A Perfect Match: A Sweet Regency Historical Romance

by Donna Hatch

  It was all he could do not to puff out his chest in pride. Before replying, he searched for a note of humility. “I’m gratified by your approval. I’ll add color and finish it before I leave.”

  “I’m sure it will have no equal.” Miss Marshall’s admiration seemed genuine, without the coquettishness of so many ladies of the ton, including that of Miss Widtsoe.

  Though tempted to remain basking in her soothing presence, he bowed. “If you will both excuse me, I need to go put this away.”

  “A footman can do that for you,” Miss Widtsoe said with a flutter of lashes. Definitely a coquette.

  “I prefer to do it myself. I have a rather particular way of storing it.”

  He returned to his bedchamber. After cleaning the paint off his hands and brushes, and checking to be sure he hadn’t splattered paint on his face or clothing, he checked on his father.

  He found the earl sitting next to the hearth, staring at the embers. Dressed in his breeches and shirtsleeves, with a banyan draped over his shoulders and tied loosely at the waist, he made no sign of awareness of Christian’s presence. Next to him sat two creased letters.

  Softly, so as not to startle him, Christian said, “Sir, do you wish to join us downstairs for tea?”

  The earl let out a sigh and looked up at Christian, his eyes unfocused. He blinked and seemed to return to himself. “I’ll have a tray here.”

  Christian stepped inside. “Don’t you think spending a few moments in the company of others would be better than staying here alone?”

  His father’s mouth tugged off to the side in a loose smile. “I suppose you are right.” As he stood, he summoned his valet, scooped up the letters, and handed them to Christian along with his signet ring. “Take care of these, will you, Son? I’ll finish dressing.” He took off the loose, robe-like garment and let it fall.

  Sitting at the desk in his father’s room, Christian read over the contents of the letters involving estate business. It was a shame Father took so little interest in estate matters or even parliament, which he used to serve so diligently. Mother’s death had drained Father of all his joie de vivre. However, this trip seemed to have done him some good. He’d recover fully in time and with enough of the healing opportunities found in Bath.

  Christian wrote out two replies the way his father would have wanted regarding the estate and sealed the wax with the earl’s signet ring.

  The earl returned, groomed and dressed. Christian matched his father’s pace as they entered the drawing room. While his father walked on his cane to Mr. Widtsoe and Lord Wickburgh, Christian meandered towards a group of young men closer to his own age.

  Mr. Ashton, the vicar’s son, droned, “…a good match. Her dowry and behavior are respectable enough.”

  Sir Reginald shook his head, making his curls bob. “She’s lovely and witty and charming, that’s what, and if you don’t appreciate her many fine qualities, you don’t deserve her.”

  “Set your sights on her, have you?” Mr. Ashton asked with more emotion in his voice than Christian had heard thus far.

  Sir Reginald shook his head. “I like her, but my heart belongs to Miss Widtsoe.” He placed a hand over his heart.

  Ah. So, Matilda Widtsoe did indeed have the attention of young Sir Reginald. Perhaps Christian could help facilitate a change of loyalty on the girl’s part?

  Casting off his curiosity over who they had been discussing earlier, Christian sidled up to the curly top. “Miss Widtsoe is lovely.”

  Sir Reginald gave a start and a decided straightening of his shoulders. “She is. I’ve known her for years—watched her grow up, as it were.”

  Christian almost grinned at the challenge in the young man’s eyes and voice. “Childhood friends, were you?”

  “Something like that.” The challenge was flung back.

  Christian nodded. “My parents were, as well. They enjoyed a very happy marriage.”

  Sir Reginald eyed him as if he didn’t quite trust Christian’s meaning. “Always a desirable arrangement.”

  Sir Reginald’s gaze strayed to the girl under discussion and Christian followed his line of sight, but didn’t get past Genevieve Marshall. She drew him like a moth to a flame. If he drew closer, would he find a long-absent warmth? Or get burned?

