A Dash of Romance (Romantic Encounters: An Anthology Book 1)

by Paullett Golden

  Wednesday arrived and departed in a flurry of quill against paper. Abbie held steadfast to her conviction—she would not relinquish her life and dreams because a wealthy aristocrat desired a companion.

  Steadfast though she may be, guilt-tinged ink drops dotted the page. Lady Dunley meant well. She was kind and lonely. Her son preferred London life and rarely stayed at the estate longer than a week at a time. Abbie had only seen him a handful of times, never mind that they had both lived in the same village since birth. From her brief encounters with him, he seemed amiable, but he was always distracted and inattentive, especially to his mother. Lady Dunley most certainly must be lonely.

  Blast. Another rogue ink drop.

  Before she finished the chapter where Sir Bartholomew saved the burning village from the dastardly villain, Abbie wanted to write next week’s newspaper column. On her way to see her sister the day before, she had witnessed a hushed argument that set her mind reeling with ideas for the latest letter from Mrs. Button to her dearest niece Lucy.

  Mrs. Button was a fictitious woman of Abbie’s imagination, as was Lucy, but the villagers loved reading not only the antics and schemes of dear Lucy but also the sage advice of Mrs. Button. Every letter echoed some happening in the village, offering readers a moral compass and a fresh perspective. No one knew Abbie wrote the articles. No one would trust advice on worldly topics from a maiden, the vicar’s daughter no less. But they trusted Mrs. Button.

  My dearest Lucy,

  You were correct to write to me, as always. I understand your hesitancy with having the gentleman sup with the family. He does not sound the pleasant sort. There is, however, no need to add salt to his tea or sewing needles to his chair, though I admire your spirit. Many a time it was that my own parents invited gentlemen I did not favor to supper. It is a trial, dear, to sit through a meal with someone you feel may be pushed upon you, but I urge you to accept such trials with grace. See these times not as a moment of unpleasant matchmaking but as a testament to your manners. Let each guest see you as a gracious hostess. The word will spread, your favor will increase, and soon the gentleman you do seek will find you, perhaps at that very table.

  Yours, Mrs. Button

  Customarily, Mrs. Button’s letters were longer, but Lady Dunley’s increasing insistence was making it difficult for Abbie to focus on her writing. She did not want to be bullied into the position, but neither did she want to feel guilty for not accepting.

  If her ladyship wanted, she could make life unpleasant for the Walsleys. If truly put out, she could have the bishop relocate the Reverend Walsley to another parish. Abbie could not imagine her ladyship going to such extremes, and certainly not because Abbie refused to serve as her companion, but the worry lingered on the fringes of Abbie’s mind. So insistent her ladyship had been of late, Abbie wondered to what lengths the viscountess might go to obtain what she wanted.

  Abbie laughed to herself. What fanciful nonsense! She had been writing and reading far too many novels. Real life was not so dramatic. There had never been anything threatening about Lady Dunley. The woman held strong opinions and a will of iron despite her frailty and age, but she had never abused her power.

  What advice would Mrs. Button give her? She wondered. With a sigh, Abbie sanded the letter’s ink and folded it. Tomorrow, she would drop it in the submission box.

  For now, she must focus. The village in her story was not going to save itself from the villain, not without Sir Bartholomew. The good knight needed her as much as she needed him.

  Chapter 2

  The spot of bother that would irrevocably change Abbie’s life occurred midmorning on Friday, not even a week since her last visit with Lady Dunley.

  With a finger as a bookmark, Abbie closed the cover of Clarissa.

  She had penned a polite albeit vague missive to her ladyship that she would not be visiting until the week after Michaelmas, next week. Guilt still weighed heavily, yet steadfast she remained. This was not the first time her ladyship had tried to convince Abbie to be her live-in companion, but it was the first time the viscountess had harassed the vicar about it.

  Rather than making her way to the Dunley manor, Abbie would visit her sister. Mrs. Prudence Rockford was the closest in age, relationship, and proximity to Abbie, living a few miles away in Sidbury. She had married the local physician five years earlier and was now increasing with her second child.

