Regency Christmas Proposals

by Gayle Wilson, Amanda McCabe

  When he held out his hand to help her into his carriage she met his eyes again. ‘It wasn’t this, I assure you. However elegant it may be.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘It was the birds. Irrational, I know, but I never could abide them.’

  ‘Chickens?’ A woman who had endured the worst of war was afraid of a few dead fowls?

  ‘It was my task as a child to bring in the eggs. The wretched hens would never give them up without a fight. I still have scars on my hands.’ As she said the last, she placed her gloved fingers into his, her eyes alight with amusement.

  ‘I believe you are teasing me, Mrs Stowe.’

  ‘Indeed not, Mr Wakefield. A lady’s delicate sensibilities are so easily overset.’

  She turned to step up into the coach, leaving him standing alone in the crowded yard, stifling the urge to laugh. He succeeded in that endeavour by stepping to the front of the carriage in order to change his previous instructions. ‘To Newark.’

  The coachman’s eyes widened slightly, but he was too well trained to respond with anything but what he should say. ‘Of course, my lord.’

  ‘And we have precious cargo, John. A smooth journey, if you please.’

  The coachman’s grin showed he was up to the task. ‘Smooth as silk, my lord.’

  ‘I’m counting on you.’

  The trip was exactly what John Coachman had promised, with the matched bays bowling along the road as if the recent rain had never occurred. Guy’s only complaint was that the time he spent with his unexpected guest was far too brief.

  For two people with shared experiences of war, despite the fact those had taken place more than five years before, conversation came easily. Having reluctantly agreed to his offer, Mrs Stowe seemed immediately to relax into the luxury offered by his carriage.

  They spent the first few minutes exploring acquaintances they had in common, only to discover that far too many of those had perished on the Continent. Afraid that realisation would remind her of her own loss, Guy undertook to lighten the mood by recalling the outrageous antics of the group of men he was honoured to have called comrades-in-arms as well as friends.

  She readily matched his best stories about life as a member of Wellington’s diverse and sometimes eccentric staff with others concerning men under her husband’s command. Her understanding of reckless young soldiers was both generous and forgiving. In short, Guy found himself laughing more than he had in years.

  ‘And his lordship never discovered who had left her chemise in his headquarters?’ she asked at the end of his narrative about one of the most memorable episodes of the type of teasing so prevalent among the staff.

  ‘As he included my name in the dispatches from the next battle, I’m certain he had no inkling of who was involved. If he had, I promise you we should not be having this conversation today.’

  ‘Then I am grateful to your fellows for keeping your secret.’

  The laughter that had sparkled in her eyes during most of the trip was suddenly replaced by a sincerity that took his breath. Guy searched for a response that, in spite of what he had just seen in them, wouldn’t indicate he’d read too much into her simple statement.

  ‘Believe me, I was grateful, too,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘Then and now.’

  She lowered her eyes to adjust the fit of her gloves. They both looked up as the carriage began to slow.

  ‘It seems we’ve arrived,’ she said, glancing out of the window.

  The strength of Guy’s disappointment in that surprised him. He couldn’t remember a more enjoyable hour since those long-ago days spent among his comrades.

  ‘Is there a particular shop you wish to visit first?’ he asked.

  ‘Instruct your driver to stop at the town’s centre, if you please. I fear my list of errands is not only quite extensive, but varied.’

  ‘Then perhaps I might offer my services in carrying your packages?’

  ‘I could not think of delaying you from seeing to your business, Mr Wakefield. I shall do very well on my own, I promise you.’

  Hoist by his own petard, Guy gave up the battle in order to continue the war. ‘Then if you’ll suggest a time at which your shopping might be completed—?’

  ‘Oh, no. I shan’t trouble you with that. The stage will do very well for my return.’ She looked up to smile at him. ‘I suspect the hens will have been sold long before the afternoon’s run.’

