The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance

by Trisha Telep

  “Where have you been, Mother?” Aunt Elizabeth asked. “We’re talking about Charles Carstairs, Lord Melton. An earl! Not only handsome and charming, he recently came into his inheritance, which is considerable, I assure you. Vast estates . . . a huge fortune. If you ask me, he isn’t just the catch of the season, he’s the catch of any season you can name.”

  A chorus of feminine voices agreed.

  “Lord Melton dresses impeccably . . .”

  “He’s so handsome . . .”

  “His manners are perfection . . .”

  “He’s just so . . . so . . . correct in every way . . .”

  “Humph!” Granny cast her daughters and granddaughters a sceptical gaze. “Handsome and correct? That says nothing about the man himself. Where’s he been? Why have I never heard of him?”

  “He’s been on an extended grand tour of Europe,” Aunt Elizabeth replied, “and spent considerable time in Paris, I understand.”

  “Sewing a few wild oats, I suppose.” Granny’s shrewd eyes shifted to Julia. “I’m surprised you’ve finally made a choice, missy. Here you are, twenty-two years old, well into your fourth season—”

  “Third,” Julia interjected.

  “Third then. You’re beautiful enough to have had your pick, yet you’ve shown your strength of character by not settling for the first conceited fop who came along.”

  “I totally disagree.” Lady Harleigh cast a long-suffering glance at her daughter. “Your grandmother calls it ‘strength of character’. I call it just plain pernickety. Remember Viscount Lansdale? You didn’t like him because you said he had a silly laugh. I also recall Lieutenant Dashmont who looked so resplendent in his gold-braided uniform. He—”

  “Was balding and wore too much cologne,” Julia interceded with a wry smile. That wasn’t the real reason, but who in this room except Granny would understand?

  Lady Harleigh continued, “At any rate, Julia’s betrothal to Lord Melton will be the coup of the season. I feel sorry for all those mothers with marriageable daughters who spent considerable time trying to trap him.”

  Julia held up a protesting hand. “Wait. He hasn’t proposed yet, and even if he does—”

  “Just think of the wedding!” With shining eyes, Julia’s mother clasped her hands together. “We shall spare no expense. I shall invite the Duke and Duchess of Sherford, and – yes, why not? – I shall invite the Prince Regent himself. Julia’s wedding will be the biggest, the grandest—”

  “Mama, please,” Julia began, then changed her mind and said no more, knowing her protests would fall on deaf ears.

  Later, after the others had left, Julia sank down on the settee across from her eighty-five-year-old grandmother. Granny always looked so sweet, Julia thought, with her lace cap perched atop her snow-white head and her lavender paisley shawl draped around her frail shoulders. But she wasn’t sweet at all. In fact, one of the ongoing vexations of Mama’s life was having a mother like Granny who said whatever she pleased and consistently ignored society’s rules of proper behaviour. Julia loved her just as she was, though, and valued her judgment. “What do you think, Granny? Is he going to propose?”

  Granny peered at her over the top of her spectacles. “Do you want him to?”

  “I certainly ought to. You heard what everyone said, didn’t you? How could I not want to marry Lord Melton when he’s so perfect in every way?”

  Granny levelled one of her shrewd, assessing gazes which in the past had always made Julia admit the stark truth and nothing but. “I’ll ask you again, missy. Do you want Lord Melton to propose? In other words, have you fallen madly in love with him or will you marry him simply because everyone expects you to?”

  “That’s a very good question,” Julia replied, stalling for time. “I am not dying to get married, but you know how I hate coming down to London for these seasons Mama insists upon. I intensely dislike putting myself on display so some man will find me attractive enough to marry – with, of course, an eye on my dowry. It makes me feel like a slab of meat on show at the butcher shop.”

  “So you would marry simply to avoid another season?”

