Sacrificing the Untamed Lady Henrietta: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Hamilton, Hanna

  “Has Miss Oliver accompanied you to Nightingale this evening?” Ewan asked casually. To his surprise, the General’s face twisted darkly.

  “My daughter will come on the morrow as expected. It is improper for the bride to see her groom prior to the ceremony,” Aaron intoned as though he had memorized the words before attending the party.

  “I agree,” the Duke chimed, but Ewan was confused. If what Averson had told him was correct, the General kept his daughter quite close. It seemed strange that he would not insist she remain nearby.

  Something is afoot. There is something odd about this family, I am certain.

  “I trust her travels went well? Where was it she went?” Ewan asked. “To a wedding?”

  He knew precisely where Tabitha had claimed Henrietta to be, but he had long suspected she was lying.

  “A relative has taken ill.”

  Quite a vague interpretation.

  “I expect said relative is well again?”

  “Yes,” the General replied shortly and reached out for his drink. He scowled slightly at the glass.

  “Is something amiss, General?” Ewan asked, detecting the sour expression on his face. Aaron shook his head but glowered slightly at Gerome.

  “I have never seen so little in one glass is all,” he muttered, pressing the drink to his lips.

  “Gerome, fill the General’s glass appropriately,” the Duke instructed, and Ewan suppressed a deep sigh.

  “At once, Your Grace.”

  “Forgive him, General,” the Duke offered magnanimously. “He is a new addition to the household. He does not know of our ways.”

  “He reminds me of one I recently dismissed,” Aaron said, and Ewan heart sank at the words.

  He is a hard man, the General. He will be difficult to accept as family.

  Ewan was consumed with a sense of foreboding. He was certain that allowing the Olivers into Nightingale would only bring along chaos which he did not have the gall to oversee. Yet what could he do? In twelve hours’ time, the General’s daughter would be his wife.

  Chapter 8

  Henrietta had never been as insulted as the night prior to her wedding. While her parents left for Nightingale, she was left alone in the care of two soldiers from her father’s infantry.

  “They will see you to Nightingale in the morning,” Aaron had explained.

  “I…I…I…” Henrietta sputtered. “Why will I not join you and Mama?”

  “It is improper for you share a roof with your betrothed,” Aaron replied firmly. “It will do you no harm to wait one more night.”

  “If you insist, Father but must I do so under guard?” she demanded indignantly. “I am not a criminal!”

  “You require a chaperone.”

  “A chaperone is Molly or Edgar! Not the infantry! Father, please, think of how it will look when I arrive at Nightingale like a prisoner!”

  Aaron’s face had darkened, and he scowled deeply.

  “You will realize one day that all I do, I do to keep you well, Henrietta,” he growled. “Do not forget that you have only just recovered from being ill.”

  “What has that to do with the matter?” Henrietta protested. “They are not surgeons, they are soldiers!”

  “Ronscales has some medical training from the wars,” Aaron replied without a thought and Henrietta seethed as she again realized her father had a response for everything.

  “Dr. Slater did say—” her mother had ventured to add but Aaron’s look brought her to silence.

  “Dr. Slater did say what?” Henrietta demanded, consternation flooding her veins.

  “He did say that you are well enough to attend your wedding,” Tabitha added in quite a lame fashion, and Henrietta knew that was not what she had intended to say. Yet the younger woman also knew that there was little value in pressing the issue, not when her father stood so closely, monitoring their exchange.

  “We will see you on the morrow,” Aaron told her. “I look forward to your wedding.”

  There was little Henrietta could do but watch them disappear into the night. As her bitterness subsided with the retreat of the horses’ hooves, Henrietta optimistically mused that she was at least at leisure to move about the property. Her father did not see the danger in her escape with Ronscales and Davids afoot.

  She decided to take advantage of the newfound freedom, a month essentially locked away causing her mind to stagnate. She wanted nothing more than to walk about and inhale fresh air, even if the night had turned achingly cold.

  It was true—Dr. Slater had given her a clean bill of health, permitting her to honor her duties to the family and marry the Marquess of Peterborough. It had been one week since her fever had finally broken, but there had been a terrible time before where she was certain she was about to die.

  Throughout her sickness and delirium, the picture of the man in the window remained, and even after she recovered, Henrietta remained convinced that she had seen him. Idly, she wondered if that was why her father had left the soldiers behind.

  He is such a strange soul, Father, Henrietta thought and not for the first time. It stunned her how warm he could be one moment, tenderly carrying her ailing body to the bed and stroking her hair, yet cruelly lock her in her chambers the next. Some days, she suspected he was two men sharing the same mortal form. It made him difficult to understand and also difficult to loathe. To Henrietta, her mother was much simpler to know.

