An Unkissed Lady: A Historical Regency Romance (The Evesham Series)
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An Unkissed Lady
A Historical Regency Romance
Audrey Ashwood
Contents
About this Novel
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
An Orphan for the Duke Sneak Peek
Also by Audrey Ashwood
Closing Words
The Author
An Unkissed Lady Copyright © 2020 Audrey Ashwood
This work is protected by copyright.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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1. Edition eBook (Version 1.0); September, 2020
Print ISBN: 9798624065543
Cover Design: © ARP Cover Design
About this Novel
It is the most wonderful kiss of her life.
But who is the man who gave it to her?
When Lady Rose decides that it is high time for her first kiss, she crafts a promising strategy to not only be kissed but also happily married.
The man who has the honour of kissing her for the first time has already been chosen by her. He is of pleasant appearance, from nobility, and a promising marriage candidate. And indeed, the Lord appears at the appointed time and kisses her. Although she does not see his face, Rose knows that she will accept him and no other as her husband.
Months later, her fondest wish comes true – she is going to marry the man whose lips brushed against hers on the enchanting summer night. But then she realises that something is not right.
Nothing about his manner reflects the daring gentleman of that night. Or is his change in behaviour caused by the return of the gloomy Marquess of Cavanaugh, whom Rose despises from the bottom of her heart and who happens to be the only witness to their rendezvous?
Chapter 1
London, England
Lady Rose Carlisle was not the type of person to leave things to chance, certainly not something as important as her first kiss.
She was seventeen and a half years old.
This was her first season.
Her sisters were already married to husbands they loved deeply, and her friends had at least one admirer, with most even having two. However, Rose was no wallflower. Oh, no. Her dance card was always full. But … she sighed and fumbled again for the love letter in her handbag. Yes, it was there in the right place. Reassured, she let her gaze wander over the gathering and quickly came across Richard de Coucy’s shock of ginger hair. He was the reason for the “but” that was constantly circling in her head. But why hadn’t any of her dancing partners kissed her?
If she were to believe what her friends told her, a kiss was the lead-up to an engagement. Both Lady Rowena and Lady Nicolette had blushed and pretended an embarrassed laugh when confessing that they had allowed a kiss from the men they were to marry in the foreseeable future. If they were to be believed (and Rose did believe them), then their admirers had immediately made their intentions known, seeking their fathers’ permission to get engaged. The magnificent rings worn by her friends testified that a kiss was indeed the first step on the way to a wedding, regardless of what Rose’s chaperon and her parents would say if they knew of her intentions.
But neither her father nor her mother – and certainly not Mrs Prisson, her guardian – had any idea of her daring plan.
She would kiss Richard de Coucy.
Rose had spent a long time – a week, to be exact – thinking about which gentleman she would choose to receive her hand in marriage. It had not been easy. There were many unmarried gentlemen, but few seemed suitable. He had to be of nobility; otherwise her mother and especially her father would not give permission for the wedding. He had to have a pleasant appearance, have good manners and not simply want to marry her for her money. Since Rose had seen how her older sisters looked at their own husbands, and vice versa, she knew that a marriage of convenience was out of the question. She had immediately chosen Richard de Coucy, the future Earl of Barringham. His red hair appealed to her, a colour that contrasted so vibrantly with her own locks of blond hair. His face with a long, straight nose, narrow chin, and a wide-thinker’s forehead was sensitive yet, at the same time, characteristically male. He had a first-class tailor and dressed fashionably without going over the top like other gentlemen. Also, and most importantly, he had sneaked onto her dance card twice during the last dance evening, using the cunning manoeuvre of sending a friend over and then taking his place at her side. It had not been a scandal, dancing twice with the same gentleman was still fairly acceptable, however, by dancing with her twice, it had been noted that Richard de Coucy was showing interest in Rose.
Rose liked imaginative, daring men and was determined to be their equal. If her idea of a kiss and a subsequent engagement was not daring, then what would be? Richard had come up with something to spend time at her side. How could she fail to give him her heart when he had offered his so openly to her?
She glanced at her mother who was engaged in conversation with her best friend, Lady Blankhurst, and was paying her no attention. But where was Richard?
Since that dance, whenever her gaze landed on him, her heart had leapt. Rose had read enough books to know that this was a clear sign of love. She was in love with Richard de Coucy, heart and soul. Of course, he had to hold back after dancing with her twice to avoid creating an utter scandal. Rose understood that. But the two weeks when he had not paid her any particular attention (apart from offering polite greetings and making noncommittal chitchat under the eagle-eyed gaze of the dowagers) was enough for Rose to make her decision.