  Her eldest two sisters were Mrs. Faith Framlers, who lived with her husband, a farmer, near Aunt Gertrude and Uncle Cecil Diggeby in East Hagbourne, and Mrs. Bonnie Sullivan, who lived south of Sidbury with her curate husband of fifteen years and their son. They had always been a close family and remained so, bonded ever more tightly after losing their mother to a fever. It was during that time when Prudence met her husband to be—their mother’s physician.

  Using a ribbon to replace her finger as bookmark, Abbie decided it time to set aside Clarissa. She could not concentrate, no matter how captivating the story. She held the book to her chest and stretched her legs. Had her father finished preparing his sermon?

  Just as she rose from her chair, intent on checking on him, the parlor door opened.

  Her father’s face peered around the door, his eyes roaming the room until he spotted her. Leland stepped into the room wearing a peculiar expression. He was not alone. Following behind him was a man dressed so well as to be considered foppish. Blonde, blue eyed, extraordinarily tall, athletic—a handsome man indeed! Abbie flushed at the sight of him. He pulled a snuff box out of his pocket and took a pinch then paused to study the top of the box, as though it held all the secrets to the modern world. He had yet to look at her.

  Her father’s smile was tight, not reaching his eyes, and his brow furrowed, as though trying to sort a difficult puzzle as he looked from Abbie to the man and back.

  “Dearest, I trust you’re not indisposed. Lord Dunley requests an audience.”

  Ah! It had been so long since she had last seen Lord Dunley, she hadn’t recognized him. He was much taller and broader than she recalled, certainly more fashionable. There was more lace and frill about his person than she possessed in her entire wardrobe.

  It was not until her father backed out of the room and shut the door, leaving her alone with the viscount, that Abbie began to fret. Her eyes widened in alarm, the book clutched against her bosom.

  “Has her ladyship taken ill?” she asked.

  Guilt! Oh, dear guilt. She had been avoiding Lord Dunley’s mother for purely selfish reasons, and now look what had happened! Her ladyship was ill, or worse. Could it be worse? Abbie drew the book higher until the edge pressed at her chin.

  “Miss Abilene,” Lord Dunley said, “my mother is quite well. It is on her behalf I have come today.”

  Abigail stared in confusion, her fingers tightening around the book.

  For the first time since entering the room, Lord Dunley’s eyes lifted from studying his snuff box and cast her a cursory inspection before his gaze rested on the book in her hands.

  He frowned. “Is that a book my mother would approve?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand your question.” It was not, in fact, a book Lady Dunley would approve, but that was neither here nor there, as this was her father’s house not his.

  His frown deepened, his eyes not lifting from the book. “Reading is an unhealthy habit for a young lady.”

  Bristling, Abbie bit back her response. It would not do to insult a viscount, certainly not one standing in the vicarage. Instead, she tucked the book behind her and indicated a chair.

  “Would you care to join me, my lord?”

  “I shan’t stay long, Miss Aberdeen. I’ve come to secure your hand in marriage.”

  Abbie’s jaw dropped.

  “I—but you—but we’ve—We’ve never even spoken to each other, my lord,” she stammered.

  Not in her wildest fanta
sies would she have expected a proposal from a viscount, least of all this one. Had he been besotted with her all this time? Had he been gathering information about her from his mother? How flattering. How peculiar. But he had never spoken to her! Despite the absurdity, she felt a moment’s blush. She could marry. She could have a family of her own. She could know love. Long ago had such dreams diminished. To have them flooding back to her in such an unexpected fashion was too much. Although not the swooning type, Abbie felt faint, her limbs cold and her face clammy.

  “I see no reason why that should change,” he answered, returning to study his snuff box.

  It took her a minute to recall what she had said. When she did, she clamped her jaw closed, affronted and perplexed.

  Pocketing the box, he huffed a bored sigh. “Well, Miss Adelaide? Shall I precure a license on Monday? A hasty and private ceremony would be best, don’t you agree?”