  “Isn’t it high time? Mama has managed to marry off all her daughters except me. I cannot stay single all my life. She would die of disappointment if I did.” Julia sighed and continued, “Of course, if the choice were mine, I would be home at Bretton Court this very minute, out riding my horse or painting my landscapes, and not worried in the least about finding a husband.” Her eyes shifted to several small oil paintings that hung in a group next to the marble fireplace. Each depicted a scene from the ruins of Swindon Abbey, which lay between Bretton Court and Hatfield Manor. She had spent many an hour there, not only painting but musing about those long gone days when Swindon Abbey had teemed with life, virtually a small city of its own. With a note of wistfulness, she added, “I could spend the rest of my life painting scenes from those ancient ruins.”

  “Your paintings are excellent,” Granny replied. “You’re a gifted artist, Julia. But however much I hate to say it, an outstanding talent such as yours doesn’t mean a thing for a woman in your position.”

  Julia nodded in reluctant agreement. “I could be the greatest artist in the world, but all that’s expected of me is that I make a brilliant marriage and then start popping out babies, as soon and as often as possible.”

  “Unfortunately you’re right. Of course, you would have made things easier on yourself had you fallen in love with any one of your many suitors.”

  “Well, I didn’t,” Julia replied. “But perhaps I will with Lord Melton. Even if I don’t, I shall probably marry him anyway. After all, he’s the best of the lot, and if I haven’t fallen in love by now, I doubtless never will.”

  “How well do you know him?” Granny asked.

  “Actually not that well. I met him at Lady Gardner’s ball. We’ve danced several times at Almack’s. We’ve been to Covent Garden, and he took me to hear Catalanai at the King’s Theatre.” A thoughtful smile curved Julia’s mouth. “At least he’s been the perfect gentleman. He’s never even kissed me.”

  “Have you wanted him to?”

  “I . . . don’t know.”

  Granny emitted one of her disdainful sniffs. “Then I suggest you kiss the man, preferably before you accept his proposal, and see how you feel.”

  Julia grinned. “You mean sparks should fly? My knees should grow weak?”

  “Just kiss the man before you agree to marry him.”

  “All right, I shall.” Not that it much mattered. Mama, Papa, everyone expected her to say yes, and so she probably would. If she didn’t, she would break her mother’s heart. Not only that, everyone would think she had lost her mind if she turned down the catch of the season.

  “Oh, Miss Julia, you look so exquisitely beautiful!” declared Yvette, Julia’s lady’s maid. “Look in the mirror. See for yourself.”

  Julia viewed herself in her full-length mirror. For Lord Melton’s visit she had chosen her new afternoon gown, a soft-blue cotton batiste with short puffed sleeves. Lace frills and bands of light blue satin decorated the bodice, sleeves and skirt. Not bad, she thought, pointing a toe to admire a slipper made from the same fabric as the gown. And Yvette had done her usual fine job on her thick auburn hair, binding it up in a topknot held by a matching blue satin band.

  Yvette stood behind and fussed with her gown. “I love dressing you. That full bosom! That tiny waist! Lord Melton is sure to propose.”

  “Thank you,” Julia answered, silently amused. She wouldn’t bother to ask how her lady’s maid knew about Lord Melton. The servants knew everything.

  At precisely four o’clock, the butler knocked. “Lord Melton has arrived, Miss Julia. I have put him in the drawing room.”

  “Thank you, Gettys. Inform him I shall be down directly.”

  So the big moment was at hand. Julia picked up her white lace fan and started down the staircase, making a conscious effort to put herself in the proper mood. The catch of the
season would soon be hers! She was going to be the next Lady Melton! Married to the perfect man, admired and envied by all!

  Strange, how her heart wasn’t pounding with excitement. It soon would be, though, she was sure of it.

  When Julia entered the drawing room, she found Charles Carstairs, Lord Melton, standing before the marble fireplace. Always attired in the latest fashion, today he appeared even more elegant than usual in a meticulously tailored serge spencer jacket over a waistcoat and drill trousers. A chitterling frill ran down the front of his shirt, which had to be of the finest linen, Julia was sure. As for his perfectly tied cravat, she could not imagine a spot of gravy landing on its snow-white surface. It simply wouldn’t dare.

  His handsome face lit when he saw her. “Ah, Miss Winslow!” he said with a bow.

