Love Springs Anew: A Regency Romance Novella

by Thorne, Isabella

  * * *

  4

  Supper was a simple if elegant affair, devoid of many rich creamy dishes due to the fasting season of lent. There were still several small dishes of vegetables and seafood set on the table before them by any number of the manses’ servants. The Duke’s country home was called Gladwell, and it sat on an expansive ground with a massive pond near the rear. The dining room had a large window which looked out at the water, showing the sun shining atop the still, glass-like surface.

  “It is quite beautiful here, Your Grace,” Philippa said as the gentlemen rejoined the ladies after the meal. She looked out the window, admiring the view, while Charlotte, half a room away, tittered at the young Lord Taftwater.

  “That it is,” the Duke agreed with Philippa. He followed her gaze out over the pond. “I remember playing in that pond as a boy, the mud between my toes. There are a lot of good memories here. Have you ever visited previously?”

  “Twice, if I remember correctly. I was quite young,” Philippa said, and when she did not elaborate, the Duke changed the conversation. He felt that speaking with Philippa was the same as a ship's captain steering between rocks rising from the water. You had to be swift and tactful to keep from running up onto the shoals.

  “What have you been doing as of late?” The Duke asked as he sipped from his glass. “Have you been to the theater? There is nothing but oratories there now, of course. Or have you seen the gardens at Vauxhall?”

  “I should love to go to Vauxhall,” Charlotte said as she and Lord Taftwater came near. “They say the gardens are spectacular, decorated in a Chinese theme with pavilions and waterfalls, and oh, can you really see the fireworks from the cast iron bridge?”

  “I am sure there will be fireworks after Easter,” the Duke added.

  “Perhaps when you are in Town,” Lord Taftwater said. “We can take a boat over from Westminster.”

  Charlotte clapped her hands delightedly. “I would like that very much,” she said.

  “The gardens are in Kenninton, on the south bank of the Thames,” Taftwater explained, “and the boat ride is lovely. That is the best place to watch fireworks. We shall make a day of it, if your chaperone agrees.”

  “What say you, Miss Dunn?” The Duke inquired of Philippa.

  “I do love gardens,” she said. “I dare say, you saw my primary pass time when you remade my acquaintance, Your Grace,” Philippa said. “I read mostly, and spend time in our own garden. That is when strange gentlemen are not there smoking.” She grinned at him.

  “Surely I do not qualify as a strange man,” the Duke said.

  “I suppose that much is true,” Philippa allowed.

  “Do you not go into Town?” James asked. “It is much the same as you will remember, I’m sure.”

  Philippa took a moment to answer. “I go to London only as often as it is necessary,” she said finally. “Although I visit moreso now with Charlotte.” The young Earl did not push the subject further, and instead, pulled Charlotte aside to speak with her.

  “What about the village,” the Duke said at last. “I saw that the bakery is no longer there, in the square,” he tried to pry up the failing conversation.

  “It burnt down,” Philippa said. “Two summers ago I think.”

  “That is horrible. I trust no one was hurt?”

  “The baker's son, but the whole town smelled of baking rolls for a week after, so it lessened the sting,” Philippa said, and the corner of her devilish mouth curled upwards, and the Duke found himself fighting off his own smile, and when he could not do so, he attempted to at least hold it there and allow it no further, a laugh at such a remark would be in poor taste.

  “Surely the man was not killed,” the Duke said at last.

  “No,” Philippa agreed. “He was badly burnt though and the townsfolk made jokes that he was too fat to remove the dough from the oven, but that was all. People are cruel are they not? The whole family moved to an uncle’s place several towns over, and I believe they still bake.”

  “I remember going there for the cinnamon rolls they made for breakfast. When we were not yet quite men, Simon and I bought them out. I think we ate close to twenty a morning.”

  The name of Philippa’s one time fiancé, so carelessly thrown about in her presence, caused her to seize up. It felt as though she was not able to breathe, and her heart was nothing more than a lump of stone in her chest.

  “I am sorry,” the Duke said quickly, realizing his mistake. “Please accept my apology for my insensitive remark.”

  He and Simon had been close friends, for most of their childhood. Although the Duke’s own intended became Simon’s bride. She wondered if the Duke felt any sense of loss from the woman Simon took from him, or if only his pride was hurt. The Duke stayed silent after that, knowing he had been foolish to mention Simon, but Philippa would not let it bother her. She forced a smile, and sipped her wine.

  * * *

  The Duke watched Philippa Dunn with tense eyes, his heart beating as though it were in his throat instead of safe behind his breastbone. He was waiting for the explosion, waiting for her to rise from her chair, to yell, to cry as the Ton had said she would.

  She did none of those things. She simply sipped her wine and asked, “Did you remain friends with him?” They both knew she spoke of Simon.

  “No,” the Duke said without embellishment. “You?”

  Philippa burst into laughter. “No,” she said, at last, “Gads, no,” amazed that she was now able to laugh at Simon’s betrayal. Time truly did heal, if not all wounds, at least some of them.

  She smiled at the Duke. “We’ve had a lovely time, Your Grace, but Charlotte and I really must be going,” she said. “I promised my father we would not be late.”

