by Joyce Alec
“The gardens are small and rather unattended, but they might suffice,” she suggested, nearing him and turning her back entirely on her father. “The day is fine, is it not?”
“It is brighter now that I have seen you again,” he replied gently, bringing a blush to Emily’s cheeks. “The gardens would be wonderful, I am sure.”
“Then it is this way,” Emily said, accepting the offer of his arm and walking out with Lord Wickton from the drawing room, leaving her stunned and confused father behind.
“You cannot know just how much I longed to see your face again.”
The gardens were small and yet seemed to fill with fragrance as Emily looked up into Lord Wickton’s face.
“Was it truly terrible?” she asked solemnly, allowing his words to warm her heart but still feeling the pain of what he must have endured. “Did you suffer?”
Lord Wickton’s jaw worked for a moment. “It was difficult,” he admitted, dropping his gaze to the path ahead of them. “I struggled somewhat; I will confess it.” Looking back at her, he gave her a small, tight smile. “All I wanted was to find you, to tell you the truth of Lord Davenport’s character, but as the days passed, I feared that I would be much too late.” He paused and shook his head, a sigh escaping him. “The depths of pain I felt upon hearing that you were engaged were more than I can ever express.”
“Lord Davenport manipulated me into our supposed engagement,” Emily replied bitterly. “I was not strong enough to refuse him, for he had suggested that the dead man pulled from the Thames might have been you.” She looked up at him again, her breath catching at the painful memory. “In my weakness and trouble, he took advantage and made out as though I had already accepted him when, in truth, he had never once asked me for my hand.”
“A trickster indeed,” Lord Wickton said harshly, reaching across to pat her hand where it rested on his arm. “But not one that you need to fear any longer, Emily.” His voice grew quieter, his expression softening. “You need not even consider him again.”
She nodded, her heart opening towards Lord Wickton all the more. “I will not consider him,” she agreed. “I shall consider only what is in front of my eyes.” She felt her heart begin to race at her boldness, her mouth opening slightly as he turned to face her, stopping their slow steps completely. Her anticipation mounted steadily as Lord Wickton’s gaze grew tender, his hand lifting to brush lightly along her cheek.
His touch seared her, sending heat reverberating through her as her breath hitched.
“You have not changed your mind, I hope?” he asked, his voice low and quiet as his eyes searched her own. “You have not reconsidered my offer and found it unfavorable?”
She could not help but laugh softly, shaking her head as she looked up into his face. “No, indeed, I have not,” she replied, finding his hand and holding it tightly in her own. “I will confess to you, Wickton, that the thought of being your wife, of being your bride, is one that brings me such joy that I do not feel as though I can contain it!”
This answer appeared to bring him a good deal of relief, for he nodded, smiled, and let out a long breath, his shoulders dropping just a little.
“I am glad,” he replied gently, his other hand finding hers so they stood together, facing each other, their hands joined. “I know that there was a good deal of emotion last evening and I feared that…” Trailing off, he shook his head, his eyes darting away as his lips drew into a rueful smile. “I thought that you might have responded simply due to the weightiness of your decision to end your engagement to Lord Davenport.”
Emily pressed his hands tightly, knowing that she had to speak the truth. “I have had a love for you for some time, Wickton,” she admitted, feeling heat crawl into her face but refusing to allow it to overcome her. “I have watched you from afar. I have hoped and longed and waited and dreamed, but nothing ever came to fruition.” She shrugged, seeing his expression grow concerned. “It was, I thought, nothing more than a foolish dream which I had to give up. Except, I discovered that I could not let you go free from my heart.”
Lord Wickton let out a long breath, his eyes closing for a moment. Emily did not know what to think—was he shocked by her expression of love?
“I have known you for some time, have I not?” Lord Wickton’s eyes opened again, his expression a little heavy.
“You have,” Emily agreed, remembering the first time she had been acquainted with Lord Wickton. It had been thanks to her friendship with Charlotte that she had found herself introduced to him, but the moment she had laid eyes on him, she had felt her heart burst with a fierce affection that still lingered to this day.
“And in all that time, I never allowed myself to look into my heart and see what burned there for you,” Lord Wickton continued, dropping her hand but only so that he might place his hand around her waist, drawing her a little closer. His eyes were fixed on hers, as tumultuous as the sea. “It was only when I was pulled away from you, when I could not reach you, that I realized the truth of what I felt.” Closing his eyes, he drew in a long breath. “I love you dearly, Emily.”
Her breath caught, her eyes flared, and her hands wrapped around his neck before she could prevent them from doing so. Her eyes filled with joyful tears as he pulled her closer, his smile pushing away the regret and the pain of the past.
“You must know just how much I love you,” she whispered, feeling a tear dash onto her cheek. “It has been with me almost every day since we first met. My heart has filled with none but you. Even though I tried to forget you, tried to convince myself that I did not care for you as deeply as I thought, my heart refused to believe it. I love you, Wickton, with such a fierceness that it shall never let me go. It shall only burn more steadily with every passing day, for now that I am in your arms, I can let it free.”
