by Meara Platt
Lords, Ladies and Babies
A Regency Romance Set with Little Consequences
Meara Platt
Tabetha Waite
Tammy Andresen
Annabelle Anders
Merry Farmer
Scarlett Scott
Copyright
Lords, Ladies and Babies: A Regency Romance Set with Little Consequences
Copyright © 2020 Myra Platt, Tabetha Waite, Tammy Andresen, Annabelle Anders, Merry Farmer, Scarlett Scott
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Cover Design by Jena Brignola
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.
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Contents
THE DUKE’S SURPRISE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
About Meara Platt
Also By Meara Platt
THE SCOT’S BAIRN
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Epilogue
Author’s Note
About Tabetha Waite
Also by Tabetha Waite
EARL OF SIN
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
About Tammy Andresen
Also by Tammy Andresen
THE PERFECT LITTLE MARQUESS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Epilogue
About Annabelle Anders
Also by Annabelle Anders
THE SUBSTITUTE LOVER
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Epilogue
About Merry Farmer
WOOED IN WINTER
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Epilogue
About Scarlett Scott
Also by Scarlett Scott
THE DUKE’S SURPRISE
By Meara Platt
Cheyne Lyon, Duke of Mar isn’t surprised when his wastrel brother dumps a wife and baby on his doorstep, but Jennifer is intelligent, nurturing, and sweet, just the sort Cheyne could love, if only she wasn’t already taken. When unsavory strangers come around looking for a runaway young lady, Cheyne realizes Jennifer isn’t who she claims to be, and he isn’t about to give her up.
Chapter One
Castle Lyon, Stonehaven, Scotland, August 1816
Cheyne Lyon, Duke of Mar, ran a hand through his hair and stifled an oath as he stared down at the bedraggled young woman seated in the visitor’s parlor holding a wee bairn in her arms. The little lad slept peacefully, wrapped in a protective blanket and apparently unaffected by the storm now raging outside. Not even the violent rattling of the windows in Castle Lyon, this ancient stone fortress Cheyne called home, seemed to wake the small bundle in her arms. “Och, lass. Ye say ye are my brother’s wife?”
“I’m Jenny. I have a letter, Your Grace.” She sounded tense, as though afraid to let down her guard around him. Well, he did have a way of striking fear in others with merely a scowl. It wasn’t his intention to frighten the lass, but she’d caught him by surprise, showing up on his doorstep just as the storm unfolded in all its fury.
She was soaked to the skin, but there was a fey aura about her that captured his attention and would not let go. She reminded him of a selkie swept ashore in a storm. Indeed, there was an ethereal quality about her that he could not define. Or was it merely exhaustion he’d noticed in her gaze?
He could see she was struggling to hold herself together and not show vulnerability or fatigue. It was merely three o’clock in the afternoon, but she’d obviously had a long journey and was not going to make it through the day without giving in to the need to rest.
“Ah, Jenny. A letter, you say? That ought to clear everything up.” He arched a dubious eyebrow, wondering what hogswallop his brother had written. Got myself into a bit of a mess, Cheyne. Dumping it on your doorstep, as always.
A bolt of lightning struck the distant waters, followed by a clap of thunder as loud as a cannon’s roar. The streak of light soon followed by the ominously loud crack diverted his attention. That was close. There was a good chance it hit one of the stone turrets.
There would be repair work to tend to once the storm passed.
Aye, this was a bad one, dark and malevolent as it raged off the water and carried onto shore. One could not tell it was merely afternoon by the darkness of the clouds swirling over the rough sea and roiling the waves.
Cheyne was used to these violent storms that swept in off the water, but the lass appeared terrified. She startled as another clap of thunder broke overhead and turned to him in alarm when a particularly fierce gust pounded against the window panes, bringing with it a flash of light and the ghostly howling of the wind.
“Ye’re safe here, Jenny,” he said, uncertain why he suddenly felt so protective of this young woman and the child. Aye, she’d said she was his brother’s wife and this bairn was his nephew, but that remained to be proved. The lass had an honest look about her, but how was he to know?
