by Three Graces
If her husband did talk to her, it was most often about Tiberius or Hadrian or some other ancient. He spent his money—quite a lot of money, she suspected, and most of it hers—and all his affection on his collections. The lower floor of the house was like a museum, filled with cases of Roman coins and artifacts, shelves of books about Rome. For Henry, these things were important, and she, emphatically, was not.
After nearly a year of marriage, Charlotte still felt like a schoolgirl. It might have been different if there were a chance of children, but her husband seemed wholly uninterested in the process of getting them. And by this time, the thought of any physical contact with him repelled Charlotte so completely that she didn’t know what she would do if he suddenly changed his mind.
She stared into the mirror, watching the golden candle flames dance, feeling the drafts caress the back of her neck, seeing her life stretch out for decades in this intolerable way. It had become quite clear that it would drive her mad. And so, she had made her plan. Henry avoided her during the day, and she could not speak to him at meals, with the prying eyes of servants all around them. After dinner, he went to his club and stayed until she had gone to bed. So she would not go to bed. She would stay up and confront him, no matter how late. She would insist on changes.
She had tried waiting warm under the bedclothes but had failed to stay awake for two nights. Last night, she’d fallen asleep in the armchair and missed her opportunity. Tonight, she would sit up straight on the dressing table stool with no possibility of slumber. She rose and set the door ajar, ignoring the increased draft this created. She could see the head of the stairs from here; he could not get by her. She would thrash it out tonight, no matter what insults he flung at her. The memory of that cold, dispassionate voice reciting her seemingly endless list of faults made her shiver, but she would not give up.
The candles fluttered and burned down faster. Charlotte waited, jerking upright whenever she started to nod off. Once, she nearly fell off the backless stool. But she endured, hour after hour, into the deeps of the night. She replaced the stubs of the candles. She added coals to the fire, piled on another heavy shawl against the chill. She rubbed her hands together to warm them, gritted her teeth, and held on until light showed in the crevices of the draperies and birds began to twitter outside. Another day had dawned, and Henry Wylde had not come home. Her husband had spent the night elsewhere.
Pulling her shawls closer, Charlotte contemplated this stupefying fact. The man she saw as made of ice had a secret life? He kept a mistress? He drank himself into insensibility and collapsed at his club? He haunted the gaming hells with feverish wagers? Impossible to picture any of these things. But she had never waited up so long before. She had no idea what he did with his nights.
Chilled to the bone, she rose, shut the bedroom door, and crawled into her cold bed. She needed to get warm; she needed to decide if she could use this new information to change the bitter circumstances of her life. Perhaps Henry was not completely without feelings, as she had thought. Her eyelids drooped. Perhaps there was hope.
From The Bride Insists
Available March 2014 from Sourcebooks Casablanca
The schoolroom of the Benson household was agreeably cozy on this bitter winter afternoon. A good fire kept the London cold at bay, so that one hardly noticed the sleet scratching at the windows. In one corner, there were comfortable armchairs for reading any one of the many books on the shelves. A costly globe rested in another corner, nearly as tall as the room’s youngest occupant. Scattered across a large oak table, perfect for lessons, were a well-worn abacus, pens and pencils, and all the other tools necessary for learning.
“I am utterly bored,” declared seventeen-year-old Bella Benson, sprawled on the sofa under the dormer window. “I hate winter. Will the season never start?”
“You could finish that piece of embroidery for…”
“You are not my governess any longer,” the girl interrupted with a toss of her head. “I don’t have to do what you say. I’ve left the schoolroom.”
And yet here you are, thought Clare Greenough. But she kept the sentiment to herself, as she did almost all of her personal opinions. Clare’s employer set the tone of this household, and it was peevish. All three children had picked up Mrs. Benson’s whiny, complaining manner, and Clare was not encouraged to reprimand them when they used it. “It’s true that you needn’t be in the schoolroom,” she replied mildly. She sorted through a pile of paper labels, marked with the names of world capitals. The child who could correctly attach the largest number of these to their proper places on the huge globe would get a cream cake for tea. Clare had an arrangement with Cook to provide the treats. It was always easier to make a game of lessons than to play the stern disciplinarian, particularly in this house.
“I won’t do what you say either,” chimed in twelve-year-old Susan Benson, as usual following her older sister’s lead.
“Me neither,” agreed ten-year-old Charles.
