Gentlemen and Brides: Regency Romance Collection

by Joyce Alec

  Phillip had never been more grateful for his friend’s presence. Miss Thackery had shrieked in horror, whilst the lady on Kinsley’s arm had gasped in shock—although a brilliant smile had then spread across her face. Rumours and gossip ran all through society within hours.

  It had been more than clear to Phillip that Miss Thackery had intended to snare him into matrimony, using her state of undress as a reason to cry foul. Had he fallen into her trap, he might now have found himself wed to her; but instead, it had led to her own downfall. Miss Thackery had been taken back to her father’s country estate, and—even though a great deal of time had passed between that occasion and now—Phillip had never heard of her again. He could not feel any kind of sympathy for the girl, however. It had all been entirely of her own doing.

  Wandering to the window, Phillip looked out at the street below, seeing the lamplighters already at work. Was Kinsley right in telling him it was time to start enjoying himself once more? Was there anything wrong in enjoying a lady’s attention without allowing himself to become entangled with her?

  A grimace on his face, Phillip let out a long sigh, his eyes still on the lamplighter below. It was impossible to separate himself from his title, and even if a lady appeared affectionate enough towards him, there was no guarantee that she would have any kind of genuine feelings for him. That was the one thing Phillip wished for—not that he was asking for love, but, at the very least, that his wife would have a fondness for him and not just for his title.

  How was he to find such a lady? It seemed an almost impossible task. Yet, Phillip decided that he would do as Kinsley requested and actually attempt to engage with the eligible young ladies who would attend that evening. There would be no shame in getting to know Miss Richardson a little better, and Phillip had to admit to himself that she was the only lady to catch his eye in as many months.

  “Withington?”

  “Yes, Kinsley, I am coming,” Phillip muttered, as his friend wandered into the study, looking at him expectantly. Suddenly he wished he had allowed himself another brandy. Phillip felt as though he was walking a tightrope, walking a path he had not experienced for some time. How was he to separate those who might truly have some affection for him against those who only wanted his wealth and status? Passing a hand over his eyes, he bit back a groan, as Kinsley chuckled, slapping him hard on the back.

  “Come now, Withington, they will not tear you to pieces,” he said, moving him towards the door. “Some of my guests have already arrived, including your dear Miss Richardson.”

  “She is not my anything,” Phillip retorted, with a little more bite than he had intended. “Do not torment me this evening, Kinsley. Allow me to talk to whom I want without any interference, I beg you.”

  Kinsley’s expression grew suddenly serious, and he paused for a moment. “Of course, Withington,” he said, quietly. “I have only ever wanted this for your good, I promise you.”

  Phillip sighed, appreciating his friend’s candor. “I know that, Kinsley. I just have the feeling I am about to sail into uncharted waters.”

  Kinsley’s grin returned. “But uncharted waters are always filled with adventure,” he chuckled, walking along the hallway towards the drawing room. “Prepare yourself for a little more excitement than you are used to.”

  Straightening his shoulders, Phillip drew in a sharp breath and tried to relax, surprised at how nervous he suddenly felt, as though he were preparing to meet a pack of wolves ready to tear him apart.

  “Courage, man,” he muttered under his breath, before striding into the drawing room.

  6

  Charlotte was aware of the very moment the marquess stepped into the room, although she ensured that she did not look his way. She did not want to appear overeager, especially when various other ladies began to move towards him as one. Trying her best not to roll her eyes at their grasping behavior, she walked in the opposite direction, finding an old acquaintance to talk to.

  It was not as if Charlotte did not wish to speak to the marquess, for she most certainly did, it was more that she did not want to treat him in the same way as everyone else did. Their behavior was embarrassing, she had to admit, and she did not want to ever appear to be in the same camp as them. But then again, gentlemen of high title usually appreciated being lauded in such a way.

  As her acquaintance was speaking, Charlotte could not help but look over her shoulder at the marquess. The marquess was practically surrounded by ladies and, much to her surprise, did not look to be enjoying the situation. His lips were pulled tight, and he was frowning. There was no laughter coming from him, no broad smiles with which to encourage the ladies to continue in their attentions. His eyes did not focus on one particular person, but rather roved restlessly around the room, and he shifted from foot to foot, as though eager to get away.

  Charlotte was astonished. This was not something she had expected. A marquess—or any man of good breeding and high title—would normally devour any attentions given to them, whereas he appeared to be doing exactly the opposite.

  “I must say, it is a surprise to see Lord Withington like this,” commented Charlotte’s acquaintance. “I would have expected him to hurry away like he usually does.”

  Charlotte’s attention was caught by the comment. “Whatever do you mean?”

  Her friend laughed. “You have not known the marquess for long then. He does not behave as many other gentlemen do. He does not encourage the eligible ladies but rather insists on walking away from them. That is why I am so surprised to see him still engaging with them instead of finding his solitude as he normally does.”

  “Mayhap he is simply being kind,” Charlotte murmured, her heart suddenly filled with an inexplicable warmth for the man.

