Regency Bride Series: Regency Romance Box Set

by Locke, Laura

  “It doesn't have to be done scandalously.” Cornelia fixed her with a firm glance. “My friend's parents just put it about that she was taking the waters at the coast, and when she came back wed, people accepted it. No fuss was made, and none was forthcoming. See? Untaxing.”

  Matilda bit her lip. “I suppose it could be done.”

  “Just consider it, do,” Cornelia said firmly. Then she smiled. “I suppose I am shocking, aren't I. Mother would be so shocked...” she trailed off giggling.

  “Oh, Cornelia,” Matilda sighed. If only she was young, like Cornelia, believing so firmly in the power of love. She should. Why had she lost that innocence?

  She found her feet were walking toward the path to Northend. She looked at Cornelia, who walked beside her, unconcernedly.

  As they walked, Matilda found herself relaxing. It was a cool afternoon, the breeze chilly, the sky gray But it was, as Cornelia had said, good to be outdoors after long inside.

  She looked about, listening to Cornelia's chatter about their home – her horses, her dog Buttons, her hobbies. As they walked, she found herself looking across the valley to the road to the manor.

  A horseman appeared in the still road. He was riding a pale horse, his seat perfect – as a horsewoman herself, Matilda could appreciate his talent. He was riding towards their house. As she watched, he neared. He stared at her in turn.

  The strangest sensation filled Matilda as his eyes met hers. She felt herself shiver. Large, dark and solemn, his eyes had an odd expression. Predatory, almost. Devouring. She felt as if that blank, black gaze was sucking at her soul. Then he looked away.

  Matilda shivered. Beside her, Cornelia moved protectively close.

  “Oh, dear Cousin. You're shivering. Should we return?”

  Matilda, shaken, nodded.

  “Yes, dear. Let's go. I'm somewhat cold.”

  “Oh! Mattie! I'm so sorry. Come. Let us go! We can't have you catching cold before the party...”

  As they walked together, brisk, arm-in-arm, Matilda thought.

  That horseman – with his gaunt, pale face, those haunting eyes, the thin, fine nose – he was handsome. But there was something odd about him. And what had passed between them, in that gaze?

  If she had been younger, and less experienced, she would have thought it love.

  But I know Henry. And what I feel for him is nothing like what I just felt.

  Still shivering, her body cold after the sudden shock, Matilda walked beside her cousin, allowing her to lead her to the manor.

  Whatever that was, I hope I don't feel it again.

  She hoped she would not see the gaunt, dark-haired, handsome man again. But a tiny part of her – a curious, investigative one – hoped she did. There was something odd about him.

  Chapter 3

  “Have you seen my stole? The blue one? Oh...”

  Matilda sighed and leaned back in her chair as the chaos raged outside. She smiled at herself in the mirror. Her mirror-self smiled back. Her blonde hair arranged in an elegant up-style, ringlets framing her face, she looked different to the usual Mattie Denthorpe who looked back.

  I feel like I'm dressing up in Mama's clothes.

  She sighed. With a touch of red on her cheeks and lips, her blue eyes looking even bigger in the half-darkness of the room, her long neck emphasized by the wide oval neckline of the gown, she looked less like the happy, fun-loving Mattie and more like a tense and brittle stranger.

  I suppose it is beautiful, though.

  The gown of pale buttery muslin did suit her, though she would not have chosen it herself. With her china-pale eyes, it was contrasting and probably made her “stand out”. What their mother wanted.

  “Matilda?”

  Matilda turned, seeing a reflection of her sister in the mirror behind her. She sighed. As always, Pauline turned heads.

  Tall and elegant, with her long jet-black hair arranged in complex curls and ringlets on her head, ebony locks leaking out to touch her shoulders and neck, she looked eye-catching. The gown was a green the color of emeralds, only paler, so that it had a delicacy and shimmer to it. A single chain decorating her long her neck, slender and subtle, her black eyes huge, Pauline was the image of a lovely young woman.

  “Well, you look breathtaking,” Matilda said sincerely.

