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

by Audrey Ashwood

  “You do not need to earn my love, my dear,” Annabelle replied. The words left her lips so easily. “I give it to you freely, just as I do my heart and soul.”

  “It is the most precious gift a man could wish for,” Marcus said, so quietly that she had to listen carefully to understand his words. “And I love you, my dearest, my beloved Annabelle. Until the end of my days.” He took her face in his hands and caressed her lips with his. “Perhaps we should go away for a while. We could say it was an overdue honeymoon. We could travel to Italy or Greece.”

  “Is it not a little too late for that?” She smiled softly.

  He kissed her again. “It is never too late for a new beginning.”

  As Annabelle walked towards him on the arm of her father, his heart wanted to burst with sheer happiness and pride.

  It was not a real wedding, since they had already been married, but the vicar had agreed to a renewal of the marriage vows.

  “I will be happy to oblige. How long have the two of you been married?” he had asked. When Marcus answered his question, the man’s brows had shot upwards. “Oh, very well then. If circumstances require it, and above all, if you are sincere about it, then I will be happy to do it, my Lord.”

  Annabelle did not wear a veil, as he had requested. He wanted to see her face as she walked towards him. What he saw was absolute and unconditional love, such as he had never believed to see again. Her green eyes sparkled brighter than any of the emerald jewellery she wore.

  He was a most fortunate man. Not only was she incredibly beautiful, but she was also smart. She was strong enough to confront him, when it was necessary, and she would never betray him.

  Her father, who had still not forgiven him, stared at him defiantly, as he laid his daughter’s hand into Marcus’s. One day, he would also overcome this obstacle. But not today. This moment belonged to Marcus and the wife he loved so dearly.

  He leaned down to her, and as his lips met hers, he enjoyed the blissful moment of love. He loved her. And she loved him. Her lips on his felt so soft, so tender, that he could have lost himself forever in that one touch. The love he felt for her was wild and passionate, and yet so moving, like he had never dreamed possible. He wanted to protect her and guard her from all the evil in the world. But unlike Matilda, who would always have a place in his heart, Marcus knew that Annabelle was strong enough to stand her ground in any situation.

  He felt how Annabelle leaned towards him, like a flower tilting its head towards the sun. He felt her strength and her love for him like a golden band, which would forever connect them.

  He would never ever let her go again.

  Nothing would ever tear them apart.

  THE END

  Dear Readers,

  The misfortune and drama we experience often opens our eyes to beauty and true love, which does not always come with a charming countenance. Are you also curious about the fate that awaits Lady Felicity Carlisle?

  In the book “No Lord Desired”, Lady Felicity knows exactly what she does not want, which is some superficial lord, for whom she would be nothing but a piece of property.

  But before she gives in to the pressure of her parents, and marries, she has a frightening problem to solve. Lady Felicity is being blackmailed.

  She cannot confide in anyone else but him – a masked stranger known as ‘the priest’, the fiercest fighter in the city. Nobody has ever seen his face. When she asks for help, he decides to stand by her side.

  But how will Lady Felicity react when she finds out who the man behind the mask really is?

  In my new book, you will find everything you expect in a suspenseful Regency romance novel: plenty of romance, a courageous lady, and a handsome man, who is prepared to do anything for the woman of his heart. Look forward to the next exciting Recency romance novel in the same series titled: “No Lord Desired”.

  Warmest greetings,

  Audrey Ashwood

  Book 2: No Lord Desired

  A Historical Regency Romance

  No Lord Desired Copyright © 2020 Audrey Ashwood

  This work is protected by copyright.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Print ISBN: 1091436681

  Image Rights: © Period Images

  Cover Design: © ARP Cover Design

  About this Novel

  A gentleman of noble descent.

  A young woman who has renounced all noblemen.

  A secret that may change everything.

  Lady Felicity knows exactly what she does not want. Since she was bitterly betrayed by a noble, she has vowed to stay away from any blue-blooded man. Even for Lord Layton, one of London’s most sought-after bachelors, she feels nothing but disdain, even though both families would favour a marriage between them.

  No ‘peacocky’ lord should, nor will, ever conquer her heart – for that already belongs to another man: to the brave, masked stranger who steps into the ring in the sinful and filthy drinking holes of Whitechapel. No one has ever seen his face.

  Since he became Felicity’s saviour late at night in the city’s dark depths, the young woman has lost her heart, and a marriage to Lord Layton is less likely than ever before.

  When a threat emerges from Felicity’s past, her mysterious hero is the only one she can turn to, and he becomes her closest ally…

  But how will Lady Felicity react when she finds out who is hiding behind the mask?

  Chapter 1

  October 1813, one month after the Battle of Lake Erie

  “Finish that American scoundrel!”

  “Show the English bastard!”

