Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  An unladylike noise formed somewhere in Rachel’s throat and caused Sebastian to stiffen immediately. That was a sound very similar to the one Belle made when she was vexed. He shuddered. Perhaps his wife was more like her wretched sister than he’d originally thought. No matter. He could handle an occasional slip in private. At least Rachel would never make such a horrendous noise in public.

  With a shrug and another half-growl, half-grunt, Rachel marched over to the far corner of the room and grabbed the edge of what appeared to be a folded dressing screen and started dragging it across the floor.

  “Oh, come now, you don’t have to do that,” he protested jovially as she settled the screen in front of the tub to block his view of her.

  Rachel’s only answer was tossing her cloak over the top of the screen in such a way it covered the crack in the screen between two of the panels. A second later, her nightrail came to rest on top of the other crack.

  Sebastian chuckled at her gesture. “That’s not going to keep me from peeking,” he teased, quietly padding over to the screen. He grabbed the side of her cloak that was hanging on his side of the screen and pulled it off just in time to catch a small glimpse of one of her legs stepping into her steaming bathwater. He snatched down her nightrail and peeked again from that angle, being rewarded with a very generous view of one of her pert, pink-tipped breasts before she shifted in a way that no matter which crack he peeked through all he saw was her back or if he looked over her shoulder he could see her feet at the end of the tub.

  Small amounts of water splashed over the side of the tub as his new bride scrubbed her body and washed her long cinnamon-colored hair. Sebastian stood entranced behind the screen as he watched her fingers work the lather into her silky hair. He had no idea she had so much of it. Perhaps tomorrow when she took her bath again she’d allow him to wash it for her.

  “Can I bring you a towel?” He winced at how uneven his voice sounded to his own ears.

  A wet hand reached out from behind the screen and waved in anticipation for him to hand her a towel.

  Sebastian smiled and picked up the rolled up towel that rested on the stool right next to him. He extended it to her and just as her fingertips touched the end of the soft garment, he pulled it back, grinning at the way her empty fingers closed around nothing but air. Her hand flipped over with her palm facing up and she wiggled her fingers. “My towel, please,” she said softly.

  “Come and get it,” he encouraged, bringing the towel up and briefly touching the bottom of her hand with it.

  “I don’t want to play games, Sebastian,” she whispered.

  He frowned. Why was she still whispering? And more importantly, why didn’t she want to play games and have fun? This was their honeymoon, after all. They may be married now, but they were both still young.

  “Fine, you can have your precious towel,” he said, tossing the towel over the screen.

  “Ooof,” she squealed when the towel flew over the screen and landed on her head.

  “Not what you expected,” he teased, poking his head completely around the screen and eliciting a little scream out of Belle. Belle? He blinked. “What the blazes are you doing here?” he demanded, reaching for her arm to guide her out from behind the screen.

  “Trying to dry off,” she replied smugly, bringing the towel up to cover the front of her body.

  Sebastian closed his eyes again, more tightly this time. Surely he was mistaken. He had to be. He married Rachel, not Belle. He’d gone into Rachel’s room, he was sure of it. This all just had to be a figment of his imagination. He’d barely slept last night, opting instead to drink to his final night of freedom. Then he’d gone to her house and fetched Rachel, then traveled to Scotland and been married in a dirty smithy shop. That was a lot for a man of nineteen. Perhaps his brain was so muddled from all of those activities, or the after effects of the whisky, he was seeing things. He opened one brown eye and looked at the creature in front of him. No he was not mistaken. Isabelle Knight with her dark red hair, emerald eyes, bow shaped lips and stubborn attitude stood before him glaring in his direction as if he were the one in the wrong.

  “Once again, what are you doing here?” he asked tightly.

  “I already told you. I’m drying off.”

  “I know that,” he bit out. “Why are you here?”

  “Because we just got married,” she said as if he were a young lad and she his governess.

  “Why?” he growled. “Why did you do this?”

  “Do what?” she asked, blinking those sparkling green orbs at him.

