Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  “A well-read highwayman, who would have thought?” the dowager commented.

  “Oh, he absolutely adores books. He plans to retire when he has enough money and furnish his library with hundreds of books. He has already started a collection by stealing all he can find off lords and such. A truly bang up fellow. He was absolutely marvellous, even helping to put Mary and my uncle at ease. He insisted on accompanying me all the way to London to ensure my security. He wanted to make sure his rival the Cobra didn’t halt our carriage and steal our things. Apparently the Cobra has no honour.”

  “The Cobra?” Lady Anne asked horrified.

  “Yes, he is new at the job, hasn’t learnt the nuances of highway robbery yet. Jimmy said the man has a cruel streak and I should warn all my friends of his presence. His territory is Wikhinshire and thereabouts. Jimmy was true to his word. He came with us all the way and told us some remarkable stories throughout our drive to London. It was highly entertaining and cheered me right up. I don’t think he was bamming me.”

  “Oh, do tell us one of the stories, Miss Fairweather. The whole thing sounds positively romantic,” Lady Anne pleaded.

  Penelope smiled and said thoughtfully, “Let me think … Ah yes, this is a good one. He told me that one time he stopped the carriage of an earl. He didn’t tell me the earl’s name … wanted to protect the privacy of his victim. He is, after all, an honourable robber. Anyhow, this earl was ancient with white hair, sideburns and knobby knees. Jimmy most respectfully searched through the old man’s belongings, but try as he might, he could not find anything in his trunks or in his coat pockets. But Jimmy is a very intelligent man. He knew something was up. The man was hiding something of great value and was twitching most suspiciously. He searched and searched, and sure enough he spotted a diamond pasted in the earl’s ear.”

  “In his ear?” Lady Anne enquired doubtfully.

  “Yes, in his ear. You know this bit where your ears curve. The top bit … right here,” Penelope said, tracing Lady Anne’s left ear to demonstrate.

  “How can you stick anything in there, it’s so small,” the dowager asked, poking around in her own ear.

  “Maybe because you are a woman. Men have larger ears … Ah, here is a man,” Penelope said staring at the door which had just opened. She got up and approached the gentlemen who had entered the room.

  “Can you please lend me your ear?” she asked politely.

  “Excuse me?” the man said in confusion.

  Penelope impatiently reached up on her tippy toes and taking hold of his ear tugged firmly.

  The man didn’t have a choice but to stoop.

  “Oh, bend a bit … My goodness you are tall … A bit more … Ah yes, see his ear is a fine specimen, large enough to demonstrate. See this shell here. One can easily stick a diamond in here and no one would know.”

  She turned to smile triumphantly at the ladies present who were looking at her with shock and horror etched on their faces. Her smile fell and she turned to survey the man whose ear she was currently holding.

  He was bent over from the waist wincing, since she still held his ear. Yet in spite of his awkward position, she couldn’t help but notice how terribly handsome he was. His face was a little harsh, while his eyes were a deep dark blue, almost piercing in their intensity. His hair was jet black, and he was so close that she could see the individual hairs of his fine stubble. She took a delicate sniff and the masculine scent hit her right in the pit of her stomach.

  Her heart thundered in her ribs. She had a feeling that the man was not a butler as she had first assumed.

  She had also started feeling a tad dizzy.

  “Can I have my ear back?” he asked irritably.

  She blinked.

  “Mother, can you tell this creature here to loosen her hold?”

  “Mother?” she squeaked. The hand holding the ear trembled.

  “Yes, my dear. You see, this is my son, the Duke of Blackthorne,” the dowager said faintly.

  Chapter 3

  The Duke of Blackthorne, Charles Cornelius Radclyff, was famous as all the dukes, viscounts, marquises and members of the royal family are bound to be. But he was especially famous because he was mysterious.

