Love Stories of Enchanting Ladies: A Historical Regency Romance Collection

by Bridget Barton

  “I am in agreement once more.” She smiled but could feel a little panic rising. “But I think I must return to my party before I am missed.”

  “I understand, Lady Catherine. And I hope to see you at Emily Barton’s bridge afternoon on Wednesday.”

  “Yes, I hope so too,” she said and smiled before turning to hurry back to her family.

  Chapter 2

  “I grow tired of Augustus Mortimer and his attempts to ingratiate himself to me.” The Earl of Barford, although clearly speaking to Philip, did not bother to look up from his breakfast plate.

  Instead, he just kept cutting off great chunks of bacon and stuffing them into his mouth as he spoke.

  “I cannot abide people who see an acquaintance with me as a pathway to something better for themselves. No doubt this one has his eye on my money. I should have seen it before.” He raised his head finally if only to look at Philip for a moment. “Take heed, boy. Always be on the lookout for the ones in want of a free passage in life.” He looked down at his plate again and continued his indelicate attack upon the breakfast plate.

  Catherine had all but finished her breakfast when her father had barged into the room. She ordinarily was down so much earlier that she did not often encounter the Earl at the breakfast table, finding she preferred to start the day in that fashion.

  But whenever he had risen a little earlier, catching her off-guard, Catherine had never dared leave the table before her father did, even on a day such as this one when her breakfast was all but done by the time he strode in.

  “Yes, Father,” Philip said and was as calm and attentive as always.

  Despite the fact that the Earl had always paid Philip the attention an heir was bound to get, and her less than nothing, the siblings had always been the greatest of friends. Their father’s unequal treatment of them had never stood in the way of their fond regard for one another.

  As much as Philip apologised for their father’s neglect of her, Catherine apologised for their father’s overbearing attention to Philip. And so, the two were easily appeased, understanding that they had no control of the man who ruled them and choosing to seek solace in each other’s friendship, rather than bitterness as rivals.

  As her father continued to eat, making the sort of noises a pig might make, Catherine concentrated hard on sipping her now-cold tea and studying a patch of paintwork in the corner, above one of the large windows, which was peeling.

  It had been peeling for a while, although it was in a spot seldom looked at, so it was likely that neither her father nor Philip had noticed.

  And it was so slight as not to mar the otherwise fine decoration of the breakfast room. The room was still clean and bright, its pale green walls and white half-paneling very attractive indeed. It was on the east of Barford Hall, and always got the best of whatever morning sunlight was available.

  Catherine liked the room; it was a place where she and Philip enjoyed the one meal of the day they could often take alone, giving them the opportunity to talk unguardedly as they ate.

  “I was going to marry Catherine off to that boy of his, even though he is a dreadful milksop.” The Earl looked up at Philip again as he talked as if Catherine were not even in the room. “I thought it might do me some good later down the line to have Francis Mortimer as a son-in-law. He’s passive, you see,” he continued, the high colour of the skin on his cheeks standing out starkly against the grey-white of his thick hair. “But I have let the idea drift. Augustus has become a little too sure of the outcome, and he needs teaching a lesson.” He laughed suddenly. “I hope the fool has spent the dowry he likely has it in his head will come to him, for he shall not get any.”

  Philip did not look at his sister, but his barely perceptible flinch was enough for her to know that he was as appalled by what he was hearing as Catherine.

  The idea that the Earl could be so childish, giving favour and taking it away so suddenly diminished him even further in her eyes. But she could see how her father’s arrogance and capriciousness had worked in her favour on this particular occasion, for she would not have liked to have found herself unwillingly betrothed to Francis Mortimer; she did not like the man at all.

  The idea, however, that this was the first indication that such a union had even been a possibility made her feel a little warm and suddenly nauseous. It was proof, if further proof was needed that she meant nothing and was utterly powerless. It reminded her that her life could change so suddenly and without warning, and there would be nothing she could do to stop it. All she could do was blow this way and that on the wind of her father’s plans.

  “Right,” the Earl said, rising to his feet in an awful scraping of chair against floorboards. “I have some matters to attend to, Philip, and then I shall be setting off to see the attorney. You will come with me; it will do you some good,” he said. “Be ready to leave when I call you.” And with that, the Earl strode out of the room.

  It occurred briefly to Catherine that her father had yet to even bid her good morning, but she would not mourn the loss of his greeting. She was just relieved to be rid of his presence.

