Saving Lord Whitton's Daughter: A Regency Romance Novel

by Susan Tietjen

  A slender girl of fifteen, with auburn hair and winsome hazel eyes, stood just outside the dressing room, waiting. Mrs. Callen introduced Melissa, Bethany’s new personal maid, to the new countess, then she pointed to the closed door on the wall that was shared with Lord Locke’s room.

  “That door connects your chambers to his lordship’s; he keeps the key. There’s a bell rope beside the bed should you require anything, day or not. Melissa,” she added, “will help you change and settle in. May I get you some tea?”

  “No thank you, Mrs. Callen. You’ve been very helpful, and I hope you’ll share your impressions with me regarding the manor. You’ve intimate knowledge of it, and I’ve no doubt that together we can bring it right again.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Mrs. Callen smiled with genuine pleasure. “Shall I leave you to Melissa?” She scurried off and the young abigail began to help Bethany out of her dusty travel dress. The girl seemed shy but eager, which Bethany liked instantly.

  As the girl unfastened the multitude of buttons on her travel dress, Bethany’s gaze drifted to the earl’s adjoining door. Was it truly locked? The idea of not being able to prevent Locke’s intrusion troubled her. Hopefully, he felt the same and would keep it locked, but she wondered if she’d offend him by asking for a bolt on her side of the door.

  When Melissa finished helping Bethany into her riding habit and dressing her hair, Bethany proceeded downstairs and found Lord Locke waiting for her in the entry, hands clasped behind his back.

  CHAPTER 6

  Locke turned at the sound of Lady Bethany’s footsteps on the stairs and felt a tightening in his chest at seeing her. He was torn between his duty, his worries about her, and the guilt that this necessary but unpleasant scheme had created—and the undeniable fact that everything about his bride nearly overwhelmed him. He was glad they’d have no more than three days together. He couldn’t afford the temptation her charms presented. He wouldn’t have volunteered to ride out with her now if he didn’t need to familiarize her with the estate and both the people who would watch over her and those she would watch over in his absence.

  Locke was masterful at reading other people. The rising color and the bashfulness on Lady Bethany’s face meant he affected her more than she liked, too, which worried him even more.

  Her dark hair, plaited and pinned, was topped by a small, unpretentious hat; the skirts of her sky-blue riding habit, lovely but sufficiently worn to testify of Whitton’s financial strains, enfolded the long legs of a horsewoman; and, heaven help him, her fair and flawless skin and her shapely figure enticed him.

  Mr. Treadwell materialized at the front door to open it for them. Locke cast him a meaningful look, one that reminded his man to intervene if Locke ever showed signs of falling prey to this woman’s wiles.

  Lady Bethany on his arm, Locke led her to the stables. “I’m glad you feel up to this, my lady. I haven’t long to make you familiar with this place before I leave for London.”

  “On Monday morning,” she verified.

  His heart skipped a beat. Did he hear a hint of disappointment in her voice? “At an inhumanly early hour, actually. I’ll bid you farewell Sunday night after supper. Thankfully Lady Camille shall arrive by then.”

  Lady Bethany cast him a grateful smile. “You’re kind to invite her. We’re as close in our own way, I think, as the twins, and have rarely been separated long. My twentieth birthday is the end of September and hers three weeks later, in October. Our only disharmonies are her infatuations with London and the haute ton.”

  “Then I’m surprised you can tolerate her,” Locke responded, quirking a lopsided smile at her soft laughter. Then his thoughts drifted to her father and brothers, whom he still missed tremendously. “Such close friendships are rare. Treasure it, and her, as long as you can.”

  They paused for Lady Bethany to admire the several paddocks of horses that surrounded them. Her mares and geldings contentedly cropped grass in one of them, and Raven was housed in the stallion barn in a spacious stall connected to a private pasture.

  Locke was nearly as proud of his stables as he was his horses, all three buildings airy and well-lighted, bearing markedly high ceilings and above them generous haylofts. In the stallion stable, the four brawny grooms were sorting equipment, cleaning and mending saddles, bridles and halters, and cleaning stalls, while Seaworth and Locke’s red-headed stable master, Dimity, were engaged in polishing Moorewood’s carriage.

