Miss Richardson Comes Of Age (Zebra Regency Romance)

by Counts, Wilma

  Then she launched into what she obviously felt was Nathan’s greater heroism—his struggle to walk. And now Thorne knew for sure he was reading about himself.

  “I shall kill that errant brother of mine,” he grumbled. But, again, he read on.

  The details did not always coincide with his own situation, but the essence of the tale did. He was especially moved by the faithful servant patiently aiding Nathan, keeping up appearances with his short-tempered employer, and then dissolving in “unmanly” tears below-stairs.

  “I’ll be damned. I had no idea,” he said quietly, humbled. He knew it was true, though. This was not merely a detail she made up to add emotion to her story. “Hinton deserves a raise.”

  The author was not finished with her at times irascible hero and his courage. Now, as Nathan worked not only to cope with matters of his estate, he also took up social issues that had long been overlooked. And now, Thorne observed, Annabelle had created a composite figure, drawing on not only the Earl of Rolsbury, but also the Earl of Wyndham.

  The sun was well and truly up when he closed the book. Knowing sleep would be impossible now, he arose and donned riding clothes. A hard ride would clear his mind, he was sure.

  Annabelle and Harriet welcomed Thorne’s sister cordially as she was shown into the drawing room. Harriet rang for refreshments and the three of them talked of mundane matters for a while. Then, Harriet excused herself, murmuring something about seeing to her son in the nursery.

  “You ... uh ... wanted to discuss my book, Lady Brideaux?” Annabelle asked.

  “In a manner of speaking—yes. But please—may we dispense with the formalities and be just ‘Catherine’ and ‘Annabelle’? I do feel you and I could be friends.”

  Perhaps. Under different circumstances, Annabelle thought. She smiled and said, “Of course. I should like that.”

  “I read your book with a great deal of interest.”

  “Yes, you have said as much.”

  “It is about Thorne, is it not? Thorne and you.”

  Annabelle was nonplused. Was she really so transparent? “I ... I beg your pardon?”

  “I live in the country, Annabelle, but not under a rock. I do have friends here in town. Moreover, I am quite close to my aunt, Lady Conwick, and even closer to my brothers, especially Luke. Luke told me everything—about that . . . that worm, Beelson, about Ferris—and about his own lovesick histrionics and the scene he created.”

  “I ... see.”

  “Your retaliation was clever, pointed, and understandable.”

  That dratted story again, Annabelle thought. “But it was unfair to Thorne.” She saw Catherine raise her brows slightly at her casual use of Thorne’s given name. “I am sorely afraid his pride suffered dreadfully.”

  “I doubt Thorne’s reaction was motivated by pride,” his sister said.

  “What then?”

  “He probably wanted retribution for Luke’s humiliation.”

  “Retribution?”

  Catherine drew in a breath and stared off into the distance for a few moments. “Yes. I think that is why he attacked Emma Bennet as he did. From the time of our mother’s death, Thorne has always been inordinately protective of Luke and me. Our father was rather old when his second wife—our mother—finally gave him his heir. He was also an undemonstrative man. He was like a cold and distant grandfather. Any love we had came from Thorne—and Aunt Dorothy.”

  Annabelle was moved by these disclosures, but also somewhat embarrassed—and puzzled.

  “But why—”

  “Why am I telling you this? Because I know of the rift between you and Thorne. Because I know of the devastation he felt when he discovered it was you who had written that earlier story.”

  “He told you?”

  “No. Aunt Dorothy did. She put two and two together some time ago.”

  Annabelle felt herself blushing at this. She twisted her hands in her lap.

  “Please. Do not be embarrassed.” Catherine lifted her teacup and took a swallow of what must have been cold tea, but Annabelle doubted a sudden thirst had hit her visitor. “Now, I want to tell you a story. And I should prefer that it went no further—but I think it will help you understand Thorne better.”

  “Very well.”

