Regency Bride Series: Regency Romance Box Set

by Locke, Laura

  “Well, Cornelius Stanmore is currently favored, as we know.”

  “Quite.”

  Cornelius Stanmore, newly-settled Earl of Tolford, was a natural favorite. Tall, pale-haired and thoughtful, recently come into immense wealth, Mother would approve of him. His sister, Claudia, was another favorite – the sort of society lady of whom Mother approved.

  Pauline shrugged. “I suppose he's appealing.”

  Matilda laughed. “He's handsome...from some angles.”

  Pauline giggled, covering her mouth self-consciously. “Oh, you! Stop teasing so.”

  “I'm not teasing,” Matilda said, though she was giggling too. “As long as you like him.”

  “I'm not sure I like him,” Pauline said, rolling her eyes.

  “Well, plain “like” is a good place to start. Mayhap you'll like him, properly, some day. You'll see.”

  “Oh, Matilda!”

  Matilda laughed.

  “Come on, girls!” a voice came from the hallway outside Matilda's chamber. “We are going to be late...”

  “Coming, Mother!” they both stood.

  “I'll race you!” Matilda said to Pauline, and, breathless, they ran down the hallway to the stairs. Matilda felt happier than she had all week. It was good to have Pauline to confide in.

  The ride to the manor of Lord Epworth was surprisingly brief. As they drove, Matilda felt her old anxiety returning.

  I don't want to see him. I don't like him. He makes me uncomfortable.

  She had little choice, however. Matilda staring up at the fine, enormous edifice that was Warrington Heights, and, no sooner had she crossed the threshold than she was facing him.

  “My dear Lady Matilda,” he said smoothly. “An honor.”

  “Lord Epworth,” Matilda replied, dropping a curtsey.

  “You look ravishing,” he whispered to her, before turning to greet her mother. “Blue suits you so much better.”

  Matilda felt her heart sink. She considered throwing out her blue clothes, then sighed.

  Stop being so silly, Matilda! You know he's done nothing.

  “Thank you my lord,” she replied wearily. She saw his face fall and felt impatient with herself. She should stop being so suspicious of the poor man! He was probably harmless, but there was something about him that suggested otherwise. As she took her place with the other guests, she realized what it was.

  “He's always so charming!” their mother enthused. “He knows just what to do and say to make the very best impression on people.”

  Matilda nodded. That was what disconcerted her. That would, in the usual scheme of things, be a quality she considered admirable. Right now, however, she found it worrying.

  I don't like the way he is ingratiating himself with my family.

  “My lady?”

  She swallowed hard. There he was, at her elbow. She had thought he was on duty welcoming the guests, but apparently his father could do that alone.

  “My lord?” She found herself looking straight into his big, dark eyes. He was, she had to admit, remarkably handsome. With his high cheeks, dark hair and those haunting black eyes, he looked like the hero of some fairytale.

  A dark fairytale.

  She shook her head at herself. He was an unusually handsome man with unusually smooth manners. What was wrong with that? Pauline was right. There was nothing more frightening about him.

  “I trust you had a pleasant journey here, my lady?”

  “I did,” Matilda agreed. “It is rather close.”

  “Indeed it is,” Lord Epworth observed. “A fortuitous matter.”

  His hand went to hers and he lifted it to his lips. The touch of his mouth, even through the glove, made Matilda shudder. He let them linger there a moment, his fingers hot on her skin, then let it gently go.

  Matilda dropped her eyes, feeling her cheeks flush with emotion.

  “You have invited many guests?” she asked, forcing her voice to remain even.

  “Just forty,” Lord Epworth remarked casually. “A small, intimate gathering. Is not that best? Though it is rather warm in here. We should go somewhere cooler, like the terrace?”

  His voice was low and insinuating and Matilda shuddered. “Mayhap we should meet your guests first. I know no-one here. I wonder you chose to invite us, since your circle is so diverse.”

  “Oh, my lady. There can be no cause to wonder at that.”

