Journey to love (Runaway Regency Brides Special Edition) (5 Story Box Set)

by Regina Darcy

  “I had not thought to dance any more,” Ivanhoe told her.

  But Lady Honora would not be denied.

  “You must dance, Your Grace,” she argued, her arm possessively on his. “This is my engagement ball and what will people think if my bridegroom-to-be will not even partner with me in a dance?”

  “They will think whatever they choose, as they have always done. As they prefer to do,” came the sour reply.

  “More likely they will think him wise for not exposing his clumsiness in front of the ton,” Summersby said, his words removing some of the sternness from his cousin’s response.

  “He will tread upon your toes, milady, mark me he will, and you will regret having insisted.”

  “I don’t care!” Lady Honora said gaily. “Your Grace, will you dance with me?”

  Ivanhoe sighed and handed his drink to his cousin.

  “It seems that I have no other choice,” he remarked and, holding out his arm to his fiancée, led her to the dance. All eyes were on the couple, admiring their physical appearance.

  The Duke, tall, lean and dark-haired, Lady Honora slender and regal, her charming form shown to advantage by the close-fitting gown that she wore. She emanated an impression of seductiveness and naiveté, a young woman of two-and-twenty, sure of her appeal and yet still dazzled by the thought that she was the affianced bride-to-be of the handsome and mysterious Duke of Ivanhoe. But behind their fans, they whispered to one another in a festooning garland of gossip to which the Duke was far from oblivious.

  “Is not the music exquisite?” Lady Honora inquired as she looked up at her betrothed.

  “Indeed.”

  “And is this not a most enjoyable evening?”

  “Quite.”

  “Have you nothing more to say, Your Grace?”

  “I have not.”

  “Do you not enjoy dancing?”

  “Not particularly,” he replied.

  There was so much about the Duke that she still did not know, Honora reflected as she moved to the steps of the music, her body perfectly attuned to the notes as if she were the physical incarnation of the tune. His green eyes were riveting; she wondered what was behind them. He seemed to be a man of secrets, and yet he was well known in London for his wealth. Was it the fact that he had been married and widowed at a young age, she wondered? He never spoke of his dead wife, but then, he rarely spoke of the past at all, quite the opposite of his talkative cousin, the Duke of Summersby.

  “Have I something on my face?” he inquired. “You are staring.”

  She dimpled. “I enjoy looking at you.”

  “I see. How extraordinary. Perhaps that is why the rest of the assembly is looking at me as well?”

  Honora flushed. There was a cruelty in his intonation that left her feeling as if she needed a defence against his words, although she could not think why.

  It was, she confessed to herself, just slightly vexing that the Duke was so lacking in conversation.

  She had been the belle of the season when she came out, but her father was discerning and did not approve of any of the suitors who had sought her hand.

  Each year, during the season, she returned to the dances and each year, she outshone the young debutantes, but her father would have none of the suitors. Until this year, when she had appeared at a ball and the Duke of Ivanhoe had shown up at her side. His conversation had been limited and he had danced little, but when he approached Honora’s father for permission to court her, he had approved.

  The announcement of the engagement had captured London’s attention and an invitation to the engagement ball was sought by everyone in the beau monde, for no one wished to be left out of such a momentous event.

  The very lovely Lady Honora Westing to be the bride of the enigmatic Duke of Ivanhoe, so seldom in London and therefore all the more mysterious by his absence . . . it was more than an engagement ball, it was an event.

  Honora was but a novice in these matters but she was well aware that they were the talk of London, with every eye watching her every move. Despite this scrutiny, she felt no anxiety. This was her fairy-tale ending and she intended to enjoy every minute of it – despite the Duke’s sour countenance.

  When the dance ended and they left the dance floor, Summersby handed his cousin his drink. “Not too bad,” Summersby said, “although all credit goes to Lady Honora.”

  Honora’s mother beamed. Lady Hestia was very proud of her beautiful daughter for making such a match. “Honora has always excelled at dancing,” she said.

