The Lady and the Gent (London League, Book 1)
Page 1
The London League
Book One
by
Rebecca Connolly
Also by
Rebecca Connolly
Arrangements
An Arrangement of Sorts
Married to the Marquess
Secrets of a Spinster
The Dangers of Doing Good
The Burdens of a Bachelor
A Wager Worth Making
A Bride Worth Taking
A Gerrard Family Christmas
Coming Soon
A Rogue About Town
More romance from
Phase Publishing
by
Emily Daniels
Devlin's Daughter
Lucia's Lament
A Song for a Soldier
by
Laura Beers
Saving Shadow
A Peculiar Courtship
by
Grace Donovan
Saint's Ride
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped” book.
Text copyright © 2018 by Rebecca Connolly
Cover art copyright © 2018 by Rebecca Connolly
Cover art by Tugboat Design
http://www.tugboatdesign.net
All rights reserved. Published by Phase Publishing, LLC. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.
Phase Publishing, LLC first paperback edition
February 2018
ISBN 978-1-943048-50-2
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018930690
Cataloging-in-Publication Data on file.
Acknowledgements
To her majesty, Queen Elizabeth II, for the strength she possesses, the character she maintains, and the grace she exudes in everything. The world is only more fortunate for having her in it, and I am so very grateful for her impeccable example of dignity and class. God save the Queen!
And for Aidan Turner, who was instrumental in the inspiration of this book. You are perfectly free to contact me to discuss the matter at your leisure. I am sure we could work something out.
Want to hear about future releases and upcoming events for Rebecca Connolly?
Sign up for the monthly Wit and Whimsy at:
www.rebeccaconnolly.com
Index
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
Epilogue
Chapter One
London, 1824
"Margaret, stop looking at that man.”
Margaret Easton jerked guiltily and looked up at her mother in shock, and not a little embarrassment.
Her mother did not return her look, but kept her gaze fixed squarely ahead of her, chin held high, auburn hair coifed to perfection. She did not look her age, but she held all of the airs of it. “It is hardly proper to stare at any man, let alone a common one. Do not encourage him.”
“Yes, Mama,” she murmured obediently, lowering her eyes, then covertly sliding them to the window again.
Truth be told, Margaret could see very little that was common about this man. For one, she saw him every week, sometimes multiple times, sometimes daily, and each was a pleasant surprise to her. She could not remember the first time it happened, as she usually stared out of her carriage window in fascination and wonder. But she remembered when it happened again. And again. And she remembered her trip to the milliner the first day he had smiled at her. She could not remember what she had purchased on that day, but she recalled that smile.
She remembered the first day he had touched her hand. A Thursday just like this one, crowded and busy and destined to be miserable, and then to find him there to help her from the coach, as perfectly as a gentleman with all the efficiency of a footman. He fairly towered over her slight height, but the gentleness of his hold had stolen her breath and her sense.
She’d berated herself for her idiocy on that day, and what a simpleton he must think her for her lack of appropriate response or conversation. When she had seen him the very next day, and he’d smiled, she’d forgotten all about scolding herself and given herself up to the delight of being impudent and flirtatious for once.
It had become a little game to them, though neither had ever spoken a word beyond polite pleasantries. If she saw him while riding in her carriage, as she had now, she would stare. He would stare. And one of them would smile first. Some days it was him. Most days it was her.
Every now and again, rather than moments of blatant staring, she would find him at hand to assist her or her mother from their carriage. He would incline his head properly, or lift his hat, or bow, always so polite, murmuring a “Good morning” or “Here you go, miss” or “madam” if her mother were with her. And his eyes would dance, as if their meeting were scandalous and secretive, though the streets would teem about them. Those moments were precious indeed.
Encourage him? How could she encourage a man she did not see for more than ten seconds at a time and rarely more than once in the same day?
But ten seconds seemed more than enough. Every sight of him stayed with her, and replayed over and over in her mind with accompanying breathlessness and swoons.
She could not help but to be curious about him. What was his trade or his employ? He had been seen on Bond Street, High Street, Kensington Street, and in Trafalgar. She had seen him in Cheapside and in Mayfair, and once or twice she could have sworn she saw him near the theater, but he had not seen her. Always he appeared busy and engaged, but never too much to meet her eyes. The places he seemed to be were so varied and vast, and his attire so different, it was impossible to determine his profession. If indeed he had one. It had crossed her mind once or twice that he could have been a peddler of stolen goods or a gypsy without home or means.
