Love by the Letters: A Regency Novella Trilogy

by Kelly Bowen

  Mary-Anne snipped the threads of her delicate stitches and made a big knot. “Just a bit more lace on each sleeve. It’s perfect again.”

  “My sister said your work was amazing.”

  One of her special clients recommended Mary-Anne, and she had the pleasure of designing a gown for the young bride at her Bond Street shop, a shop for which August had negotiated terms.

  She smiled at the young lady and left her with her beaming mother.

  After tiptoeing out, she went down the long hall and entered the sanctuary. She sat on the last pew and thought of her own wedding at St. George’s two months ago.

  Her gown was silver with cap sleeves. She wore long ivory gloves with pearls that formed a line from her wrists to her elbows. August thought she looked beautiful, but Mary-Anne felt beautiful.

  A handkerchief was handed to her. “Weddings do make you cry.”

  Her husband had taken his seat beside her as he normally did when he wasn’t in early meetings with his clients purchasing horses or settling occasional leasing disputes when competing balloonists wanted to use their land.

  “I came from Mr. Carruthers’, dear. He’s getting ready to go back to India with a bride or to take a bride. My ear ached so I didn’t quite hear that part, but your friend Madame Labonne is suing Haverthon over a failed investment. Carruthers thinks she’ll win.”

  Her friend had broken with the earl as she’d committed to do and now acted in her own best interests. “It seems she has evidence, some of his correspondences he kept at her house to cut for foolscap.”

  “So being frugal has tripped up Haverthon, dearest?”

  August chuckled with his loud voice.

  She put a gloved finger to his mouth. “Shhhhh.”

  He tugged up his collar and was quiet for a moment, but his eyes, happy, soulful eyes warned that he was about to burst.

  “Fine. Say your news quietly when the bride and groom kneel.”

  August waited the whole minute. “Haverthon. His fiancée left him upon hearing of the lawsuit. He’s asking me, me for money. I told him to ask our sister, Sarah, and her husband.”

  “Oh, my. I visit with Madame Labonne tomorrow. I will make sure she stays strong.”

  “And I hope Madame Labonne remains a client, my dear. You always come home energized when visiting her. Hopefully, she shares tips, not that you need any.”

  “August, please. Remember, we’re in church.”

  He kissed Mary-Anne’s hand, long and sweet at her wrist above her kid gloves. “I’m remembering how much I love you. But Carruthers did give me some disappointing news. It seems I did not win the challenge after all.”

  “But you did invest the five thousand in me.”

  “Yes, but it seems Carruthers could not sell my Turner. I had to reimburse what he advanced. I own The Shaladon again.”

  “Oh, August, I am sorry.”

  “I’m not. I love my art, and I’m not concerned about the future. My enterprises are picking up, and you love the girls and they love you, like sisters. When the time comes, they’ll be fine. I’m living for today.”

  “You are forgetting my father’s very generous settlement for formally taking me off his hands.”

  “Yes, thirty-thousand pounds was quite generous, but you are a much better asset in my arms than on my ledger books.”

  Mary-Anne turned from his smile and focused on the ceremony. She waited for the couple kneeling to pray then scooted to the edge of the bench and walked out of the church.

  August followed and had their carriage awaiting them at the steps of St. George’s. He scooped her up and carried her into the carriage. “Off to an adventure.”

  “Where are you rushing me, sir?”

  “Another balloon ride, and this time it will just be the two of us. I am a confident pilot, and I have my scarf to weather drafts.”

  Perhaps she should tell him she suspected it wasn’t just the two of them now. She might be in possession of a beautiful secret, a baby born of their love and commitment.

  Yet, when August took her face in his hands and looked at her with his lopsided grin, she decided she’d wait on everything but his kiss.

  Dear Lovely Reader

  Author’s Note

  Dear Lovely Reader,

  I loved writing Mary-Anne’s and August’s story. I hope that you enjoyed it. This couple is dear to my heart because of the many things that they both had to overcome to complete their journey to love. One doesn’t have to be perfect to be loved, but with that right person, working and laughing together, bonded in love and hope, perfection can be had.

