by Cecilia Gray
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Meet Bridget Belle—the Bookish Belle—her head full of mischief and ideas. Unlike her sisters, she has every intention of marrying a storybook hero. Someone romantic and passionate—just like her.
Meet Benjamin Abernathy—the sensible duke’s son—his head firmly on his shoulders. Being the rational one amongst his friends has seen him through school and the war. But it will take more than reason and logic to win a battle of wits against Bridget.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons living or dead, or places, events, or locales, is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2016 by Cecilia Gray
Cover Design and Copyright by Okay Creations
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 express written consent from the author/publisher.
Published by Gray Life, LLC
READ. LEARN. LIVE. REPEAT.
Praise for Cecilia Gray’s Novels
“Absorbing… refreshing… commendable.” —Kirkus Reviews
“A compelling mix of action, drama and love.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“Four Stars!” —San Francisco Book Review
“Gray’s characters are so full of life, hope and dreams, it’s a pleasure to read about them.” —Schenni’s Book Nook
“This series is definitely worth reading.” —A Whisper of Thoughts Reviews
“Cecilia has a talent for instilling warmth and weight into her characters.” —Romancing the Book
“Will have you captivated from beginning to end.” —Can’t Put It Down Reviews
The Couldn’t-Have-Done-It-Without-You Page
The Indie Jane girls. Even though we’ve never met in person.
A Disclaimer of Some Urgency
We apologize, but it appears the headstrong and romantic nature of Miss Bridget Belle, warped by her excessive reading of novels, has led her from the path of innocence to debauchery. To wit: she kissed a man to whom she was neither married nor engaged.
Such behavior may eventually lead to a woman becoming a wife—or even a duchess. So before one pontificates on the evils of women and reading, consider that while the end does not justify the means, one cannot deny the favorability of the odds.
Still … kissing men when one is not married is simply not the done thing, even if you read about it in a book.
Chapter One
Sera Belle’s wedding day
February 14, 1817
Woodbury, England
Bridget Belle found the unassuming volume, bound in brown cloth and with a spine no longer than her forearm, on the third shelf of the back wall. The book was tucked discreetly between the life works of Marlowe and an equally unassuming hardbound collection of Webster.
She glanced over her shoulder as a frisson of excitement traced its way down her spine. The cavernous library of Woodbury Hall was empty, as it had been on most occasions when Bridget found herself drawn to it. Save for a half dozen jewel-toned Turkish rugs, the seating arrangements atop them, and the hundreds and hundreds of shelved books that ran from floor to ceiling, Bridget was alone.
Still, as always when she was about to read a book—particularly a book she ought not be reading—her heart fluttered against her breastbone. She turned back to the volume and ran her finger down the spine. Its taut construction flexed beneath her fingertip, beckoning as only a book that has not been read can, perhaps one that has not even been cracked open. With a flick of her wrist, she pulled it from its shelf, crossed to a green tufted chaise, and sat, resting the volume on her knees.
She was nineteen years old, the second eldest in a family of five daughters, and yet all she knew of the world was contained in ink and pulp, like this. The title, King Lear, was stitched into the cloth in white. A bust of Shakespeare encircled in ivy decorated the cover. She cracked open the binding and felt the buoyancy of satisfaction as she always did when she was the first to open a book, the first to peek inside a world.
This world in particular had been banned until recently. It was whispered that the fictional portrayal of the mad king too closely resembled the crumbling mind of their own king. It seemed to Bridget that the real madness lay in denying readers the story and in denying to the world at large the truth of what had befallen their monarch.
She had never seen a copy of King Lear in her lifetime, or any of the original plays, in fact. Her father had once gifted her with a copy of the Bowlder family volume of the Bard’s work, but they were censored passages with no heat, no wit, and none of the illicit and clever humor she found before her now. She preferred novels to plays but was still engrossed, flipping pages in quick succession only to turn back and reread a striking passage that refused to loosen its grip on her imagination.
“Bridget!”
She laughed softly, then reread the passage she’d just finished when her father had bellowed:
How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is
To have a thankless child!
A man of impeccable timing, her father. London society said it was his engineering brilliance that made him the richest man in London, overseeing a courier empire to rival the likes of world conquerors, but she had to wonder if he was simply very lucky.
She shut the volume with a clap and shot to her feet as the library doors flew open.
Dominic Belle eyed her with exasperation. He pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his dark coat and wiped the sheen from his smooth, shiny head. “Did you even sleep in your own room last night? Today, of all days.”
Today was a reference to it being her youngest sister’s wedding day. Or more likely, a reference to the day one of the Belles married the Duke of Rivington’s eldest son and heir, she silently amended. Sweet Sera was set to become wife to Thomas Abernathy, or as he was oft nicknamed, Tom, the Jolly Giant. Bridget herself felt he mimicked the appearance of Saint Nicholas on purpose, with his round belly and red, puffy cheeks. To the outsider, they seem mismatched in every way but two: Sera’s money and Tom’s title. Such a match thus satisfied her father’s desire to see his daughters married and fulfilling his two-decade-long quest to grant her mother’s dying wish that her daughters become duchesses.
