The Perfect Spinster: A Regency Romance (The Not So Saintly Sisters Book 2)

by Annabelle Anders

  Gabriel had been hoping to see her again today. In the daylight. Properly.

  He supposed he could work in an apology for… “Lazy-eyed Livvy,” he said softly.

  “Dammit, Kingsley, if you so much as utter that name in my presence again, I’ll have no choice but to plant you a facer.”

  Gabriel merely chuckled. Stanton had it bad for his bride.

  Interesting notion...

  A knock sounded on the door and then the priest peeked inside. “It’s time.”

  Stanton took a deep breath and tugged at his cravat again. His poor friend needed to get past this ceremony before he strangled himself with the damn thing.

  Rather unconcerned, Gabriel sauntered behind the nervous groom out to the altar and then turned with him to stand before the congregation. Once there, Gabriel searched the pews for the bride’s sister.

  Left of the aisle, in the front pew, sat Stanton’s father, the Duke of Crawford, as well as the duchess, a rather handsome woman with blondish hair piled atop her head, and her three lovely daughters, younger versions of their mother. To the right, the pew was empty but for two women. The Viscountess Hallowell, an older, somewhat faded version of Stanton’s dark–haired beauty, beaming as she turned her head to watch the back of the church, and ah, yes. Miss Olivia Redfield.

  She stood considerably smaller than her mother. He’d known that from holding her while they danced. But in the light of day, Gabriel drank his fill of her as the sun slanted through the windows, causing her hair to shine like molten gold. Desire shot straight to his groin. But more than that—a longing he couldn’t identify.

  She must have sensed him staring at her in that moment, however, and lifted her gaze upward.

  A beauty in almost every single way.

  He’d never known another person with violet eyes. Brighter than blue, truly violet. Both eyes held his for an instant before her left slowly drifted off. Ah, yes, Gabriel remembered her from before. She’d been slimmer than, a girl on the threshold of womanhood.

  She’d elicited confusing emotions in him back then. He’d been betrothed, not dead. But like a fool, he’d responded by lashing out at her. As though he’d been twelve instead of one and twenty.

  He’d make an apology, as Stanton advised. And then he’d do his best to avoid her for the duration of his stay.

  It wouldn’t do to be called out by one of his best friends.

  Olivia clutched her handkerchief tightly as she and her mother waited for Papa to escort Louella down the aisle to meet her groom. Once Louella married, nothing would be the same again. Lord Stanton, her husband, would always come first. And then children. The thought lightened her heart for a moment. Olivia would be an aunt. She could spoil and play with her nieces and nephews to her heart’s content.

  Perhaps. So long as the duke’s family did not take issue with her appearance, or even worse, see fit to agree with her father’s beliefs.

  A prickling feeling drew her attention upward. What she saw had her heart skipping a beat.

  Lord Kingsley.

  She had nowhere to hide this time.

  The man who had stumbled upon her the evening before stared down from his position beside the marquess with eyes so dark as to nearly be black. He would see her fully now. He would remember.

  Upon meeting her gaze, his eyes narrowed.

  Just as the darkness had hidden her from his view, she’d not gotten a good look at him last night either.

  His chin, his jaw, and his physique had all hardened over the past decade. His glossy black hair seemed thicker now, more rebellious. Although pulled into a queue, a few strands had escaped and curled ever so slightly along his face. He did not have the clean-cut appearance that the marquess had. Kingsley’s beard shadowed his pale face, as though he’d not shaved for the occasion, and he wore boots instead of buckled shoes.

  Was this the same man she’d danced with and teased in the dark last night? She knew that it was, and yet—a shiver rolled through her—none of it had been real.

  He was an earl. Louella was marrying a marquess, the heir to a duke. Although Olivia was the bride’s sister, she would never be a part of their world. Her parents had made this very plain to her. After the physician declared her eye would never appear normal, they’d done nothing to hide their disappointment.

