The Unwilling Miss Watkin

by Regina Scott

  “Alone?” Her lower lip trembled.

  “Only if necessary,” Eloise assured her. “We three will stand by you. Won’t we?”

  Cleo nodded. Eloise looked at Jareth. She wondered whether the Darby pride would bend in this instance. Surely that would bode well for their future together. Her heart swelled when she saw him nod as well.

  “No woman should have to bear a child alone, Miss Sinclair,” he said. “You may count on my support, if not my name.”

  The tears fell. “You are all too kind,” she murmured.

  Cleo rose to take her in her arms. “There, there, now, Miss Sinclair. It will all come right, you’ll see.”

  Jareth touched Eloise’s hand, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Do you know,” he said as she basked in the appreciation in his eyes, “I begin to believe it just might at that.”

  There was a rap at the door, and, at Eloise’s command, Bryerton entered. “A gentleman here to see you, Miss Watkin. A Major Churchill. He appears to be quite upset. I dared not let him beyond the entry.”

  Portia hastily stiffened away from Cleo, wiping her cheeks with her sleeve. “Oh no! He’s here? He mustn’t see me like this!”

  “Give us a moment, Bryerton,” Eloise instructed, recognizing the girl’s need. “Then I think you can safely bring him to us.”

  As her butler left, Mrs. Sinclair rose. “I refuse to be a party to these proceedings. You are leading my stepdaughter astray. Portia, if you agree to go along with this charade, I wash my hands of you.”

  Eloise went to Portia, helping her rise. With Cleo on one side and Eloise on the other, Eloise hoped the girl would find the strength to stand up to the woman. Portia bit her lip, but she squared her shoulders.

  “I’m sorry, madam, but I must do what is right for me and my child.”

  Mrs. Sinclair stalked from the room. Eloise gave Portia a squeeze.

  “Standing up for yourself gets easier every time you do it, doesn’t it?” she asked with a smile.

  Portia’s smile was watery. “Yes, it does, Miss Watkin. But I still do not know whether I can face Major Churchill.”

  “You must face him,” Eloise told her, “whatever his decision. Believe me in this. If you do not, he will haunt you the rest of your life.”

  Portia nodded, sniffing back tears. A moment later and Bryerton ushered in the major. As Eloise remembered from seeing him at Almack’s, he was tall, handsome, and powerfully built. She suspected she would have been just as tempted once as Portia must have been. He took in Eloise, Cleo, and Jareth with a frown of confusion. Then his gaze lit on Portia. He rushed forward to take her hands.

  “Miss Sinclair, how glad I am to see you here! I was told you were in danger. I came as quickly as I could. What’s happened?”

  “Oh, Rufus!” Portia fell into his arms, sobbing. The tender way he held her told Eloise everything she needed to know. She motioned to Cleo and Jareth, and the three of them tiptoed from the room.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  In the corridor, Jareth shook his head. “So, Major Churchill wasn’t a scoundrel either.”

  “It appears not,” Eloise agreed with a smile. “We shall know for sure when they bid us return.”

  “If I recognized that look in his eye,” Jareth said, “we will not be invited back anytime soon.”

  Cleo sighed with obvious pleasure. “A job well done, my friends.”

  “Friends?” Jareth raised a brow. “Do you count me as a friend, Lady Hastings?”

  “I believe I do, Mr. Darby,” she replied. “Until you give me reason to do otherwise.”

  “Heaven forbid,” he said with a laugh. “I have already had a taste of your barbed contempt.”

  Cleo cringed at the pun. Eloise laughed.

  “And you, Miss Watkin?” he challenged. “Do you see me as a friend as well?”

  Eloise batted her lashes at him. “Oh, no, Mr. Darby. I am certain you are ever so much more than a friend.”

  “Quite right,” he replied. Then he seized her in his arms and set about proving it to her.

  “Mr. Darby!” Cleo cried in mock censure. “I may not have a pitchfork, but there is a vase handy if you persist in this demonstration.”

  He raised his lips from Eloise’s but kept her safely in his arms. “You will need a cannon this time, madam. Miss Watkin may have accepted my ring, but she has yet to tell me that she will truly marry me. I vow I will not release Miss Watkin until she has agreed to be my wife.”

