Last Chance for the Charming Ladies: A Clean & Sweet Regency Historical Romance Collection

by Fanny Finch

  He had talked about how he felt distant from his mother. How he thought that she had been a vain woman who had not cared all that much for raising her children. He spoke of how his father was foisting all of his responsibility onto his eldest son and how he felt a great deal of unwanted pressure from it.

  Julia had found herself over the past few weeks opening up to this man in a way that she had never opened up to anyone else before.

  She had expected when they began this to try and find out his identity. And, in the meantime, she expected she would discuss books and such with him.

  Instead, she found that the both of them were divulging things that they dared not speak of to anyone else.

  It was so easy to do so by letter. To say things in the privacy of her room without the person’s face in front of her. There was no immediate feeling of rejection. Although she did often feel fear afterwards that she had gone too far or said too much.

  But she doubted that she could have said all of this to someone’s face. It was refreshing. No, more than that—like relieving herself of a burden that she hadn’t even realized she’d been carrying.

  The intimacy between them was not merely romantic. Although there was plenty of that.

  She ran her fingers fondly over the papers around her. Over time her letter writer had gotten bolder. Although to her credit she had certainly encouraged it.

  I do wish you would not call me ‘dear’, she had written in one letter. It is what my parents call me and so that is all I can think of when you use it.

  He had responded with, if I am too forward in this, tell me so at once. But I have thought of you for quite some time in my head as my darling.

  She had thrilled to read those words. Hysterical, joyful giggles had burst out of her. All that day, she had felt as though she had been walking on air.

  To know that she was so beloved in his eyes—oh it was probably not proper. Not at all. But she hardly cared.

  In a world where she constantly second-guessed herself, here was one person who seemed to love her wholeheartedly.

  He still would not use such names with her easily or freely. She had to coax them out of him in the letters. She would tease him and prod him and at last he would indulge her with a sweet name.

  The one that she liked the most was my little raven.

  It had sprung up because of her dark hair and her inquisitive nature. You are far too intelligent for your own good sometimes, he had written. Rather like a raven.

  And so the name had been born. She could admit that she understood the comparison, having dealt with quite a few precocious ravens herself over the years.

  It had become her favorite nickname. Whenever he used it, which was rare, it was usually to playfully chastise her.

  Do not think that I do not know what you are about, my little raven. I can see you trying to ferret more information out of me. But I am afraid that our mystery must continue.

  His identity, which had at first been a shield to him, was now an object of play between them. It was almost a joke, in fact. Something that she tried to learn and he tried to keep from her.

  So much of their letters were playful. She was certain that he must be a witty man and not at all dull. That had narrowed down her search a bit. For if a man was clever with his words, why should he choose to be dull in conversation at the dinner table?

  But all that she had learned from him and of him was not enough to help her in figuring out his identity. He could still be any number of men.

  Julia stared at the letters around her, trying to organize them and trying to solve the mystery.

  A part of her did not want to solve it. A part of her wanted to keep this special intimacy that they had built forever.

  If they were to meet in person, if she was to know his identity… would it not possibly ruin things? Would it destroy the lovely relationship that they had built together?

  What if he liked her in the letters so much better than in person? Or what if she liked him in his letters, and could not stand him in person? What if they were disappointing to one another?

  Julia shook such thoughts from her head. No. He would not go to such lengths as to call her a special nickname and share with her all of his woes if he was the sort of man who would not care for her in person.

  Besides, he had already been in love with her before the letters. She was the one who had not known him.

  Oh, she did hope that she would like him. That he was thoughtful and intelligent, she knew. But would he be charming in person? Handsome?

  She felt incredibly shallow for it but she did so hope that he was handsome. Or even if not handsome, at least pleasing to look upon. Someone with the kind of face that she could gaze at for the rest of her life. Because that was, hopefully, what she would be doing.

  Many times she had been tempted to simply ask him who he was. But she was not sure that he would reveal himself to her. And trying to figure it out on her own was so much more fun.

  Julia shuffled the letters around a little and then checked her paper. She had written down all the things that she knew about him that helped to narrow down her list of possible men.

  First, he had a younger sibling. Possibly more, but he had only ever mentioned one.

  Secondly, he was not on the best of terms with his mother. Julia was actually unsure if his mother was alive or dead. He had not been clear on that point. But either way, she frustrated him.