  Honora curtseyed at the compliment. “Mama, I must go and freshen up. I shall return soon. Your Grace, you will not dance with anyone while I am gone?”

  “Nor when you return,” he replied.

  Honora’s dimples showed. “Let us see if I cannot lure you out for one more dance,” she said.

  She left her mother and the two ducal cousins and made her way through the crush of people in search of a private room where she could attend to matters of nature.

  She had sampled quite a bit of champagne this night of celebration and she had danced every dance. It was a perfect night, she thought as she entered the room set aside for the ladies to address those needs of which everyone was aware but were not spoken of in public.

  She went behind one of the screens set up in the room. A pitcher and basin were provided so that the young ladies could refresh themselves with water on a night that was warmer than usual for spring in England.

  A chamber-pot, discreetly positioned beneath a stool, was also behind the screen.

  “Doesn’t Lady Honora simply break your heart?”

  Hearing her name uttered from behind one of the other screens caught Honora’s attention.

  Whatever did the woman mean? She did not recognise the voice, but it sounded as if it belonged to an older woman.

  “So lovely,” said another woman, her voice younger. “So innocent. So vulnerable.”

  “I don’t suppose she knows anything.”

  “I don’t know that most people even remember. It’s been years, has it not?”

  “It was quite a scandal at the time. I do not believe that people have forgotten. Can you not tell? They watch him as if they expected him to take a dagger to his lovely fiancée at any moment. He knows that all eyes are on him. He is more forbidding than ever.”

  “Six years. The wife dead, by means unknown.”

  “Unproven, you mean,” corrected the other matron.

  “Very tragic. I didn’t know his wife, but to die under mysterious conditions so soon after wedding the Duke . . . very sad.”

  “He wasn’t the Duke of Ivanhoe then.”

  “My dear, you are correct. He had not claimed the title yet. He took his bride before his father passed away. One wonders, of course, if becoming the Duke of Ivanhoe made him seek a more fitting wife. So little is known about the first wife. She was a Ferguson, quite a noble family in Scotland, I believe, although she herself grew up in the north of England. It makes it all the more tragic that she should perish and nothing more to be said of the matter.”

  “I would not claim that nothing more was to be said,” declared the other lady behind her screen. “One heard such terrible rumours.”

  “I heard that he worships the devil and sacrificed her to Satan!”

  “Bosh! I believe it’s much more likely that he got rid of her when she failed to conceive a child.”

  “But they weren’t wed for long.”

  “Apparently he was in a hurry for an heir.”

  “I also heard that he was enraged at his young wife for taking a lover and running off with him. It’s said that he followed them and killed them.”

  “I don’t suppose we’ll ever know the truth,” the second matron said. “But we must pay attention. If he intends to rid himself of his second wife, he will need to be rather more careful. The Winterhavens are among the noblest of families, with connections as high up as the royal court, and if Lady Honora comes to a premature demise, yo
u may be sure that the Duke will have to answer for it.”

  “Much good that will be to Lady Honora if she’s cold and in the ground!”

  “The poor girl. I wish there were some way of warning her.”

  “She is besotted with him; she would not believe anyone even if they told her. What girl does not long to be a duchess?”

  “True. I pity the girl.”

  Honora heard the door to the room close. She was alone.

  Her heart began to beat as if she had been running, even though she had not moved from her spot since the matrons had begun their conversation.

  It could not be true!

  That Ivanhoe was a widower, yes, she knew that. He did not speak of it and her father had not pried into the details. Six years was more than enough time for a man to mourn the loss of a wife and move forward with his life. It was the responsibility of the aristocracy, her father said, to keep their legacy intact by breeding heirs to inherit. The Earl of Winterhaven had been shaken by the abominable actions in France—to think of an anointed king beheaded by the rabble!—and he felt strongly that the lower classes must not get ideas above their station. To see his daughter married to a duke was a cherished goal and that would be achieved.