  The various lords, ladies, maids, fisherwomen … Basically the whole of Britain considered it their duty to gossip about the aristocracy as if it was their birth right. The Viscount of Warwick— the stablehand assured his gaping fourth cousin’s children— was like a lion and currently warming the bed of the famous Venetian opera singer, appropriately named, ‘The Kitten’. The delicate Countess of York was cursed— the shopkeeper assured his customers— for she bought shaving cream every fortnight to shave off her thick wiry beard every morning.

  Now, the Duke of Blackthorne annoyed these well intentioned folks. Oh, everyone knew he was grim, powerful and wealthy enough to rival the maharajas, but apart from that they knew diddly-squat. This irked the women all the more because he was devilishly handsome, unattached, sporting the right number of toes and fingers, with not a limp and nary a flaw. It was their right to learn his past, dissect his personality and gossip about his latest attachments.

  He might have confided his deepest, darkest secrets had someone enquired, but of course no one dared to ask him.

  Penelope now stood holding the same dark, brooding and very powerful duke’s ear. She had seen the inside of his ear, which she learnt was squeaky clean. The ladies of the ton would be jealous. She now knew more about him than they did.

  It would have been ideal if she let go of his ear right about now. She didn’t because for some reason her brain refused to let her release him. She didn’t want to face what happened once she did give him his ear back. She emitted a sound, a cross between a whimper and a squeak.

  The duke, tired of waiting for her to act, took her wrist and extricated himself.

  “Who in the world is this, Anne?” he asked his sister, gesturing towards Penelope in disgust.

  “Err … you recall Mamma told you that Mrs Fairweather’s daughter was coming to visit us for the season? This is she. I mean, this is Miss Fairweather,” Lady Anne replied in distress.

  “Indeed,” he said coldly, his eyes examining her from top to bottom.

  Penelope knew what he saw, an unremarkable girl with dull brown hair and brown eyes. Her dress, which was also unfortunately brown, had pink flowers embroidered all over. She was conscious of the mud stains and a few large damp patches from the rain.

  The Falcon had been delighted with her dress, remarking that it exactly matched his curtains at home. She didn’t think the duke found her dress delightful.

  In fact, he was looking at her as if she was a particularly hideous rodent.

  “Mother, how in the world will you present this … this thing to society? She obviously lacks manners and has no looks to speak of. Does she at least have a good dowry?”

  “Charles! How can you?” the dowager said indignantly.

  “She grabbed my ear and then refused to let go. How is that ladylike? I doubt she has ever met a duke in her life. From the state of her dress, I am convinced that she is not only a clodhopper but she is also impoverished. Mother, send her packing, she will never catch a man.”

  “That’s enough, Charles,” the dowager snapped.

  Penelope stood staring at the duke in shock. He was horrible, she thought, glaring at him.

  It was true she didn’t have a dowry. Her father was landed gentry, and the only connection they had with the aristocracy was her dead mother’s cousin twice removed, who was third in line for an impoverished kingdom. That cousin was now … also dead. They made just enough money to live comfortably but not luxuriously. It was why the dowager had insisted that she pay for her season in London.

  Still, the duke had no right to speak about her so disdainfully. Her face flushed in embarrassment. He had made her feel like an unwanted charity case. She blinked rapidly to dispel angry tears and then took a deep breath. She would not let this man, duke or
not, make her feel so awful. She had, after all, faced the Falcon.

  According to Della, her cook back home, a lady’s best defence is her modesty, cheerfulness and an elegant countenance when faced with a brute. Della had managed to vanquish the crude butcher, who used to trick his customers by packing more bones than meat, with politeness. The butcher was now on board a ship to India in search of spiritual guidance.

  Therefore, Penelope squared her shoulders, grabbed her skirt and dipped low in an awkward curtsy.

  “I apologise, your grace,” she said in a voice that only slightly shook.

  He stared at her for a moment searching her face for any sign of mockery. Finding none, he gave a brief nod and then turned his back on her.

  “Anne, I wanted a word with you about Lady Hartworth’s ball. I would like to accept ….” He trailed off staring at the corner where Penelope had been originally sitting.

  Lady Anne glanced worriedly at her mother, and then attempted to fling out her skirts to hide the spot from the duke’s view.