  “Oh, but you make the choice difficult, sir,” Eloise teased with a wink to Cleo. “Stay in your arms forever or become your wife? Can I endure such consequences? What if I choose both?”

  “Done,” Jareth proclaimed, and he went back to kissing her as Cleo clapped in delight. She then behaved just as a good friend ought and found something to busy herself with at the far end of the corridor.

  As for Eloise, she found there was nowhere she would rather be than in Jareth’s arms. He was obviously not as reformed as he liked to pretend, for his kisses were decidedly not what a gentleman should be giving a lady, even his affianced bride. She decided, however, that she was not the least unwilling. Perhaps she had not changed as much as she had thought either. In this area of her life, she rather hoped she never would.

  When he at last released her, she could only smile at him in what she was certain must be a most besotted fashion. He looked just as pleased with the matter. “Then you forgive me?” he asked as if to make sure. “You do not require any more tests?”

  “No,” she replied. “I forgive you, and I forgive myself. That last part was far more difficult, I assure you.”

  He cocked his head. “Why did you have to forgive yourself?”

  “For doubting you. For doubting my father and friends. For doubting myself. You have taught me a great deal, my love.”

  He chuckled. “Not nearly as much as you’ve taught me, I’d wager.”

  “What?” she challenged. “A mere slip of a girl teach a Darby anything?”

  His arms tightened, and he nuzzled her neck. “You taught me about true love,” he murmured in her ear before planting a kiss there. “That there is far more to this,” he illustrated with another kiss, “than simply the joining of two bodies. That I must not let my pride get in the way of that love.”

  She snuggled against him, well pleased with herself at the thought.

  “And you will marry me?” he murmured as if still a little unsure of her.

  “As soon as you can produce a license,” she promised.

  “Will tomorrow be soon enough?”

  “Tomorrow?” She gaped at him, then giggled. “Such haste, Mr. Darby. They will suspect we have a reason.”

  He pulled her back into his arms. “Oh, I have the very best reason of all. The unwilling Miss Watkin is willing to take a chance on me. And if I haven’t proven that I am utterly devoted, allow me to spend the rest of my life doing so.”

  And he did. And so did she.

  ***

  Dear Reader

  I hope you enjoyed the story of Eloise and Jareth. Love truly is too precious to waste, particularly when you remember to both give and receive.

  You may have noticed old friends from my other stories. The courtship of Lord and Lady Hastings is the plot of The Irredeemable Miss Renfield, which first introduced Eloise and her scandalous past. Jareth’s own past was first introduced in the novella, “The Mistletoe Kitten.” That story told of how Justinian and Eleanor remembered their love for each other, thanks to the help of a small, black kitten. And my dearest Margaret, Lady DeGuis, first began helping Comfort House in The Marquis’ Kiss, the book in which she fell in love with a most unlikely gentleman.

  If you enjoyed the story, there’s several things you could do now:

  Sign up for a free e-mail alert with exclusive bonus content so you’ll be the first to know whenever a new book is out.

  Connect with me on Facebook, Goodreads, or Pinterest.

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or Goodreads to help other readers find the book.

  Discover my many other books on my website.

  Turn the page for a sneak peek of the start of my series, The Marvelous Munroes, in My True Love Gave to Me, in which a daring wager over Christmas may seal the fate of two hearts.

  Blessings!

  Regina Scott

  Sneak Peek: My True Love Gave to Me, Book 1 in The Marvelous Munroes Series

  Genevieve Munroe paced the wide wood-paneled entry of Wenwood Abbey, listening for the sound of carriage wheels on the drive. Even with her back to him, she knew Chimes, their man-of-all-work, was watching her from his spot propped up on the parson’s bench on the opposite side of the space.

  “Settle down, miss,” he chided. “They’ll be here soon enough.”

  She let her pacing turn her toward him and winked. “Settle down yourself. You’re as anxious to see this fight end as I am.”