  Her sister blushed. “Nonsense, Tildie,” she said, flapping a hand at her, though she was smiling shyly. “You look lovely too. Are you ready? Mama's at the stairs.”

  “Oh.”

  Matilda stood, walking rather nervously on her new satin dance-shoes to the door. She smoothed a hand down her skirts and walked into the hallway.

  Lucas was there, his brown-red velvet suit bringing out the color of his eyes. He looked like a horse, before it races. Shining, tense, ready to go.

  “Sister,” he said, smiling appreciatively. Matilda flushed.

  “You look handsome.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I feel like my head's a cork on a fizzing bottle. This coat is too tight.”

  They both laughed a little hysterically. Pauline giggled.

  “Really, Lucas,” she said, rolling her eyes at him. She was laughing like the rest of them, though.

  “What?”

  Matilda laughed. Their mother gave them a bland gaze.

  “Are we ready to go down?” she asked in a voice primed to make them all calm.

  “Yes, Mother,” Pauline said softly. Fixing her long white gloves so they both ended at the crease of her elbow, she took a place by their mother's left shoulder. Matilda fell in beside her, Lucas behind. Cousin Cornelia, blue stole reclaimed, fell in beside him.

  Together, they all descended the vast, marble staircase into the ballroom.

  As always, when she was up here, Matilda felt her heart thumping in her chest. She looked down at the guests, palms sweating in her short satin gloves. She could see faces craning up, staring at them. As she reached the halfway mark, she noticed one face.

  Long, gaunt, with black eyes and a straight mouth, the face stared up at her. The eyes had the same predatory look. Matilda shivered.

  It wasn't. It couldn't be. But it was.

  The man from the field. The man she saw yesterday, riding. Him.

  Shivering, suddenly cold despite the warmth of so many people in one place, she stepped down and stood beside her mother. Pauline noticed her expression.

  “What is happening?” she queried. Her lovely face was twisted into a frown. “You look concerned.”

  “Nothing,” Matilda whispered, then paused. “Who is that man?”

  Pauline looked along the same direction. “The tall one? I'm not certain. I'll ask Mama.”

  “No,” Matilda hissed. “Don't, dear, wait...”

  If Mama thought they wanted an introduction, she would be forced to talk to him. She didn't want to do that.

  Before her sister could step back, or even their mother clear her throat to ask what was happening, he moved, the tall man. Walked over to them. Bowed.

  “Good evening,” he said, standing straight in front of Matilda.

  Matilda swallowed hard. She curtseyed. When she looked up, he was looking into her eyes.

  “My lady,” he said. “I am honored to be invited to this ball. I am new in these parts. Let me introduce myself. Alexander Mace, Lord Epworth.”

  “Oh,” Matilda breathed. Lord Epworth was a title of the Duke of Warrington. She knew that. Which meant that this was his son. As far as she knew, from half-overheard gossip, his single son.

  She looked round a little wildly. Pauline was talking to a tall man with hair the color of wheat, a pretty blush in her pale cheeks. Her mother was apparently engaged in conversation with their old friends from the manor beside theirs, but when she turned and saw Matilda's eye on her, she inclined her head, smiling happily.

  She recognizes him.

  Matilda swallowed hard, feeling a sinking sense of doom. Her mother knew the duke's sole heir was paying her some attention. Which meant that she ha
d to try, at least, to talk to him. Try and convince her mother she was at least trying to hold his interest.

  “I...” she swallowed hard. “I am Lady Matilda.”

  “Charmed, my lady,” he said, taking her hand. A bow was sufficient acknowledgment. There was, Matilda reflected, no need to raise her hand to his lips. But he did. The touch of his lips on her knuckles went straight up to her heart and stomach, igniting fire there. It was a sort of cold fire, at once inviting and recoiling. She looked down at him.

  His brown eyes mocked.

  “My lady. We have met?”

  “Not quite,” Matilda explained.

  He frowned. “Not quite? That is an odd statement. You have a...unique way with words, my lady. A product of this place, perhaps?”

