“It’s too late for that,” Caro said quietly. “We already have an audience.”
Lochley whipped around, noting for the first time that their altercation had drawn quite a crowd. Curious gazes greeted him, and just beneath the curiosity was the censure. She was correct. No matter what happened now, she was doomed.
He released Mutton Chops and stepped back, moving to Caro’s side. She needed his support. Not that she would admit as much. The ridiculous woman tried to distance herself from him, but he would have none of it. He took her elbow and held her at his side.
Mutton Chops wasted no time. “This man accosted me because he wanted to keep the truth about this so-called lady a secret. And what is that truth? She’s a whore who sold her body in a brothel in London.”
A woman gasped, and another lifted her small child and hurried away. The rest of the crowd stared. Of course, a crowd always attracted more onlookers, and the ranks of people swelled as Mutton Chops continued.
“I saw her at The Pleasure Den once. I didn’t know what sort of establishment it was and entered mistakenly.”
Lochley allowed his face to show amusement at that blatant lie. Inside, he felt rage pour through him. He held it back because it would do Caro no good at this point. Beside him, she seemed to shrink smaller and smaller.
“She tried to lure me to her bed,” Mutton Chops said, embellishing his story as he warmed to it. “She is a temptress.” He pointed a finger at her.
The eyes of those in the crowd seemed to fasten as one on Caro. Lochley could almost feel the anticipation as they waited for her to deny it. Caro said nothing. For a long, long moment, all was silent. No one moved or spoke. Now was the moment her neighbors would turn on her. He’d seen it before, seen women accused of adultery or witchcraft chased, pelted with rocks or rotten vegetables, even attacked. Lochley took Caro’s hand in his and raised it to his lips.
The gesture caught the mob’s attention, and he waited until her gaze lifted to his. Her eyes were red with unshed tears, and he could feel her hand tremble in his. He met her gaze directly, letting her see that he would stand beside her. She shook her head slightly, but he just smiled.
“I haven’t known Miss Martin very long, and I don’t know her well,” Lochley said, raising his voice. “But what I do know is that she is no different from you”—he looked at an irate-looking woman standing nearby—“and me. She has made mistakes. She has taken wrong turns. She is human, as we all are. I know all of you are surprised at this…gentleman’s accusations. Ask yourself if your friends and neighbors would be surprised if your misdeeds were made public. Those of you without blemish, feel free to judge. The rest of us know that none of us is blameless.” He lowered himself to one knee, and Caro’s expression went from disbelief to utter terror. “If there is a woman who is close to perfection, I would have to say it is Miss Martin.”
To Lochley, the crowd faded away and it seemed there was only the two of them. “She is the most kind, most forgiving, most enchanting woman I have ever had the pleasure to meet. I have not yet spoken to her father, so this may be presumptuous of me, but Caroline Martin, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
* * *
“Are you mad?” she sputtered when she was certain she had heard him correctly. “I cannot marry you.”
His look of surprise would have made her laugh had it not been for the seriousness of the matter. He had asked her to marry him. Her —a former whore—marry him—the son of a viscount. He must be mad.
He was also annoyed. He blew out a breath in that way he did when the world was not conforming to his dictates. He had actually expected her to say yes. Of course he had. What woman would say no to a man who looked like he did, a man who kissed like he did, a man who made her laugh like he did?
Apparently, she was such a woman. Perhaps she was the daft one.
He rose and placed his hands on his hips to further express his annoyance. “Why can’t you marry me? Is it because your father has not yet given his blessing?”
Caro was keenly aware the crowd’s attention was riveted on the two of them, and more people were gathering to watch as the seconds ticked by. “It’s not my father who will object.” At least, she did not think he would object. “It is your father.” She spoke quietly in the futile hope that the crowd would not hear. But of course those who had pressed close merely passed her words back to those in the rear.
“Is that all?” Lochley wrinkled his nose. “Of course my father will object. He will disown me.”
Caro put a hand to her throat, where it felt as though her heart had lodged. “Then you must rescind your proposal.”
“Like hell I will. I don’t give a bloody—pardon my language, ladies”—he scuffed the ground with his black boots—“pebble covered in dirt what my father thinks. All I’ve ever been to him is a source of shame. I’m dead to him at the moment and quite content to remain so.”
Caro moved toward him, shaking her head vigorously. “You do not mean that.”
“Oh yes he does,” a voice from the crowd called out. Lochley, who was taller than she and could therefore see who had spoken, gave the man a salute. “Thank you, Mr. Gage.”
“Mr. Gage?” She could not see anything but a blanket of faces and hats. “Lochley, please. You will regret this one day. You will come to hate me.”
“No.” He took her hand in his. “The only regret I will ever have is not asking you to marry me. I’d hoped you would agree to wed me before I said this, but I must call in the reserves. Caroline Martin”—his golden eyes sent warmth straight through her—“I love you.”
“You do?”