  “Your skirts can’t hide it. I can still see the thing, Anne,” the duke remarked, staring at the three of them.

  No one dared to reply.

  “I see … I have to state the obvious and ask the question it seems. We are in the Blue Room and, Mother, you seemed to be entertaining a guest for tea. Now, I am confounded and curious to learn as to why you have a goat eating what seems to be a lettuce leaf sitting in that corner by the Chippendale chair.”

  The goat in question looked up from its plate of lettuce sandwiches and baaed.

  “Lady Bathsheba doesn’t like being called a goat …,” Penelope muttered to herself.

  The duke turned to look at Penelope, and her next statement died on her lips.

  “Lady Bathsheba is it?” he asked softly.

  Penelope clutched her skirts and tried to bite her tongue. Her unfortunate habit of babbling when nervous and spewing nonsense reared its ugly head. She avoided his eyes, digging her nails into her palm.

  It was no good.

  She could feel the words bubble up inside her, and she finally gave up the battle and let her tongue have its way, “Well yes, you see we have an aunt called Lady Bathsheba, and my younger sister Janet is very fond of her, and when she left for the Americas, Janet wouldn’t stop crying. I had to do something, and finally I told her that the baby goat was really Lady Bathsheba, who had been transformed by a magician whom she had slighted. Lady Bathsheba is really very gentle and has been my companion for a while. She is used to being around me at all times, and the only time she misbehaves is when someone calls her a G-O-A-T and—”

  “Your sister, she believed you?” Lady Anne interrupted, receiving a glare from the duke for her efforts.

  “Yes, you see Janet was only five. Now she is six. She doesn’t believe so anymore …,” Penelope replied trailing off.

  The duke looked baffled for a moment, and then he scowled and said, “I will not agree to waste good coin on introducing this … this pastoral nuisance into polite society. The goat goes back home with the girl today, and I don’t care how late it is. She may travel all night. I will send armed guards if necessary.”

  He then addressed his butler, who had mysteriously appeared at his side, “Perkins, ask Hopkins to fetch the fake moustache from my room. I need to visit my grandfather.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And, Anne, come see me in my study before dinner.”

  “Yes, of course,” Lady Anne replied.

  He gave a short nod and then with a last glare at the goat strode out of the room.

  The door banged shut behind him making Penelope jump. She picked a spot on the carpet and tried to look every bit engrossed. She had been unceremoniously dismissed within a day of her arrival in London. She was utterly mortified and felt about as big as an ant.

  She cringed, squeezing her eyes shut. She no longer knew how to face the two women she had been entertaining a few moments ago. She forced one eye open when she felt a touch on her arm.

  The dowager had come up to her and Penelope braced herself for the apologetic speech that she felt sure was coming. The dowager would no doubt tell her how sorry she was and that she would arrange for a suitable carriage to drive her back to Finnshire.

  “Open your other eye as well, Miss Fairweather, and please come and sit down. We have a great deal to discuss,” the dowager said.

  Penelope wrenched her other eye open and allowed herself to be led to her place on the chair.

  “I am so sorry,” Lady Anne said the moment Penelope sat.

  Penelope winced, having no idea what she could say in such a situation.

  The dowager took her hand once more. “My son is a little …” The dowager paused searching for words.

  “Churlish?” Penelope supplied without thinking.

  “Proud and—” the dowager started to say.

  “Domineering?” Penelope interrupted again, trying desperately to keep her mouth shut. It didn’t do to insult the duke, especially to his mother.

  “Wilful,” the dowager retorted.

  “Rude?” Penelope gasped out.

  “Responsible,” Lady Anne joined in.

  “Patronising, hateful and a crusty fellow,” Penelope shot back.

  The dowager’s mouth twitched as she answered, “Hardworking, disciplined and kind.”

  “Kind?” Penelope asked doubtfully.

  “Yes, kind. Now if you are done with the word games, may I please explain?” the dowager asked.

