Lords to Be Enamored With: A Historical Regency Romance Collection

by Bridget Barton

  Her blood ran cold. Dear God, the man was crazy with drink, lurching violently from happiness to sadness. He was unpredictable. She had to get away from him, before he decided that he was going to do something to her.

  She backed away slowly. Perhaps he would just collapse and pass out. She had seen that before. Once, at Cranwick Manor, an undercook had found a bottle of rum and drank himself silly on it, collapsing on top of a bag of flour in the kitchen storeroom. George had taken her there to see him, thinking it a great joke. She still remembered the man’s tortured snores before the cook had come in and thrown a bucket of water over him.

  The man stilled, watching her. “What you doing? You aint leaving now, are ya?”

  “Of course not,” said Charlotte slowly, inching away a little more.

  “Don’t leave.” The man was sad again. “I ain’t got anyone to share the pain with, and you look like a nice young lady, so you do. How’s about we find some ale house and share a drink?” He hiccupped loudly.

  “Maybe,” said Charlotte, humouring him. Then she turned and ran, as fast as her legs could carry her, towards the bridge.

  “Hey!” The man shouted. “What you doing?”

  She didn’t stop. She just kept running, stumbling over cobblestones, her heart pounding heavily in her chest. She didn’t stop to check if he was following her or not. She didn’t dare. She just needed to get as far from him as possible.

  She reached the bridge, sprinting along it, berating herself with every footstep. She had been a fool to walk in the dark like this, by herself. A stupid, unforgivable fool. If she ended up dead in a gutter after being attacked it would be her own fault entirely.

  Tears sprang into her eyes, but she didn’t stop to wipe them away. She was almost to the end of the bridge. She turned her head, to see if he was pursuing her, and suddenly she slipped violently, careering towards the edge.

  Her heart froze. She was falling, into the depths of the river below. Desperately, she clutched at the stone wall, trying to claw her way back up. But it had been raining and the stone was as slippery as an eel. Her hands kept slipping, but she kept trying. She felt her fingernails breaking with the effort, and blood was suddenly running down the wall. Her blood.

  The water had risen with the downpour and was travelling in a fast-moving torrent below her. She could hear it hissing, and moaning, as if it were alive. It was waiting to claim her, to sweep her along, and then pull her under, into its depths.

  She was being carried back into the house, screaming. Old Harris was carrying her, murmuring under his breath, trying to comfort her.

  “Prancer,” she cried, writhing in agony.

  “Hush, my lady,” said the old farrier, his eyes filled with tears. “You cannot do anything for him now. You must remain calm.”

  She saw her mother’s face looming above her, tight with fear. Her father, barking commands, bellowing that she should never have been out riding by herself. She felt sweat running down her back and a sudden nausea overcoming her.

  Harris placed her on her bed gently. People were running around the room. She could see maids, coming and going, carrying jugs of water and towels. Dulcie was suddenly there, gripping her hand, eyes wide with concern.

  “Dulcie,” she cried, squirming in agony. “It is my fault. He is dead. Prancer is dead. I should have listened to you.” She screamed, as another spasm tore through her. “I should have listened to you. I will never forgive myself!”

  Dulcie’s hands were firm and steady, squeezing her own.

  “Listen to me, my lady,” she said softly. “No, listen to me! What’s done is done, and you cannot change it now. He was a good, fine horse, but it was his time. You must concentrate on getting better, now.” She paused. “You are hurt, my lady. Very badly hurt.”

  She buckled, beneath the maid’s hands. “No, no!” Her eyes were fierce. “Please tell me that it isn’t true …”

  Suddenly, a man was near her. The doctor. He held a glass filled with a reddish-brown liquid.

  “Support her head,” he said sharply, staring at Dulcie.

  The maid held up her head. “Open your mouth, my lady. This will help with the pain.”

  She pressed her lips together firmly. She didn’t want it. She knew it was laudanum and that it would stop her pain for a little while. It would probably send her to sleep. But she didn’t want the pain to stop. It was a reminder of what she had done.

  “Open your mouth, Charlotte,” said her mother firmly.

  A single tear squeezed out of her eye, sliding down her cheek. What was the use? She opened her mouth, just a fraction, and the doctor tipped the medicine into her mouth, telling her to swallow it.

  It was bitter and she gagged slightly. Dulcie lay her head back down on the pillow. It took a while, but eventually her eyelids grew heavy. So heavy that she could barely keep them open. The pain was mercifully fading.

