A Regrettable Proposal

by Jennie Goutet

  “Of course, miss. If you’ll follow me.” The morning room was a cheerful shade of yellow with one large window overlooking the wet street. She noted the warm colors, but the empty room was made bleak by the thundering rain outside that had yet to show signs of letting up. Collins opened the drawer in the escritoire and pulled out a paper and pen. The inkpot was full. “I will have your letter sent as soon as you’re finished, miss.”

  “Thank you.” Eleanor took a seat at the desk and dipped the perfectly trimmed pen into the inkwell.

  Lydia,

  I must go to my aunt in Bath. I have enough money for the stagecoach to take me there, but I will need to have my trunk sent. Will you have the goodness to send it under the care of Mrs. Renly on Abbey Street?

  I remain most affectionately yours,

  Eleanor

  The next letter was more difficult, and she paused to think before attempting it.

  Lord Worthing,

  You have been kind and generous throughout my stay in London, and I’m most grateful for your friendship, and for the rescue you performed last night. I’m afraid I cannot trespass upon your goodness, or that of your sisters, any longer. I have taken the coach to Bath to join my aunt.

  She dipped the pen and blotted the ink before continuing.

  Please convey my deepest respect and gratitude to your sisters, and know that I am, hereafter,

  Yours,

  Eleanor Daventry

  Sealing both letters, Eleanor left the drawing room and handed them to the butler, who waited outside the door. “This one is for Miss Lydia Ingram, and the other … Would you kindly give it to Lord Worthing?”

  She tied the bonnet under her chin, feeling at once overdressed and shabby in last night’s apparel, and held the reticule in her arm. As she reached the door, Collins stopped before opening it. “Shall I not call a conveyance for you, miss? I believe Lord Worthing would prefer it.”

  Eleanor was about to refuse but decided it would be better to swallow her pride. It would do her reputation no good to be seen, unescorted, walking through town in the rain, and especially after last night’s scandal. Was it only last night? “I would be most grateful. I must go to the stagecoach,” she said.

  “Very well, miss. I will have the carriage brought around and have a maid accompany you there.” Eleanor nodded her approval and waited by the door, not knowing whether she wished her flight to be intercepted or not.

  R

  Stratford arrived late afternoon, as the worst of the rainstorm settled into a drizzle. He contemplated how soon he might propose to Eleanor, imagined various scenarios, the best of which was her throwing herself into his arms. He was anxious to see her in the flesh after what seemed like an interminable day. What could he say to get her to accept his suit this time? He was nearly certain she returned his regard, but he could not know for sure until the words were out and he had his response.

  It was not as if his record were flawless. Never in the history of proposals had anyone bungled one so badly as he had the first time, of that he was sure. The minute he walked through the door, Anna and Phoebe pounced on him.

  “Finally!”

  “Stratford, you must go at once. Collins says Eleanor has gone to the stagecoach. Here is her letter.”

  With an oath, Stratford grabbed it at once and perused its contents. “I may yet have time before it leaves London,” he said. “Collins, have my other team brought around. No, never mind. I will go myself.”

  His horses were harnessed in no time, and he swung up on the seat, leading them toward the stagecoach. Cursing under his breath at the delay, he threaded his way through the streets as quickly as the other carriages would allow, arriving at the station just as people were piling into the lumbering equipage. He handed his reins to a boy and leapt down. I’m just in time!

  When he looked inside the coach, then on top, and even inside the taproom, Eleanor was nowhere to be found. “When did the last one leave for Bath?” he asked the man at the tap.

  “An hour ago, sir.”

  Reining in his frustration, he tossed a coin to the man and strode to the phaeton, climbed up and clicked to spur his horses. If he were lucky, he would overtake them not far outside London.

  As soon as Stratford quit the teeming London streets, the incessant rain stopped, and the fresh air allowed him time to think. What had possessed her to leave without waiting to see him? Whatever he did, he must win her heart. He must convince her it was not too late, that there was hope for them. Eyes narrowed and jaw clenched, he picked his way across the mud, going through, over and over again, what he must say.

  A short distance ahead there was a bend in the road, and as soon as he rounded it, he stopped short. There, in front of him, was the stagecoach, all its passengers on the side of the road and the strongest men attempting to push the coach from where the wheel had gotten stuck in one of the deep ruts.

  Eleanor, drenched from head to toe, turned her head at the sound of Stratford’s carriage, and her eyes widened. “My lord,” she said, shock evident on her features when he pulled up, and he thought he saw a flash of hope.

  “Please, get in, Miss Daventry.” Without waiting for a response, Stratford climbed down and assisted her to alight. Her hand sent a shock through him as helped her climb into the phaeton. I must not lose her.