  His voice was deep and the sound mocked her gently. Matilda bit her lip. He means the romance between him and I. He seemed to catch her thought, for he smiled at her.

  “My lady,” he said warmly. “Shall we dance?”

  “Of course,” Matilda said.

  As he took her hand and bowed to her, the orchestra already starting up, she felt that same foreboding that had been dogging her all evening. She dropped her best curtsey, and then he took her hand.

  “I am glad the waltz is more fashionable,” he said, sliding his hand down to her waist. “So much more...gratifying. You agree?”

  Matilda shivered. Something about the way he touched her made her heart beat faster with fear. He tightened his grip, leading her to a turn, and she wanted to shout at him to take his hands off her.

  She knew it was fruitless. And silly. Here she was, dancing with one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. He was polite, genteel, and her mother approved of him wholeheartedly. Everything should be perfect.

  What is wrong with me?

  She felt angry with herself, sure she was being ridiculous. Why did she hate the feel of his hands on her, the way he spoke so insinuatingly to her? Lord Epworth was perfect and she was lucky to have him. Matilda stiffened as his body brushed against hers, and heard him give a soft laugh as her breasts bumped against his flank. She tensed, but he drew her closer, squashing her to him.

  She looked around the room, desperate to leave. The music was shifting, getting closer to the end of the waltz. She felt hopeful that soon she could escape.

  “I am glad you could join us for this occasion,” he whispered, his hand tightening on hers. “It makes the evening most diverting.”

  “Thank you,” Matilda said, terse.

  They were silent for a while. The waltz ended and he bowed. She curtseyed.

  “You would care for some refreshment?”

  “I, er...I suppose I would,” she said carefully. They were near her mother, and she did not want to have to explain why she was being so peculiar to Lord Epworth when they went home later on. Besides, perhaps while he went to fetch it she would have a chance to escape his company.

  He smiled. “A reluctant refreshment-taker. How unusual.”

  Matilda looked around wildly as he left to head to the trestle-table. She could not see anyone with whom she could suddenly become engrossed in conversation. She spotted Lady Terence, but by the time she was heading in her direction, it was too late, for he was back with a glass of wine in one hand. A glass of port, small and dark, was balanced carefully in the other, stem between finger and thumb.

  “Here, my lady,” he said, bowing. “Do take a drink.”

  “I, um...thank you, my lord,” Matilda nodded, taking it gently from his hand. He lifted the small glass of port in his left hand and sipped it appreciatively.

  “So, what entertainments are there in the countryside?” he asked her casually. “Hunting? Fishing?”

  “There are both,” Matilda said stiffly. “Though not this time of year, of course.”

  “Indeed. Your father is a keen hunter?”

  “He hunts sometimes,” Matilda said thinly. Any mention of her father upset her at the moment.

  “Of course, I have heard he is unwell.”

  “Yes,” Matilda shot a sharp look at him. He had heard he was unwell? Who told him? She certainly had not done.

  “We must all hope for a speedy recovery,” Lord Epworth said quickly.

  “Indeed, we must.”

  “Well,” he said lightly, “enough of such gloomy discussions! Have you seen the
balcony?”

  “No,” Matilda said, surprised. Why should she have? She had never before been here.

  “Well, then. You must allow me to show it to you. It is splendid at this time – you can see the faint light on the trees...quite enchanted.”

  Matilda looked round desperately, but there was no-one to rescue her. He wanted her to be alone with him. The thought of his lecherous hands on her during the dance made her feel a sudden fear, but there was no easy escape from this. Her mother was nearby and she could practically feel her eyes boring into her head, willing her to make the man think well of her.

  “Yes, my lord,” she said quietly. She threaded her hand into the bend of his elbow and together they walked to the door.

  A servant bowed as they reached the door, opening it. Matilda walked ahead of Lord Epworth, out onto the terrace beyond. The door swung shut as he walked out to join her. He stood behind her, a hand on her shoulder. Matilda tensed.

  “Now, my lady. Have you ever seen such a lovely vista?” he asked, guiding her towards the rail of the balcony.