  Stay in touch. Sign up at www.vanessariley.com for my newsletter. You’ll be the first to know about upcoming releases, and maybe even win a sneak peek. Thank you so much for giving this book a read. Tell your friends. Below are some interesting facts used in crafting this story.

  Vanessa Riley

  Hot Air Ballooning

  In 1783, hot air ballooning began in Europe with Monsieur Jean-Francois Pilâtres des Roziers climbing into his gondola and floating seventy-four feet in the air. By 1785, passenger rides had begun in England, eventually becoming a celebrated amusement at Vauxhall Gardens and other parks. In 1814, Hyde Park had a hot air balloon exhibition for Peace Celebrations.

  Gaslighting

  By 1817, Gaslights lit Drury Lane Theater.

  Migration

  English sugar plantation owners often sent their children, including their mix-raced children to England for education and learning trades.

  The Cost of Fabrics and other Charges

  Estimates of the cost of a bolt of brocade (40-100 yards of fabric) were derived from Lisa Picard’s research presented in Dr. Johnson’s London in which the costs of everyday items and services circa 1770 are compiled.

  Artist J. M. Turner

  Joseph Mallord William Turner (1775-1851) was a painter whose works became famous during the Regency. He exhibited the painting Clare Hall and the West end of King's College Chapel, Cambridge, in 1793 and Fishermen at Sea in 1796. The two paintings mentioned, The Boatmen and The Shaladon are modeled after these Turner's works, respectively.

  Ranelagh Gardens

  In 1688, Ranelagh Gardens were built about the Ranelagh House by Solomon Rieti, an Italian Jewish immigrant. The park and house were closed in 1805. Ranelagh Gardens had been a fashionable park, more exclusive than Vauxhall and less crowded than Hyde.

  Hail Smiling Morn

  Composed in 1810 by Reginald Spofforth, Hail Smiling Morn, was a popular gleeful song sung as a Christmas or Easter carol. The key lyrics are:

  Hail smiling morn, smiling morn,

  That tips the hills with gold, that tips the hills with gold,

  Whose rosy fingers ope the gates of day,

  Ope the gates, the gates of day,

  Hail! Hail! Hail! Hail!

  About Vanessa Riley

  Vanessa Riley writes Regency and historical romances featuring multi-cultural communities and powerful persons of color. Her award-winning series, Challenge of the Souls, Advertisements for Love, and The Bargain have attracted fans from around the world.

  In 2019, The Bewildered Bride, the fourth installment of The Advertisements for Love series debuts featuring Ruth Croome, a feisty widow with secrets and a West Indies baron whose return threatens the safety of her family and her heart.

  In 2020, watch for the release of the Rogues and Remarkable Women series to hit store shelves near you. The first features an Afro-Caribbean heiress and the dashing duke she unexpectedly falls in love with.

  Join Vanessa’s newsletter (https://www.vanessariley.com/subscribe.html) for information on new releases and reader events.

  Follow Vanessa on Twitter, Bookbub, and Instagram:

  http://www.twitter.com/VanessaRiley

  https://www.bookbub.com/profile/vanessa-riley

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  Read on for an excerpt from The Butterfly Bride!

  Excerp
t from The Butterfly Bride

  An Excerpt from The Butterfly Bride

  November 6, 1820, London, England

  Ting, ting, plunk—the noise of shattering glass forced Frederica Burghley to peek through her heavy lids. She saw nothing but her darkened bedchamber. The moon danced on her blurry wall tapestry, as it had when she went to bed.

  She closed her eyes and let the comfort of her wool blankets soothe her nerves.

  More breaking glass.

  “Who’s there?” Her voice sounded funny. She felt funny. Why?

  Was it barking? The duke’s bloodhounds, Romulus and Remus. No. They’d keep making noise until she or the duke quieted them. No, that wasn’t it.

  “I asked, who’s there?” Her voice. Such a hoarse whisper.

  Nothing answered her question. Nothing. No yelping. No dogs.

  Her eyelids drooped.

  But the quiet eroded again with more chipping noises.

  Then a screech, like nails on a schoolroom chalkboard, sent tremors down her spine.

  Her mouth went dry.