  “Lord Melton.” She dipped a curtsey, further noting how absolutely gorgeous he looked. Tall and broad-shouldered. Thick head of wavy blond hair worn fashionably short with one careless curl falling over his noble forehead. Finely chiselled nose. Wide-set blue eyes with long, thick lashes . . .

  Perfect in every way.

  Rich and titled, besides.

  For a short while they sat on the opposing settees and chatted. The weather . . . her parents’ health . . . his parents’ health . . . the Prince Regent’s latest escapade. All the while, Julia grew more restless. Would he never get to the point?

  “I suppose you are wondering why I am here,” he said at last.

  Finally. “I confess, Lord Melton, I am curious. ‘A matter of importance’, you said?”

  Totally at ease, he smiled across at her, revealing his dazzlingly perfect white teeth. “Indeed it is a matter of importance to me, and of course my mother who is most anxious – how can I put this delicately? – to see the end of what she terms my profligate ways. To put it plainly, my mother feels it is time I married. That’s why I’m here.”

  With one swift move, Melton arose from the settee and settled himself beside her. Taking her hand, he gazed deep into her eyes. “These past weeks I have developed a great fondness for you, Miss Winslow. You’re everything my mother could ever ask for. Daughter of a viscount. Fine family. Charming and beautiful besides.”

  Something in Julia rebelled at his words. “But what about you, Lord Melton?” she tartly enquired. “How do you feel?”

  “Of course I feel the same,” he smoothly replied. “Indeed, I think I’ve fallen quite in love with you and want you to do me the honour of becoming my wife.”

  So there it was – the proposal, her mother’s dream come true. Why wasn’t her heart pounding with excitement? Why, instead, had she bristled when he talked about his mother? But surely she was being much too sensitive. Lord Melton has proposed! She tried to drum this exciting, incredibly wonderful news into her head. A “yes” formed on her lips. She remembered Granny’s words. Just kiss the man before you agree to marry him.

  Not a bad idea. What could it hurt? With her hand still in his, she looked deep into Melton’s eyes and declared, “Do you realize we have never kissed?”

  For the fleetest of moments Melton appeared taken aback but quickly recovered. “I do not believe we have.”

  Never had she asked a man to kiss her before. In the past, such a request had hardly been necessary, but now, without a qualm, she asked, “Then shall we remedy that lamentable situation right now?”

  “But of course,” Melton replied, remaining his usual imperturbable self. He placed his hands on Julia’s shoulders, drew her close, and brought his lips to hers. She placed her hands on each side of his elegant spencer jacket, pressed back with her lips and gave herself over to the enjoyment of the kiss. At last she was in the arms of the man she was going to marry! The man whose bed she soon would share!

  She waited for hot excitement to strike. It did not. Instead, kissing Lord Melton was like . . .

  Like . . .

  Kissing a piece of paper.

  Dry. Emotionless. Boring.

  Indeed, she had hoped to be set aflame by his kiss – wanted to be set aflame – but Melton’s arid lips on hers did not stir her in the slightest. And aside from a slight quickness of his breath, he didn’t appear to be set aflame either, for he soon drew away and calmly enquired, “So may I have your answer?”

  Again the word “yes” formed on her lips, but try as she might, she could not force herself to say it. So what would be wrong with a slight delay? Give herself some time, then say yes. “If you don’t mind, Lord Melton, I need a bit of time to consider your most kind and agreeable proposal before giving you my answer.”

  He smiled. “But of course I don’t mind. As a matter of fact, tomorrow I’m leaving for my hunting lodge in Scotland. I shall be gone two weeks. You can give me your answer upon my return.”

  Relief swept through her. He didn’t appear in the least perturbed, as she feared he might.

  On his way out of the drawing room, Lord Melton caught sight of Julia’s paintings hung by the fireplace. “Those look like the ruins of Swindon Abbey,” he remarked, stopping to take a closer look.

  “They are indeed, sir.”

  “Actually I own them now that I’ve bought Hatfield Manor. The ruins are part of my estate.” Melton bent for a closer look, examining her favourite: a full moon hanging low over the jagged walls of the ruined church. “You painted this?”

  “Yes.” She readied herself for a nice compliment.

