a small grin, "You look as though someone has stolen your pudding!"

  "Pudding indeed! Come into the library and have a cordial. I shall acquaint you with the facts." Sir Gordon, somewhat affronted by Rothburn's failure to be serious, gave him a quelling glance then turned to the waiting butler and spoke in a gentle tone, "Bring some refreshments March—and see to it we are not disturbed."

  Ushering his guest through the library portal, he turned a critical gaze on his guest. "Really, Rothburn! You should be ashamed, leading the girl on this way. She's barely out of the schoolroom and quite impressionable. She'll be mooning after you forever unless you put a stop to this now."

  Sir Gordon eyed his closest friend with something akin to reproach. "And she is my sister, after all. I cannot abide you dallying with her, and there is an end to it."

  "Dallying? I say old man, that is doing it up a bit brown. I only just danced with the girl twice. Wasn't my fault, ya know. Had to."

  He threw out his hand in a gesture of annoyance. "She kept after me to fill her damnable dance card. Couldn't refuse without hurting her feelings and all."

  Sir Gordon raised his eyebrows at that in a most dubious manner.

  Lord Rothburn coughed delicately into his fist. "I wouldn't dally with any girl—well, not a nice one at any rate. And—and your sister is certainly a nice chit—ah—young lady, that is."

  "Be that as it may, you must not encourage her. Father will have my head should I allow anything to go wrong with her come out. Not to mention what my dear mother will do. She's been after me to wed these last six years, and if I give her an excuse to be the least bit put out with me, no telling what she might do."

  Lowering his voice almost to a mumble, Sir Gordon added, "Have me married off to the first horse-faced heiress she can find, I dare say."

  Then, looking alarmed at the idea, he finished his original thought. "I promised them both to keep Allie safe from harm until a suitable match can be made and I intend to do just that."

  Emphasizing the word suitable, he leveled Lord Rothburn with a look that spoke volumes about how unsuitable he would be to court Allie Pendleton. He then continued, "Of course, we both know that Lady Eleanor has a stranglehold on you. So you will be hard-pressed to find time to turn Allie's head in future. Eh, old fellow?"

  His voice only quavered a small amount when he spoke Lady Eleanor's name. He looked sharply at Rothburn to see if he had detected it and was satisfied that the man was still on the first topic.

  Rothburn took a deep breath and opened his mouth, indignation evident in every line of his face and posture, ignoring the quip regarding his mother's choice of bride. "It was not my intention to turn her head. Silly chit has a yen for older men and—"

  He paused while looking the other man up and down in a disgruntled manner, continuing almost pettishly, "—and I happen to be considered quite eligible in some quarters.

  "And quite suitable as well," he finished with a waspishness that Sir Gordon thought would have done justice to the crankiest elderly matron. Rothburn then turned and went to examine the picture hanging on the south wall, between the mahogany bookcases.

  Sir Gordon spoke to his back. "Really, old fellow. Didn't mean to get your dander up. Just that she's my sister and you are—are—well, older by far, and much too sophisticated."

  When there was no response from the earl, Sir Gordon added with some agitation, "Well, damnation if you don't know what I mean! You are much experienced and your reputation—ah, with the ladies, that is—" He hedged his words, uncomfortable with the situation and silently cursing his parents for putting him in this position.

  Had his mother not been ill and his father reluctant to leave her, and his grandmother ill as well, he would not be here, chained to London Society for the duration of the Season. He would not be chastising his very best friend for giving his sister too much attention. Where he would be was uncertain, but it would not be here!

  Rothburn's reputation was not unsoiled, nor could his habits with the ladies be considered respectable. They both knew it. Wealthy, powerful and a respected member of the House of Lords, he was still a known rake-hell when it came to women.

  Also there was his gambling. Were he not a veritable genius in the political arena, it was doubtful the Haute ton would overlook his baser habits. And, though plenty of mamas out there sought him to marry their daughters in spite of these things, Mrs. Pendleton was not one of them.

  A peer of the realm was a bit overreaching it, even for such an old and respected family as theirs. Titles bred with titles—except in cases of dire financial need—and that was that.

  "Do attend me," Sir Gordon said sharply.

  "I quite know what you mean," Rothburn replied. He was obviously uncomfortable with this topic. Stronger relationships than theirs had been broken on the rocks of discord over a woman. If that woman happened to be the sister of one of them, well, that was even worse.

  "You may rest easy, however. I do not find that your little sister enthralls me in the least. And, were she to do so, I would hie away to the country before getting myself leg-shackled!"

  "I am comforted to hear it," Sir Gordon said, with a wry smile.