He smiled at her then, reaching up to brush away her tears before pulling her close again. “Then let it free now, Emily,” he whispered, his head lowering as he bent his head to kiss her and, in doing so, brought her every dream, her every hope and wish, into a full and wonderful completion.
An Earl’s Love
Secrets of London
An Earl’s Love
Text Copyright © 2018 by Joyce Alec
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
First printing, 2018
Publisher
Love Light Faith, LLC
400 NW 7th Avenue, Unit 825
Fort Lauderdale, FL 33311
1
England 1815
Miss Sarah Weston hummed to herself, as she sat on the wooden bench in the corner of the garden. Spring had already made its way into the garden, and the sight of the new buds, as well as the snowdrops and bluebells, made Sarah’s heart sing. It was a sight she was quite familiar with, having seen it every year for well over a decade, but still, it brought her a great deal of delight.
“Is that you, Sarah?”
Glancing up from where she sat, Sarah saw Mr. Stanton approach her. He was impeccably dressed, as always, with his greying hair a little wispy around his head. His small spectacles were balanced on his nose, surrounded by an overly large, bushy beard that was becoming more and more streaked with white. Sarah knew his dark brown eyes would be as sharp as ever, having not grown dim with age. Getting to her feet, she kept her hands in her lap and waited, wondering what her guardian wanted.
“Ah, Sarah,” Mr. Stanton puffed, having apparently rushed across the gardens towards her. “Mrs. Stanton requires your help. Something about tonight’s table setting.”
“Oh. Of course.”
&
nbsp; Sarah would not let her disappointment show, as she followed Mr. Stanton back into the house, knowing that she ought not to have let her hopes flare as they had done. There would be no come out for her, not this year—even though she was past due her time. Both Mr. and Mrs. Stanton had mentioned it on occasion, but it seemed nothing was to come of it. Not this year anyway. Perhaps next year.
But by then you will be older, said a small voice inside her. Perhaps getting a little too old.
Biting her lip, Sarah chased away her worrying thoughts with a will, knowing that she had to focus on whatever Mrs. Stanton wanted her help with. She had been well trained by Mrs. Stanton to know exactly what was expected of her on any given occasion. This evening, there was to be a dinner with a few guests from around the village, and Sarah was looking forward to it. It was always enjoyable to have a few extra people to talk with, since Mr. and Mrs. Stanton were, on the whole, a rather silent couple. It would make a change from her usual evenings sitting in front of the fire with a book, attempting to read by candlelight until she became too tired to do so.
“Here she is,” her guardian commented, as Sarah walked into the house to see Mrs. Stanton all in a flap as she paced up and down the small dining room, her dark brown hair—with only the occasional grey—flying out from underneath her cap. “Have no fear, Mrs. Stanton. Our Sarah will aid you.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Stanton exclaimed at once, catching Sarah’s hand as her light green eyes darted from one table setting to the other. “Oh, Sarah, you simply must help me. We have too many gentlemen.”
Closing her eyes for a moment, Sarah set her shoulders, drew in a long breath, and tried her best to focus on the so-called problem at hand.
“Too many gentlemen, Mrs. Stanton?” she repeated, taking in the older woman’s worried expression. “What do you mean?”
Mrs. Stanton continued to explain in great detail how she could not have the usual seating plan—with one lady seated next to one gentleman, going all the way around the table—due to the fact that Mrs. Churston, who was Mrs. Stanton’s particular friend, had sent a note to say she could not attend since she had been overcome with a particularly nasty cold. That meant that Mrs. Stanton now had an extra gentleman, so who was she meant to sit together? Two gentlemen sitting next to one another was not what was expected, and so Mrs. Stanton had managed to get herself into something of a state over the matter.
Sarah sighed inwardly and began to discuss each of the guests, reassuring Mrs. Stanton that they would be able to find a gentleman who would be more than willing to sit wherever they were placed with whomever they were placed. She then made the suggestion that the extra gentleman be seated near the head of the table by Mr. Stanton, which would make it a little less obvious, and within half an hour, the matter had been settled—and Mrs. Stanton was more than a little relieved.
Sarah, who now had no opportunity to return to the garden, was then sent to her room to prepare for this evening’s festivities, finding that Mrs. Stanton had ordered her a bath. A slight frown flickered across her brow, as she recalled the gentlemen guests who had been invited, wondering to herself whether or not Mrs. Stanton had any particular gentleman in mind for her. She hoped not, quite certain that she would not care for any of the men that were recommended to her by Mrs. Stanton.