  Abbie stared. Her heart wrenched. She knew not what to say. Though it was her first proposal, it was not in any way what she had expected. These were not the words of a man besotted. The proposal felt sordid somehow, as though he wanted to hide her away, ashamed of his lowly and plain bride.

  “Why do you wish to marry me, Lord Dunley?” Her voice cracked, betraying her timidity.

  Regardless of his reasons for proposing, she was trapped. A spinster dared not say no to such a proposal, her one chance for wedded bliss. More to the point, one did not say no to an aristocrat.

  “My mother wishes it, and so it will be done. You’ll dine with us this evening. I must away to London in the morning, but it is my mother’s wish you take up residence at the hall posthaste. I will send a carriage for your baggage tomorrow.”

  Abbie’s hands began to sweat. The book still held at her back weighed heavier, tugging at her fingers.

  “But my lord, I’ve not said yes.”

  He exhaled another bored huff.

  Clearing her throat, she searched the room for answers, clues, an escape. If she said no, what would happen? Would the man, or more to the point his mother, retaliate against Abbie’s father? Could they force her? But then, would it be so bad to say yes? They could grow to love each other. She would have children of her own. She would be respected as marriageable rather than stigmatized as undesirable. Any marriage, some said, was better than none. But what of writing? If he disapproved of her reading choices, would she be allowed to write?

  Her mind reeled, so many questions, so much indecision.

  “Miss Adele, I’ve wasted enough time. I have important matters to attend to. I’ll send the carriage for you this evening at six sharp. Be ready.” Lord Dunley turned to the door, his hand reaching for the handle.

  “No!” Abbie screeched before she could stop herself.

  He turned, his brows raised in alarm.

  “I—that is to say—well, you see—I can’t marry you, though the offer is flattering.” She tugged her bottom lip between her teeth.

  There was nowhere to go from here, no reason to decline, she a plain spinster and daughter of a vicar.

  Lord Dunley’s eyes narrowed. However bored he had appeared since arriving, he now looked startlingly perturbed.

  “I—you see—I can’t,” she repeated, her words a jagged staccato.

  “Pray tell, what are you on about?”

  “I, um.” Abbie cast about for some excuse, but it was no use. She had no acceptable reason to deny him. “I’m already betrothed,” she blurted.

  Abbie closed her eyes as she drew in a deep breath, her limbs shaking. There was no withdrawing the words. They had been spoken. And to a viscount! She was the worst sort of sinner—a liar.

  “To whom?” asked a voice trembling with barely disguised anger.

  Her eyes remained closed. She had not the courage to face him. Desperate, she found only one thing to say.

  “You don’t know him.”

  Before she could stop them, more words tumbled out of their own volition. “He’s…he’s knightly. Yes, a gallant knight. Brown hair, hazel eyes, charming, excessively charming, actually, a younger son, not that I care anything about that. He’s—he’s my knight in shining armor.” If she could clasp her hand over her mouth, she would. Yet such confessions were not falsehoods, not really. Sir Bartholomew may be neither real nor her betrothed, but he was most certainly her knight. “We met in East Hagbourne, if you must know.”

  Why was she telling him such things? Was she so desperate to convince him that she could be loved? Was she so desperate not to be forced into a position as a live-in companion? She was mortified by her words, but once said she could not retract them.

  “His name, Miss Amelie.” The viscount’s foot tapped against the rug in a dull, repetitive thud.

  Steeling herself, she looked back to the viscount whose nostrils flared. What did he care? He clearly did not want to marry her, only was doing his mother’s bidding, and for what purpose? To force Abbie to serve as companion? What a lark! He should be relieved that he did not have to follow through.

  “I’ll not divulge his name, my lord, for our betrothal is a secret. I should not wish to upset my family until we are ready to wed.”

  “Then you’ll cry off. A simple solution. I’ll send the carriage at six.”

  “No,” Abbie insisted, her words bolder than she felt, for her hands trembled and her knees knocked. “My answer is no. I will not cry off my engagement to marry you. You’ll need to find a different bride and a different companion for your mother.”

