The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance

by Trisha Telep

  Her pulse pounding, she watched Robert alight with infinite grace from the curricle. Never had she seen him so splendidly attired, looking every bit as dashing as his brother in a double-breasted wool frock coat with claw-hammer tails, long trousers, waistcoat, Hessian boots with a tassel, kid gloves and scrupulously tied cravat.

  As the two approached, Lady Harleigh hissed behind her fan, “It’s that ruffian of a brother! What shall we do?”

  Her husband whispered back quickly, “We shall receive him graciously, my dear. We have no other choice.”

  Lord Melton approached and bent low over Julia’s hand. “I am delighted to see you again, Miss Winslow. I trust you will save some private time for me later on this evening?”

  “Indeed I shall, Lord Melton.” Her spirits sank to a depth even lower than they already were. How could they not be low when she was only hours away from making a commitment that would last a lifetime, seal her wretched fate for ever?

  Melton moved on as Robert approached and bowed. “Miss Winslow,” he murmured. If he was heartbroken and devastated, it certainly didn’t show. In fact, a faint light twinkled in the depths of his brown eyes, almost as if he knew something of interest she didn’t yet know.

  “Mister Carstairs,” she murmured back. She wanted to say more, but other guests arrived and Robert moved on. She didn’t get a chance to see him again until they sat down to dinner and she found both brothers seated across from her. Although she tried to avoid it, Robert occasionally caught her gaze. What was that faint light still gleaming in his eyes? Again, she had the feeling he possessed knowledge of something she as yet didn’t know. But what? she asked herself miserably. Their affair was over. Done. She would never make love with Robert Carstairs again.

  During the soup course, Lord Melton began expounding on the subject of Hatfield Manor, his newly purchased estate. As the whole table listened, one of the guests remarked, “I understand your estate includes the ruins of an old monastery.”

  Melton smiled, eager to answer. “Indeed, you are referring to Swindon Abbey.”

  “I hear it’s one of the most beautiful of all the monastic ruins. Do you plan to restore it?”

  Melton’s laugh boomed around the table. “Actually I have just completed my plans. As you know, a good abbey ruin is a fine feature for a gentleman’s park. In a manner of speaking I shall restore it, although—” he stole a quick glance at his brother “—not as some would like.”

  “What do you plan?”

  “I will convert the south-west tower of the church into a shooting box. Perfect for hunting. Of course, those arcades will have to come down first thing. Otherwise, they’ll block my view.”

  Robert spoke up. “Tell us your plans for a quarry, Charles.” He was addressing his brother, yet his gaze was fixed on Julia, as if he was waiting to see how she would react.

  “Ah, yes, the quarry,” Melton enthusiastically replied. “Did you know there’s good money to be made from the ruins of these old monasteries? I plan to sell the stones for paving roads and the like.”

  Julia nearly choked on her spoonful of turtle soup. When she was able to speak, she asked in a shocked voice, “Everything, Lord Melton? The church, the cloister, the storehouses . . . oh, surely not the monks’ quarters!”

  Melton nodded equitably. “Actually the old monks’ quarters are the perfect size for the brewery I intend to install. As for the rest, except for my hunting tower, I intend to demolish Swindon Abbey down to the last stone.” With a chuckle he added, “In other words, I shall finish what Henry the Eighth started, eh?” Amidst sporadic laughter, he sat back with a pleased smile on his face.

  Swindon Abbey demolished? Throughout the rest of the meal, Julia remained in a state of shock, hardly knowing what she ate, if she ate anything at all. When she accidentally caught Robert’s eye, she observed what appeared to be a faintly perceptible knowing smile on his face. Not only that, but his eyes held a question, as if he were asking, Now what will you do? Do you still plan to marry my brother, the greedy fool?

  She thought long and hard. By the time the ladies adjourned to the drawing room, with the gentlemen remaining behind for their brandy and cigars, she had made up her mind and knew exactly what she was going to do.

  Later in the evening Julia led Lord Melton into the library. After firmly shutting the door, she turned to face him and said without preamble, “I am grateful for your offer, but I cannot marry you.”

