A Perfect Match: A Sweet Regency Historical Romance

by Donna Hatch

  “Certainly, my lord,” the Admiral said. “Welcome, Mr. Amesbury. We hope you will enjoy yourself here. I hope you don’t mind if I whisk your father away from time to time so we might catch up.”

  Christian inclined his head. “Of course I won’t mind, Admiral.”

  “And you remember our daughter, of course,” Mrs. Widtsoe said, gesturing to the pretty girl.

  If memory serves, Christian had danced with Miss Widtsoe this past Season—only to humor his father.

  Miss Widtsoe beamed at him with unabashed adoration. Christian resisted the urge to tug at his collar. The pretty girl watched him too closely. And she quivered a bit, rather like a poodle one of his mother’s friends used to carry about under her arm everywhere she went. Still, as the daughter of their hosts, Miss Widtsoe deserved courtesy. He’d just have to be careful not to raise her expectations.

  Christian bowed to Miss Widtsoe. As he lifted his head, he froze. Behind the hosts’ daughter stood a young lady who captured Christian’s attention. With a fascinating shade of auburn hair, the flawless skin of a doll, and exquisitely delicate features, beautiful seemed too blasé a word to describe her. She fixed a pair of rich, brown eyes on him. A shifting sensation inside him left him oddly off balanced.

  “Lord Tarrington, Mr. Amesbury,” the young Miss Widtsoe greeted them, although her eyes rested solely on Christian. Her smile revealed practically her entire set of pearly teeth. “I can’t wait to show you around! I’m sure you, as an artist, will find many views of interest to paint here! And it’s the best time of year, too, with all the summer blooms!” Though she never raised her voice above normal speaking tones, her enthusiasm turned her statements into exclamations.

  Christian nodded, his only other defense when no appropriate reply came to him. Again, his gaze strayed to the exquisite young lady behind Miss Widtsoe. His fingers twitched in desire to paint her, to capture that air of purity and serenity he seldom found in adults; normally only children had such undimmed light. A sense of timelessness crept over him. As if aware of his focus, she glanced his way again. Her brown eyes, ringed with an unusually thick fringe of lashes, moved about as if she searched his face for secrets best left hidden. He looked away before he tainted her beauty with his darkness, and instead studied the patterns on the floor.

  Miss Widtsoe spoke again, reaching behind her and drawing the auburn-haired beauty next to her. “Genevieve, please allow me to introduce the Earl of Tarrington and his son, Christian Amesbury. My lord, Mr. Amesbury, this is my dearest friend in all the world, Miss Genevieve Marshall.”

  Genevieve. He tasted her name, repeating mentally, Jenn-a-veeve. Then he switched to the French pronunciation, Zhahn-vee-ev. A lovely name for a lovely girl. Of course, he could never call her by her given name. She must always be Miss Marshall to him.

  As they exchanged their customary bows and curtsies, Father asked, “Are you related to Captain Marshall?”

  Surprise widened her eyes and a smile curved her plump, kissable lips. “He is my father, my lord.” A sweet contralto voice belonged to the vision.

  “A good man,” Father said. “Is he here?”

  “Yes, my lord. He and my mother are resting after our journey.”

  “I look forward to renewing our acquaintance.”

  “As are they, I am sure.” Her smile warmed.

  Miss Widtsoe wrapped her arm around Miss Marshall’s and smiled so hard Christian wondered if it caused her pain. Miss Widtsoe stood almost a head taller than her tiny, fairy-like friend, and where her figure was full, Miss Marshall’s was lithe, graceful, as if she truly had been crafted to wear a pair of wings and flit among the flowers.

  As a nod to his father’s rank, the hostess took it upon herself to show them the way to their bedchambers rather than leave that task to a servant. Christian offered an arm to his father, but he waved off the aid and leaned on his cane instead, probably so as not to reveal the depth of his illness to his friends. How he’d managed to serve in Parliament this past Season was a mystery to Christian.

  As they took their leave of the admiral, Miss Widtsoe curtsied. “I look forward to seeing you all at dinner tonight.”

