by Stacy Reid
“I have some poems too,” he muttered.
It was then she noted a small brown book in his hand. During their lessons, he had sworn nothing could induce him to pen poetry and sonnets to a lady. Warmth burst in her chest like sunshine.
“But I confess they are terrible. I have been working on them since you left last night, without saying goodbye.”
Verity flushed as the butler’s eyes widened. James opened the small book and cleared his throat. "Your eyes are brown and golden, but they remind me of the brightness of a blue summer sky. Your lips are lush and thick, but in a most delightful rosy way and not like a leg of lamb. Your—”
Verity giggled, a horrified sound came from the butler, and at the same time her brother's voice rang out with a "Good God, what is going on? Lord Maschelly?”
Verity looked over her shoulder at him, then stepped forward, grabbed James's arms and with a tinkling laugh ran down the steps, tugging him with her. He followed without question, and her brother bellowed in the distance. James assisted her into his carriage and sat opposite her.
“I am not going back into that house, ever,” she said, conviction flowering through her soul.
He knocked on the ceiling, and the coach rumbled away. "You will not?"
“No. It has been unbearable for months, and I shall not bear it a minute more. I only have the clothes I am wearing and my dearest possessions in my pocket, but I do not care. My future husband is quite wealthy, and I daresay he will be able to replenish my wardrobe effortlessly. And when I come into my inheritance at five and twenty, we will be even better situated.”
A dark shadow passed over his face. “Your husband?”
“Why yes, of course. I am three and twenty and does not need my brother’s permission to marry the man I love, a man of my heart’s choosing.” Then she smiled at him. “May my Aunt Imogen live with us, James? I promise you shall love her.”
He stilled, hope, relief, and something more profound darkening his eyes. “Live with us?”
Verity frowned. “Do you mean to say that atrocious poem was about friendship?”
He grinned, and her heart lifted. "No." he tugged at his neckcloth. "I love you," he then said simply. "I do not have the elegant words, Verity, or the flowery flattery, but I promise you, none will love, protect, and cherish you as I do. You fill every crevice of my being with happiness, and I cannot imagine a life without you."
She flung herself at him, and he caught her and gathered her in his arms. She rained laughing kisses over his nose, his jaw, and his lips. “I love you, James, so very much. I should not be saying this, because it does not bode well for me, but I am no longer a lady of quality. My reputation is damaged and may never be repaired.”
He stared at her. “Verity, your qualities of strength and kindness are more valuable to me than a simpering miss with acceptable tonnish qualities. I love you, and since you have consented to be my wife, I'll not hear this nonsense about you not being…perfect. Marry me, Verity. Be my countess, my lover, and my friend."
She rested her forehead against his. “Yes, I absolutely will.”
The End
A Prince of My Own
One tempting kiss may be her undoing...
Lady Miranda Cheswick's is beautiful, witty, intelligent, and the family's great expectations are for her to marry a prince or a duke! A duty she intends to fulfill despite the craving in her heart to marry for love. An accident leaves her stranded at the country estate of the enigmatic and charming Dr. Astor, a man to whom she is inexplicably attracted.
Dr. Simon Astor has little expectation of making a grand society match. His sole focus should be on caring for his patients and raising funds for the hospital he hopes to build. However, the delectable and witty Miranda tempts him at every turn, he soon finds himself falling for her irresistible charm, and wants to marry her.
Except Miranda's mother's devious plot will test Miranda and Simon's resolve. Is their love strong enough to triumph?
Chapter 1
Lady Miranda Elizabeth Cheswick’s first memories were of her mother extolling her great beauty, and that she would one day marry a prince, or most certainly a duke. As the daughter of one of the most renowned and influential earls in the realm, it was expected any match she made was to a man of rank, respectability, and great fortune. To that end, her mother, the Countess of Langford, had made it her duty since Miranda’s come out three years ago to hunt a gentleman who fit those standards of the Cheswick family, with a single-minded intensity that Miranda admitted could be frightening and at times embarrassing.