  ‘Forgive me, Mrs Stowe, but I had thought you, too, had enjoyed our journey. As I am spending several days in the area, I will, of course, be returning to the Wren’s Nest this afternoon. I had looked forward to continuing our conversation on the way.’

  She held out her hand, which he took automatically. ‘You have been everything that is kind, Mr Wakefield. I can’t remember when I’ve more enjoyed reminiscing about my campaigning days. As you can imagine, there has been little opportunity for that since William’s death. Now, however…’ Her eyes returned to the window as the carriage bumped to a halt. ‘Yes, this will do nicely. Thank you for allowing me to join you. Perhaps we shall meet again before you return home?’

  ‘I look forward to that,’ Guy managed, before the door opened and the steps were lowered. He jumped out to offer his hand.

  When she was safely on the ground, she lifted the skirt of the black bombazine to shake out its wrinkles. ‘Until then,’ she said, looking up with another smile.

  Before he could think of an appropriate attempt to delay the inevitable, she was walking away from him up the crowded street. He motioned to his tiger, perched on the back of the carriage. The lad hopped down with alacrity.

  Guy caught him by the shoulder, pulling him close. ‘Follow the lady. I want to know where she goes and what she does, but she must not be aware that you’re watching her. There’s a guinea in it if you manage both.’

  The boy’s eyes widened at the promise, and he quickly nodded. ‘Right you are, my lord. I’ll be her shadow. But she won’t know I’m around, I swear to you.’

  ‘See that she doesn’t.’

  As he watched his tiger rush off to follow his prey, Guy felt like a spy. He was probably making too much of Mrs Stowe’s reluctance to have him accompany her on her shopping. Perhaps she was simply tired of his company.

  The memory of the ready laughter in her eyes and of her responses to his stories belied that explanation. Something else was going on with Captain Stowe’s widow and, whether his pursuit was entirely honourable or not, Guy was determined to discover what it was.

  ‘And you’re sure the situation is that dire?’

  Guy’s fingers played idly with the gold locket he had purchased from the jeweller in Newark as he awaited an answer from his man of business. Although the wedding ring Mrs Stowe had sold, along with a necklace and a brooch, also lay on the table before him, he was reluctant to touch it.

  He was now aware—because he had taken pains to find out—how small William Stowe’s regimental pension was. Still, despite that, and Isabella’s decision to sell her jewellery, he was surprised at the bleakness of the report he’d just been given.

  Mrs Stowe was heavily in debt. Not, according to Benton, through any profligacy on her part, but rather through a series of wrenching choices that had forced her to put the welfare of her dependents ahead of her own economic well-being.

  ‘It could hardly be worse, my lord. Given the extremely depressed value of all property now, even the sale of the house may not cover what she owes. She has her husband’s pension, of course, but as far as being able to provide a living for the couple she currently supports…’ Benton’s shrug was eloquent.

  ‘Can you obtain a list of her obligations? Without, of course, letting her know the information is being collected.’

  ‘Easily, since I suspect it will contain the names of most of the tradesmen in the district.’

  ‘If that is the case, then discharge her debts to them,’ Guy ordered softly.

  ‘But if I depend upon their accounting, wi
thout corresponding corroboration from her, there will be no way to prevent the unscrupulous among them from padding their bills.’

  ‘Pay whatever they ask.’

  ‘Forgive me, my lord, but that’s hardly the wisest way to do business.’

  ‘But it is the quickest.’

  ‘And speed is important?’ Benton’s tone was sceptical.

  ‘In this instance. I want the matter handled before Mrs Stowe has any inkling of what you’re about.’

  His man of business knew Guy too well to press the point. Besides, debts that must seem crippling to a widow living on a soldier’s pension were a trifle to the sums his estate routinely incurred. He had never blinked at those.

  Benton was almost to the door of his office when the Viscount stopped him. ‘And it must be done anonymously, Benton. That’s most important.’

  ‘Of course, my lord. She will find out, you know,’ Benton warned.

