Harlequin Historical July 2021--Box Set 1 of 2

by Virginia Heath

  ‘Don’t think that fact doesn’t gall me still! I couldn’t call the bounder out. That would only confirm the rumours. I did ask your granddaughter to marry me, but she refused.’

  ‘Did she now?’ Addressing Marcella, he said, ‘Why are ye bringing him here now, if ye refused him once, missy?’

  ‘Because he only asked me out of honour.’

  Her grandfather nodded. ‘A good enough reason for a gentleman. But honour wasn’t enough for ye?’

  ‘No.’ She looked over at Crispin. ‘He must ask out of love. And promise me everything.’

  Her grandfather smiled at that before his face hardened. ‘I looked into this baron who tried to ruin ye. Bought up all his debts, called them in. Given the option of debtors’ prison or resettling abroad, he was encouraged to take the trip overseas. Before leaving, he’s to publish an account in all the London newspapers, confessing he made up the story to discredit the heiress so he might get her dowry once she had no choice left but to marry him. Then he’ll be gone from England and can trouble ye both no more.’

  The old man looked at Crispin, a twinkle in his eyes. ‘Ye see, there are advantages to not being born a gentleman. Ye don’t have to play by their rules.’

  ‘Bravo, sir! Thank you for doing what I could not.’

  ‘But what about society? I’m not a green ’un, to believe some print in the newspapers will remove all the taint from my granddaughter’s name.’

  ‘Don’t think she’ll be isolated. In lieu of the ton, I can offer Marcella the society of a small group of good friends who will accept and welcome her. Friends whom I think she will find interesting, who will appreciate her exceptional talents. One just married a woman who is a translator of ancient Greek. Another friend’s younger brother wed a woman who runs a boarding school for disadvantaged girls, and his sister is a good friend of one of Marcella’s schoolmates from Miss Axminster’s.’

  ‘Remember I told you about Emma Henley, how kind she was to me?’ Marcella asked.

  ‘Ah, that odd female and her friends who weren’t interested in tittle-tattle about suitors, claiming they didn’t want to marry and would be reformers instead?’

  ‘Yes, those are the ones.’

  ‘Silly women. Girls must marry. Need husbands to protect them.’

  ‘Maybe for now, Grandda,’ Marcella argued. ‘But not for always. Forging new paths, one day women will be able to carve their own futures, independent of men.’

  ‘That day isn’t here yet, lass,’ he said, shaking a finger at her. ‘So, you think ye will be accepted and happy with these friends of Dellamont’s?’

  ‘I think they sound wonderful and intriguing.’

  ‘But what her about duties as a countess?’ Webbingdon turned to ask Crisipin. ‘I understand she’ll be expected to attend court, go to balls and all those fancy to-dos she so dislikes.’

  Crispin shrugged. ‘She’ll be a countess. She can do whatever she wants.’

  Sir Thomas laughed. ‘I’m beginning to think I like ye, lad. As for you, missy, ye didn’t want him before. Do ye think now he will make ye happy?’

  ‘I think now he’s all I ever wanted,’ she said softly.

  Crispin felt such a soaring rise of hope, he almost didn’t hear her grandfather’s next words.

  ‘If he’s an earl’s son he don’t need your dowry. Will he still marry ye without it?

  ‘Grandda!’ Marcella protested, her face going scarlet.

  ‘Keep the dowry. She is all I want.’ He turned to face Marcella. ‘All I’ll ever want.’

  Sir Thomas’s expression softened. ‘Better go ask her then, lad. And that dowry? I expect ye can have that, too—if she says yes.’

  * * *

  Her hand on his arm, Crispin walked with Marcella out to the garden. ‘This way,’ she said, linking her fingers with his and leading him down a path bordered by great swathes of early tulips and stands of daffodil and crocus. ‘Walk with me in the place I love most.’

  ‘It’s beautiful here. I understand why you love it.’

  ‘Grandda loved it first. This garden was the main reason he bought this house. He could have had newer, larger, fancier manors in Tynemouth or in Newcastle itself. But he was captivated by this place, the distant whisper of the sea, the hint of salt in the air, and the extensive gardens. Working in the mines, in blackness stinking of coal, Grandda vowed when he made his fortune, he would surround himself with light, colour, and fresh air. And he did.’

  She stopped by a bench surrounded by a great intertwined mass of rambling roses, not yet in bloom. Crispin could hear the distant roar of the surf, while sharp salt-scented air filled his head.