Of course, her mamma did not regard her matrimonial fervor in the same light. The countess had often said Miranda’s incomparable beauty, grace, charm, and wit could not be wasted on a gentleman of mediocrity, and over the years the countess had impressed upon her daughter that very belief. And for so long Miranda had faithfully believed her beauty should only allow for the best in her life, and that belief had cost her the dearest of friendships. A friendship which Miranda had treasured. The rift between her and Pippa, the new Duchess of Carlyle, was so terrible they had not spoken in almost two months. And there was nothing Miranda wanted more than to mend that relationship.
She slowly lowered the newssheet which mentioned the Duke and Duchess of Carlyle were back in town after several weeks of traveling. A visit must be paid at once, and despite the fearful ache in her heart and the doubt rising inside, there must be no delay.
The door to the drawing room swung open then slammed shut as her mother marched inside in a swirling green dress and swishing petticoat. Miranda had been waiting for over two hours for this confrontation, for nothing had gone how her mother had planned it last night. She braced for the severe scolding that was about to be delivered.
“You will not disappoint our expectations ever again, young lady,” her mamma cried without any preamble, her violet eyes brimming with tears and unjust reproach. “It is your duty to this family to marry and marry well! I’ll not hear any more objections, Miranda!”
Miranda sat on the chaise longue, her spine rigid yet elegantly poised, daring not to blink as her mother scolded her most ferociously for yet another failure in snagging the man everyone had said was the catch of the season. “Mamma, I can explain—”
“Three eminently suitable suitors you have lost now! Three. You encouraged the Grand Prince Vladimir Konstantinovich to turn his regard to Miss Harriet Shelby, and now they are engaged! Why I still cannot credit it, a Russian prince with that nobody! Then the Duke of Carlyle was ripe for your plucking. I did everything to ensure you ensnared him and somehow, you foolish girl, you allowed him to get away. And I had the Marquess of Blythe conveniently locked in the conservatory with you at last night’s soirée! I had to pay a servant to discreetly deliver a note to you and the marquess, and you…you had the nerve to slip through a window to escape!”
Papa had often remarked fondly of the devious ways mamma had secured his hand for marriage more than twenty-five years past. It seemed her mother required her to act similarly and did not hide that it was her expectations. She lifted her chin, hating to recall the shock of horror she’d felt last night when she realized what her mother had planned. “Mamma, Lord Blythe inspires little emotion in my heart.”
Though the marquess was declared as handsome and a man of fashion and elegance, whenever he touched her, she felt cold and unmoved. Miranda had begun to wonder if passion truly existed. “He has never asked me about what I like to do or how I spend my day. He only compliments my beauty and—”
The countess shook her head as if in a daze. “You ungrateful, wretched girl! We have worked so hard to cultivate your reputation as a diamond of the ton, and you speak as if you wish it were not so!"
Over the last few years, Miranda had become a well sought-after social butterfly, coveted by the young bucks of each season. During the social season, her days were spent assisting her mother in ordering the household, planning balls, musicales, routs, and picnics. She
was admired often by both ladies and gents for her exquisite grace and form when dancing, and her skill at the pianoforte. It was often remarked that she would make a fine wife with her excellent upbringing, amiable disposition, and breathtaking beauty.
“An engagement should have been in the papers today!”
Her mother’s cries were like a stone scraping against glass.
“Mamma,” she said, standing, her heart pounding with discomfort for she had never been one to contradict her mother. But the situation had becoming intolerable, the season no longer fun and intriguing. Until recent events, Miranda anticipated each season with elation for all the thrilling events she would attend and the courtship dances. She had been enthralled by the excitement of attending lavish balls, picnics, carriage rides, and walking out and flirting with several suitors. Now, only dread knotted her stomach whenever she thought about the next season and the marriage mart. “If I am such a sorry disappointment it is little wonder you do not banish me from your sight to the country with grandmamma.”