  “Are you alright, Catherine?” Philip said in a quiet, cautious voice.

  “Yes. A little shocked, but I shall survive it.” She sipped at her cold tea again to relieve her dry mouth.

  “Here.” Philip rose and took another cup from the sideboard laden with breakfast items.

  He poured her a fresh cup of tea from the still-warm pot and set it down in front of her.

  “Thank you,” she said and sipped gratefully. “What would I do without you? Who would be here to even notice my presence in the world?”

  “I am so sorry,” Philp said gently. “But I am relieved to hear you shall not be marrying Francis Mortimer. You are safe.”

  “For a while I am. I am safe until our father sees some benefit to himself in another union for me.”

  “I wish things could be different.”

  “I know you do. I wish they could be different for the both of us.”

  “Come, let us talk of brighter things.” Philip lightened his tone, but the effort to do so was clear to Catherine.

  “Yes. But you must find the topic, for I am still a little waylaid by my own shock.”

  “Of course.” He laid a hand on hers briefly. “Tell me, are you looking forward to the afternoon buffet at Morton Hall? I believe Lady Morton lays on quite a spread.”

  “Yes, I am.” She smiled, knowing their mood to be contrived, but determined to fake it into reality. “And she always has sugary treats too. I enjoy those, although I cannot eat too many or they make me unwell.”

  “What a pleasant thing that our father never attends daytime events. You will have some respite, I think.”

  “I would like it more if you came with me.”

  “He has my week all arranged. I am to follow him everywhere like a faithful dog.”

  “You have my sympathy, Philip.”

  Catherine’s brother was a kind and handsome young man. At two-and-twenty, he was just two years older than she, although she knew his responsibilities to be vaster and very different. She knew that those responsibilities weighed heavily upon him too, for their father was not a man who allowed mistakes or explained a thing more than once before expecting a person to know it all by heart.

  The strain of it all was something she could often see on Philip’s face, and she felt sure it would age his handsome features prematurely.

  “But Emily Barton will be there, will she not? The two of you seem to get along well I notice.”

  “Yes, Emily is very fine company. I like her a good deal.”

  “Just see that Father does not perceive too great a friendship, or he will arbitrarily break it apart.”

  “Indeed, that is a lesson we have both learned to our cost.” She smiled sadly as she remembered the array of friends whose company the two Ambrose offspring had been systematically disallowed over the years.

  “Did you enjoy her first bridge aft
ernoon last Wednesday? Tell me, was it a success? I hope it was.”

  “Yes, she did very well indeed. The debacle of the late invitations was easily remedied and forgotten by all who attended. She made it a pleasant afternoon, very relaxed. I was pleased for her.”

  “Philip!” Their father’s voiced boomed from some distance, still loud enough, however, to make them both start.

  “He must be ready to go.” Philip rose from the table. “No, keep to your seat and finish your tea.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And let us hope that breakfast will be a lot freer tomorrow morning.” He gave her the secret little wink he had always given since they were children.

  It was their way of acknowledging the things they were not always safe to voice aloud, and she winked back, even though she knew it was hardly ladylike.

  Philip kissed the top of her head as he passed her, disappearing off into the corridor beyond. When she heard no more of his departing footsteps, Catherine resumed her familiar study of the patch of peeling pale green paint above the window.

  She really had enjoyed the bridge afternoon. Not just because Emily Barton had made such a success of it, but because she had enjoyed her own, subdued excitement there.

  Ever since her little encounter with the Duke of Shawcross’ son in Lord Vinton’s mansion, Catherine had found herself looking forward to the bridge afternoon, even if she nursed a small amount of fear at the same time.

  Certain that Thomas Carlton would be there, Catherine had found herself putting a little extra effort into her appearance. Nothing that would be obvious, but something that could be easily explained by the importance of the day for her friend Emily.

  Catherine had worn a simple, short-sleeved gown in dusky pink. She liked the colour, although most colours suited her given that her hair was a nice, medium brown. She had quite neutral colouring, with creamy skin and hazel eyes that were rather almond shaped.

  With her brown curls piled neatly onto her head, Catherine had slid a small comb into her hair. It had tiny flowers on it and was delicate rather than ostentatious. Still, she was pleased when Thomas had made a point of complimenting her on the little adornment.

  “How nice the little flowers look, Lady Catherine.” It had been his opening line to her, and she found herself very pleased to have worn the comb at all.