  He nodded and called a servant. “Have the carriage brought around,” he ordered.

  “We shall see you both safely home, and I hope that we shall see you in Town,” Lord Taftwater said.

  “Oh Philippa, say yes,” Charlotte urged as Lord Taftwater settled her cloak.

  “I do not know,” Philippa said. “My father abhors the extravagance of London,” she explained.

  “With you chaperoning Miss Charlotte, need he come?” The Duke asked.

  “Actually what he abhors is the expense of Town,” Philippa explained.

  “There will be nothing overly elaborate until after Easter,” the Duke said. “Perhaps in addition to Vauxhall, we can attend to a mummer play? There are several.”

  “I do not think so,” Philippa said. “Father only attends those invitations which he feels he cannot forgo without giving offense.”

  “I suppose I must host a ball then after Easter, then,” the Duke said with an exaggerated sigh. “And you may inform Lord Montclair that I shall be very offended if he does not allow you and your sweet cousin to attend.” He grinned at her and Philippa felt her heart melt.

  * * *

  5

  When Gregory Burrowes, The Duke of Chesney, returned home he sat for a long time at the table. The food had long ago been cleared away, but a glass of wine brought at his request. He held the stem in his fingers, his eyes on the nearly black water outside. The moon reflected in the surface. Now and again a small turtle head would break the surface near the middle of the pond, sending circular rings of disturbance through the water.

  Gregory finished his wine and stood. He wondered how he could have been so foolish. He had meant nothing by mentioning Simon of course, he had simply been remembering a fond story, and Simon was in so many of his fond memories. But Miss Dunn surely had no fond memories of Simon Goldthwaite. She had made them of course, but he knew full well that she did not retain them in light of how their engagement had ended. He needed to make things right, and he would do so.

  Even after James returned home Gregory could not keep his mind from Miss Dunn. She was different, enchanting in a strange way. Her wit was immeasurably quick and her company amusing. She was pretty, like a fragile bird, but at the same time,
he sensed a wiry strength in her. He had to believe she was kind, once you got beneath the chilly demeanor she portrayed.

  It seemed she had covered herself in ice to insulate against hurt. He could certainly understand that, the Ton could be cruel, and it would be harder still if she had once loved Simon. It seemed unlikely. Her father no doubt arranged the match, like his own father had arranged his. He had not given Lady Margaret a second thought when he released her to Simon, other than that she could have broken their engagement without making a scene.

  Miss Philippa Dunn on the other hand, had unfortunately succeeded in making much gossip. She had vulgarly shouted down her erstwhile fiancé. There was no greater sign of a hysterical woman, was there? She had discovered a grand betrayal that much was true. He knew the feeling of betrayal himself. He had words with Simon as well, though not quite so publicly.

  Still, for a woman to lose her composure so completely… surely that was not the kind of woman he should concern himself with. Although when he had mentioned Simon after dinner, while flustered, Philippa had acted with decorum, certainly not what the Ton said of her. Honestly, he found that he rather enjoyed her tendency to say whatever came to her mind. It was refreshing to be in the presence of such an honest woman.

  He found himself thinking of her novels. He remembered sitting up in bed with his late wife Janet reading and giggling like two school children over the impossibilities of such books. He never thought to recreate that feeling, and yet was it fair to even consider it? Philippa was a different woman. She was not Margaret. She was certainly not Janet.

  Since his Janet had passed, the Duke had thought little of women. He had the urges that all men have of course, but it was not enough to shake him from his dreary days and nights. After Margaret’s betrayal, his mind had been singularly centered upon marrying and producing an heir.

  Then he had found Janet. She had been sweetness itself; a friend and easy companion. He and Janet had enjoyed only a few short years together, before he lost her too. When she died, he threw himself into his work at home, at Parliament, here in the country.

  He had much to keep his mind busy, but the truth was he still needed an heir. Now the thought of taking a child of Charlotte’s age to his bed was distasteful. She and so many of the debutantes available were but mere girls. What could he do? Marry a widow? Those women available held even less interest for him.

  Until that day in the garden, when Miss Philippa Dunn had come swooping back into his life, supplying him a taste of yearning that he had not felt in some time. Yes, he realized, the thought of making an heir with the irascible Miss Dunn was not just a duty. No; when he considered the woman a rush of desire shot through him. His blood ran hot at the thought of it.

  He had once believed Margaret had wrung such notions of passion out of him with her betrayal. Then when Janet died he had sworn he would not give his heart again. At least, he thought, Miss Dunn would not betray him. No, she had gotten a taste of that bitterness along with himself through Margaret and Simon. Philippa would speak her mind. She may be sharp, but she would not betray him.

  He called to his butler. “Pen a letter.”

  “Of course, Your Grace. To whom?” The man replied

  “To Berkley, at London house. Tell him I am planning a ball, just after Easter. Make preparations.”

  “Very good, Sir”

  “And now, I am to bed.”

  “Are you to head back to London on the morrow, Sir?”