She loved him and wanted nothing more next season than to take the name of Rose de Coucy, the future Lady Barringham. Of course, he held back, being the gentleman that he was and not wanting to pressurise her. So, it was up to her to encourage him to take the next step. After all, she was a modern young lady and had read almost all the novels that her father had banned her from reading. If it were up to him, she would only have read about the rules of
housekeeping, the duties of a wife, or Mrs Edgeworth’s children’s books. Thank goodness her father had no idea what else had sprung from Mrs Edgeworth’s pen – and that this author’s books, so loved by Rose, dealt with topics that would have made her father’s hair stand on end.
Was it him there at the refreshment table? Rose craned her neck and almost failed to see Lord Gabriel de Vere approaching her small group. Oh, no, that could not be true! Why did this grouch have to show up now, when she was just about to scurry over to deliver her message to Richard? She purposefully turned away from him, giving a beaming smile to a totally surprised Lord Eaglethorpe, only for her mother to link arms with her at almost the same moment and push her in Lord de Vere’s direction. Darn! Rose regretfully released her gaze from Eaglethorpe, who seemed to be starting to understand that she had just beamed at him. He was a friend of Richard and could have given him her brief note. However, Lord Eaglethorpe was not exactly reliable due to his constant sipping of alcoholic beverages. The question was not if, but when he would carry out his mission, for Eaglethorpe had a tendency to cling on to the coattails of anyone he encountered.
Suffice it to say that her mother did not realise what was happening. Her mother had a weakness for Lord Gabriel de Vere and never tired of emphasising that, in her eyes, he seemed the friendliest and most genuine of all the unmarried gentleman, and therefore, she considered him the one who best suited Rose – but Rose saw it differently. Gabriel de Vere, the younger son of the Marquess of Cavanaugh, was at best, a bore and at worst a surly moralist, which was the most awful kind of a husband she could imagine. The day she married him would go down in history as the day she gave herself up along with all her dreams of true love.
“Darling, what is the matter? Are you not feeling well?” Her mother’s voice destroyed all attempts to avoid the persistent, dark gaze of Lord de Vere. Goodness, he even dressed like a boring man! Did he know nothing about fashion? This eternal black made him look like a preacher or a raven announcing a pending death. Cause of death: Boredom, thought Rose, just barely keeping herself from giggling out loud.
“No, Mother, everything is all right. I am just a little tired.”
“Then may I suggest that, instead of the next dance, I take you for a stroll into the garden a minute or two? The fresh air works wonders for tiredness. Assuming that your mother does not mind.” Rose had to admit that he had a pleasant voice, dark and deep, as one would expect from a man of his appearance. Just like his spencer, his hair was jet black and seemed to absorb the light from the candles in the candelabra. Dark brown eyes set in a hard, angular face and a protruding nose actually made him look like a raven. They were supposed to be intelligent animals and could even be trained by humans, as proven by the ravens at the tower.
Rose glanced up at him. She hated it when he stood next to her. She always felt so small by his side, like a child. On the dance floor, they had to look grotesque – she, barely reaching his shoulder, and he, bending down to her with every turn. Even in her gorgeous, extraordinary dress, she felt small and insignificant next to him. But perhaps … she could get this raven to deliver her message to Richard?
“May I, Mother?” Rose asked, giving her mother a pleading look.
“Here, take my stole,” said her mother, instead of expressing her permission, and handed her the precious silk cloth in gold-and-cream tones. “Make sure that you do not catch a cold.”
Glancing at de Vere, she said, “I know I need not ask you to stay on the terrace and remain within sight.”
With that, the matter was settled for Mother, she was sure that he would behave like a gentleman. Rose folded the stole over her arm to put it on outside. It was so hot in the hall that she most certainly had a bright-red face. All the better that she had a chance to cool down before facing Richard in such a heated state.
Lord de Vere gave her his arm and skilfully manoeuvred her past the twirling couples to the French doors leading out onto the garden. All the while, he did not utter a word, but held her so firmly by the arm that it was inappropriate. The other guests backed away when his broad-shouldered figure appeared in their field of vision, or when he politely but coldly urged them to make way for him in his dark voice. With every footstep, Rose thought that he walked through the crowd as if the floor belonged to him, and she wondered if this raven could really be trained as easily as she had imagined.