  A knock on the parlor door sent Abbie’s heart leaping from her chest and the book she still held thudding to the floor.

  Lord Dunley did not turn to observe Leland stepping into the room, his only acknowledgement a sniff. “Your daughter has refused me.”

  Abbie’s eyes moved from Lord Dunley to her father, her pulse racing. Leland’s brows met in confusion, his tentative but optimistic smile faltering.

  “Mr. Walsley, I wish you had known she was already spoken for, as it would have saved us all a great deal of trouble and time.”

  “Already spoken for?” her father echoed.

  “It would seem so. A secret betrothal, she says, to a knight from East Hagbourne. She refuses to divulge a name. If you’ll be so good as to move from the door, I’ll see myself out.” With a curt bow, he left.

  Abbie remained in the parlor with her father.

  Leland studied her, his expression not only confused but hurt. She knew what he must be thinking—how could his daughter keep such a secret from him? It was too late now. She was trapped by her own lie. One word of truth could either free her or make it all that much worse. Would it be so difficult to live as an engaged woman for a time, and then find a way to cry off convincingly? It was not as though her false betrothed would mind. His life, being fictious, would not be adversely impacted. Yes, she could cry off—after the viscount had married someone else.

  Chapter 3

  Mr. Percival Randall, second son of the Earl of Camforth, tightened the reins of his matching pair and drew his curricle to a stop.

  A swift lift of the knocker of the Merriweathers’ London townhouse produced a stern-faced butler thrusting forward a silver calling card tray.

  “What’s this, Helms?” Percy waved to the tray. “I’m expected. And you dashed well know who I am.”

  “Your card, sir,” said the butler without moving his lips.

  Percy grumbled but tugged a card free from its case. With a thwack he placed it on the tray.

  “I shall see if the Merriweathers are at home and receiving, sir.”

  The door slammed in his face.

  What was this abuse? They had invited him to tea!

  After an inordinate amount of time waiting, to the point that Percy began to feel dashed uncomfortable standing at the front door, regardless that the London streets were sparsely populated this time of year,
the door opened.

  “Mr. Merriweather wishes to see you in his study.” The butler stepped aside. “Follow me.”

  A sense of foreboding curdled Percy’s morning meal. If Mr. Merriweather wished to speak alone, that could mean only one thing: the moment of reckoning.

  The man would insist on a verbal confirmation of Percy’s intentions with his daughter, perhaps even on a proposal, although that may be too bold for the mild-mannered Merriweather. Was it too late to run? However serious Percy was to find a bride, thanks to his father’s ultimatum, he was not ready to face the hangman’s noose. A little more time would ready him. A few more weeks, maybe a year. Or two. He had until his thirtieth birthday, after all.

  The walk to the study was long. By measurement, it might only be a few yards, but that made no difference to it being the longest walk Percy had made all year. Hooking a finger over the edge of his cravat, he tugged. He should have seen this coming. No father would allow his daughter to be courted indefinitely, not without some sign of commitment.

  Percy had to think fast. Could he say the words? Could he propose? As sweet as Miss Merriweather was, he felt nothing in the way of romance for her, and he suspected she felt the same of him. Was a general sort of fondness enough as a foundation for marriage?

  Eyeing the approaching study door, he gulped.

  When the butler ushered him over the threshold, Percy found Mr. Merriweather standing behind his desk, his back to the room, chin drooped to chest. Percy waited for the noose to tighten.

  “You made a fool of us all, Mr. Randall. I should have known not to expect more from someone with your reputation.”

  Percy’s jaw slackened. What the devil?

  Clearing his throat, he said, “I do beg your pardon, sir, but I must ask what I’ve done to disappoint you.”

  Had they found out about Clarice?

  He knew he should have let her go the moment he started courting Miss Merriweather, but he had not had the gumption. He had, however, avoided visiting his mistress’ townhouse for weeks, determined to practice celibacy to see whether he could live a monogamous life, thinking only of the woman he was courting. It was not something he was in the habit of doing, but he had to try, if for no other reason than out of respect for his future bride.