Perhaps it was the way she held the boy and sheltered him that made him feel he could believe her. She cared for the boy, that much was obvious.
He stared out of one of the tall, arched windows that provided a view of the distant sea.
The clouds were an ominous purple-black, moving swiftly and buffeting the waves so that the usually white foam caps were a turbulent blackish-green. After a moment, he returned his
gaze to the woman he thought of as his selkie, her wan appearance reminding him she’d had a long and miserable journey. A difficult one if she had come all this way by common coach with a wee bairn who could not be more than a year old. “Come with me, lass,” he said, gentling his manner. “Let’s get ye settled and fed, then we can talk.”
She shifted the babe in her arms so he could more clearly see the child’s face. The lad bore a resemblance to his brother, but who could tell with bairns? How many had that exact tuft of straw-yellow hair and cherubic face? It signified nothing.
“Your Grace, don’t you wish to read the letter? If you give me a moment, I shall dig it out of my reticule.”
“Very well.” Cheyne did not want to be rude, but his eyes rounded in horror when she attempted to hand him the child so her hands would be free to search through her obviously soaked purse. “What in damnation are ye doing?”
She gazed at him in confusion. “Handing your nephew to you.”
Fortunately, his butler was close at hand and rushed forward to take the lad from the young lady’s arms. Cheyne was about to allow the loyal retainer to take charge, but suddenly changed his mind. “It’s all right, Brogan. I’ll hold the boy.”
The young lady cast him a surprisingly sweet smile.
She was pretty when she smiled.
Well, Johnny always did have an eye for the ladies. Mostly tarts, but Cheyne supposed his brother had matured and developed finer taste in the five years since he’d seen him. It was hard to tell whether his wife was pretty, for she looked like a drowned water rat at the moment, one with enormous, green eyes the color of the Irish Sea.
Lord, her eyes!
That was it, the reason she appeared to float out of a dream. They were shimmering orbs, light and clear, seeming to sparkle like starlight.
“Here is the letter, Your Grace.” She attempted to exchange the child he held for the yellowed square of parchment in her outstretched hand.
Their fingers touched.
Cheyne was unprepared for the jolt of awareness that coursed through him at their brief contact. It was ridiculous, of course. He should not be thinking of her in that way, not this woman. For pity’s sake, she was his brother’s wife...or claimed to be.
He had no reason to distrust her.
He had no reason to trust her, either.
However, with the rain still pounding and the wind still howling, he would not toss her and the bairn into the storm even if they proved to be imposters.
He called for his housekeeper. “Mrs. MacNaught, prepare my mother’s chamber for our guests.”
His mother had moved out of the duchess quarters when Cheyne’s father had died and Cheyne had stepped into the title. She’d moved into a smaller but lovely chamber overlooking the Castle Lyon gardens and the sea. Upon her death last year, Cheyne had ordered the staff to clear out the clutter and tidy it up, but otherwise, he’d left the room as it was when his mother had occupied it.
Somehow, he thought it would suit this water-soaked girl with big, green eyes that shone like stars in the Scottish sky. “Do ye wish the boy to remain with ye or shall I have the nursery prepared for–”
“I’d rather little Johnny stayed with me, if you don’t mind.”
He nodded. “I’ll assign a maid to assist ye. She can stay with the lad while ye change out of yer damp clothes and then join me in my study. I’ll have my cook prepare something to warm yer insides. Och, ye must be cold and starved.”
She emitted a sigh in obvious relief. “I am. Thank you, Your Grace.”
The young woman turned to follow his housekeeper up the stairs. A footman carried her bags up. Cheyne was surprised by how little she’d brought. Well, if she needed anything, she could sort through his mother’s wardrobe. His mother was bigger than this lass, but not by much. Her gowns could easily be altered to fit Jenny. Most were of the finest quality, some of them never worn, since his mother had seen fit to wear only black upon his father’s death.
He wasn’t certain if his mother’s boots or slippers would fit Jenny’s feet. Hers did not appear to be very big. He would have new footwear made for her if necessary.
Brogan cleared his throat. “Your Grace, will you be requiring anything else?”