  Third, his father was giving him a great—and if you asked Julia, an unfair—deal to do with the running of the estate. She could tell by the man’s descriptions that he was set to inherit a title. But what title exactly, she did not know.

  Fourth, he was indeed one of her father’s pupils. He had dodged those questions as best he could, but Julia had figured him out. She would slip in mentions of books here and there and he had always replied.

  She would put in a reference to this philosopher or that historical event. And she had brought up what her favorite dish was as a child. The dish that her mother had only had the cook make when a new pupil first came to the house. As a sort of celebration, welcoming dish.

  The gentleman had responded that it was one of his favorite dishes as well and that whenever he had it as an adult it reminded him of his childhood.

  It was possible that it was simply a dish he had eaten at home. But that combined with knowing the books and opinions her father had taught… it could not be merely a coincidence.

  Furthermore, she did not know of any man that she had known for as long or as well as her father’s pupils.

  Fifth, she knew that he was a good dancer and that he enjoyed dancing. That he especially enjoyed dancing with her.

  Sixth, he always noticed her dress. While he was glad that there was more to speak with her about than fashion he had often complimented her on her style of dress.

  He was careful not to be too specific. He clearly did not want her to be able to select a particular ball or dinner that he had attended in order to narrow down her search.

  It helped of course that she wore dresses multiple times. Or rather, it helped him to keep his anonymity. Only the greatest of ladies could afford to get a new dress for every single ball and dinner they attended. The newly-married Lady Reginald, Georgiana’s sister-in-law, would be able to do such a thing.

  Most of the time, however, ladies would order a set of new dresses at the start of a season. They would then cycle through them throughout.

  It had been flattering to know that her choices were not only noticed by other women but by this gentleman. That he appreciated her fashion sense and admired how she looked.

  Had it been all he admired about her she would have been less pleased. But on top of everything else, it made a pleasant flutter start up in her chest.

  The gentleman was very good at doing that in general. She read his letters in bed at night so that there would be no suspicion from her mother or the maids. There she would smile, widely and possibly idiotically, as she read his l
ines. She could feel her face heating up when he would slip up and say something like,

  You are darling when you laugh.

  Or,

  You always know how to make me smile.

  She knew that he tried not to compliment her too much. That he struggled to maintain some level of distance and propriety despite what they were doing.

  But oh, when he did slip up and those little moments showed through. When he called her little raven, when he called her darling… it made her heart leap in her chest as nothing else could.

  It was almost like a sip of wine when she hadn’t eaten anything beforehand. It went straight to her head and to her stomach. Made her a little woozy in the best of ways.

  If he had been straightforward and complimented her in a romantic manner all the time. If he had been frank and set aside decorum completely to tell her how she made his heart race, she would not have been quite so enamored of him.

  But she could see how he was restraining himself. That he was trying not to show her just how much she affected him. Even in his slip-ups there was nothing untoward. He had not once mentioned touching or kissing her. He had never spoken of the marriage bed or anything of that sort.

  Instead his little moments where propriety peeled away showed how esteemed she was in his heart. How high of a place he held her in his thoughts. Not only in an intellectual way or as a person to admire. But as a person to truly love.

  His struggle to remain a gentleman was what so endeared him to her. He was doing his best to maintain his self-control and succeeding for the most part. That was what made it all the sweeter when he did let that bit of passion show.

  Julia bit her lip, gathering the letters up into a pile.

  He had to be someone who she saw often. He was in Bath. He could not have avoided seeing her while staying in town. It would have been too obvious, too awkward.

  And if he was someone that she saw often in Bath… had a younger sibling who was known for being flirtatious… was a former pupil of her father’s and set to inherit a title…

  There were so very few men who it could be.

  Julia gathered the letters up and put them back in the drawer where she had hidden them.

  Could it be?

  She was open to the possibility of being wrong. But there was only one man springing to mind.

  Mr. Carson.

  He had arrived in Bath right as the letters had started to arrive. He was charming to her now, in a way that he hadn’t been when she had last seen him.

  The letters must have been giving him confidence.

  He had mentioned at dinner parties that he was taking on a lot more responsibility from his father. He was set to inherit a title and a large estate. His younger sister had been brought to Bath so that she might learn to not be so flirtatious, as she was in London.

  He was a former pupil of her father’s. He had mentioned once that he had enjoyed the cooking there. And he did not get on with his mother—everyone knew that.

