Yuletide Happily Ever After II: An Original Regency Romance Collection

by Anna Bradley

  “No, Mamma. We have only spoken briefly and about the lightest of subjects.” The young lady knitted her brows. “Do you truly know no one of her acquaintance? Who introduced you?”

  Nick and Daventry stared at one another, and together said, “Marksby.”

  “The fifth Earl of Marksby?” Lady Kenniston nodded. “Yes, I’m certain he would know. He always knows everything about everyone.” She pursed her lips. “A trait not always as welcome as it is in this instance.”

  “Do you know where he may be?” Nick grabbed his friend’s arm, ready to forcibly move him if necessary.

  Fishing out his pocket watch, Daventry turned to the ladies. “Lady Kenniston, Lady Sylvia, I am truly sorry our outing did not go as we planned. Do you attend the Fancy Ball this evening?”

  Shooting her mother a searing look, Lady Sylvia spoke up quickly. “We do.”

  “Then if you will grant me the first and the supper dance, I would consider myself the most fortunate of men.”

  “Yes, of course you may have them, my lord,” Lady Sylvia answered quickly and smiled sheepishly at Nick.

  “Daventry!” Nick had lost all patience with his friend.

  “Yes, yes, Benberry.” Daventry could as well have physically waved his hand at him. His gaze remained fixed firmly on Lady Sylvia. “Thank you so much, my lady.”

  That dismissal in addition to his friend’s irritated tone infuriated Nick. He must find Marksby as soon as possible. “But—”

  “It is only a quarter of four, Benberry. Marksby won’t be at the club for another two hours at the least.” Daventry leaned so close to Lady Sylvia he might actually overbalance.

  “Then by all means let us go to his residence.” He snagged Daventry’s arm.

  “Come, Sylvia.” Lady Kenniston grasped her daughter’s arm, pulling her back from such proximity to Daventry. “If we are to be ready for the Fancy Ball this evening, we should leave now. We must inform Chumleigh.”

  Daventry reared back and shook off Nick’s hand. “Your son is in town?”

  “Yes, he arrived last evening. The earl has had to return to our primary estate on business, so Chumleigh was summoned to act as our escort in his absence.” Lady Kenniston raised an eyebrow and peered at him. “You are acquainted with Chumleigh?”

  “From university, yes.”

  “Well, then, we shall have quite a party of friends at the ball, shan’t we?” Smiling, Lady Kenniston gently pulled Lady Sylvia along. “Tonight, then, my lord.”

  Lady Sylvia waved to them then turned around to walk properly with her mother.

  “Bollocks.” Daventry stomped off in the opposite direction.

  “Where are you going?” Nick stared at his friend, amused at last. Now the shoe was on the other foot in the matter of young ladies, so to speak. “That’s not the way to your house, nor the club.”

  His friend stopped then stomped back to him. “If Chumleigh has anything to do with it, I won’t even be able to speak to Lady Sylvia, much less dance with her.”

  “He’s that petty?”

  “He’s that set on revenge.”

  “Ah, do tell.” Nick fell in beside Daventry as they headed, hopefully, for the club.

  “It’s a long story that I won’t bore you with at the moment, but suffice it to say that Chumleigh has enough ill will against me that I may as well give up all hope of the lady as long as he’s acting guard dog.”

  Daventry’s glum visage made Nick repent his ill will toward his friend. “Anything I can do?”

  “I doubt it, unless you want to kidnap or kill Chumleigh.” The idea brightened Daventry’s face.

  “I will pass on both. Perhaps, though, I can distract him tonight so you can dance with his sister.” That kind of assistance Nick would be happy to provide.

  Daventry’s brows rose sharply. “I didn’t think you’d be coming to the ball.”

  Nick shrugged and clasped his hands behind his back. “I cannot call on Miss Willingham until tomorrow. So I’d best stay out of trouble by keeping you out of it as well.”

  “Much obliged. Let’s return to my digs to prepare for the evening then pop around to the club until it’s time to leave for the Assembly Rooms. We’ll find Marksby there and your problem will be solved.” The good humor had returned to Daventry’s tone.

