Regency Brides Series: A Historical Regency Romance Box Set

by Laura Locke

  “Not for me, please, cousin. Linton?”

  “I should get back downstairs, milady,” Linton said. She was standing in the doorway, discomfort written all over her long, pale face. Her hands were in her skirt-pockets, twisted with nerves.

  “Only if you wish to, Linton. I see no reason why you shouldn't join us, if you wish. When Lucas hears of all you have done for me, he will also understand.”

  Lucas frowned at her, his handsome face serious under his glossed chestnut hair. “Oh? This sounds interesting. Come! Both of you. Sit down and have some tea. This must be quite a tale.”

  Cornelia could have embraced him for how naturally he had included Linton. He didn't turn a hair as she sat down at the seat beside Cornelia, looking at her skirt nervously as she laid a napkin on her knee.

  Cornelia grinned at her, reassuring, and then turned back to Lucas as their tea arrived.

  “Lucas. We have been through terrible trials. We had to escape from Northend Manor.”

  “Escape?” he laughed, incredulous. “Cornelia? Are you serious? What happened?” His face sobered instantly and he leaned forward, fascinated, as Cornelia began the tale.

  She told him as much as she could. How it would advantage Lord Richmond to marry her, the fact that Lady Alexandra wished it to be so, and how she had manipulated her. The fact that she had wished them to marry and she had held her under lock and key to make her agree with it. At that, he let out a horrified sigh.

  “Incredible!” he shook his head. “In this day and age. Remarkable.”

  Cornelia continued calmly. She told him of Linton's help, releasing her and guiding her out of the house. He grinned at Linton admiringly.

  “Any time you want a position, you can sign on as my assistant!” he grinned. “Anyone with such a wily imagination would be just what I need in business.”

  Linton flushed and Cornelia smiled. He turned back to Cornelia.

  “Cousin, we have to do something. What has happened is...unheard-of. We cannot let those people get away with this unhindered.”

  “Cousin, we should let them be,” Cornelia sighed. “What happened was...just that. It happened. I do not wish to think of it again. We are safe and that is enough for me. Let it be.” She had already decided that she wanted no vengeance on the pair. Richmond was broken enough already, and Alexandra...wounding her pride worse would only make her worse, not better. It was best just to let them both be. They were miserable enough and would likely bring about their own hardships without help.

  Lucas let out a big sigh. “Well, I suppose I have to agree with that. But still...” he shook his head wonderingly. “I am just grateful you are unharmed, my dear coz. And you too, brave Linton.” He smiled at Linton, who looked at her hands shyly. Cornelia realized that Lucas was not only a lord, he was an excessively attractive young man. She hadn't seen him in that light before, and grinned at Linton's reaction to his charms.

  “It was nothing, milord.”

  “It was,” he countered.

  Cornelia cleared her throat, seeing poor Linton turn red. “Enough for the moment,” she said gently. “We must needs recover from our travels. Could you...might we have a bath, do you think?” The thought made her feel weak with needing.

  “A bath! What was I thinking? By all means!” Lucas jumped up and pulled the bell. Hudson appeared almost at once. “Hudson?”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “See to it that a bath is run. Two baths. One in Lady Cornelia's room, and one in the second spare-room.”

  Hudson didn't miss a beat. “Very good, milord.”

  Later, reclining in her bath, Cornelia felt her muscles unfurl and all the tension drain away. She was smiling up at the ceiling, drifting in lavender-smelling paradise, when Linton appeared. She had her hair in a towel and was wearing a plain gown.

  “Can I help you, milady?”

  Cornelia giggled. “Oh, Linton. I'm afraid I will need your help. But we really will have to do something about this. It's getting silly, isn't it? You're my maid and my friend: we really can't have it both ways.”

  “It's just fine for me, milady,” Linton insisted, passing her a fluffy towel. “It's just fine.”

  As Cornelia dried herself, marveling at how relaxed she felt and how her skin still had the scent of lavender, she wondered about that. She hoped Linton was still happy to help her, but personally she wanted to make things better for her. Even the scales a bit.