  Luke blanked out the shouts of the British war prisoners and the American watchdogs, and ducked down to escape a straight punch from his opponent.

  The man was, same as he, naked to his waist, and bore the signs of their fist fight all over his upper body and face. In fact, his left eye had begun to swell significantly, and he could barely see out of it, which gave Luke the advantage he needed to win the English-American showdown. He feigned a straight punch with his left, followed up with a right uppercut, and dove underneath the wild swing of his opponent.

  The hooting and whistling of his fellow prisoners rose to a whole new level, as the man stumbled against the ropes that formed the edge of the improvised boxing ring. His rival blinked a few times but managed to hold himself upright. He had the massive stature of a bull, but once enraged, very much like the animal itself, he unfurled an impressive force in his attack. Luke, with his slender stature, which had become lean during the month of imprisonment, could have taken advantage of his light-footed nimbleness and rapidity, had he not been so exhausted.

  With a roar that actually reminded him of a raging bull, Luke’s rival managed to overcome the distance between them. All that Luke had to do was step aside and watch the massive mountain of a man shoot past him.

  During the old days of his fights in the boxing taverns back in London, which had once been his favourite pastime, Luke would have been certain of his victory at this point: a final kick into the back of his opponent’s knees, and victory would be his. Anyone who fought like a gentleman in the filthy boxing matches in London’s underworld, had lost even before the first blo
w.

  The truth was that Luke was tempted to give the American a powerful kick, but he did not dare it. The atmosphere could turn at any time. In fact, Luke was not even sure whether it was a good idea for him to win the fight. Certainly, his victory would be good for his fellow prisoners’ morale, but who could guarantee that the guards would not follow his win by cutting their rations in half or denying them much-needed bandages?

  War brought out the best in some people. However, in most, it woke a side that should have been better hidden.

  So, Luke gave his opponent time to catch his breath and come at him again in another attack. This time, he let him come closer, and earned a sidewinder into his ribs that took his breath away. How easy it would have been to sink to his knees and pretend to be finished.

  The howling and whistling around him became a muffled, humming sound in his ears, as his rival hit him with force in his neck. Did he actually fall to his knees? The foul-smelling brown mud came closer. Luke suppressed the urge to raise his arms to his head, to protect himself from the shower of punches that rained down on him. When he lifted his head to the side, he could see the face of his friend, Branwell. Complete bewilderment was reflected in his eyes, and that hurt Luke more than the beating he was enduring. The American towered over him. The only way to win, after all, was not something a lord and gentleman would have chosen, but Luke had not been either in a very long time.

  He let himself fall forward and rolled – not particularly elegantly, but all the more surprisingly to the American – to one side. For a split second, the enraged blue eyes, red face of his rival, stared at him in confusion. Then Luke saw his opponent’s face slowly moving through an expression of disbelief, to – as Luke knew from his own experience – unbearable agony. He had kicked the man in his precious crown jewels. As this was an American, who prided himself on the independence of his country from the British motherland, one most likely did not say crown jewels here, but…

  Luke drifted off. The fight had cost him the last bit of strength that the Battle of Lake Erie and the imprisonment that had followed, had not yet taken from his body.

  Did someone call his name? No, that was impossible. Here, everybody knew him only as Luke Thorn, not by his real name, Luke Thornfield, Lord Layton. No. He shook his head. The last thing he saw was Branwell, who despite his own wounded arm, had climbed across the ropes and rushed to him.

  Five weeks later, he was once again Lord Layton, as he sailed into London’s harbour. The American President, Madison, and the British Prime Minister, Jenkinson, had negotiated a prisoner exchange, and the prince regent had made it a stipulation of the deal, that it had to include Lord Layton. Luke knew that his father, who was a close friend and advisor to the prince regent, must have had his hands in the game. Nobody, apart from Commander Barclay, who had led the British fleet into battle, had known about his noble heritage. But not anymore.

  Branwell, whom Luke had, with some difficulty, managed to remove from the Americans’ hands, looked at him from the corner of his eyes, partially in disbelief and partially in aggravation. As the newly appointed chamberlain of Lord Layton, it was good that Branwell always had something to do, if only to keep Luke company in a game of dice. The journey on the agile ship took twenty-five days, which they spent getting used to their new identities. With each nautical mile that the Persephone sailed closer towards London, Luke became more tense, whilst Branwell seemed to feel more and more comfortable in his new role.

  It was the stench of rotting wood and human filth that told Luke, more than anything else, that he was back in London. The dark river, which was yet another name for the Thames, was the lifeline of London, but it brought with it noise and filth, which he had not missed during his stay in the former colonies. Hundreds of frigates and increasingly popular clippers crowded up and down the river. Most of them carried trading goods, much as the Persephone did, as they headed for the West India docks to unload their precious cargo. From his position on deck, Luke could see the workers, and above all, he could hear them cursing at each other in the thickest Cockney accents. The first smile since his departure curled his lips. London was the heart of the British Empire and it had not changed a bit. Unlike him. The war…

  “Are you expected, Sir?” Branwell’s voice tore Luke from his observations. In the cold October air, his breath created white clouds with every word in front of his mouth.