  Before he knew it, he’d approached her and found himself standing in front of her in the center of a group of young ladies. Fortunately, Sir Reginald had accompanied him.

  “Good afternoon,” Christian said.

  As all the young ladies nearby responded, he scrambled for something to say, since he had not intended to approach. You’re beautiful and restful and I want to know you better. Will you go for a long walk with me? That hardly seemed appropriate. Or worse, If I kiss you, will you kiss me back or slap me?

  He barely managed to avoid trying it. He daren’t risk the consequences.

  As Christian’s panicked thoughts swirled in chaos, Sir Reginald came to the rescue and addressed the ladies as a group. “Mr. Amesbury and I were discussing the waltz and that many of you young ladies here might not know how. So, in preparation for tonight’s ball, we have decided to offer our services as practice partners.”

  Christian glanced at him, brows raised, at the wild tale. That was brilliant, actually. Reginald held out his arms, half turning to encompass all the young ladies who held their teacups frozen in front of them, their mouths slightly agape.

  Using his most charming smile, Christian added, “We realize it’s a bit unconventional, but this is a house party, after all—not Almack’s Assembly Rooms.” Smiling, he extended a hand to Genevieve Marshall. “Care to have a practice waltz, Miss Marshall? I’m no dance master, but perhaps I can help.”

  Smiling, she rose and placed her hand in his. At her touch, an unraveled place inside him sighed and wove itself into the tapestry of his soul. It might be mad, but all his reasons for avoiding the idea of love or marriage no longer mattered. Having this woman—this incredible lady—in his life became a taunting wish.

  “May I?” Sir Reginald bowed before another young lady.

  As if a challenge had been issued, half the unmarried gentlemen in the room approached young ladies of their choice, bowed, and drew them into dance position. A murmur of one-two-three, four-five-six filled the room. The older adults’ conversation died out, and a few sputtered at the strange, impromptu dance, but no one voiced a true protest. Not that it would have mattered. At that moment, dancing with Genevieve consumed Christian’s every desire.

  Well, not every desire. Taking her into a secluded room and kissing her senseless would be a preferred activity over dancing. But he must woo her slowly, making it clear he had honorable intentions.

  “Shall I count?” she asked, a teasing half-smile curving her delicious lips.

  Christian smiled at the gentle observation that they were standing in waltz position but not actually dancing. “I will, if you have no objection.”

  That luscious curve in her mouth deepened. “None at all.”

  “The best way to learn is to do. Keep your arms firm and put your hand here.” He repositioned her hand to a spot higher on his arm near his shoulder. Did he imagine her quick intake of breath? “This is our frame. Keep some tension in your arms to maintain this distance. As long as we retain our frame, you should have no trouble following me.”

  She nodded, her eyes large and her pupils dilated—a sign of desire, unless he was mistaken. He’d spent enough time on the dance floor with ladies that he’d began taking for granted that ladies of all ages desired him. However, with Genevieve Marshall, he could not be sure if what he saw was desire. He might actually be in the unprecedented position of having to work to win her affections.

  He looked forward to the challenge.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  “I hope I don’t step on your foot.”

  He affected a mournful expression. “You appear to weigh about as much as a fallen leaf—if you step on me, I fear I might not survive the
encounter.”

  Her eyes danced and her smile almost blinded him. He might never see another woman again. “I might surprise you.”

  “You already have, in many ways.” Before he made a fool of himself right here and now, he said, “Step back with your right foot. Ready? One.” He stepped forward with his left foot, guiding her back. “Two.” He guided her to his right. “Three.” He closed his steps. “You follow beautifully.”

  Again, came that blast of cleansing brilliance. “I love waltzing.”

  “We’re not actually waltzing yet, that was just one half of the basic step.”

  “Silly me.” A husky tone entered her voice.

  He cleared his throat. “Now, we reverse. You step forward with your left as I step back and we turn to complete the circle.” As they moved, he counted, “Four, five, six. That was a complete basic. Let’s do it again just as before but without stopping.”