That would be far more tolerable than the constant pressure from her mamma to secure any eligible gentleman that came on the market. The tedium of country life was vastly more appealing than the parties of the little season. In Lincolnshire, she could take long walks, visit the orphanage her grandmamma sponsored, and perhaps attend a few balls at the local assembly. But most importantly, there she would have space and the freedom to think about what she wanted from life, and not what her mother insisted she must possess.
“This season you have put my nerves out of sort most abominably, and you danced with Mr. Brandon last night! Why would you do something so foolish?”
With a sigh, she pushed a few loose wisps of hair behind her ears. "He is very good-natured and charming mamma, and he is the younger brother of a viscount, so he is not without connections." And he had appeared so earnest and anxious when he asked, she’d not the heart to reject him, and she’d had a wonderful time dancing the quadrille and the polka with Mr. Brandon.
The countess advanced further into the drawing room, the glint in her eyes a dangerous thing to behold. “You will politely decline his offer if he should approach you again. He is not the sort of man a young lady of your connections and propriety should extend the smallest encouragement even if it is only dancing!”
Her whole life it had been impressed upon her the type of man she was to marry. A prince. A duke. Her mother would possibly accept a marquess if he possessed considerable estates and wealth. There had never been a mention of the man's character, and it saddened her to realize it honestly did not matter to her mother or to most society members. Invariably she shared a similar truth. The men who pursued her had no liking for her mind nor were they curious about learning about her. Her beauty, connections, and dowry were all that was admired.
Her mother sniffed as if holding back tears. “The entire day I’ve despaired with your father about what we should do with you. Miranda, you are two and twenty. You should be running and organizing your own household. Why, at eighteen I was already with child with your brother.”
“Mamma please, might we enjoy the rest of our stay in town without conversations about whom I’m to secure?”
Her mother stiffened as if she could not indeed countenance such a suggestion. "We planned to receive an offer this season! By next week everyone will be off to their country estates, and all opportunities will be lost until next year. Despite all my efforts in securing you a proper match you have willfully thwarted my best efforts.”
Her mother’s best efforts referred to the Duke of Carlyle, a man who had gone on to marry Miranda’s friend, Pippa, in a rare and beautiful love match of the season a few months ago. Her mother’s wicked wiles and Miranda’s foolish heart had allowed her to go along with her mother’s disastrous plan to compromise the Duke of Carlyle. Mamma had been determined for him to be her son-in-law, and Miranda had been committed to becoming a duchess. She had snuck into the man's room at a house party a few months ago, with the sole intention of compromising his honor so he would be forced to marry her.
The very memory of that scene had humiliation and shame crawling through her veins. She felt as if she aged several years since. Once she had taken it as her due that a man would look upon her face and fall hopelessly in love. That with a smile she would be able to ensnare him. She had rested much upon her beauty and had ignored her honor and common sense to her undying shame. “I do not wish to attend Lady Peregrine's house party, Mamma. Might I travel down to grandmother instead?”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “That is our last event before we retire to the country with your father. I have it on good authority Lord Blythe will be in attendance, and I expect, young lady, an offer from him by the end of the party.”
“And am I to secure that offer by any means?” she demanded scathingly with pain and anger beating in her heart. “Did you know I was silly and willful enough to try to compromise the Duke of Carlyle a few months ago, doing exactly as you suggested, Mamma? I slipped into his room at Lady Burrell’s garden party! And Mamma…I went only in my banyan.”
Shock glazed her mother’s eyes, and she moved forward with jerky steps. "And he did not offer for you? How outrageous and dishonorable of him!"
Miranda rubbed her temples, hoping to soothe the headache she could feel forming. “Mamma, it was my conduct which was outrageous. He should have thrown me out on my head! Instead, he did the gentlemanly thing by walking away. And I was so humiliated at my failure I did not tell my dear friend the truth, and she then waged a campaign to destroy the duke's reputation when it had been unwarranted. Since then my eyes have been opened, the shame in my heart laid bare, and the regret in my heart heavy."