“With all my heart.”
She could barely speak. Her heart was fairly bursting, and she couldn’t take a deep breath. “I don’t know what to say,” she murmured.
“Say you’ll marry him,” a familiar voice called out. Her father and mother stepped through the crowd. “I’d be proud to call Mr. Lochley son.”
“That is if you love him too, Caro,” her mother added, dabbing her eyes. Caro had not seen her look so happy in years.
“I do love him.” She turned to Lochley. “I do love you. And I will marry you.” She couldn’t stop herself from jumping into his arms and hugging him tightly. She could hardly believe he would be hers. That she would be able to touch him, hold him, kiss him every day of their lives.
Lochley, obviously more cognizant of the crowd watching them, lowered her and took both of her hands, kissing them. He glanced up at her, his eyes twinkling. “That, darling Caro, was the correct answer.”
* * *
The wedding took place a month later, followed by a small breakfast attended by the Gages, friends of Lochley from the 13th Light Dragoons and his days at Eton, and several of Caro’s relatives. Lochley’s father had not responded to the letter he’d written announcing his betrothal, and no one from his family attended. In the days that followed the revelation of Caroline’s past, Hemshawe had not exactly welcomed her with open arms, but neither had they shunned her.
She gave some credit for this to the young vicar who had preached on Jesus and the adulterous woman the first Sunday after the fair. Like the Pharisees in the Bible, no one in Hemshawe was willing to cast the first stone at her.
By the time autumn arrived, Caro had been married almost a fortnight. Lochley and she did not have their own house yet, though he had some money and his eye on a piece of land near her father’s farm. With the weather still mild, she still liked to walk near the stream and enjoy the changing colors of the trees.
She heard a twig crack and smiled as Lochley came through the trees. Perhaps one day he would walk in the woods like those born in the country. “Done with the day’s work already?” she asked.
He grimaced. “Your father missed his calling. He should have been a prison guard presiding over the poor souls condemned to hard labor.” He collapsed on a fallen log, and she moved behind him to massage the stiffness from his shoulders.
“You did offer your expertise at the vineyard.”
He glanced up at her, his expression incredulous. “I meant as a wine taster!”
She ignored him. She’d been anxious when Lochley suggested he work with her father at the vineyard. He was not used to physical labor. But once they had given him a set of old clothing he did not have to fret about dirtying, he had taken to the grapes with alacrity. That was fortunate, as he was unlikely ever to receive another shilling from his father, and they had to live on something. Lochley’s complaints now were all bluster and show. In the evenings, her father and he could talk for hours about grapes and soil and growing methods.
At times, she had to pull him away to remind him to come to bed with her.
At the moment, she had him all to herself. Sliding her arms over his shoulders, she pressed against him and kissed his lips. He returned the kiss lightly, and then surprised her by pulling her around and settling her on his lap.
Her belly fluttered with anticipation, as it always did when he touched her. She hadn’t known a man could touch a woman with such tenderness or give such pleasure. She moved to straddle him, settling her legs on either side of his, but he shook his head. “I have no intention of rushing this. Your father went into Tunbridge Wells, and we have the rest of the afternoon.”
“Oh, really?”
He rose and took her hand, leading her to a grassy spot covered with soft red, gold, and brown leaves. “Do you know how many times I have imagined you lying here? Covered in nothing but sunlight?”
“How many?”
“I lost count.” He shrugged off his coat, which she now noted was the same one he’d been wearing the first day they met, the one Weston had made him. He dropped it on the ground. “Your bower, my lady.”
Caro gasped. “You’ll ruin it.”
He moved behind her, kissing her neck and beginning to loosen the lacings of her dress. “Someone I know once called Weston an overpriced seamstress.”
“Cretin,” she murmured.
“That was my thought too, but now I’m inclined to agree. It’s just a coat, but you, my love, are the real treasure.”
The End
About Shana Galen
* * *
Shana Galen is the bestselling author of passionate Regency romps, including the RT Reviewers' Choice The Making of a Gentleman. Kirkus says of her books, "The road to happily-ever-after is intense, conflicted, suspenseful and fun," and RT Bookreviews calls her books “lighthearted yet poignant, humorous yet touching." She taught English at the middle and high school level off and on for eleven years. Most of those years were spent working in Houston's inner city. Now she writes full time. She's happily married and has a daughter who is most definitely a romance heroine in the making. Shana loves to hear from readers, so stop by her website or join her mailing list.
Books by Shana Galen
* * *
If you enjoyed this story, read more from Shana.
Covent Garden Cubs series begins with
Earls Just Want to Have Fun.
The Lord and Lady Spy series begins with
Lord and Lady Spy.
The Jewels of the Ton series begins with
When You Give a Duke a Diamond.
The Sons of the Revolution series begins with
The Making of a Duchess.
The Misadventures in Matrimony series begins with
No Man’s Bride.
The Regency Spies Series begins with
While You Were Spying.
