Reuniting Lady Marguerite

by Lydia Pembroke

  She came to a halt beside him, as he reached forwards and lifted her veil. She smiled up at him, her eyes shining with pure joy. He had never seen her look more perfect than she did in that moment. All of his worries faded away as he looked upon her.

  Here you are… my darling Margaret. Here you are, at last. I have been waiting for you, for so long.

  It might not have been his first wedding, but that did not detract from the magic of their union. This was different from his first wedding, for there were no angry faces in the congregation, only pure happiness, and enthusiasm for this match. Even the Dowager had tears in her eyes, as she looked towards the couple, her hands clasped to her breast. This was the final piece to the puzzle, which had been dispersed to every corner of England, and brought back together again.

  “You look beautiful,” Leopold whispered.

  “And you look exceptionally handsome.”

  She giggled, the sound making his heart swell.

  A few moments later, the vicar began the ceremony. Leopold did not hear too much of it, for he was too busy staring at his bride. He answered where he was supposed to and put the ring upon Margaret’s finger. And then, it was over. They were man and wife, at last, and the congregation rose to their feet in congratulations, applauding wildly as the couple went back up the aisle together. Leopold grasped Margaret’s hand as tightly as he could, leading her out into the balmy summer heat. It was the perfect day for the perfect marriage.

  As they climbed into the carriage, and made their way back to Dunsmore House, where the reception was to be held, Leopold savoured this brief respite with his wife, and her alone. He smiled as she leaned into his shoulder, nestling her head against his chest. Protectively, he put his arm around her, vowing to keep her safe for the rest of her life.

  “Are you happy?” she asked shyly.

  “Beyond belief.”

  She laughed. “I am glad to hear it.”

  “Are you happy?”

  She peered up at him. “More than I have ever been in my life.”

  He tilted her chin upwards and gazed into her eyes. Gently, with his heart beating faster, he leaned closer and kissed her softly on the lips. A tentative graze, brimming with love and affection. She pressed her palm against his chest and kissed him more firmly.

  He smiled, unable to help himself, revelling in the sweet satisfaction of having everything he had ever wanted, right there in his arms. Margaret adored his daughter, and his daughter adored her. It could not have worked out better, even if he had scoured the Earth for a thousand years, looking for this precise thing.

  “I have a gift for you,” Leopold said, pulling away slowly. Fresh roses had bloomed in her cheeks, her eyes sparkling with the same vigour as the Nettlerush.

  “You do?”

  He nodded.

  “I have it with me, if you would like it now?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He reached forward and uncovered a wrapped parcel, which had been hidden on the opposite squab. With a nervous smile, he handed it to her.

  She barely took her eyes off him as she unwrapped the parcel, though she released a faint gasp as she looked at the gift he had prepared.

  “It is remarkable, Leopold,” she murmured, her eyes wide in awe.

  “That is because of the subject, not my talent.” He glanced down at the portrait in her hands. It showed Margaret perched upon the stool in his studio, with bronzed, summer light cast upon her features, making her glow in the most ethereal manner. A half-smile pulled at the corners of her lips, within the image, and her face looked serene and content. Just the way he hoped she would always be.

  He had spent the last three weeks completing it, working from memory, and from the outlines he had sketched during their week together. He had wanted to get it exactly right. Truthfully, he knew that it was the finest portrait he had ever painted, for it had come from the heart, his emotions driving the brushstrokes and making it look exactly like Margaret.

  “Do you like it?”

  She nodded. “I adore it.”

  “I am glad.”

  “You have captured me in a way I did not think possible.”

  He smiled. “Are we still talking about the portrait?”

  “Yes and no.” She dropped her gaze for a moment. “I have never known happiness like this, Leopold. I did not think myself worthy of it, for so long. I had sworn to put aside childish thoughts of love and romance, and then… and then you came along, and changed everything. You were sent to me, I am certain of it. And, through you, I found the family that I had lost. I do not have the words to thank you.”

  “I have just as much to be grateful for,” he confessed. “I thought I would be alone for the rest of my days. I envisioned watching Felicity growing up, and seeing her ride away with some gentleman, only to visit me every so often. I did not think my heart had the capacity to love again. It had been so deeply wounded, and I did not know that those wounds could ever be healed. The moment I set eyes on you, it started to beat again. And I remembered that I was alive, and that I still had love to give. That is all because of you.”

  He cupped her face in his hands and leaned in once more.

