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

by Regina Darcy

  “I know. I went on the Grand Tour after leaving Oxford.”

  Lady Penelope flung her arms wide, her buxom form fully exposed. “I hope that I compare to those marble goddesses.”

  “You are, as you well know, a goddess in the flesh,” Michael replied his eyes roaming across her exposed flesh.

  “Um,” she smiled; pleased at the compliment she had solicited. “Only imagine what entertainment we could have now if we went on a tour of Italy.”

  “I hardly think Henry would be so accommodating as to allow that,” Michael replied with a small smile.

  “You’re quite the swordsman, are you not? You could dispose of him.”

  “And then you would be a rich widow and I would be hanging from the gibbet for murder.”

  “Nonsense, gentleman don’t hang.”

  “Murderers do,” he replied dryly.

  “But when will I see you again?” she asked as the Marquess put on his boots.

  “Sadly, I must return home tomorrow and stay there for a while; I’ve business in Dennington.”

  “Surely whatever business you need to attend to can wait?”

  “Unfortunately my dear,” he said, bending down to kiss her bare shoulder before standing, “it cannot. I must some times attend to business, you know. I cannot always be availing myself of your charms.”

  “You avail yourself of them all too seldom,” she told him petulantly. “I barely saw you this entire fortnight.”

  “You have seen more of me than anyone excluding my valet.”

  Lady Penelope brightened at the bawdy reminder of their night together.

  “I am sure that I enjoy the view much more than he does.”

  “Undoubtedly. Cole is far more concerned with the condition of my ascots than he will ever be of my appearance in my bath.”

  “So I should hope.” Lady Penelope giggled. “How I would enjoy being your valet,” she said. “I would take such very good care of you.”

  “A topic for another day, my daring hoyden,” Michael replied with a regretful stare.

  “Lady Caroline Lamb, it is said sometimes can be found dressed as a page,” Lady Penelope responded with a twinkle in her eye.

  “Lady Caroline Lamb is the scandal of London. If you seek to emulate her I think you will find your Henry less indulgent that he is now.”

  “We could run off to Italy, you and I.”

  “Not today,” Michael said firmly. “I must leave for Dennington.”

  “Beast! I shall take another lover,” Lady Penelope cried out and threw a crimson pillow towards his head.

  He dodged it with ease, not even bothering to look up.

  “I daresay you shall,” he replied instead coolly. “But I shall return and I have no doubt that you will accommodate two of us very tidily. Three, if you count Henry. But husbands never count, do they?”

  He shut the door behind him, laughing as he heard the sound of something breaking against it. Lady Penelope had a bit of a temper and an excess of vases in her bedchamber. It was likely that one had just met its demise.

  The Dennington carriage was waiting, discreetly as its driver had been instructed, a block away from Lady Penelope’s residence. As Michael got in, he regretted that he could not ride instead of being driven. He would have vastly preferred the freedom of the saddle and the invigorating open air to the confinement of his carriage, comfortable though it was.

  While indulging in the charms of an amorous and accommodating woman such as Lady Penelope was admittedly pleasurable entertainment for a gentleman, it could not be denied that if one assessed her by standards apart from physical appeal, the interlude would be revealed for what it was: a lusty encounter devoid of intellect or emotion.

  She amused him, she sated him, but she did not interest him. If he never saw her again, he would not lament her absence. He grimaced.

  Leaving for Dennington was, in fact, as much of a relief as it was necessary, for too much time in Lady Penelope’s company gave Her Ladyship notions. He frowned.

  Her references to Lady Caroline Lamb, Lord Byron’s discarded lover, was somewhat alarming. He did not think that Lady Penelope would go to the lengths that Viscount Melbourne’s wayward wife had reached, but one could never be quite secure in dalliance with such a passionate woman. He had no wish to make their affair matter of public knowledge or scandalous ridicule.

  No. None of that for him. He was satisfied with maintaining his bachelor status. As he stared out of his carriage, his mind continued to mull on the nature of women.