  He steered the horses to the side and turned his vehicle in the grass that bordered the road, then took off at a clipping pace, leaving the coach and crowd of people behind. Neither said a word as he drove, but when he rounded the bend and saw the empty road stretch before him, he reined in slowly and steered the phaeton into a clearing off to the side. Alighting, he looped the reins around the branch of the nearest tree and walked to her side of the carriage, holding his hand up. “Miss Daventry, we must talk.”

  Eleanor was swirling with emotions. She’d been focused only on remaining strong until she reached Bath, where she would have all the time she required to sift through her thoughts. That is, once she had found a way to explain to her aunt how she came to be in such a predicament. The thought made her ill.

  Privately, she’d need to acknowledge the hopes she’d had of a life with Lord Worthing and grieve its loss. She must come to terms with whatever place she’d have in society and surrender to repercussions she had perhaps not yet thought of. She would have to decide how to proceed in earning her living and discover what could be done about an inheritance in the case where there was no husband. What she didn’t expect was to have Lord Worthing come after her. He had come.

  Placing her hand in his, Eleanor stepped down, her soaked dress clinging to her legs. Her knees were so weak, she nearly stumbled, but Lord Worthing caught her and held her, slow to remove his hand from around her waist. Finally, he released her, placed her hand on his arm, and indicated ahead. “Let us follow the path to those trees.”

  They began walking, and he cleared his throat. “You left.”

  She darted a glance his way before answering. “I needed to leave, my lord. I couldn’t be a charge upon you and your sisters any longer.”

  He stopped and turned to her, his expression bordering on anger. “Why, in heaven’s name, did you think you were a charge upon us, Eleanor?”

  She did not know how it could be that, in face of his anger, what she’d feel was elation. But the joy and hope at hearing her name on his lips nearly suffocated her. Her voice was faint as she answered. “You did not come this morning. Your sisters did not come.”

  Lord Worthing started walking again, and she followed. “I was bringing Sir Braxsen to justice, the only thing that could have kept me from your side. My sisters were busy making calls at every residence in London in an effort to clear your name. We were not there because we could not be.”

  Oh. She had not been forgotten then. But perhaps … perhaps his was simply an exaggerated sense of chivalry. Eleanor had to reassure him that she would be fine, so that he would feel under no obligation. “You needn’t have feared for me,” she said
. “My aunt will take me in. And I’ve sent a letter to Lydia asking for her to send my trunk.”

  At the mention of Lydia, Lord Worthing exhaled, his voice tight with frustration. “Lady Ingram will not welcome you back.”

  It was just as she’d dreaded. “I did not expect it,” Eleanor said. Then, her heart frozen with fear, “And Lydia?”

  “Lydia, I’m happy to say, is not of the same mind, but she cannot thwart her mother while living in her brother’s house.” Lord Worthing sought her gaze. “I believe she will make every effort to keep the connection. That is,” he said, “if you wish it.”

  “Oh, I most certainly do. Lydia is my best friend.” Indeed, Eleanor thought, except for you, my only friend.

  “If I know Lydia,” he continued, “she means to do more than correspond. She means to visit you. Her mother may dictate who stays in her household, but Lydia will dictate whom she befriends.”

  “Of this I’m sure.” Eleanor sighed. “But I haven’t decided where I’ll go next. I own that I’d been hoping for Lady Ingram to acknowledge me because it will be easier to find a position if she sponsors me. Now I have no one to recommend—”

  Lord Worthing did not let her finish. “Will you not consider marriage?”

  Eleanor was amazed she could continue to put one foot in front of the other with such trembling. How am I supposed to respond to such a question when he has not made me a proper offer? With a shaky breath, she answered, “No one has asked me, sir.”

  Lord Worthing looked startled and gave a strangled laugh. “No? I have it on good authority that you’ve received no less than three proposals, ma’am.”

  Shocked, Eleanor could feel heat stealing up her cheeks. That he would know about the other proposals … that he would reference his own at such a time!

  “My lord …”

  “Please. Let us be done with ‘my lord.’ ” Lord Worthing turned suddenly, her hand still tucked in the crook of his arm. “Will you not call me Stratford?”

  She stopped short, her heart beating so loudly she was sure he could hear it.

  “Eleanor.” When she lifted her eyes to his, Stratford took a deep breath. “You once said you wanted to marry for love. I … I have an unfortunate way with speech, but I promise you I do love you.” Stratford shook his head then, displaying an apologetic smile. “My words may be inadequate—in fact, I know I’ve made a wretched botch of it. But if you’ll have me, I promise I’ll spend the rest of my life showing you just how much I love you.”