  Her sunny smile brought an answering one to his lips. It was hard not to be cheerful amid such liveliness. She turned a pointed smile upon Christian. He bowed to all, his focus resting again on the beautiful Miss Marshall, and turned to follow the hostess.

  After getting settled in his bedchamber and changing out of his traveling clothes, Christian checked on the earl. He found him reclining on a settee, sipping tea.

  “Well, Son, you have already conquered the ladies without speaking a word, I see.”

  “Really, Father, we aren’t at war. No conquering involved.”

  “This matchmaking business can feel like a war of sorts. Take no prisoners, Son.”

  Christian scoffed. “I’m not here to make matches. Do you require anything?”

  “If I do, I’ll ring for my valet. No need to fuss. I’ll rest until dinner. Go amuse yourself. And for once, speak to a young lady. Or, if you can’t think of anything to say, steal a kiss.”

  The image of the sweet, auburn-haired Miss Marshall edged into Christian’s thoughts and heated his face. He nearly tugged on his collar.

  The earl leaned his head against the tall settee. “You know, Admiral Widtsoe hopes you’ll choose his daughter.”

  Christian cleared his throat. “Er….”

  The earl’s mouth curved in a ghostly reminder of the ready smiles he once wore when Mama was still alive. “But if you aren’t ready to settle down, you could sow some oats—not with a lady of course—but in a new place with new possibilities, there are often willing women… maids—”

  Christian had heard enough. “Rest well, sir. I shall see you at dinner—or tea if you are feeling well.” He made his escape before the earl could begin ribbing him about his shyness around women or spout stories of how generations of Amesburys deserved their reputations of being philanderers. His father had wooed ladies of all classes and moral codes before he found and married Mama. His older brothers, Cole and Jared, seemed to share the earl’s views. What his other living brother, Grant, thought of women was a complete mystery. But Christian never forgot his mother’s admonition to treat the fair sex with respect, whether an innkeeper’s daughter or a duchess.

  Besides, wooing would involve speaking, and he’d rather face an opponent at fisticuffs or fencing than have to think of something clever to say to a lady.

  He stopped by his room long enough to grab a sketchbook and an artist’s pencil and went outside. Pausing, he turned slowly to find a good spot. Ah. There. A nearby hill. He took the shortest route out of the gardens to the hill to get a good view of the abbey. This seemed a good place to begin. He’d do several sketches first, all of different vantage points, before determining from which angle to create the final painting.

  After finding a comfortable spot to sit, he eyed the structure. The multi-leveled tiers faintly reminiscent of Westminster Abbey but adorned with gargoyles and built out of dark stone, certainly created a forbidding, and fascinating, scene.

  A replica of the abbey took form underneath his pencil. After adding details, he shaded in long, late afternoon shadows which only added to the ominous air. Just for fun, he added a gargoyle springing to life and flying off the building. He smiled. The earl thought his art a great waste of time, especially with the little fanciful turns it often took, but Christian couldn’t have given up art any more than he could give up food. If only he could study under masters at the Royal Academy of Art. But he daren’t follow that dream with his father so ill. And his family had always expected him to become a vicar.

  Immersed in his work, he glanced up and gave a start. Two pairs of eyes stared at him. The Misses Widtsoe and Marshall stood watching him, with expressions of rapture and solemn contemplation, respectively.

  He sprang to his feet. “Ladies.” His pencil and pad of paper tumbled to the ground. With his face
heating, he retrieved the items and offered a bow.

  As they both curtsied, Miss Widtsoe giggled, her wide smile reappearing.

  Miss Marshall held out a tiny gloved hand. “I apologize if we startled you, Mr. Amesbury. Please, resume your drawing.”

  He made a loose gesture to his paper. “I’ve finished this aspect.” He would draw the abbey from a different vantage point another time. He tucked the paper under his arm and bowed to take his leave.

  “We missed you at tea,” Miss Widtsoe said. “People asked about you, but I didn’t know what to tell them. Your father said you’d probably wandered off to draw somewhere, and it appears he was right.”

  “Er, yes.” That explained his hunger. He hadn’t noticed the passage of time while he’d sketched, but his stomach reminded him of the lapse. If the earl were at tea, he must be feeling well, an encouraging thought.