  “Now there’s a true statement,” he allowed, folding his hands over his pot belly and stretching his long legs out in front of him. “It would make my life a great deal easier if you Munroes would learn to get along with them Pentercasts. I wouldn’t have to be near as particular which side of the wall the game was on. And the Squire, now, is too fine a man to be treated like he was the dirt beneath your mother’s slippers.”

  A tingle of excitement shot through her. She could not let Chimes see it. No one could see it. “We are in agreement there as well,” she replied calmly enough, but she couldn’t help adding, “has he changed much since we left, Chimes?”

  His sharp black eyes lit up, and she struggled not to look too interested in the answer, afraid she’d given away the game. “Since you and Miss Allison and Mr. Geoffrey went to the curate’s school together? Not all that much, I suppose. Still interested in the Squire, are we, Miss Gen?”

  She wandered closer to him, letting him see how casually she gazed at her reflection in the gilded mirror beside him. She tucked a stray curl back into the golden coil at the nape of her neck. The woman who gazed back was cool and confident, the champion of many a London fete. Satisfied, she turned from the reflection to face him with a gracious smile.

  Somehow, she knew she wasn’t fooling him for a second.

  “I remember how you used to look up at him when you was just a little gel, and he’d come to take Mr. Geoffrey home on his horse,” Chimes continued as she resumed her pacing. “Right fine figure of a man is the Squire. I heard tell he was interested in courting Mary Delacourte.”

  “Did her eyes ever uncross?” Gen asked.

  “Now, they were never really crossed. That right eye of hers just tends to wander since she was kicked in the head by a cow all those years ago. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were still sweet on him.”

  She snorted and heard the unladylike sound echo against the polished wood walls. “I was never sweet on him, Chimes. It was an infantile adoration. I was only fifteen when we left; he must have been, oh---”

  “Twenty-two. Which would make him just a year or two shy of thirty these days.” He scratched the bare spot on top of his greying head. “Good age for a man to marry and settle down.”

  She scowled at him, determined to put that idea from his mind. “I hope you remember how to keep quiet when Mother arrives.”

  “Takes more than a pretty frown to scare me, gel.” He winked at her, tapping the crook of his long nose. “And don’t you worry about your mother. She never did think I was good enough to be the butler, but she can’t live without my Annie’s cooking.” His merry smile faded. “Especially now. Carstairs says you haven’t told them about the financial problems yet.”

  That pulled her up short. Twice now she’d underestimated Chimes ability to see to the heart of matters. What a pity her father hadn’t taken him with them to London. She’d have given much to have him point out the shallowness of her beaus before she could even think of engaging her heart. And a word from Chimes might have kept her father from allowing a drunken friend to take the reins.

  She blinked away the unhappy thought. She couldn’t let her appreciation of the man’s abilities deter her now. “I do not wish to talk about it further,” she informed him, hands on hips. “I warn you, Chimes, I will brook no arguments on this. They deserve one last happy Christmas.”

  He held up his gnarled hands in surrender. “Very well, Miss. You can count on me to stay mum.” He lowered his voice. “Are we still hunting tomorrow morning?”

  She relaxed, the two topics she feared most now past. She nodded, then lowered her voice as well. “Yes. I’ve convinced Mother that letting me plan the Christmas dinner is excellent practice for when I’ll manage my own home someday. Do you think we can still find some good birds for Annie to cook?”

  “Good birds, bad birds, my Annie will make them sing in your mouth. Hark, there’s the carriage now.”

  She was surprised at the flutter of excitement in her stomach, even more surprised at the lowering disappointment when Chimes shrugged himself into his coat and found only their Vicar, Thaddeus York, and his curate, William Wellfordhouse, at the door. She chided herself for her lack of enthusiasm. William had been her father’s protégé; she had known him for years. He deserved better than her disappointment. She pasted on a smile of welcome as the grooms led the horses away and Chimes showed them in.

  “Good evening, Miss Genevieve,” William said with a smile as he took her hands. “I must say you’re looking quite well.”

  She grinned up at him, noting that his sandy hair was as immaculately combed as ever and that his grey eyes sparkled. Before she could return his greeting, the vicar broke in.

  “Quite well indeed, under the circumstances, quite well.” Mr. York ran a hand over his balding pate as Chimes hurried off with their coats and hats. “There are many who question the proper time for mourning. Three months? Six months? A year? Respect for the dearly departed is the key, I find. Your father has been gone a mere six months, has he not?”

