The Three Evesham Daughters: Books 1-3: A Regency Romance Trilogy

by Audrey Ashwood

  Finally, he could make out the shape of the pavilion in front of him. Only a few steps separated him from his target. Just as he was thinking about how close he could sneak up to the two, and how odd it was that the woman in Greywood’s arms didn’t make a sound, the hairs on his neck stood up.

  But it was already too late.

  He bounced against something soft, which he unmistakably recognised as female breasts that were laced up scandalously loosely. Before Marcus could wonder about the reason for his displeasure, he felt a burning pain on his cheek. A tender hand in a white glove pulled back, but not fast enough for him.

  His fingers enclosed the tiny wrist, and while he ignored the painfilled but more so indignant scream, he pulled the woman close.

  “What have you done to my sister? Where is Felicity?” a voice hissed into his ear, which would have sounded pleasant under normal circumstances. But now, under the vibrating alto, he mostly heard one thing: fury. And fear.

  Once more the memory hit him with full force. He heard a similar-sounding female voice, which belonged to a different time and a different place.

  “Be still,” he ordered as he listened to the darkness.

  Most likely, her scream had alerted Greywood, but he still wanted to avoid any attention. He knew that the gossip about his transgressions, as well as the rumours about his past, had given him a rather dubious reputation, however, an attentive observer would almost certainly wonder about the reason for Marcus’ late-night presence in the gardens.

  “I do not think so,” the strange woman replied defiantly. “Not until you tell me where Felicity is.”

  “I do not know, and I do not care,” he answered harshly. From the corner of his eye, he thought that he saw the dark dress he had followed all the way out here. “Be still, or I shall see to it that you keep your mouth shut.”

  He was close to losing his patience with her. For a moment he was hoping that the strange woman in his arms would behave reasonable, but she proved him wrong. She did something no well-behaved young English maiden would ever have considered doing – she opened her mouth and spewed a flood of vociferous insults at him. In all his life, Marcus had heard far worse offences than “monster,” which was a ridiculous accusation in the face of the situation, but her lack of reasoning and sheer disobedience angered him.

  A short while later, when he was able to think clearly again, he would struggle to find a logical explanation for his behaviour, but in this particular moment, it had seemed like the only way to silence the strange woman. It might have been the warm spring air, the sweet, delicious scent of her soft body in his arms, and, not least, the fact that her sight reminded him of the happiest time in his life, but… he pressed his lips against hers and closed her mouth with a kiss.

  She smelled of almonds and something tart, which evoked thoughts of a hot summer’s day in the country. Besides her perfume, he smelled the scent of her soap, undeniably some expensive French concoction that more than likely had been smuggled here. However, the most tantalising were her lips, which she opened for him without hesitation. At first, he assumed that she was a versed kisser, but then he realized by her posture that she was simply overwhelmed by the new experience of physical closeness. By now he should have realised that she was a complete stranger to him and not the beloved, familiar, dead woman of his dreams.

  But for a fraction of a second, Marcus St. John, Earl of Grandover, a man with a bad reputation and a well-known love of the female grace, had forgotten to study the situation carefully, and instead lost himself in the innocent but passionate kiss with the young woman.

  It was the moment that cost him his freedom.

  The moment the moon revealed her face from behind dark clouds, and he finally saw who was about to rob him of his sanity, it was already too late to deny that the kiss had ever happened.

  Behind the woman with the chestnut-brown hair, which threatened to fall into complete disarray, he saw three men approaching with hasty steps. The first man with his scowling gaze he recognised as the Duke of Evesham, one of the country’s most conservative peers, and a hater of Catholics.

  He looked at the woman he had just kissed. Her eyes darted from his face over to the duke’s and back to his. For a short moment, he thought that she would open her mouth and explain what had happened: That she had mistaken him for someone else, that nothing had happened that couldn’t be forgotten, as long as all involved swore to absolute silence in this matter – but, she said nothing, not even when the Duke of Evesham let loose a tirade of angry accusations. Her eyes, the colour of which he was unable to distinguish in the flickering light of the torches, widened in fear.

  He thought that she looked at him pleadingly, but then the presence of the three noblemen demanded his attention and she was pushed to the edge of his mind.

  Immediately behind the enraged father loomed the corpulent figure of his friend, the Earl of Warrington. The third man – Marcus froze at the realization – was Greywood. He barely did anything to hide his grin as the two older men stormed towards Marcus. Evesham was held back by his friend, as he waved his fists in Marcus’s face. Words such as “honour” and “satisfaction” were thrown around, but they bounced off Marcus like water off a duck’s feathers. The only thing he saw was the mockery in Greywood’s face, when Marcus realised that he had no other choice, given the Duke’s wounded honour.

  Either he accepted the duke’s gauntlet and met with him for a duel, which he was certain he would win, or he took the only other option open to him – marry the girl and save her honour – while keeping his own actions from being discovered. Marcus St. John closed his eyes and tasted the last breath of freedom before he turned towards his future father-in-law. His gaze brushed over Greywood’s face. The desire to catapult the man with his bare hands into the afterlife was almost overwhelming.

  Marcus St. John had lost a battle. However, intended to win the war.