  He did not know any women whose conversation was so diverting that it reached beyond the artifice of the drawing room, where polite innuendo and arch speculation were the order of the day. Imagine discussing the current political situation with any of the women he knew! It was impossible to conceive of such a discourse. Imagine discussing the ramifications of Wellington’s victory and Toulouse and what it signified with regard to Bonaparte.

  Or to introduce a meaningful discussion of Byron’s work rather than his licentious habits; did women even read his poetry or did they prefer to whisper over their fans as they listed his vices like naughty schoolgirls? He shook his head at his foolish thoughts.

  Of course, the young women who were considered marriageable were little more than schoolgirls he reminded himself as the carriage continued on its way, jostling over the ruts in the road, crowded by the traffic of the city. A girl left her governess or her schoolroom and was presented as a woman when, in truth, she was still a girl.

  Ready to bear an heir to the proper husband, true, but without the maturity or wisdom that would make her a partner of the mind as well as the body. Small wonder that men took mistresses and lovers, he mused cynically. Their marriages were made to please their parents and ensure the family bloodline; their extramarital activities were made to please themselves.

  That would be his fate, Michael realised.

  He would be introduced to a debutante with a reasonable fortune and a pedigree, fresh from her mama, outfitted with the wardrobe that would announce her status as an innocent upon the marital stage. They would dance and then flirt with all due propriety and he would ask her father for permission to court her. She would be strictly chaperoned so that her reputation would remain pristine and he would be assured of taking a virgin to bed on his wedding night.

  She would, in due time, produce an heir, and then another. After that, it was understood that they were at liberty to entertain themselves as they wished, with whom they wished, so long as discretion was observed.

  He grimaced. One must not force society to profess awareness of what was known to be true. One observed the accepted boundaries of decorum externally.

  Alighting from the carriage upon arrival at his home, Michael ascended the front stairs with his usual energy rather than the languid indolence of a London dandy. He was fond of physical exercise and enjoyed it, having no patience with the pampered idleness of his peers.

  He ate a light luncheon in the dining room as he read the morning newspaper, frowning over the folly of Parliament and the various escapades of radicals. Politics fascinated him; it was an artful puzzle with unpredictable pieces. One never quite knew what to expect.

  After eating and sending his compliments to the cook who was as adept at preparing a tray of bread and cheese as she was at creating a masterpiece of courses, Michael went to his den and worked on long overdue business letters.

  The Duke of Summersby was coming by for supper and a bit of sword sparring and Michael intended to get his business done in time so that he could put in his usual practice. He did not expect much of a challenge from Summersby, who was an engaging man known more for his whimsical eccentricities than anything else, but at least with Summersby, one could anticipate an enjoyable evening of camaraderie.

  Even though the Duke had recently taken such leave of his senses that he had kidnapped his bride before becoming engaged to her, he was still a rather splendid fellow.

  Smitten, it was tru
e, with the very pretty Lady Georgette, who, the gossipmongers said, was smitten in return, despite having begun her courtship in a noticeably unorthodox manner. Somehow, the unpleasant scent of scandal had escaped the duo.

  Michael was not quite sure why or how. Perhaps it was because Summersby, for all his flagrant disregard for conformity, had taken care that his abducted fiancée was properly chaperoned.

  Michael smiled. Only Summersby would think to engage a chaperone to protect the reputation of the woman he had kidnapped.

  His business concluded, Michael put away his pen and his bottle of ink and closed his ledger. He stood up and went to the carved wooden closet in the library where his most prized possession, the sword he had inherited from his late grandfather, was kept under lock and key.

  He took out the heirloom and pulled the sword from its sheath. The sword was maintained in pristine condition but in its day, it had spilt blood. His grandfather, likewise Michael, the Marquess of Dennington for whom he had been named, had fought at the Battle of the Plains of Abraham with General Wolfe in 1759, part of the victorious triumph which won Canada for Great Britain. As a child, Michael had cherished those stories from his grandfather and when he was old enough, Grandfather had taught him how to use the sword that had been passed down for generations.

