A Perfect Match: A Sweet Regency Historical Romance

by Donna Hatch

  “More than I should, for now. Tomorrow, we all depart for home.”

  She nodded. “My family and I aren’t going home right away; we’re headed to Bath so that my mother might partake of the restorative waters.”

  A golden-brown brow raised. “My father and I are returning to Bath, as well. We’ve been there since the Season ended.”

  “I hope I shall see you there.” Was that too bold?

  A slow grin widened his mouth and curved those lips she longed to touch, to taste. “Oh, you can count on that.”

  The orchestra ended the song on a flourish, and he led her into a little dip.

  “Thank you for the waltz,” he said. “You were a delightful partner.”

  “You, as well.”

  They stood in dance position, not moving. His gaze moved over her face, his hand warm on hers, and his mouth parted. A distant drum thrummed in her ears in time with her heart.

  He released her and stepped back. Around them, other couples had already left the dance floor.

  She was making a cake of herself.

  She wasn’t sure she cared.

  With an extended arm and a slight bow, he led her back to her mother. Genevieve sat and watched as he strode to Matilda, bowed, and after a brief conversation in which Sir Reginald appeared alarmed, he wheeled Matilda out of the room. At the doorway, he glanced at Genevieve before he exited.

  He was about to break her friend’s heart, but all Genevieve could think of was how completely he had captured hers.

  Did that mean she had made assumptions about him and that a similar heartbreak as Matilda’s was in her future?

  Chapter 10

  Christian pushed Miss Widtsoe’s wheeled chair towards the door to the great hall in search of a place where they might have a conversation. Only his deeply ingrained manners kept him from rushing back to Genevieve Marshall’s side to claim another dance. Those brief touches during the dancing had been torturous, leaving him longing for more. He’d always believed his own damaged heart to be insulated from the charms of a lady. Genevieve Marshall had proved him wrong.

  Was it possible that he might have found that missing color in the palette of his life?

  Serene and elegant but with a slightly impish curve to her lips, she curtsied to Mr. Ashton who spoke with her. Christian pitied the young man who was obviously smitten with her, but for whom she clearly did not return the preference. Was Christian also to be pitied?

  No. She’d given him several warm smiles that she’d given no one else at the house party.

  Just as he wheeled Miss Widtsoe out, he paused at the doorway. Genevieve glanced at him, that softness coming into her eyes, and her impish smile deepening. That same calm returned to him. Then, as if remembering herself, she demurely lowered her gaze and adjusted one of her long gloves. If only he could get her alone, he’d test that demure exterior to find the woman underneath.

  Egad. He was starting to sound like his father.

  Returning his mind to the unpleasant business at hand, he pushed Miss Widtsoe out to the main hall where a few others gathered. Good. They would be considered chaperoned out here. He pushed her to a small cluster of chairs in a corner.

  Miss Widtsoe smiled at him expectantly. “You wanted to speak to me?”

  He perched on the edge of a chair. “Yes.” He swallowed. How did one go about this sort of business? He broke out into a cold sweat. “I fear there has been something of a misunderstanding between us.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. It appears that… that is to say, it seems that you…” a breath, “…feel that there is a certain… understanding between us.”

  He swallowed hard and stared at the floor so he wouldn’t have to look into her eyes. But that was cowardly. As a gentleman, he owed her eye contact. Witnessing her disappointment would be fitting penance for his carelessness.

  He dragged in another breath and met her gaze. “If I have done anything to give you the wrong impression, I offer my humblest apologies.”

  Her expression remained fixed, hopeful, even.

  This was not going well. He rubbed at the trickle of sweat at his brow and tried again. “You see, I never meant to give you the idea that I have any particular… erm… preference for you…” Deuce take it, he sounded like a complete cad.

  Miss Widtsoe blinked. Her hopeful expression faded.

  He closed his eyes to rally himself and then pressed on. “In truth, I’ve always believed I’d never marry. I manage my father’s estate and watch over his care and I don’t expect that a wife will fit into those duties.” Not to mention he’d always believed that no one such as he deserved such a joyful union.