Cheyne ran his fingers through his hair in consternation. “Hell, I don’t know. Are we set up for a bairn in this household?”
“We are, Your Grace. After all, your mother raised four sons here. Mrs. MacNaught and I shall see what we can find. I’m sure most of the nursery items are in good condition, only needing a light dusting.”
“Right.” But he and his brothers were all grown up now. Most of the furniture and clothing hadn’t been used in twenty years. What really troubled him most was that his brother had gotten married and not told any of them...assuming Jenny spoke the truth.
“It will be good to have a wee bairn in the house again,” his butler said, staring up the grand staircase. “Castle Lyon can do with squeals and laughter ringing through its drafty halls.”
Cheyne grinned at the grizzled, old retainer, a Cornishman by birth who’d been with the family since before Cheyne could toddle or talk. “Are you suggesting this household has been dull and stodgy since I became duke?”
Brogan grinned back at him. “I’m not suggesting it, Your Grace.”
“Ah, I see. Ye’re stating it as fact?” Cheyne threw his head back and laughed. “Ye old, English boar, only you could get away with insulting me so thoroughly and live to breathe another day.”
His butler feigned shock. “I would never presume–”
“Of course, ye would.” He shook his head and sighed. “But I would no’ have it any other way, Brogan. I’d much rather have yer honesty. Ye know how I detest liars.” He glanced up the stairs again. “What do ye think of the lass? Is she really John’s wife? Or a fraud?”
“Doesn’t matter what I think, Your Grace. What do you think?”
Cheyne sighed. “She isn’t his type.” He glanced at the letter clutched in his hand. “Heaven help her if she’s pulling a scam.”
“What will you do to her?” Brogan asked, a frown of worry upon his face.
“The lass will find out soon enough, won’t she?”
Chapter Two
What have I gotten myself into?
Jenny Bramwell stifled her panic and tried to remain calm as she entered her assigned guestroom, a lovely gold and blue floral patterned bedchamber that felt so warm and inviting, her heart lurched with the hope of finally finding a place to call home. How odd that she should consider Castle Lyon, this massive, drafty fortress upon a cliff overlooking the sea, the home she’d always dreamed of.
It spoke to her heart, she couldn’t explain why.
A maid was making up her bed and cast her a warm, welcoming smile as she walked in. “Me name’s Mairi. I’ll be takin’ care of ye. Is it to yer liking, Miss Jenny?”
She appeared to be about the same age as Jenny, and had a full head of dark, bobbing curls that stuck out from under her pert mobcap. “Yes, Mairi. It is beyond anything I could wish for.”
They stood together, watching the footmen put her trunk beside the large armoire dominating one wall of the bedchamber. Jenny had brought few belongings. She’d had little time to spare before fleeing Oxford and the fate that awaited her there.
She said nothing more until the footmen left her quarters, simply drank in all of her new surroundings. “Oh, I had better open up my trunk and inspect my clothes. I’m afraid they’ll all be too damp to wear.”
“Never ye mind about them.” The girl cast her a sympathetic smile. “His Grace is a generous man. Ye’ll have all ye and the bairn require. Mrs. MacNaught will order a cradle brought in and set up beside yer bed. She never overlooks anything. Sharp as any man, she is, and she runs a tight ship. Not even His Grace dares countermand her orders when she gets that determined look in her eyes.”
Mairi spoke mirthfully and without a trace of fear, so Jenny could see the indomitable houseke
eper was beloved by her staff.
She shook her head and laughed. “Then I shall be sure to obey her every command.”
“Och, she’ll take pride in seeing ye comfortably settled.” Mairi reached for little Johnny who was still asleep in Jenny’s arms despite the fury of the storm that continued to rattle the rafters and shake the windows. “Let me take the lad while ye get out of those wet clothes. Ye’ll find a suitable robe or two in the wardrobe.”
“Oh.” She didn’t think she could go downstairs in nightclothes.
Mairi seemed to read her mind. “This room was occupied by His Grace’s mother. She was bigger then ye, but not by much. I’m sure he willna mind if ye borrow some of her gowns until yours dry.”
