Beauty's Rose (Once Upon A Regency Book 4)

by Rebecca J. Greenwood

  What would happen when he brought home a proper aristocratic bride?

  The new duchess would have Beauty packed off somewhere far away, and she would be right to do so.

  The disturbing images of the dream—her father dead—mingled with Beauty’s frustration at her feelings for the duke and the gnawing humiliation of the gossip around her.

  She needed to get out.

  Instead, she would keep to her routine.

  Why was Lucy not here yet with the breakfast tray?

  To distract herself, Beauty reread the latest letter from her family.

  Michael’s lines were short and to the point.

  Frederica was effusive. She chattered on for several pages, with messy handwriting and many crossed out misspellings, taking full advantage of the luxury of the duke paying for postage.

  There was nothing from Elizabeth beyond, “The rest send their love!”

  Reading between the lines, they were struggling with everything that must be done on a farm in spring.

  They worried about her. Father worried about her. She had written back yet again with protestations that she was well and well-treated, but her father would fuss.

  Lucy finally arrived. Beauty ate quickly, dressed, and then found blessed escape out the door.

  She walked rapidly down the hall toward the music room and her morning practice. She would pound out her frustration.

  A footman approached her outside the music room door.

  “Miss, a letter has arrived for you.”

  “It’s early for the post.” She thanked the footman and took the letter from the tray. It was light and slim, unlike the missives her family had been sending, but the handwriting was Michael’s.

  Dearest Beauty,

  Enclosed is a formal request for the duke if you would be so kind as to deliver it to him.

  Our father has fallen ill and we fear for him. He is asking for you. It is possible if you do not come soon you may come too late. The apothecary is quite concerned.

  If the duke is willing to release you for a time, your presence may help our father to rally. He worries over you.

  Your brother,

  Michael

  A smaller folded sheet, sealed and addressed to the Duke of Rosden, trembled in her hands.

  The horror of last night’s dream crashed over her with added grief. Her father, dead. No, he could not be dead! He could not, should not die!

  “Beauty. Miss Reynolds.”

  She stared sightlessly at muddy boots, blinked against unfocused eyes. The duke stood before her.

  “I have something I’d like to share with you. In the garden.”

  With half a mind, she noted he was dressed with marked informality. Not to the level of Will, but much more roughly than a duke was often seen. He held work gloves in his hands and his boots were . . . Had he stomped through the entire castle with mud on his boots to find her? Her mind couldn’t focus. All she wanted was to be away.

  “My dea—Miss Reynolds, what is the matter? What news? Has something happened?”

  She looked up, focused on his concerned face. She raised the letter addressed to him in numb fingers. “Please, please . . .” She could not speak above a whisper, the chill fear in her heart preventing anything else. “May I go?”

  “What?” He took the note, broke the seal. His eye ran over it with quick movements. He gave her a sharp look. “Of course. Of course you may go, Miss Reynolds. Take the carriage. You must leave at once to have plenty of daylight.”

  Her heart began to beat again. She fell forward a step and clasped his hands in her own. “Thank you! Thank you, Duke!”

  His eye widened, then his expression softened. “I can refuse you nothing.”

  She let go of his hands and burst into action. “My bag, I need my bag, and—”

  “I’ll send your maid up to you. Pack your things with her, but worry about nothing else.”

  “Thank you!”

  She rushed away. She had to get to her father!

  ***

  Everything had changed so quickly. A reversal. His heart ached in his chest. Worry for her, and loneliness for himself.

  She was going away. His Beauty, flying away.

  He needed to let her go. He couldn’t keep her.

  But before she was gone forever, he must do right by her.

  He could not interrupt her preparations to tell her all that he’d been holding back in his heart.

  He strode through the stables, making arrangements. He called for his coachman and grooms, giving instructions.

  In the back compartments of his mind, thoughts roiled, agitated over what he must do, and how to do it.

  Letters. He had letters to write.

  He sat at his desk and barked orders to his secretary. Letters of introduction, letters to smooth her way. Mrs. Haskins to send. She would be displeased to be pulled from her duties again.

  Then, finally, he pulled out pen and paper and began what might be the most important letter of his life.

  ***

  “Give my love to the duchess, please.” His Beauty stood before the carriage door, about to step in and leave him. “And thank her so much for her kindnesses to me. She has been wonderful. And I love her greatly for it.”

  “I will.” He stood still, a shakiness running through his body that he hoped was unwitnessed by those around them.

  She held out her hand. “Goodbye, Duke.” He grasped it in his, bowed over it.

  ***

  A terrible premonition filled Beauty. Worry gripped at her. Fear over her father, surely. But her eyes pricked, and she stared at the dear, kind face of the duke. The long lantern jaw. The soft gray eye.

  She fought down the urge to move away his eyepatch again. To see his full face.

  She pulled her gloved hand from his grasp. No, those were things she mustn't do.

  “If you would honor me by reading this letter, Miss Reynolds. At your earliest convenience.” He held out a folded and sealed letter, several sheets thick.

  “Of course.” She took it from him.

