The Baron in Bath - Miss Julia Bellevue: A Regency Romance Novel (Heart of a Gentleman Book 4)

by Isabella Thorne

  “I am truly happy for you, Julia” Charity said, sipping her drink. “When there was all the trouble in Bath and you refused Mister Gruger, I thought it was the height of foolishness. Now I see that I was wrong.”

  “Of course,” Lavinia replied. “Julia and Lord Fawkland are in love. Anyone with eyes can see it and love is never foolishness.”

  Julia blushed, embarrassed to have her feelings so known even here amongst her close friends. Although when it came to matters of the heart, Julia supposed Lavinia had the right of it all along.

  “Isn’t it wonderful, Julia,” Lavinia continued. “Your baron is in love with you and my captain is truly in love with me. We are both engaged!” Lavinia caught Julia’s hand and fairly bounced with glee.

  Lavinia had remained in near constant correspondence with Captain Hartfield, since his departure. They were to be married as soon as he might manage to return to her, perhaps at Christmas time.

  Julia had to smile. “Yes. It is wonderful,” she replied, glad her friend was as happy as she was. “Now we just need to find a husband for Charity,” Julia said with a sly smile at her other friend.

  “You should see to your guests,” Charity deflected.

  “Yes, Charity,” Lavinia agreed. “We must share our good fortune.”

  “I cannot believe she would be the last of us to be married,” Julia continued, grinning at Lavinia.

  “Guests,” Charity said again. “You must remember you are a hostess, Julia.”

  “I just do not enjoy the company of a crowd,” Julia said.

  “I would enjoy your company,” said a deep voice that warmed Julia to her toes. She turned to find Lord Fawkland, her betrothed, at her shoulder. “I too find social events taxing,” he said and offered her his arm. “Shall we walk together?”

  Charity and Lavinia gave the two of them knowing smiles as they moved across the room.

  Together the engaged couple spoke with several of their well-wishers. After a few moments the Julia and Lord Fawkland found themselves standing in front of the doors that opened out onto the touch lit gardens, the aroma of the torches mingling with the scent of Jane’s roses and the cool evening’s fresh air. Julia looked at Godwin, who looked at back her. She felt calmer now. She felt she could handle most anything if she had Lord Fawkland at her side.

  He nodded at the doors. “Shall we get a bit of fresh air?”

  Julia nodded shyly and allowed the young man to lead her out onto the wide balcony that overlooked the gardens. The pair moved beyond the torch light and stood at the far edge of the balcony where they could better see the stars overhead. The scent of roses was everywhere as the garden was in full bloom. Julia allowed Godwin to lead her right up to the balcony rail, cast in shadow, where the torchlight did not reach. Together they stood arm in arm and surveyed the gardens before them. They watched couples wander along the paths and heard light laughter, and bits of conversation wafting up to where they stood.

  “It is a beautiful night, is it not?” Julia asked in a low tone.

  “Indeed; made more beautiful for my companion in it.”

  Julia blushed at Lord Fawkland’s complement. She had always thought herself too large a woman to be considered beautiful, but she could hear no falsehood in his words. She smiled shyly at him and whispered. “Thank you for bringing me out here. I did not realize how stifling it was inside. I needed a bit of peace.”

  “Peace is what you bring to me, Miss Bellevue,” he said, sincerely, taking her hands in his own “Although it is such an unaccustomed feeling. I shall scarcely know what to do with myself.”

  He smiled then as if struck by a sudden inspiration. “Perhaps you would teach me how to paint?”

  Julia startled and Lord Fawkland’s grin widened. He had known all along then? He had known about her oil paintings? He had known that the paintings in the house in Bath were her own work. She flushed scarlet.

  “You knew the paintings were mine?” she asked. “You knew? When you inquired after the artist?”

  He shook his head. “Not for certain, though I surmised as much. Your father mentioned that you loved to paint. He called it your passion.”

