by Regina Darcy
Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
EPILOGUE
BONUS CHAPTER 1:THE EARL AND THE GIRL FROM THE ABBEY
BONUS CHAPTER 2:BEWITCHING THE VISCOUNT
Copyright © Regina Darcy 2016
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher and writer except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a contemporary work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
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reginadarcy.cleanandwholesomeromance.com
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ONE
Alden Haddington, the Earl of Beckton, cleared his throat nervously, wishing he were anywhere but here, in the assembly rooms of the Bookman Arms. He had come to visit Nathaniel Hughes, Viscount of Wiltshire, his dearest friend since boyhood. Both had served in the same regiment under the Duke of Staffordshire.
Lord Wiltshire had invited him to attend the annual Mariners’ Ball. Whilst their views on the fairer sex differed wildly, since the Earl had particularly strong, disapproving views on Lord Wiltshire’s recent string of heartbroken mistresses, a night in the Viscount’s company always proved anything but boring. The irony was that the Earl was known to have left an equal trail of heartbroken beauties behind him. The only difference being, he had never touched them.
The Viscount was one of the few people who knew Beckton found the challenge of conversing with the fairer sex, insurmountable. He had yet to finish a sensible conversation with any eligible young woman he had actual designs on. Half the broken hearts he left behind him were due to disinterest, and the rest due to an inability to approach the lady in question.
One woman in particular made this infirmity even more pronounced, because he did more than find her eye-catching. The Earl was completely enamoured with her.
As he had watched her blossom into an accomplished young woman, he found himself incapable of either declaring his intentions or commencing a courtship.
Yes, Phoebe Alexander had stolen his heart even before her very first debutant ball.
Ever since her outing, he had been dreading that her affections would soon belong to another. He sighed deeply and sipped on his drink.
No doubt, he should be looking for Wiltshire, whom he now suspected had brought him here because he knew of Beckton’s affections for Miss Alexander and was playing Cupid.
It had been four years since he had first become smitten by the lovely Phoebe, and a year since he had been informed by his father, on his deathbed, of the agreement which he had reached with Phoebe’s father, Mr Percival Alexander. It was a gentlemen’s agreement, betrothing him to Phoebe. And if his father were to be believed, this arrangement had been made when several years ago. Both parents had hoped that their children would naturally gravitate towards each other, eventually.
He sidestepped a tipsy gentleman who was arguing rather loudly with a friend as they walked by. The man stumbled, jostling the Earl’s hand and spilling the drink he held in it. Shaking his head in annoyance, he went to put down the now almost empty glass and wipe himself off with his kerchief. He did not want to reek like a drunkard. In a few minutes, the dancing would begin, and he would hold the woman he loved in his arms for the first time.
His skin grew warm as he thought of all that he would like to say to her, because he knew none of it would be said. The very thought of holding her, even at the distance demanded by good manners, and with as little actual touching as there would be, tied him up in knots. He hated that he was so weak in this one respect, the one where he most wished to be strong. He did not wish to drive her away, but long experience had taught him that unless he could find a way to utter more than a few monosyllables, he was doomed to lose her.
She was his betrothed…but he needed to win her affections. What sort of marriage would he otherwise have? The thought of being tied to a woman who despised him made his head hurt.
The musicians began to tune their instruments, and he turned to search the room for Phoebe. He spied her standing with her parents on the other side of the room, looking as uncomfortable and unsure as he felt. Their eyes met, and she offered a polite smile. He did not return it.
He could not make his lips spread, or his cheeks crease, and he saw with a sinking heart that a frown replaced her smile. He looked away for a moment, to gather himself, and then he walked over to where she was standing and extended his hand.
“Miss Alexander, I would be honoured if you were to grace me with your consent to this first dance.”
“It’s very kind of you, Lord Beckton, however—” she began, but was interrupted by her mother, who spoke effusively.
“It is certainly an honour for our dear Phoebe, my lord,” she said. She put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder for a second until Phoebe accepted his extended arm, and walked with the Earl to the dance floor. They danced a set together in almost complete silence, after the required pleasantries had been spoken between them.
Her “How do you do, Lord Beckton?” had been prettily said, her smile gracing the words with an extra touch of beauty.
His “I find myself very well, Miss Alexander,” had been cool, at best, and not seasoned with an answering smile.
Beckton despaired of himself as the set came to an end. Giving himself a mental shake, he tried again, as he escorted her back to where her mother stood anxiously waiting.
“I would be honoured if you would dance the evening’s final set with me, Miss Alexander,” he said, managing to keep his tone cool and even.
Phoebe looked up into his dark brown eyes, and he wished he knew what she saw. Instead, she looked away and said coldly, “If my dance card has not since been filled, my lord, I will happily oblige.”