  "As for Lady Eleanor," Rothburn continued, "that alliance will probably be my fate sometime in the future. Far, far into the future if I have anything to say about it! And, she seems in no more a hurry than I to finalize our arrangements. Quite cool these days, actually."

  At a stalemate, both men stood silent, Rothburn studying the portrait and Sir Gordon brooding on his particular problems
. He reflected on his deep love for the delectable Lady Eleanor whose antecedents were far above his own. The son of a merchant, he could never aspire to wed the daughter of an earl, though his step-grandpapa was one.

  Sir Gordon thought Rothburn indifferent to whom he married and resigned to his eventual nuptials with Lady Eleanor.

  Rothburn was, however, a romantic at heart. This acceptance of a match of convenience did not sit well upon his soul, despite his remonstrations to the contrary. To cement his resolve, he said, "For want of sense, Allie—a schoolroom miss—is not to my taste, after all."

  "What was that noise?" Startled by what sounded like a gasp coming from the picture, Rothburn turned back into the room and eyed Sir Gordon with raised eyebrows. "Did you hear that?"

  He then turned once again to the picture and stared at it with great intensity. "Almost spoke to me. One of your ancestors I presume?"

  "My great-great-grandmother. She was a Puritan and from what I understand, she ruled her family with an iron hand. Quite intelligent, too. Garnered most of our wealth through her business dealings. Great-great-grandfather was given all the credit, but in the family we happen to know who was really responsible for our rise in this world.

  "It has been rumored that she was actually mistress to the King." Sir Gordon added hastily, "before she wed, of course." Sardonically, he added, "And before she became a Puritan."

  The picture in question was of a middle-aged lady from an earlier century, her ruffed neckline holding up what appeared to be an enormous double chin. The small beady eyes—fraught with disapproval—stared out of the canvas as though they could read one's thoughts.

  "Sends chills down my back," Rothburn muttered. He shook himself and turned away with a wry grin. "Don't much look the part, seems a bit straitlaced. I shall not disturb your little sister again. And should she beg me for another dance I will simply refer her to you. Good enough?"

  "Quite good enough, old man." Sir Gordon spoke to Rothburn's back and visibly relaxed at his friends words, then stiffened in amazement as he watched the other's odd behavior.

  "Egad! What was that?" Rothburn spun back into the room as another sound—this time what sounded like a muffled sob—emitted from the picture. "Do you have ghosts?"

  "I rather doubt it. At least not at this house. Of course, in the country, one hears noises all the night long, but never have I heard anything in this house. Too new, I should think, to harbor a ghost."

  Sir Gordon looked with puzzlement at his guest, then at the picture in question. Being further from the wall, he had not heard the sound and doubted it existed anywhere except in Rothburn's imagination. He refrained, however, from saying so.

  A faint thump then emitted from the wall, followed by a scuffling noise, which so startled the earl that he jumped. Frowning, he glared at the picture and spoke, a disturbed note in his voice. "Now do not tell me you did not hear that."

  He then crossed the room and threw open the library door, intending to investigate the sounds. "I have ascertained that the sounds are not from the picture at all, but from the room beyond."

  He stopped in mid-stride when Sir Gordon spoke to him.

  "I wouldn't bother if I were you. Probably one of the maids cleaning up." Sir Gordon, with a hint of hilarity at his friend's obviously superstitious behavior, crossed the room and urged him back into the library, closing the door firmly.

  The men looked at one another warily for a moment. Sir Gordon aware he might have overstepped with the aristocrat who, though his friend, was of a superior class. The earl appeared to be a bit embarrassed by his own odd behavior, and straightened his cuffs—as Sir Gordon knew he was wont to do when flummoxed.

  "This is not my house, after all, and I really have no business running about peering into the rooms," Rothburn finally expressed with some haughtiness, well aware, it seemed, that he'd nearly made a faux pas.

  Chapter Two

  ~~

  As the library door clicked shut, Allie Pendleton dispelled a long breath of relief, bent to pick up the fallen goblet and sniffed back her tears before cautiously exiting the sitting room.

  Looking both ways, to be sure she wasn't seen, she sped back up the stairs and flew down the hall to her chamber. Once inside, she collapsed on the bed, her sobs no longer muffled.

  Lord Rothburn didn't even like her! Thought she was a child! Called her a silly chit! Oh, the mortification! How dare he? As Allie recalled what she'd overheard, her dreams of becoming the Countess of Rothburn went up in flames of anger and pain.

  Vacillating between anguish and fury, she played their conversation over in her mind until her head spun. And she had not begged him to fill her dance card! He had approached her for the dances.

  If she had any spirit at all, she would have rushed into the room and called him a liar the moment she heard that! Fear of giving away her true feelings had restrained her, however. That, and not wanting to cause her brother difficulty—lest he return her to the country and put a period to her London Season.