  She bit back a smile at his faux pas. Her father had ever delighted in baiting the poor vicar into just such a statement. “Yes, vicar,” she said aloud. “How kind of you to remember.” She focused on the young man who had become like a brother to her. “William, you look thinner than when we saw you in London. I hope the vicar isn’t working you too hard.”

  William opened his mouth to respond, but Mr. York coughed into his meaty hands. “Hard work, Miss Munroe, is the best road toward heaven, the very best.”

  “Then dear William must be nearly there,” she replied, allowing the smile to show. She noted that Chimes had returned and signaled him forward. “Chimes, please make these kind gentlemen comfortable in the drawing room and inform Mother that they have arrived. I will wait here for our other guests.”

  William, who had been looking rather uncomfortable, brightened. “Oh, are we to have other company as well?”

  She winked at him. “Yes. The Pentercasts.”

  “Oh, bravo, Miss Gen!” he exclaimed.

  The vicar grunted. “It is the true penitent who knows the worth of peace, the true penitent indeed.”

  Gen’s smile was threatening to become a laugh. “Chimes,” she prompted. She was relieved when their man led them away.

  She scolded herself as she resumed her anxious pacing. She really should try to remember Vicar York’s position. He had been the head of the church at Wenwood since before she was born. Of course, she never felt as comfortable in his company as she did in William’s. William was always pleasant, always kind. He seemed to have taken every lesson in humility and duty to heart. Her father had said he was born to be a clergyman.

  Somehow she didn’t think the same applied to Vicar York, who seemed far more interested in good food and fine wine. The very thought made her feel guilty. She would simply have to try harder to appreciate the man if they were to live here in Wenwood. If only he didn’t insist on repeating every other phrase. She remembered when Allison had pointed it out to their father.

  “Don
’t let it annoy you,” her father had replied with that tell-tale twinkle in his eyes that meant he was never less serious. “He only repeats himself to show how very little he has to say, how very little indeed.” She could still hear Allison’s answering giggle.

  She had crossed the wide entry twice more when her mother and Allison appeared from the corridor that led to the family wing. She nearly groaned out loud. While she had gone out of her way to pick a simple gown of watered green silk with a modest neck, she saw that her mother had decided to show the Pentercasts who they were dealing with. Her lilac satin gown, with its full skirt, lace overdress, and silver embroidery at the lowered neck and high waist, had come straight from a fashion print and was more suited to a royal ball than a country dinner. The puffed sleeves required her to wear her long gloves, but Gen knew it wasn’t modesty that had caused her to include the two amethyst rings or the matching stone that glinted from the folds of her silver turban.

  Allison, not yet out, should have been more simply dressed. The white gown she wore was as plainly cut as Gen’s, but it too boasted a silver lace overdress sprinkled with beads that reflected the candlelight. With a pang, Gen noted the Munroe diamonds, one of the few pieces of jewelry she had refused to sell or replace with paste copies, sparkling at her sister’s throat and wrist. The tiara, usually reserved for the eldest daughter or daughter-in-law, nestled in her flaxen curls. Her mother was obviously making a statement. Standing next to them, Gen felt like a poor relation.

  They had no time to talk as the sound of a carriage came again, and Chimes bustled forward to receive their guests. Her mother took one look at his rumbled coat and uttered a short sigh, but he opened the arched double doors with proper ceremony. Trying to ignore the fluttering in her stomach, Gen put up her head and pasted another smile on her face.

  Mrs. Pentercast entered first. She was shorter than Gen remembered, reaching only to Gen’s shoulder, and much rounder. Gen could only hope her face didn’t show her shock as Chimes took the lady’s black velvet evening cloak to reveal that she was wearing a lilac satin gown with a lace overdress and silver embroidery. It was obviously a copy of the London gown, done somewhat less grandly and looking much less impressive on the short, squat figure than on her mother’s tall, spare frame. The silver headband with its purple ostrich plume also failed to give the outfit the proper polish. Nevertheless, her mother’s forced smile of welcome froze on her face.