It was not that Mrs. Stanton was not kind, for in the fifteen years Sarah had lived in this house, she had found both Mr. and Mrs. Stanton to be caring and considerate of her, especially since she was neither their daughter nor their niece. In fact, she was no relation at all, as far as she understood. Nothing had ever really been said about why she had been sent to this house at the tender age of four years old, and she had never been able to ask. There was a blanket of silence that fell on her guardians whenever she brought up the matter, which was more than a little frustrating. Over the years, she had asked numerous times about her heritage, her parents, and her family, but her guardians had not answered a single one of her questions. On one occasion, Mr. Stanton had lost his temper and told her not to ask another thing, that it was for her own good that she did not know who she truly was.
That had seemed such a strange sentiment at the time, and even now, Sarah did not know what to make of it. To be told that she was not to know a thing about who she really was or where she had come from was both frustrating and confusing, making her question almost daily why she was being treated in such a way. It was not as though she had done anything wrong, surely?
As she sank down into the bath, Sarah let out a long sigh as the hot water seeped into her skin. She was tired today, tired of having her hopes dashed so often. She was not going to have a come out, not even a small one. There would be no trips to London, no dancing, no gentlemen, nothing at all. What was to become of her? Was she to remain here, alone, for the rest of her days? What would happen once Mr. and Mrs. Stanton passed on? Whilst she knew that Mr. Stanton was a gentleman, she had no idea to whom the house would pass to, once he left this earth. It had not been discussed, like so many other things in her life. Closing her eyes, Sarah forced back the tears that came to her eyes, trying her best not to allow her thoughts to overwhelm her.
There was, of course, one easy answer as to why she did not know where she’d come from. Being only just four years of age when she’d first arrived, Sarah only had one or two very hazy memories as to where she had come from, with only the sound of laughter coming to her mind when she thought back. She hoped she had been happy, but the truth was that she believed herself to be nothing more than the illegitimate daughter of a wealthy and powerful man, a daughter who was not to be acknowledged nor thought of. She supposed that, if that were true, it would explain why she had never been allowed to question her parentage, and why there had never been any answers to the questions she had continued to ask regardless. It would also explain why she was not to have a come out and why, on top of that, she was never allowed to go to London even though it was only two days of travel by carriage.
She was unwanted. She was a secret to be kept hidden from the world. It was the only conclusion she’d come to, the only reason that she could think of as to why she had to live in such a quiet way. The village of Little Mybster was fairly remote and often very quiet, especially during the summertime when the Season began in London. Of course, there was enough company for a gentleman and his wife, even if they had to scour the nearby villages for guests for tonight’s dinner, but it was beginning not to be enough for Sarah. She wanted more. She wanted to understand. She wanted to know why.
Sitting up, the water splashing dangerously close to the edge of the copper tub, Sarah frowned heavily. If she wanted to change things in her life, then she would have to be the one to do it. She was of age, was she not? She could easily set out by herself and….
And do what?
Lowering herself back down into the cooling water, Sarah squeezed her eyes shut as she grimaced. There was nothing for her to do. She had nowhere to start, nowhere to even consider. There was not someone else she could turn to for answers, no trail for her to follow. She had no funds of her own—not that she knew of, at least—and Mr. Stanton had never said anything about any money left for her by whomever had sent her to their home.
The familiar feeling of being trapped settled over Sarah again. It was as if she were in a prison, built by those she did not know, who were determined, for whatever reason, to keep her here. Mr. and Mrs. Stanton were kind, yes, but they were not her family. Did one not need family?
“I need to know where I come from,” Sarah said aloud, her eyes burning with hot tears. “I must find out.”
There came no easy answer, nothing to tell her what to do next in order to find answers. Instead, there just came the expected heavy silence that wrapped itself around her heart and shrouded it in darkness.
The water was cold now. Sarah saw, rather than felt, her skin prickling and rang the bell for the maid to come and wash her hair. She would do what was expected of her, just as she had done every other da
y of her life, in the hope that—one day soon—something might change.
It was the only hope she had.
2
Sarah laughed as Mr. Ferguson finished his story about his wayward horse, who had, it turned out, been entirely insistent on visiting another horse in a neighboring field, feeling a small stab of pain. She could understand the creature’s loneliness, even though she was sitting amongst almost a roomful of guests. To have such a need to find another of your kind, another of your family, was a sentiment buried deep within her soul.
“And are you to have a come out this year, Miss Weston?” another gentleman asked, shooting a glance towards Mr. Stanton. “I would very much like to dance with you at the country ball next week, which I presume you are attending.”
Before Sarah could speak, Mr. Stanton cleared his throat and caught everyone’s attention.
“My dear Mr. Fredricks, I am delighted to inform you that Miss Weston is, in fact, out, and so she should be very pleased to dance with you next week, I am sure.”
Sarah felt ice form around her heart, as Mr. Fredricks exclaimed in delight, asking Mr. Stanton when such an event had taken place. She could see Mrs. Stanton widening her eyes at her, telling her silently to smile, but Sarah found she could not. In fact, she could barely move.