  Guy raised his eyes to focus on the piercing ones behind the spectacles. ‘But not, I believe, before your task can be accomplished. Especially not if you begin at once.’

  Chapter Three

  Lost in the same troubling thoughts that had occupied her mind for the last two days, Isabella was unaware that a carriage had slowed to a snail’s pace beside her until its occupant spoke.

  ‘May I offer you a ride, Mrs Stowe?’

  She looked up to find Mr Wakefield looking at her out of the window of his coach. She was suddenly aware that the hem of her gown was thick with mud and its style years out of date. Something a man of his refinement would certainly be aware of.

  ‘Thank you, no. I find a walk often clears the head. Especially after being shut inside for a few days.’

  ‘You are undoubtedly right,’ he returned pleasantly before tapping on the roof of the carriage with his stick.

  Instead of driving on, as she had anticipated, the coach stopped, allowing its passenger to descend. He smiled at her as he took his place beside her.

  ‘Today’s sun is a pleasant change,’ he offered.

  ‘Indeed.’ They walked a few paces before she turned her eyes towards him. ‘Your animals are beautiful. And superbly conditioned.’

  ‘Thank you. I confess to a weakness for good horseflesh, as well as an uncommon admiration for it.’

  ‘No doubt your experiences on the Peninsula account for that. If your life has ever depended on the courage of your mount, I suspect you never feel the same about horses.’

  ‘Exactly. Do you ride, Mrs Stowe?’

  ‘Not for a long time.’ One of many things she could no longer afford.

  And in a country where children starve to death, what can that possibly matter?

  ‘Would you join me tomorrow? I’m sure there’s a suitable lady’s mare to be found nearby.’

  She laughed, thinking of the magnificent beasts that had carried her safely through the wildest regions of Iberia. It was a point of pride that there had not been a so-called ‘lady’s mare’ among them.

  ‘Although I’m delighted to have amused you,’ her companion said, ‘I do wonder what I’ve said to provoke your laughter.’

  ‘Forgive me. Yours is a natural assumption, I suppose, but I’m not accustomed to riding mounts designated as fit only for ladies.’

  ‘A horsewoman, then?’ His lips curved slightly, but there was no ridicule in his tone.

  ‘I believe so.’ Hers contained a touch of pride.

  ‘All the better. Shall we say…seven?’

  The words of denial were on the tip of her tongue. Considering all the difficult decisions that had been forced upon her during the past few days, she found it impossible to utter them. One last ride on a horse worthy of the name. What could it hurt?

  ‘If you wish. There is, however, a spot I’m particularly fond of from which to watch the sunrise.’

  ‘And how early should one be to accomplish that?’

  ‘If you are at my door at five, I believe you will be in for a treat. I realise those aren’t London hours…’

  ‘I beg you to remember that I was one of Hooky’s aides, Mrs Stowe. I assure you I’ve seen many a sunrise.’

  ‘Five,’ she repeated, throwing what was intended to be a warning glance at him. At some point in the process, it became a smile instead.

  He returned it before he tipped the beaver she’d admired on the day of his call, bidding her farewell before he climbed back into his coach.

  And when he had driven away, leaving her quite alone again on the muddy lane, she was hard pressed to explain the sense of loss that descended on her spirits.

  ‘Worth leaving your bed so early?’ Isabella asked her companion.

  Mr Wakefield’s eyes remained locked on the vista before them, but a muscle tightened in the strong line of his jaw. ‘Can you doubt it?’

  She turned back to face the rising sun, which had first painted the scene below a faint rose that was now shading to old gold. With the overlying mist, this morning’s subtle colours heightened the sense of wonder she always experienced here. ‘There are those who would see no magic in this.’

  ‘Not if they had ever been unable to see,’ he responded softly.

  She’d almost forgotten the circumstances of their initial meeting. Because he no longer seemed either young or vulnerable?

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think.’

  ‘Why should you?’ He turned to smile at her. ‘It was a very long time ago.’

