Lords to Be Enamored With: A Historical Regency Romance Collection

by Bridget Barton

  “It could not have been that great if she chooses not to play now. There is ample time in the evenings to practice her hobby.”

  “A hobby?” said Elizabeth incredulously. “You believe that it was a hobby?”

  “What else could it have been? She is hardly bothered with it now.”

  “That is my point. Mama gave up her passion to be a wife and a mother.”

  Cecilia looked taken aback. “You are too concerned about this, Elizabeth. If Mama did so then so be it. She understood that wifely duties are far more important than a silly talent.”

  "Silly? Do not speak of what you clearly do not understand, Cecilia. You wish to be a married woman, so be it. I, however, have dreams that do not concern finding a husband, bearing his children, and running a household. I wish to do something with my life that is meaningful."

  “Oh, I believe that I see it now. You wish for fame and glory. You wish for people to take notice of your talent and praise you for it. The compliments that you have thus far received have gone to your head, dear sister.”

  Cecilia could not have been any further from the truth. Why must it be wrong to pursue a passion other than matrimony?

  “You are wrong, Cecilia. I do not desire fame and glory, but a life of my own choosing, doing what I love. I do not wish to be controlled by others. I am an individual, I refuse to lose myself in the roles of mother and wife.”

  Elizabeth delivered this speech with great passion, her chest slightly heaving. She was surer than ever before that her fate would not be one of marriage. Suddenly exhausted, she lay down, her long auburn hair fanning her pillow.

  It was not a minute later when Cecilia spoke again, her voice light but sure of what she was saying. “You are just not ready for love yet, Elizabeth. But do not fret, it will happen soon enough.”

  “I already have a great love, Ceci.”

  “Playing the pianoforte? Music? Playing that instrument and studying music all day must be tedious, I am sure that you will tire of it one day.”

  Elizabeth said nothing in reply. She was tired of explaining to her sister that she loved music and did not desire to get married. My words go into one ear and come out the other without taking root. It is pointless to speak to her of my dreams.

  “Well, now that we have all of that out of the way, let me tell you of the latest news. I am sure that you are going to most interested in it!”

  “I doubt it,” Elizabeth muttered.

  Cecilia paid her no attention as she launched into the latest gossip of the town. “Our own dashing baron suffered a great rejection some days ago, perhaps even weeks.”

  “Then we should not speak of it. I am sure that you would not like people to discuss something that you found humiliating.”

  “Oh, Elizabeth, do stop acting as if you are a shrivelled prune!”

  Elizabeth burst out laughing. She had never been called that before.

  “And what has tickled you so?” her sister demanded.

  Elizabeth wiped the tears from her eyes, trying to compose herself. “Oh, dear me, you can be rather colourful at times, Ceci.”

  Her sister regarded her with amusement. “Only you would laugh at yourself when being called a name. It makes me wonder if you are not indeed a different creature altogether.”

  “Would you know, I think the same thing at times. I certainly do not fit the mould.”

  Cecilia uttered a noise of frustration. “Oh, do let me continue, please.”

  She sighed. “Very well, go on.”

  "Well," Cecilia started, once more excited. "The story goes like this: he proposed to his sweetheart, and she rejected him. Can you imagine the shame? What was her name again?"

  “Miss Diana Lambert.”

  “Yes! That was her name. How did you know?” Cecilia asked accusingly.

  “Ceci, I did not get to the age of twenty not knowing the names of those who throw themselves into the public's eye. Besides, I believe that I once played in their audience just last year. They attended the spring celebrations.”

  "I do believe that you are right. She is the daughter of the viscount who opened the celebration with a long-winded speech."

  “Mmm.”

  “Well, I cannot imagine how the baron must feel about this. I hear that he has not left his room in some time.”

  “No one enjoys rejection. I imagine he needs time to come to terms with it. They were together for some time.”

  Cecilia stared at her sister, her eyes narrowing. “Why do you know so much about them?”