  “No gentleman of any worth will make a respectable offer to a cockeyed gel. Cursed, by God. An abomination,” her father had told her mother at the supper table one night. “Best to put what resources remain behind Louella.”

  Louella had met Olivia’s gaze from across the table, full of sympathy and pain. “Don’t worry,” Olivia had mouthed silently to Louella, wanting to reassure her. “I’m fine.” Olivia didn’t want Louella to pity her.

  The very next week, her parents had officially transferred the funds set aside for Olivia into Louella’s dowry account. And a few months after that, they opened the dower house on the edge of the property and moved Olivia and her maid, Mary, into it.

  Her mother had made some attempts to paint the move in a positive light, but Olivia had known it for what it was: a means to keep her and her wandering eye out of sight. One step from completely disowning her.

  They’d not wanted any of Louella’s perspective suitors to have cause for concern that the affliction might run in the family.

  As a child, Olivia had never considered her eye something to be ashamed of. She’d stared people fully in the face. Her uncertainty came later on, after her mother ordered her to drop her gaze to the ground whenever in public. It had been her mother’s way of protecting her from insult. “You can speak to them, just don’t let them see your eye. Poor dear, you could have been so pretty.”

  In the years since, Olivia’s confidence diminished with all but Louella and a few locals in the village, people she saw regularly; merchants, local laborers, and some of her father’s tenants.

  As long as she stayed in her own world, she was fine.

  But not in this one.

  The earl shifted his gaze away, dismissing her.

  This was not her world.

  No gentleman of any worth will make a respectable offer to a cockeyed gel. The words had probably run through her mind over a million times since she’d heard them spoken. A curse. An abomination.

  Olivia dropped her gaze to the prayer book in her hand. She would skip the breakfast.

  No one would mind in the least.

  Chapter 3

  Being Neighborly

  Olivia shifted the heavy basket she carried to her other arm and turned up the drive that approached the home of Mr. Luke Smith. The sun shone brilliantly that morning in contradiction to Olivia’s mood. The world was already a little lonelier since Louella and Stanton had married and left for their wedding trip.

  If Olivia were being honest with herself, Louella’s absence wasn’t the only thing that bothered her.

  Thirty-six hours had passed since Lord Kingsley stumbled upon her in the garden. Twenty-four since he’d stared down his arrogant nose at her from the altar.

  The man who’d stood in the church had been a stranger to her. She could almost pretend they were not the same person.

  She preferred to remember him as he’d been at the ball, before he’d remembered who she was. Before he’d looked on her in the full light of day.

  Because the man who’d stood at the altar would not have walked with her in the garden, nor treated her with such humor and kindness. It irked her that she couldn’t hate one while keep a few fond memories of the other.

  The first gentleman had flirted, made an excuse to dance with her. And he’d not been a horrible dancer as he’d claimed. He’d stumbled at first but managed quite well the second time around. Anything he’d lacked in skill, he more than made up for in style.

  Not that she’d set her sights on him by any means. She knew better than to entertain such ridiculous thoughts. But she’d felt happy in those moments. If she closed her eyes, she could summon the feel of wool beneath
her hands, the pressure of him guiding her, his scent that had been so uniquely masculine.

  The statue he’d taken her to see had been perfect. In that first moment she laid eyes on it, she had almost felt normal.

  Olivia loved irony and since hearing Kingsley’s explanation of the legend behind it, her esteem of the people of Belgium had risen immeasurably. It was just so paradoxically perfect! The depiction of a small boy mocking those who’d dared to think they could defeat them. A smile tilted her lips.

  The thought of four other little boys, very lively and very needy little boys, pulled her back into the present.

  She’d promised Eliza Cline she’d bring the basket first thing this morning. Since the passing of Mrs. Smith upon delivering her babe a few weeks ago, Olivia, Mrs. Markham, and Miss Cline had taken turns helping the newly widowed father with his children.