  Matilda brindled as he made an incline of his head that took in the countryside beyond the window, just visible under a darkening sky. He thought her countrified? Unsophisticated? That annoyed her.

  “What I meant to say, my lord, was that I saw you in passing, once, yesterday evening. And I have not been formally introduced. I think “not quite” expresses that rather adequately. Wouldn't you?” she said tightly.

  He whistled. Matilda felt her cheeks burn. She had a sharp tongue, though it was rare she had call to use it. She felt awful. If her mother overheard that, then...

  “My lady!” he said, a smile on his thin lips. “I think you express your mind...rather adequately. It is most interesting.”

  Matilda frowned. She was relieved he was not offended by her reply, but “interesting” made her feel like a flower with one petal too many, or some rare plant from the Indies. She was not sure she liked that appellation.

  “I trust you took no offense,” she mumbled. “My ways can be interesting if roused to it.”

  He laughed. His brown eyes sparked, a dangerous light there. “I hope to rouse you to being interesting often.”

  Matilda blushed. She decided to take his meaning at face value, not consider the more suggestive one beneath the words. She looked around the hall.

  “Oh! There's Lady Watersley. I think I'll go and see...”

  “You take wine, my lady?” he asked, cutting across her attempt to disengage herself. She blinked.

  “Sometimes,” she agreed. “Though tonight I fancy a glass of lime cordial. If you could..?”

  “Of course.” He bowed and walked the few paces to the table where refreshments were standing, set out by their maid hours before.

  Matilda frowned. Her heart was beating in her chest and she looked around, contemplating an escape. Pauline was still talking to the pale-haired man, though with them was a small young woman Matilda guessed to be a relative of his. Her mother had disappeared into the crowd and Lucas was talking to some young men from the militia. She could see no ready means of escape.

  “My lady?”

  She turned to see Lord Epworth beside her elbow. She frowned.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she said, taking the cordial from his waiting hand. She lifted it in salute as he sipped his wine. Clear and sweet and bright, the taste cut through her tension, reviving her somewhat.

  “You were not in London?” Lord Epworth asked conversationally.

  “I was not,” Matilda agreed grimly. She did not want him to ask why not. The more she thought about it, the more she suspected her father's reluctance to travel to London for the Season that year was financial constraint. She racked her brain for a topic to change the conversation. “You have recently arrived?”

  “I have been in the countryside here for two months,” Lord Epworth explained. “My father has a seat here – Warrington. You may recognize it?”

  “No,” Matilda said, thinking hard. He looked a little upset, as if everyone in the district had heard of his father's presence here, and she felt a little stab of pleasure. A small riposte for his earlier criticism of her countrified way.

  “Oh. Well, a pity. It would have been nice to have you at the ball we recently held there. Which reminds me. You dance?”

  Matilda swallowed. He had gestured to the floor, where the couples had all assembled and the musicians were tuning up, readying themselves for the first dance. She nodded.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Well, then,” he said, with a bland smile. “Would you care to?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  She walked stiffly as he led her onto the floor. Taking his hand, she shuddered a little as his other hand moved to her waist. Perdition on her mother, for insisting waltzes were the order of the evening! They needed much closer contact than the other sorts of dance.

  “My lady,” he said, giving a little bow.

  “My lord.”

  Then they were off. She had to admit he was a graceful dancer. She whirled about the floor lightly, him turning her through the twists and whirls as lightly as if they danced on soft satin. She flushed as his hand moved on her waist, feeling he gripped her there harder than required.

  When the dance ended, he bowed and she curtseyed.

  “I hope to reserve the place for another dance,” he said, looking up at her as he moved up to standing.

  “Um...yes, my lord,” Matilda said, swallowing through a too-tight throat.

  “I am honored,” he said lightly. Matilda was not sure, yet, if she could read his voice to tell if that was ironic or genuine. But in any case, it was too late to query him, for he had drifted off as suddenly and quietly as he arrived. As she watched him fall in with a group of elegantly-dressed guests, she felt her body relax.