  What would Papa say if he knew what she had just overheard?

  He would discount it immediately and tell her that she ought to have better sense than to waste her time listening to idle tittle-tattle. And Mama would agree with him; Mama never disputed anything that her father said.

  There was a twenty-year difference in age between Lady Hestia and Lord David, not because the Earl had been previously married, but because he was so particular. By the time he found a suitable woman to be his Countess, he was already thirty-eight years old. Lady Hestia was but eighteen.

  Honora had never heard her mother utter a word of disagreement with anything that the Earl said. It would be useless to tell them that there was a scandal attached to the Duke of Ivanhoe, one so dire that it was reason enough for the wedding to be called off. Her father would not permit it. The engagement was announced, the wedding date set. She would be the Duchess of Ivanhoe.

  Honora shivered despite the warm evening. How long, this time, before the Duke was a widower once more?

  When she returned to the ballroom, Summersby said, “Just in time. The dance is about to begin and I am eager to show my cousin that I am a suitable dance partner for you, Lady Honora.”

  “I—do not feel like dancing, Your Grace.”

  Her mother’s concern was immediate. “My dear child, whatever do you mean? Are you unwell?”

  “I—it’s very warm. I think I should like to sit down.”

  The Duke of Ivanhoe frowned. “You are very pale,” he observed. “I hope that you will not be ill.”

  Was it Lady Honora’s imagination or did his countenance reveal contempt for physical weakness? Had his first wife, the doomed woman who did not live to become the Duchess of Ivanhoe, quailed before that appraising scrutiny?

  “I daresay she hopes the same thing, you great lummox,” his cousin said. “Lady Honora, shall I fetch you something to drink? Perhaps with the warmth of the room and the dancing, you are quite worn out?”

  “Yes, I, that would be most kind, thank you, Your Grace.”

  Her mother had taken out her fan and was rapidly moving it back and forth to provide air for her daughter. Although she knew that her mother meant well, the act was annoying. Honora just wanted to return home, to sequester herself in her room and find a way out of her quandary.

  “Is there anything that I can do to help, Lady Honora?” the Duke asked, scrutinizing her with those unreadable green eyes. How could she feel the heat of the ballroom with that cold, icy gaze fast upon her?

  “No, nothing,” she said. “Mama is tending to me quite sufficiently and your cousin is bringing me something to drink. There is nothing more to be done.”

  He bowed. “If you wish to leave, milady, I shall escort you to your carriage.”

  She was in distress, all because she had learned the dark truth of his past, and he had no more interest in her wellbeing than to offer to escort her so that she could leave. That was all she meant to him – nothing.

  This was her engagement ball, an evening that she had anticipated ever since her father had informed her that he had accepted the Duke of Ivanhoe’s offer of marriage. How could such an evening have turned so swiftly from ecstasy to dread?

  Trapped by the knowledge that no one in her family would believe her reasons for wishing to call off the wedding, Honora had little to say in the carriage as she and her mother returned home. Lady Hestia fussed because of worry until her daughter really did have the headache she had claimed to have before leaving.

  “You shall spend tomorrow in bed, resting,” Lady Hestia said. “Too much excitement, that’s what this comes from. You shall rest and eat lightly until you are better. Too much champagne is taxing on the liver, your great-grandmother always said this was so and I believe it. You must refrain from indulgence, my dear. And rich food! It is the very worst thing for a delicate appetite.”

  Honora did not protest that she was not afflicted with a delicate appetite. When they arrived at their home, Honora obeyed her mother’s order to go to bed immediately. Her maid helped her to disrobe. With her hair brushed and plaited and her nightgown on, she got into bed and pulled the coverlet up over her.

  Lady Hestia came into the bedroom without knocking. “My dear,” she said. “I have the very thing for your headache.” She took a handkerchief and soaked it with lavender water from a bottle. “This will help, I always use it myself.”