  Catherine took another deep breath. “When I made my come-out, I was truly a green girl. I had a very handsome dowry, of course, and was much sought after. I was certain all that attention was for my marvelous self.” Bitter regret sounded in her voice. “I was besotted by one man in particular. Unfortunately, he rushed his fences and tried to seduce me.”

  “Oh, my goodness.”

  “He would have succeeded, too, had Thorne not intervened. Well, Thorne could not challenge him to a duel. Not only would that ruin my reputation, it would also have ruined his military career. Wellington did not approve of his officers dueling.” Catherine paused.

  “What happened?”

  “The man thought himself quite a boxer. Thorne met him in the boxing ring and quite literally beat him senseless. I am not supposed to know of that, of course. But I do.”

  “I think the scoundrel got what he deserved.”

  Catherine smiled. “So do I. That scoundrel was Ralph Nettle. He was not yet the Viscount Beelson then.”

  Annabelle gasped. “Beelson?”

  Catherine nodded.

  Annabelle considered the woman before her. “Catherine, I ... I find your story interesting and moving, but what has it to do with—?”

  “With you and your book?”

  Annabelle nodded.

  “That book is nothing less than a declaration of love. You are in love with Thorne and it shows on every page.”

  Annabelle felt intense heat rush to her face. “Now, really . . .”

  Catherine reached to touch Annabelle’s hand. “Please. Do not be embarrassed. I doubt anyone else will see as much as I and Aunt Dorothy saw in it. Aunt Dorothy quite likes you and, from the little I have seen, I shall, too.”

  “Thank you.” Annabelle regained some of her poise.

  “More to he point, Thorne does, too.”

  “Now, that I have reason to doubt. You came here today to tell me this?”

  Catherine smiled. “And to tell you to stand firm. Eventually his own common sense will win out over his pride.”

  Seventeen

  The ride did not clear his mind. He returned to join his family at breakfast with his mind and emotions as jumbled as ever.

  What was he to make of Annabelle’s “Nathan”? There was not a syllable of satire in this story. There were touches of humor to lend contrast and balance to an emotionally charged drama, but no ridicule of real people. In fact, the characters were so subtly drawn, he thought, that few readers would identify him at all. Only his own household and Hank Watson knew the telling details.

  He had no doubt whatsoever that the “R” referred to Rolsbury. But what did the word apologies mean? Was she apologizing for this book? For the earlier story? Or for deceiving him all those months? Obviously, what was needed here was a simple, uninterrupted conversation with Annabelle. But that was easier to arrange in his mind than in reality, given his schedule in the next few days. He knew this was merely an excuse. What he really wanted was more time to examine this turn of events—and his own emotions.

  He had never doubted the physical attraction between him and Annabelle—nor that it was a shared phenomenon. Now, this book showed a deeper level of caring— and here, too, she seemed to share his own feelings. Could he really put aside the fact that she had held him up to embarrassment? That she had deliberately deceived him for months? Perhaps, in time . . .

  That evening, he attended a meeting of the Literary League, fully expecting Annabelle to be there. She was not. At least not physically. However, the members were abuzz with talk of Heroism Rewarded.

  “Well! Thorne!” Henry Watson greeted him. “Have you changed your mind about Emma Bennet’s writing?”

  “No. I do think, howe
ver, that this book fulfills the promise shown in her earlier work.”

  “Yours wouldn’t be a prejudiced view, now would it?”

  Thorne was discomfited by this comment. “Hank, I would appreciate it if—”

  Hank clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I know. I know. You want your privacy protected. And I shall respect that.”

  “Thank you. Actually, the privacy issue is important to me—but even more I should like Annabelle‘s—Miss Richardson’s—book to stand on its own merits.”

  Watson gave him a penetrating look. “Hmm. Like that, is it?”

  “Well . . . yes. I suppose it is, but that is not the point.”

  “And the point is ... ?”

  “Her book should be judged for itself—not become the focus of irrelevant gossip. You are one of only a few people who know the details of my convalescence—and most of those are my own people and in the country.”