  He hesitated. There was Parliament. He should return. Still, he did not want to leave. “On the day after,” he said. He would spend one more day with Miss Dunn and her father, Lord Montclair. He should of course warn the man that he expected his family in attendance at the Easter ball.

  * * *

  Two weeks later, James, and the Duke were playing cards at one of the gaming halls in London. The clientele was sparse at this time of the night.

  “What is going on in your head pray tell?” The new Earl of Taftwater asked his friend.

  The Duke just smiled and shook his head.

  James set his cards face down, waiting for a reply.

  Gregory sighed “Miss Philippa Dunn,” he said finally.

  “That one?” James asked, his lips already parting in a smile. “The chaperone?”

  “She is more than that.”

  “And you are thinking of her still?” James chuckled.

  “If I am, it is no reason for your mirth,” the Duke replied dryly.

  “But it is indeed,” James countered. “She is… hysterical. She dressed down Simon Goldthwaite like a sailor. Everyone remembers, although I think even some of the matrons would have had to research her words.” He sipped his wine grinning. “I was surprised her father chose to allow her to chaperone her young cousin. In fact I’m surprised her father did not send her to bedlam.”

  “Bedlam?” The Duke asked incredulous. “Surely you jest, Grafton…Blast…Taftwater. I shall never get used to calling you so.”

  “Yes. Taftwater still seems my father’s name to me,” James agreed. “But do not act so surprised and don’t change the subject. You cannot argue that she is touched. Why for any lady to speak so…”

  “I’ve spoken so. So have you. Are we touched?”

  “But it is not in the temperament of a lady to even know such words, much less to speak them aloud. It is unnatural.”

  The Duke smiled down into his drink thinking the young Earl had much to learn about women.

  “You are attracted to her,” James said disbelieving. “She is terribly dull. She hardly ever leaves her country home.”

  “And you think that makes her dull?”

  “Does it not?”

  The Duke shrugged. “No doubt she stays private because of the ridicule of the Ton and black mark upon her. I would imagine it pains her,” Gregory replied sipping his brandy and tossing his hand of cards aside.

  “True enough,” James said. “I am just grateful she haunts her own manse and not mine.”

  “And yet you approve of her cousin,” the Duke said. “It appeared you got on rather well with the chit.”

  James laughed as he took another card. “The cousin is not the chaperone.”

  “The chaperone may not be the chaperone,” The Duke replied.

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “I mean she is more than meets the eye, my friend”

  “I would have never guessed.”

  “Guessed at what?”

  “That a hysterical woman would be the one to take your interest. You do know how to choose them.” James shook his head.

  “She is not hysterical,” the Duke replied coolly.

  “This hand is awful,” James complained as he threw it in and leaned back in his chair. “Another drink?” he asked the Duke. Gregory raised his glass indicating the barely touched brandy.

  James took another glass from a servant and looked at his friend, the card game forgotten. “How long has it been since your wife passed?”

  “Over two years,” the Duke replied.

  “A tragedy that was,” James said, nodding.

  Gregory nodded in agreement. He had heard such things often and agreed with them each time. They meant nothing, just courtesy. Janet had been a woman like no other: beautiful and smart; loving and strong. She had made his life better by decades, though she was only in it for a short time. She was not his one true love, Gregory was not even sure he believed in such things, but she was more than just his wife. She had been his friend.

  They had met later in life than most couples, he had been thirty, and she was twenty-two. She had been promised to a man before him, but the man had been thrown from his horse during a hunt and broken his neck. After his passing she had refused to marry another, and her father, who doted on his only daughter, refused to make her do so.

  That changed when Janet met Gregory. They struck up a friendship over a year after the horrible ordeal with Simon and Margaret. Strangely, Janet had been Margaret’s fri
end, and she had helped him to understand what he had called the unfathomable foibles of women.

  Gregory remembered their first conversation. Janet drank alongside him and beat him at cards. She reminded him Margaret had never loved him. Never cared for him at all, or even thought of him as a person. He understood that now. They were only betrothed because of their lands and titles. They were not even friends, and when it became clear Margaret loved another, it was natural to break off the engagement.

  “Only, why did she not break the engagement quietly,” he said. “She could have done.”

  “Her father would not think so,” Janet had said. “Throw over a duke?” she raised her eyebrows and he at last understood the predicament in which Lady Margaret must have found herself.

  He wished she could have come to him, to explain she desired another. She did not have to publicly embarrass him, but he also understood that Simon and Margaret loved one another. Both men and women do foolish things for love, he thought. Had Philippa loved Simon he wondered? If so, he understood her fury and forgave her outburst of so long ago.

  He and Janet continued their friendship, and they were married within a year of their first meeting. They had hoped for an heir before their first anniversary, surely by their second. But it was not to be and by their third, Janet was dead.

  Her death had crushed Gregory, not because he loved her desperately, although he supposed he did love her after a fashion. She was the only person in his life, who did not take him so seriously. She did not let him intimidate her. She did not back down to his occasional gruffness.

  Instead, she told him when he was being thoughtless, and supported him when he needed her. She let him be himself. She was a good woman, and he could not make himself take to wife a silly ninny who did not have the sense of a gnat. It seemed an insult to her memory.