  The damp, fragrant handkerchief was soothing on her forehead. Her mother’s attentiveness, too, was at once appreciated. When she was a married woman, Lady Honora realised, she would not be able to rely upon the compassion of her mother or even her father’s attention to her welfare. She would be utterly alone and entirely at the mercy of the Duke of Ivanhoe, far from London at his estate in the county of Twickendale, where she would not know anyone or have anyone to go to for help.

  “My dear, are you crying?” Lady Hestia asked, as a tear slid down her daughter’s cheeks.

  “Oh, Mama!” Honora exclaimed.

  Her mother, for all that she was submissive to her husband, was a loving mother. She gathered her daughter in an embrace. She thought that she knew the reason for the girl’s sudden change in demeanour. Young girls knew so little. It had been the same for her.

  “My dear,” she said comfortingly, “it will not be so bad, truly it will not. The Duke will be kind and gentle. He knows that you are innocent. He will not expect very much from a young bride. And in time, you will become used to it. And after more time,” she said brightly, “why, he likely will not trouble you at all, once you have given birth to an heir. Gentlemen understand that wellborn ladies are—are—well, we do our duty. Once I provided your Papa with an heir, and with you, he was most accommodating and I am sure that the Duke will be the same.”

  As she held her daughter close, Lady Hestia wondered why it should be that young girls were so readily dispatched into marriage and all that accompanied it, when they had no way of understanding what was entailed by being a dutiful wife. Men were quite another species apart, that was simply the truth, but a mother could not tell her daughter that or the poor child would flee in fright. No, one had to buck up their courage and assure them that all would be well. Perhaps it would be. And if it would not be well, perhaps it would at least not be so very bad.

  TWO

  As the Marquess of Dennington donned his clothing, Lady Penelope Farley watched him with an unconcealed appreciation for his long, lithe physique, which regrettably had to be covered in order for propriety to be observed. She sighed and twirled an errant lock of hair.

  Her husband was away and would not be home until later in the afternoon, but it would hardly do for the two men to encounter one another, although Lord Henry likely suspected that he was not the only man to enj
oy his wife’s favours.

  Lady Penelope sighed. “Darling man, you have the most remarkable anatomy.”

  Michael grinned. “That’s a compliment easy enough to return,” he said, giving her uncovered form the admiration it deserved.

  “You remind me of those marvellous statues that Henry took me to see while we were on our honeymoon in Rome. They’re very fond of naked statues, the Italians,” she remarked.

  “The statues of which you speak are hundreds of years old, you know. I doubt very much if the Italians today are any more inclined to posing nude in public places than they were then.”

  “Really?”

  Lady Penelope leaned on one elbow.

  “But they’re all over the place, you know. One can barely move anywhere without gazing upon parts of the anatomy which would be decently covered in England.”

  Michael pulled on his trousers. They were, as fashion dictated, fitted and snug. Michael was not a fop, but he was known for his attention to his attire. He adjusted his clothes to ensure that his shirt did not interrupt the smooth line created by his breeches.

  “What was Henry thinking, spending his honeymoon amongst statues when he had a lovely bride to entertain?”

  “Oh, as to that, darling, Henry would rather gaze upon nude marble than naked flesh. I didn’t know that before we married, unfortunately. Marriage is such an educational experience for a young, innocent girl.”

  “Were you ever a young, innocent girl?” Michael replied with a raised eyebrow.

  “Of course I was!” she said indignantly. “Aren’t we all? Girls, at least. We have no choice, you know. It’s really very unfair. A gentleman may romp in beds all over London but a girl may not so much as give a kiss. And then she marries and has no idea what is expected. Once she learns, she soon discovers that the man she married may be no more personable than one of those statues.”

  “Perhaps you should have gone to Rome before your marriage,” Michael suggested. “You might have had more information before the fact.”

  “There are a lot of undraped ladies amongst the monuments and sculptures of Italy,” she recalled.