  At Penelope’s sheepish nod, the dowager’s eyes glazed over and she said reminiscently, “Charles was a wonderful child, a little mischievous and always laughing…”

  Both Penelope and Lady Anne snorted in disbelief.

  The dowager ignored them and continued, “His father died when he was seventeen and ever since then he has been responsible for a large duchy. He is a good duke and provides well for his tenants. Unfortunately, his numerous duties cause him to have little patience with anything out of the ordinary. His life runs like clockwork with everything having a designated time. You must forgive him if he is a little bad tempered …”

  “A little bad tempered?” Lady Anne smirked.

  “I admit he forgets his manners at times,” the dowager continued loudly, “and a mother can go on lauding his virtues. What I am trying to say, my dear, is that I apologise on his behalf.”

  “You don’t have to,” Penelope replied weakly.

  In spite of the dowager’s words, she could not forgive the duke. He may be responsible for the livelihood of hundreds, if not thousands, but that didn’t give him the right to be an ill-mannered brute.

  He was, she decided, thoroughly spoilt.

  “As for you and Lady Bathsheba, you will stay until the season is over. He may be the duke, but I am his mother. You are here as my guest and on my invitation. Please say you will stay.”

  Penelope looked at the dowager in dismay. She noticed the dowager had the same dark blue eyes as her son. They were not as bright or intense, nor were they harsh in expression. They were faded with age and gentle. Her features were sweet and delicate, and in spite of the grey in her hair, it was easy to see that the dowager had once been a very beautiful woman.

  The duke must have inherited his harsh face and manners from his father, she concluded.

  As for staying on, she was torn. True, she could not go back… Yet this was, after all, the duke’s house, whatever his mother may say. To stay after being so rudely dismissed was against her pride.

  “The duke?” she asked finally.

  “We have a way of convincing him. It is infallible, and we only use it when circumstances are dire,” the dowager said smiling.

  “If he agrees, will you stay?” Lady Anne asked, anxiously.

  “Will he apologise?” Penelope asked, still undecided.

  “Err … he never apologises, but he will ask you to stay. Please take that as his apology, I beg you,” Lady Anne said, pressing her hand.
/>   “How will you manage it?” Penelope asked, buying time.

  The dowager smiled and looked at Lady Anne meaningfully. Penelope, in turn, looked at Lady Anne in confusion.

  “Anne here is our secret weapon.”

  Penelope stared at Lady Anne.

  Anne Radclyff, the duke’s sister, had inherited neither her mother’s sweet and gentle disposition nor her good looks. Her eyes were a lighter blue and her nose was a little too sharp. But like most accomplished English ladies, she managed to disguise her faults under a garb of elegance, powders and yards of flattering silk.

  She looked back at Penelope with a resolute expression.

  “Secret weapon?” Penelope asked in bewilderment.

  “Yes, you see, Anne here is Charles’ big weakness. He loves his sister more than anything in the world. He is protective and over possessive, but if Anne sheds a single tear, he does all he can to make her smile again. I admit we use this to our advantage at times.”

  “I will shed bucket loads of tears for you, Miss Fairweather,” Lady Anne said happily.

  Penelope stared at Lady Anne in wonder. She hadn’t thought the duke could love someone so dearly.

  “You can’t let her tears go to waste, Miss Fairweather. Will you stay?”

  Penelope took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She finally smiled and nodded uncertainly. She still didn’t think the duke would agree.

  Lady Anne clapped her hands in pleasure and hugged Penelope, “Oh, we will have such fun.”

  The dowager smiled, “Now that’s settled, I want to know what happened to the Falcon. Did he drop you all the way to our doorstep?”

  “Yes, I invited him to tea,” Penelope replied.

  “To tea? Here?” the dowager asked panicking. Having the duke overlook the presence of a goat was one thing, but a highwayman?

  “He declined,” Penelope said sadly.

  “How … how unfortunate,” the dowager replied faintly.

  “It is, isn’t it?” Penelope said, and then frowned, “I have a question. What did the duke mean when he said that he needs a fake moustache to meet his grandfather?”