He did have that sort of dark complexion that could pass for a Romani gypsy, but not entirely so. Perhaps half of his descent? He was dreadfully handsome, but not in the way that polite females should think. His was a more rough and virile sort of attractiveness, the sort that made the heart quicken and the palms sweat. And her breath caught and her head swam, her stomach clenched and the very hairs on her head tingled in odd anticipation…
It was hardly a proper series of sensations to feel, but that seemed inconsequential.
He was entirely unlike any man of her acquaintance. Oh, she’d met a good many attractive, respectable men, and any of them ought to have done for her. But compared with her ideals of a husband, and the all-too-tempting picture her mystery man presented, they all felt rather… tame.
He, on the other hand, was captivating. He seemed a rather adventurous sort. A highwayman or a pirate, perhaps, though she had never seen him near the docks. She imagined him doing all sorts of daring and impossible things, and w
as doing so with an increasing frequency that would have alarmed her mother had she any idea.
No girl of twenty-two would do anything so very scandalous as to ogle a strange man and wonder just how expansive his chest and shoulders actually were. Or if the muscles beneath his rough clothing were as defined as the drawings in the medical atlas she found in her father’s library. Or if his teeth were as perfect as his smile seemed to indicate. Or if…
Well, there were a great many things she wondered behind her innocent façade as she stared. She knew full well there would never be answers for such things, as they would never be introduced or associate in any way. Wondering was safe, as was imagining. Despite her mother’s warnings, Margaret was not the sort of girl to behave in any manner but what she was expected to. She was the picture of a meek, obedient, biddable daughter.
Externally, at any rate.
Still, she rather enjoyed looking at him, despite the brazen nature of it all. Why he should look back at her was a mystery, as she was in her third Season without any more suitors than she’d had in her first. Her cousin Helen thought it might be due to her lack of corset, but Margaret did not think so. Surely there were other females who were opposed to the cinching of such monstrosities in favor of a more natural figure. Margaret’s own mother, a paragon of virtue and propriety and high society, did not favor them, nor outré finery of any kind. Margaret had never been forced to parade with the Society misses for want of a husband, nor to spend outlandish funds for gowns of too much regalia and not enough substance.
She was well aware this made her unusual in Society, but her parents were not at all concerned about that. She had been born when they were a bit older than was generally considered normal, and they had been abroad for so many years that England was no longer home. But they had decided to raise her as a well-bred English lady, and so they returned. Even now, they often spoke of their longing to return to Europe.
Margaret suspected they would take her away and have her marry an Italian before she turned twenty-three just so they could travel once more.
She loved her parents, and they truly loved her. But she also loved England, proudly and passionately. And she was alone in that sentiment.
She sighed as she rested her elbow on the edge of the carriage.
Why could her parents not see the loveliness of England? Why could they not wish to regain their own heritage? It was strong and rich, and their fortune reflected that. Years in France and Italy and touring the great European cities had given the entire family an unconventional view of the world, but for Margaret, it had always been England.
And England had him. For whatever that was worth.
“Don’t sigh so, my dear,” her mother said with a gentle pat to her knee. “A visit to Aunt Ada is not very pleasant, but she does have the best tea cakes.”
They giggled together for a moment, and then she returned her gaze to the streets. She wondered where the man had gone, with his dark, laughing eyes, and his dark stubble that seemed to never wax nor wane. It became him rather well, which surprised her, as she always considered facial hair to be a bad idea and the mark of a future recluse, not to mention altogether unattractive.
No, indeed, this man, whoever he was, was not common.
And her mother had no idea just how often she stared.
Margaret allowed herself another small sigh. Aunt Ada was certainly not a pleasant woman, and visiting her was never an event she took pleasure in. But she was their only relation in London, and as her father was to inherit her grand fortune upon her demise, which would probably never occur, they were duty bound to make weekly visits. It made no sense to Margaret, as her father did not need any fortune at all, considering the substantial one he already had. It was not spoken of, being a vulgar topic, but they would never want for money. Which made their push for her to get married a bit odd, but that was what one did with unmarried daughters in Society, she supposed.
She tried to imagine that Aunt Ada was lonely, but that was not likely, considering the string of companions they had attempted to encourage her to entertain. Not one had lasted more than two days.