  But just before she fell into a drug-induced sleep, she saw him, running towards her. Prancer, across the green fields. She knew it was a lie. She would never see him again in this life, and it was all her fault. But one day, she knew he would be waiting for her. Somewhere, she thought drowsily, as the laudanum pulled her under. Somewhere, between heaven and hell, he would be waiting …

  She opened her eyes as a sharp pain tore through her. She wasn’t in her bedroom, just after the accident. She was clutching a stone wall, desperately trying to not fall into a river.

  She gripped it harder, but she could feel herself weakening. She would not be able to hold on for much longer.

  ***

  Sebastian turned down the darkened street. He was drenched, but at least the rain had stopped. He scanned the street, searching for her. Where was she? He had thought that he would have found her by now. But she was still missing. His heart clenched tightly in his chest.

  He could see a figure in the distance, slumped against a gas street lamp, the only one on this dark street. His heart tightened again. Dear God, was it Charlotte? With a burst of fresh energy, he sprinted towards it.

  But he knew it wasn’t her the second he was upon the figure. A toxic smell emanated from the person, and he realised that they were almost comatose with strong alcohol. He crouched down, staring.

  It was a man, dressed in rough working clothes. His head lolled against his chest and his eyes were closed. Sebastian reached out a hand, shaking him roughly. The man moaned, opening one bloodshot eye, staring straight at him.

  “Wake up, man,” barked Sebastian. “Have you seen a woman, running along this street? Dressed in a costume?”

  “Woman,” mumbled the man. “Young lady. Blue ruin. Too much.”

  Sebastian stared at him. He was rambling incoherently. He wouldn’t get any information about Charlotte from him. He let the man go, and he slid down the lamppost, like a broken rag doll.

  He stood up, looking around. Which way would she have gone? He knew that she would not be overly familiar with these streets, and that she was trying to get home …

  His eyes widened. The bridge, in the distance. Her carriage would have come across it, on the way to Grosvenor Square. Charlotte was retracing the route the carriage had taken, he was almost sure of it.

  He took off again, running harder. He was almost to the bridge now, but he still couldn’t see any sign of her. He jumped as a carriage flew past him from the opposite direction, the horses snorting into the night. The coachman was crouched low, cracking his whip.

  He kept going. There was only one street lamp on the bridge, right in the centre. He could hear the gas spluttering as he passed it. It shed a wan, shimmering light onto the bridge, but otherwise, it was in darkness.

  He was almost to the end of the bridge. He stopped, panting heavily, looking left and right. Which way now?

  That was when he heard it. A soft cry, almost like a cat mewling. He turned around, puzzled. Yes, he could definitely hear something. Was it indeed an animal? He didn’t have time to stop and rescue a stray animal. He was just
about to head off again when the sound grew louder, drifting on the wind.

  The skin on the back of his neck prickled. He walked towards the bridge, reaching the edge. He peered down, seeing the water running at a fast pace. Then he turned his head and gasped.

  It was Charlotte. She was clinging on to the wall for dear life. But her hands were slipping. He saw her left hand fall suddenly, and she cried again.

  He ran, as fast as his legs could carry him, leaning over the edge.

  Chapter 27

  Charlotte felt her left arm fall slackly, and now she was clinging onto the wall with only one hand. Her strength was fading. She knew that it was about to happen. She was about to die, and she was almost resigned to it …

  Suddenly, the world stopped and she was no longer on the bridge in the cold. She was no longer in London. She saw green hills, rolling on forever around her. In the distance, she could see the church spire of the local village, jutting into the sky.

  The world was green, and blue, almost glimmering with golden sunshine. She breathed in the tantalising scent of wild violets. A bird twittered in a tree, high above her, its song melodious and bewitching. A deep joy overtook her. She was home. She was where she was supposed to be.

  Then she realised that she wasn’t standing on the hill. She was atop a horse. A chestnut horse whose coat glistened with sweat and who stomped impatiently, eager to stretch his legs and ride as far as he could.

  It was Prancer. She knew it. Her beloved horse.

  She reached down, encircling his neck with her arms, filled with wonder. He had come back to her. He wasn’t gone. He hadn’t died, squealing in agony, before old Harris had put a bullet in him. No, he was real, and glorious, thrumming with life and energy.

  “Oh, Prancer,” she breathed, into his ear. It twitched slightly, as if he knew. As if he heard her and shared her love.

  Then they were riding together, over the hills. He galloped like quicksilver, ducking and weaving through trees. She held on for dear life, filled with an exhilaration she had never before experienced.

  Her eyes filled with tears. She had missed this. She had missed him. She had never before realised how important riding was to her, how it was a part of her very soul. She had never sat on another horse, after him. She had never again ridden like the wind, over hill and dale, and felt at one with the world.

  How she missed it. As though a piece of her soul had taken flight.

