Spring in Hyde Park

by Jennifer Moore

  “So they will live with you?” she asked.

  “For a few years. Harcourt does indeed need many repairs to be livable.”

  Sophronia gave him her broadest smile. “That is very generous of you, Your Grace.”

  He cleared his throat and strode about the room. “Not at all. Had he not inherited Harcourt, his place would have been at Mayfield Manor in any case. And he has been abysmally difficult ever since your sister cried off.”

  “She has not been able to forget him.”

  “I suppose they are truly in love,” he said. With his set jaw and the lines between his eyes, it did not look as though the idea appealed to him whatsoever. Her happy spirits took a dive.

  He sat down and picked up the book he was reading. With forced brightness, she said, “There is such a thing as love, you know.”

  His gaze rested on her face. “I have become familiar with the feeling, believe me. My brother tells me it involves a mental state where one desires to cherish and protect the object of one’s affections.”

  “I would suppose those would be a man’s feelings. A woman, on the other hand, wants to make the object of her affections blissfully happy. That should be a mighty task for whoever decides they are in love with you.”

  He smiled at her sally. “You would not be willing to take it on?”

  Her heart leaped, but she worked to keep her expression neutral. “You see me here, laid up with my injuries. I am afraid such a herculean task would be impossible at the moment. I would need to be a bruising horsewoman, for one thing.”

  “I do not imagine you will be content to be an invalid for the rest of your life.”

  They looked at each other, sparks arcing between them. Sophronia thought he was ready to speak when the door opened and Lavinia tripped in, smiling and laughing.

  “Dearest! Lord Gilbert and I are to be married after all!”

  Behind her, her fiancé stood with a besotted grin on his face as Lavinia explained the plans the duke had already laid out.

  “I am so very happy for you, my dear!”

  A glint of mischief was in Lavinia’s eyes. “That means you shall have to get along with the granite-faced duke, for of course you will live with us!”

  “Granite-faced, eh?” The duke gave one of his one-sided smiles.

  “My sister believes that you think her an on-the-shelf spinster who is out to entrap you,” Lavinia said.

  The duke pointed to the door. “You impudent baggage. Leave this moment and allow me to take up this shameful matter with Lady Sophronia.”

  The minute the giggling girl and his brother were out of sight, he knelt by the bed and said, “Did you really think that?”

  “Of course. It was the truth.”

  “You are right. But even I can be woefully mistaken. I knew it at dinner that first night we were paired off. You are even more impudent than your sister.”

  “Shall you find that a great bother?” she asked innocently.

  In answer, he brought his lips to hers and kissed her with such passion that she immediately forgot all her pains and bruises. Indeed, she forgot where and who she was. He tasted her lips hungrily and then moved on to her cheeks and her jawline until he was kissing her just below her ears.

  She managed to pull away. “Your Grace, you forget, I am a single lady, and we are not alone.” When he brought his head up, his eyes were dark with desire. She indicated Sukey sitting in the corner, the color of a beet.

  “We must take care of that problem. Will you marry me so that I may kiss you in private?”

  “I think that is an excellent suggestion! Why did I not think of it?”

  “I think you must be temporarily addled.”

  “Only in the very best of ways. Now that we are engaged, you must kiss me again,

  Your Grace.”

  Epilogue

  The closest Sophronia and Lavinia ever came to seeing their aunt and uncle in good spirits was on their double wedding day.

  Lavinia wore rose pink, and Sophronia, a gown of light gold. No one was able to agree upon who was the more beautiful sister.

  The duke was awe-inspiring in his full formal attire, but that did not prevent his bride from gazing at him with a wholly irreverent and saucy smile. The kiss that confirmed their vows was far lengthier than convention allowed, and Lady Falwell was heard to comment that she thought Lady Sophronia, far from being a dried-up spinster, obviously possessed a wayward streak.

  Click on the covers to visit G.G.’s Amazon’s author page:

  G.G. Vandagriff grew up reading the enchanting Regencies of Georgette Heyer. After writing historical novels set in the twentieth century and a set of genealogical mysteries, she decided to try her hand at writing romances. Regencies were her sub-genre of choice. She has now written ten!

  In her other life, she is a mother and grandmother of six, which offers plenty of distraction from plot problems. It is amazing how many plots will work themselves out while she is playing trains with her grandsons. She also plays a great role in any Star Wars’ drama her progeny might devise!

  Currently, she is working on a new series of Contemporary Romances set in Florence. Please visit her website at http://ggvandagriff.com and get a free Regency novella!

  Chapter One

  HYDE PARK

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  APRIL 1816

  In retrospect, Miss Arabella Heartstone had three regrets about The Incident:

  She should have worn her dark green pelisse with the fox fur collar, as the morning was colder than expected.

  She should have insisted her chaperone, Miss Rutger, stayed at her side, instead of politely out of earshot.

  And she probably should not have proposed marriage to the Marquess of Blake.

  “P-pardon?” Lord Blake lifted a quizzical eyebrow, standing straight and tall, rimmed in morning sunlight bouncing off the Long Water behind him. A gentle breeze wound through the surrounding trees, rustling newly grown green leaves.