  While he counted, she followed him as he took her through the basic several more times. Then he turned her. She followed like an expert. He taught her several more moves, leading her and counting as he showed her the balance step, right turns, left turns, and the promenade. Each touch of her hand, the brush of her thigh, his hand on her back sent him over the moon time and time again. Through it all, her expression remained that of pure rapture.

  He smiled down at the fairy-like girl in his arms who radiated purity and joy. “You can say it now, if you like.”

  “Say it?” She angled her head off to the side, looking so adorable that he almost kissed her right there.

  “That you love to waltz.”

  “Oh, I do!” she said breathlessly. “But I’m a little dizzy with all this turning.”

  “Just wait until we add music.”

  “I can hardly wait.” She grinned, and light filled a dark place inside.

  Another voice broke in. “Gentlemen, I think the young ladies have had enough dance instruction for the afternoon.”

  Mrs. Widtsoe’s added, “We wouldn’t want to exhaust them before tonight’s revelry begins.”

  Christian raised a brow and asked softly, “Are you exhausted, Miss Marshall?”

  “Not a bit. But the point is taken.”

  “Or perhaps she merely wishes to limit contact for this very scandalous dance.”

  “Probably that, as well.” Her eyes danced.

  He had to tell himself to let her go twice before his arms actually obeyed. She gave him a conspiratorial smile, curtsied, and turned away.

  As he joined the other gentlemen on the side of the room where he’d been standing, Sir Reginald said under his breath, “I’m relieved that I don’t have to compete with you for the fair Matilda.”

  “No, indeed. My affections are definitely engaged elsewhere.”

  Mr. Ashton’s gaze flicked in Christian’s direction and his brow narrowed as if he were annoyed. Christian gave him little thought. Tonight, he would leap any hurdles to ensure he waltzed in truth with Genevieve Marshall.

  Chapter 9

  Genevieve joined Matilda’s group of young ladies, positioning herself so she couldn’t see Christian Amesbury. It wouldn’t do to look at him too long or too frequently. His warmth and the texture of his skin remained on her hands as a ghostly reminder of where she’d been, and where she desperately wished to return.

  Matilda spoke to her audience of young ladies, who either had not joined the dancing lesson or who had already returned, with her usual animation though clearly attempting to keep her voice down. “…I vow, with him studying me so closely as he painted my portrait, it was all I could do not to blush the entire time! He asked me ever so many questions about myself, my family, and my interests. I expect he will ask to speak to my father any day now!”

  She spoke of Christian Amesbury, surely. Which meant Genevieve had misunderstood his intentions as they danced. Or Matilda nursed a grand delusion.

  Though Genevieve had come to the house party fully expecting to meet the man Matilda would marry, the thought no longer gave her the pleasure it once did. But that was a selfish attitude. Matilda’s happiness meant the world to Genevieve. Moreover, Christian Amesbury had been in Matilda’s heart long before Genevieve met him. Her only choice now lay in whether she would sulk like a child longing for a toy that belonged to another, conspire to betray her dearest friend, or help her friend secure the proposal she so fervently desired.

  If only she could suggest that the object of Matilda’s affection did not return her regard and that she should look elsewhere… like at the delightful Sir Reginald who loved her.

  Rallying her good senses, Genevieve touched Matilda’s arm. “I am persuaded that having Mr. Amesbury paint your portrait was an exceedingly fine idea—a perfect excuse to spend time with him.”

  Matilda beamed. “It was, wasn’t it?”

  Genevieve glanced over her shoulder at Mr. Amesbury who listened to one of the younger gentlemen with amusement. As the other gentleman came to the end of the story, everyone laughed, including Mr. Amesbury. His whole face lit in mirth. Genevieve barely resisted sighing at the stunning sight. Then she remembered. She wasn’t supposed to look at him.

  To cover up her mistake, she squeezed Matilda’s hand. “I am happy you have attracted the attention of such a fine gentleman. He’s perfect for you.”

  “He is perfect, all right,” one of the other girls said.

  Another added, “Perfectly delicious.”

