Love in the Moonlight: A Regency Romance All Hallows' Eve Collection: 7 Delightful Regency Romance All Hallows' Eve Stories (Regency Collections Book 6)

by Arietta Richmond

  Across the room, a flock of young women clustered around two men, shamelessly attempting to attract their attention, competing with each other in a way which reminded Bella of the seabirds on the docks, fighting over scraps of food when the ships came in. She would never lower herself to that kind of behaviour.

  The crowd of women parted for a moment, as the two men pushed their way through them. Her breath caught. It was him, she was sure of it. The man she had seen only once before, yet who was imprinted on her mind. He moved, on foot, with the same causally lethal assurance that he had moved on horseback. He was just as beautiful now, as he had been then.

  Suddenly, she had an insane impulse to run forward, to throw herself in his path, to discover who he was. The impulse was gone as soon as it came – had she not just said that she would never indulge in that sort of behaviour? Still, she wanted to know who he was, even if she never had the chance to speak to him face to face.

  She touched Sera’s arm.

  “Sera, who is…” Sera turned to her, but it was too late, he was gone through the door towards the card room. “never mind, I can’t see the person I was going to ask about anymore.”

  They went back to their conversation, but to Bella, the room seemed somehow duller, dimmer, without his presence in it. The disconsolate flock of husband hunting young women had scattered, and were seeking other prey. It made her wonder again who he was, what title or wealth he had, that made him hold so much fascination for them. They were shallow like that.

  They moved into the room further themselves, Sera and Harriet introducing her to people as they went, and she steeled herself to the experience of being disregarded, over and over again. A few of the young men did ask her to dance, but they were ungainly and inelegant in their movements compared to the unknown man with the golden hair. And their conversation soon proved that they were interested in nothing but the size of her dowry.

  Disgusted, and feeling disenchanted with the whole concept of Balls, she eventually claimed a megrim, and asked that they go home.

  But when she closed her eyes in the carriage, his image was there, burned into her memory.

  Get

  “Kissing the

  Duke of Hearts”

  as soon as it’s released – go to http://www.ariettarichmond.com

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  Books in the ‘His Majesty’s Hounds’ Series

  Claiming the Heart of a Duke

  Intriguing the Viscount

  Giving a Heart of Lace

  Being Lady Harriet’s Hero

  Enchanting the Duke

  Redeeming the Marquess

  Finding the Duke’s Heir

  Winning the Merchant Earl (coming soon)

  Healing Lord Barton (coming soon)

  Kissing the Duke of Hearts (coming soon)

  Loving the Bitter Baron (coming soon)

  Rescuing the Countess (coming soon)

  Attracting the Spymaster (coming soon)

  Restoring the Earl’s Honour (coming soon)

  Books in ‘The Derbyshire Set’

  The Earl’s Unexpected Bride

  The Captain’s Compromised Heiress

  The Viscount’s Unsuitable Affair

  The Count’s Impetuous Seduction

  The Rake’s Unlikely Redemption

  The Marquess’ Scandalous Mistress

  The Marchioness’ Second Chance (Coming Soon!)

  Lady Theodora’s Christmas Wish

  The Derbyshire Set Omnibus Edition Vol. 1 (the first three books all in one)

  The Derbyshire Set Omnibus Edition Vol. 2 (the second three books all in one)

  Available at all good book stores and for ebook readers too!

  Clean Regency Romance

  The Earl’s Secret

  Catherine Windsor.

  Copyright this story: - Catherine Windsor

  Chapter One

  “I doubt a place could look more dreary and uninviting.”

  Madalene Montclair knew she was being miserable and it wasn’t the fault of her mother that they were currently traversing the northern English countryside during a torrent of freezing rain.

  “I find it hard to believe you grew up here and managed to maintain the slightest grip on your optimism or pleasant disposition.”

  That brought a smile from her mother. The Honourable Lady Ambly, daughter of the esteemed Viscount Hawkridge and widow of the Baron Ambly, had managed to stay somewhat encouraging during their recent voyage across the channel, after the unexpected death of her husband Bertram, Madalene’s father.

  His death had wracked Madalene with grief and it was only her mother’s strength and courage that had seen her through those dark months, as they numbly oversaw the packing of the chateau. They had chosen to return to her mother’s homeland, in light of the mounting tensions between France and Great Britain. The fact that a distant cousin of her father now owned the chateau and the surrounding vineyards made staying an impossibility as well, she thought bitterly.

  Madalene had resisted the move the whole way, but underneath her mother’s gentle disposition was an iron will that had held strong.

  The two were returning to the small village where Pamela Fairchild had been born and raised and they would start anew, returning as Pamela Montclair, widow of Baron Ambly and mother to one incredibly headstrong 19-year-old daughter who was intent on complaining the entire journey.

  In her lap, Madalene glanced down at the scrawled words on the slip of paper she’d tucked into her valise.

  “Did you know the Countess very well?”

  She’d asked her patient mother the question at least one hundred times since they began the voyage.