  Elizabeth was not about to tell Cecilia the truth, that would be self-sabotage. Three years ago, when she saw the baron for the very first time, she had thought him terribly handsome. He had caught her attention for reasons she could not decipher. He had looked at her, a lopsided smile playing about his lips, only to have his attention snapped away by a beautiful woman with golden hair. She had soon learned that they were an item – Anthony Cavendish, Baron of Bedford, and Diana Lambert, daughter of the Viscount of Somersby. Elizabeth had felt an odd twinge seeing them, not understanding why she should be sad. She did not know him, but he had arrested her attention for a moment in time. She blinked her eyes, forcefully setting aside that confusing moment.

  “Oh, I have heard of them here and there. Mama hosts many dinner parties. It is not hard to pick up information about people as well-known as they.”

  "I suppose so, although I am surprised that you hear anything at all. You always appear to be joined to the pianoforte in a way that seems unnatural."

  Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders. “It is more rewarding to play than to partake in activities that do not interest me.”

  “You are a peculiar being, Elizabeth.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But not as peculiar as the hat that Margaret Moore was wearing today. Where could she have bought such a horrendous creation? And she seemed quite proud of it. Well, it did well to hide most of her face and those unfortunate freckles.”

  Elizabeth allowed Cecilia to speak, not commenting besides the odd sound that convinced her sister that she was attentively listening to her. Soon enough, Cecilia fell asleep, her last words a slurred mention of the dress that she intended to buy for her upcoming proposal.

  “Goodnight, Ceci.”

  “G'night,” she mumbled.

  *

  When an hour had passed, it soon became apparent that Elizabeth could not sleep. Her mind was filled with thoughts and worries that kept her annoyingly alert. It is not that I am opposed to love, but I am opposed to the false love that I see around me. Conditional love that wounds rather than strengthens and heals. The love described in books and fairytales is the type of love that I desire for myself. Perhaps it is wishful thinking, but it is how I feel. Why must I settle and be unhappy?

  Her books had told of enduring love, passionate love, a type that gave and did not take away. It sacrificed but did not cause pain.

  Is that such an impossible love? Is it so wrong to wish for a man who will make me stronger and allow me to be who I am? I would support him as well, I would love him and take care of him without forsaking myself.

  Feeling restless, she rose from her bed and went to the window, peering into the darkness. A movement caught her eye: two people coming out of the shadows. Intrigued, she slowly opened her window and leaned outside. Although she could not see their faces, their forms were clearly male and female. They walked hand-in-hand, every now and then the male figure leaning down, bringing his head close to the slender female figure.

  “Sweethearts,” she whispered.

  It seemed that love was in the air, not just for her sister, but for the servants below her as well. She was sure that they were servants as the family did not have any visitors. The two figures turned to look at each other before the male figure bent down and kissed the woman.

  “Oh my.”

  Elizabeth coloured, stepping away from the window, feeling like an intruder, although they surely could not see her. Unable
to look away for long, she peeked once more, disappointed to see that they had gone.

  “Just as well, I should not have been looking in on such an intimate moment,” she admonished herself.

  She closed the window and returned to her bed, lying on top of the covers.

  I shall not lie and say that I am not at all envious of young love, or any love for that matter. What concerns me is that there are no men who I can see tying myself to. I refuse to settle for the sake of matrimony. The stories she read were misleading, but she couldn't bring herself to stop reading them. The men in the stories were strong men who desired women who think, who had thoughts of their own. They did not seek to take away the woman's identity and replace it with their own beliefs of how a woman should be. The men that she knew are all alike, even Cecilia's darling Percy.

  Even though it seemed that she did not pay attention to the people around her during her mother's many dinner parties, she secretly did. She observed the relationships between married couples, those newlywed as well as those who had been married for some time. She watched the interaction between unwed women and men, silently taking notes. Elizabeth had come to the conclusion that all men were fundamentally alike. She used her father as a measure for the behaviours of other men, which only served to prove her belief and opinions. All men were dull, lacking in feeling, and terribly traditional. They all wanted the same things but wrapped up in different packages called women.

  It was the same thing over and over again.

  How did no one else see it? Or did they simply not choose to see it? If I was to marry any of the men I have so far seen, I shall inevitably end up like my mother – unhappy. Of course, life wasn't just about happiness, but it did make life worth living.

  Elizabeth imagined that love would be the most important thing in a relationship. That and respect. She had seen respect in the relationships around her, but it had been one-sided. The men commanded respect from their wives, all the while belittling them. Except for her Uncle Noah and Aunt Deborah. Elizabeth had never seen a couple more in love.