Her mother stared at her for several seconds. "You are simply too harsh with yourself, my dear. It was my expectation that you would secure the duke this season. It is a disappointment we must all bear, and it does us no credit to speak about what happened at that garden party. We shall rally and prepare for next season the best we can. I do have high hopes regarding Lord Blythe. While not the title we had hoped for you, the marquess has considerable estate and wealth. Now hurry to your rooms and ensure all is well for our journey in the morning.”
A girl of your astonishing beauty must only marry a prince…or a duke…, I declare to be so! Refrains she had heard from when she was a twelve year-old child in the schoolroom. Words which had made her once preen, her chest puffed with pride, now made her feel sick to her stomach, and her throat aching with unshed tears. “If you'll excuse me, Mamma."
She left the drawing room and her mother, but instead of heading upstairs, she collected her pelisse and bonnet having already called for the carriage. Almost thirty minutes later, she made her way to the townhouse of the Duke and Duchess of Carlyle in Portman Square.
Miranda bravely knocked on the large oak door, and when the butler made his appearance, she asked to see the duke and duchess. He allowed her inside and led her to the drawing room where a merry fire crackled in the hearth. She tried to marshal her thoughts, unsure of what she would say to Pippa and to the duke. The words eluded her, and the only guidance she had was the awful ache of regret in her heart and the burn of tears lodged in her throat.
“Miranda!”
She whirled around at her name to see a glowing Pippa gliding into the room. Shock tore through Miranda when Pippa enfolded her into a warm hug. There was no help for it, a sob tore from her throat. "Oh, Pippa, I have been so wretched with shame at my conduct. I have used you ill, and I am so very sorry!"
"Hush now," Pippa said, her own voice choked with emotions. "I regret leaving on my travels without mending our fences. You had apologized to me, and I ignored your overtures. Come, let’s sit and talk." Looping their arms together, the duchess led her over to the sofa closest to the fire. The warmth seeped into Miranda's bones, thawing the cold knot of doubt which had constricted her muscles.
A sound alerted, and she glanced up to see the duke. Miranda flus
hed, discomfort crawling through her veins. She had slipped into this man’s room and had shrugged off her robe! The room had been very dark, and she had doubted he even knew it was her, but the very memory of it made her want to die of humiliation. She stood. "Your Grace, I am so very sorry."
He smiled warmly, rendering her mute. "That is in the past, Lady Miranda. If I recall, more than five months ago. I probably should not say it, but without your antics, my darling Pippa would not have turned her mischievous wiles in my direction, and I would possibly have missed my love. So, I should be thanking you, hmmm?"
A laugh hiccupped from her. “You are both very generous, and I thank you for it.”
And there was an easing inside that swelled and expanded through every crevice of her being. The duke lingered for a few minutes, engaging her in discourse before he excused himself. Miranda turned to Pippa, “You do appear radiant, Pippa. I am so pleased with your happiness.”
Her friend squeezed her hand. "I cannot wait for you to find similar happiness. With your great beauty and poise, any day now—"
She tugged her hand away from Pippa. “Do you also believe a man would only be interested in me because of my beauty?” she cried. “Oh, Pippa, I do not want that! I want the gentleman whom I marry to see beyond that and see me! I want this even as I wonder who I am, Pippa. But I am most certain, I want to love the man I marry and also to know beyond doubt that he loves me just as ardently. I want to share my fears and dreams, and failures as they come and know I will always find comfort in his arms. Is it silly of me to hunger for this?”
Pippa smiled gently. "Oh, Miranda, it is an inescapable fact that you are lovely. You enter a room and men stare covetously, ladies glower in envy, many mothers worry you will outshine their daughters. Each season you receive numerous offers which your mother rejects. It is inevitable a man will see your beauty first, but I daresay if he is worth his salt, he will hunger to know the passionate heart that beats within you. And if he is fortunate for you to return his regard, he will then discover how kind and caring you are. How filled with good fun and humor, how passionate you are about art and music and I daresay he will love you.”