  They all tittered.

  “I’d like to spoon him up,” said another.

  More giggles.

  How crass of them to speak about such a kind and honorable gentleman like that. Still, they had a point. Genevieve pressed her lips together to avoid chastising them. Or agreeing.

  Matilda’s expression fixed on Genevieve and darkened. “You certainly seemed to enjoy your little practice waltz with him.”

  “Er, I—yes, I did. He was kind to teach me. Your Mr. Amesbury is certainly a fine gentleman. You’re are most fortunate to have spent the better part of the day with him.”

  Her words seemed to satisfy Matilda who resumed her usual sunny expression. After tea, they chatted and gossiped, all while Genevieve pointedly kept her attention on the ladies, and not on Christian Amesbury. But the act of refraining from looking at him almost caused physical pain. She rubbed her hands against the fabric of her muslin gown to brush off the lingering sensation of his touch. But to no effect.

  She was a terrible friend!

  “Come, Jenny, we should dress for dinner,” Mama’s quiet urging broke in from behind the settee where Genevieve sat.

  Genevieve nodded. “Yes, Mama.” She glanced back at her friend. “Do you need help getting to your room, Mattie?”

  “I’ll help her,” Mrs. Widtsoe said as she reached the circle.

  Genevieve followed her mother out of the room and upstairs. As they ascended the grand staircase, Genevieve admired the carved stone and gothic details found all over the Widtsoe’s home.

  “Are you enjoying yourself?” Mama asked.

  “Yes, very much. We played croquet and Blindman’s Bluff, and I own that I laughed quite with abandon.”

  “As did the others, I understand.”

  “Yes. and I am persuaded the practice waltz will be helpful for tonight’s ball.”

  “I suspect it will. You attracted the attention of some gentlemen.”

  Genevieve lifted her shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “My partner in croquet, Sir Reginald, was diverting. Mr. Ashton escorted me back to the abbey.”

  “And young Mr. Amesbury taught you to waltz.”

  Genevieve blushed at the memory of his touch on her hand, her back, the small brushes as their bodies touched during the dance. No wonder people thought the waltz was daring. It certainly required a lot of close contact.

  “Has anyone captured your heart?”

  She hesitated a fraction too long in answering, “In so short a time? Of course not.”

  “Except, perhaps, one who has also captur
ed the heart of your dearest friend?”

  Genevieve sucked in her breath. It was pointless to deny it; Mama already knew. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Probably not to others, but I see it. You try too hard not to look at him. When you do, you soften as I’ve never seen you do. And you positively glowed when you danced with him.”

  “It’s pointless. Matilda loves him.”

  “Does he return her regard?”

  “She seems to think he does. He’s fairly reserved, but he was quick to come to her rescue this morning when she hurt her ankle.”

  “That is the mark of a gentleman—not necessarily of a young man in love.”

  Genevieve secretly agreed but tried to convince her mother of a truth to which Matilda clung. “He’s attentive to her, and they had a lovely chat while he painted her portrait.”

  “He might merely be looking for the right expression for her portrait. Or he’s simply being polite.”

  “I cannot hope for that, Mama. She loves him. And I want her to be happy. Therefore, I want him to love her.”

  Mama put her arm around Genevieve and gave her a sideways hug. “Matters of the heart are never easy.”

  While Mama retired to the chambers she shared with Papa, Genevieve went to her bedchamber and flopped on the bed. What kind of friend was she? Loyalty and honor were qualities her parents had instilled in her for as long as she could remember. Her friendship with Matilda transcended an interest in a gentleman.

  Only one more evening. Genevieve could last one more evening. The house party would end soon. She and her parents would leave on the morrow and spend their summer in Bath helping her mother restore her health. She would never again see Christian Amesbury… except at Matilda’s wedding.

  Her maid, Hill, entered. “Do you wish to rest, miss? I can return later.”

  Genevieve sat up. “No, come in.”

  The maid set out the two evening gowns Genevieve had not yet worn at the house party.