  It was a splendid weapon. As a boy, he had secretly called it Excalibur in honour of King Arthur’s magical sword, convinced that he could never be defeated when wielding it. The hilt was made of gold, expertly crafted, and the blade was of the very finest Damascus steel.

  In their time, the Denningtons had plied their swords all across the world, from the Crusades of long ago to the New World in the last century. Would he ever use the sword for nought but play, Michael wondered as he returned it to its sheath.

  In these civilized times, it seemed unlikely. Pistols were becoming ever more popular but there seemed, to Michael’s mind, something ignoble about the bullet rather than the point of a sword.

  He smiled to himself. Perhaps his grandfather had prejudiced him against firearms.

  Summersby was the sort of guest who would find such an esoteric topic intriguing. Several hours later, they were having exactly that debate.

  “One is just as dead,” Summersby argued before suddenly changing the conversation.

  “Your cook has done excellently well with this haddock. It is haddock, is it not?”

  “Yes,” Michael said, a trifle irritated that a philosophical discussion on the superiority of felling an enemy by sword rather than pistol should be interrupted by so mundane a query.

  “I must learn how it is made. Do you suppose your cook will divulge her secret?”

  “You have a cook of your own, have you not?”

  “Of course. She is quite pleased when I bring her new concoctions. Once I am married, it will fall to my wife to plan the meals, and I must be sure that she has a repertoire from which to choose.”

  “She manages the Earl’s house, does she not? Is her mother not bedridden?”

  “Yes, but they live very simply and Georgette is quite a novice in running a household in the manner in which I am accustomed.”

  “I am sure she will learn the art,” Michael said. “Isn’t that what women do? It’s not as if they learn . . . to use a sword, for example.”

  “What on earth would a woman want to learn to fight with a sword for?” Summersby inquired, frowning. “I cannot fathom a reason.”

  “Do you not think it might be a pleasant diversion if a woman, one’s wife, shall we say, was trained in the art?”

  “I do not!” Summersby declared. “Early in our acquaintance Georgette, in a moment of temper, struck me across the face. I should not care for her to have the opportunity to use a weapon which could kill me if she is again possessed by such an impulse.” He scowled at Michael. “What on earth can you be thinking, Dennington? Next you will be suggesting that females ought to ride astride and wear trousers.”

  Michael thought back to Lady Penelope’s comment earlier in the day when she expressed a wish to be his valet.

  “I suppose that Lady Caroline Lamb would not have donned breeches to pose as a page if she did not find the ruse to her advantage,” he said.

  “If you wish to have a topic given serious consideration, you cannot bring Lady Caroline into the conversation,” Summersby said. “I wonder . . . did your cook add rosemary to the haddock? There’s a hint of something, I cannot quite think what, that lends a most agreeable flavour to it.”

  “I’ve no idea,” Michael returned. “You may ask her yourself.”

  “I shall do so,” Summersby said cheerfully.

  “You take the most peculiar interest in the most unlikely manner of things,” Michael observed.

  “Do I? What is peculiar about wanting to know what ingredients go into a meal? It’s certainly more enlightening than pondering whether or not one’s wife could be taught swordplay. Really, Dennington . . . can you fancy the picture that a woman in her skirts would make were she to have a sword in hand? I fancy the seamstresses would be obliged to design some fantastical garment which permitted the ladies greater mobility in their lower limbs and I cannot envision the patronesses at Almack’s countenancing such a fashion.”

  “By the time a woman is married, she is not under the interdict of the patronesses’ disapproval,” Michael pointed out. “She may do as she pleases in her own home.”

  “Yes,” conceded Summersby. “As many wives do. And husbands. I don’t approve at all. I don’t intend to be a cuckold and I do not intend to give my wife any cause to seek a lover. It may be quite old-fashioned of me, I daresay it is, but I believe in monogamy.” He glared at Michael as if expecting him to dispute this stance.