  Locke was unprepared for the besotted look in his countess’s eyes as she passed horse after blooded horse in the stalls. If he’d ever wanted to put together a list of characteristics he’d want in a woman, he’d have placed sharing his appreciation for fine horseflesh near the top.

  Troubling thought. What was he to do with this fascinating woman he’d sworn to protect but to keep at arm’s length? Especially when, without warning, he ached to touch her.

  “Raven,” Lady Bethany called when her stallion whinnied to her, and it was he that she slipped her arms around and hugged. Raven grumbled and nodded his head, pushing his brow into her chest as if he were equally as joyous to see her. He stood still when she kissed his baby-soft muzzle and lovingly stroked the delicate skin above his nostrils.

  “Were he a gentlemen, such a heavenly display of endearment would give him a heart attack,” Locke commented, cocking a wry smile at her when she made a face at him.

  “Were he a gentleman, he’d be the most perfect man on earth. He knows exactly how to treat a lady,” she quipped.

  “Oh, I’m wounded.” Locke threw a hand to his chest. “The ignominy of being bested by a horse. Well, at least I’ll provide you a pleasant outing, my dear. Perhaps that will offset my shortcomings.”

  “It would raise you to as close to perfection as is humanly possible.”

  Locke chuckled and then asked Dimity to ready their mounts. Because Polly needed rest from last night’s trip, the stable master delivered Locke a gelding from the riding horse stable, a bay with a star on his forehead, a horse named Major. Seaworth tacked up Raven for Lady Bethany, cinching an ordinary saddle in place.

  “You never used a sidesaddle at Whitton,” Locke said as he boarded Major, “so I assumed you don’t want one now.”

  “Sidesaddles should be burned,” she grumbled, accepting Seaworth’s lift onto Raven. “They’re miserably uncomfortable and positively deadly. I’ve ridden bareback—in breeches and barefoot even—more than I ever did in a sidesaddle.”

  Locke snorted laughter then cleared his throat in embarrassment. Such painful candidness could ruin her reputation—and reflect badly on him—but her sincerity amused him. “I concur as to sidesaddles’ impracticality, my lady. However, I suggest you introduce the estate to your scandalous behaviors a bit at a time. That is, if you want anyone to take you seriously.”

  Lady Bethany laughed. “I promise, my lord, not to embarrass you too badly. At least for a while.”

  They set out on the same road that had delivered them to Moorewood, Lady Bethany seeming as caught up in the landscape as Locke was by her natural grace, her blue skirts draped across the coal black of the stallion’s glistening hide.

  She glanced at him, and then, having apparently sensed his appraisal, turned blushing cheeks away from him. “It’s such a lovely day. Not a drop of rain in sight.”

  “Perfect for riding,” Locke replied, forcing his gaze to the road in search of the intersecting path they’d soon take. “How are your bedchambers?”

  “Palatial.”

  “You’re too kind. The trappings are nearly prehistoric.”

  “Not at all. Your mother’s tastes were exemplary. I don’t want them changed, at least not right off. They make me feel ... elegant.”

  Locke fought not to tell her that she was a great deal more elegant than her surroundings could ever be. He oughtn’t to even be considering such notions. “I hope you enjoy them, but if you change your mind, be aware that Mr. Gordon Davies, my solicitor, has set aside funds for the entire pro
ject, including your quarters.”

  “Thank you, my lord. But I have a fully appointed room. You mentioned many of the chambers are bare. They need the attention first.”

  Locke rolled his eyes. “Most noblewomen would demand all of it posthaste. I applaud your prudence, but please don’t deprive yourself of your comforts. Alright, my dear, we’ve warmed the horses up enough to stretch their legs. Shall we have a good gallop?”

  She nodded, her smile broadening, and with a touch of their heels, the animals sprang into action, sprinting along the road to a path that led to the right hand, eastward and up a small hillock. On the other side, the path meandered through light woods and across a stretch of meadow, scattered with feathery bracken, the last of June’s flowers, and the lemony petals of the native gorse.