  Four motherless boys: a sullen eight-year-old, four-year-old twins, and a newborn.

  Perhaps someday they would have reason to smile mockingly at the world.

  “You’re not a minute too early.” Holding the door open wide, Eliza appeared even more harried this morning than usual, her russet hair already escaping her nape and her spectacles slightly askew. The vicar’s sister was close to thirty. If not for her severe manner of dress, she would appear closer to five and twenty.

  “Has Mrs. Markham left then?”

  “Twenty minutes ago. The baby still isn’t eating much.” She relieved Olivia of the basket and set it on the single wooden table in the middle of the room.

  Olivia opened one of the curtains in order to allow some light into the dark cottage before locating the infant feeding apparatus. She and Eliza had developed something of a routine over the past two weeks. She wondered how Mrs. Smith would have managed the children on her own, God rest her soul.

  “I want to hear everything about the wedding. What did the duchess serve at the breakfast? I imagine Miss Louella looked like an angel! And the ball, did you dance? Tell me you danced at least once!”

  Olivia settled comfortably and stroked the contrived nipple along the baby’s lips, willing him to latch onto it, while her friend placed two small plates on the table for the twins. At the onset of the planning, she had admitted her reluctance to attend the wedding celebrations to Eliza. She’d known she’d feel out of place. Olivia could not, however, deny Louella when she’d begged, and Eliza had agreed that she must make her best effort.

  “I cried when Louella and Stanton said their vows.” She didn’t want to talk about the ball. “She’s all grown up now, Eliza.” Her sister would have rivaled any princess on her wedding day. Everything had been beautiful. “Seeing her with Lord Stanton. I’m so happy for her and yet I know it is the end of an era. I didn’t have the heart to attend the breakfast.” She refused to go into any more detail. If she told Eliza about the mean words she’d overheard, then Eliza might offer up words of pity and above all, Olivia hated to be pitied.

  She felt weepy as it was, knowing Louella had left for a long wedding journey. Stanton had planned on surprising Louella. First, with a trip to London, and later traveling across the channel to the Continent.

  Olivia had done more to raise her younger sister than her mother and father, and as a result, the two sisters shared a special bond. She’d not be a short walk away any longer. Her best friend in the world would be living at Ashton Acres with her husband and his family. The newly married couple would likely spend a good deal of time in London now, too.

  “I’m going to miss her something dreadful,” Olivia added.

  Eliza wiped the table and then untied her apron. “You needn’t remain alone, you know.”

  Olivia groaned. Not this again! Please, not this!

  One week ago, Mr. Smith had hinted that he was not averse to remarrying right away. More specifically, he’d indicated that he would not be averse to marrying Olivia. And he’d apparently mentioned it to others as well. Others who were now offering their opinion that she ought to accept: the baker in town, the milliner, and most emphatically, Eliza.

  Olivia had kept the information from Louella. As much as her younger sister loved her, she didn’t fully comprehend the different directions their lives must go. She persisted in the notion that she would bring Olivia into Society upon her marriage to the marquess, not once asking Olivia if it was what she wanted.

  Louella would scoff at Mr. Smith’s unspoken proposal. Why ever would a viscount’s daughter deign to entertain the notion of marrying a common laborer?

  Olivia had not laughed, however. She might be a viscount’s daughter, but she was also… as her mother would say… afflicted.

  She needed to be realistic.

  She was nearly six and twenty and no one else had seen fit to offer for her. Did she want to live as a spinster for the remainder of her time on earth, which, although she didn’t take it for granted, might possibly be another fifty years?

  Considerably lower than her socially, Luke Smith was a good man. A hard-working man of character. And with four small children to care for, he likely couldn’t wait long for an answer.

  He was also rather handsome, and perhaps the only opportunity Olivia would ever have to be a wife, a mother.

  She’d not accepted just yet but neither had she declined.

  “I know, Eliza. He is such a nice man. And I’m… I just…” Don’t want to give up my independence.