  “You are doing it again, aren’t you?” Watson asked.

  “Doing what?”

  “Charging in on that white horse, shining sword raised, to protect someone you care about.”

  Startled by this idea, Thorne just looked at Watson for a moment. “I had not thought of it in those terms—”

  “You never do. Well, never fear. Your secret is safe with me. Now—let us hear what others are saying of the book.”

  Others were, in general, praising the book. Some objected to the pacing of certain plot elements and others mentioned variations on heroism that they wanted to see included. Overall, Thorne noted, this group of rather demanding readers liked what they had read.

  “I wish Miss Richardson were here tonight to answer our questions,” one matron complained in a querulous tone. “She comes to every meeting—and misses this one!”

  “She had a previous engagement. I know she wanted to be with us tonight.”

  Thorne recognized that voice and he turned to see Lady Wyndham, who nodded to him in greeting.

  Suddenly a particularly strident voice—this one male—said, “Lord Rolsbury, I am sure we would all like to know what you think of this new offering from Miss Bennet’s pen. You had a good deal to say of the last one.”

  Thorne looked around and found all eyes on him. “I believe I have acknowledged before that Miss Bennet possesses an abundance of talent. It showed to advantage in her earliest works. Now, Miss Richardson’s book shows realization of that talent—and points the way to even better things to come.”

  “Hear. Hear,” someone said.

  Later, Thorne had a moment of relative privacy with Lady Wyndham and Lady Hermiston. They chatted of inconsequential matters and as he took his leave of the ladies, Thorne said, “Please give Miss Richardson my regards. I am sorry to have missed her.”

  Harriet said, “I shall be glad to. Do you attend the Lord Mayor’s ball tomorrow night? We shall, of course, be there.”

  “My sister is looking forward to it quite eagerly.”

  That was encouraging, Thorne thought later. Lady Wyndham had made a point of telling him when he might encounter Annabelle on a casual basis.

  The next morning, Harriet supplied a thorough accounting of the meeting for Annabelle.

  “I should like to have been there, but I promised Letty—”

  “I know, dear. But you were sorely missed. And even in your absence, almost all the discussion of the book was positive.”

  “Which is gratifying, but not especially helpful.”

  Harriet paused in the act of buttering her toast. “Hmm?”

  “One learns little from praise. The craft is honed when one corrects faults or weaknesses. I want to know how I can be better.”

  Harriet laughed. “That is precisely something your Portia would have said! If ever I had any doubt about your source of inspiration for that character, you just removed it!”

  “Well!” Annabelle pretended to be affronted. “I have had a very good example these last several years—there is a great deal of one Harriet Knightly, later my Lady Wyndham, in the character of Portia.”

  “How flattering.”

  Annabelle’s voice took on a more serious tone. “Do you think others will ... uh ... see real people in my characters?”

  “I doubt they will. I heard nothing to that effect last night—and the League probably has your most observant readers. And believe me, if a newspaper writer knew—or even suspected—it would be all over town already.”

  Annabelle breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Speaking of which,” Harriet added, “Rolsbury was very particular in sending has regards. And he was very generous in his comments about your work.”

  Annabelle smiled at this news. “Was he now?”

  She had told Harriet a great deal of the inspiration for Nathan and that Thorne’s sister had recognized her brother in the portrait of the fictional hero. She had not admitted to either Harriet or Catherine the extent of her regard for Lord Rolsbury. Good heavens! She scarcely dared admit it to herself yet.

  The Lord Mayor’s ball was an annual event at which the Lord Mayor of London entertained political and social leaders in order to advance the interests of the city with Members of Parliament. It was a grand affair, full of pomp and ceremony, but also usually great fun. Unlike the Lord Mayor’s parade and banquet in November, when the Prime Minister made a symbolic report to the city’s chief administrator, this ball emphasized the social prestige of city leaders. It was not held in the Guildhall, seat of city government, but in the Lord Mayor’s mansion.