  She knew sleep would not come easily to her, not when her mind was awhirl with what awaited her at Nightingale. She had only her mother’s assessment of Ewan, and she could not depend on it as gospel, not when she knew Tabitha would say anything to keep the peace.

  I must have faith in the fact that Mama would not permit me to marry a brute.

  She reached the front door, wrapping herself in a cloak but was immediately stopped by Davids.

  “No, Miss Oliver,” he told her flatly. “You are required to stay indoors.”

  She gaped at him in shock.

  “Have you taken leave of your senses? I have not been out for air in weeks!”

  “It is the General’s order.”

  Her mouth pursed into a fine line and she spun, the cloak fanning behind her. Her modicum of freedom had been quashed before she had even started to enjoy it.

  “May I get you a tea, Miss Oliver?” Molly asked as they passed in the hall.

  “Fetch me a glass of port,” Henrietta replied, and the maid’s eyes widened in shock.

  “Is that wise, Miss?”

  “I am quite done being questioned by a servant, Molly. You will do as I ask.”

  Molly seemed ready to swoon, unaccustomed to being spoken to in such a fashion by Henrietta.

  “I…I…yes, Miss,” she mumbled and suddenly, Henrietta realized that she would too, be free of Molly and the other spies who reported to her father. It was a small elation but one she held fast to as she entered the library.

  “Take my cloak,” she told Molly when the abigail returned a few moments later, and Molly did so without question.

  Is this what Father feels like when he barks at everyone?

  It did not make Henrietta feel good. It was not in her nature to be an army general. She took a small sip of the port, wincing slightly as it trickled down her throat. Molly knew she was not one to imbibe but that night was a special occasion, even if she was spending it alone.

  Slowly, she walked along the book-lined shelves, trailing her fingers over the well-loved books. She paused to peruse the titles she had read time and again over the years, smiling faintly as she did.

  I wonder if I will miss it here.

  She had never lived anywhere else, after all. It seemed reasonable to expect bouts of homesickness and yet the more she considered it, after being locked away, the more Henrietta realized that she was looking forward to the change. Granted, the circumstances were not ideal but perhaps she could still secretly write universities in hopes that they would change their mind and grant her acceptance.


  I must only ensure that Lord Peterborough does not learn of my plan as Father did or there will be a reckoning with not only Father but my husband also.

  The words gave her a small shiver, but Henrietta could not be certain if it was one of pleasure or worry. She wished her mother was there to soothe her nerves, but Henrietta suspected that Tabitha had very deliberately left to avoid such a conversation. Her mother simply did not fare well with unpleasantness.

  It will be good riddance to this household, Henrietta decided then. No matter what awaits me at Nightingale, I will be permitted the freedom to walk out of doors.

  With that thought, she plucked a leather-bound copy of The Odyssey and downed the rest of her glass with one long gulp.

  * * *

  A combination of the port and the reading created enough of a lull in Henrietta’s busy mind to permit her the rest she was certain would never come. It was before dawn when Molly appeared in her chambers.

  “It is time to rise, Miss Oliver,” she chirped and for a moment, Henrietta was confused.

  “What is the hour?” she demanded, noting that the sun still had not presented even a hint of itself through the night.

  “Early,” Molly replied. “But you must eat and dress before we leave for Nightingale.”

  “Of course,” Henrietta murmured, sitting up.

  “Are you filled with excitement, Miss Oliver? You are marrying nobility. You will become a marquess!”

  “I imagine that sounds much more romantic in fairy stories, Molly.”

  The abigail stared at her in surprise.

  “Miss, are you not happy to be marrying nobility?” The disbelief in her voice laced with contempt and Henrietta knew that a woman in her place would gladly give her life to have places traded. Perhaps if Henrietta had cared more for Molly, she would have felt some guilt for her moderate sullenness, but she could not muster the emotion.

  “I will be down for breakfast in a moment,” Henrietta replied instead of addressing Molly’s question. She had never quite forgiven her for the role she had played in locking the door.

  “You do not wish to have it here, Miss Oliver? I would attend to your hair and—”

  “I have had quite enough of this room, Molly, or have you forgotten?” Henrietta snapped. “I will have my breakfast in the dining hall and then you may fuss with my hair.”

  Molly’s eyes dropped in shame and she nodded.

  “Yes, Miss.”

  She scurried away so quickly, Henrietta wondered if she had made the girl cry. Shame did flood her then, and she gritted her teeth.

  You cannot fault her, Henrietta reminded herself, but she found herself unable to muster sympathy for Molly any more than she could her mother. For years she had simply accepted their meekness while her father did as he pleased, neither speaking up for themselves or for her. She was exhausted from excusing their behavior and she no longer had to do it. In a few short hours, she would be free of Molly.