  “We are cousins, our fathers having been brothers, and we knew each other as girls,” Pamela said, her eyes staying closed. “She was a few years older than me and fairly young when she married the Earl, who owned the neighboring estate. Her family was not happy about her marriage, but I was young and never understood why. I didn’t see much of her after that and never again once your father and I left for France.”

  For a brief moment, Madalene allowed herself to think of her father, with his kind brown eyes, his shock of curly grey hair and the ever-present laugh he had at the ready for any number of life’s adventures.

  Oh, how Madalene missed him.

  “Elizabeth was a headstrong girl, much like you,” Pamela continued. “Her husband passed away some four years ago and we maintained a correspondence throughout much of that time, after I initially wrote with my condolences.”

  They were going to stay with Elizabeth, the Countess of Wrotham and her son, the new Earl of Wrotham.

  If Madalene knew little of Elizabeth Hatcher, she knew even less about her son, Gabriel. Her mother had only told her that he was 27-years-old, handsome, and unmarried. In her defence, Madalene mused, those were most likely the only characteristics that her mother was interested in, as there wasn’t much of a marriage market in the south of France where they’d lived. There had been a son or two of local, wealthy landowners nearby, but no official season like they had in London and many of the surrounding areas.

  Madalene wasn’t even interested in having a season, even if she hadn’t been too old and too foreign-born to truly enjoy one. What she was interested in, though, was perhaps finding a friend for herself. She dreamed of meeting a young woman about her age that she could share laughter and good times with.

  She hadn’t grown up with any girls nearby and had been a bit of a lonely child when it came to peers and friends. Her governess had been the closest thing she had to a confidante. Poor Madame Cecile had been almost 30 years older than Madalene, and had been tasked with the job of keeping a young Madalene out of trouble and properly educated.

  No, while she imagined that most young women under the age of 20 dreamed of rich, handsome husbands, Madalene found herself dreaming of a friendly, outgoing young lady in need of connection and friendship as sorely
as she was.

  She stole a glance at her napping mother.

  The countryside was bleak in the early days of fall, and unseasonably cold, as the innkeeper had told them the night before. The further north they traveled, the more sparse and unforgiving the landscape became, with sweeping fields of vast, cold grasses, rocky outcrops of hills and spooky forests whose trees shook and trembled against the heavy winds and rains.

  “Weather warms up for about a fortnight each year,” the toothy old innkeeper had said over breakfast. “’Bout the same as now the rest of the time.”

  As the winds shook the window panes nearly free of their restraints, it had been all Madalene could do not to grimace as she shivered under her wrap. She was not terribly excited about this new life being forced upon her. All she knew was her beloved France with its warm summers and green rolling hills, fragrant with flowers and the grapes from her father’s vineyards.

  In their carriage, her mother slept on while her small terrier Matilda, old and grumpy and rheumatic, failed to get comfortable and continually readjusted herself on the seat beside her.

  Her mother had attempted to convince Madalene to leave the small white dog behind, that it was dangerous for such an old animal to make a perilous journey across the channel and over land like they were, but she’d refused to leave her pet behind. Matilda had been a gift from her father for her eighth birthday and they’d been inseparable since. Even Matilda had felt the pain of losing her father — she’d shown her teeth and growled at nearly every man who’d come within thirty feet of them since they left the chateau.

  The carriage rumbled on, bumping and bouncing over the roughest, rained out roads that Madalene had ever seen. It felt like she might as well have been venturing into the wilds of the jungle, not the north of England, for all the lack of polite society and modern conveniences she was seeing.

  And sunshine. She couldn’t remember the last time she was lucky enough to feel sunshine on her face without a thunderstorm being seconds behind. Both the weather and the people of this country seemed equally inhospitable.

  “I can practically hear your mind fretting from over here, child,” her mother’s voice cut through the mayhem in Madalene’s head. “Calm down. It will all work out.”

  She wasn’t so sure, but she nodded anyway. Repeatedly, her mother had told her that the two of them had already survived the worst, losing their beloved father and husband, and had lived to soldier on and make a new plan.

  “I know, mamma,” she mumbled, chewing her lower lip. “I’m sorry.”

  Despite all her worry and fear, Madalene also had near-absolute faith in her mother to steer them right and to correct the sad, unfortunate course they’d found themselves on after Bertram Montclair’s death. Wave upon wave of bad news had followed and, through it all, her mother hadn’t let the worry or fear she must have been feeling show on her face.

  When the sun was low in the sky and the surrounding woods were harder to peer into, her mother seemed to perk up from her perpetual travel slumber. She watched a passing village and craned her neck in her seat to get a better look.

  “We’re getting close,” she said and Madalene, too, began to pay more attention. “I’m starting to recognize some of the landmarks, though they’ve changed quite a bit in 20 years.”

  Her eyes darted from building to building, her gaze finally coming to rest on the village church. It looked absolutely ancient, but not in the best of ways. The tower was nearly crumbling and the old church bell was long gone. The windows were cracked and frosted, almost assuring Madalene that the insides promised to be just as dreary and devoid of joy and light. And given the amount of time her mother liked to spend at church since her father had passed, she knew that she’d better get used to the dreary structure, as she’d be spending long hours there beside her mother as she prayed.