  Miss Widtsoe’s eyes grew shiny. “You… you don’t feel any particular regard for me?”

  He faltered at her emotion. “I admire you, of course. Any man would. But it was never my intention to court you—merely paint your portrait and a landscape of the abbey. When my father and I depart, I do not expect to see you again—ever.” He winced at his own harshness. Each word sliced like a knife, causing pain to a girl who didn’t deserve it. No one did.

  Her lashes fluttered and her mouth quivered. “You don’t have a grand passion for me.”

  Very gently, he said, “No, Miss Widtsoe.”

  She stared down at her hands twisting in her lap. “I see.”

  “I beg your forgiveness if I’ve misrepresented myself to you.”

  Her mouth opened, then closed.

  He rushed to repair the damage, if possible. “There is much to recommend you, and half the gentlemen here are trying to catch your eye—Sir Reginald, for example. But I’m not—” He closed his mouth before he uttered that he was not for her, that he didn’t believe they would suit. That was a bit too truthful, and hurtful. “I’m not free to pursue marriage just yet.”

  She said nothing, just sat with bowed head.

  His heart twisted in compassion and regret that he’d taken the light out of her eyes. There appeared to be nothing more to say. He stood. “I’m so sorry.”

  As he turned away, she said in a voice devoid of any emotion, “It’s Genevieve, isn’t it?”

  He paused. “As I said, I’m not certain it is my lot to marry—at least, not at present.” Returning to the ballroom, he paused behind a potted plant to catch his breath. He felt like he’d just kicked a puppy.

  Despite his weariness of heart, he moved back into the main area, searching for Genevieve, craving her soothing presence. The musicians packed up their instruments and guests clustered together. Genevieve stood next to two other young ladies, both of whom he had partnered earlier in the evening. She caught his eye like a red rose in a garden of white lilies, so lovely, so vibrant and yet so serene.

  Remembering to don an appropriately savoir faire expression lest he appear a juvenile who’d discovered girls for the first time, he squared his shoulders and sauntered towards her.

  Before he reached her side, Lord Wickburgh sidled up to her. Christian faltered. As a titled lord, the man certainly commanded greater precedence, and as his elder, he deserved Christian’s respect and deference, but the man clearly frightened Genevieve. And his cold hardness raised Christian’s hackles.

  Lord Wickburgh bowed to Genevieve. The color left her cheeks and she lowered her head, clasping her hands in front of her as if trying to form a shield.

  Christian had to do something. He got no further than a step before his father’s voice broke in.

  “The marquis appears to have selected his new bride.” Standing next to Christian, the earl gestured with his glass at the scene. “He seems even more fascinated with her than you are.”

  “I’m not…” he trailed off. Denying it was pointless. Instead, he nodded. “She is remarkable.”

  “Apparently so.” He paused, then said in as gentle a voice as Christian had ever heard the earl speak, “Her father may prefer a lord over a youngest son.”

  The words pricked his hope, but he refused to step back. “The Marshalls don’
t seem like social climbers.”

  “No, but most fathers want the best for their daughters, and they often weigh the wrong criteria such as money and status. I certainly made that mistake with Margaret.” Sorrow filled his eyes.

  Christian frowned. His sister’s unhappy marriage became apparent the moment they returned from their honeymoon. “I’m not prepared to offer for her just yet, Father. At this point, all I plan to do is court her—her family will be going directly to Bath.”

  The earl nodded. “She has much to recommend her—desirable qualities and comes from a good family.”

  Tension Christian didn’t realize he’d been holding eased back inside him. The earl approved. That meant more to him than he would have expected.

  Father’s next words came as a surprise. “You’ve spent all your life doing things to make your mother and me happy. It’s time for you to do what makes you happy. I encourage you to follow your heart for a change, son.”