  Lord Melton’s perennially smug mouth dropped open. His eyes bulged like some recently caught fish. “Am I hearing you correctly?”

  “Indeed you are, sir. I would be doing you a disservice if I married you because I don’t love you and never could. Furthermore, I could never love a man who would destroy the beautiful ruins of an ancient monastery.”

  Truly taken aback, he replied, “The ruins of Swindon Abbey are but an eyesore! I don’t understand.”

  Why bother explaining? With his shallow mind he would never understand. All she could do now was soften the blow. “You are a remarkable man in many ways, Lord Melton. Handsome, charming, indeed, the catch of the season. I can name any one of a number of young ladies who would sell their souls to capture you.”

  Her flattery caused Melton to give her a self-satisfied nod of agreement. To her relief, although he had obviously been taken by surprise, he seemed less than devastated. In fact, she had the distinct impression he would have shown more feeling had he lost his favourite cook.

  After the barest of pleasantries Melton departed, leaving her standing in the library feeling as if a tremendous load had just been lifted from her shoulders. But she didn’t feel that light-hearted. She still had her mother to worry about – and Robert . . .

  “May I come in?” Robert’s voice. He was standing in the doorway.

  “Please do, Mr Carstairs.”

  “Charles just told me.” He closed the door behind him and strode to where she stood. “By God, I was right!” he exclaimed.

  “Right about what?”

  “I knew you could never marry a man so crass, so insensitive that he would desecrate the ruins of Swindon Abbey.”

  How well he knew her! “I could have forgiven him anything but that.” Nervously she bit her lip. “I can only hope my mother will understand.”

  “She just might not be as upset as you might think,” he said in a voice so positive she wondered if there was something else he wasn’t telling her. But before she could ask, he took her in his arms, gave her one long, passionate kiss and declared, “I want to marry you. I cannot give you everything my brother could, but I have a good income, and as a matter of fact—”

  “Say no more.” She touched a finger to his lips. “Of course I’ll marry you. I would marry you if you hadn’t a farthing to your name.”

  As he kissed her again, she reflected that now only one dark cloud hung over her otherwise brilliantly shining horizon. She wondered if her mother would understand and could only pray the shock wouldn’t kill her.

  Lady Harleigh was chatting with the portly Duke of Sherford when Julia and Robert entered the drawing room. When the Duke saw Robert his eyes lit. “Ah, Carstairs! I haven’t had a chance to congratulate you yet.”

  Lady Harleigh frowned in puzzlement. “Congratulate, Your Grace?”

  “You haven’t heard?” the Duke continued in his booming voice. “Robert Carstairs has been personally appointed by the Prince Regent to design the development of Marylebone Park. Quite an undertaking for a young architect, eh, Carstairs? You’ve certainly kept it quiet enough. From what I’ve heard, it’s going to be a ‘garden city’ with villas, terraced houses, crescents and even a canal and lakes. Good going, man!” He gave Robert a hearty clap on the back. “Prinny himself told me he’s a great admirer of your work.”

  Lady Harleigh stood frozen in astonishment. When finally she gathered her wits about her, she addressed Robert. “Why that’s . . . that’s . . . I never dreamed! I thought—”

  “That he was Lord Melto
n’s ne’er-do-well brother, Mama? Well, obviously not.” Julia threw a why-didn’t-you-tell-me glance at Robert, followed by a long sigh of contentment. She addressed her mother again. “By the way, whenever you and Papa can squeeze in a spare moment, Mr Carstairs and I have something to tell you.”

  French Intuition

  Delilah Marvelle

  London, England – June 1828, evening

  The Pickworth Ball

  He hadn’t come. Even though he said he would.

  Of course, Lady Gwendolyn Elizabeth Redford knew all too well why her husband hadn’t arrived. Instead of being a mature and rational man, he’d finally opted to believe the outrageous rumours that she was involved with Lord Westbrook. And whilst, yes, Westbrook had once ardently vied for her hand in marriage, the man had never meant anything to her. Not then, and most certainly not now. No man could ever be as handsome, or as witty, or as charming, or as . . . annoying as her Camden.