  Madalene let out a sigh. This was all very underwhelming and it was all she could do not to complain to her mother again about coming to England instead of traveling west in France and calling on her father’s sister and cousins.

  Her mother wouldn’t hear of it, as her aunt had been against Bertram marrying an Englishwoman from the very beginning and had refused to acknowledge Pamela or Madalene these past decades. Still, Madalene reasoned, it would be better than this joyless desert of dour faces and ancient, crumbling structures.

  Onward they rattled, each bump and bounce growing more and more painful as her body protested the long, punishing ride they’d endured today. She was certain that her hair had come out of its pins and had to be a mess of curls and tangles, but she was too tired and too anxious to care about that now. Let them think what they wanted, it wasn’t as if Madalene had the best first impression of the village or its inhabitants, either, she thought miserably.

  “Here it is,” her mother breathed from the other side of the cab. “Warfield Manor.”

  Madalene held her breath as they drew closer to the looming stone house which nestled against a large forest, surrounded by bare looking fields.

  It was much larger than their chateau had been, clearly implying that the Earldom of Wrotham was a wealthy one, or at least had been at one time.

  “Do they still grow crops?” she wondered aloud.

  Growing up in her father’s vineyard, Madalene had always been fascinated with the growing season and the artisan-level work it required to produce just the right fruit for the best wine in the province. Was Warfield as particular and accomplished in its agriculture? From the crooked lines and piles of debris lying around, it certainly didn’t seem so. Madalene wasn’t certain that joy would be found anywhere in this countryside. With a glum sigh, she pushed herself forward and began straightening her mussed dress and trying to tame the wild mass of curls on her head.

  The carriage rolled to a stop in front of the great house and her mother hesitated when the driver opened the coach door. Looking to her mother, Madalene raised a brow.

  “Are you unwell, mamma?”

  Her mother was silent a few moments longer before shaking her head.

  “No, child,” she said softly. “Just overcome with memories. Good ones.”

  Despite her words, Pamela’s strained and tentative tone told another story. With that, she alighted from the carriage and allowed a footman to escort her to the front door, where a line of servants was waiting to receive them.

  Following behind, Madalene tried not to look too interested in the gathered staff and tried to maintain the sort of dignified air of aloofness which her mother adopted when dealing with society. Mostly, Madalene thought that she looked silly when she tried to be dignified, but she tried nonetheless. The butler and valet bowed their heads as they approached, and each of the maids curtsied slightly, eyes lowered.

  Inside the building, Madalene was immediately struck by how fine the interior décor was compared to the bleak, grey stone exterior.

  An Italian marble entryway was polished and gleamed, reflecting the array of candles burning in the sconces as the fading sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows behind them. It was so very grand, and so very out of place, it seemed. Aside from the staff, it hardly seemed lived in. The walls echoed back their footsteps and there were quite a lot of rooms for just two people, as her mother had explained to Madalene that only the Countess and the Earl lived in Warfield Manor.

  The receiving area was well lit and warmed with a small hearth fire, but Madalene couldn’t help but notice how close the darkness crept from the further corners of the house. It was like the inside of the manor was fighting back against encroaching shadows one candle at a time — but that, in its most natural state, it was a dark place with untold secrets. Even on the faces of the servants, she couldn’t discern a friendly smile or amiable expression. The people were as dour and uninviting as the surroundings.

  “Lady Ambly, Miss Montclair,” an older man, with a shock of white hair slicked back, appeared from the side and bowed. “My name is Perkins and I serve as the Steward here at Warfi
eld Manor. The Earl of Wrotham and the Countess would like to welcome you formally to the estate at dinner tonight. We’ll be serving in the dining room in approximately one hour and a half from now. Our staff will show you to your rooms, so that you may rest and refresh yourselves after your long journey and then will return in time to escort you to the dining room.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Perkins,” her mother said kindly, with a nod of her head. An older woman in a maid’s uniform bowed to her mother and motioned for her to follow and, moments later, a younger woman, closer to Madalene’s own age, appeared and motioned for Madalene to follow her. Two flights of stairs and four different turns down long, dark hallways later, and she was shown to her own private rooms.

  After the maid, a Scottish girl named Gemma, unpacked Madalene’s gowns and helped her to select a dinner gown, she left Madalene alone to rest, with a promise to return with a pitcher of water to help her freshen up and dress for dinner in one hour.

  As soon as the door closed behind the girl, Madalene collapsed backwards onto the giant, musty bed, which smelled of dust and stale air.

  Closing her eyes, she willed herself not to cry

  Matilda walked in circles on the blanket beside Madalene, looking for her place in this new home of theirs.

  Chapter Two

  Despite all of Madalene’s misgivings about meeting the Countess, the introduction before dinner had been blessedly informal and the Countess was warm and welcoming.

  “Wonderful to meet you at last, dear,” Elizabeth had gushed, clasping Madalene’s hands between her own and squeezing. “From your mother’s letters, I feel like I know you so well already.”

  The Countess leaned in and gave Madalene a kiss on each cheek. She was an amiable woman who had obvious affection and fond memories of Pamela. As she led them to the dining table, the two women fell into easy conversation and soon forgot that Madalene was even there, it seemed.