  Aunt Deborah was her father's sister, and different from him in everything but the colour of their hair and eyes. Her aunt was older by three years but seemed far younger than her austere brother. It was amazing what a light attitude could do for one's physical features.

  When Elizabeth was a young girl and would see the playful attitude between her aunt and uncle, she wondered why her parents could not behave in the same way. While her parents treated each other with cool politeness, Aunt Deborah and Uncle Noah would be laughing, with Uncle Noah frequently kissing his wife's cheek, hand or forehead. There was a tenderness in him when it came to his wife, a fondness that Elizabeth would have liked to experience for herself.

  It was possible, if but rare.

  Maybe she should ask her aunt for advice if she was ever in the way of matrimony. I would need her to tell me what I should look for in a potential husband.

  “I speak as though I have every intention of getting married!” she laughed to herself.

  Perhaps it was time for her to put it out her mind and focus on her dream of becoming a composer who would change the world, one melody at a time.

  Chapter 3

  A loud bang woke Anthony with a start, his hands immediately going to his head. What was going on? Who was in his bedroom? Still groggy from a heavy hangover and a splitting headache, he vaguely recognised the form of his friend, Felton Nicholson.

  “What the? Felton? What in the hell do you think you are doing in my room? Get out! I told you that I did not wish to see anyone!”

  His shouting did more harm than good. Anthony gripped the sides of his head, cursing the agony of overindulgence. His friend paid him no mind and ripped the curtains open, letting the harsh morning sunlight stream through the windows.

  “Wake up, sunshine!” Felton shouted. “It is a new day!”

  “Bugger it all!” he growled. “I am going back to sleep.” Anthony pulled the covers over his head and lay back down, never intending to venture out of his room again.

  "I would not advise it, old friend. Get up, or I shall make you do it."

  “You and what army?” he mumbled from beneath the covers. “You forget that I have beaten you at every sport and combat from the age of thirteen. Choose wisely.”

  Felton chuckled. “I doubt that you are in any shape to fight me, Anthony.”

  “Watch me.”

  “I warned you.”

  Seconds later the covers were ripped from his body, jerking him as he had curled himself in the sheets.

  “Damnation to you, you liver-bellied fiend!”

  This only served to amuse Felton. “I'm glad to see that your words are as colourful as ever, but I am afraid that I cannot compliment your current state.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “No thank you, I am not fond of the fires of hell.”

  Why did his friend have to be so good-natured about everything? Right now Anthony found him annoying and could quite happily drop a shiner on him. He sat up, one hand on his head, the other shading his eyes from the glaring sun.

  “Give me back my covers or suffer the consequences.”

  “I dare you to try and fetch them.” Felton held them up and waved them about.

  Anthony thought about it. “You are not worth it.” He flopped back onto his bed, hissing as his head exploded with pain. “Argh! Get me a whiskey, will you?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “What in the hell do you want if you are not here to help me?”

  “I doubt that getting you a whiskey will help you. Perhaps some tea, something to eat.”

  The thought of food curdled his stomach. “Forget it, I shall get it myself.”

  He gingerly climbed off the bed, only to fall back down when his head swam.

  “You are in no position to be drinking, Anthony. Have you seen the state of you?”

  He glared at his friend. “I probably look a darn sight better than you.”

  “Your confidence is certainly legendary. When last did you bathe?”

  It was too long ago to even begin to remember. Or perhaps it was the same day that Diana that rejected him and left. That would make it eight days. “None of your business,” he answered.

  “You resemble a caveman with that horrendous beard you have growing there. Are you sure that nothing is crawling in there? It looks quite matted and suspicious.”

  Anthony scratched his face, feeling the beard. He had never allowed his beard to grow this long before, but he couldn't have been less bothered about it either. His life was over. Felton took a step towards him, quickly stepping back.

  “Phew! You smell quite ripe, man. I gather that neither a blade nor soap has touched your body since the incident.”

  Anthony hung his head. “Do not remind me. Do not even mention that Jezebel's name to me.”

  Felton laughed. “At one point I could not get you to stop talking about Di –”

  “I mean it,” he warned.

  “Fine, 'that woman', and now you refuse to have her name mentioned. This is quite a turn of events, do you not think so?”