Once Upon a Dreamy Match: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Bridget Barton

  Daphne wished Prudence didn’t remove the tea; she had nothing to busy her hands with.

  “We have known the Gildons for many years, and I have always held the deepest respect for the Lady of Hedingham. To think that she would show interest in a merchant like me – albeit with coins in her eyes – is a miracle. Daphne, my darling, I think she is the one.”

  Ah, there he was. The same silly old man she had always known, swept up again in his new and shiny idea. With a heaving sigh, she rolled her eyes to the heavens. Her father was only in love with the idea of having an esteemed Lady on his arm, and she was certainly not in love with anything about her father beyond what he had in his pockets.

  No judgement on the part of Lady Vivian: her intentions were clear. But as for her father? She could already seem him growing sombre and restless again. Once the excitement of this new attention wore off, he would go right back to being miserable and wasting away in his room.

  But she would not be here to see it. She would not watch her father grow older and sadder, and she would not watch her closest friend, and the man she loved, succumb to the vanity of Winnifred Parker. If she stayed, she would only be preparing herself for the inevitable pain both of those events would bring. Furthermore, she would have no husband of her own to go to for comfort – for who could possibly understand her heart now?

  “You know what, father? I think the West Indies might be a good place to begin anew after all.” With that, she bid him farewell and left to pen a letter in her chambers. As she passed down the hall at the top of the stairs, she gazed at the bedroom door to her mother’s old room. It was now devoid of anything meaningful to her, since Roberta was still in possession of her mother’s prized jewels. She would not have any pieces to take with her abroad. It would truly be a new beginning.

  Closing the door of her room behind her, she crossed to her desk and retrieved her pad and pen. She wrote unconsciously as the words flowed effortlessly from her fingertips. They were words that had been waiting to be said for a long time. She did not cry as she wrote, endeavouring to keep the gates surrounding her heart locked up tight. What good would crying do now, except to pull her away from the decision that was ultimately the best option for her? There would be no more tears, for this was the right thing to do.

  Dear Benedict,

  My heart is heavy in my chest as I write this letter, but it knows that what I am doing is right. The decision I have come to has not been without extensive consideration, for with each passing moment and each catastrophic event, I believe the path that I am walking to be the best one for everyone.

  I am writing this letter to inform you that I have made the decision to leave England. At my father’s suggestion and with his support, I am immigrating to the West Indies to begin a new life. With all that has happened of late, I have come to the realisation that there is no longer any reason for me to stay here.

  I will not acquire a husband with the reputation my father has built upon the back of my family name, and any word surrounding me will be spoken in judgemental tones at the bequest of my father’s actions. I hope that you can understand this decision, and that you will also be supportive of my future endeavours as an independent woman.

  Secondly, I need to apologise. I know that it is cold for me end things in this way, but I fear that if I were to see you, I would be pushed from this path. I cannot allow that to happen, for this is the way things must be. So for that, and for the coldness you may feel towards me as a result, I apologise most sincerely.

  And finally, I want to thank you. Thank you for your endless patience, your warm comfort, and your eternal kindness. You have been my best friend in the world for so long and I am indebted to your heart for this. It seems I am always thanking you, but this is only because you have given me so much to be thankful for.

  I wish you all the happiness in the world. Even though I will not be here to witness it, I know that you will be the greatest Lord of Hedingham that Essex has ever and will ever have the honour of knowing. However you choose to live your life from this moment forward, you will do so boldly and with dignity. These, and so many others, are the qualities I have long respected in you. I hope that one day, you can forgive me. You will always have my friendship.

  Goodbye, Benedict, and once more, thank you.

  Yours, with love for evermore,

  Daphne.

  Chapter 13

  At The Gildon’s London Home

  As Benedict read the letter for the second time, he cursed himself. How could he have been so foolish? He thought he knew Daphne better than this, but he could not have been more wrong! His plan had well and truly backfired, so much so that his companion had concluded that nothing else was to be done but flee from London, then Essex, and then from England itself. The shock of it all filled his body an immense and overwhelming heaviness. This was guilt in its purest form.

  Daphne had been misled: he had misled her. His very attempt to have her open herself up to him and to bring them closer together had driven her away from him to the furthest possible reaches of the earth. There was only one conclusion that he could come to: she believed his dalliances to Lady Winnifred to be genuine. They had not been! Benedict had only entangled himself with another woman to draw Daphne to him. Jealousy was not a favourable motive for admitting one’s feelings, but it was certainly a potent one.