  ‘You would not have agreed to hear me out if your grandfather had forbidden it?’ he asked as he urged her to a seat.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she admitted. ‘I love him so dearly it would break my heart to be estranged from him. But it would wound my soul to be estranged from you. I thought being distanced from my family, being forced to deal with your world, would be impossible. But now, I think I can bear anything but losing you.’

  Crispin swallowed hard, hearing in those words that he had truly been forgiven. For not continuing to press his suit the first time. For wounding her by accepting her refusal so easily and going off to leave her alone.

  Placing her arm on the bench, Marcella gazed around her with fondness. ‘I always feel like the sea air is blowing away worries and cares.’

  ‘What worries and cares is it blowing away today?’

  ‘You are here. I have no more worries.’

  ‘While I have just one. You did refuse me before, you know. But I shall do it properly this time, not just make you a hasty bow in the middle of a garden path.’

  Clasping her hand, he went down on one knee. ‘Marcella Cranmore, I love you more than I ever thought it possible to love anyone. My delight and inspiration, will you risk your future and marry me?’

  ‘Leave my former life without regrets? Even face eventually becoming a countess?’

  ‘Remember the part about weathering hardships together? I’ll have to be an earl, after all. We can help each other through it.’

  ‘I can even weather leaving Papa and the office. Which I would have eventually lost anyway, since Papa will some day retire and Gilling didn’t want me there.’

  Alarm jolted through Crispin. ‘You...spoke with him?’

  ‘Yes. He made me an offer, actually. But he wanted me to be a conventional wife, and I just couldn’t. Besides, that soul-searching time alone taught me to see the difference between my childhood affection for him, and what I felt for you.’

  ‘Affection, but not passion?’ he guessed.

  ‘Not for him.’

  ‘Thank heaven,’ he said, breathing out a sigh that made her laugh. ‘But since you’ve still not relieved my anxiety by saying “yes”, let me add one more inducement. It might not be appropriate for my wife to work in an engineer’s office, but I would like her to work in a similar capacity—as my engineering advisor. I have only a rudimentary grasp of the mathematical principles involved in constructing sound and safe bridges, tunnels and viaducts. I watched you at Stephenson’s lecture. It was clear you understood everything, even the most technical discussion. I want you to accompany me when I go out to inspect railway ventures. Ride the routes with me, look at the technical drawings and decide on the efficiency and feasibility of what’s being planned. It won’t be like running your own engineering office, I know—’

  Face alight, she threw her arms around him, interrupting, ‘It will be wonderful! You’ll let me be a real advisor, reading diagrams, calculating angles and slope? Doing all but overseeing actual construction?’

  Crispin grinned. ‘I haven’t yet figured out a way for you to do that.’

  ‘Yes, yes and a thousand times, yes! I love you to distraction and I will marry you
, my darling Crispin!’

  ‘One “yes” will do nicely.’

  Then he pulled her into his arms, pouring his relief and passion into a kiss that promised all the delights to come, for as long as both should live.

  * * * * *

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  ISBN-13: 9780369710987

  The Railway Countess

  Copyright © 2021 by Janet Justiss

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  “Do you promise to come back?”

  Henry looked down at their hands. They were still twined together. “I don’t know how long I’ll be away, but I’ll find you again, Mathilde, wherever you are.”

  “And will you meet with me then, or will you still avoid me for being a lady?” Her eyes narrowed slightly.

  “I shouldn’t meet with you. It would be better for you that way.”

  “Shouldn’t that be my decision?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “It’s not as if we’d be doing anything wrong. Neither of us is married nor promised to anyone else.”

  “Your father still wouldn’t approve.”

  “I know.”

  “There’s your reputation to consider.”

  “I know that, too.” She pressed her lips together in a line. “The queen might not like there to be rumors about one of her ladies, but...so long as we are discreet, like the queen and Mortimer, then nobody else would ever need to know.”

  He slid his free arm around her waist, drawing her close against him. “So here we are, the queen’s lady and the traitor’s bastard.”

  She laid her head on his shoulder. “You shouldn’t call yourself that.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “But not the whole truth. You’re a lot more than that.”

  Author Note

  I knew I had to write a medieval romance at some point during 2020, but like a lot of people, I found it difficult to find inspiration and concentrate this year. Because of that, I went back to a story idea I’d been experimenting with for a few years after reading a biography of Edward II’s queen, Isabella of France. I’d never been quite sure about how to balance the romance and history, but finding a way became my lockdown challenge.

