Seduction Regency Style

by Louisa Cornell

  The maid recovered quickly and was soon back at work, but Father’s ague went to his chest. The doctor from the next village, who examined him, looked grave as he prescribed mustard plasters and a strong-smelling mixture for Father to breathe. The odorous mixture set Father coughing and sneezing so violently, Rosa and Brownlee feared he would simply stop breathing.

  In the worry of Father’s illness, Bear’s frivolous present from Birmingham was a welcome distraction. Rosa held up the silk before her in front of the mirror. Her reflection was pale with worry and heavy eyed. “You do not do credit to this lovely fabric,” she informed herself, but she smiled anyway. A new silk frock! Who would have thought, just two months ago, that an expedition to pick roses would bring her a husband who could afford to clothe her in silk?

  She modelled the bonnet and the shawl for the edification of her mirror-image. What exquisite taste Bear had. “He wants you to reflect credit on him,” she scolded, shaking her finger at Rosa-in-the-mirror. “Do not think this gift means more than that.”

  She read again the pertinent part of his letter.

  “I have every intention of seeing you dressed as befits my wife, but until we can get to London, or at least to Liverpool, I hope you can find someone local to make this fabric into a gown for Sunday services and for visiting. I will send more as I can. My wife should look as prosperous as any in the district.”

  In other words, this was more of an investment than a gift, and she would be careful to remember that.

  However, she could not resist a final peek in the mirror, where the bonnet framed her face, making her look almost pretty, and the glowing colors of the shawl fitted softly around her curves.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  In London, Bear had a standing invitation to stay with the Earl and Countess of Ruthford in their townhouse on Hanover Square. His lordship was in residence, the butler informed him, but her ladyship remained in the country. Since Lion and Dorothy were unfashionably attached to one another, Bear felt a certain alarm. Lion would undoubtedly explain when he returned from whatever errand had taken him out.

  He and Jeffreys were shown to their usual room, and Jeffreys went off to fetch water while Bear stared out the window, thinking about his own wife. He had received a charming letter thanking him for the silk and other gifts, with a sketch of the gown she was having made. Two more letters had arrived since, in response to further packages. Buying gifts to send to his wife was rapidly becoming a habit, but he would rather have her with him.

  He looked around the bedroom—a comfortable, if anonymous, space that had suited him well for years. A single man didn’t need a townhouse in London. He could stay with friends or at his club, or take rooms with a landlady who cooked, or board in a rooming house and buy his food at nearby cookhouses.

  A married man needed a house his wife could turn into a home. Perhaps, while he was in London, he should look for a place he could rent—or perhaps buy. After all, a sound property in London was always a good investment.

  Jeffreys returned with hot water and the news that Lord Ruthford had returned and awaited Mr. Gavenor in his study, “Once you have time to freshen yourself, sir.”

  Bear washed and changed, then hurried downstairs. He didn’t bother with ceremony, but let himself into the study and stood for a moment watching his friend at work. Lion looked well. Their leader was a few years younger than Bear, in his mid-thirties, with dark, curly hair inherited from an Italian princess a grandfather had brought home from his continental tour. His searching blue eyes, usually alight with humor, became a devastating weapon when they turned cold.

  “Are you coming in?” Lion asked and looked up, one corner of his mouth lifting in half a grin. “Good Lord! You don’t get any smaller, do you? One forgets, and then there you are, taking up half the room. Help yourself to coffee, man, and be sure to pick a sturdy chair.”

  Lion was nearly as tall as Bear, but a thoroughbred to Bear’s carthorse. “Sturdy? All of your chairs are made of matchsticks. If they collapse under me, I hope you’ll ship my poor remains home to my wife.”

  Lion’s eyebrows shot toward his hairline. “Wife? Since when do you have a wife?”

  Bear had not intended to announce his change in matrimonial status quite so bluntly, but he was not displeased with the effect. He poured a cup of thick black coffee, drawing out the moment. Lion served it Turkish fashion, but the tray contained hot water and cream for guests who preferred a blander version.