  Even if she could talk louder, she doubted any of Papa’s party guests downstairs would pay attention. The refreshments and violin music were too plentiful. Even Lord Hartwell, the frustrating viscount, wouldn’t help. The man had sent her to bed like she was one of his mischievous daughters.

  Plink.

  Then a boom.

  Then something that sounded like a curse.

  She squinted in the direction of the noise. The moonlight highlighted the posts of her bed and a hole in her windowpane.

  That was wrong.

  All Papa’s windows should be perfect. But this one wasn’t. Who dared to break a window belonging to the Duke of Simone?

  Frederica tried to sit up but moving a few inches made the world spin hard and heavy. Her dinner and every dessert she’d ever eaten threatened to return and make a grand entrance.

  Something was wrong. She felt wrong. Very wrong. So much for being good and retiring early. Ha-ha-Lord Hartwell, Lord Hartsmell.

  More shards fell.

  She heard the glass breaking more clearly. Her heart thumped fast, faster than the pianoforte played at Papa’s wedding today, faster than the claps he’d received for his young bride. A bride one third his age—one closer to Frederica’s twenty-two years.

  Her gaze locked on fingers stretching through the fist-sized hole in the window. Fingers in a black leather glove, a man’s glove.

  Her skin pimpled with a chill her blanket couldn’t warm.

  Frederica needed to do something. But what?

  Ohhhh. Why is it so hard to think?

  And why is my arm numb and tingly?

  And my legs… Why don’t my legs shift or lift like they should?

  “Coming for you.” The voice was low, deep, rude.

  No one should come for Frederica Burghley, not without an invitation. It was not to be done, not to the daughter of a duke.

  Now an arm stretched inside. Panic, perspiration, and rapid blinks seemed to get her eyes working. She focused on the waggling, maybe-hunting-for-the-lock-hand. Dark coat.

  She tried again to sit, to stand, to not lose hope. Maybe she could roll? Roll out of the bedsheets, to the hall—any place safer.

  One. She rocked her body toward the edge of the bed.

  Two. She rolled back.

  Two and a half. She thrust again, harder, really hard. She’d made it.

  Four. She held her breath, then tipped over, flopping to the floor. Air pushed from her stomach, up her throat, and out lips that barely worked.

  Her face landed on the frilly slipper she’d worn that day to the wedding. Getting caught with some man on the duke’s day, no matter how she hated her father being married, wasn’t to be done.

  “I hear you. I’m coming for you, my sweetest. Just need the latch to obey.”

  Her heart slammed into her chest. Her palms turned clammy, dead cold.

  Sweetest? Wasn’t that the same word the man who had responded to her advertisement had used?

  The man who wanted to marry her? The man who’d sent threatening notes? The man who had promised her death?

  This wasn’t a foolhardy compromise or thief—it was a killer.

  She started to crawl or shuffle, but her knees kept tangling in her long nightgown. Slipping, scooting, wanting to run to the door, she tumbled and looked back. The curtains rustled and revealed a man’s leg. Ohhhhh, no no no no.

  Hiking her nightgown, balling up the ruffles to free her knees, she pushed into the hall.

  The noise of the remaining wedding guests—the sweet violins, an amateur’s off-key pianoforte reached her ear.

  She needed to get their attention. She opened her mouth but couldn’t manage a scream above a sigh.

  No one would hear her.

  No one was coming to save her.

  No. That wouldn’t be her story. Nearing a half-open threshold, she pushed and flopped inside. Kicking at the door, she closed it. Her eyes adjusted to the pitch-black bedchamber but her pulse still raced. She was a doorknob’s twist away from a killer.

  Knees stinging, one rubbed raw from the stiff nape of the duke’s Indian silk rugs, she crawled deeper into the room.

  She hit something. Her forehead stung. She traced the fretwork and knurling of a bedpost. Pulling up on it until she half-stood, wobbling like a drunk she’d once seen beating on her mother’s door when they’d lived at a brothel.

  Frederica swayed but gripped the bedpost tighter. She hadn’t had too much drink. She didn’t drink anything but weak raffia or tea.

  If someone brought her the wrong glass, the well-meaning Lord Hartwell, the one who thought-he-knew-everything had finished it.