  Somehow, this mutual agreement of theirs to spend a little time apart had led to a lot of time apart. Followed by complete chaos brought on by the ton, who held nothing sacred if it created some amusing entertainment.

  Perspiration trickled its way down the length of Gwendolyn’s exposed neck beneath her pinned curls. And she hadn’t even been dancing. It was all due to the stagnant heat of a ballroom that harboured an unsightly amount of people. A result of too many invitations sent.

  Far worse than all the heat and the people, their fading scents of oiled perfumes mingling with rancid sweat, was having to assist her younger brother’s new-found aspiration to wed. Edwin’s dreamy enthusiasm towards a love match achingly reminded her of herself when she was his age. But it took far more than dreamy enthusiasm to make a loving marriage thrive. She should know.

  Lord Westbrook’s stocky frame reappeared at her side again. For the fifth time that night.

  She stiffened, but otherwise remained in place, knowing he was going to follow her no matter where she went.

  Westbrook swept aside the curling, dark hair from his forehead and cleared his throat. “Lady Redford. Might I have a word with you out on the balcony?”

  Gad. The annoying man wouldn’t go away. No wonder everyone thought she was involved with him. He was forever at her elbow, insisting on attention that was anything but respectable.

  She sighed, wishing there were no rules in society about being courteous. “I am not interested in sharing words, My Lord. And most certainly not on a balcony where our conversation may be construed as something it is not.”

  He scooted closer, his gloved hand curving around her corseted waist. “You cannot keep eluding me.”

  Gwendolyn sucked in a breath and stepped outside of his grasp, eyeing the crowds around them, including her brother who lingered only a few feet away. Of course, her brother was far too occupied with his own life to notice she was being shoved into the devil’s own cupboard.

  She set her chin, trying to remain calm. If she overreacted, it would bring attention. And that she most certainly did not need. “There is a very good reason as to why I am eluding you, My Lord, but I am far too civil to express that reason. Now I am demanding you cease this. You have already created more gossip than I know what to do with.”

  Westbrook reclaimed the distance she had set between them and leaned towards her. His dark eyes boldly traced her breasts and whispered, “I will only cease once I get what I want. Do you need me to tell you what I want? Or has your husband never properly educated you on the matter?”

  She buried her right hand within the folds of her gown, fisting the silk material in an effort to keep herself from outright smacking him. She stepped away again and glared at him. “I will see to it my husband calls on you tomorrow afternoon so that you may discuss this with him in greater detail. Will that better suit you?”

  “There is no need, madam. When it comes to you, Redford and I already share an understanding.” Westbrook smirked, adjusted his evening coat and stared her down with haughty, dark eyes. Offering her a nod, he turned and strode over towards her brother, interrupting his conversation with a few curt words.

  Gwendolyn narrowed her gaze, wishing it were legal to publicly castrate men. With each passing day, she was beginning to believe it was far better being miserable with Camden than being miserable without him. Their separation was supposed to bring them a form of uniting, healing peace – not this . . . war.

  She wandered closer to her brother and waved a frantic hand towards him from behind Westbrook’s back. She urgently mouthed, “We must leave. Now.”

  Edwin flicked a nod in response to her silent plea, and discreetly held up an apologetic gloved hand, asking for patience. He then continued his in-depth discussion with Lord Westbrook.

  It reminded her of something Camden would do. Tell her to wait a moment and then two hours would pass.

  She hissed out a breath. Didn’t Edwin realize that by engaging Westbrook, he was only going to further complicate her life? She flicked open her fan and waved it frantically back and forth before her heated face.

  A superficial laugh – one she’d never heard in all her five and twenty years — escaped Edwin in response to something Westbrook said.

  Gwendolyn blinked, freezing the tip of her fan below her nose. She lowered her chin slightly and continued to observe her brother’s unusual antics. Edwin’s chestnut hair fell farther out of place with each exaggerated, eager nod.

