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

by Paullett Golden

  She had had another opportunity to cry off after dinner when they had returned to the drawing room for tea. Every look towards Percival had stopped her. Being there with him, his eyes trained on her, his open admiration worn in his expression, it all felt right. The impossible seemed possible.

  The congregation gathered outside the church after service, parishioners vying for an introduction to the Randall family or desirous to reminisce with the vicar’s daughters. Abbie stood to one side of her father, searching the crowd for Percival. He had been standing right there. And then poof!

  “Now’s our chance,” a voice whispered from behind her.

  She felt his palm cupping her elbow before she saw his profile as he stepped up next to her. The touch, even through the sleeve of her dress, sent a thrill through her body.

  “Allow me to walk you home while everyone’s distracted?” he asked, his tone full of meaning and insinuation that went beyond a simple walk home.

  This was the chance he wanted, the opportunity to speak with her. It was not a chance to escape an engagement. It was not his chance, rather our chance, he had said. Their chance to…to what? Be together? Her breath quickened.

  She knew her own feelings for him and what she wanted. She also held tight to that hope his affections were sincere. How could they not be sincere? The letter from Mr. Stitch, the flowers, the gift, the note, all things only she saw, no notch to his reputation or saving grace to his predicament. The speech at the dinner had been public but she had recognized her liberty to make the final decision. And there was the purchase of Leigh Hall, an action he took after being granted an escape from the shackle. He gained nothing from deceiving her and less than nothing from continuing the engagement. How could she not believe him sincere?

  The familiar walk to the vicarage with Percival at her side invited her to tuck her hand in the crook of his arm, her shoulder bumping against him every few steps. They strode in silence, the sounds of laughter and happiness behind them.

  Not until they settled in the parlor did either speak, the first words via speaking glances as she blushed to see him take in the array of flowers perched around the room.

  “Tell me about the hall,” she prompted when he began pacing.

  “Yes, that’s a good place to start. I prepared a speech last night, but my nerves are too frayed to recall it. Yes, let’s start with the hall.”

  A speech? Her brows rose in surprise.

  “No, let me say this part first, at least. If you feel nothing for me, I’ll understand. I’ll back away, leave you in peace, and move into my new residence to begin a fresh life. But if you feel something, anything, reconsider. I don’t wish to break off our engagement, Abbie. It may have started as a misunderstanding, then moved into a business partnership, but it has since become something real to me. I want it to be real.”

  He kneeled before her, clasping her trembling hand in his warm, strong palms.

  “I come to you not as a man needing to fulfill an ultimatum. I’m not a dependent of my father, needing a bride. I come to you as an independent man wanting you as my wife. I’ve purchased a home I adore and have set a meeting for next week with the mill owner to discuss an investment. I can offer you security and happiness. I’m not the rogue you think me to be, and I vow there will never be anyone but you, only and forever you. Before this moment, I’ve never proposed to anyone, not because I have an aversion to marriage but because I’ve never met someone I wished to marry. I don’t make my offer lightly. I place my heart in your hands. My devotion is true and runs deep. If you’ll have me, I’ll love you not until death does us part but well beyond that, beyond the grave, and beyond the gates of Heaven.”

  Her hand still held captive, Abbie tugged at the handkerchief in her dress pocket, desperate to wipe the tears before she made a blubbering fool of herself in the middle of his pretty prose.

  “I want to know when your novel is published,” he continued. “I want to know the progress of your next novel. I want to be with you to celebrate the moment you become the premier novelist of the age. I want to be there with you and for you when these dreams come true.”

  Her handkerchief dabbing at her nose, she made to speak, but he put a finger to her lips.

  “Not yet. There’s more,” he said.

  He tugged at his pocket, trying to pull out what looked like a bit of folded paper. Abbie took the opportunity to wipe her face of tears. As dreadful and blotchy as she must look, she did not care. She wanted to hear more. In fact, she never wanted him to stop.

  Smoothing out the paper, still kneeling before her, he read, “‘Dear Lucy. It is I, Mr. Stitch, your trusted advisor. I have a confession. We never met at a dinner party as I once claimed. I do not have a wife you know, also as I once claimed. You’ll be shocked to learn that I am the very Mr. R. you have reservations about. This means all my advice has been full of motive and bias, except the last letter wherein I instructed you to spot the differences between a sincere gentleman and rake. Well, that letter, too, was full of motive and bias, but not the kind you think, for it was my ardent hope you would read those words and realize me the very best of men and see my love as truth. I know not what your aunt Mrs. Button will say to this revelation, but I have only to say that I love you with all my heart and soul.’”

  Abbie’s tears were interrupted by her laughter, causing an embarrassing mixture of hiccupped stutters and shudders. Percival did not seem to mind. He handed her a fresh handkerchief and clasped her free hand once more, the paper tossed to the floor.