  “I suppose there are such things as faithful husbands and wives,” Michael said with a shrug. “I don’t know of any. Do you?’

  “It doesn’t matter what I know. It matters what I intend to be, which is a loving, faithful, attentive husband.”

  “I can see that you are ripe for a boisterous round of sword fighting,” Michael snapped. “Vigorous sport will knock all these romantic notions from your head. You shall return to a more reasoned state of mind after I have trounced you.”

  “Not until I’ve enjoyed more of this delectable haddock,” Summersby said. “And while you may trounce me, you shall not cast my thoughts from my mind, even if you knock my pate to oblivion. Georgette is a most admirable woman. She is beautiful, witty, kind, resourceful and spirited. I should not for a moment entertain the prospect of being less than a complete husband to her and when we are married, we shall be as kind to one another as if I were the village vicar and she my helpmate.”

  Michael burst into laughter at the thought.

  Summersby looked hurt.

  “Why do you laugh?”

  “My dear Summersby,” Michael began, signally to the butler to refill their wine glasses. “Anyone less reminiscent of the village vicar than yourself I cannot imagine. And if your Georgette brings to mind a plump and complacent vicar’s spouse, then I seriously must doubt the praise which you lavish upon her.”

  “You mistake me.”

  “I merely have more familiarity of vicars than you have, I suspect,” Michael said.

  Church attendance when he was at his estate in Dennington was part of life in the country and he attended weekly services dutifully, extending a Sunday invitation to the vicar and his wife to join him for lunch after church. It was part of the custom of the manor, a habit ingrained in country life.

  “I spoke figuratively, of course,” Summersby said.

  “You may have,” Michael replied, wiping his hands on the linen napkin, “but I did not. I shall most definitely trounce you in swordplay and it shall be my aim to restore you to the proper state of manhood to which you ought to aspire, and not to this besotted state of affection which renders you lamentably effeminate.”

  “Effeminate, am I? I shall make you answer for that, sir,” Summersby said vehemently. �
�As soon as I have had more of the haddock.”

  THREE

  “You look peaked, Honora,” Lady Hestia said to her daughter at breakfast.

  Lord David peered at his daughter. “A girl your age has no business looking peaked,” he declared as he applied his knife and fork to the sausage on his plate. “You’re about to marry a duke and not just any duke, but the Duke of Ivanhoe. What have you got to be looking peaked for?”

  Lady Hestia, the most docile of wives, gave her husband a level stare which so startled him that he nearly choked on his sausage.

  “Marriage,” Lady Hestia said in crisp tones, “is a serious matter for women. Men have no idea what it entails. Honora, you are going to rest today. Mrs Hale shall send up broth and tea for your lunch. I’ll come up to you later and dab Hungary water on your skin; it will revive you.”

  “Stuff and nonsense!” Lord David argued. “She needs meat and exercise if she’s peaky.”

  “I think, my lord, that I know what sort of remedies are best suited for a female.”

  Lord David, looking abashed, reddened at his wife’s allusion to that mysterious and uncharted domain of womanhood.

  “Very well,” he mumbled, returning his attention to his plate. “I’m sure that you will see to it, my dear.” Then, as a parting shot to indicate that the subject was over, he added, “Young girls don’t get enough fresh air these days.”

  Honora was relieved to leave the table and the conversation. She had no appetite and felt an unusual sense of lassitude which, combined with her fear at what she had overheard from the women at her engagement ball, rendered her incapable of action. She needed to know the truth about what the women had said when they discussed, not knowing that their words were being attended to by Ivanhoe’s affianced bride, the rumours that surrounded the cause of his late wife’s demise. But how could she learn this?

  When the tea and broth were brought up to her room, she drank both obediently but with little interest. Her mother arrived in the room shortly after, the promised Hungary water and a cambric handkerchief in hand.