  To normally behave in such a way told her more about his character than anything else. It meant that he did not allow the constant compliments and warm smiles to affect his heart. He did not revel in them nor welcome them. Her lips crept into a small smile as she saw him let out a long breath, a pained expression on his face as one of the eligible young ladies put her hand on his arm for a moment.

  “A very different kind of man then,” she said, half to herself.

  “Indeed!” her acquaintance laughed, shaking her head. “The man is one of the most eligible in society, and I know a great many people find his lack of interest to be most distressing, although some see it as a challenge.”

  A moue of distaste curled Charlotte’s lips, as she saw Lady Emma watching the marquess with a gleam in her eye. She had no doubt that her stepsister saw the marquess as a challenge—but found that the thought of her trying to capture his attentions made her almost sick to her stomach. She had grown quite angry over Charlotte’s dances with him, although Lady Perrin had exchanged a few strong words with her, forcing Lady Emma to lapse into silence.

  However, Charlotte could still feel the hatred emanating from her stepsister whenever they were in the same room together. It was almost palpable, as though she could reach out and touch it. Startled to see Lady Emma turning her steely gaze onto her, as though aware that Charlotte had been thinking of her, Charlotte deliberately turned her back to her stepsister and continued her conversation with her friend, trying her best not to think of the marquess or turn around to glance at him once more.

  The recital had been wonderful, but soon there were calls for dancing, and Charlotte found that she was already a little too hot and certainly did not want to engage in dancing. Perhaps a breath or two of fresh air might give her the respite she needed.

  “I am just going to go out onto the balcony, Aunt Agatha,” she explained, as she found Lady Perrin. “Might you come with me?”

  At that very moment, Lady Emma let out a shriek of horror as a gentleman stood on the bottom of her gown, tearing it. Charlotte heard the ripping of fabric as the gentleman apologized profusely and made to move out of the way, but somehow managed to continue standing on it. Lady Emma’s eyes filled with hot tears, her face going red, and
as Lady Perrin hurried towards her, Charlotte chose that very moment to slip away.

  It was not always particularly wise to go out alone, but Charlotte could not stand to be indoors another moment. It was too cloying, and Lady Emma’s shrieks could still be faintly heard. Drawing in a long breath of fresh air, Charlotte looked longingly down the small steps to her left, seeing that they led into a small garden area. It was by now quite dark, although the sky seemed to be a dark blue as opposed to a heavy black, and the many lanterns that twinkled around the gardens made her feel quite safe.

  “Would you like to walk with me?”

  Charlotte let out a yelp of surprise, turning to see Lord Withington smiling at her, having left the drawing room also.

  “Oh, Lord Withington,” she gasped, putting one hand on her thundering heart. “I was lost in thought. I did not see you. I do apologize.”

  “Not in the least,” he said easily. “If you would like to walk in the grounds, I would be happy to accompany you.” He must have seen the look of worry on her face for he immediately continued, “I know it is a little improper, but almost everyone else is caught up with the goings on with Lady Emma’s dress.”

  “That is my stepsister,” Charlotte murmured softly. “Have you been introduced?”

  “Not as yet,” the marquess replied, with a half-smile. “I know of her, of course, but no formal introductions have been made.”

  “I shall probably have to do it at some point,” Charlotte said softly. “Is her dress quite badly torn?”

  He lifted one shoulder and let it drop. “I am afraid I am not particularly good with that sort of thing. As soon as the hubbub became too great, I quit the room in the hope of a little solitude.”

  Charlotte blushed, wondering if she had ruined his plans by her presence. “I can return indoors then, my lord, so you may have your privacy.” She made to walk by him, only for him to catch her arm, stopping her dead in her track.

  “No, no, that is not what I meant in the least!” he exclaimed, looking down at her with fervor in his expression. “I do not wish for you to go back inside on my account, Miss Richardson. Pray, do not feel as though you must return when you are not ready.”

  Charlotte’s mouth went dry as she looked up into the marquess’ face. The flickering lanterns on either side of them sent rippling shadows across his features, and Charlotte found herself watching them intently. He had not yet let go of her arm, his fingers burning holes into her glove, the warmth of his hand searing her skin. Her breath caught as the smile slowly left his face, replaced with an intense gaze that had her transfixed.

  Her attraction to this man could not be denied.

  “I do beg your pardon, Miss Richardson,” he whispered, dropping his hand and stepping a little further back. “I did not mean to startle you.”

  Trying to find her voice, Charlotte managed a small smile. “Truly, you did not,” she managed to say, her voice a breathy whisper. “You are very kind, my lord.”

  His half smile made her stomach curl. “Then shall we walk?” He held out his arm to her, one eyebrow lifted.

  Charlotte was torn. She wanted to walk with him, of course, but it would be less than proper, and she was not quite sure what Lady Perrin would say when she discovered it.

  “We will not be long,” he continued, as she hesitated. “We will return before they have even missed us.”

  Finding that she could not deny him any longer, Charlotte put her hand on his arm and, smiling up at him, began to walk down the steps and into the gardens. The myriad of sensations cascading all through her had her feeling as though she were walking through clouds, not quite sure where to put her feet as she became lost in the heady sensation on being on the marquess’ arm.