  There was some emotion in his eye she could not interpret. He watched her almost hungrily. Wanting, perhaps, to remember her, as she wanted, desperately, to remember every detail of him?

  “Godspeed.” He bowed.

  No, she must be mistaken. She entered the carriage with the pinch-faced Mrs. Haskins. And they left.

  ***

  He climbed the stairs with hasty steps. He had to reach the top quickly.

  He wanted to be in the place where he could see for miles, the highest point in all the surrounding land.

  He needed to see her go.

  He missed the top step at the highest floor of his tower and skidded down three. He grimaced at the pain but sprang up the stairs again.

  He reached for the handle that pulled down the narrow steps to the top of the tower. His hand missed. He stifled a curse.

  After over twenty years of one-eyed sight, he had adjusted to the lack of depth perception except for when he was over-excited and hasty. Then his weakness would rear its head.

  He angled his head left, right, got a better read on the location of the handle relative to his body, and reached out more slowly. This time, he grasped it firmly and lowered the steps.

  He reached the tower top and leaned against the tall, crenellated wall.

  There it was, the carriage, still visible. His carriage, carrying her away.

  His heart pounded, his breath heavy and ragged. He watched it until it passed beyond all sight, lost in the trees and countryside.

  He prayed, he begged, he pleaded with God that she would return again.

  ***

  As the carriage moved farther and farther away from the castle, the letter from the duke burned hotter and hotter in Beauty’s gloved hands. She felt breathless with nervous anticipation.

  Mrs. Haskins sat in the backwards-facing seat, sour-faced and sile
nt.

  Beauty smoothed the letter on her lap, ran her fingers over the wax seal with the Duke’s crest impressed into it. Its thickness indicated several sheets of paper. A long letter. ‘Miss Reynolds’ was scrawled in a rapid, masculine hand on the back.

  She should not be so distracted by this. Her father was sick! Possibly at death’s door.

  But . . . she was on the road. There was nothing she could do for her father further until she reached him.

  She ran her fingers over it again.

  “Oh, go on, miss. Read it,” Mrs. Haskins said.

  Beauty looked up sharply.

  “I won’t press you to share it with me. Keep it private.” Mrs. Haskins quirked an ironic smile. “But do read it. Your anticipation is wearing on my nerves.”

  Beauty caught a surprised laugh in her throat. “Very well.”

  She broke the seal and opened the letter, her heart thrumming in her chest.

  Chapter 18

  April 13, 1819

  My dearest Miss Reynolds,

  I do not have time to carefully craft my words.

  I need to make many things right.

  The first:

  I release you and your father from your debts to me. You are a free woman once again, no longer indentured.

  I should not have bound you, or he, so. Forgive me my impassioned actions.

  The second:

  I have acted on the matters concerning Clayden Hall. It was the business that kept me from you for so many days.

  As you will soon be in the neighborhood, you may ask the Owens family or any other tenants for details as to what has transpired.

  Please report to me if more ought to be done. I would welcome any letters from you, or your family.

  Beauty—my Beauty—I have not known how to go on. Or if I should.

  But as you are now a free woman, and you need not ever return to Thornewick or see me again if you do not wish to, then I must declare myself.

  I love you.

  I have loved you for months, though I confess at first it was mere fascination and attraction, rather than true attachment. It has since deepened into a depth of feeling I did not know I was capable of.

  I am unsure of your feelings toward me. These lines of declaration may be repugnant to you. I have hope that they are not.

  I fear our stations in life have prejudiced you against me and my intentions.

  Toward you, my intentions have been, and always will be, of greatest honor and respect.

  I ask you, Beauty, Isabelle Reynolds, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?

  Please, marry me, Beauty.

  There, I have asked it. Forgive me for rough, unadorned words, and for proposing by letter.

  As you will read this as you are driving away from me, I will not have the pain or the possible joy of seeing your face as you do. You have the freedom to dismiss and disregard this note, if my attentions are not welcome.

  Forgive me from distracting you from your father. That is the proper and good place for your attention to be lying at this moment.

  But when life is calmer for you, when he is—with all hopes and prayers—on the mend, please look at this hastily scribbled note and weigh your answer.

  If I at all please you in any way, I ask for your hand in marriage.

  I have been convinced that I did not want a wife unless she loved me first. But, Beauty, if I could at all make you happy, please, consider me.

  I will send the carriage to your doorstep in one month’s time, Thursday, the 13th of May. I hope by then, your father will have healed, and you will have had time to think, to pray, to contemplate, and decide.

  If you wish to never see me again and to put this period of your life behind you, send the carriage back empty.

  The duchess and I will miss you terribly. Please return to us.

  Yours, forever in heart and soul,

  William

  P. S. I feel without you I may wither up and die, like a weed denied sun and water.

  Forgive me. It will be dull and dreary without you, and my heart will ache.

  P. P. S. The first Blue Blood rose of Spring has bloomed. That is what I wished to show you this morning. I hope they will be blooming in multitudes when you return. They have become your rose in my mind. I believe they will ever be so.