Other Christmas anthologies
Christmas in the Duke’s Arms
Christmas in Duke Street
* * *
THOSE AUTUMN NIGHTS
THERESA ROMAIN
* * *
Those Autumn Nights
* * *
All ’s Fair in War …
Raised in wealth and privilege, Eliza Greenleaf was a dutiful daughter—until she met Bertram Gage. The dashing young cavalryman swept her into a passionate affair, winning her body and soul. But low-born Bertie wasn’t good enough for the Greenleaf family, who thwarted the headstrong couple’s plans to elope. Chastened, Eliza threw herself into the whirl of polite society, while Bertie returned to battle on the Continent until a bullet ended his career and almost took his life.
…And Love
Ten years after first meeting Eliza, Bertie is hunting for a sense of peacetime purpose—and a subtle revenge on the Greenleaf family that once shunned him. Their fortunes now fallen, the ever-proud family must let their ancestral home, and Bertie takes the lease that shoves them from their doorstep. When Eliza crosses his path again after years apart, their passion is as strong as ever. But the wounds of the past still have power, and family honor and secrets might ruin their second chance at love.
Acknowledgments
* * *
My deepest gratitude to fellow authors Shana, Vanessa, and Kate, who invited me to join them on this project. You all have been a delight to work with.
Thanks to Joyce and Carrie and Jess, who handled the editing, art, and production of this anthology with such skill.
Thanks, too, to Carly, who advised on the best way to wound Bertie without killing him, and to Amanda, who gives the best and funniest critiques.
And finally, thanks to my husband, who was my first reader, and my daughter, who lovingly interrupted me all the time. You are my HEA.
Chapter One
* * *
Plop.
A plaster chunk dropped to the middle of the breakfast table.
So it had come to this. Bertram Gage, former major in the 13th Light Dragoons, was being assaulted by the ceiling of his rented house’s breakfast parlor.
“Oh no! Did the ceiling fall into the toast, Bertie?” Georgie’s voice held a laugh.
Bertram had to smile. He had received his nickname years ago from—well, never mind the identity of the lady who had first called him Bertie. But his military friends had adopted it next. Now his sister, Georgette—at not quite twenty, fifteen years his junior—had embraced it as well.
“It did.” Bertie pushed aside the toast, removed the lid from a fat blue-and-white teapot, and placed the pot beneath the troubled spot on the ceiling. “There. The problem is fixed.”
It was nothing of the sort, of course, but it was as fixed as the ceiling and broken-slated roof of the Friar’s House was going to get while he was leasing it. Over the past few months, the plaster ceiling had cracked and bubbled under the pressure of each summer rain, and now with the first cloudburst of autumn, it had given way.
The Friar’s House was a beautiful pile of medieval stone and modern brick not far from the health resort of Tunbridge Wells—though neither its location nor appearance were the principal reasons he’d let this particular house during Georgie’s lengthy recovery from illness.
No, he had chosen it because it belonged to the Greenleaf family. Ten years ago, they had been too lofty to give the time of day to a brash young cavalryman of low birth. But they weren’t too proud to take his money now.
With grim satisfaction, he watched a rusty raindrop slide down the branching bronze of a graceful chandelier.
“You should have the roof repaired,” Georgie said, as though hearing and contradicting his thoughts.
“We’re not permitted to alter the house. It’s a condition of Greenleaf’s lease.”
Not that he didn’t do what he could to keep the ancient home livable. The expensive but threadbare carpets were clean. The graceful, if scratched, furniture was kept in high polish. Windows gleamed on sunny days, though the frames about the fine old diamond-shaped panes were rotten.
“Nonsense, Bertie. Even if it would make us more comfortable, and the Greenleafs or their future tenants? You’ve replaced half the furniture in the drawing room, and—”
“The structure of the house, then. I agreed not to alter that.” Andrew Greenleaf, the old ass, had insisted. As though he thought Bertie was a savage who would knock the walls down as soon a
s he took possession. “And the new furniture will return with us to London when our lease ends. The old pieces have only been moved to the attics. Greenleaf will get back every bit of his heritage, just the way he left it.”
Even a man as prideful as Greenleaf wouldn’t mind having his roof slates replaced, surely. But Bertie hadn’t offered, and he wouldn’t. In his own way, he was as prideful as Greenleaf—which was why he had let a house long forbidden to him, and why he would make no improvement to it that he couldn’t pack up and take with him at the end of this year.
As he looked about the breakfast room, he wondered whether this decision was for the best. In the tidy chamber, busy paper hung on the walls, vertical stripes in cream and green overlaid with spiraling vines. They hugged the scents of toasted bread and cooked meat close, as did the heavy red velvet draperies that stretched almost from ceiling to floor. A fireplace at one side spit and smoked as rain found its way down the chimney and played over the coals.
It could so easily have been a pleasant room.
A Gentleman For All Seasons Page 18