  His lips touched hers, and he felt her melt into his embrace. As the carriage rattled on towards the manor house, he knew that, thanks to her, his past had finally been put away, so he could look towards his future. With her. They would look upon storms and sunsets and sunrises together, and never have to face the years alone again.

  You brought me back to life, Margaret. And, in return for that selfless gift, you were given back the life that you have always deserved. And he could not think of anyone more worthy of such bliss.

  THE END

  I DO HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS THIRD BOOK IN THE LOWER NETTLEFOLD DUNSMORE HOUSE SERIES

  REUNITING LADY MARGARET

  The next book in this series,

  ‘Rekindled Hope for Lady Georgette’

  reveals what happens to Miss Georgette Felling – the sister of Lady Jane’s deceased first husband. If you would like to receive news about it, sign up to my newsletter at:

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  About the Author

  Lydia Pembroke’s roots go back to England, although her country of birth is Australia.

  Her interests include ancestry, and it was the brooch left to her by her paternal grandmother that sparked her interest in the Regency and Victorian Eras. She often held the precious brooch in her hands, wondering what mysteries it held.

  Today, she still fantasises, but now she and writes those stories down. Her stories are romantic and sweet. She never kills anyone, unless she really has to.

  Follow Lydia on Amazon by clicking the follow button found at Amazon

  Sign up to my newsletter, and when you do, I’ll also send you the prequel to the Lower Nettlefold Series of books, and two other short regency reads. These are only available to my valued newsletter subscribers.

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  Other Books by Lydia Pembroke

  Here is Your preview of Book 4 in the Lower Nettlefold Dunsmore House Series

  Rekindled Hope

  for Miss Georgette

  Chapter One

  Miss Georgette Felling looked up from her bureau, and out across the beautiful gardens of the Waterford Estate. Summer lingered in the air, rising from the fresh life of Spring, turning the air balmy and the sky blue and clear. Two years had passed since the death of her brother, and yet she still expected him to walk across the lawns, stepping out of the distant woods as he had done a thousand times before.

  Whenever she heard the clatter of hooves upon the driveway, she lifted her head in the vain hope that it might somehow be him. It never was, but the disappointment stung just as deeply as it had in the first weeks after she had returned to Waterford.

  She thought bitterly upon the residents of Lower Nettlefold. In particular, the f
amily of the Earl of Dunsmore, who had all but chased her from the town, swarming around Jane— her brother’s wife— like a pack of rabid wolves. Had Jane not given birth to a daughter, matters might have been different, but Georgette had been given no choice but to abandon Jane to her new life.

  Her brother was all but forgotten in their minds and their memories. But Georgette had not forgotten, nor would she.

  She had heard that Jane had remarried, though she did not entirely know the gentleman in question. Nor did she care. Jane’s cold cruelty and determined dismissiveness, in the face of her husband’s death, had shown the true nature of that lady’s character. And yet, the realisation was somewhat bittersweet, for they had once been great friends, when Jane had first come to Waterford upon the union between herself and James, Georgette’s brother. All that had dissipated into the wind now, but she felt the loss of such a friend keenly, made all the more potent by the knowledge that she had never cared for James. It had all been twisted pretence, as a bid to gain some other gentleman. At least, that is what she had convinced herself of.

  I am doing my best to avenge you, Brother. It had consumed her, these past years, and that craving for revenge had not left her. Nor would it, until she could receive satisfaction for the apparent murder of her brother. They said that he had drowned in the lake, of his own accord, but she knew that he would not have drowned, had they not pursued him in so vile a manner. They had panicked him, causing him to flee. And it had taken his life from him. They were to blame, regardless of their reasoning.

  After all, they could not prove that he had attempted to harm the Dowager Countess of Dunsmore, nor that he had attempted to thieve valuable items from her, as he ran for his life. Georgette turned back to the papers upon her bureau, sifting through the letters she had received from various individuals who resided in and around Lower Nettlefold. Within them, she found nothing but secrecy and rejection. They did not seem to understand that all she desired was to discover her brother’s body.

  She could not bear the fact that an empty casket lay below the ground, with his headstone marking the spot. He could not properly be laid to rest unless there was a body to intern. Her mother seemed to have come to terms with the knowledge that her son would never be found, but Georgette did not share in that resignation. James Felling’s body was never recovered from the lake in which he died, in the grounds of Dunsmore House. Indeed, it prompted a lingering suspicion within Georgette that he may, somehow, still be alive. It did not matter that he had been given a funeral. She would not accept that he was truly dead until she saw it for herself.