  Then he’d sent her to retire. Hmmm.

  Going to bed early but chased by a killer—did that mean she would win the argument with the viscount? She’d collect a sweet Gunter’s ice from Hartwell if she lived. In her heart, she’d give up a month of bonbons for one of his lectures right now.

  Then she wouldn’t be alone or scared.

  Loud voices sounded in the hall outside the door.

  Men’s voices.

  Angry voices.

  Hide.

  She dove headlong into the bed, sinking into the mattress. The down stuffing cradled her as she burrowed into bedclothes—a soft blanket, smooth, crisp sheets.

  The door creaked open.

  She gripped the wool over her head, closed her eyes, prayed for salvation, then played dead.

  Footsteps came near. Her heart thundered.

  Feigning death wouldn’t be an option. The man would kill her like the last note had said.

  The bed swayed.

  She tensed her stomach awaiting the jab of a knife—a gutting, that’s how he’d put it.

  The bed swayed again.

  Then nothing, blessed, quiet, nothing.

  A scent. It smelled familiar and luscious like licorice, but not. Maybe sweet-and-sour barberry ice. Maybe a rich brandy sauce.

  Her chest loosened. Sleepiness took hold. Her fingers relaxed, and she eased her death grip on the blanket.

  If dying smelled like dessert, maybe it shouldn’t be feared.

  For Jasper Fitzwilliam, the Viscount Hartwell, holding his late wife was never a problem. He simply closed his eyes and dreamed of her. Sleep returned his wife to when she knew no sickness and was not ravaged by the stomach cancer which had taken her. Maria was whole.

  He reached for his dream love and snuggled her close. His pulse raced. His ears filled with the thud of her drumming heartbeat, then he felt her hot breath along his throat.

  Maria’s arms had no bloodletting scars. They were smooth again, so soft to his touch, so warm, not freezing cold. He put his nose to her neck and let her perfume, her wonderful rosewater scent, have its way with him. It seduced him to a time when she was his and their love was strong, stronger than anything—stronger than four dangerous childbirths, stronger than his father’s endless vendettas, and almost
strong enough to keep fighting her illness after a two-year decline.

  That time seemed so long ago. His memories hadn’t faded, nor this feeling of being loved.

  On a deeper inhale he turned her to him and offered a kiss. Nose aside nose. Lips against lips.

  That perfume. Didn’t Maria like lilacs, not roses?

  It didn’t matter, because tonight, she kissed him back. Oh, each kiss tasted of peppermint and chocolate and bitters.

  Then Maria screamed.

  She beat upon his chest and kept on screaming.

  Jasper opened his eyes and tugged his dream woman, the one still punching him in the chest upright. The minx Miss Burghley was in his bed, in his arms.

  His heart stopped, then beat like crazy. Then he remembered kissing her. His thirty-three-year-old heart might well explode.

  “Let me go. Please don’t kill me.”

  “Kill you?” He ran a hand through his hair, massaging a sudden headache, one worse than a foolish brandy hangover, one heavy like a laudanum-to-set-a-broken-bone headache. “I beg your pardon?”

  He released her.

  She rolled out of bed, taking the covers with her.

  Miss Burghley stood near the window. Morning sun streamed through the parted curtains and reflected hints of gold in her dark brown locks.

  “What…. What are you doing here, my lord?” Her voice sounded squeaky at first then settled into her typical lighter tone, the one he’d grown to know this past year, the one he knew well enough to realize that this wasn’t pretend. “Hartwell, what is this?”

  “Sleep, my dear. At least it was.”

  “In my bedchamber? I never thought you a bounder. You’re honorable. I trusted you.”

  Being caught in bed with a duke’s daughter would be a death sentence for his bachelorhood. So Jasper purposed to remain calm. “You’re in my room, Miss Burghley. Why are you here? What new scheme is this?”

  Mobcap askew, she frowned and rubbed at her crown. More curly hair spilled, long and free, down her shoulders. The woman’s sun-kissed face had fevered to bronze. “I didn’t. I’m not scheming. This is…” Her head turned side to side. “Not my room. How did this happen?” She clutched at the bedsheets tighter. “What happened?”