  “I’m not Sir Bartholomew. I’ve not lived a chaste life. I don’t even slay dragons. And if Granny M ever loses her sheep, I won’t promise to help find them. To be honest, I would probably invite the dragon in for tea rather than slay it, and I would buy Granny M new sheep. I am nothing more than a humble second son, no accolades to my name, but I will love you more deeply and for much longer than Sir Bartholomew ever could, for unlike that chivalrous knight who wanders the country in search of fulfillment, I already know my place. My estate is in need of repairs and my name is soon to be sullied by the word industry, but will you consider, just consider, if you feel anything at all, if my words have not fallen flat, will you consent to be my wife? Will you, Miss Abigail Walsley, marry me?”

  After the longest, most disjointed speech Abbie had heard in her life, she launched herself into his arms, peppering his face with wet and snotty kisses. The two, kneeling together on the floor, wrapped arms about each other, their lips meeting in a feverish and unchaste kiss.

  When their lips parted for the slightest of moments, she took the opportunity to say, “Yes, I’ll marry you. I’ve loved you for too long not to.”

  “Have you really?” He leaned back to study her face.

  She nodded, tugging him back to her lips.

  Their embrace continued, lips slanting, tongues probing, hands exploring, until the parlor door opened.

  Both her family and his spilled into the room, all laughter and conversation. Then they spotted Abigail and Percival, kneeling, locked in a lascivious embrace. Silence shook the couple from their private moment.

  Clamoring to their feet, not the least embarrassed, they clasped hands and faced their families.

  Percival said, “You may all wish us happy.”

  “Yes,” Abbie continued for him, “for Percival has proposed, and I’ve accepted.”

  Each family member looked from one to the other in complete perplexity.

  Except the vicar.

  Leland smiled, looking from Abbie to Percival. “Splendid. I can finally read the banns.”

  Epilogue

  1801

  The feather of her quill brushed against her chin as she re-read the lines.

  Lady Araminta peered out her tower. A queue of knights crossed the drawbridge.

  Hmm. Should her ladyship see the queue first, the knight of her choic
e first, or remark on her own independence first? For the third novel, her publisher had welcomed an independent heroine as the main character, but just how independent she could get away with, she was unsure. Abigail tapped the empty quill against the paper, lost in thought. Flipping to the page before it, she studied the last lines of the previous chapter rather than watch where she was walking.

  When her shin met the arm of an unsuspecting chair, nearly sending her flying over it, she looked up for the first time in her walk down the hallway to the drawing room. Half the furniture had been overturned, the other half covered in the old curtains. Covered was putting it mildly. The curtains draped over several pieces of furniture, forming odd sorts of tents and tunnels. What in the name of sanity was going on in here?

  A growl. A screech. Curtains shuddered and hovered. Another almighty growl sent a knight brandishing a wooden sword shrieking his way out from under one of the tents. Abbie’s five-year-old son Edmund was soon followed by his three-year-old sister Emma, who was armored in a tiara and veil and squealing with piercing conviction to ruuuun. The pair raced behind Abbie and hid.

  The curtain bumped and humped and shifted until it flew into the air, revealing a fierce dragon on the rampage. Percival charged, wearing—good heavens! Was that her old basil-green open robe with train? Yes, she believed it was.

  “Rawr!” Percival exclaimed. “I’m a hungry dragon! I eat all who enter my lair!”

  The children clutched Abbie’s legs. “Save us, Mummy! Save us! Papa’s going to eat us!”

  Undaunted, Percival stalked her, his hands turned to talons.

  Abbie patted their heads, her manuscript clutched in her other hand. In a demonstration of braveness, she walked right up to the fearsome dragon and kissed his cheek. “Don’t you know the best way to defeat a dragon is to invite it for tea?”

  He grinned just long enough to throw her off her guard. Then with a duck and scoop, he swooped her into his arms, her shrieks joining those of the children’s, her manuscript pages flying into the air and onto the dreadful curtains they had both hated. The princess and knight circled back to save mummy as the dragon roared and carried her to his lair.

  Flash Fiction

  Arrival

  Crisp air slashed his face. Nicholas bent lower, hugging the stallion’s neck.

  The ill-timed missive had threatened the most important business opportunity of his life. He didn’t care.

  He rode hell for leather against the sharp winter wind. She needed him. He shouldn’t have left her. A month to go, he’d thought the morning he left for London. One month to close the deal, securing their future as coal mine owners.

  Only a week had passed.

  The house loomed ahead, silent and foreboding. Naked tree branches reached for souls to snatch.

  Leaping from the horse, he raced past a groom and a footman, the front door slamming into the wall in his wake.

  The foyer stood empty, only the neighing of his horse behind him and the voices of the staff ahead. Shouts sounded from the first-floor sitting room, voices raised in fear.

  Need drove him forward. He had to see her. She had to know he’d come.

  Racing through the gallery and down the hall with the squeaking floorboards, he saw her father, grim and imposing. The man stood guard, a face of stone, a will of iron.

  Undaunted, Nicholas barreled into the brick chest, pushing it aside. Or trying to. The wall of a man didn’t budge.

  “You’re not going in there,” thundered the voice.

  “Like hell, I’m not. She needs me,” he insisted, desperate to get by.

  “You’re too late.”

  The words stopped him cold. Limply he stood, his body slack, his soul dissolving. He hadn’t ridden fast enough. He’d come too late.