  Sebastian jammed his fisted hands into his pockets so not to give into the temptation to throttle her. “Get dressed. We’re leaving.”

  “Leaving?” she echoed.

  “We’re going home.”

  “You mean to Cross Pointe?”

  He shook his head. “No. Well, yes. I’ll be going home to Cross Pointe. You’ll be going back to your parents’ estate.”

  Belle crossed her arms under her bare breasts in defiance, causing her towel to drop to the floor. “Absolutely not. I am your wife. I will not be living with my parents any longer.”

  Snorting, Sebastian took his hands out of his pockets and crossed his arms. “You’re not my wife.”

  “I beg to differ,” she said sternly, her eyes not straying from his. “I just said vows, and I do believe you repeated them, too.”

  “No. I said my vows to Rachel, not you.”

  Belle blanched and for a brief second Sebastian felt remorse for what he’d just said. But her next words washed all those feelings away and allowed irritation to take its place, making him harden his resolve not to keep her as his wife.

  “Odd that, I don’t seem to remember her being there,” she countered, her tone full of typical Belle sarcasm. She cocked her head to the side and tapped one long, slender finger against her chin. “No. I was the one you said those vows to. Therefore, you are my husband, not hers. Which means I shall be spending my nights at Cross Pointe from now on.”

  “I wouldn’t wager on it, were I you,” he said harshly. “Get dressed.”

  “No,” she said, not moving an inch.

  Sebastian stepped forward. “Belle,” he began with a calm he didn’t feel, “we need to go. It’s barely seven now. I can have you back to your estate before your parents even find out you were missing. Now let’s go.”

  She knit her brows. “Why would we do that?”

  Blowing out a deep breath, Sebastian scooped up her nightrail and held it out for her. “Surely you know we’re not really married.”

  “Yes, we are,” she countered, refusing to take her nightrail from him.

  A bitter laugh passed his lips. “No, we’re not. As I told you earlier, I said those vows to Rachel. You’re not Rachel. Therefore, we’re not married.”

  “What are you talking about? I was there. You said the vows to me. You kissed me. I was your bride!” she burst out.

  “I may have kissed you,” he conceded softly. “And I may have said, ‘I do,’ in front of you. But not to you. Actually, now that I think about it, I’m not married to her, either.” Relief flooded through him. Blessedly, he still had his freedom.

  “No, you’re not married to her,” Belle agreed. “But you are married to me.”

  He shook his head, trying not to smile. “No, I’m not. I went into that ceremony with who I thought was Rachel and came out with you. I don’t know what kind of scheme you two are devising, but it didn’t work.”

  “How so?”

  “Because I said my vows to who I thought was her, and turned out to be you. But you forget, even a proxy bride doesn’t sign the register. Either her male representative does, or she does at another time. That’s where you made your mistake. You signed the register in her stead and legally you can’t.”

  A grin as big as the English Channel spread across Belle’s face. “It is you who is mistaken, my lord.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asked, an eerie ch
ill settling over him.

  She shrugged. “Perhaps you were right. I should get dressed.” She snatched her nightrail from his limp fingers and pulled it over her head then she walked to the other side of the screen and came back with her slippers and stockings. “I’m ready to go now, Sebastian.” She grabbed her discarded cloak and tossed it over her arms. “However, while we’re still here, I think we should run over to the smithy’s together.”

  “Capital idea,” he agreed, ignoring the dangerous gleam in her eyes. She was up to something, he could tell. Her eyes always told on her when she was up to mischief. They’d sparkle and the edges would crinkle ever-so-slightly.

  Settling their bill and returning the key to the innkeeper, Sebastian caught a quick view of Belle getting into his carriage. What had she and her sister been thinking trapping him into marriage this way? He should have known something was off when she insisted on wearing that blasted cloak. Well, he’d play the fool no more. They’d go to the smithy’s where he’d explain the situation and get their names scratched off the register. Then he’d take Belle home and never have anything to do with either of them ever again. He’d never expected Rachel capable of doing something so stupid. Belle, yes. But not Rachel. Now he knew differently. He now knew Rachel was just as undignified as her sister if she’d agreed to participate in this nonsense.