Chapter 2
Gabriel felt Lady Rose’s presence like a warming fire by his side. She was a magical creature, albeit a little young, although, in his eyes, her quick mind almost made up for her lack of maturity. He was glad that he had found the courage to speak to her. For when was the right time, if not now?
He almost smiled at his strangely confused feelings for this young thing. Crossing the channel to France tomorrow and standing up to the French tyrants with countless other men would take less courage than asking Lady Rose for two minutes of her time.
Everything had gone surprisingly smoothly. Her mother, whose warm heart made up for her eccentricity, had agreed immediately, and Lady Rose, surprisingly enough, had not objected to a stroll in the garden, either. And why would she, when he had no other intention than to enjoy a few precious minutes of her presence? Unlike his friends, he was by no means inclined to spend the last night on English soil in the arms of a lady of the night or in the opium dens, which were becoming increasingly popular. All he wanted was to take the image of an English rose with him when he went to battle. Without giving the matter too much thought, Gabriel had chosen Lady Rose as the one whose image would accompany him to the continent. He did not want to think of what his choice said about him, since the young lady was evidently more impressed with his friend de Coucy than with him. Sure, there were certainly a few young ladies who would have been more than happy to accompany him on a ride through the park (and more), but … he wanted Lady Rose. She and her hair in the colour of light and her deep blue eyes, directing a part-mocking and part-condescending look at him, seemed to symbolise all that he would leave behind early tomorrow morning.
Finally, they reached the way out into the garden. Gabriel barely noticed the servant opening the door for them, but he heard the click of the lock as clearly as a shot in his ears.
It was wonderfully quiet outside. Their hostess, the Duchess of Cherringfield, had lit up the garden so subtly that it was possible to see where the winding paths led, but not what was happening off the beaten path.
He felt Lady Rose shiver on his arm and quickly retrieved the stole the duchess had given her. “Please, allow me,” he said, moving a half-step behind her to unfurl the light fabric of the stole. The fine gold embroidered threads rubbed against his rough fingertips and reminded him of how fragile Lady Rose was compared to him. She was as small and as tender as a new-born little bird that had not yet learned to fly, or like a butterfly that fluttered from sunbeam to sunbeam and, at the first breath of frost, … no. Now was not the time to revel in gloomy thoughts.
As gently as he could, Gabriel spread the silk scarf over her back and delicate neck. Her slender shoulders rested under his hands and, for the briefest of moments, her fingertips touched his as she reached for the ends of the cloth and knotted them gracefully in front of her bosom. “Come, Lord Gabriel, accompany me a little further into the garden,” she begged him sweetly, linking his arm. In contrast to her deceptively delightful tone, she led him resolutely into the heart of the garden, where it was the darkest.
Should he perhaps … his normally quite regular heartbeat skipped, only to thrust forward with double the force like a noble stallion on the racetrack. Would lady luck be on his side tonight, and dare he kiss Lady Rose? A single kiss he could keep in his memory until he returned? A gentle kiss that would make a talisman for him when confronted by anything waiting for him over in enemy territory? He would not take advantage of his superior physique to force his touch upon her, no matter how much he longed to feel her lips on his. He knew all the signals a woman sent before she wanted to
be kissed: a soft tilt of the head, flushed cheeks, gleaming eyes that would not let go of his, and most of all, that irresistible flutter of her eyelids when she was ready. Only then, he vowed silently, if Lady Rose showed every single one of these signs, he would risk a kiss.
From the left, he heard a suppressed giggle and a sound that was easily recognisable as the opening of a fan and someone vigorously waving the female accessory.
“Let us go somewhere where we will not be disturbed,” she whispered, giving him a lovely, almost conspiratorial smile. For a second, he was confused about the purposefulness she displayed and the ignoring of the sounds they had just witnessed. But then Gabriel told himself that this was a sign of her unconditional confidence in his respectability, yes, even his chivalry, and he readily followed her as she veered off the path and headed towards a little nook covered in ivy. With no help from him, she sat down on the marble bench, straightened her stole and tapped her hand invitingly on the stone seat beside her. “Please, sit down.”
“With pleasure,” Gabriel replied and cursed his lack of spontaneity, which, once again, made him seem so little eloquent. Carefully, he sat down next to her. Although they were separated by an arm’s length, he could feel her warmth and smell the lily-of-the-valley scent of her perfume, which went to his head faster than the old port from his father’s cellar. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that she was fumbling with the cloth before she tilted her head and looked up at him.