  Life flashed before his eyes. Her life. Their life. A young girl he’d loved at first sight, a heart he’d worked long years to win. Vibrant blue eyes, golden hair, a laugh that chimed. She’d tamed his recklessness, brought sense to his world, given meaning to his life.

  Three difficult pregnancies later, they remained childless, heartbroken. Each lost babe claimed a piece of her vivaciousness, a corner of her smile. And now, the fourth had taken her life.

  “The physician’s with her now,” said her father. “He’ll call you in when he’s finished.”

  “To hell with the physician. I need to see her.” He pushed against the man with renewed strength.

  A punch to the gut bent his father-in-law’s will, and Nicholas shoved past, bracing himself for what waited behind the door.

  “You’re too late,” said his mother-in-law, a handkerchief catching her sobs.

  He pulled her into an embrace, forcing his eyes to the sitting room’s chaise longue, afraid to see the ashen face, or worse, the faceless sheet.

  “You’re too late,” repeated the voice of an angel. “Your son refused to wait.”

  The vision of perfection blurred from the tears he wiped on his mother-in-law’s shoulder. The sobbing woman muttered about miracles as the physician swaddled a newborn. His wife gazed lovingly at the wriggling baby.

  His wife. Alive.

  He came to her side, the physician and attendant howling with rage that the new mother wasn’t prepared to receive, and other useless yammering that barely registered in the flood of his relief. Smiling, his wife held out her arms. He dove into them.

  “I thought I’d lost you,” he muttered against her neck, inhaling the sweet smell of jasmine and sweat. “My brave, brave, Fiona.”

  Placing a hand to his heart, she said, “We both must be brave now. We’ve a babe to raise.”

  Beguiled

  The anonymous letters first appeared in the newspaper on February 1st and caused such a stir, she hid at home for a week. No one doubted they were written for her. How many Lady Ts of Shropshire were there, after all?

  The latest letter, featured in the Valentine’s edition, was the most scandalous:

  To the bewitching Lady T. of Shropshire:

  Thine eyes be green and thine hair red.

  Please, accept me so we may wed.

  I loved you at first sight

  And hope you don’t take fright

  When you lay your precious eyes on me.

  Tonight, at last light, together we’ll be.

  The ball began at dusk.

  Her dance card filled before she’d reached the receiving line to greet her hostess. The eager faces of bachelors all claimed with their waggling eyebrows to be her secret admirer. Would he make himself known tonight? Would she run in fright?

  Though no one spoke to her, all eyes found her from behind fans and hands.

  Between the twirls and promenades of each dance, she scanned the crowd for clues. Whispers followed her, taunting her with tales of a clandestine romance.

  And then she saw him.

  A shadowed figure watched her from behind a potted plant. Her pulse raced, a roar in her ears masking the voices around her.

  Their eyes met, and her world tilted. Hazel eyes peered at her from beneath heavy lids framed with dark eyelashes. Those eyes seemed to read her soul. Never had she believed in love at first sight. Until now.

  He took a step towards her.

  She stepped towards him.

  A din of voices resounded around her, crescendoing when he took another step.

  And then a clink of glass, drawing the attention of all in the room.

  “But a moment, please, but a moment. I have an announcement,” voiced the hostess. “It is a propitious Valentine’s ball, indeed, for I have the pleasure of announcing the betrothal of my eldest daughter to Lord Keyes.”

  Her eyes never left his, though he took five more steps forward. She counted. How many more until he reached her?

  He stopped. Her breath caught. He wasn’t walking towards her, but rather to
the center of the ballroom. A young miss affecting well-practiced ennui took his arm.

  How could this be? He was the betrothed Lord Keyes?

  No! She’d only just discovered him. She’d only just found love.

  Oblivious to the girl on his arm, he continued to stare at her, his eyes ablaze.

  Before she made a cake of herself, she tore her gaze from his and escaped by way of the terrace doors. Grasping the railing outside, she filled her lungs with air, staring at the sun setting behind a copse of trees.

  Footsteps sounded behind her. A gossiping matron or a vapid girl to tease her?

  A rumble intoned, “Elope with me.”

  She whipped around to come face-to-face with Lord Keyes. They stood but an arm’s reach from each other.

  “I don’t know you,” she whispered.

  “Yes, you do. You knew me at first sight, just as I knew you.” His cologne enveloped her, enticing her to move closer. “Come away with me.”

  “But what of your betrothed?”

  “Inconsequential. I want you, only you. Come with me. Gretna Green awaits.” He held out his hand. “Will you be me Valentine bride?”

  Her family’s disapproving faces flashed before her eyes.

  “Yes.” She slipped her hand into his.

  They fled the terrace, darting hand in hand across the park to the circle drive.

  Swift words to a curious coachman and a bump and jostle later, they were on the road, bound for Scotland. Her stranger pulled her against his chest, his arms wrapping around her shoulders to shield her from doubt. He kissed her deeply, soulfully, conveying to her all the words they’d not yet said, affirming his heart mirrored what hers did for him.

  At length, she leaned away, smiling, memorizing his face, reaching a hand to trace the scar that ran from his left ear to his chin.

  “I’ve loved you since the second letter,” she confessed.

  A crease deepened between his brows. “Letter? What letter?”