  He ground his teeth. Those two had better pray nobody ever finds out about this. Not only would it bring scandal and embarrassment to his name, but it would absolutely ruin both of their reputations. Not that he thought for a second the pair didn’t deserve such a thing.

  “Back to the smithy’s,” he called to Abrams before climbing up into the coach.

  “You shouldn’t scowl so much, Sebastian. It’s going to leave some unflattering marks on your handsome face.”

  Sebastian purposely deepened his scowl at her words. “Perhaps you shouldn’t concern yourself with my looks. You’ll not be around to see them as I age.”

  “We’ll see,” she said smugly, slipping a pin into her hair.

  The coach jolted to a stop outside of the smithy’s shop. Sebastian was half out of the coach before Abrams set the brake.

  “Wait for me, please.”

  A moment of temporarily remembering his gentleman’s honor, or perhaps insanity, led Sebastian to grant her wish and fall back onto the seat. He crossed his arms and leaned his head back against the squabs, waiting impatiently as Belle continued to haphazardly pin her mess of hair onto the top of her head. “You look fine,” he lied when he could take it no longer.

  Belle pursed her lips. “Well, if you don’t mind taking your bride out when she looks affright, why should I?”

  “Excellent. Let’s go.” He climbed out of the carriage and reached his hand up to help her down. He may not like her and he certainly didn’t wish to be her husband, but he still could afford to show her the courtesy she deserved.

  “Dinna ‘spect ta see ye ‘gain,” the smithy said, waggling his eyebrows as Sebastian and Belle crossed the threshold.

  “Yes, well, circumstances have changed,” Sebastian said uneasily.

  Belle waved her hand through the air. “What my husband is trying to say is that he’d like to have a peek at your registry, if he might.”

  Sebastian smiled thinly and waited for the smithy to get his grubby book from where it rested on the table in the corner.

  “Still canna believe yer mar’ed?” the smithy jested as he brought the book over and opened it to the most recent page. His keen eyes followed his dirty finger down the page until he reached the last line. “Here it is. Seb’as’ten Gen’ry an’ Is’belle Kni’t.”

  “What?” Sebastian gasped, reaching for the offending book. His eyes read the words. Once. Twice. Thrice. It couldn’t be. It was. Anger surged through him and his face flamed. “This can’t be. It just can’t.”

  Belle flashed him a triumphant smile. “It is.”

  “No, it’s not,” he growled. “It may be your name, but I said those vows to Rachel.”

  “No, you said them to me,” she replied, her voice sugary sweet.

  “I don’t remember hearing your name,” he snapped. “Trust me, if I had, I’d have run out of here faster than a man walking across a bed of hot coals.”

  “Wot’s ta be de pro’lem?” the smithy asked, prying the book from Sebastian’s death-grip.

  “She tricked me,” Sebastian spat. “Scratch those names off. We’re not married.”

  “Ah, but ye is,” the smithy countered with a smile. “It says so righ’ here.”

  “No,” Sebastian argued. “I did not agree to marry her.”

  “Yes, ye did. I asked ye if ye took tis woman ta be yer bride. Ye sed ye did.”

  This woman? This woman? He racked his brain. The smithy was right, confound it all! He hadn’t asked if he took Rachel or Belle to be his bride, he’d said this woman. Damn and blast! Lost in his lusty thoughts, he’d agreed to marry Belle. She’d even outwitted him by signing the register in her own name.

  “Get into the carriage,” he barked.

  “As you wish, dear husband.”

  Chapter Three

  May 1818

  London

  Isabelle sat still as Tilde, once a chamber maid, now acting as her lady’s maid, ran a heavy brush through her long red hair. She hated sitting for hours while Tilde did her best to get her ready for another tedious ball almost as much as she hated going to the ball itself. It would seem her folly regarding Viscount Belgrave nearly six years ago still made her a laughingstock across London Society. She closed her eyes and willed herself not to think of him again. He was the past, and Lord Kenton was the future—provided she couldn’t find another suitable match before the end of the Season.