  She found a seat and sat down heavily, thoughts whirling. Alexander Mace, Lord Epworth. Frightening dark gaze and thin, watchful face. Distant manner.

  She did not like him, she decided. He scared her.

  She thought back to the dance. His hand in hers, turning her lightly through the steps. She shivered. She could not help thinking about Henry. He was not a graceful dancer – adequate, like she imagined she was herself. But it was nice to dance with Henry. Enjoyable, relaxed. And when he touched her waist or took her hand in his, her whole body felt as if it melted in his touch. With Lord Epworth, she felt somehow sullied. His touch scared her.

  This is wrong. I do not like him.

  She did not have much time for her contemplation, however. Her mother appeared before her.

  “Well done, daughter,” she whispered, beaming.

  Matilda closed her eyes. “Thank you.” She said ironically.

  Her mother did not hear the heavy irony, it seemed. She was smiling, sparkling. Happy and lighter in her manner than Matilda had seen her recently. She felt her heart sink further.

  Mother is so happy, thinking of Pauline and I well looked-after.

  She knew that was her mother's main concern: to have her daughters well placed and secure by the time anything went wrong with her father's finances. She could appreciate that, even sympathize with it. She just could not do this.

  Not Alexander. Not him.

  “My lady?”

  Matilda looked up. It was him again. He was frowning at her, glass of wine in hand. “Yes, my lord?”

  “I believe there is a Polka on the card. If I might claim your hand?”

  Matilda felt herself sink a little further into despair. She stood, nodding. “Indeed, my lord. You may.”

  “Good.” His voice was rich with aught that sounded like smugness. Matilda swallowed hard.

  As they danced, she looked around the room. Mother was there, laughing and happy, more alive than she had seemed in weeks. Pauline was nodding as she listened to the tall man and his family talk. Cornelia was giggling, surrounded by a group of friends. Lucas was talking to a small woman with rich dark hair. Everyone seemed happy. Except her.

  What is wrong with me? I should be less difficult.

  There should be no problem. She should accept Lord Epworth's attentive manners, enjoy the dancing: He was a good dancer. Very good. Again, she thought of Henry. She felt impatient with herself. Henry was a lovely man, a childhood sweetheart. But
he was the single son of a baron, unheard-of at court. She should not feel as she did. She should welcome the attentions of Alexander.

  It was what her mother would wish her to do.

  Chapter 4

  The sky beyond the windows was a soft gray. It had rained earlier, the grounds sweet-scented with it. The evening would clear, Matilda thought, the sun bright on the sparking raindrops. Just right for the tea-party planned for later this afternoon. She tried to distract herself with thoughts of the present day, forget about her worries.

  “What is it, dear?”

  Pauline's sweet voice broke through her reverie. Matilda looked up into her sister's concerned face.

  “Oh, nothing, Pauline,” she smiled, though she still felt sad. “Just lost in thought.”

  “You mustn't worry for Father,” Pauline said, squeezing her hand. “The physician will be here soon, and he will know what we must do. You'll see.”

  Matilda sighed. She hadn't been worrying about their father – well, he was not the main body of her worry, in any case. The main worry was Alexander. It had been two days since the ball, and she could not stop worrying about him.

  “I know,” she sighed. “Dearest, it's not that.”

  “What then?” Pauline frowned. She sat down on the chaise-lounge, her flower-arranging finished on the table behind her. Matilda sat opposite, careful not to dislodge the china vase on the table beside her.

  “It's Mother, and this marriage business...” She frowned, running a hand down her face, tired.

  “I know,” Pauline nodded. “I'm not happy with it, either. But, well,” she sighed, lifting her shoulders in a gentle shrug. “What else can we do, besides that?”

  Matilda nodded. Her sister was right. What use was there to fight against it? Better to gracefully get on with what they had to do. Which was marry well and try and be pleased with that.

  She bit her lip. She had confided in their aunt – Great Aunt Tertia – who had patted her hand and promised her that she would think of something. She had a sneaking suspicion this tea-arrangement was her aunt's plan.