  ***

  Her hands trembled, and she clutched the letter to her breast. She opened it again and reread it.

  He loved her. He asked her to marry him.

  Soaring elation filled her.

  He loved her!

  And, even more amazingly, he wanted to marry her.

  Her? Base-born Beauty as his duchess? Not his lover hidden shamefully in a country cottage, but his, openly and lovingly acknowledged?

  Mrs. Haskins eyed her.

  Beauty bit her lip and tried to suppress her overjoyed grin. Warm happiness rushed through her body. She let out a giggle.

  “I should not ask,” Mrs. Haskins said.

  Beauty shook her head, the grin insuppressible, consuming her face. “And I shouldn’t share it.”

  “But it is good?”

  “Yes. Impossible. And good.”

  “Impossible?”

  “I thought it impossible.”

  A small smile seemed to fight to emerge on the stern woman’s face. “Perhaps impossible things shall happen.”

  “I hope they do.”

  ***

  Beauty exited the carriage. Frederica threw her arms around her neck. “I’ve missed you so much, Beauty! I am so glad you are home!”

  “I’ve missed you too, Frederica. And Edmund!” Beauty hugged him to her. She basked in the warmth of her family’s greetings, hugging each tight. Even Elizabeth gave her a pinched smile.

  “I’ll be back in one month, Miss Reynolds,” Mrs. Haskins said from the doorway of the carriage, pulling their attention to her. She checked her watch. “Nine in the morning, we’ll arrive to pick you up.”

  “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Haskins. I’ll be ready.”

  “You’re already planning on leaving again?” Edmund pouted.

  “Yes.” Beauty could not repress a small smile, despite the worry and strain that pulled at all their faces. “But take me to Father immediately.”

  ***

  “Father, Father, I am here.” She knelt by his side, roughly removed her carriage gloves, and took his waxy hand in hers.

  She scoured his face, looking for signs of death or of life. He was pale, but his breathing was steady. There was no death-rattle.

  “Oh, my sweet Beauty. Child, you are returned to me.”

  “I am here, Papa. Now you shall get better, shan’t you?

  “I’m sure . . . I’m sure I will.”

  And he did. Soon after Beauty arrived, her father who had lingered at death’s door for over a week began to recover.

  The stronger her father became, the more Beauty’s thoughts returned to her dear duke. William. How much she missed him.

  But she also felt comfortable nestled back in with her family once again: enjoying Michael’s stalwartness, Frederica’s cheer, the younger boys’ rambunctiousness. Surprisingly, things were even improved with Elizabeth. She had stopped confining herself to their room and had taken up the sewing for the family. The sisters both had new frocks and the boys new shirts.

  Several anonymous loads of supplies had been placed on their doorstep, they told her: fabric, food, flour, necessities, even some money. Enough that they had been able to send out the laundry.

  And with the boys doing chores around the house as well as farming, and Frederica cooking, they were doing fairly well.

  It made Beauty happy to see them prospering. And oddly sad that they did not need her as much as before. It was best, she reminded herself, because she was not staying. She was going to return to her duke . . . and marry him.

  She wished to leave immediately, to run to him, to hold him, to f
eel his arms encircling her.

  But her father still did need to mend, and the date of her return was set.

  Visions of their future together, full of happiness, heightened the ache of her longing for him.

  Before, she had been too timid, too careful, to do things that would now be open to her as a fiancée.

  She would be able to touch him, to hold him, to kiss him . . .

  And then, when she was his wife . . .

  “What is going on with you?” Frederica said with lifted eyebrows. She stirred the contents of a mixing bowl. “You are dreamier than usual.”

  Elizabeth looked up from her stitching and gave Beauty a narrowed-eyed look.

  “Oh, what?” Beauty pulled herself from her daydreams of William.

  “You are not kneading that dough as much as caressing it,” Frederica said. “I do think it needs more pounding than gentle touches.”

  Beauty’s face heated, and she lifted her hands from the dough.

  “What is that? That is a blush.” Elizabeth’s mouth quirked.

  “What’s brought on this scarlet face, sister dear?” Frederica’s face lighted with teasing interest.

  “It is nothing. I apologize for not attending.”

  “No, there is no hiding now. What is it bringing on those thoughts, Beauty?” Frederica grinned.

  Should Beauty tell them? Dared she tell them? These were her sisters.

  Something held her back.

  Were she to get married—when she got married—she would not withhold the information of it from her family.

  But it still felt so tenuous. So ephemeral. She had not yet spoken face to face to him about his proposal.

  She had sent a letter with her acceptance, and with her assurances that she loved him as well. But it was too early to expect his answer back.

  She wanted the solidity of a full understanding between them before she told anyone. It was too private, too personal.

  She would almost think it not real, except that she had his first letter. Its solid physicality, the power of the strokes and lines in his written words. She treasured them. She kept the letter tucked into her stays, close to her heart.

  It must be real. William did love her.

  “Beauty, tell us!” Frederica’s voice went up in a whine. She pouted and flounced with a stamp of her foot.