Today was an important day for her family, and her sister Sera was its heroine.
“I was just looking for something romantic, some poetry.” Bridget clasped the volume behind her back. “Perhaps something to read to Sera as she readies her hair.”
“Perhaps you should be more focused on your own hair,” her father advised sternly.
Bridget curtsied. “Absolutely, Father.” She scurried past, tucking the book against her side in an attempt to hide it from him.
“Bridget.”
She paused midstep.
“Your acquiescence is suspect.” He held out his hand. “Please do not steal from our hosts.”
With a defeated sigh, Bridget held out the book. She tried not to curl her fingers around the spine as he pulled it from her and laid it on the side table, not even bothering to place it back on its shelf. The indecency!
She picked it up and walked it back to its spot on the third shelf. “I was merely borrowing it.”
He raised a brow, his spectacles cockeyed. “As you borrowed the scrolls from the Daoguang Emperor’s personal library?”
She bit her lip to quell a broad smile at the memory. It had been one of her finer moments. She’d had to engage her sisters in distracting the guards, as well as smuggling the scrolls bene
ath their skirts. She still couldn’t read the blasted symbols—black strokes in an infinite variety—but she imagined a world of wanton knowledge lay within the calligraphy.
Her father’s gray-eyed gaze, a mirror of her own, softened as he continued to study her. “I had thought you would be the first to marry. I remember you playacting weddings from the time you were knee-high. You’d reenact wedding scenes from your favorite books and make poor Charlotte dress as the groom and paint moustaches on her face.”
This time Bridget could not stop her smile at the thought of her chubby, redheaded sister. Bridget had insisted on a red moustache to match her sister’s hair, and the dye had not come out for days.
“Do not fret, Father. Today is for Sera. But I will marry—and marry well—and make both you and Mother proud.”
Just as soon as she found the right man—the perfect man, as strong and beautiful and wise as any medieval knight or romantic literary hero. Title of duke be damned.
Her father dabbed at the corner of his eye, as he always did when the subject of her mother was raised. He gave her a quick peck on the head. “Good child. Now go to your room. Your lady’s maid is ready to faint from being unable to find you, though why she didn’t start her search in the library is beyond me. Once you are presentable, then, Bridget, and only then, if you wish to read …” He stopped short of saying he would allow it. But she could tell from his reluctant smile that he wouldn’t force her out of the library again.
Bridget went first to the conservatory. She had seen a cluster of purple pansies on her last visit and imagined them tucked prettily in her hair. She often wore a crown of flowers—a subtle homage to Cressida. While that lady was a heroine known for being feckless and inconstant, her life also seemed dreadfully exciting, which was more than Bridget could say of her own. Besides, the arrangement would complement her yellow dress with its ruched neckline and ribbon-lined sleeves.
She would need all the help she could get to compete with Sera.
Bridget believed she presented a picture as fetching as that of any heroine. She was willowy, as the current fashion favored, with slim wrists and a delicate neck. But Sera, christened Seraphina, was every bit the angelic beauty for which she was named. She drew so many comparisons to the angelic—both for her stunning features and her gentle personality—that it was a wonder the entire blasphemous city of London had not been smoked by a single bolt of lightning.
At least comparing herself to her beautiful sister and coming up short merited a dramatic sigh, so sigh she did, enjoying the dramatic rise and fall of her chest that, alas, was flat as the planes of Africa and not in the least dramatic.
Drat it all.
She threw open the glass conservatory doors with the appropriate amount of flair but froze when she recognized a male voice swearing—a male voice that ought not be employed in swearing, for it was not the sort of thing one would expect of Lord Benjamin Abernathy.
As the second son of the Duke of Rivington, he’d commanded quite a bit of her notice, as she was the second daughter in her own family. Second siblings ought to have a lot in common! And yet that was where their similarities ended.
He was tall and filled out a coat nicely, as he was fit from riding, wartime, and pugilism. She was of mediocre stature and could barely fill out a corset. Her eyes were gray, his a dark brown. The slope of her nose curved perfectly into her brow, whereas his brow was pronounced, with three distinct crinkles from constant furrowing. Even their hair, while both brown, could not be compared, as her color was soft while his was severe.
All these were merely the physical differences.
Severe was quite the way to describe him in totality. She could barely recall a time when he wasn’t frowning with disapproval or casting a judgmental gaze. Yet here he was swearing!
Sensing an opportunity for adventure, Bridget ducked behind a large palm with arching fronds and listened.
“What the hell do you mean, it’s missing? I thought I told you to burn the damned thing.” Benjamin pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers, the drumbeat of a headache thrumming through his skull. He didn’t remember who had poured the first drink, and he was sure he hadn’t had the last, but he’d consumed far more than usual during last night’s pre-wedding celebration for his elder brother. Now he was paying the price.