  Chapter 2

  Two months later

  Annabelle stood before the priest and barely heard what he was saying. One reason was the monotonous voice of the man. However, what weighed much more on her was the fact that she was about to marry a man whom she hardly knew, and whose coldness filled her with fear, disgust, and anger. Marcus St. John, Earl of Grandover, had agreed to take her as his wife to save her from disgrace. Those had been his words.

  Anger still boiled inside her when she thought of his condescending, arrogant way in which he had treated her since that unfortunate encounter.

  “I do not need anyone to save me from a disgrace that does not exist,” she had wanted to say to him and “You kissed me. Not the other way around.” But the warning rasp of her father and the disappointing gaze of her mother had finally convinced Annabelle to accept his proposal. With grinding teeth, mark you, and a fake smile that would have earned her a standing ovation in the Globe Theatre.

  Maybe Annabelle could have done the unthinkable and defied her parents, safe in the knowledge that she had done nothing wrong, but there was still Felicity. In the hustle and bustle surrounding Annabelle’s escapade, her parents had not noticed their middle daughter’s demeanour. The mood swings of her younger sister had not only become a continuous state, but they had increased significantly. Since the night of the kiss, which was what Annabelle called those tragic hours, Felicity had barely been approachable. Sometimes she ran around the house singing (particularly when they were invited to a ball), however, most of the time, she silently stared out of the window and refused to talk to Annabelle. Suddenly stuck in the midst of the whirlwind of wedding preparations and not knowing whether she was coming or going, Annabelle had allowed Felicity to carry on behaving like this, hoping that her younger sister would come and find her to start a conversation.

  With red-rimmed eyes from all the crying, but with her head held high, Felicity had joined them in the carriage after her father had firmly instructed St. John to call on him the following afternoon. Annabelle had noticed how Greywood had barely been
able to hide his triumph when he had caught St. John and her together. To this day, she was not sure what role he had played in the sudden appearance of her father and if he had anything to do with their discovery at all. The important thing was that Felicity’s failed attempt to elope never came to light. As time progressed, and as Annabelle’s wedding day drew ever closer, Felicity became more and more melancholic. The fear that Felicity would actually harm herself, should her transgression ever be known, became Annabelle’s constant companion. So, she had not said anything and instead agreed to marry the Earl of Grandover.

  “… for as long as you both shall live,” the priest interrupted her thoughts. The heavy odour of the incense, which was burned in abundance during Catholic ceremonies, made her feel nauseous. That was St. John’s petty revenge, she thought. If he had to marry a woman he did not want, then at the very least a Catholic priest should be present in addition to her Anglican minister. Her father had agreed – well, he had been forced to agree, in the face of the witnesses to her… transgression.

  Annabelle briefly glanced up at the man she was going to spend the rest of her life with. Then her eyes wandered over to one of the statues that were so numerous in this house of God. The saviour with his face distorted from the pain, behind the pastor (or was she supposed to call him a priest?) scared her, but there was one of the Mother of God – and a gentle, kindly smiling one at that. It almost seemed as if the holy woman winked at her in an expression of womanly accord.

  From under the flowered wreath in her hair, she looked back to Marcus St. John, who stood with his lips tightly pressed together. His posture was that of a man who had discovered, too late, that he had handed over his life, not into the capable hands of a doctor, but instead to those of a mere quack.

  It seemed the ceremony was over. He reached for her hand somewhat roughly and led her down the aisle towards the church doors. The lump in her throat thickened. He had not even bothered to lift up her veil, and she could barely see where she was going. Was it the fine lace that obscured her view, or was it tears? At least she could not see her sister’s pale, stiff face, which had not been the same since that night.

  She held on to the earl’s arm and walked with small steps beside him. Someone opened the gates of the church. The sudden sunshine and warmth surrounded them, but even the heat of the mid-August day was better than the oppressive narrowness of the Catholic Church.

  Her husband’s carriage, which was hitched to four horses, stood nearby. The coachman stood next to the vehicle, one hand resting on the back of a horse. When the church gates had opened, the man indolently lifted his head and stared at her for what seemed like an unseemly amount of time, before he looked for her husband’s gaze.

  The realisation that she was now a married woman hit her with full force, and for a moment she forgot about the coachman’s rather strange behaviour. Annabelle’s knees buckled beneath her, and more than anything, she would have liked to let go of the Earl of Grandover’s arm to run back into her parents. As if he sensed her urge, he tightened his grip.

  “Pull yourself together,” he murmured, leaning down towards her. “You wanted it this way, so you need to get through this. Or do you want a scandal?”

  “I most certainly did not want this marriage any more than you did,” she replied, gathering all her courage. Defying a man such as Marcus St. John was not easy, especially when she became aware of his size and had to look upwards to him. Determined not to show her fear, Annabelle let go of him and pulled her veil back from her face.

  She almost gasped for air when she saw his face without the protection of the soft fabric, which had shielded her gaze from him so far. His mouth was but a thin white line, his jaw tense. However, it was his eyes that scared her the most. They were a deep dark blue, which she would have liked if the circumstances had been different, and if they had not shown an expression that went far beyond rage and fury.