  It put a slight skip in her step as Henrietta hastily moved toward the main floor where Ronscales and Davids waited like statues by the front door.

  “Have you remained there all night?” she asked in shock. She had seen them in precisely the same spot before she had retired for the night.

  “Yes, Miss,” they chorused, and her brow furrowed.

  They will not make it to Nightingale without any rest, she thought but it was hardly her concern. Perhaps she even wished they might fall asleep, so she might silently gloat to her father that they had been unnecessary, but Henrietta knew she would do no such thing, even if such an event occurred.

  “Your breakfast, Miss Oliver.”

  She sat at the head of the table, a spot reserved for her father and smiled to herself. He would certainly not approve if he could see her, but it did not matter if Molly told him now.

  Without preamble, she savored the meal as though it was her last. The nervousness which had plagued her for weeks had diminished considerably, and Henrietta devoured every morsel with relish. Sated, she sat back in the chair and waited as Molly took her plates.

  “We are quite pressed for time, Miss Oliver,” she said when she returned. “We must tend to dressing you before we leave.”

  The beam of contentment faded from Henrietta’s lips as she stared at Molly.

  “You need not accompany me. I have the soldiers as my escorts.”

  Molly studied her with confusion.

  “I am not attending as your chaperone, Miss Oliver.”

  “Are you an invited guest then?” The question was meant to be witty, but Molly seemed even more perplexed.

  “No, Miss Oliver, I will accompany you to Nightingale as your abigail.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Yes—your father has already sent my belongings ahead.”

  “I…I imagine there is enough staff at the manor without you,” Henrietta protested, tact forsaken. Molly seemed hurt, but she did not falter.

  “I am certain there is, Miss Oliver, but it is the General’s orders. I am to be at your side, as I was here. Presumably so you are not wrought up with homesickness.”

  Yet Henrietta knew better, and her jaw firmed with anger. It had little to do with her father’s concern for her emotional state.

  Father simply wishes to have a spy of his own inside Nightingale.

  Chapter 9

  The hour was not yet seven, yet the manor was rife with activity. Ewan watched the servants bustling through the kitchen blankly like he was not part of the room. He had not slept for even an hour and a glance in the glass in his quarters showed him a haggard image. He knew he must collect himself before the ceremony commenced at ten o’clock, but he could not bring himself to return to his apartment to bathe although one had been cooling for over an hour.

  “Lord Peterborough, is something amiss?” Gerome asked when he caught sight of Ewan standing. “May I help you?”

  “I may be beyond help,” Ewan heard himself mutter.

  “I am sorry, My Lord?”

  “Nothing,” he sighed quickly. “I will require more hot water for my bath.”

  “At once, My Lord.”

  Gerome turned away, but Ewan called out to him.

  “Gerome.”

  “Yes, My Lord?”

  “You must not allow what the General said to you last evening trouble you.”

  Ewan thought he caught a glimpse of anger in the servant’s eye, but it was instantly replaced with a stoicism.

  “I haven’t a clue to what you are referring, Lord Peterborough.”

  Ewan smiled.

  “As you were then.”

  Gerome nodded, but again, Ewan noted a glimmer in the butler’s eye, this time of appreciation.

  In a few hours’ time, the manor will be free of this business and all will return as it was.

  Yet, if Ewan was being honest with himself, he knew it was not the bustle which troubled him—it was clearly the wedding itself.

  There is no sense prolonging the inevitable. He forced his body out of the shadows and through the kitchen. As he rounded the servant’s corridor toward the front of the house, he paused, gazing about at the décor. His mother and Tabitha Oliver had done a stunning job preparing for the guests who were due to arrive at nine o’clock. Ewan admitted that the foyer was as lovely as he had ever seen it, and he must thank both his mother and his bride’s mother for their tenacious work. If nothing else, it was promising to be a beautiful reception.

  Up the stairs he climbed and made his way back into his chambers, suddenly very tired.

  I must not fall asleep. That will not bode well with the Olivers.

  Privately, he grinned, thinking of the fuss it would cause if he were to be found asleep in the bath on his wedding day.

  I highly doubt the General will be amused.

  The night past, Aaron Oliver’s demeanor seemed to sour more with each drink. It was not that the man was drunk but that the alcohol only seemed to bring forth a darkness he kept well hidden in s
obriety. If Ewan had to think of specifics that Aaron had done or said, it was elusive enough that the Marquess could not but under the surface, there was something brewing inside the General, something Ewan did not understand.

  “I have more water coming, My Lord,” Gerome told him as he entered his chambers. “Forgive me for not having it ready.”