  Julia felt the heat of a blush fill her face, and looked down, but he caught her chin and tipped her face up just a bit so she was looking at him. “I wanted to hear you speak of your passions,” he said. “I still do.” The moment caught and held. His eyes were stormy grey, just like they were on that first night when she wished she could capture the color on canvas. She should have known then. He was her passion.

  “I do love to paint,” she said. “Capturing something precious on canvas, is like nothing else in the world; a moment caught in time.”

  “I shall fill the walls of the manor with your paintings as well as the house in Bath,” he said. “There are some lovely views at The Fawkland Barony, if you should like to capture them”

  Julia’s heart caught on his words. The Fawkland Barony. The excitement of the engagement and the presence of the man himself had driven all thought of Lord Fawkland’s title quite out of her mind.

  “The Barony,” she whispered.

  “Yes?” Lord Fawkland replied confused by her sudden upset

  “Then when we marry…I will be…”

  “The Baroness Fawkland,” he said and she gasped.

  “Oh Lord Fawkland. I cannot be a baroness. I will simply do everything all wrong.”

  He smiled at her, and brushed his fingers against her cheek. “I felt much the same once; you gave me courage. You are stronger than you know, Miss Bellevue.”

  “I would be the most uncharacteristic baroness.”

  “I do not see that,” Lord Fawkland disagreed. “You shall be the perfect baroness. You have a regal continence, Miss Bellevue. You are kind and compassionate and loyal to those you believe in. I can think of no baroness more noble, and if that is uncharacteristic of a baroness, I care not. I would have no other woman as my Lady wife.”

  He caught her hands in his. “Besides, we have a most uncharacteristic marriage I think. We shall be the talk of the Ton.”

  “Oh,” she said. She looked down at her hands in his. They felt perfect, like a perfect pair of fitted gloves. His hands were warm and strong and yet gentle. Let them say what they would. While Lord Fawkland was holding her hands, she did not care. “I do not care what they think,” she said. “It only matters what we know of each other.”

  “Truly?” he asked. “You do not care to know what they will say of us? Oh, but it is a good tale, especially since most married couples are notoriously boring.” There was a jest in his voice and Julia could not help smiling.

  “I do not think we shall ever be boring,” Julia objected.

  “Never. Not the baron of bastards and his wanton wife…” Julia laughed lightly. “In time I believe they shall say that: The Baroness of Fawkland was a lady of such beauty and charm that she drove a pair of brothers to fisticuffs for her hand, possibly even a duel.”

  She blushed and found herself staring into Lord Fawkland’s soft grey eyes.

  “And of course, as long as they are talking about us,” he continued, “They are leaving some other poor soul in peace.” He let one of the curls at her chin wrap itself around his finger.

  “My father used to say that,” Julia replied.

  “Where do you think I heard it?” he asked, his fingers still playing gently with her curls.

  She looked at his face. His blackened eye was nearly healed, as was his lip. She liked that she was almost eye to eye with him. She adored his eyes, his fingers on her skin, and the smell of his cherry pipe tobacco and under it all the sharp manly smell of him. She reached her gloved hand up to touch his face and smooth the wrinkled knot of his cravat. She thought she should probably learn to tie the thing herself, and a shot of excitement went through her at the thought. The world had stilled and seemed far away, as Lord Fawkland spoke in his deep baritone.

  “In the end whatever might be said of The Baron of Fawkland in
the past, the only thing that can be said now, is the scandalous news that he is deeply in love with the woman whom he has asked to be his wife.”

  She had a sudden impulse to cling to him. She did not ever want to leave the comfort of his arms.

  There is just one more question have to ask you Miss Bellevue,” he said and the soft rumbling of his voice rolled over her like music, but she sought to compose herself. She frowned. What other question could he have?

  “Of course,” she said, puzzled.

  His hand moved from her hair, back to her chin, and tilted her face up to his, he asked, “May I kiss you?”

  For once she did not struggle for words. “Yes,” she whispered.