  “Splendid suggestion.” Nick knew precisely how to fill the time before they left for the club. He needed to take care of one more bit of business before he could declare himself fully to Miss Willingham.

  * * * *

  My dear Pence,

  I promise this will be the final missive you receive from me.

  Today I performed the service I swore to you I was capable of, and in so doing, I find I have lost my heart.

  I’ve been seeking an introduction to you because, based upon our correspondence, I was of the mind that we might find each other’s company enjoyable, which could naturally lead to an association of a deeper sort. Now, however, I must confess that I am bound by duty and devotion to another lady. She is the damsel in distress to whom I gave my service today and, it seems, my heart as well.

  Because you have found my character wanting, I wish you not to think ill of me, even as I am a stranger to you. I wish you to know that today I risked life and limb to save a young lady who’d fallen on the ice of the canal in Sydney Park. I had known the lady only a short while, but as I assisted her back to her chair, it became clear to me that I wished to continue to know her, as a dear and constant companion, for as long as we both shall live.

  To that end, dear Pence, I will do as you asked and discontinue our correspondence. I wish for you all the best that life can give you. Should we ever discover one another, I will hope you remember this letter and not the others, for this truly is the measure of my character.

  Your humble servant,

  Nicholas, Lord Benberry

  Signing his name somehow felt right this time. The last time. He quickly penned the appropriate addresses, sealed the letter with a wafer and his signet ring, and took it directly to Clarke for the afternoon post.

  Now to dragoon Daventry into leaving early for his club. The sooner he learned Portia’s address, the sooner he could begin his suit in earnest. As this final business with the unknown Pence had been laid to rest, he could concentrate wholeheartedly on making Miss Willingham his own, for all time.

  CHAPTER 11

  Disgruntled, vexed, and completely put out, Nicholas sat to breakfast with Daventry the next morning, his mood as murky as his coffee. “Well then, where the devil do you think Marksby has gone?”

  “For the one hundredth time, all I know is that he wasn’t at the club or at the Assembly Rooms last evening.” His friend, buoyant after his triumph the night before, forked a bit of egg into his mouth and followed it by a bite of toast, lavishly spread with butter and gooseberry jam. “We will try again after breakfast. I have Marksby’s address now, so we will start there. But he may have been called away or gone to relations for the holidays. He might even be dead for all I know.” Daventry paused, waving a kipper at the end of his fork. “No, probably not. I’m sure we would’ve heard about it if he’d died.”

  “For a good friend, you are cold comfort this morning,” Nick grumbled and sipped more coffee, completely disgusted with the latest turn of events. If they couldn’t run Marksby to ground, he’d start walking the streets, asking every person he passed if they knew Mrs. Peterson and where she lived. He’d be the talk of the town by afternoon for sure.

  “Rest easy. We will find your Miss Willingham. In fact, I’ll send a footman this instant to see if he can find out where Mrs. Peterson lives.” Daventry sipped his tea and smiled broadly at Nick. “We may not have to stir a step if George can do the running for us.” He rang the bell and two footmen appeared. “George, I require you.”

  The taller of the two servants stepped forward. “How may I be of service, my lord?”

  “We are seeking information about the residence of an older lady
, an acquaintance of ours named Mrs. Peterson.” His friend glanced at Nick. “Do you recall her given name?”

  Nick cast his mind back to that meeting in the grocer’s shop on Monday. “I don’t think Marksby gave it.”

  “I don’t either. So Mrs. Peterson, George. An older lady with a companion or charge, a Miss Willingham.” Daventry bit into a blueberry muffin and chewed with gusto.

  “Wait a moment.” Holding up his finger, Nick concentrated. It was right on the tip of his brain. “Phoebe. Yesterday, Port—Miss Willingham called to the woman after the accident. Called her Aunt Phoebe.”

  “Ah, excellent, Benberry. Phoebe it is, George. Mrs. Phoebe Peterson.” The earl paused a moment, chewing reflexively. “You should begin your inquiries with Mr. Henderson at the grocers on Great Pulteney Street. The shop on the bridge. He seemed to know the lady rather well. Perhaps he’s made deliveries to her home.”