  “Shall I have something brought to you? Cook makes the most amazing scones, as light as you would ever taste, and delicious with clotted cream! Or do you prefer lemon cake? I love lemon cake, and seed cake, too, but I’m careful not to overindulge, lest it adversely affect my figure.” She struck a pose designed to attract his attention to her figure.

  He only allowed himself a glance, but she was, indeed, very well endowed.

  Before he thought of a response, she continued, “Anyway, I’m happy to order something brought to you. We try not to starve our guests, even those who wander off and miss tea.” She grinned, revealing all her pearly teeth again.

  Miss Marshall studied him with that quiet, assessing gaze. “We were about to return to the abbey to dress for dinner. Do you wish to walk with us?”

  Unable to think of a gracious way to extract himself, Christian gripped his pad and pencil as he offered an elbow to each of them. Miss Widtsoe clung to him possessively, but Miss Marshall rested her hand on the crook of his arm with a feather touch. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. Her petite form instilled a sense of protectiveness in him. She smiled gently at him.

  He focused forward and headed down the path leading to the outer gardens. She glided without making a sound next to him as they walked. Everything about her was restful, and an answering calm came over him.

  As Miss Widtsoe walked, she bounced as if barely containing great amounts of energy. “When do you plan to start painting the abbey?”

  “As soon as I’ve decided which angle to use.” There. He’d spoken without getting tongue-tied.

  “And don’t forget you promised to do my portrait, too. I saw the portraits you did of the Duchess of Devonshire and of Mrs. Clemmons, and I love your work! I simply must have a portrait, too! You haven’t forgotten you promised to do my portrait, have you?”

  He smiled, recalling the elegant Duchess of Devonshire and those moments when she’d revealed warmth underneath her frosty exterior. Perhaps he’d discover depth to Miss Widtsoe as he painted her. “I haven’t forgotten.”

  Miss Widtsoe opened her mouth to speak but stopped when Miss Marshall asked quietly, “How do you choose which angle to use when painting a structure like a castle?”

  “I sketch it from many different locations first, then choose my preference among them.” Was it the topic that put him at ease or the lady herself?

  “How did you like today’s sketches?” she asked.

  He glanced at the pad in his hand. “I only did one today.”

  She made a loose gesture to his pad. “Would it be prying to ask to see it?”

  “Oh, yes!” Miss Widtsoe, who’d been uncharacteristically quiet, exclaimed. “I’d love to see it!”

  He hesitated a moment but couldn’t refuse Miss Marshall. If she disliked the additional live gargoyle, it made no difference to him.

  Both ladies leaned over and studied the drawing. Miss Marshall let out a long breath, her eyes alight. “It’s magnificent—so detailed and realistically proportioned. You have a unique flair. I love the gargoyle coming to life.”

  Miss Widtsoe shivered. “It looks like something out of a nightmare.” As if fearing she had insulted him, she added hastily, “But it’s very good! I can’t wait to see the final product!”

  Christian sifted through possible responses and finally said, “I hope your father will be pleased.”

  “I’m sure he will if this is any indication! You’re so talented and it was so kind of you to accept his commission! I’m sure you have a great many other duties to attend to, but we’re so glad you’re here!”

  Christian almost cringed under the praise she heaped upon him.

  Then she landed the final blow. “I’m sure it will be simply perfect.”

  Perfect. How he’d grown to detest that word after the way his brothers had thrown it at him in that mocking, sing-song voice. The perfectly perfect Christian. Even years later, it still set his teeth on edge. Of course, with Cole so detached after he’d returned home from the sea, and Jared still away, and the always-aloof Grant taking up residence in London, Christian would rather bear that awful nickname if it meant having his brothers home. But no, they’d left for the war and hadn’t truly returned.

  Then Mama died and Father began to fade away too. It seemed everyone he loved left eventually, beginning with Jason’s tragic death, a death that would forever haunt Christian and doom him to eternal loneliness.

  “Are you well, Mr. Amesbury?” Miss Marshall’s hushed voice pushed away his ghosts.

  He snapped his head up. “Of course.”