  “Very nice.” He laughed indulgently. “You ladies must have your little hobbies.”

  Hobby? Words of protest rushed to her lips. My painting is more than just a little hobby, my good sir! I take my art quite seriously and have been told it’s very, very good.

  But of course she said no such thing and instead forced a smile and declared, “Why, thank you, Lord Melton, how kind of you to say.”

  When he bid her goodbye, Lord Melton bent low over her hand. “Good day, Miss Winslow. I shall return in two weeks, quite anxious, of course, to hear your reply.”

  He peered at her with knowing eyes that said he wasn’t anxious at all. How could she turn him down when droves of London belles and their mothers pursued him? He was, after all, the catch of the season and had no doubt whatsoever what her answer would be.

  “You said what?” Poor Lady Harleigh collapsed in a chair and stared up at Julia with horrified eyes.

  “You heard me correctly,” Julia replied. “Lord Melton proposed. I told him I would like time to consider his proposal before giving him my reply.”

  “Consider what?” Lady Harleigh enquired in complete bewilderment. “What is there to think about? What more could you possibly—?”

  “I know, Mama, I know!” Julia knelt beside her mother’s chair and took her hand. “Please try to understand. I am aware how wonderful he is, but somehow I just couldn’t bring myself . . . It’s hard to explain, but I need a little time. What I would like to do is go home. After all, there’s no point in continuing the season, since everyone says I’ve already caught the best there is.”

  Lady Harleigh eyed her with suspicion. “Why? What would you do at Bretton Court that you cannot do here?”

  “I want to see Papa. Also, I need time to think, and what better place than the ruins of Swindon Abbey? You know I love it there.”

  Her mother gazed at her sceptically. “What you find so fascinating about crumbling walls and messy piles of rock, I have no idea.”

  “I just want to go home.”

  “Very well.” Lady Harleigh sighed in resignation. “If sitting amidst the ruins of Swindon Abbey will bring you to your senses and make you see how fantastically fortunate you are that Lord Melton has proposed, then I am all for it.”

  “Never fear, Mama. All will soon be as you wish. I simply need to clear my mind.”

  Despite the gruelling all-day coach ride home, Julia gathered up her sketch pad and charcoal as soon as she arrived and walked the short distance from Bretton Court to the neighbouring ruins of Swindon Abbey. The sun was just setting as she
arrived, providing the jagged stone walls of what remained of the nave with a breathtaking background of blues streaked with pinkish gold. How good to be home again, back to these beautiful ruins she loved! She searched for a subject to sketch. As always, she had so many to choose from: the jagged silhouette of the inner cloister, the beautifully arched arcades that once led to the monks’ living quarters but now led to nowhere. She chose one of the arcades and had almost completed her sketch when she heard the canter of a horse and looked up from her sketch pad.

  She could not look down again.

  A man on horseback was approaching, one of the most common sights imaginable, yet the graceful, easy manner in which he sat in the saddle held her spellbound. When he drew close, she saw he was casually dressed in breeches, an open-necked white shirt and plain Hessian boots. Closer still, she could see he was somewhere in his early thirties, wore his dark, wavy hair on the long side, and was regarding her with compelling brown eyes framed by a strong-featured face bronzed by the sun.

  He rode to where she sat on one of the many large, broken stones scattered about. Reining his horse to a stop, he looked down at her and casually remarked, “You must be Miss Winslow.”

  “How did you know?” Fascinated, she watched as he swung from his horse, performing an infinitely graceful dismount, which revealed a lean and sinewy body, muscular legs and broad shoulders.

  “How did I know?” Touches of humour gathered around his mouth and the corners of his eyes. “My brother has been singing your praises. He has described in great detail your full red lips, your adorable nose and—” his eyes fell to her full bosom where they lingered an extra moment “—other parts of your exceedingly well-constructed anatomy. From what I understand, you are soon to be my new sister-in-law.”

  “Ah!” she exclaimed, suddenly enlightened. “You must be Lord Melton’s—”

  “Ne’er-do-well younger brother, Robert,” he interrupted with a wry smile. While he tied his horse to a nearby branch he went on, “Every family has one. Haven’t you heard?”