  Major pulled at the bit, begging to challenge Raven, but Locke held him back, enjoying the sight of Lady Bethany leaning into her stallion, the wind tugging wisps of hair loose from under her hat and tossing her skirts along the animal’s flanks. When they encountered a deep stream, she and her horse soared over it with grace.

  The path narrowed to a trail, swinging onto another hillock and under the shade of overhanging trees. They drew up to let the horses breathe and to enjoy the landscape, a vista Locke never ceased to appreciate. He pointed out various landmarks, the division between his tenants’ holdings, and what Bethany might expect those families to request from her.

  “These are decent people, my lady. Despite our peers’ insistence that compassion toward the impoverished is improper, I’m adamant regarding their treatment, and more greatly upset with Matheson’s defection than I’ve let on. I deal fairly with my tenants, regardless of what others think.”

  “I understand, my lord. My father did the same. Too many work these poor souls to death for their own profit and take what they please from them without regard to the consequences. I’ll do all I can to reassure them that Mr. Matheson betrayed you as much as he did them.”

  Locke had meant for the work with the estate and especially the manor to keep Lady Bethany so busy she’d not likely head off into more public places, but he sensed she wanted to please him. An uncomfortable thought. And a monumental task for such a young woman. Still, she was safe here. Or at least safer than at Whitton.

  “I applaud your determination, my dear, but I can’t predict how some of the tenants will react. Take one of the stablehands with you when you visit them, whether you’re with Lady Camille or not. I want you safe.”

  “If you insist,” she said.

  “I do. I have records in my study we’ll discuss later tonight. They’ll familiarize you with Moorewood’s holdings and my tenants’ obligations. Tomorrow morning we’ll look in on some of the those I’ve still not contacted since Matheson left, to explain the situation. Then next week my solicitor will visit you to discuss financial matters and your personal allowance.”

  She blinked in surprise, perhaps not expecting to be trusted with managing money. Not many noblewomen did.

  They rode to the stream they’d jumped earlier to water the horses, and Lady Bethany sighed with pleasure, looking around her. “It’s beautiful here. Beyond beautiful. It’s breathtaking.”

  Locke chuckled. “Moorewood is my pride and joy. The manor is the smallest of my holdings but the land the richest.”

  “I love it.” Smiling wistfully, she added, “I also can’t imagine having anything grander than Moorewood Manor—or at least what it will become.”

  They let the horses walk to the stable to cool down and found the building empty when they arrived. The animals all now out to pasture, the servants had gone off to other pursuits. Locke offered Lady Bethany help dismounting, suspecting she didn’t need it but unable to escape the temptation to act the gentleman while setting his hands to her small waist.

  She swung her right leg over the saddle, kicked her left foot from the stirrup and let him support her as she slid towards the ground. When a ripping sound made her gasp, he stopped her progress.

  “Oh no! My skirt. It’s caught between the stirrup leather and the saddle and it’s tearing.”

  “I’ll hold you up,” Locke said, raising her enough to tug it free.

  She weighed almost nothing, but he was more than overwhelmed by the sweet lemony smell of her. When he at last lowered her to the ground, he found himself unable to let go, at least until she turned to face him.

  Emerald eyes opened wide, Lady Bethany’s cheeks flushed prettily. Was that wonderment on her features? He didn’t see the slightest hint of fear in her. He felt her gaze admire him, drifting from his brows to his nose and arriving at last at his mouth. Her hands, so small and delicate against the firm muscles of his chest, gave no hint of the resistance she’d shown last night.

  She stood perfectly still, obviously aware that his breath had faltered. Did she realize what she did to him? Had she any idea how much he wanted to kiss her? And then he saw it, the glimmer of desire in her eyes that battered at his resolve. He raised a hand to brush a stray hair from her cheek and her eyelids fluttered shut, a tremble sweeping over her. His resistance melted and he traced her jaw to her chin and lifted it, leaning towards the soft pillow of her lips, wanting more than anything to taste their sweetness.