  Follow his heart. Could he? Had he done enough to make up for all he’d done so horribly wrong? Or was true happiness a taunting hope that would forever dangle just out of reach?

  His father nodded towards Genevieve. “You’d best move quickly before Lord Wickburgh does. Otherwise, her father may choose the higher-ranking suitor for his daughter. Bath may not be soon enough. Carpe diem.” He pushed his fist into the air as if urging him into battle.

  Did Christian truly need to act now rather than court her slowly in Bath? He’d wanted to move slowly in order to be sure of his heart. And to give her time to know hers. Surely, Captain Marshall would take his daughter’s preferences into consideration and not rush her into a decision. And she preferred Christian to Lord Wickburgh.

  Didn’t she?

  He watched them converse, Lord Wickburgh elegant and worldly, and Miss Marshall, gentle and reserved. She offered a small smile to the viscount.

  Was she changing her opinion about the older man? He was in possession of a great deal of money, as well as the power and privilege of rank. Christian could only offer her a modest living and certainly no title.

  Did he want to take the chance and offer for her?

  He would have to find out. Standing in the shadows and watching another man pay court to her would serve no one.

  For the first time in years, a flicker of hope lit inside. He might not have to live his life in complete darkness. Carpe diem.

  Christian snatched a glass of lemonade from a tray and marched to her. As he reached her side, he nodded to the viscount and held out the glass to her. “Care for a glass of lemonade, Miss Marshall?”

  She smiled, but it was restrained. “Thank you.” As she accepted his glass, she glanced at Lord Wickburgh. “I wish you the best in your endeavors, my lord.”

  She sipped her drink and turned her body toward Christian, angling away from Wickburgh and pulling her shawl about her. Christian was right; she did not care for the viscount. In fact, she seemed afraid of him, judging from her rapid breathing, darting glances, and the fluttering of her left hand.

  Though her words and action had been a subtle yet unmistakable dismissal, Lord Wickburgh held out an arm. “It’s rather stuffy and crowded in here. Shall we take a turn about the garden and breathe some fresh air, Miss Marshall?”

  She pressed her lips together and flitted her gaze at Christian. “I have already promised to do that with Mr. Amesbury. Pray, excuse us, my lord.” She reached for Christian.

  He readily offered her his arm, glad to assist in her charade and trying not to puff out his chest at her clear preference. But did she only want his company to escape a man who frightened her? She might be playing some kind of game.

  Odd, moments ago he’d been certain, but now his confidence wavered. His decision not to marry had been a buffer to protect his heart. Now that he entertained the idea of a future of love and marriage, he’d never felt so… vulnerable.

  Lord Wickburgh raised his walking stick and placed the tip of it in front of Christian like a barrier. “Have a care, boy. You’d do well to step aside like a gentleman.”

  If this arrogant bully thought he could cow Christian, he was in for a surprise. Christian said in even, low tones, “I will not aside for you. Not now, not ever.”

  The lord drew his brows together. “Watch your mouth, boy. I don’t care who your father is, I’ll not tolerate insolence.”

  Anger simmering in his core, Christian stepped in closer until they were almost nose to nose. How satisfying to stand a good two inches taller than the older man. “We are finished here.”

  He turned his back on the lord, replaced Genevieve’s hand on his arm, and led her outside. Moonlight and Chinese lanterns guided them across the terrace and down the steps. Frogs and night insects sang a chorus and a sultry breeze ruffled stirred the air, teasing roses and jasmine until they perfumed the air. Christian drew several breaths to release his anger. Genevieve remained quiet until they reached a fountain deep in the garden.

  She adjusted her shawl about her shoulders. “Thank you. I suppose it was cowardly of me to pull you into it and make up a story about our walk in the garden, but something about that man drains the courage out of me.”

  Christian had been foolish for letting his insecurities cast doubt on her character. Genevieve was genuine. She could be trusted. Did he dare trust her with his heart?

  He put a hand over hers where it rested on his arm. “I’m happy to be of service.”