“Of course I didn’t burn it,” his good friend Christian Hughes said with a shrug of his beefy, wheelbarrow-like shoulders. “It’s not mine to burn. Nor yours. It belongs to all of us.”
“It might soon belong to the whole world since we weren’t careful enough. My father will kill every last one of us if a single soul discovers that blasted book.”
Benjamin heard something—a gasp. His head swiveled, but all that followed was silence.
“Your father’s a—”
“Quiet,” Benjamin said. “I thought I heard something.” He strained his ears and there it was—a soft rustle of leaves. “Did you hear that?”
“It’s hard to hear over your constant criticism,” Christian mumbled.
If Benjamin thought he had a prayer of landing a punch anywhere near Christian, who was a professional boxer, he would consider it. Even if he did land a punch, he’d do little more than break his hand, if past experience were to repeat itself. “Be quiet. I tell you, I heard something. Someone.”
“No one’s here. Take a look around. You’re imagining things.”
Benjamin shushed Christian with a look, but his friend was right. After a minute he heard nothing. It must have been his fevered imagination or the pounding within his own head. Regardless, he had bigger problems than the excess consumption of alcohol. “Who had the book last?”
“I thought you did,” Christian said. “Graham was reading passages of it aloud to tease Tom. You told us to put it away and snatched it from him. Everything after that was wine, women, and song. Well, no women, thanks to your rules, but songs galore.”
“Damn.” Benjamin shook his head, trying to dislodge the events of last night from his brain. Except for the sight of Tom’s ruddy, embarrassed cheeks, he came up empty. “What would I have done with it?”
“What does one do with a book?” Christian said. “You put it in the library.”
With a groan, Benjamin made his way toward the library, knowing with every step that he would find it occupied. Whenever the Belles were in residence, Bridget Belle was always in the library.
He had heard rumors of her prodigious literary appetite prior to meeting her. There were many rumors about the Belles—their tale of woe and wealth was whispered in every ballroom in London—but he had not seen them for himself until their first visit to Woodbury several years ago, when his father and Dominic Belle had first began discussions about joining their families.
Given the extent of the Belle wealth, Bridget had not proven impressed with the grand properties, the works of art, or the elaborate fountains. She had not cared about the stocked lake, the manicured gardens, or the stables. She’d barely given his father’s gaudy preoccupations a first glance, much less a second.
But the books? Bridget had rushed into the library, pulling books from shelves, climbing up and down the ladder so recklessly he had been worried she would break her neck. She would open one volume only to be distracted by another book within a few pages. He had once found her at half past midnight asleep on the chaise amid three dozen volumes in various stages of open abandonment, a satisfied smile on her face. For a few moments, he had allowed himself the stolen privilege of watching her. She had seemed so at peace. She would never know the demons of war, the sound of whizzing bullets, the cries of men falling, all the noise and chaos he often felt compelled to control with order and rules, hoping for silence.
This time, when he entered the library, he found Bridget, but she was in no state of rest. She was running along the perimeter of the library, searching the shelves wildly, eyes wide. Her hair stuck to her face from the sweat of physical exertion. All in all, she looked completely u
nsuitable to attend a wedding.
“Lord Benjamin,” she gasped, turning around and flattening herself against the shelves.
He inclined his head. “Miss Bridget.” His gaze leaped around the room, searching for the volume. Would he have shelved it? Left it on a table? Dropped it on the floor? He circled her slowly, keeping an eye on her. “Were you looking for new reading material?”
“Er, yes,” she said.
Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing erratic. It might have been the picture she presented or the readings from last night that were still fresh in his mind, but his pulse sped up. “As am I,” he said, clearing his throat.
“Excellent,” she said. “I suppose we’ll both … er … look, then.” She continued to circle the back shelves, her head whipping from him to the books and back again.
“So we shall,” he said, walking through the many seating arrangements to see if he’d dropped the volume on the floor or kicked it beneath a chair.
For every step he took, Bridget took one in the opposite direction. She was behaving strangely, even for her, which was saying quite a bit since he’d once caught her acting out one of Ovid’s plays.
“Are you sure I can’t assist you?” he asked, hoping he might find her a book and send her on her way so he could search more thoroughly for the damned journal.
“Ah, no.” She cleared her throat. “Well, wait. Maybe. Is there, perchance, another library on the property? Or another place where books are kept?”
Had she finally managed to read every book in this one? “Certainly,” he said. “Each of our studies boasts a small library, and the gardener’s cottage also has several volumes that were collected by the gardener’s wife when he used to reside there. Mostly fiction and poetry.”
“That will do,” she said, breezing past him and out the door.
“Happy to be of service,” he called after her and then turned back to the room to search in earnest. The book was nowhere in sight.