  I should ask Francis about it.

  At the thought, she felt the joy spread through her whole body, making her tingle all over. Soon she would see Francis again.

  Downstairs, still marveling in being here and safe and herself again, she took a seat in the parlor. She found a hoop of her own embroidery on the sideboard; something she must have left there accidentally before she left. She looked at it, staring at the delicate flowers, the exuberant design.

  I made that. That girl, whom Lady Alexandra disparaged so. I was never...what she said I was. I was someone. Someone special.

  She blinked back sudden tears and sat down with the embroidery on her knee, picking up the threads. As she bent over the work, the sunlight pouring through the window and drying her hair, she heard someone in the hallway.

  “My lady Cornelia? A visitor for you.”

  “Oh!”

  Cornelia had to school herself not to run to the door. She padded out behind the steward, white slippers soundless on the stone floor. In the hallway, she stopped dead.

  “Francis!”

  It was him. Francis Wescote. He was wearing his dress-uniform, his hat under his arm. His blond hair was shiny in the morning light. His face was as full of complex feeling as her own.

  They stared at each other. Cornelia's whole world shrank down into the blue of his eyes. Nothing else existed just then, but his presence.

  “Francis,” she said simply. She drank in the sight of his handsome, square-jawed face, his curling blond hair, his mouth with the slight wrinkle at the corner from how readily he grinned.

  “Cornelia.”

  She stepped into his arms and they embraced. There were no words, only the sweet melting of her body into his and the warm sensation of hands, stroking her back as he said her name, over and over again.

  “Cornelia. Dear Cornelia. My dear.”

  When they drew apart she looked into his eyes. She knew, now, how she felt. Knew what she had always wanted.

  She read in his eyes he felt the same.

  They embraced. Cornelia knew, deep in her heart, that she had arrived at the end of her journey and knew the place for the first time: she knew love for what it was. The most powerful, moving and simple force in the universe. They kissed.

  Chapter 22

  Cornelia stood before the mirror. Her long red hair had been brushed until it shone. It hung loose about her shoulders, a sleepy fire. She stared at her reflection and smoothed her hand down her long white dress in amazement. Was this really happening?

  She turned to where Linton stood further in the room, her hands busy with something or other. “Linton?”

  “My lady?”

  Cornelia sighed. “You will have to stop calling me that, you know.”

  Linton giggled. “Give me time. I have to rid myself of the habit. Mayhap after a month.”

  Cornelia chuckled. “Well, I have to stop calling you Linton, too, I suppose.”

  “Oh, milady. That would be passing strange. I'll never get used to it. Now, let me help you with this veil.”

  Cornelia felt her breath catch in her throat as she lifted the whisper of fabric over her head, affixing the flowers in place. The veil hung from a band decorated with orange-blossom, symbol of fidelity and love.

  It's just like the love I feel for Francis. Fragrant and beautiful; everlasting.

  She felt a lump in her throat as she thought of him. She had faced so much with him, and now they were joining together. With the collective intervention of Lucas, Pauline and Valerian, Matilda, Henry, and, surprising
ly, Lord Braxton himself, Lady Braxton had been prevailed upon to agree to the match. Her mother had come round to it and now, at last, it was happening. She was marrying Francis Wescote. She was dressing for her wedding, with Linton to help her.

  “Well, that worked,” Linton said, eying the wreath skeptically. “Never done that afore. Now, let's see the result.”

  Cornelia hid a grin as Linton stepped back, head on one side, surveying her work. She cleared her throat. “You look lovely, mistress.” she was blinking, voice raw, and Cornelia realized with some surprise that she was going to cry.

  “Come, Linton. It's all well. No tears.” She was crying too, tears of happiness running down her cheeks. Linton laughed.

  “No, milady! Now the two of us are at it. And you'll spoil the effect. Here, have a hanky. Stop now. There, there...”

  They both stopped crying and Cornelia laughed.

  “Well. Are we ready to go down?”

  “Just the necklace and earrings. And the flowers. Then we're finished.”