  He left at once, jumping from his desk and hurrying down the stairs. He was to be alone in the house, for soon enough his mother would be leaving to meet Walter in Essex, where he had learned that Daphne had returned to the night before. He should have followed her immediately; he had felt at his core that something was invariably wrong.

  Benedict called for a carriage immediately. What followed was among the longest of waits in his life, and yet in reality it was less than an hour. As soon as the horses pulled up, he clambered aboard.

  “Where to, sir?”

  “To the Parker residence, and make haste, driver.”

  The journey between the two London homes was mercifully short, so much so that Benedict did not even have the time to fully rehearse the speech he had been planning since the unofficial dinner party. He alighted the carriage and ascended the steps to the Parker’s mansion: a double-columned estate as large as his own. But where the Gildon’s London residence was constructed of warm brick with brown accents, the Parker’s was lighter and whiter, so clean in the middle of the city that it looked artificial. When he knocked on the door, he half-expected it to be hollow, or to fall away entirely as if made of paper.

  The Parker’s butler was a tall fellow and spindly as a spider. He looked ancient, and Benedict almost felt sorry for the man. He was likely close to his mother’s age, but years with the likes of Winnifred Parker had probably worn this man down.

  “Lord Gildon, is it?” the butler intoned. “What business have you with the Lady Parker?”

  Benedict hid his unease. “I wish to speak with her regarding the matter of our courtship.”

  The exhausted butler bowed, opening the door and allowing Benedict to take a humbling step into the gaping foyer. The floor was white marble, the walls were cream paper, and everywhere were accents of gold and red: the flowers by the entrance, the rails of the staircase, the decorative vases and statues and paintings.

  Everywhere white, gold and red. Even Winnifred, who was trailing down staircase as he entered, was a vision of the colour scheme: her gleaming hair looked practically polished and her red gown offset the whiteness of skin. She looked almost gothic, but was working to disguise herself as a ray of sunshine.

  This time, Benedict saw straight through it. But before he had a chance to greet her, she cut in.

  “Whilst I am appreciative that you have troubled yourself to come all this way, Benedict, I fear that it may have been for nothing.” She lingered a few stairs from the floor, giving herself the high ground.

  Benedict straightened. “Is that so?”

  “It is.”

  “Please, go
on,” he said. “Speak whatever it is you are clearly so eager to share.”

  She smiled wickedly. “This innocent flirtation has gotten out of hand. I never had any intention of marrying a country Lord. Do you really think that I would waste away out of sight? Me: a prize for all eyes? I am afraid I have played you for a fool.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You are projecting; I hardly feel a fool, dear Winnifred. How can I be, when clearly we had the same intention?”

  “Is that so?” she said, mirroring his earlier words. She was still smiling, her teeth stark against her red lips. “No, please, let me guess. You were eyeing the farmer girl, weren’t you? Oh, what was her name? Dorothy? Della? Delilah? Hmm, no; that last one is far too pretty for a face like hers.” Finally, she permitted herself to the lower ground. She stood before Benedict, a rose more thorn than petal. “I must admit, I did think her your sister. Your affections toward her seemed rather…brotherly.”

  Benedict narrowed his eyes at her. “It is as I told you that night: she is of far greater importance to me than someone like you could ever be.”

  “Though I believe you called her a hick when you told me that.” She examined her nails for a moment. “Your words and reasons make no difference to me, Benedict. What does matter is my pride, and you have wounded it.”

  “Have I now?”

  She turned on him then, her lips brought forward into a pout. She slanted her brow and gazed at him with wide blue eyes. Her voice rose a few octaves as she said, “You misled me, Lord Gildon. You and your mother.” She dropped the act just as quickly as she had taken it up. Her manner was beginning to unnerve him.

  “It was a good show, I will give you credit for that. Your mother is a very impressive woman: measured, modern, urbane even. The fact that you hold two residences, one in London and the other down those dirt roads is irrefutably impressive. When I heard of your coming to the city, I just knew I had to meet the famous Gildons. Wish granted, I suppose.” She sighed. “You were pleasant company. Though this has not turned out the way I had hoped, I do not regret making your acquaintance. If nothing else, you are a wonderful dancer. It’s just a shame that at heart, you are also a country hick.”

  “A rich country hick,” Benedict corrected. “One that you thought you could wrap around your little finger.”

  “And I did,” Winnifred said with a laugh. “I did for a while.”

  “No, Winnifred. You didn’t.” He smiled at her without warmth. “Not even for a moment.”