  Arriving with Aunt Gertrude and Marcus and Harriet, Annabelle was struck by the nobility of the mansion itself, though it was crowded by surrounding buildings. The guests were shown up a large stone staircase, covered in deep carpet, to the elegant Egyptian Hall, a gargantuan room where dinner would be served. From there, guests would, Annabelle knew, ascend to the second-floor ballroom.

  She had no idea of the exact number of people at this grand affair, but she estimated it to be several hundred. Trying not to be overly bold, she kept looking around, searching for but one face. When she finally spotted Thorne, she was dismayed to see him in company with Helen Rhys. So—there was something in that quarter. She tried to shrug it off, but was unable to quell a stab of pain.

  There were other familiar faces in this crowd, and she hoped to get around to talking later with Celia and Letty and their spouses. She also saw Catherine and her husband. And then she spotted two faces she would happily not have seen—those of Viscount Beelson and George Ferris. Beelson glared at her. Ferris merely nodded, his expression bland. If she were lucky, there would be no need, in this crowd, to talk with either of them.

  When the dinner, with its speeches and toasts and chamber music, was over, the guests made their way—slowly, because of the sheer numbers—to the ballroom. Here, too, the interior designer had favored classical styles with pillars and pediments and classical motifs. The Lord Mayor and his wife led the first set. Herself not engaged for the first dance, Annabelle sat on the sidelines with Aunt Gertrude. Suddenly she giggled softly.

  “And just what is it that you find so amusing, missy?” Lady Hermiston asked.

  “Do the gentlemen in their formal attire not put you in mind of penguins? All that profusion of black and white?”

  Aunt Gertrude smiled, sharing the joke. “Yes. I suppose they do. And I also suppose we may compare the ladies to exotic jungle birds.”

  “Perhaps,” Annabelle agreed. Then a thought struck her and she giggled again.

  “Now what?”

  “Have you ever wondered why it is that in the world of birds, the male of the species usually has the more beautiful plumage?”

  Aunt Gertrude’s eyes twinkled merrily. “No, I cannot say that earth-shaking observation ever occurred to me.”

  “Well, think on it—the peacock, not the peahen, has those gorgeous eye-like feathers; the male pheasant is far more spectacular than his mate; and even a barnyard rooster has more show than the hen. Quite the opposite of thei
r human counterparts.”

  Marcus, with Harriet on his arm, strolled over to them. “May we know what it is that so amuses you two?”

  There was still laughter in Aunt Gertrude’s voice. “Annabelle was just explaining the nature of birds to me.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Birds?”

  “This is hardly the time or place for a discussion of the birds and the bees,” Harriet said, grinning.

  “No bees—just birds,” Annabelle quipped. Then she explained the source of their amusement.

  Marcus and Harriet laughed and then Marcus nodded toward some new arrivals, a group of young men in the colorful garb of bright coats and even brighter waistcoats. “That lot seems bent on disproving your theory about the difference between the bird world and ours.”

  Annabelle had a quick comeback. “Maybe they are just the exception that proves the rule.”

  She laughed along with the others, but her eyes were drawn to a group standing not far from the dandies. Or, rather, to one member of the group—Thorne. She wondered where Miss Rhys was, but then she saw her on the dance floor with a certain Lord Hardwick. The dance was just ending and Annabelle watched with interest as Lord Hardwick escorted his partner off the floor and returned her—to the care of Lord Rolsbury. Helen clasped Thorne’s arm just as though she were entitled to do so.

  Suddenly, all Annabelle’s enjoyment was gone from the evening. Oh, do get hold of yourself, she thought. You have no right to take exception to what those two do. You came here to enjoy yourself. Now, enjoy!

  And so she did. For the next two sets, she was determined to be vivacious and cheerful. She gave Lord Stimson a brilliant smile as he came to claim the dance he had bespoken earlier. “Such a smile. A shame to waste it on a mere friend,” he teased.

  “I do not consider a friend mere anything, sir!”