  “Thank you, Lord Thomas.” She felt shy and a little afraid.

  “I see we neither of us have the benefit of family today,” he said in a tone which suggested that such a thing would hardly be a benefit at all.

  “No, we are quite free,” she agreed. “Although I must admit a tendency towards caution as a habit of mine.”

  “Indeed, mine too.” He smiled, his pale blue eyes and red-brown hair seeming all the more handsome in the brighter light of Emily Barton’s drawing room. “And I promise I shall not linger too long and be the cause of any dangerous gossip.”

  “I thank you, although I am bound to say I wish there were not such a need for this caution. It puts a strain on a conversation.”

  “Only if we let it.” He looked cautiously around in a way she found reassuring. He was not taking undue risks, and she was grateful for it. “Perhaps we could secretly try to ignore this pointless feud and treat each other as friends?”

  “I would like that, Sir,” Catherine said with feeling. “I am tired of feeling constraint whichever way I turn.”

  “Yes, constraint is a thing that is to be found all over the place.” He laughed, and Catherine thought him very amusing. “It is in my family, at any rate.”

  “Well, I shall admit to the son of my father’s enemy that the oppression of his offspring is something of a determined hobby to the Earl of Barford.”

  “Good heavens, but that is funny!” he said and grinned at her. “But is that really how you see me? It seems awfully sad somehow and leaves me wondering what I can do to change such a description of me.”

  “Perhaps you have already done enough to make that very description redundant, Lord Thomas.”

  “I am glad to hear it. It spurs me on to better attempts.”

  “As long as those attempts are as discreet as this one. We do not want to anger our respective fathers.”

  “No indeed. I know for a fact that my father’s anger, once excited, can sustain itself on nothing more than fresh air for many weeks at a time. Months, more often than not.”

  “Good heavens, but that is funny!” she said, parroting his earlier words and pleased to see that he had not only noticed her little game but that he appreciated it.

  “You are a clever lady. I think I shall like you very much,” he said, and the pale blue eyes looked amused and content. “But I shall leave you now for fear that my pleasure in my newfound friendship exposes us both to comment.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But I should like your permission to approach you again one day.”

  “And so you have it, Sir.”

  Catherine had hardly been able to concentrate on her bridge playing for the rest of the afternoon and had come away wondering how it was that she had won every game she played.

  Smiling at the memory, Catherine kept to her seat and stared at the peeling green paint until the maids came tentatively into the room to clear away.

  “Oh, forgive me,” Catherine said with a smile. “I had drifted off a little, and I did not mean to put you off your work.”

  “Not at all, My Lady.” Violet, the older of the two young women spoke for them both.

  “I shall let you have the room; otherwise, I shall stare into space all day.” She smiled at them before leaving, feeling in much greater spirits than she had expected to be just a few minutes before. As she made her way back up to her chamber for a few more minutes in which to think the whole thing through again in private, Catherine knew that it was thoughts of Lord Thomas Carlton which had cheered her so, and there was no denying it.

  Chapter 3

  Thomas had been very much looking forward to the afternoon affair at Lady Morton’s. He liked Lady Morton enormously, but he was always honest with himself and readily admitted that it was the promise of a few moments’ snatched conversation with the Earl of Barford’s daughter which was making it all the more exciting.

  The news, however, that he would be joined for the afternoon by his brother, Pierce, had put something of a dampener on his ideas. He knew that Pierce would not understand for a moment if he saw his brother talking to an Ambrose of Barford Hall.

  Pierce was fiercely loyal to his father and would see the act of simple conversation between two young people as nothing short of treason. If their father was the King, that was. And in their household, he was.

  “Good evening, Lord Carlton,” Lady Morton said brightly as she addressed Pierce. “Oh, and here is Thomas. What a treat to have you both here.”

  Lady Morton was always informal with Thomas. He knew that she liked him very much and did not mind at all that all the formality was reserved for his brother.

  In fact, Thomas had always felt a quiet relief that he was the Duke’s second son and not his first. He much preferred being the spare rather than the heir, although he never made his feelings known.

  The idea of spending so much time with his father certainly did not appeal. Penrose Carlton had been a largely indifferent father, although he did exercise his notice of his second son whenever there was some punishment to be dealt out.

  Praise was something far more elusive and, Thomas thought, likely not something his father would bestow on either of his sons.