  “N...no, my lord,” she said, shivering from more than the cool wind.

  “It is the most romantic sight I ever saw,” he said, indicating the rose arbor, stretched out under near-darkness. With the light from the ballroom shining on the drops of dew, it was gilded with magic, she had to agree with him.

  “It is lovely,” Matilda agreed. She turned round. He was looking down into her eyes.

  “Indeed it is.”

  He leaned forward and, just before he did, Matilda realized what he was going to do. He meant to kiss her.

  No, she wanted to shout. I don't want this! But her family wanted it. Her father was ill, maybe dying. They faced bankruptcy. This is my way out.

  As his lips moved over hers, clinging and probing, mouth hungry, Matilda closed her eyes.

  I hate this.

  He drew her close against him. She felt as if her mouth was being devoured. She tensed, too shocked to know what to do.

  He broke the kiss and she gasped, feeling a mix of anger and horror rising inside her. She was too shocked to move. Too shocked to speak.

  “My lady,” he whispered. “I am fortunate. Though I hope you feel this is of some advantage to you, also.”

  Matilda looked up at him blankly. She had no idea what to say, but at least her shock was wearing off enough to do something. She turned and stiffly walked back into the ballroom.

  Once there, she headed right across the hall, finding a place as far away from him and the doors to the balcony outside as she could manage.

  She leaned against the wall, closing her eyes. Her heart was thudding, her body shivering. She felt disgusted. Shamed. Frightened.

  “My lady?”

  Matilda opened her eyes, and shook her head, waving a hand at the footman who appeared with a tray of refreshments.

  “No, thank you.”

  She closed her eyes again and shivered.

  I hate Alexander Dartmoor. I do not wish to see him again. I wish I could just go away and never, ever see him again.

  But her mother was somewhere, laughing and happy. Pauline was doing her part. She could not disappoint them.

  I need to bear this. For Father. For Braxton House. For mother and Pauline and Lucas.

  I am a society lady. I have no other choice. I have no choice at all.

  She leaned against the wall, eyes half-closed and saw him re-enter the ballroom from the balcony beyond. He looked worried.

  Good.

  “My lady,” he said, appearing at her side a moment later. “I...allow me to apologize. You...I was off-guard, broadsided by your attractiveness.”

  She sighed as he smiled winningly up at her, stunned once again by how good-looking he was. All the good looks in the world could not make her trust him, especially not after what he had just done to her.

  “Apology accepted,” she said thickly, knowing it was expected that she say that. “Now, if you will excuse me, I am worn out. I need to sit a while.”

  “Oh, of course,” he said briskly, straightening up from his bow and drawing back a chair for her. “May I fetch you refreshment? A glass of cordial, perhaps? It is the heat. If you would care to retire to the parlor for a while, I'm sure we could...”

  “No. Thank you, Lord Epworth, but I am sure I will be very well here a while. Left alone, I will make a full recovery in a moment, I'm certain.”

  “Oh. Well, then. If you need anything, do wave. I'll be over there with Father.”

  “Of course,” Matilda said tightly. “Thank you, Lord Epworth.”

  He bowed and hurried off and Matilda closed her eyes, feeling suddenly weary. She had won this round, but only garnered momentary respite. If one kiss did this to her – set her heart thudding with fear, her stomach roiling – how could she wed him?

  But what choice do I actually have?

  She glanced around the ballroom, the gilded light showing her a rich scene of lacy dresses, nodding heads and fine velvet coats. She was surrounded by beauty, by graciousness. But she was a prisoner, no less. The gilded doors of this world let you in, but did not readily let you out again. Once inside, you conformed to their rules, because there was no other way to be.

  I have no choice at all.

  Chapter 11

  The next morning, Matilda was awoken by the sun shining on her closed eyelids. She sighed, seeing the warm golden light, hazy and warm. Her whole body was surrounded by warmth and softness, the cotton sheets luxuriant and soft beneath her, yet she felt a strange coldness inside.

  Alexander Dartmoor. Lord Epworth.