  His lips fell over hers and she melted into his embrace. His arms tightened around her and Julia’s heart soared. Let the Ton say what they would. Their words would never touch her again, for here in the arms of her future husband, Julia was home.

  ~.~

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  ~.~

  Continue reading for a SNEAK PEEK of the next

  Regency Romance Novel by Isabella Thorne

  The Mad Heiress and the Duke~ Georgette Quinby

  The Mad Heiress and the Duke

  ~Part 1 ~

  The Mad Heiress Meets the Duke

  Chapter One

  Georgette had escaped to the garden. Even in winter, the green and growing things gave her comfort. She breathed slowly through her nose. Her breath puffed out like a little cloud. No doubt the tongues would be wagging. The ton would think her even crazier than normal to come out here in the cold, but she needed a moment --just a moment-- to herself, in the cold winter air-- Some time to gather her wits about her, to take some deep breaths. To remember who she was and how it had once been; how she had once been so blindingly happy, and then to remember how it was now. Breathe, she told herself as she pressed her gloved hands together over her stomacher. In. Out. Well, in as far as her corset allowed and then out.

  The ballroom had been stifling-- An absolute crush, packed with bodies and warring perfumes. And all of them turning their catty faces to her-- looking at her with distain. She couldn’t bear it for one moment longer.

  "Look, it's the Mad Heiress," one of the young ladies had said tittering like a ninny.

  "Is it really? I thought she'd killed herself." Her friend fanned herself as she looked slyly over the accessory at Georgette.

  "No, you were misinformed," another said, craning her bejeweled neck. "I heard she flung herself off a parapet, after Lord Falks threw her over for Lady Julia."

  "I heard it was a cliff," the first one said.

  "I'm certain it was a parapet. But no matter. The point is, she survived."

  “Poor thing. I’d rather be dead,” said the first woman fanning herself quite vigorously.

  "It was stairs," Georgette had said to the open air, once she had fled to the garden. "Stairs. If one must gossip, at the very least one should get the facts straight. I flung myself down some stairs."

  She should probably stop talking to herself, she thought. She was already known as the Mad Heiress, and she hadn't done anything exciting for almost ten years. Lud, if the ton heard her grumbling to herself about stairs she would never rest in peace.

  But honestly --a cliff? If it had been a cliff, she might have had some success. Instead, she had woken up in her bed, a few days later, with a sore head and a broken hip, like an old woman. And a fiancé who did not love her. She must not forget that.

  Oh, Sebastien. Why?

  Ten years ago she had been slipping out of ballrooms to meet him in the garden, the stolen kisses sweet on her lips: Escaping the candlelight and the weak punch and her stifling mother, hoping for a stolen moment with her beloved.

  Ten years, and no one forgot. No one ever forgot. She clenched her fists. She would forever be the Mad Heiress. No matter that she had been but seventeen when Sebastien had informed her that his heart belonged to another. No matter that she was twenty-six-years old now, and a chaperone, a spinster, firmly on the shelf. No matter that she could not conceive of the sensibility and passion that had driven her up those stairs. She could not remember, but everyone else still remembered.

  Deep breaths, she reminded herself as she rubbed her gloved hands over her cooling arms. Breathe in, breathe out. Or, rather, breathe in as deeply as one's corset allows, and breathe out. In, and out, through the nose.

  Georgette froze. She sniffed the air. Someone was smoking a cigar.

  Oh, bother.

  She swallowed. Perhaps the gentleman would not realize she'd entered the gardens. She could surreptitiously sneak back into the ballroom. She made to turn back into the house.

  He stood right in front of her. Grey flecked through his hair. She knew his eyes were dark blue, but the darkness of the gardens made them almost black. He peered at her with them, over a royal, aquiline nose.

  The Duke of Eversley.

  ~.~

  Continue reading about Miss Georgette Quinby and The Duke of Eversley in

  The Mad Heiress and the Duke~ Georgette Quinby

  ~.~

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