  Belle straightened her shoulders, sternly told her thumping heart to quiet down, and repeated her request.

  “After much consideration, my lord, I think a marriage between you and myself would be prudent.”

  Blake stared at her. Blinked.

  Silence.

  Birds twittered. Branches creaked.

  At last, he stirred, pulling a folded letter from his overcoat and tapping it in her direction.

  “I take it you are not a gentleman interested in my business venture in the East Indies?” he asked, returning the letter to his pocket.

  “Not precisely, my lord. Though I do propose a joint endeavor.”

  “Indeed.” A pause. “Marriage usually implies as much.”

  Lord Blake shuffled a Hessian-booted foot and clasped his hands behind his back. A corner of his mouth twitched.

  Was the man . . . amused? If so, was that good? Or bad?

  Though, at this point, did it matter?

  Belle soldiered on. “There would be significant advantages to both of us with such a match.”

  More silence. An errant draft of wind tugged at his coat.

  “You have me at a disadvantage, Miss . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Heartstone. Miss Arabella Heartstone. We were introduced at Lord Pemberley’s musicale last month.” She hadn’t expected him to remember everything about her, but not even her name?

  It did not bode well.

  “Right.”

  He removed his hat and, shaking his head, ran a gloved hand through his hair. The morning sun turned it into molten shades of deep amber, curling softly over his ears.

  Lean and several inches taller than her own average height, Lord Blake was not . . . unhandsome. Straight nose, square jaw, high forehead. Replacing his hat, he studied her, blue eyes twinkling.

  Yes. Definitely amused.

  That was . . . encouraging? Having never proposed marriage to a man before, Belle was unsure.

  “Enlighten me, if you would be so kind, as
to the particulars of these advantages.” He gestured toward her.

  Excellent. That she had come prepared to do.

  With a curt nod, she pulled a paper from her reticule.

  “A list?” His lips twitched again.

  “I am nothing if not thorough in my planning, my lord.” She opened the paper with stiff, gloved hands, resisting the urge to blow on her cold fingers. Though the chill could be more the result of nerves.

  “Of course. I should have expected as much. You arranged this meeting, after all.” He tapped the letter in his pocket.

  Belle chose to ignore the wry humor in his tone and merely nodded her head in agreement. “Allow me to proceed with my list. Though please forgive me if my reasons appear forward.”

  “You have proposed marriage to a Peer of the Realm, madam. I cannot imagine anything you say from this point onward will trump that fact.”

  “True.”

  A beat.

  “Well, then. Let me begin.” Belle snapped the paper in her hand. “Firstly, you have newly inherited the Marquisate of Blake from a cousin. Your cousin was somewhat imprudent in his spending habits—”

  “I would declare the man an utter scapegrace and wastrel, but continue.”

  “Regardless of the cause, your lands and estates are in dire need of resuscitation.” Belle glanced at him over the top of her paper. “You are basically without funds, my lord.”

  “As my solicitor repeatedly reminds me.” He shot her a wry look.

  “My own family is genteel with connections to the upper aristocracy, though no proper title of our own, leaving my father to make his own way in the world. I, as you might already know, am a considerable heiress. My father was a prominent banker and left the entirety of his estate to me upon his death three years past.”

  Belle clenched her jaw against the familiar sting in her throat.

  Blink, blink, blink.

  Now was not the time to think about her father.

  “Are you indeed? And how much of an heiress are you, precisely?”

  “I believe the current amount stands somewhere in the region of eighty thousand pounds, my lord.”

  Lord Blake froze at that staggering number, just as Belle had predicted he would.

  Her father had originally left her a healthy sixty thousand pounds, but she was nothing if not her father’s daughter. Making money was a gift that flowed in her veins.

  Refusing to see her gender as a barrier, her father had, from her earliest memories, taught his only child everything he knew, even soliciting her opinions during that last year before his death. Belle understood more about business by the age of sixteen than most noblemen. Knowing this, the conditions in her father’s will allowed her to continue to manage her own funds with the help of his solicitor, Mr. White.

  Even now, at only nineteen years of age, she managed a thriving financial empire with Mr. White acting on her behalf. Facts of which her mother and uncle, her legal guardians, were unaware.

  She could hear her father’s gruff voice. I would give you choices, Belle love. A lady should always have options. I would see you happy.

  Bless him.

  Now, if she could only land a husband and free herself from her mother’s tentacles . . .

  “Eighty thousand pounds, you say? That is a dowry of marquess-saving proportions,” Blake said.

  “My thoughts precisely, my lord.”

  “And are husbands—particularly the marquess variety—generally so expensive?” He clasped his hands behind his back. Studying her. “I have not thought to price them before this.”

  “I cannot say. This is my first venture into, uhmm . . .”

  “Purchasing a husband?” he supplied, eyes wide and mocking.

  Heavens. Was that a hint of displeasure creeping into his voice?

  “I am not entirely sure I agree with the word purchase, my lord—”

  “True. It does smack of trade and all polite society knows we cannot have that.”

  A pause.