  She shuddered, just thinking about him. She had spoken with her mother following the ball. Her mother had been no comfort at all: on the contrary she was wildly excited about the prospect.

  “Oh, my dear! My dear Matilda!” she had said, as fond as Matilda had ever heard her be. “What if he married you?”

  She had clasped her hands, a look of ecstasy on her face. Matilda had felt her heart sink.

  She is set on this idea.

  That was the source of this sudden cold spot in her heart. The thought that her mother would not relent on this. She was so excited, so happy. She would insist that Matilda went through with it.

  As she lay there, visions flitted through Matilda's mind. Henry, in the fields a few days previously, a big smile on his face. Alexander, leaning close, his body pressed on hers during the dance, the way he held her waist so tightly and looked at her with that strange, half-leering smile. Her mother, flushed from her happiness, her ballgown and turban navy blue in the dark carriage. Her father's face, gaunt and full of suffering, telling her of things that happened long ago.

  It was the last image, that of her father, that stiffened her resolve. She had to do this. Had to do what her mother wished her to do.

  I just cannot settle to the idea of Alexander Dartmoor as a husband.

  Matilda knew a little of what husbands and wives did together: she had overheard conversations amongst the maidservants, and knew something from the midwife who had tended her friend Marcie during her confinement. They kissed and embraced and...well, they did other things too.

  She could not imagine any of those other things occurring with Alexander. She did not trust him. She did not like him. His touch on her body was hateful to her, invasive and clinging and dominating in a way that made her feel afraid of him.

  I cannot let him touch me like that.

  She had decided, but her decision would make no difference whatsoever. She was going to be cajoled, persuaded and obliged from all sides of the family. She would marry him – for her father's sake. And for Lucas, who was so worried about the finances and future of their household.

  She rolled over, groaning at the thought of what would come next: first the family discussions, then the courtship, then a wedding. It was all so horrible. Not just because of how hateful Alexander was, but because gaining him in marriage would mean losing Henry.

  “My lady?”r />
  “Oh! Good morning,” Matilda said to her maid, Stella, in what she hoped was a friendly tone. She sat up in bed, slipping her feet into her silk embroidered slippers as she stood.

  “Oh, my lady! You're up and about early after the ball,” Stella commented cheerily, as she opened curtains and let the morning's light come streaming in.

  “I suppose I am,” Matilda nodded. She stretched and splashed her face in the bowl on the nightstand, then looked out of the window opposite. A gray day over pale hills, just emerging from the morning mist.

  Matilda sighed, feeling that the day suited her mood, and settled down at her dressing-table while Stella fetched her day-dress from the wardrobe room. Matilda selected a white one and allowed her maid to help her into her corsets, wincing as they were pulled tight.

  After dressing, she headed down to the breakfast room. She could hear her mother and Pauline already there. The sound of their conversation drifted up the hallway towards her, and the clink of cutlery on delicate china; a genteel, relaxing sound.

  “...and you danced five times with Lord Brower's son! That was a surprise.”

  “I had to, Mother. It would have been rude to say no, would it not?”

  “I suppose so,” their mother replied. “Ah! Good morning, Daughter.”

  Matilda winced as she drew out her seat, feeling her mother's knowing eyes watching her.

  “Did you sleep well last night?”

  “Yes, Mother,” Matilda nodded, reaching for the teapot to pour herself a cup of tea. They were using the set from Sevres that morning – replete with gilding and decorated with exquisite scenes. Her cup showed a pastoral scene of fields, with a maid reclining in the front in a pink dress. She sighed. I could sometimes wish I was a simple country maid, and Henry a wandering shepherd.

  She bit her lip, suppressing a soft smile. If only!

  “You danced a great deal yesterday,” her mother observed smugly. “It is no great wonder you slept well last night!”

  Matilda nodded, trying to smile, though she did not feel much like smiling.

  “I did,” she said carefully.

  “You did!” her mother beamed. “And some with that dashing fellow – what's his name...the duke of Warrington's progeny. Oh...”