Clare suppressed a sigh, not bothering to correct his grammar. Charles would leave for school in the spring. Only a lingering cough had kept him home this term. He was hardly her responsibility any longer. Bella would be presented to society in a few weeks, effectively disappearing from the world of this room. And Clare would be left with Susan, a singularly unappealing child. Clare felt guilty at the adjective, but the evidence of a year’s teaching was overwhelming. Susan had no curiosity or imagination and, of the three children, was most like her never satisfied, irritable mother. She treated Clare as a possession designed to entertain her, and then consistently refused to be entertained. The thought of being her main companion for another four years was exceedingly dreary. Surely Clare could find a better position?
But leaving a post without a clear good reason was always a risk. There would be questions which Clare couldn’t answer with the simple truth—my charge is dull and intractable. I couldn’t bear another moment of her company. Inconvenienced, Mrs. Benson might well refuse to give her a reference, which would make finding a new position nearly impossible. Clare wondered if she could… nudge Susan into asking for a new governess? Possibly—if she was very clever, and devious, never giving the slightest hint that it was something she wanted. Or, perhaps with the others gone, Susan would improve? Wasn’t it her duty to see that she did? Clare examined the girl’s pinched expression and habitual pout. Mrs. Benson had undermined every effort Clare had made in that direction so far. It appeared to be a hopeless task.
Clare turned to survey Bella’s changed appearance instead—her brown hair newly cut and styled in the latest fashion, her pretty sprigged muslin gown. At Bella’s age, Clare had been about to make her entry into society. She had put her hair up and ordered new gowns, full of bright anticipation. And then had come Waterloo, and her beloved brother’s death in battle, and the disintegration of her former life. Instead of stepping into the swirl and glitter of society, Clare was relegated to the background, doomed to watch a succession of younger women bloom and go off to take their places in a larger world.
Stop this, Clare ordered silently. She despised self-pity. It only made things worse, and she couldn’t afford to indulge in it. Her job now was to regain control of the schoolroom. She shuffled her pile of paper labels. “I suppose I shall have to eat all the cream cakes myself then.”
Susan and Charles voiced loud objections. Clare was about to maneuver them back into the geography game when the door opened and Edwina Benson swept in. This was so rare an occurrence that all four of them stared.
Bella jumped up at once and shook out the folds of her new gown. “Were you looking for me, Mama?”
“Not at present. Though why you are here in the schoolroom, Bella, I cannot imagine. I thought you were practicing on the pianoforte. Have you learned the new piece so quickly?”
“Uh…” Eyes gone evasive, Bella sidled out of the room. She left the door open, however, and Clare was sure she was listening from the corridor.
Mrs.
Benson pursed narrow lips. “You have a visitor, Miss Greenough.”
This was an even rarer event than her employer’s appearance in the schoolroom. In fact, it was unprecedented.
“I do not recall anything in our arrangement that would suggest you might have callers arriving at my front door,” the older woman added huffily.
Only humility worked with Mrs. Benson. She was impervious to reason. “No, ma’am. I cannot imagine who…”
“So I am at a loss as to why you have invited one.”
“I didn’t. I assure you I have no idea who it is.”
Her employer eyed her suspiciously. Mrs. Benson’s constant dissatisfaction and querulous complaints were beginning to etch themselves on her features, Clare thought. In a few years the lines would be permanent, and her face would proclaim her character for all to see. “He was most insistent,” Mrs. Benson added. “I would almost say impertinent.”
You did say it, Clare responded silently. “He…?”
Mrs. Benson gave her a sour smile, designed to crush hope. “Some sort of business person, I gather.” Her gaze sharpened again. “You haven’t gotten into debt, have you?”
It was just like the woman to ask this in front of the children, who were listening with all their might. She was prying as well as peevish, and… pompous and proprietary. “Of course not.” When would she have had the time to overspend? Even if she had the money.
Mrs. Benson’s lips tightened further. “I suppose you must see him. But this is not to happen again. Is that quite clear? If you have… appointments, I expect you to fulfill them on your free day.”
Her once monthly free day? When she was invariably asked to do some errand for her employer or give the children an “outing”? But Clare had learned worlds about holding her tongue in six long years as a governess. “Thank you, Mrs. Benson.” Empty expressions of gratitude no longer stuck in Clare’s throat. Mrs. Benson liked and expected to be thanked. That there was no basis for gratitude was irrelevant. Thanks smoothed Clare’s way in this household, as they had in others before this.
Clare followed her employer downstairs to the front parlor. The formal room was chilly. No fire had been lit there, as no one had been expected to call, and obviously no refreshment would be offered to the man who stood before the cold hearth. Below medium height and slender, he wore the sober dress of a man of business. From his graying hair and well-worn face, Clare judged he was past fifty. He took a step forward when they entered, waited a moment, then said, “I need to speak to Miss Greenough alone.”
Edwina Benson bridled, her pale blue eyes bulging. “I beg your pardon? Do you presume to order me out of my own parlor?”