It did not help that the old woman chose to live in the busiest neighborhood in London rather than in the family home, which stood vacant and waiting for its future owners, who were forbidden to tread its threshold before Aunt Ada was “six feet under ground and colder than stone.”
The streets were always teeming with horses and carriages, and with the coaching station so near, the noise from approaching coaches and departing coaches and drivers and stable hands shouting and well-wishers calling out their farewells or greetings was so overwhelming that Margaret usually developed quite the headache before the day was out. Or perhaps that was merely the ghastly and absurdly potent potpourri of Aunt Ada’s sitting room.
Whichever it was, it made Thursday the worst day of the week.
Except, of course, for a certain ten seconds.
It was as if he knew that Thursdays were dreadful. She could not have predicted any other day more than a few hours in advance, but her Thursdays ran like clockwork, and every Thursday, for ten seconds, she could forget it was Thursday at all. On Thursdays, her carriage would approach Aunt Ada’s, and so crowded were the London streets these days that the footmen could hardly manage to get down, thus it had become custom for Margaret to open her own door. But the most recent Thursdays, he was nearby, and he would do it for her.
What a pity she never saw him on the ride home from Aunt Ada’s. That was when she could have used it most. After doing battle with the dragon, she often found herself in need of pleasant memories or delightful oblivion. That was when she relived her moments with him, and it took the edge off of her misery.
They were earlier than usual to arrive at Aunt Ada’s, which meant she would not have the pleasure of thanking him for opening her door for her. Only a ten second look today.
What a pity ten seconds did not feel longer.
The carriage slowed and Margaret sat at the edge of her seat, waiting for it to stop so she might take the handle. The less time in the streets, the better.
“Let the servants, Margaret,” her mother reminded her gently. “After all, they must feel useful.”
Margaret looked back at her incredulously. “Mama, the street is teeming today. The servants cannot get the door without much jostling about. It is no trouble to open it myself.”
Her mother frowned, creasing her unwrinkled brow unnaturally. “Yes, but…”
“Allow me.”
Margaret froze as the door opened and slowly turned herself back around to see the man whose voice she daily craved to hear. He did not meet her eyes as he stood holding the door open, but kept his eyes obediently downcast, as befitted his low station.
She wished he would not be so proper.
She swallowed and glanced back at her mother, who nodded impatiently. Forcing herself to remain calm and unaffected, and wishing she had worn a finer gown, Margaret moved to the door and prepared to step out.
A hand was suddenly before her. “If you will permit me, miss,” he murmured softly, his harsh accent fainter than she expected. He raised his eyes to meet hers at last. “The streets are crowded today.”
“Thank you, sir,” she replied, unable to resist smiling at the warmth in his gaze. She put her hand in his, and even through her glove, she felt his touch like fire. It was not enough. She stepped down and adjusted her skirt with her free hand. “You came after me today,” she added quietly, so her mother hadn’t a hope of hearing it. She glanced up enough to graze his features again, daring him to deny that he had.
He hummed a small laugh that seemed to hum through her as well. “Ten seconds was not enough today. Not nearly enough.”
His hold on her hand tightened briefly, but then he released her and offered it to her mother. “Might I assist you, madam?”
“Thank you,” her mother said primly, but with kindness. “The streets are very crowded this morning, are they not?”
“For your kindness,” her mother said, offering a few coins.
Margaret chanced a glance up at him again, and saw amusement in his handsome features.
He shook his head. “Not at all, madam. It was my pleasure. Good day to you, madam, miss.” He tipped his hat, met Margaret’s gaze for one brief, intense moment, and then turned and disappeared into the crowd.
“Pleasant fellow, I daresay,” her mother commented fondly. “It does make the trial of these visits more bearable.” Then she cleared her throat and turned towards the house. “Now, to Aunt Ada. Do not worry if she insults your dress, my dear. You know how she despises simplicity. I, on the other hand, adore it, and you look remarkably fetching. Onward, now.”
Margaret let her mother precede her, then followed, turning her head slightly with a faint sigh in the direction he had disappeared, hoping for a glimpse of that strong back and dark head.
As if the sound had carried, a head, taller than most of the rest, turned, and laughing, dark eyes met hers. Her breath caught, and he grinned the most devilish grin she had ever seen in her entire life.