  Bear diluted his coffee and turned from the tray to find his former officer sitting straight behind his desk, hands folded on his blotter, eyes steady on Bear’s face. A faint smile playing around his mouth. “Confession time, my son. Tell Father Lion everything. Whom have you married, when, and why?”

  Bear said nothing while he brought his coffee to the desk and seated himself on one of the robust chairs that Lion’s wife had bought for her husband’s sanctuary. “For you are mostly giants,” she had informed his friends, “and I want you all to be comfortable.”

  Lion raised an eyebrow at Bear’s continued silence. “That bad?”

  “Not bad. Just…complicated.” Where to begin?

  “Surely, not one of the London debutantes you were so scathing about this past Season, poor little girls.”

  “Poor little feather-wits and rapacious harpies.”

  “So you said in April, to my wife’s despair, for she had introduced you to the nicest girls she knew.”

  “Not her fault. I was too old for them, Lion, as you observed at the time.”

  “And too nice for a widow. Have you married a widow?”

  “I wasn’t against marrying a widow. Just not one who was having such a good time kicking up her heels in London that I feared spending my remaining days waiting for her to bump me off so she could do it again, with my money.”

  “Avoiding the question, Bear? How bad is it? Sorry. Complicated.”

  “She’s not too young. Not too old, either. Thirty-six.”

  Lion said nothing, but his eyebrows lifted.

  How to explain Rosa. Bear was barely conscious of the helpless wave of his hand as he considered and rejected several sentences. “She suits me, Lion.”

  “A pertinent fact, but not a history. I can see an interrogation is required. What is the name of this not-old lady, and where did you meet?”

  “Rosa. Rosabel Neatham. I found her on a ladder picking my roses.” Once he started, the story came easily. “Then a few days after the wedding, I got your message and came to London. So I hope you’re in a hurry to get back to Lady Ruthford, for I do not mean to linger here one day more than I need to.”

  “I beg your pardon? A few days after the wedding? You married this paragon then abandoned her a few days after the wedding? Why on earth didn’t you write back and tell me to go soak my head?”

  Bear’s guilty wince didn’t go unnoticed.

  “You and the lady have had a falling out.”

  “Not precisely. Rosa doesn’t… That is to say, I thought some distance might help, but Rosa is not one to nurse a grudge. She writes charming letters, and I write back. When I get home, we will put it behind us.”

  “If you will take advice from a man married four years longer than you, when you get back to Mrs. Gavenor, discuss whatever it was and clear up any misunderstandings. She is very likely blaming herself for whatever came between you. Women do.”

  “Surely not! It was my fault entirely. At least… Lion, I thought virgins bled.” Lord. I did not say that out loud, did I?

  Lion took a sip of coffee. “Not that my experience is vast, but I don’t believe it to be an inevitable rule. It depends on the age of the woman, on what kinds of physical activities she has done—my own wife rode astride as a girl and… Well. Let’s leave it at that. And the man’s patience is important.”

  Bear groaned. “I should probably be hanged.”

  “I see.”

  He probably did, too. The ability to pick up small clues and draw correct
conclusions was one of his great assets as a commander, and he knew Bear better than anyone else in the world.

  “You believed the rumors about her and you still married her?”

  “No! At least, I thought they were mostly malicious lies. They started only after her father was no longer able to protect her, and the people most assiduous in pushing them all had an axe to grind.”

  “This Pelman wanted to coerce her into bed and used the family feud with her respectable cousins.”

  “In a nutshell. Dammit, Lion, it’s obvious to me now. She kissed like an innocent. I thought she was just shy, or nervous about being interrupted by the servants.”

  “Ah well. Women are told their first time will be painful, though it is not necessarily so.” He smiled as if at a fond memory, then recalled himself and continued. “You made sure she enjoyed her second time, I assume.” He raised his brows again. “No. You rushed off to London, instead. Bear, tell me you didn’t let the poor lady know you thought she had had previous lovers.”