  She did not wish to believe what everyone had said, for these past two years. She would know, if he were truly gone. She was certain of it. And the feeling, deep within her heart, that he was living still, spurred her on through every waking day.

  “He was unkind to me, Miss Felling.” Jane had said those words, the last time they met. “He hurt me, and he wounded me, and he took pleasure in my pain. You would have me shed a tear over such a terrible gentleman? I am sorry, but I cannot, and I will not. You must allow me to find contentment here. You must not ask me to return with you to Waterford, for I will forever be haunted by the memory of your brother. Those ghosts would only grow more rampant if I were to return to the estate that belonged to him. I will not go, and I will not grieve over a husband who hurt me so deeply. I am sorry for your loss, and I am sorry for you, but you did not know him as I did.”

  That revelation haunted Georgette now. She had known the death of his first wife had embittered him, but he had never revealed a darker aspect of his character to her, but that did not matter.

  Even if he had not been as scrupulous as he had seemed, he had not deserved the fate that had befallen him. With his death, he had left behind three lost children, who had been taken from the only caregiver they had known, since their mother had died. Jane had asked that they remain at Dunsmore House with her, but Georgette had refused. What else could she have done? She could not allow some other gentleman to raise James’ children as his own. No, she could not have borne it.

  How could James’ children live within the home of the people responsible for his death? It would have been much too ghoulish to contemplate. It was their right, and their duty, to be with their family, however threadbare such a community had become.

  However, that had come with its own set of troubles, for the care of them had fallen to Georgette herself. Governesses had come and gone, but none had been suitable for the Lady of the house - the Dowager Baroness of Waterford. And so, Georgette had been forced to undertake their education and deal with their emotional shortcomings, for they were as heartbroken as she was by the loss of their father. Orphans now, she almost felt guilty that their care had become so overwhelming. They had lost so much, so how could she dare to complain? And yet, she could not help it.

  They had become sour and unruly, and barely listened to a word that Georgette said. Setting down the disappointing letters, Georgette rose from her bureau and walked to the window, to better glimpse the gardens beyond.

  The estate sat upon a wild wilderness, with rolling moors stretching away into the distance. A stark beauty, but nonetheless charming.

  What has my life become? It was a question she continued to ask herself, with increasing frequency. The rumours surrounding James had percolated through to her own reputation, tarnishing it beyond repair, all because they shared the same name. The invitations to Balls and soirees had come to an end a long while ago, with her family being spurned from polite society. She would not have minded, given that she did not believe in the extent of her brother’s crimes, had it not left a rather worrying uncertainty across her own future. Georgette was no longer as youthful as she had once been, lingering in that curious stage between marriageable age and spinsterhood. Without the means of encountering eligible gentlemen, she did not know how she might acquire herself a suitable husband. Without that ability, she would have no hope of a family of her own.

  There came a knock at the door, distracting her from the gloom of her future. “Come in,” she instructed.

  Her mother peered around the door. “Am I disturbing you?”

  “Not at all, Mama.”

  “Excellent. The children are asking for you, and I did not know how to entertain them in your absence. Might you go to the nursery to placate them?”

  She nodded slowly. “Of course, Mama.”

  “Very good.” She eyed the pile of correspondence on Georgette’s bureau. “You must desist, my dear girl. It will do you no good to persevere in this endeavour. Our beloved James is not going to return to us, and there is little to be done to heal the wound that he has left behind. Put it from your mind, lest it consume you to the edge of lunacy.”

  “I cannot relent now, Mama. I will not.”

  “When Francis comes of age, he will see the estate and our family’s reputation restored. It requires patience from all of us, but you will see ­ everything will turn out well once again. I must implore you to put your brother to rest, as we have all had to do.” A sadness fell across her ageing features, the expression tugging at Georgette’s heart, she did not wish to cause her mother any further pain.

  But neither could she give up on finding James’ body. She might be able to live without revenge, perhaps, but she could not live without seeing James properly buried.

  “I will go to the children,” she said, agreeing to disagree.

  The Dowager Baroness sighed. “Very well. I will be in the drawing room if you care for some company once you are done. It does get so very lonely in the afternoons and evenings, does it not? Even with the children, these hallways have never seemed quite so silent.”

  “I will come to you, Mama,” Georgette promised. For she, too, felt the creeping silence of the house, seeping into her bones and chilling her to the core— the frosty touch of spirits, praying to be put to rest. And she would not rest until she no longer felt those icy brushes, making her shiver within these walls.


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