  “I assume so,” Luke replied. He had only just noticed how cold it was. “Surely my father knows exactly when our ship will dock, down to the exact hour. There is not much that happens without his knowledge.”

  Branwell turned to the young man. The superficial wound had healed well, and his face had received a healthy colour during the crossing. “Just one more thing,” Luke said, as he searched the pier for a familiar face or, God forbid, his father’s carriage. “We have experienced a lot together during this war. As long as we are alone, I do not care about exaggerated formalities whilst we are amongst ourselves. I’m still Luke.”

  “I understand,” Branwell replied, slightly distracted. Obviously, he could not get enough of the sight that presented itself to him. No wonder. He had come to London from the Yorkshire moors to make his fortune in the capital city, when he had been snatched up by the Royal Navy’s promoters on the second day after his arrival. They had forced him to join the navy. While that kind of signing was legitimate in the eyes of the law, Luke believed it was just as despicable as the forced servitude in America. Luke had come to appreciate many things during his time in the colonies – which, strictly speaking, were not colonies anymore – but slavery was not one of them. Sooner or later, the ones exploited would strike back, just as had happened during the bloody revolution in France. History had a tendency to repeat itself. Stupid that only very few people ever learned from it.

  “Sir… Luke, I am very grateful for everything you have done for me,” Branwell began, once he had gotten his fill of everything there was to see, but Luke cut him off.

  “I don’t want your gratitude,” he said. “What I need is a friend.”

  “Lady Felicity, what a pleasure to see you so soon after your illness.” Lord Salisbury’s face belied his words. His facial expression did not change as he greeted her, but instead looked her up and down like a farmer eyeing up a cow at the market. Not that Felicity had any idea what a farmer was looking for when buying cattle, but that did not matter. All that mattered was the feeling that Lord Salisbury portrayed towards her, and it was not a pleasant one.

  A couple of months ago, she would have given him her brightest smile, before crossing him off her dance card for all eternity. Five minutes after his spiteful innuendo, she would not have wasted another thought on him. She would have spent hours in front of the mirror, chasing her maid back and forth until she was absolutely satisfied that her appearance corresponded to the latest fashion.

  Today… things were different. Her mother had only just managed – with a great deal of effort – to convince her to slip into the new pale-blue dress, which the seamstress had finished yesterday. Today, she feared the snarky remarks and judgement of the people whom she had not cared one whit about, less than half a year ago. However, Felicity’s short absence had been noticed by the prying eyes of fine society, and had stirred up all sorts of rumours during the few weeks wherein she had not left the house.

  “Would you allow me to get you a refreshment, Lady Felicity? You look a little overheated, if I may say so.”

  “No, you may not,” Felicity replied, leaving it to him to decide whether her refusal of permission would apply to the refreshment or the remark. She was well aware that she was being impolite, but why should she care? She did not. Even her mother, who stood beside her, listening to the conversation, seemed to approve of her daughter’s reply, as the Duchess of Evesham touched her daughter gently on her arm, before she turned towards the presumptuous gentleman.

  “How is business, Lord Salisbury?” she asked. “I have heard that your partnership in th
e entertainment industry demands a lot of your time and money.” The duchess’s gaze would have forced a stronger man than Lord Salisbury to his knees. As soon as her mother had spoken those words and seen Lord Salisbury first turn pale and then bright red, Felicity wished that she had thought of the riposte herself. For a peer, there was no greater disgrace than being associated with the trading social class. In addition, it was a poorly kept secret that Lord Salisbury had an opera singer as his mistress, who was spending his fortune – or at least, what he could expect to inherit after his father’s passing – with generous joy.

  Lady Blankhurst, a friend of Felicity’s mother, took her by her arm. “Just look how he pulls back, that cowardly dog. Now, all we need to see is him crawling with his tail between his–”

  “Evangeline, please.” The duchess interrupted her friend.

  The two women formed a strange pair. Felicity’s mother, the duchess, was a picture of pure elegance, with her dark-brown hair and eyes of a similar colour, which stood in stark contrast to her friend’s untidy greyish-blonde curls. The duchess leaned towards a conservative wardrobe in clear colours, whilst Lady Blankhurst favoured revealing dresses in girlish pastels, which did not suit her.

  “We are not here to listen to comparisons from the animal world. Felicity is here to amuse herself, not with the two of us, but with young people of her age. Look over there, dear.” She gestured towards a young, dark-haired man, who was approaching them. “That is Viscount Charters. I do seem to remember that he stood high in your favour, just a few months ago.”