  After her very brief marriage she had little recollection of the disastrous year that followed it, her sister was to be married and her family had gone to London for the Season. However, the rumors that swirled about Isabelle and the viscount were vicious as was the scorn she’d faced for fraudulently trapping a lord into marriage. It was so much that her parents feared Lord Yourke wouldn’t wish to marry Rachel and it was decided Isabelle would be packed off to Lincolnshire to be a companion to an older woman named Suellen Finch. During her time as a companion she met Mrs. Finch’s nephew, Edmund Roth, Lord Kenton.

  At forty-five upon their first meeting four years ago, Edmund was only three years shy of being three decades Isabelle’s senior, but that hadn’t stopped him from showing her undue attention when he’d come to visit his aunt. It wasn’t exactly loving attention, more of that of a friend. All the same, it was unwelcome. At first Isabelle had tried to put him off, claiming the difference between their rank and her scandalous past would make it difficult for him if word were to get out that he was associating with her.

  As the years passed, Edmund’s persistence continued. He easily dismissed the rumors of her trapping a lord into marriage. He even went so far as to openly call Sebastian a fool for letting her go. And as always, he’d end his tirade by smiling the biggest, brightest smile his lips could stretch into and announce how glad he was that Sebastian was a fool, for now Isabelle could be his prize. Prize. Isabelle’s lips twisted. She hated when Lord Kenton referred to her as his prize. He hadn’t won her. Moreover, she wasn’t an object to be claimed or won. She was a person—albeit a flawed one.

  Unfortunately for her, Edmund was no longer the only one who thought she was a prize to be fought over and claimed.

  A year and a half ago Lady Clearcreek, Sebastian’s mother, passed away, and unbeknownst to Isabelle, Lady Clearcreek had left a sizable trust to her. Three months ago, the still grieving Lord Clearcreek, came to see her in Lincolnshire and informed her he would be carrying out his wife’s wishes and arranged for the money to be put into an account in London for Isabelle.

  Just as the earl finished informing her of the money, Lord Kenton entered the room and Isabelle nearly groaned in annoyance as he fished for details from Lord Clearcree
k.

  “Now we can marry,” Edmund said jovially as soon as Lord Clearcreek was out the door.

  Isabelle stared at him, dumbfounded. It was one thing to have him regard her as a close friend, but to want to marry her and worse yet, for him to have some belief that she returned the interest was absurd. “What are you talking about?”

  Edmund plopped down in a brown leather chair and rubbed his hands together excitedly. “This provides the perfect solution. Now that you have money, nobody will care about the scandal in your past and we can marry.”

  “I see,” she said softly. If one were interested in the truth, Isabelle would admit she had no real love for Edmund. She tolerated him well enough, and she enjoyed his company from time to time, but by no means did she love him. Nor did she think she could grow to have such an emotion for him—even as a friend. She really wasn’t sure why he thought the two had such a profound love for one another to begin with—or perhaps he knew they didn’t but because of his age, just didn’t care. She’d learned from spending the past few years in his company that his mind worked in ways she might never understand.

  “Just think, you can go to balls, soirees, and musicales.”

  “Why would I wish to do that?”

  “To reenter Society, of course,” Edmund replied offhandedly. As if she’d ever wanted to enter Society in the first place. “You can go to London for the Season to flaunt your money and at the end, you can snag an earl.” He winked at her to let her know which earl he had in mind for her to snag.

  “Lord Kenton,” she began softly, “I know you hold me in high esteem. But you do realize there’s a significant age difference between us, do you not?”

  He shrugged. “It’s of no account. Men are supposed to be older than their wives. It’s the perfect arrangement actually. See, we men get to have our bachelor freedom until we’re ready to settle down and take a wife, then we find a beautiful young lady like yourself and marry her.”

  “And what does the young lady get from such a perfect arrangement?” Isabelle asked, cocking her head.