  A loud thud from the sound of leather and metal hitting the ground sent them flying apart.

  “Oh, sorry, m’lord,” one of the stablehands, said, not sounding at all sorry. The pile of bridles he’d dropped to the stable floor lay heaped at his booted feet. “Didn’t see you there. Shall I unsaddle the horses fer ya?”

  Locke blinked, feeling as if he’d just come out of a trance. “Yes, of course, Devon.”

  Lady Bethany’s obvious confusion dismayed him, but there was no help for it. He couldn’t believe what had just passed between them. He couldn’t let it happen again. Not ever.

  “I’ve some duties I cannot put off, my lady,” he told her. “Please feel free to return to the house and see to your needs. Mrs. Ford will have dinner ready for us at noon. I’ll join you then.”

  The hurt on Lady Bethany’s face told him that he must have sounded painfully dismissive, which made him feel like an ogre. “Shall I walk you to the house? It won’t take but a moment.”

  “That’s quite alright, my lord,” Lady Bethany murmured. “I don’t want to inconvenience you.” She spun around and hurried towards the manor, her habit’s skirts swishing around her ankles.

  “Sorry for the interruption, m’lord,” Devon said, watching Lady Bethany for a moment and then meeting Locke’s gaze. “Simply following your orders.”

  Locke shrugged, embarrassed. “Orders keep life on the straight and narrow, Devon, especially where the wiles of a woman are concerned. Fetch the others to Dimity’s workroom upstairs, to review the plans again before I leave. I’ve only two days to be sure everything is in place.”

  “My lord, sir.” Devon nodded, heading off to do as commanded.

  Locke watched Lady Bethany’s distant form as she approached the manor. He still could hardly rein in the emotions that his bride’s lovely eyes and warm body had unexpectedly threaded under his skin and into his heart. No woman had ever breached the barriers he’d raised against them many long years ago, but he feared Lady Bethany had the power.

  Locke knew the situation would have taken a new and irrevocable course had he given in to temptation. Many women of all ages had visited this place since his childhood, but not once in his life had he seen a woman, apart from his mother, who seemed to belong here. Yet the minute she’d set foot inside the manor’s imposing entryway, Bethany Montgomery Ashburn had felt as natural to it as its very foundation. Locke was reassured she’d fit in, perhaps too well, and she’d always be here when he visited, like it or not. He’d never before pondered how it would feel to come home to someone to whom he was attracted. It had never dawned on him how dangerous that could prove. Perhaps enormously more dangerous in its own way than the perils of the quest that lay ahead of him in the outside world.<
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  * * *

  Bethany strode to the manor, torn between relief and fury. How dare a retainer speak to his master that way? As if he reproved the earl for touching his own wife! And Locke had let this servant Devon get away with it. Why would he do that?

  Turbid thoughts and raw feelings flustered her. She disliked Devon for interrupting them and yet was just as grateful things hadn’t gone any further. Would they have gone further? Would she have enjoyed it? What flashed between her and Lord Locke had caught her completely by surprise, but she had to concede she’d wanted him to kiss her. It terrified her to contemplate what could have happened had she not been able to bear it. But what if she had? What then?

  Squelching these feelings, she welcomed Melissa’s announcement that her bath was ready and, after Melissa helped her clean up in the manor’s ornate but outmoded downstairs bathing room, don her light turquoise day dress and arrange her hair, she had the girl call for Mrs. Callen.

  While they waited, Melissa appraised the rent on Bethany’s habit. “Oh, m’lady, this is awful. Shall I burn it?”

  “Good grief, no,” Bethany replied. Besides loving the garment, she detested waste, a practicality she and Lady Katherine had argued about more than once. “I’m sure it’s mendable.”

  “Oh, it is, but—”

  “I’ve no aversion to wearing mended clothing, Melissa, especially riding clothes.” She’d had to learn to tolerate it along with Whitton’s reduced circumstances. “I can fix it if you can’t,” she added, the girl’s eyes widening in surprise.