  Her dark, assessing eyes peered at him. In a purely defensive, and probably cowardly measure, he turned his attention to Miss Widtsoe. “Can you tell me of the abbey’s history? It might help me capture a unique tone in the painting.”

  With her usual exuberance, Miss Widtsoe launched into a history of the abbey while Christian tried to pick out the relevant parts that might prove useful to add mood to his painting. Her narrative filled the time that it took to arrive at the front steps.

  “Thank you, Miss Widtsoe; that may prove helpful. Until dinner.” He bowed to them both, not allowing his gaze to rest too long on either lady, but for entirely different reasons, and excused himself.

  After pilfering a snack and dressing for dinner, Christian accompanied the earl down the stairs. In the drawing room, other guests gathered for drinks and conversation.

  Wearing an abundance of bows and white silk, Miss Widtsoe beamed from across the room and bobbed slightly on her toes. How could he make it clear that he did not return her affection without wounding her sensibilities? Miss Marshall stood between an older lady with the same color hair, clearly her mother, and her friend. Also in fashionable white, she wore a simple, tasteful gown with clean lines that flattered her slender form. A green ribbon threaded through her auburn curls caught up in a more elaborate style than her chignon of this afternoon. She stood straight and still, focusing on every word her exuberant friend uttered, smiling with the sort of indulgent tenderness one often views in a parent when gazing on a favorite but mischievous child.

  “Did you enjoy yourself this afternoon, Son?” the earl asked.

  Christian removed his attention from Miss Marshall and focused it on his father. “I did a sketch of the abbey.”

  The earl made no comment. As his health declined, he’d grown more resigned, or perhaps apathetic, towards Christian’s artistic pursuits—an improvement over the past when he vehemently criticized the waste of time. Besides, the admiral had made no secret about his delight over Christian accepting the commission. Perhaps Admiral Widtsoe’s interest lessened the earl’s disappointment in Christian.

  The butler announced dinner and Christian found himself in the uncomfortable position of escorting Miss Widtsoe into the dining room where he sat between the girl and her friend.

  How the deuce should a gentleman extract himself from such an uncomfortable position? If Miss Widtsoe continued to make public claims on Christian, he’d be labeled a cad for raising her expectations and failing to come up to scratch. Moreover, his actions might
call into question her reputation and harm her future prospects. Agreeing to paint her portrait sounded worse and worse.

  He glanced at his father seated to the hostess’s right near the end of the table, his conversation remained focused on Mrs. Widtsoe. She was an elegant, thoughtful woman with lively eyes; perhaps her daughter would follow suit as she matured and make a good wife—for someone else, not him. Christian had resigned himself years ago to living out his life alone.

  On his left, Miss Widtsoe chattered, requiring few answers from him. On his right, Miss Marshall glanced at him throughout the meal, as if she viewed him as a puzzle that must be solved. Perhaps she was trying to ascertain if he were good enough for her friend, but he couldn’t shake the fear that she saw too deeply inside him and wouldn’t rest until she exposed all his dark secrets.

  Chapter 3

  Genevieve divided her conversation at the dinner table between Christian Amesbury and an older gentleman with thick mutton chops sprinkled liberally with gray. Matilda kept up a stream of diverting chatter, her usual charming wit and cheery disposition amusing everyone within earshot.

  The mutton chop gentleman seated to her right launched into a tale of a recent safari. “Capital game there, Africa. Never knew if I’d be the predator or the prey, though.” He chuckled.

  “What was it like?” she asked out of pure courtesy.

  As he rhapsodized about the land, with all its animals, her attention and, unfortunately, her vision, often strayed to the enigmatic Mr. Amesbury sitting at her left. He was a study in polite reserve and impeccable manners. Once he shifted in his seat, and a masculine combination of bergamot and a spice she couldn’t identify wafted to her. She inhaled, letting the scent inspire images of strength and gentleness and something rather sensual. His hands, those strong but long-fingered, artistic hands, wielded his utensils as if performing a graceful ballet.

  When Matilda finished relating an amusing story of a recent trip, Mr. Amesbury asked Matilda in his soft, rich tones, “Do you wish to travel then, Miss Widtsoe?”