  “How did your conversation go with Matilda?”

  He searched for the right words to say.

  She squeezed his arm. “Forgive me. I do not wish to pry, but she is my friend.”

  “I tried to be as tactful as possible, and she seemed to take it well. But she was not in high spirits when I left her. I’m sorry to have been the cause of sorrow to your friend.”

  “She fancies herself in love all the time. She seemed to have developed a true attachment for you, but obviously, if you did not return her regard, she had no basis for her feelings. Still, I regret that she’s hurt. She’s such a dear friend; I would not wish her unhappy.”

  Christian led her towards a raised pond with a merry fountain. “She really has much to recommend her. I hope she meets someone worthy of her.”

  “I do, as well.” She sank down onto the marble edge of the raised pond.

  In the moonlight and amid the garden, her fairy-like quality became even more pronounced, as did that magical serenity she carried about her. He drew in a breath, inhaling her scent. Her peaceful presence soothed him. His focus fixed on her lips.

  He sat next to her and took her hand. “Miss Marshall, I had never expected to marry. Since my father’s decline, I have virtually assumed all his responsibilities for managing the estate. On a regular basis, I meet with his steward, tour the properties, handle his correspondence, and everything else required of him—except sit in the House, of course.”

  “It sounds like a great deal of responsibility.”

  “It is. But my oldest brother has returned home from the war, and I expect he will take my place soon. After all, he stands to inherit it all. Once that happens, I will no longer be needed in the capacity in which I serve now. When that occurs, my life will feel empty.”

  “Perhaps you’ll find a new passion. You might concentrate more fully on your art.”

  “No doubt. But I recently realized that the reason I had never held out hopes for a family of my own was not because I was too busy caring for my father and the estate, but because I always felt rather as if I were… unworthy of love.”

  She tilted her head. Quietly, she asked, “Why do you feel unworthy of love?”

  He shied away from the truth, from the horrible challenge that led to Jason’s death, and the scattering of his brothers over the fight Christian caused between them and the earl.

  He breathed through the pain lancing his chest. “I’ve done things that I deeply regret. Lost people I thought would always be there—through my own actions.”

  She sl
ipped her hand into his and squeezed it gently. “Everyone deserves a second chance. To be loved. Even you. Especially you.”

  Her earnest expression, the tenderness in her eyes loosened knots in his soul that years of guilt and grief had tied. Could she be right? Did he deserve love? Despite his earlier determination to proceed slowly with her, his brain disengaged, and his body sought the sweetness of her lips. He leaned in and kissed her.

  Her slight intake of breath should have stopped him, but her warm and malleable lips moved with his. Whatever was left of his reason vanished. He kissed her as if nothing beyond this moment ever existed.

  Chapter 11

  Genevieve’s good sense always came through for her when other men tried to kiss her… until the instant Christian leaned in with that hungry expression. Instead of backing away like a proper young lady, she raised her head and met his mouth with hers. Fireworks at the park last summer failed to match the explosions of light and color inside her. Beyond glorious, kissing Christian instilled a sense of absolute belonging—to him, to the life they must share, or she would never again experience the wholeness of this single, perfect moment.

  This then, was love. The seedlings of it had planted themselves in her heart the first moment she saw him, and each word, each glance, each touch had nurtured them until they flowered into the love about which poets rhapsodized.

  She loved Christian, and nothing was ever so wondrous as the rightness of that knowledge.

  Though uncommonly gentle, his kiss embodied everything passionate and lovely about human contact. The desire to immerse herself forever in his kiss consumed her. Enfolded in his arms, her mouth and soul at one with him, she sighed in glorious pleasure.

  He ended the kiss before she was ready, but he showered kisses on her cheeks and brow. Finally, he just held her. Surely if she opened her eyes, she’d seen that her entire body was glowing with heavenly light.

  His voice caressed her. “I’d planned to court you in Bath, then declare myself and ask your father’s permission before kissing you, but I quite lost my head.”