  She exhaled sharply through her nose. “This courtship is over. You may leave.”

  “Thank you, Winnifred. I truly hope that someone day, you will deem someone worthy of possessing you.”

  She twitched – a chink in her armour? It must be her honest wish as well. She had the curse of the nobility: her standards were so high that they were impossible to meet. Roberta was burdened with the same curse. Daphne was right after all.

  “I wish you all the best, Lord Gildon.” She left him in the foyer without another word.

  He let her go; he had nothing left to say to her. They really did have the same intentions, for he had only come here to finish the conversation that she had started the other night. It was of little consequence to know that Winnifred did not regret their meeting – Benedict himself was entirely indifferent to her. Resigned that he would never set foot into this house again, he departed through the same door from whence he came and back into the daylight, which was now beating down on the London street with some newfound urgency.

  He had turned down the most eligible – and wealthy – woman in London. If his mother had borne witness to any of the conversations that had unfolded between himself and Lady Winnifred Parker of late, she would likely have died on sight. In fact, any individual with a shred of so-called respectability would have been mortified by their exchange. But he was not, and how could he be when his feelings were so clear to him now? He climbed back into the carriage.

  “Where to now, Lord Benedict?” the driver asked.

  “Back to the house,” Benedict said. “But do not put the horses away; wait for me outside, for I will only be packing some things and then we will be setting off again.”

  As the driver spurred them forward, he called down to Benedict again, “Do you have another engagement, sir?”

  “I do,” was Benedict’s reply. "I have one final stop to make before we go home.”

  It was finally time to do the right thing. If there was ever going to be a moment to put himself out the line and be completely and utterly honest with himself, now was that time. Daphne’s letter was to be the final nail in his coffin, and if he did not right the wrongs he had committed now, he would never again have the opportunity to. The thought of her leaving him, of them never again seeing each other, talking together, enjoying things together, filled his heart with such an incredible sadness. It permeated his entire body, filling every organ with dread. It was not acceptable; he would never accept it.

  I love her.

  How long had he known this? As he felt right at that moment, the realisation was barely a realisation at all. It was less of a grand epiphany and more of a resolution. The thought struck him with force and clarity. All the things around him, all the happenings, actions, conversations, emotions, all of it made perfect sense. Of course he loved her, for how could he not? He knew her better than anyone, just as she knew him right down to his soul. She was of his heart and his home, friends with him not because of the benefits his connection could bring her, but with the purest of intentions: she liked him, and she wanted to be his friend.

  Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved her letter from where he had stowed it for safe keeping. He unfurled it and read through it once again, lingering on each word, hearing it aloud in his head as if read in her own, sweet voice.

  You have been my best friend in the world for so long and I am indebted to your heart for this. It seems I am always thanking you, but this is only because you have given me so much to be thankful for.

  “And you, me,” he whispered to himself. “I am so thankful for you.”

  She had listed the things she liked about him: endless patience, warm comfort, and eternal kindness. How strange it was to realise that, in his own heart of hearts, these were the things he loved about her as well. She was compassionate, selfless, understanding. She was beautiful not just on the surface, but deep beneath it as well.

  “I love her.” He said it with such blatancy, with such acceptance, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. And it was; it always had been.

  He had to tell her.

  It took only moments to inform the staff that they were to immediately begin packing and preparations for the return journey to Essex.

  “Her Ladyship was not expecting to leave until the evening, Lord Gildon,” one maid said.

  “Well, my plans have changed. My mother has the choice of retuning to Essex with me, tonight, or if she wishes to stay on in London, she will have to delay her meeting with Walter Blanton.” He gave the maid a look and then added, much more quietly, “Please see to it that she makes the right decision.”

  The maid met his eye and nodded. She offered him a courteous dip before leaving to arrange for Lord Gildon’s effects to be packed ready for transportation at once. He had to hurry, for Daphne did not specify in her letter when she would be leaving. Knowing her heart as he did, he could only assume that she would not wait; once Miss Blanton made a decision, it was acted upon – so scared she was of indecisiveness. Benedict smiled to himself. Yes, he knew Daphne. Her ambition was unbridled.

  His only hope was that he caught up to her before she could set off down the path of no return.

  Just then, Lady Vivian came hollering down the staircase.

  “What is the meaning of all this? Benedict?”

  “I am commandeering the carriage, mother,” he replied, walking around the corner to meet her. “And unfortunately, between myself, my belongings, and the guest I am hoping to take back to E
ssex with me, I fear there won’t be any room for you.”