  “Very good, my lord.” George bowed and rushed out.

  “Now we need not hurry our breakfast.” Daventry leaned back in his chair and consumed the last crumb of his muffin. “The luxury of having a running footman is that one then needn’t do the running oneself. We may sit back and sip our tea or coffee and speak about the more pleasant things in life—such as the splendid time we enjoyed last evening.”

  “That you enjoyed, you should say.” The evening was quite a sore spot with Nick, who’d resented every minute not spent finding Portia’s address. “I had the very devil of a time keeping Lord Chumleigh from catching you dancing with Lady Sylvia. I had to manage to lose consistently to him at the card tables, which wasn’t easy, mind you. The man’s got no head for gambling at all.”

  “Well, I am in your debt, I grant you.” Daventry’s eyes lit up. “Dancing with Lady Sylvia was the greatest joy you could imagine.”

  “Akin to the joy I experienced when dancing and skating with Miss Willingham, I am certain.” Nick closed his eyes to again remember the vibrant feeling of Portia in his arms on the dance floor and, even more singularly, as he’d carried her to the chair. Her frame might be slight, but there were certainly warm, wonderful curves that had pressed into his chest, making his blood rage with the wanting of her even now. “Can we not simply call on Lord Marksby? It is past ten o’clock.”

  “George will return shortly. If Henderson doesn’t have an address, we shall repair to Lord Marksby’s.” Shaking his head, his friend laughed. “We are certainly a pair of turtle doves in love this Christmas, eh, Benberry? Have to catch our ladies under the mistletoe at some point. Do you think Miss Willingham’s aunt will put up a fuss if you do? You all but proposed yesterday, but I suppose you do still need to make it official.”

  “I had no idea that Mrs. Peterson was her aunt until yesterday.” Nick set his cup down and rubbed his finger along the edge of the table. “I always thought she was simply a chaperone or sponsor for her during the Season here. That’s the second young lady I’ve heard of staying with her aunt.”

  “Who’s the first?” Daventry gave his coffee another stir.

  “You don’t want to know.”

  His friend’s dark brows went up. “I don’t?”

  “The one of whom you don’t approve. My anonymous lady correspondent. Quite a little firebrand, although charming just the same.”

  “Didn’t you call her by some outlandish name?” His friend picked up his coffee.

  “Pence. A nickname, I think she said, between her and her uncle.”

  “Hmm.” Daventry put the cup down untasted. “If I were a man who believed in coincidence, I’d say it was more than mere happenstance that you’ve been interested in two young ladies who are both staying with their aunts and whose first names begin with the letter P.”

  “Well, I don’t know for certain that Pence’s real name begins with a P. She would never tell me, of course.” Even as he spoke the words, Nick assessed the odds of such a coincidence occurring. He’d put money on much chancier wagers.

  The hairs on the nape of his neck prickled. It couldn’t be true, could it?

  Thudding footsteps sounded outside the door to the breakfast room. They stopped abruptly then the door opened and George, red-faced and winded, stepped inside. “My lord.” He bowed and came forward, still breathing heavily. “I am happy…to report that Mr. Henderson did…indeed…have the address for Mrs. Peterson’s residence.”

  “Splendid, George.” Daventry nodded and beamed at Nick. “What is it?”

  Showing only outward calm, Nick managed a nod as well, although his stomach was roiling, his heart beating like the strikes of a smithy’s hammer.

  “One hundred and thirty-seven—”

  “Henrietta Place.” Nick finished, not sure whether to laugh or curse.

  Daventry stared at him. “Is it really?”

  Nick nodded. “Pence.”

  * * * *

  “Are you sure you feel up to helping me?” Aunt Phoebe pushed a Lady Apple onto a nail sticking out of the mistletoe bough, placed just for that purpose.

  “I am perfectly fine.” Portia polished another apple and handed it to her aunt. Mr. Henderson had delivered the fruit yesterday, but with all the excitement in the afternoon, this morning had been the first chance they’d had to complete the decorations. “I told you I only had the breath knocked out of me. Wretched feeling. It happened once before when I was a child. You are simply paralyzed, because you cannot breathe. And then the air comes back with a whoosh and you feel an absolute cake, but there’s nothing you can do.”