  “I thank you for walking with me,” the marquess said softly, as they made their way through the gardens. “I had thought I required solitude, but now it seems your company is just the ticket.”

  Remembering what her friend had told her, Charlotte glanced up at him. “And do you often like to be alone?”

  The grin on his face was immediate. “You have heard what people have said of me then?” He chuckled, waving away her protests. “Yes, I do enjoy being alone at times. I find the many, many acquaintances a little overwhelming.”

  “I can imagine,” Charlotte replied, with a little more vehemence than she had intended. “But I had thought gentlemen appreciated company.”

  “Oh, but we do,” he replied, with a warm smile. “But only specific company will do for me.” He paused in his steps and looked down at her, holding her gaze with his own. “Your company I find to be most refreshing.”

  Charlotte blushed, glad that the darkness would hide her burning cheeks. “And yet we have only had a very brief acquaintance. I might turn out to be just like all the other young ladies who seek out your company.”

  Although she had spoken lightly, Charlotte saw—much to her dismay—the smile leaving the marquess’ lips and a deep frown furrowing his brows.

  “I did not mean it,” she promised, growing a little worried as to his reaction. “I did not mean to distress you.”

  His gaze slowly refocused on her, the tension slowly leaving his body. “This was, perhaps, a bad idea,” he murmured, turning around abruptly and beginning to walk back towards the house. “Come, Miss Richardson. I should not have taken you out in such a way. Most improper.” He did not so much as even glance down at her, his expression blank. “I do not know what I was thinking,” he continued, as though talking to himself. “Anyone could see us.”

  A ripple of unease raced through Charlotte’s mind. “If you think I am going to cry foul, then you are quite mistaken,” she exclaimed, huffing a little with the effort of being hurried along so quickly. “For heaven’s sake, Lord Withington, stop!”

  With a huge effort, she tore her hand from under his arm and stopped dead, quite angry with the abrupt manner in which he had tried to hurry her back inside. After all, the stroll in the gardens had been his idea.

  “Can you kindly explain what it is you are doing, Lord Withington?” she asked between breaths. “I do not appreciate being half dragged back towards the house.

  He frowned, his jaw clenched. “I simply thought it best that…. Well, just suppose someone else were to see us, it would be my word against yours.”

  Charlotte’s anger blazed into a furnace at once. “Your word against mine?” she repeated, her fingers curling into fists. “You think that I would use this situation to my own advantage?” Her voice was rising as her anger burned, but Charlotte did not care. Apparently, the only reason he was trying to get her back inside was because he was under some mistaken idea that she was going to use it to her advantage. How dare he? He did not even know her, yet he presumed she would behave in such a way. The very impertinence of the man!

  “If you will excuse me, Lord Withington, I believe I shall make my own way inside,” she said tightly, her fingers itching to grasp his lapels and shake him in frustration. “After all, we would not want anyone to see us coming in together.”

  She could not keep the sarcasm from her voice, and without waiting for his response, turned on her heel and marched back towards the house, her cheeks burning with anger.

  7

  Try as she might, Charlotte could not get Lord Withington out of her mind. She should not be thinking of him at all, given how poorly he had treated her, but she found herself almost constantly thinking of him.

  He had been so warm towards her, only for his demeanor to turn quite cool as he had attempted to hurry her back inside. Did he truly believe that she would have cried foul in an attempt to make it look as though she were compromised? That said very little about how well he thought of her. He must consider her fickle and capricious, apparently desperate for a husband and willing to try to wed the wealthiest one she could at whatever cost.

  Her lips thinned. She could not bear thinking of it and yet, there he was, still in her thoughts.

  It probably would not hurt so
much if you did not find yourself so drawn to him.

  The quiet voice in her head made her pause, her heart slowly sinking into her stomach. She did not want to admit that she found the marquess attractive, but there was no denying it. He was handsome and amiable, and their conversations—although brief—had been pleasant enough. She had hoped to get to know him a little better over the course of the next few weeks, but after his behavior towards her the prior evening, she was not quite sure what to do.

  And yet, there was something in what he had done. It was a peculiar thing to simply turn around and begin to drag your partner back indoors, worrying that they were going to cry compromise. Had something happened to him that had made him believe she would do so? His change in demeanor had been so swift that even now she was a little overwhelmed by it. Was it worth giving him a chance to explain?

  “He will need to apologize first,” she determined crossly. “Then, we shall see.”

  “You!”

  The door flew open, slamming hard against the wall and, as Charlotte lifted her head, she saw Lady Emma standing, framed, in the doorway. Her cheeks were bright red, her eyes blazing and lips pulled into a tight line.

  “Lady Emma,” Charlotte replied, calmly, ignoring the winding spiral of anxiety in her chest. “Is something the matter?”

  “You are a conniving little schemer, that is what is the matter!” Lady Emma screeched, storming into the room and coming closer to Charlotte. “How dare you try and steal the marquess?”

  Charlotte stared at her, wondering if her stepsister had lost her head. “What are you talking about, Emma?” she asked, dropping her stepsister’s formal title. “I certainly am not trying to steal anyone.”