  Don’t want to take on so much responsibility.

  Don’t want to give up my dreams?

  Don’t love him?

  Or was something else holding her back? Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on? Because the secret dreams she harbored were foolish indeed.

  Whatever it was, did her reluctance make her selfish? And foolish?

  These children needed a mother, and Olivia would never have children of her own.

  She could take care of the boys, their home, and Mr. Smith. She could teach Luke Jr., and then the twins, how to read, make certain they attended school. Her presence in their life could make all the difference in the world.

  “Don’t put him off too long. It’s not as though he’s without attractions. Just last Sunday, Freda Whitley and Bethany Kerns were overheard saying they wouldn’t mind taking Smith on, family and all.” Eliza poured two cups of coffee and dropped onto a chair beside her.

  Mr. Smith didn’t have the luxury of time, and Olivia was all too aware of this. If he didn’t remarry quickly, he’d likely have to send the baby and the twins off to live with some of his deceased wife’s relatives.

  That was, if any of them came forth.

  Even so, Olivia feared that he would ask her formally, soon, and she had no idea what her answer would be.

  As much as she’d resented living alone with Mary those first few years, she rather appreciated her privacy now. Indeed, there were days where she resented her isolation, but for the most part, she liked her little home.

  If she married Luke Smith, she’d be expected to give up the luxuries she had there. Although small and rustic in comparison to her father’s manor, her home was somewhat of a castle when compared to… She glanced around at the wooden floor with cracks through to the ground and the unpainted walls.

  She’d have to share a bed with Mr. Smith.

  Disturbed by her thoughts, she forced her attention back to the task at hand and adjusted the nipple in baby Harvey’s mouth. He finally seemed to be taking in some nourishment. The key was for her to remain calm. Patient.

  Olivia knew what went on in a marriage bed. She’d seen books and heard more than one account from some of the married ladies in the village. She was not opposed to it. There were some nights when she experienced cravings…

  Against any logic or reason, Lord Kingsley’s image hovered in her mind. The feelings he’d ignited as he steered her around the gazebo. Could Mr. Smith evoke similar sensations in her?

  Mr. Luke Smith was a very attractive man in his own right and seemed to have honorable intentions, but Lord Kings
ley sent her heart into palpitations. Heart palpitations, she chided herself, meant very little if the man’s intentions didn’t include meeting one at the altar.

  And yet…

  Luke Smith had been raised with a family of ten children, in this very cottage. He’d only attended a few years of school before necessity had him searching out odd jobs, and he’d married his wife at a very young age.

  Lord Kingsley was an earl and, having been raised the heir to such a lofty title, had likely been educated by uppity tutors before doing his stint at Oxford. He would have lacked for nothing his entire life. Most notably, he’d be expected to marry a lady who’d been groomed to be a countess—not some hoyden who’d been banished by her own family.

  Olivia had been raised in a manor. Educated for most of her life. And up until that fateful day her father declared her unmarriageable, she’d developed expectations for a genteel marriage and family. Oh, not with any titled gentleman but with a man of like class. He’d be well-read, much like her, and they’d sit down to dinner with napkins and lovely utensils. They’d discuss history with one another, and literature. They might travel on occasion.

  They would retain a cook and a housekeeper and, of course, she’d have Mary.

  What would become of Mary if Olivia were to marry Mr. Smith?

  Deep in her heart, Olivia knew that if she loved Luke Smith, none of these considerations would matter. It wouldn’t matter if her husband worked from sunup to sundown digging beneath the earth to extract gold for another, much richer man.

  It wouldn’t matter that he returned home covered in dirt and smelling of days’ old perspiration. None of that would matter if she loved him.

  But she didn’t love him.

  And so, apparently, all of that mattered.

  She hadn’t many choices. She could remain a spinster and keep her home––as long as her father didn’t see fit to banish her again––or marry beneath herself but live in her husband’s home and gain a family in the bargain.