  Bothered by some shadow in those remarkable eyes, she turned back to contemplate the remainder of the miracle she had brought him here to view. Her mount, as prime a piece of horseflesh as she’d ever ridden, tossed its head at the enforced inactivity.

  Although she quickly re-established control, she could sympathise with the gelding’s impatience. After all, they had not yet fully tested one another. Not to either’s satisfaction.

  ‘I believe he wants a run.’ Although there was no hint of challenge in his voice, Mr Wakefield was not quite able to control the line of his lips.

  ‘I believe you are right, sir.’

  She began to turn the animal, intending to send him down the gentle slope they had climbed and then out onto the wide meadow below. A gloved hand over hers prevented the movement. She raised her crop, the gesture more reflex than temper—although that, too, had begun to rise.

  ‘Forgive me, Mrs Stowe,’ Wakefield said. ‘I feel I must warn you—’

  ‘Remove your hand, Mr Wakefield.’

  Their eyes locked for a fraction of a second, but only that. Then the fingers that had impeded her were released. Anger heating her blood, Isabella dug in her heels, sending the roan racing down the hill.

  Excitement flowed through her veins like an elixir. Caged too long by worry and circumstance, she had missed the exhilaration this offered. To become one with the animal and yet to know that its power was fully in her control.

  As was almost nothing else.

  She banished the unwanted thought, leaning forward over the neck of the gelding. She was aware on some level of the rider who followed, but she ignored his presence, too, relishing the unaccustomed feeling of freedom.

  She didn’t slow her mount until she felt the first tremble of fatigue in its powerful legs. As soon as she did, she began gradually to pull up, until they had once more achieved a sedate amble.

  She was running her gloved hand over the gleaming neck of the horse and whispering endearments when her companion drew alongside. She turned to smile at him, her pleasure as heady as new wine.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Wakefield.’

  ‘You’re very welcome, Mrs Stowe. And it’s Guy.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘My name is Guy.’

  With the exertion of their ride, fresh colour stained his cheeks. It made the scars on the right more visible, but she found they in no way detracted from his attractiveness.

  ‘I believe we are not on such familiar terms.’ She lowered her eyes, again running a soothing hand over her mount’s neck. I
ts breathing had returned to normal, as had her own.

  ‘Forgive me. I had hoped we were. You know, the gentleman who owns the gelding would be delighted to have you ride again.’

  She glanced up at his offer, weighing it in her mind. How much it would mean to have this avenue of escape from the worry that seemed to depress her spirits more every day.

  But, although tempting, she didn’t want to be beholden to either Mr Wakefield or the owner of this magnificent animal. She had had her treat. One she would never have believed available to her only a few days ago.

  Before the elegant Mr Wakefield had appeared at her door. And in her life.

  ‘I don’t believe I shall have time for that, but do express my gratitude to him for today.’ She didn’t dare raise her eyes for fear her companion would read the truth in them. ‘I am so very grateful to you both.’

  ‘Should I believe, Mrs Stowe, that the gelding may have satisfied your stipulation of “no lady’s mare”?’

  Although Mr Wakefield’s voice was rich with humour, it wasn’t at her expense, Isabella decided. She lifted her eyes to smile at him, and surprised a look in his that didn’t fit with the lightness of his remark.

  A downward sweep of his lashes quickly hid what she had seen. Only with her hesitation in answering did he raise them again, but all she saw there now was polite enquiry.

  ‘He is everything I could have wished for and more. Thank you again for knowing exactly what I meant.’

  ‘Another “happy coincidence,” perhaps?’ he said with a smile.

  He immediately turned the subject then, commenting on the profusion of wildflowers the recent rains had produced and asking her to name them for him, so that they were able to chat quite easily about nothing at all on the way home.

  When he had seen her safely inside her house, Isabella leaned against the door, for the first time allowing herself to recreate in her mind’s eye what she had glimpsed in his.

  She was no green girl, but a woman who had been happily married for eight years to a man she’d adored. A man who had fully awakened her to carnal pleasure.