  Bear grimaced.

  “You did.” Lion wagged his head from side to side. “Bear, Bear, what are we going to do with you? So, there she is miserable in Cheshire because her husband insulted then abandoned her. Here you are miserable in London because you have made a mess of things and don’t know how to put it right. Go home, Bear. Talk to your wife.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Two weeks of mostly fine weather saw the standing part of Thorne Hall made weather tight, and had the local farmers scurrying to salvage what they could of the harvest. Papa seemed slightly better, too, enjoying daily outings in his chair as he lectured Brownlee on herbal lore and the romance poetry of medieval France.

  Rosa’s new gown was delivered, and she wore it with the new bonnet and shawl to Matins on the second fine Sunday, feeling guilty delight at outshining Livia Pelman and the younger Lady Threxton. With an effort, she reminded herself that she was here to pray, not to show off her fine feathers, and she did penance by praying for the two women.

  They lingered outside, talking to the vicar who had ridden over from a neighboring parish since the rector had gone to stay with relatives for his convalescence. The vicar was a young man, new to the area, and employed to cover the parish for a rector who had a second parish, and one he preferred, in Lancashire. “The wages of sin, I assure you,” Rosa heard Miss Pelman say.

  Rosa set her jaw, straightened her back and swept up to them, holding out her hand to the vicar as the other two drew away as if to avoid contamination. “Vicar Snaith. I am Mrs. Hugh Gavenor. My husband and I own and are restoring Thorne Hall. I see you have already met my cousin, Lady Threxton, and her friend.

  The vicar, with a nervous glance at the two women, tentatively took her hand and bowed slightly. “Mrs. Gavenor. Ah… Er…”

  Before he could figure out a way to avoid taking sides, or to decide which side to take, a relief force of Rosa’s supporters joined them, introducing themselves and taking over the conversation. Miss Pelman and Lady Threxton withdrew, and the vicar, though not without several sideways glances at Rosa, accepted her presence in the middle of the chattering group.

  “She hasn’t improved none,” Mrs. Gillywether said as they made their way home. “That Livia Pelman was a mean child and she has grown into a mean old woman.”

  Rosa turned to look at her. “You knew Miss Pelman as a child? But I thought they only came here six years ago.”

  “Came back six years ago,” Mrs. Gillywether corrected. “That Mr. Pelman who caused all the trouble for the squire’s girls? He brought his two little ’uns to live at Thorne Hall when he came to be factor for Lord Hurley. Miss Livia was six and Master Lawrence just old enough to toddle. Before your time, that was, Mrs. Gavenor. Lord Hurley dismissed him after he ruined poor Miss Belle.”

  By the middle of the following week, the storms had returned. Caleb was feeling smug, since he had moved himself and the Liverpool crew out of the tents in the stables and into Thorne Hall, where they continued to camp, but without risk of a cold drenching in the middle of the night.

  “Now that the place is weather tight, we can continue the work no matter how it storms, Mrs. Gavenor. And we’ve done the demolition needed to make the place safe. We’ll carry on with that and the new stable block in fine spells, and make the inside what it needs to be when it rains.”

  Rosa walked through the rain to inspect progress and was given an attic-to-cellars guided tour. The camp cook had set up in the old-fashioned kitchen, where the fireplaces and even the bread oven continued to function, though little else remained of the fittings. Better than the tent kitchen he had been using, but still… Rosa returned home thinking furiously, and sent for Caleb the following afternoon.

  “Mr. Redding, I propose a change to Mr. Gavenor’s work schedule. He intends Thorne Hall to have a fully modern kitchen with one of the new closed stoves. If you order that immediately and put it in when it arrives, your cook will be able to do a far more efficient job of feeding the workers. In fact, I propose you finish the kitchen according to Mr. Gavenor’s plan, and the servant hall alongside, and make full use of it while you complete the hall. Well fed, comfortable men will work more efficiently, I believe.”

  Caleb approved once they’d talked through the suggestion, but his parting comment gave Rosa pause. “If Mr. Gavenor is not happy, I shall tell him that he left his authority with you, ma’am.”