  Cornelia let her finish her work, then she smiled at her shyly. The mirror showed her a petite girl with long red hair looped up in a simple, graceful way, a white gown falling sheer from a high waist down to her feet, made of fine satiny cloth. She had orange-blossom in her hair and pearls rested at her pale-skinned throat. Her eyes were dark and shiny with tears. She smiled.

  “Well, my lady. We have to go down,” Linton said shakily as Cornelia turned before the mirror shyly, smiling at the way the gown floated in the warm morning.

  “I suppose we do.” Cornelia took the flowers from her bravely and they headed down stairs together.

  At the bottom, Lucas waited with his arm crooked, ready to lead her to the carriage and up the aisle. Lady Braxton was there, and Pauline and Matilda, all arrayed in their finery. Mother was there, and kissed her cheeks, a loving, fragrant presence.

  “My daughter. Bless you.”

  “Thank you, Mother. You too.”

  Then she was in the carriage, and everything was a blur until she walked up the aisle and saw Francis there.

  He had his back to the door until the organ began to play. Then he turned round. He smiled. The church seemed to get lighter as Cornelia looked into that shining face. Then all she knew was him and the feeling in her chest that grew and grew, suffusing her and filling her with a love so intense that it was almost pain.

  She took her place beside him and faced the priest, who smiled at them reassuringly, then took up the book and began the simple service.

  “You look beautiful.” Francis mouthed it to her and Cornelia wanted to giggle, surprised at the flagrant improperness of the act, all the while delighted he'd done so.

  “You too.” She mouthed it back as the priest turned the page, her heart thumping at the naughtiness of it. Francis beamed.

  He was beautiful, she thought, awed, standing at her side in his full military uniform, all red shiny cloth and bright brass, gold tassels on his epaulettes and buttons winking in the sunlight.

  At the end of the ceremony, they exchanged rings, his hand warm and gentle over hers. Then he lifted her veil. His eyes looked into hers and his looked back steadily. They kissed.

  They were man and wife.

  The rest of the day passed in a blur for Cornelia. The carriage ride back, the tossing of the coins for the cottagers at Braxton Manor. The congratulatory messages from the guests.

  The regiment made a guard of honor for them as they entered their home, and Francis escorted Cornelia through to the ballroom. She felt the world blur as they danced together, Francis smiling into her eyes lovingly.

  “I don't know this dance,” he said as the music began. “Leastways, not so very well as I would like. You must teach me.”

  Cornelia felt her heart melt as he whispered the familiar words – the words from that ball, all that time ago, when they had danced here in Braxley together.

  “I think you are doing remarkably well for a self-proclaimed novice,” she whispered in return. “If this is you beginning something, you'll do remarkably well.”

  Francis blushed. “I hope to begin many things this day.”

  Cornelia felt her chest suffuse with feeling. She gripped his hand and he gripped hers back. His hand on her waist was warm and firm and steady. She felt the touch of it reach right inside her, lighting fires she scarce knew or understood. She only knew that she felt a need for him like nothing she had ever felt in all her life.

  She leaned closer to him as they danced, and the world narrowed into the space between them, the touch of his hands, his scent. His smile.

  “My dear Cornelia,” he whispered as they left the dance, the music ending on a lilting note. “I do love you so very, very much.”

  “And I love you too, my Francis,” she whispered. “So much I cannot begin to fathom it.”

  “Nor me, sweet Cornelia. Nor me.”

  They kissed and went to join their guests at the table. The whole of Braxley was there, it seemed, all sitting at vast trestle-tables set up in the hall, the main table for family and guests. Everyone was there – her cousins, aunt and uncle, Mother...and Linton, with a man she dimly recognized.

  Not that Cornelia was noticing much. All she could see, all she could focus on, was the warm blue pools that were Francis' eyes.

  I love you, she wanted to whisper. I love you so very, very much.

  Later, as they slipped away together, he laid her on the bed and undressed her with all the care and gentleness he could. Cornelia found new joy in his arms, and new passion, and pleasure she would never have imagined. They did begin many things that night – new ways, new habits, the little gestures of love that would flower between them, a language of touch for themselves alone.