“It is a confidential legal matter,” the man added, his tone the same quiet, informative baritone. He showed no reaction to Mrs. Benson’s outrage. And something about the way he simply waited for her to go seemed to impel her. She sputtered and glared, but she moved toward the door. She did leave it ajar, no doubt to listen from the entry. But the man followed her and closed it with a definitive click. Clare was impressed; her visitor had a calm solidity that inspired confidence. Of course she would endure days of stinging reproaches and small humiliations because of this visit. But it was almost worth it to have watched him outmaneuver Edwina Benson. “My name is Everett Billingsley,” he said then. “Do you think we dare sit down?”
Clare nearly smiled. He had noticed her employer’s attitude. She took the armchair. He sat on the sofa. Clare waited to hear what this was about.
For his part, Billingsley took a moment to examine the young woman seated so silently across from him. Her hands were folded, her head slightly bowed so that he couldn’t see the color of her eyes. She asked no questions about his unexpected visit. She didn’t move. It was as if she were trying to disappear into the brocade of the chair.
Despite her youth, she actually wore a lace cap, which concealed all but a few strands of hair the color of a fine dry champagne. Her buff gown was loosely cut, designed, seemingly, to conceal rather than flatter a slender frame. A shade too slender, perhaps, just as her oval face and pleasantly regular features were a shade too pale. Here was a female doing everything she could to remain unnoticed, he concluded. She even seemed to breathe carefully. Everett Billingsley certainly understood the precarious position of genteel young women required to work for their bread. He could imagine why she might wish to appear unattractive and uninteresting, to remain unobtrusive. Her attempt to impersonate an ivory figurine made his mission even more gratifying. “I have some good news for you,” he began. “I represent the estate of Sebastian Greenough, your great-uncle.” This won him a tiny frown, but no other reaction.
Clare sorted through her memories. Sebastian Greenough was her grandfather’s brother, the one who had gone out to India years before she was born. She had never met him.
“Mr. Greenough died in September. It has taken some time to receive all the documents, but they are now in place. He left everything he had to you.”
Clare couldn’t suppress a start of surprise. “To me?”
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It Takes Two to Tangle
by Theresa Romain
Wooing the wrong woman…
Henry Middlebrook is back from fighting Napoleon, ready to re-enter London society where he left it. Wounded and battle weary, he decides that the right wife is all he needs. Selecting the most desirable lady in the ton, Henry turns to her best friend and companion to help him with his suit…
Is a terrible mistake…
Young and beautiful, war widow Frances Whittier is no stranger to social intrigue. She finds Henry Middlebrook courageous and manly, unlike the foppish aristocrats she is used to, and is inspired to exercise her considerable wit on his behalf. But she may be too clever for her own good, and Frances discovers that she has set in motion a complicated train of events that’s only going to break her own heart…
Praise for Season for Temptation:
“Regency romance at its best.”—RT Book Reviews, 4 Stars
“Utterly adorable…both passionate and just plain fun.”—Courtney Milan, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author
For more Theresa Romain, visit:
www.sourcebooks.com
USA Today bestselling author
What the Bride Wore
by Jade Lee
When all is lost
All Grant Benton, Earl of Crowle, can think of is restoring his family’s fortune so he can go back to being a gentleman of leisure. But when he meets beautiful, purposeful Lady Irene Knopp, he begins to question whether there might not be a better way to live life after all…
What’s left is desire
Lady Irene will never give up her fulfilling work dressing the most beautiful brides in England. She’d rather risk losing love forever than sacrifice her own life’s purpose. Yet she has never met a more magnetic, attractive man than Grant. Trapped between the fleeting chance at love and passion for her work, is it possible she can have it all?
“It’s another keeper from a talented storyteller.”—RT Book Reviews
“Readers will savor the numerous red-hot love scenes as Grant finds his way to maturity and love.”—Publishers Weekly
For more Jade Lee, visit:
www.sourcebooks.com
About the Author
Bestselling author Jane Ashford grew up in a small town in southwestern Ohio, where she discovered the romance of history at an early age in the public library. She discovered Georgette Heyer in junior high school and was captivated by the glitter
ing world and witty language of Regency England. Her lifelong love of English literature led her eventually to a doctorate in English and to extensive travel in Britain and Europe. After working as a teacher and an editor, she began to write, drawing on her knowledge of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century history. She has written novels of romantic suspense as well as numerous Regency romances. Her books have been published in Sweden, Italy, England, Denmark, France, Russia, Latvia, and Spain, as well as the U.S. Jane has been nominated for a Career Achievement Award by RT Book Reviews magazine, and currently divides her time between Boston and LA. She is very fond of cats.