  It had been difficult enough to get here, what with mother so ill and father unwilling to travel. If Aunt Alana hadn't agreed to sponsor her, she would have been left in the country to become a dried up old maid. This would be her one chance to find a husband and find one she would. She considered that she might have more than one Season, but she didn't want to be presented again and again. It would be so humiliating to have to return year after year.

  Enamored of The Earl of Rothburn these last two years, she had at first been determined to bring him up to scratch during her venture into London Society. Now all of that had changed! She would not have him on a silver platter. Not if he begged her! Realizing that there was little chance of that, she hiccupped on a sob and fresh tears crowded her throat.

  Well, Allie my girl, you simply must find someone else to build your dreams on. He will not do, she chided herself.

  Hadn't she just heard her brother as much as say the earl was unsuitable for her? What he had really meant was that she was an untitled miss, and she was not suitable for the earl. Realizing that—in her heart of hearts—she'd known all along this was the case, Allie still found it devastating to face this sorrowful fact.

  Sighing at love lost, she rose from her bed and called for Tillie. She needed to refresh her toilet before the supper hour. She would have no trace of tears or consternation on her visage for the world to see when she appeared at table. Never would anyone know she had once lost her heart to a man who thought so little of her that he would call her a silly chit!

  * * * * *

  Two hours later, Allie gazed into her mirror, critiquing every component of her appearance. Her Empire gown of cream muslin, laced below the bosom with a chocolate satin ribbon, fell gracefully to small feet shod in butter-soft leather slippers. A silk ribbon of the same chocolate color adorned her amber curls, woven through the upswept mass in an intricate display, doing justice to Tillie's expertise as a lady's maid.

  Tillie had spent an hour applying cucumber compresses to the girl's swollen, blotchy face. The effort had paid off. Not a trace remained of the tantrum she had indulged in with such gusto. Allie's blue eyes were serene and—if a bit puffy—gave no other indication of her tears. Satisfied with her looks and her gown, she lifted her chin and exited her room.

  Allie descended the stairs with head held at a regal height. She moved with what she'd often been told was a natural grace that added maturity to her eighteen years.

  Lowering her gaze upon entering the drawing room, she suddenly felt shy and feared to look at her brother or his guest, lest they see in her eyes her guilty secret—spying not being a ladylike pastime. She burned inwardly at the thought of being caught out in her deceit and a warm blush rose in her face accordingly. Making a small curtsey to the earl, she nodded in Sir Gordon's direction then went to sit next to her Aunt Alana.

  "There you are, child. I thought you'd gotten lost—or gone to sleep!" Her aunt did not help matters by referring to Allie as a child. C
learly oblivious to her niece's irritation, Lady Alana smiled sweetly and patted her knee in a fashion one might use with an adolescent.

  Though only a few years her senior, Lady Alana viewed Allie as much younger. Allie had not seen much of her Aunt over the years, therefore she ceded the image was difficult to dismiss. Accustomed to Lady Alana's overbearing treatment, Allie studied the woman, as she was wont to do when in company with her beautiful relative.

  Whenever possible, Allie strove to emulate her aunt's graceful bearing and well-modulated speech. Allie also aspired to replicate Lady Alana's mannerisms—gentle, yet with a hint of haughtiness.

  Lady Alana Fisk was the youngest child of The Earl of Champlay which made her the half-sister of Nigel Pendleton—Allie and Sir Gordon's father. Upon the death of her first husband, Percival Pendleton, Lady Grace had promptly married into the aristocracy and despite being over thirty, birthed three more children.

  As such, Alana was just two years younger than Gordon and eight years the elder of Allie herself.

  Originally, Lady Grace, had been approached to sponsor Allie's come out. In truth, Allie had begged her father not to have Lady Grace and had suggested her aunt as an alternative. It had been touch and go for some time, her grandmother being inclined to 'do her duty by the girl' as she'd put it to Gordon.

  Only by the grace of divine intervention did Allie escape being chaperoned by that harridan. A bout of indigestion—followed by a severe cold—had kept the elder to her estate in Hampshire. Not that Allie wished illness on anyone, of course, but she couldn't help a small feeling of guilt-laden relief upon hearing the news.

  Lady Alana had been all too happy to step into the breach, fond as she was of London Society. Considered a spinster at the ripe old age of six and twenty, she declared quite frankly she'd long since given up the notion of making a match and was eager to see her niece established properly.

  Lady Alana was not displeasing to look at. On the contrary, she resembled her mother closely and had a flair for fashion that quite set her apart from the ordinary. She'd also inherited her mother's quick intellect, which had put off her suitors—men being inclined to want a wife that at least appeared slow-witted even if she were not.