  “I should think being helped so kindly by Lord Benberry would make one feel less foolish.” Her aunt cast a sly glance at her and Portia’s face heated.

  Lord, what a display they must’ve made. Portia turned away to grab another apple. Thank goodness she’d hidden her face in Lord Benberry’s chest… The memory of his arms around her, pressing her body so intimately against his, rushed back. Oh, dear. Now she must be red from top to toe. “It has gotten rather warm in here, has it not?”

  Her aunt laughed, a rueful pucker to her lips. “If you think so now, wait until Lord Benberry calls this afternoon. I suspect things will become a veritable glass house of warmth.”

  “Aunt Phoebe, really.” Portia busied herself with winding more greenery around the apples but chanced a glance at her aunt. The woman hadn’t moved. She stared at Portia, a knowing smile replacing her earlier moue.

  “He is a very eligible gentleman, my dear. And with such lovely manners and definitely a touch of the hero about him. His face went absolutely pallid when you fell. I truly thought he would make some kind of dreadful scene right there on the ice.” She turned back and plunged another Lady Apple onto a nail. “You could do much worse.”

  “I know I could.” With anyone else save Devil, who was really Lord Daventry…who had certainly missed his chance to do someone a service yesterday. To do her one, in fact. Perhaps he’d been too distracted by Lady Sylvia having caused the accident. In any case, even if he had finally performed his service and wrote to her about it, it wouldn’t change her feelings for Lord Benberry. Nicholas. Ohhh, just thinking the name sent a shiver down her spine. Why couldn’t Nicholas be—

  Sally opened the door and curtsied. “Lord Benberry, ma’am.”

  And then he was there, standing before her, looking more handsome and dashing than any gentleman she’d ever known.

  “Mrs. Peterson, delighted to see you again.” He bowed to her aunt, although his gaze remained stubbornly on Portia, almost as though he were looking into her soul. “And Miss Willingham. I’d come to inquire about your health, but I can see for myself that you’re in fine fettle. No ill effects from yesterday’s little adventure?”

  “My lord.” Portia curtsied. “How kind of you to call. I’m quite well indeed.” She twirled around before him, determined to prove herself sound, and became lightheaded instead. “Oh, dear.” She put out a hand to steady herself, and Lord Benberry took it. Nicholas. “I truly am perfectly fine.”

  “Why do I
not believe you, my dear?” His eyes twinkled and he whispered, “Unless you are hoping for a repeat of my gallant rescue yesterday?”

  Portia gasped at his boldness. Her face must be flaming like a cook fire. “Lord Benberry.”

  “Nicholas, please.”

  This was happening so terribly fast. “I don’t know—”

  The door opened again, and Sally entered and dropped a curtsey. “Beg your pardon, Miss Willingham, but a letter’s just arrived for you in the morning post.”

  Portia stared at the letter in the maid’s hand. Devil. Of course he would send to her at just the wrong moment. She would put it in the fireplace and be done with it. “Thank you, Sally. Please put it in my room. I’ll read it later.”

  “Is it from your uncle again?” Aunt Phoebe’s eyes were bright. Dear lord, did she suspect something? “He is such an attentive relation. Such a shame he could not attend you here in Bath.”

  “Yes, well, Denys can be fickle as well. I might wager he will not write to me again after today.” Not when he received no reply at all. No one could make her read the letter, after all.

  “Miss Willingham, do not let me stop you from a family letter.” Lord Benberry smiled at her, a certain pucker of amusement around his lips. “Please read it, by all means.”

  Portia narrowed her gaze at him. Had Daventry told his friend something about the letters? But he didn’t know they were from her. Or did he? She peered suspiciously at Lord Benberry, but he’d assumed an air of innocence.

  “Please. I do not mind waiting.”

  Drat. There was simply no way out of it without drawing even more attention to the bedeviled thing. “Very well. Excuse me.”

  She withdrew to the settee in front of the fireplace and prized up the seal. With a glance at Lord Benberry, who smiled and nodded, she unfolded the sheet and began to read.