  Marcus St. John looked as if he wanted to strangle her with his bare hands.

  Annabelle backed away involuntarily, but he was faster again. With a gesture that reminded her of their first encounter in the darkness of the gardens, he pulled her towards him.

  “We will finish this together,” he said quietly and did not even turn his head when her family spilt out from inside the church. “You are now the Countess of Grandover, so act like it.” Annabelle swallowed and forced back her rising tears. For a split second his features softened, and a different, much more gentle expression appeared in his eyes, but the change was so short-lived that Annabelle thought that she had imagined it.

  She nodded stiffly. “I will say goodbye to my family, and then we can begin our honeymoon.” She did not even know where he would take her since he had kept their contact to an absolute minimum. He had visited her family in their city home only twice to pay his respects. The first time had been the day after that fateful night when he had come to formally ask for her hand in marriage. She had no idea what he and her father had discussed, but both men had come out of the library in a significantly bad mood. The second time she had met Marcus St. John had been when he had brought her his mother’s jewellery and instructed her to wear it on the day of their wedding. Not one personal word had been exchanged between them over the next few weeks.

  Sometimes, when she lay in bed awake, with her insides curled up into a tight knot, Annabelle had tried to remember their kiss. Often, she had felt both hot and cold, all at the same time, when she thought of the endless minutes. Sometimes she felt euphoric, because the connection and the intimacy she had clearly felt that night, could only be a good omen for a marriage. But then there were moments when the memory of his kiss only strengthened her fear, to the point where Annabelle could no longer think clearly and only look into her future with panic.

  Just like now, as she sank into her mother’s softly scented embrace who silently let her know that she would always be there for her. Her father stood with a frozen face and arms crossed in front of his chest, as if he had nothing to do with the wedding of his oldest daughter. Annabelle kept looking for Felicity, but it was in vain, until her youngest sister Rose fell about her neck. At fifteen years old, she was still half a child, and she had often driven Annabelle to the brink of insanity with her disobedience, but today Annabelle was thankful for her little sister’s genuineness. Amongst all the stiff faces, including Annabelle’s own, Rose’s face was the only one that was lit up with a beaming smile.

  “You look so beautiful in your dress,” she whispered into her big sister’s ear. “And the jewellery is out of this world. It really complements your eyes.”

  Annabelle did not say anything and pressed Rose against her as tightly as she could in her full-skirted dress. But her youngest sister was not yet finished.

  “The ladies are already gossiping viciously about you,” she continued, “but do not mind. They are just jealous that the earl chose you as his bride.” Despite her fifteen years, Rose had kept her innocence, Annabelle thought, feeling a crazy giggle rising up in her throat. As if St. John had had a choice! Most certainly, his decision would have been different, had there not been three witnesses on the scene. A girl such as herself, who lacked elegance and grace, and who, in addition, was utterly incapable of bland chatter, was at the bottom of his wish list.

  She knew she would make a lousy countess.

  “Are you coming? It’s time,” her husband urged and bid her family farewell by nodding just the one time. Well, his manners also left much to be desired, Annabelle decided. He could at least pretend that she and her family did not completely repulse him. She noticed that while he addressed her less formally, which was acceptable between spouses, not once had he called her by her first name. She wondered how her name would sound if it ever came out of his mouth. Then again, she had not called him by his first name either, at least not aloud. Even in her thoughts she continuously wavered between “Marcus”, “St. John”, and “earl”. The names she called him depended entirely on the mood she was in. Did
he have multiple names for her as well? Maybe he called her “Anna” or maybe even the French and slightly daring sounding “Belle”? Or was she “the unwanted” for him?

  It was time to find out. One last time, she searched for Felicity, but she was not there.

  “Come along,” the man next to her repeated with noticeably increasing impatience. Just when she expected him to grab her wrist and drag her with him, he held out his hand towards her, palm up. The gesture was in stark contrast to his previous behaviour, so much so that Annabelle first stared at his fingers in disbelief, then at his face.

  Reluctantly, her fingertips touched his, then she followed him into the waiting carriage.

  Marcus St. John did not feel at all like a married man, and he was fine with that. He still could not make out whether Lady Annabelle had volunteered as bait to lure him into a trap, or if she was the innocent victim of Greywood’s intrigues. He had tried to assess the situation methodically, replayed and dissected the scenario in his head over and over again, looking for clues that would tell him who had concocted this perfidious plan, but to no avail.

  The most probable explanation was that it had been Greywood’s intention to discredit him and to manoeuvre him into a duel with the Duke of Evesham. Both possible outcomes would have pleased his enemy. If he survived, he would have to deal with the legal consequences. In the case of his death… well, there was not much to say about that.

  St. John’s theory was as follows: Greywood had ensured himself both sisters’ complicity – either by making false declarations of love or by forcing them with some kind of extortion. The viscount was, as Marcus knew from his own bitter experience, a master at spinning intricate webs of lies and seduction. It would have been easy for the deceitful bastard with his misleadingly open face, to convince both sisters to help him, without each of them knowing that the other one was involved. Only time would tell to what extent his wife was guilty – because St. John had very little doubt that she was somehow involved with Greywood.