  Julia found herself… oddly disappointed, thinking that it was him.

  He was charming to her in person, it was true. He was an excellent dancer, that as well.

  He was not quite handsome, but he had a pleasant face. She enjoyed looking at him. His face was the sort that made you relaxed to gaze upon.

  Yet she could not help but find herself torn between hoping it was him in order to end the mystery and being disappointed if it did turn out to be him.

  She could not place her finger on why exactly she would be disappointed.

  Mr. Carson was a lovely man. She had enjoyed spending time with him at dinners and balls. He was rich and titled and young. There was no reason why she should not be happy to marry him.

  Her parents would certainly be pleased. Father had always enjoyed his company as his pupil. He thought highly of the younger man. And to have their daughter marrying a man of such wealth and stature—how could any parent not rejoice?

  She would have to find out for certain, of course. Test him in some way and see if he slipped up.

  While the gentleman had kept his identity a secret she could not imagine that he would lie to her if she confronted him in some way on the matter. The question of his identity had become almost something for him to tease her about. Not quite, but almost.

  And he had said numerous times how he respected her intelligence. He would not say so and then do her the disservice of lying to her if she queried him in person.

  Besides, did he not want her to discover him? In the end? Was not his original plan for her to fall for him so that when she learned who he was she would love him no matter what?

  That of course brought up the rather prickly matter of whether or not she did love him.

  Julia resolved to handle that later. It was not as important as finding out who he was.

  She must find a way to test Mr. Carson. She would go through the letters and select a few little facts. Innocuous but specific enough that it could only be her letter writer who answered those questions in that way.

  Yes. That should do.

  But through it all, she still could not put her finger on why she hoped it was not Mr. Carson.

  Chapter 12

  James was well in over his head.

  He could admit that, at least. He was well and truly in deep water.

  The writing and correspondence had gone on for weeks now. And he was no closer to revealing his identity now than he had been at the start of this entire thing.

  The worst part was how Miss Weston tried to work out his identity. He saw her little tricks and he did his best to avoid them but he knew that he had to have let a few things slip. It was only natural.

  He spent half of his time panicking that she would figure out who he was and fly into a rage at him. That she would accuse him of disrespecting their years of friendship by not telling her who he was at once. That she would reject him and declare him far too much like a brother for her to ever see him in a romantic light.

  The other half of the time, he had to admit, he was enraptured.

  She was much gentler and much harder on herself in the letters than she ever was in person. The witty banter was there as always but there was a vulnerability that he didn’t usually get to see.

  He honestly doubted that anyone usually got to see it. Miss Weston, he was realizing, put on rather a mask to the world.

  Given how often in her letters she spoke of her parents he suspected that it was because she felt she had to be strong for them. She was the only of their children who had not been stillborn or miscarried.

  It was not something oft spoken of in polite society. But he had heard the stories when he was younger. Miss Weston’s many siblings, God rest their souls, had broken her parents’ hearts with their inability to live.

  She was quite the miracle for them. And now they were sick and wanted nothing more than to see her wed and set up for life.

  No wonder she felt she must be gay. That she must be the belle of the ball. If one is a miracle, and if all of the hopes of a parent ride upon one’s shoulders… there must be a certain feeling of obligation to be popular and desired.

  As if to prove that one had earned the right to all their parents’ affections. Earned the right to be the only one who had lived.

  He clung to her letters with all the fervor of a man at sea, far away from his homeland and his loved ones. He loved them too much to give them up. Even as he lived in dread of the day when she discovered who he was.

  And every day it became more and more likely that she would discover that it was him. They were sharing too much of each other in these letters for her not to.

  Sometimes, he hoped that she would figure it out. If only so that this whole thing could end and he could stop feeling caught in the middle.

  But that would mean that this intimacy would have to be given up.

  It was not an intimacy of romance. Or at least not of ardent, physical romance. It was an intimacy of hearts. He told her things that he could no
t find it in himself to tell anyone else.

  He spoke of his fears about his brother. About his frustrations with his father. About how he was disappointed in his mother, still, even after she was dead. And how he felt that it was a failure on his part that he still could not forgive her.

  Miss Weston had proven herself to be a remarkable and nonjudgmental listener. She would ask clarifying questions sometimes if she needed to better understand something. Occasionally she would try to present an idea from the point of view of the person he was complaining of.