  When she didn’t respond, he took hold of her hands, his voice pleading. “Miss Eleanor Daventry,” he began, formally, with eyes that refused to let hers look away, “I, Stratford Joseph Tunstall, the Fifth Earl of Worthing, hereby present myself—sober—that I might beg you to accept my hand in marriage.”

  The earnest look on his face was unbearable, and Eleanor’s mouth tugged upward as joy ballooned in her chest. Vague awareness teased her consciousness, that though theirs had not been an instant or easy connection, the ties were no less strong. From the beginning, these inexplicable bonds had drawn them together—this, despite their own resolution to the contrary. Those same bonds would let them weather any storm.

  Unable to keep him on pins and needles any longer—not that she needed any time to decide—Eleanor raised her eyes to his. And with words that were whispered more than spoken, she answered: “Yes, Stratford. I think I shall.”

  The earl let out a whoop! He picked her up by her waist, swinging her around once, laughing, until he set her down, and her wet skirts clung once again to her legs. The only sound around them was the raindrops that fell as the wind whispered through the birch leaves. Stratford reached up to take her face in both hands, holding her captive in his gaze.

  “This, my love, is one of the ways in which I will show you.” He leaned down and kissed her as Eleanor’s mind whirled, and her knees went weak. Only his hands on her arms kept her upright. This! she thought, This is what love feels like.

  As Eleanor melted into him, Stratford wrapped one arm around her waist and his other around her shoulders to pull her as close as possible in his embrace. Just as he was about to get lost in the kiss, he broke away, breathing hard. I must not forget my surroundings. I have time enough to make her my wife. He settled for pushing back her bonnet so he might lean his forehead against hers, his fingers caressing her cheeks.

  And because that was not enough to tame these lofty feelings that were swirling around him and threatening to make him do some very great thing, he whispered, “I love you, I love you, I love you …”

  Letter to the Readers & Acknowledgments

  Thank you for reading A Regrettable Proposal. I hope you enjoyed it. Leaving reviews and sharing about the book on Facebook or in your entourage is a precious gift for the author, and I greatly appreciate any endeavors to that end. (Click here to leave a review for A Regrettable Proposal on Amazon.)

  You may also discover my other books and learn of upcoming releases by subscribing to my author newsletter on the sidebar of the website jenniegoutet.com. I send a newsletter out every Friday with a bit of personal news and other book deals, mainly in the genre of clean romance. (Click here to go to the subscription page directly.)

  I had no serious thoughts of writing romance, nor had I ever heard of the Regency period, before a friend introduced me to Georgette Heyer—sadly rather later in life than I would have liked. I’ve spent countless hours gleaning facts about the era through Ms. Heyer’s works, as well as devoting additional hours to research, poring over history books and websites. Despite that fact, and my earnest desire to be perfectly accurate on all matters pertaining to the period, I’m sure there are mistakes. Probably many. I welcome corrections on any historical inaccuracies because it will save me from future gaffes. If you spot something, feel free to use the contact form on my author website to let me know about it. It will not fall on deaf ears. I plead your indulgence in setting a waltz in 1812 at Almack’s. I know the dance did not appear there until 1814, but it was too good an opportunity to pass up for the purposes of my storyline.

  A book is improved when an author lets other people read her work before it appears in its finished, published state. For their willingness to beta read, and all the improvements yielded, I’d like to thank Julie C. Gardner, Jaima Fixsen, Emma Le Noan, Cameron Garriepy, Kim Tracy Prince, Mandy Dawson, Donna Engler, Samantha Vérant, and my beloved father-in-law (who prefers not to be mentioned by name). Thank you, also, Carla Kelly, for your inspiration, sage advice, and for giving me just the encouragement I needed.

  Finally, I extend my heartfelt thanks to everyone at Cedar Fort—to Briana Farr for taking a chance on my book; to Jessilyn Peaslee for your incisive content edits; to Emily Chambers for catching even the minor things; and to Kaitlin Barwick for answering my questions with such patience. I’m thrilled to have had the chance to work with you all and am sincerely grateful that you brought my story to life.

  About the Author

  Jennie Goutet is an American-born Anglophile who lives with her French husband and their three children in a small town outside Paris. Her imagination resides in Regency England, where her romance A Regrettable Proposal is set. Jennie is author of the award-winning memoir Stars Upside Down and the modern romance A Noble Affair. A Christian, a cook, and an inveterate klutz, Jennie writes about faith, food, and life—even the clumsy moments—on her blog, aladyinfrance.com. You can learn more about Jennie and her books on her author website, jenniegoutet.com.

 

 

 
/>