  Oh, no. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say Edwin was trying to impress Westbrook in an effort to gain an introduction to the man’s ever-so-popular younger sister. Dear Lord, this did not bode well for her. At all. She did not want or need Westbrook for an in-law.

  Someone leaned towards her, bringing the refreshing scent of citrus into the frowsty air. “Gwendolyn,” her mother chimed. “You look incredibly annoyed.”

  “I am incredibly annoyed.” Gwendolyn snapped her fan shut and released it, letting it dangle again from her wrist. She spun towards her mother. “Where have you been?”

  Despite the heat that was causing everyone’s rouge to fade, Lady Stanton’s own remained flawless. Like the rest of her. Even with those greying tresses, her pretty, oval face held a fresh youthfulness from which no amount of grey could detract. Now why couldn’t Westbrook obsess over someone like her mother who had been widowed these past six years? The woman needed attention far more than she did.

  Gwendolyn leaned towards her mother. “Edwin is entertaining Westbrook. I demand you do something. He is your son and therefore your responsibility. Not mine.”

  Lady Stanton’s green eyes flicked over towards Edwin and Lord Westbrook, then back to her. She shook her head and ushered Gwendolyn away from the two, her emerald satin and lace gown brushing against her own.

  Once they were a few steps away, her mother flicked open her own silk fan, hiding her lips from those around them, and whispered, “You do realize Westbrook is waiting for you and Redford to divorce, yes?”

  Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. “As if I would ever—”

  “What is more,” her mother added in an even more hushed tone, now appearing concerned, “Redford may be planning on it.”

  Gwendolyn stared at her, her breath hitching. “Whatever do you mean? Camden and I aren’t—”

  “Apparently, upon hearing all the gossip, Redford went to Westbrook and demanded proof of your involvement with him, lest he call the man out for slander. Two days later, Westbrook provided him with proof.”

  Gwendolyn choked. “What proof? I never—”

  Her mother grabbed her arm and shielded both of their faces with her fan. “Westbrook bribed one of your servants and acquired one of your silk stockings, then delivered it to Redford. Therein providing proof.”

  Gwendolyn gasped, her eyes widening in disbelief. She grabbed both of her mother’s gloved hands and squeezed them in a frantic effort to balance herself and her thoughts. “How do you know all of this?”

  Lady Stanton fluttered her fan for a moment and eyed her sh
eepishly. “With Redford moving out, I was worried about you living alone. So I . . . paid your butler and housekeeper additional funds to watch over you a bit more carefully.”

  Gwendolyn felt her throat tightening as she glanced back towards Lord Westbrook who was still enthusiastically conversing with her brother. “Keep me from slitting his throat from ear to ear,” she rasped. “Why is he doing this to me? I never once—”

  “Calm yourself,” Lady Stanton hissed, snapping her fan shut. “And more importantly, keep your voice to a whisper. Now, let us fetch you a glass of wine and take you home. In the morning, we will try to settle this misunderstanding as best we can.”

  Gwendolyn drew in a steady breath, trying to calm herself. She let the breath out, nodding. “I believe I will require more than one glass of wine. I will require four or five. Maybe even six.”

  “Whatever amount will keep you calm. Now come along.” Lady Stanton tucked her hand into the crook of Gwendolyn’s arm and whisked her away in the opposite direction.

  “Mother!” Edwin called out after them. He scrambled around Lord Westbrook and held up a gloved hand above the heads of other passing couples. “You cannot whisk her away as of yet. I need her.”

  “Ignore him,” Gwendolyn hissed, rushing them forwards. “He only ever acknowledges me when an opportunity for a female introduction arises and, frankly, I feel like an underpaid chaperone.”

  “You needn’t worry about him,” her mother insisted. “I will put an end to his preening. That boy has been far too preoccupied with his own life to notice anyone else’s.”

  “It must be contagious.”

  Together, they bumped their way through the crush of people and didn’t slow their pace until they were on the other side of the ballroom.

  Gwendolyn heaved out a sigh and glanced at her mother. “I don’t understand why you keep encouraging his need for matrimony. Edwin is only twenty.”