  After he left, Rosa went to her desk to fetch Bear’s letter that had arrived the day before and reread it. She had written to him about every decision she had made on the site, and every response she received endorsed her thinking. On the other hand, Caleb reported back to Bear, as well. Was Bear saying something different in his letters to Caleb? Would he be unhappy with her change to the timeline, to finish the kitchen first? Surely, he would see the sense of it.

  “I will be in London tomorrow, and I hope on my way back to you not long after,” he had written. ‘To you,’ not to Thorne Hall or Kettlesworth. The thrill at the undoubtedly accidental choice of words had to be suppressed before she continued.

  “I will look forward to seeing you in all your finery and will add to the store when I arrive. I’m also excited about seeing progress on Thorne Hall. Caleb writes that your plan to keep the nearest, undamaged part of the destroyed wing has given us an extra room on each floor and provides visual balance to the exterior. Well done.”

  There. See? She was an asset to the business and should not read more into his comments than that. Still, being appreciated for any reason was a rare enough experience. To ask for more would be greedy.

  He would return to Rose Cottage and she would be here to welcome him, showing no resentment and making no demands. That was the way forward, was it not? She had let him see her pain, both physical and emotional, on the night of her wedding, and he had withdrawn and then fled. If only she had someone to advise her on how to repair the damage and lure him back to her bed.

  He would come, would he not? From what she had observed, men were creatures of appetite, and besides, Bear had been blunt about his desire for an heir. If his words or his body parts hurt her again, she would find a way to conceal her pain.

  The door knocker sounded. Who could have come visiting in this weather? Rosa folded Bear’s letter and placed it with the others in her desk.

  Maggie, whose turn it was to answer the door today, vibrated with excitement, her eyes round, and a huge grin on her face. “Ma’am, there is a Miss Belle Clifford wishes to know if she might come in.”

  “Belle Clifford?” Mother’s sister? The wicked aunt? “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  Rosa stood and smoothed her hands down her skirts. Thank goodness she had chosen one of her new gowns this morning. She had never dreamt that her aunt would reply to her letter in person. What would Bear think?

  The woman who entered before Rosa could fret herself into flinders was no bigger than Rosa herself. She leant heavily on the arm of a footman. Rosa took one look at the white fa
ce, an older version of her own, and darted forward. “Oh, but you are not well. Here, bring her to the couch. Let us make you comfortable.”

  “Thank you,” her aunt said, her low voice melodious. “I do not travel well. You are very kind.”

  Rosa and the footman lowered the frail woman onto a sofa, and Rosa plumped cushions for her to rest against, then fetched a knitted rug to cover her legs.

  “Maggie, see that Mrs. Clifford’s servants are made comfortable.” How many servants? And where would they all sleep? Rosa would think of something. “Ask cook to send up tea and light refreshments. Or coffee, Mrs. Clifford?”

  “Tea would be delightful. I thank you.”

  Maggie and the footman exited the room, leaving Rosa and her wicked aunt alone. The lady didn’t look wicked. She wore no paint on her face to hide her wrinkles. She had removed her hat and outer coat, and her hair, confined in a neat roll at the back of her head, was streaked with grey. The jacket and skirt she wore were fashionable, but not revealing.

  She endured Rosa’s examination without comment, but her voice was amused when she said, “You know who I am.”

  Rosa nodded. “You are my mother’s sister. My Aunt Lillibelle.” Or perhaps my mother. Dare I ask?

  “I was not sure you would agree to see me,” Aunt Lillibelle said.

  “I wrote.”

  “So did Rosie, but Albert never consented to a visit.”

  Rosie shook her head, more in disbelief than denial. “My mother wrote to you? But… I was told you had died.”

  “So you said in your letter. Not yet, as you can see. Though I have a cancer, the doctors say, and will not long survive my Raithby.” Aunt Lillibelle caressed the locket pinned to her lapel, a smile curving her lips.