She walked away then, leaving him standing at the edge of the dance floor feeling like all kinds of a fool. She was haughty and dismissive, and though it burned in his gut, he could not fault her. He had been no less as they danced, unable to speak even ordinary pleasantries because he was so undone by the fragrance of her that bloomed in his nostrils each time she exhaled. And her beauty took his breath away. Her deep auburn hair fell in endearing ringlets about her face, and down her back, and her green eyes sparkled with animus the longer they had danced together. And when she had dismissed him just now, they had shone with active disdain...and hurt.
He walked out to the balcony, where he knew he would be alone...almost everyone was dancing, or watching the dancing, or playing cards in the adjoining room. He needed to be alone, to get himself in control.
He struggled with anger that a mere chit of a girl could treat him with such barely disguised contempt, while finding himself unable to deny how strongly attracted to that same chit he was. He wished he could overcome this unwelcome weakness that made him clam up in the presence of beautiful women of substance. He knew who he was, what he was worth. He knew that, in the eyes of the ton he was considered quite the catch. He knew all this, but found it did nothing to bolster his confidence with the one person in whose company he most needed to be assertive. Where Phoebe Alexander was concerned, he was a total wreak.
“What on earth are you doing out here by yourself, old chap? You’ve been missing for upwards of half an hour.” The Viscount’s voice interr
upted his shame and self-castigation, and he turned to him with a frown.
“I think I may have topped myself this evening, Wiltshire,” he said. “It might have been better all round if you hadn’t tried to play Cupid this time.”
The Viscount of Wiltshire, observed the downcast features of his close friend with some concern. “Whatever’s the matter, man?” he asked, moving to stand by the Earl, a glass of brandy in his hand.
“I have managed to affront yet another charming woman,” Lord Beckton replied. “This time, the one I least wish to offend.”
“Are we talking about the delectable morsel that is Phoebe Alexander?”
Lord Wiltshire had lowered his voice to a sultry softness, and the Earl moved away from his side, to prevent himself from punching his friend on the nose.
“She is not a piece of meat!” Lord Beckton hissed at his friend through clenched teeth. “I would prefer it if you would refrain from mentioning her name in the tone of voice you use for talking of the women with whom you normally associate.” He was furious, and paused to acknowledge that a good part of it was jealousy that the Viscount seemed to be able to charm any woman he wanted because he was so amiable and devil-may-care, where he himself was a tongue-tied mass of romantic ineptitude.
“I see I am right. You are more than smitten with the lady. You really must overcome this...this problem you have, my friend. You will not win her affections if you pursue your current course of cold aloofness.”
The Viscount’s smirk was irritating in the extreme, but Lord Beckton knew that despite the amused tone of his words, he was in earnest. And he admitted that his friend was right. How was he to be the kind of man Phoebe would not despise if he couldn’t manage to string two civil words together around her, or to show his very real interest in her person? He sighed and turned back to the drawing room.
“I suppose I had better get back in,” he conceded. “I did ask her to dance the last set with me.”
“Well, try to speak up this time, won’t you? Imagine you’re in the House of Lords, pushing for some cause dear to your heart. After all, she is dear to your heart, isn’t she, old chap?” Lord Wiltshire patted his shoulder in commiseration.
“She is also to be my betrothed,” Beckton muttered. “A childhood arrangement.”
The Viscount stopped walking, and the Earl halted his steps.
“No, you didn’t tell me this. How long have you known?”
Lord Beckton sighed. “Since my father was on his deathbed.”
Lord Wiltshire’s brows rose in astonishment. “It has been a whole year, Beckton. Surely you are able to say something to her after all this time?”
Lord Beckton wrinkled his brow. “I do not know if she is aware of it. She was but a girl of thirteen when it was first agreed upon, if my father is to be believed. And even then, I was not apprised of the agreement until he was at death’s door.” He sounded aggrieved.
“Her parents are excessively ambitious, are they not?” Lord Wiltshire asked. “One must be very careful to pay attention when Percy Alexander is about. One slip, and you’ll find yourself footing the bill for extravagances unnecessary for the pursuit of anyone’s happiness but his own, and no way to extricate yourself. And it has always been clear that he has held high hopes of his daughter making a fortuitous marriage.”
“I cannot imagine that she holds any interest in marrying me,” Lord Beckton said. “So far, I have done nothing to encourage any further connection between us.”
“You will have the chance to redeem yourself in another few minutes. Make good use of the time.”
The two friends walked back into the ballroom, where the final set was about to begin. Lord Beckton made his way hastily over to the young woman who was tying him up in knots and said, “Are you free for this dance, Miss Alexander?”
He watched her school her features into placid acceptance and extend her hand to him. He escorted her onto the floor, and as the music started, he said, “Have you enjoyed your evening?”
“Yes. It has been quite a pleasant diversion, more or less,” she replied. “And you?”
“I’m afraid I am a dullard,” he confessed. “I find little pleasure in balls and the like.”