  “Shall we use the word negotiate instead?” she asked.

  He cocked his head, considering. “I daresay that would be better. So I receive a sultan’s ransom and your lovely self, and you receive . . .” His words drifted off.

  “A husband. And in the process, I become Lady Blake, a Peeress of the Realm.”

  “Are you truly so hungry to be a marchioness? Surely eighty thousand pounds could purchase—forgive me, negotiate—the title of duchess.” His words so very, very dry.

  “I am sure my mother would agree with you, my lord, but I am more interested in finding a balance between title and the proper gentleman.” She cleared her throat. “You come highly recommended.”

  “Do I?” Again, his tone darkly sardonic.

  Oh, dear.

  But as she was already in for more than a penny, why not aim for the whole pound?

  “I had my solicitor hire a Runner to investigate you. I have armed myself with information, my lord. I did not arrive at the decision to propose marriage lightly. I know you recently cashed out of the army, selling the officer’s commission you inherited from your father. All those who served with you report you to be an honest and worthy commander—”

  “As well they should.”

  “Additionally, you are a kind son to your mother. You send her and your stepfather funds when you are able. You visit regularly. Your four older sisters dote upon you, and you are godfather to at least one of each of their children. You are a tremendous favorite with all of your nieces and nephews. All of this speaks highly to the kind of husband and father you would be.”

  After her disastrous betrothal to the cold, aloof Lord Linwood last year, Belle was determined to not make the same error twice. She learned from her mistakes. Her mother and uncle would not browbeat her into accepting one of their suitors again.

  If nothing else, eighty thousand pounds should purchase—negotiate—her a kindhearted husband of her own choice.

  Lord Blake shuffled his feet. “I-I really am at a loss for words, Miss Heartstone. I am trying to decide if I should be flattered or utterly appalled.”

  “Might I suggest siding with flattery, my lord?”

  Colin Radcliffe, Lord Blake, stared at the girl—er, woman?—before him.

  Valiantly, he tried to remember being introduced to her. But, as his entrance into the highest echelons of society was recent and his memory for faces somewhat poor, he had a devil of a time remembering everyone he had been introduced to over the past weeks.

  Though in his defense, Miss Heartstone was utterly nondescript. Forgettable.

  Brown hair, brown eyes, neither short nor tall, figure neither plump nor thin. Her round face was not unattractive, but neither was it conventionally pretty. More baby-soft than striking.

  The only thing exceptional about her was the expensive cut of her pelisse . . . and her audacity.

  Marriage, eh? He was twenty-three with barely two farthings to his name—marriage was his last concern.

  Yes, the marquisate was paupered, mortgaged to the hilt. But it hardly mattered at this point. The three country houses he owned were let with responsible tenants who oversaw the land. He made no money from them, as all available income went to debts, but neither did they require money of him. As for family, his mother and sisters were wed and cared for.

  In short, there was little to tether him to England currently. He most certainly didn’t need or want a wife.

  No matter how much money she brought to the match.

  “Miss Heartstone, I do believe it is the time-honored tradition to express gratitude when receiving an offer of marriage, no matter how . . . irregular.” Colin fought to keep dry humor out of his tone. “I am not insensible to the honor you do me.”

  “That sounds like the beginning of a rejection, my lord.” Miss Heartstone folded her hands primly. Lifted her chin. “I would beg you to reconsider.”

  She was courageous. He chose that word over its less flattering cousin—brazen. And he c
ouldn’t help but appreciate her straightforward manner. She was honest and refreshingly direct.

  Not to mention, a tremendous strategist. Just the machinations that had gone into arranging their current meeting spoke volumes about her capabilities.

  With those two characteristics, why did she need him? His father had been a commissioned officer and, therefore, constantly overseas fighting in one war or another, leaving his family safe at home. Colin had been raised by his mother and older sisters. He knew, better than any man of his acquaintance, the capabilities of women.

  “Yes, Miss Heartstone, I fear I must refuse your kind offer.”

  She opened her mouth to speak. He held up a staying hand. Allow me to explain myself.

  “Why do you feel the need to purchase a title?” he asked. She wasn’t the only one who could be refreshingly direct.

  “A lord may marry for money or physical beauty.” Her spine straightened even further, if possible. “How is my proposal any different?”

  “Forgive me. I phrased that poorly.” He clasped his hands behind his back. Contemplated the Long Water for a moment. “Why do you respect yourself so little that you would eagerly enter into a loveless marriage with a man whom—no matter how well researched—you do not know?”

  She inhaled a sharp breath.

  “Pardon, my lord?”

  “You are a young woman in possession of a tremendous fortune. It is also obvious you are courageous and intelligent.” He flung a hand toward her. “Why do you feel you need a husband?”

  Miss Heartstone opened her mouth. Shut it. And then frowned. “Women must marry, my lord.”

  “Why?”

  Miss Heartstone’s eyes flared. “Society has expectations—”

  “Hang society.”

  She blinked. But Colin was just getting started. He had listened to his mother and sisters too many times over the years.

  He started pacing back and forth, hands still clasped behind his back, trampling the fresh green grass under his boots.