  It was only in the morning, when the gray light touched the windows, that they fell, finally, into a deep and peaceful sleep with their arms wrapping each other tight.

  Epilogue

  “I must confess I am a little apprehensive,” Cornelia said. She was sitting in the velvet chair at the top of the Cottage House, a small but grand lodging on Braxton Manor grounds.

  “Well, I understand why,” Margaret Linton said softly. “I was too, I can assure you.”

  “And you and Ben are just fine.”

  “We are. Yes, we are.” She smiled at the baby asleep in her arms, the dark down soft on his head in the morning light. The rooms at Cottage house were elegant, but cozy too; a gift from Lord and Lady Braxton to the couple. Now that they had a house of their own, the fact that Francis had only a modest inheritance and his military wage was less restrictive. They were prosperous and comfortable. And happy.

  Cornelia smiled across at Madge, her friend and confidante. With her new baby in her arms, her thin face exuded peace and a sort of pale loveliness that was new.

  “Alfred must be a proud father.”

  “He is,” Linton chuckled. “You'd have thought he'd found the fellow under a gorse-leaf for all the pride he takes in him.”

  Cornelia giggled. “Oh, Linton. You do say such things! Heavens! I shouldn't call you that anymore. Not just because it's not right anymore, but because it's not your name.”

  “No. I suppose you could call me Highgate,” she said with a grin. “But it ain't the same.”

  “Highgate! Oh, heavens! I couldn't do that.”

  “Well, then,” she smiled. “We can stick with Linton. Or Madge, if you really must change it.”

  “Madge.”

  Linton pulled a face at her and her child stirred in her arms. She bent to soothe it, soft brown hair falling over her shoulder from under the lace bonnet she wore.

  Cornelia linked hands over her own midriff protectively, aware of the new life within her. She had felt the baby stir for the first time that morning, and was drifting in a blissful peace from that.

  “Well, life does turn out in a strange way, doesn't it?” she mused.

  “It does, my lady. It does. Cornelia,” she said, seeing Cornelia's eyes narrow. She gig
gled. “Bless me, but that's awkward.”

  Cornelia giggled. “It is my name, Mrs. Highgate. I do insist on it.”

  “Aw, be like that,” Linton teased. “And I have you know I'll be here when that boy – or lady – enters the world. You'll not chase me off.”

  Cornelia giggled again, her heart warm with feeling. “I wouldn't dream of it. I'd like to have you here. Do stay.”

  “I'll be here,” Linton assured her.

  They sat quietly for a while. Cornelia thought about how well it had all worked out. Linton – Mrs. Highgate, she must remember – had been settled on the Braxton estate with a home of her own. The first thing she had done was to write to a gentleman in London who had, it seemed, unbeknown to Cornelia, left a contact address at the inn for Linton to find. They had corresponded awhile, and he had visited her in the countryside. This marriage was the end result.

  And now I am expecting a babe of my own. She sat with the contentment of that filling her heart. She and Linton chatted a while over cakes and tea-things, and then Linton rose to go. She still tired quickly after the birth, it seemed.

  “And that wretched man will need his supper,” she said with a wry grin. “Lawyers seem to work up a worse appetite than dray-ponies.”

  They both laughed as she headed off into the evening sunshine.

  Later, as Cornelia sat upstairs in the drawing-room, the sun warming her and shining brightly off the polished wood table, she heard footsteps in the corridor. Francis arrived.

  “My lady.” He bent and dropped a kiss on her cheek, than sat down heavily on the couch opposite. “How do you fare?”

  “Well, thank you, Francis,” she said, reaching for his hand. They sat together, fingers warm and linked, as he poured tea and helped himself to the remainder of the Madeira loaf.

  “It is good to come home and see you, my dearest.”

  “It is good to see you, when you arrive.”

  They both laughed. Their love was so big, so vast and all-encompassing, that putting it into words sometimes seemed silly. And yet they loved to do so. It was a constant joy.