“Perhaps if you attended them more often you would find much to enjoy.”
The Earl sensed that she had curtailed her comment, possibly censoring the things she might otherwise have said to him. And he found he couldn’t ask her to finish her thought, for fear it would prove derogatory. He searched around for something else to say, and finally lighted on the subject of the Luddites. He chanced to look up, as he was advancing his theory for how to settle the question that was currently causing an uprising among the mill workers, and saw the glaze in her eyes that told him he had lost her.
“Do pardon me, Miss Alexander, if I am boring you,” he said coolly. “Perhaps you would prefer that we discuss the weather?” His tone was sharper than he had intended, and he saw her eyes narrow though she did not immediately respond. When she did, it was to say,
“We are not all as well acquainted with the circumstances as you are, my lord. And in any case, I am not normally expected to have a thought or opinion on such weighty matters.”
Her tone was as sharp as his had been, and he found that he rather liked her feistiness. It warmed him in places he knew would frighten her, were she to be aware of her effect on him.
“Surely you jest! I cannot imagine a situation in which your opinions would not be welcomed.”
She eyed him warily, and he raised a brow, finding himself unable to address her obvious suspicion. He knew he was being genuine, but she clearly didn’t believe him, and his silence only seemed to prove her intuition to be accurate.
The Viscount had often told him that his habit of raising a brow in question was often misconstrued as a sign of arrogance. It seemed that in this instance, at least, his friend was correct. He sighed inwardly. He had bungled the opportunity to make a good impression yet again, and was now so self-conscious that he grew silent, in an attempt to preserve what little was left of his dignity, finishing the dance without uttering another word. As soon as the dance was over, she pulled her hand away from his and said,
“You must excuse me, my lord, but I must needs retire. My parents do not like to linger once the dancing is done.”
She hurried away before he could say a word in response, and he watched her disappear from view around a corner. He sighed...once again he had failed to please.
How was he to make sufficient progress to ask the question that would legally betroth her to him, if he couldn’t hold a sensible conversation with Phoebe without boring or offending her? Perhaps it was a good thing that he was returning to London in a few days. Country living grated on him, especially now, when he was feeling so little inclined to appreciate the pleasures of the bucolic life. Maybe when he was back in his own element he would be able to communicate better. He fervently prayed that it would be so.
TWO
“How can Mama and Papa really expect me to marry a man who thinks the sun rises and sets for him?”
Fuming, Phoebe paced before her friend, whom she had come to call on, the day after the ball.
Dorothea Kendall, her friend and confidante, watched her for a moment before replying. “You know that your parents have always been demanding, Phoebe. And as you also know, once they have decided upon a course of action, nothing will deter them. Perhaps it is time to accept this arrangement as inevitable.”
“I find it intolerable, Dorothea,” Phoebe replied. “How can they make an arrangement for me against my will? I have no wish to marry for social advancement. I will only marry a man I love.” Her voice rose in anger, but her friend could clearly also hear a hint of hysteria. Despite her words, Phoebe knew she had no choice in the matter.
“What exactly did Lord Beckton do to set you so adamantly against him?” Dorothea asked.
Phoebe ceased her pacing and sat next to her friend on one of the benches strate
gically placed about the Kendalls’ large garden.
“It isn’t so much what he did as what he didn’t do,” she said. “Imagine having the chance to woo the woman you intend to marry and to bring her no soft words! Imagine speaking instead of the Luddite uprisings! What care I for them when I have practically been sold to the highest bidder, like meat at the market?”
Unable to remain still, she rose and began to pace once more. “My father and his made an arrangement when I was thirteen,” she said, her voice ringing with incredulity. “Who promises his daughter to a stranger when she is still a mere child?” The anger and hurt she felt were plain to hear. “I understand that our situation is less than my parents would have liked, and I know that they want me to have a better standard of living than they had. And I know that without them arranging an advantageous marriage, I may end up an old maid in distressed circumstances. But it is a risk I am prepared to take, for what is so wrong about wanting to marry for love?”
Dorothea felt her friend’s despair, a she herself was in a similar position, except without the arranged marriage. She had no words for her friend, except a bland promise that things would turn out all right in the end.
“At least you will have the chance to forget about him this weekend,” she said as Phoebe took her seat once more.
“Remember you are invited to our card party on Friday evening.” She paused, and then a smile lit up her countenance.
“As you hold no affection for Lord Beckton, perhaps you might meet someone else. Papa and Mama have invited quite a few of our friends, and one or two of them have sons, who will no doubt come to squander away their money.”
For the first time, Phoebe smiled. “You are a dear friend.”
She reached over to hug Dorothea, wishing she could think of a way to get herself out of her current predicament. She deeply resented being betrothed to anyone without having even been consulted as to her preferences, but short of eloping to Gretna Green with someone, she could see no way out of the arrangement. And as she had no other eligible suitors, she had no other choice. She sighed.