  But everything was changing now. The sun dimmed behind black clouds, and she knew it was coming. It was always coming, she realised. The rain, falling in sheets around her, so that the world went white. She gripped his neck, tighter, but she knew that there was no use. It had been written in the stars.

  When she fell through the air, she braced herself. The ground was just as hard and unforgiving as it had been before, and she felt the sickening pain of it. She closed her eyes, waiting for his squeal. For the moment when he would fall and never get up again.

  She opened her eyes. This time, he was lying right beside her. His brown eyes, so gentle and sweet, were filled with pain. With difficulty, she reached out a hand, caressing him. He stilled under her touch, his eyes growing almost soft.

  “Run free, my dear friend,” she whispered. “Run free.”

  He was almost gone. She could feel the life draining out of him. But at least this time she had said goodbye. This time she had done what she had always wanted to do.

  Now she knew why she had seen him again. Now she knew why he had come to her, her beloved horse.

  She was going to ride him again. At long last …

  A face suddenly loomed above her. She gasped. Was she dreaming? It was Lord Sebastian Wharton, reaching down towards her, his green eyes fierce. He was still dressed in his highwayman’s costume. His dark cloak swirled around him in the wind.

  “Grab my hand,” he cried.

  “I cannot,” she cried. “I am slipping …”

  “Charlotte.” His voice was fierce. “Do as I say. Trust me.”

  She kept staring at him. His hand was there. All she had to do was let go of the wall and grab it. But it was risky. If she didn’t find it, or her own hand slipped, then she would fall into the water.

  “Trust me,” he implored, staring at her hard.

  She took a deep breath, then let her hand go. For one infinite second she thought that she was falling. But then his hand found hers, strong and secure, and he pulled her up, grabbing her roughly as she clambered back over the edge of the bridge.

  It was over. She was sitting on the ground. Relief flooded through her. She was panting, almost heaving with the effort. Beside her he collapsed, panting heavily as well. When he had caught his breath, he turned to her.

  “What were you thinking?” he hissed, his green eyes glittering. “I almost lost you.”

  Her own breath slowed, and she could feel her heartbeat slow. She turned to him, taking in his dishevelled appearance. She opened her mouth, but she had lost her voice. He leaned closer towards her, taking her hands in his own, staring down at them.

  “You are bleeding,” he said roughly.

  “It will stop,” she whispered. “Only scratches.”

  He gazed up at her then, his eyes searching her face. “Charlotte, why? What possessed you to run off into the night like that?”

  She took a deep breath. “I am sorry. I know that it was foolhardy of me.” She bit her lip. “I just needed to get away from the ball, and I couldn’t find George or Diana. At first, I thought that I would sit in the carriage, until they decided to leave, but I couldn’t find it, nor the coachman.”

  “Your coachman should be reprimanded,” he said grimly. “The man had left, to go to an alehouse. If he had been there you would not be in this situation.”

  Charlotte sighed heavily. “Perhaps. But I take full responsibility for it. I was … a little overwrought.”

  “A little?” He raised an eyebrow.

  She smiled. “A lot. I was embarrassed.”

  He stroked her hands still resting in his own. “I understand. What Miss Drake did to you was unforgiveable.” He took a deep breath. “Baiting you like that and revealing your ailment, in such a public arena. She did it deliberately, I have no doubt of it.”

  Charlotte nodded. “She did. But then she has always felt threatened by me, for some reason.”

  He stared at her. “You know the reason,” he said softly. “She seeks my affection, with the aim of becoming my wife, but she knows that she will never secure it.” His eyes trailed over her face gently. “How can she, when I have given my heart to you?”

  Charlotte stilled, holding her breath. “Have you?” she whispered.

  His hands tightened over hers. “I have. You know I have. It is the reason I visited you at your home, the reason I seek out your company wherever I go, the reason that I look for you on every street, in every shop, in every place.” He paused. “I love you, Charlotte. To the very bottom of my heart, I love you, and I cannot pluck it out. I have tried and failed. And so it is.”

  Charlotte felt her heart beating faster. Oh, the sweet joy of it, to hear him say such sweet words to her. He loved her! He had always loved her. She stared at him, overcome, barely able to breathe.

  He took a deep breath. “I cannot live without you. I have tried, but it is useless.” His hands tightened again around her own, so strongly that she almost gasped in pain.

  She stared at him, trembling, her eyes swimming with fresh tears. He loved her. But then reality came crashing down on her again. All the reasons she had tried to avoid him. She was a sick woman, and she would always be a sick woman. She wasn’t free to do this, to burden him with it. She thought of Aunt Eliza again, and her sacrifice of love, to save her lover from pain.