  It was a relief to throw myself into research, a large amount of which went into home-schooling (at the expense of long division and fractions—sorry, school), and to find a happily-ever-after for my characters. It wasn’t the easiest book to write, but it’s now probably the one closest to my heart. I’m also especially grateful to my editor Linda Fildew and Hannah and Bryony at Harlequin Historical for their support with this project.

  A Marriage Made in Secret

  Jenni Fletcher

  Jenni Fletcher was born in the north of Scotland and now lives in Yorkshire with her husband and two children. She wanted to be a writer as a child but became distracted by reading instead, finally getting past her first paragraph thirty years later. She’s had more jobs than she can remember but has finally found one she loves. She can be contacted on Twitter, @jenniauthor, or via her Facebook author page.

  Books by Jenni Fletcher

  Harlequin Historical

  The Warrior’s Bride Prize

  Reclaimed by Her Rebel Knight

  Tudor Christmas Tidings

  “Secrets of the Queen’s Lady”

  A Marriage Made in Secret

  Regency Belles of Bath

  An Unconventional Countess

  Unexpectedly Wed to the Officer

  The Duke’s Runaway Bride

  Sons of Sigurd

  Redeeming Her Viking Warrior

  Secrets of a Victorian Household

  Miss Amelia’s Mistletoe Marquess

  Whitby Weddings

  The Convenient Felstone Marriage

  Captain Amberton’s Inherited Bride

  The Viscount’s Veiled Lady

  Visit the Author Profile page

  at Harlequin.com for more titles.

  To the best trio of lockdown buddies I could ever have wanted.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  CHAPTER ONE

  Palace of Vincennes, France

  —summer 1325

  ‘Your Grace!’

  Mathilde jumped to her feet in alarm as a boy burst like a small, grinning assassin into the Queen’s withdrawing chamber, provoking a chorus of muffled screams from the gathered ladies. If they’d been in London, she thought, he would have been dragged straight to the Tower for causing such a commotion, but fortunately for him, they were a long way from England, in a palace to the east of Paris on a rainy and uneventful afternoon.

  The boy’s cheeks were red and he was panting, but his face was alive with excitement, as if he knew that his intrusion would be a welcome one. To the surprise of almost everyone in the room, he was right. He didn’t say another word, simply dropped down on to one knee, yet Queen Isabella lifted her gaze from the gilt-edged book of Arthurian tales she was reading and smiled.

  Isabella, born a Princess of France and now the crowned Queen of England, smiled. Not a slight regal curve of her lips for once either, but a real, rare smile that transformed her whole face an
d sparked a fiery light in her usually impenetrable blue eyes.

  Mathilde watched, enthralled. The first time she’d set eyes on the Queen, she’d thought her the most beautiful woman in the world, but at that moment she surpassed even herself, like a lily opening its petals in sunshine, emerging from a bud of passive prettiness into confident, blazing beauty. As Isabella rose imperiously to her feet, the effect seemed to become even more pronounced, the folds of her pale yellow surcoat catching the light from the dozens of candles around her so that they shone like molten gold. It was impossible not to stare at someone so dazzling.

  ‘Madame Baudin has arrived?’ Isabella arched one slender eyebrow and the messenger nodded, still panting from his exertions. ‘Good.’ She waved her fingers in a gesture of dismissal. ‘You may wait outside.’

  The boy backed out of the room and the Queen’s eyes turned speculatively in Mathilde’s direction, narrowing slightly. ‘You. Your name is Mathilde, is it not?’

  ‘Yes, Your Grace.’ Nervously, she dipped into a curtsy, dropping her embroidery in the process. In two months, the Queen had barely acknowledged her presence, let alone used her name, treating her with the same resentful disdain she reserved for all her newer attendants. Mathilde couldn’t entirely blame her. They were only there because the King had locked up her loyal French ladies-in-waiting and replaced them with his English spies, but she at least wasn’t a spy. She was a nobody, the daughter of a man to whom the King had owed a favour, that was all, a last-minute addition to Isabella’s retinue before she’d embarked upon her diplomatic mission to France. She was new and young, as the other ladies never ceased to remind her. Obscure and impoverished, too, their tone suggested, which was true even if she couldn’t help it. Her family weren’t important or rich or even particularly noble, but her father’s past loyalty had been enough to secure her a position at court. It was a great honour, one she wished every day had been bestowed upon somebody else.