by Regina Darcy
He walked out to the balcony, where he knew he would be alone...almost everyone was dancing, or watching the dancing, or playing cards in the adjoining room. He needed to be alone, to get himself in control.
He struggled with anger that a mere chit of a girl could treat him with such barely disguised contempt, while finding himself unable to deny how strongly attracted to that same chit he was. He wished he could overcome this unwelcome weakness that made him clam up in the presence of beautiful women of substance. He knew who he was, what he was worth. He knew that, in the eyes of the ton he was considered quite the catch. He knew all this, but found it did nothing to bolster his confidence with the one person in whose company he most needed to be assertive. Where Phoebe Alexander was concerned, he was a total wreak.
“What on earth are you doing out here by yourself, old chap? You’ve been missing for upwards of half an hour.” The Viscount’s voice interrupted his shame and self-castigation, and he turned to him with a frown.
“I think I may have topped myself this evening, Wiltshire,” he said. “It might have been better all round if you hadn’t tried to play Cupid this time.”
The Viscount of Wiltshire, observed the downcast features of his close friend with some concern. “Whatever’s the matter, man?” he asked, moving to stand by the Earl, a glass of brandy in his hand.
“I have managed to affront yet another charming woman,” Lord Beckton replied. “This time, the one I least wish to offend.”
“Are we talking about the delectable morsel that is Phoebe Alexander?”
Lord Wiltshire had lowered his voice to a sultry softness, and the Earl moved away from his side, to prevent himself from punching his friend on the nose.
“She is not a piece of meat!” Lord Beckton hissed at his friend through clenched teeth. “I would prefer it if you would refrain from mentioning her name in the tone of voice you use for talking of the women with whom you normally associate.” He was furious, and paused to acknowledge that a good part of it was jealousy that the Viscount seemed to be able to charm any woman he wanted because he was so amiable and devil-may-care, where he himself was a tongue-tied mass of romantic ineptitude.
“I see I am right. You are more than smitten with the lady. You really must overcome this...this problem you have, my friend. You will not win her affections if you pursue your current course of cold aloofness.”
The Viscount’s smirk was irritating in the extreme, but Lord Beckton knew that despite the amused tone of his words, he was in earnest. And he admitted that his friend was right. How was he to be the kind of man Phoebe would not despise if he couldn’t manage to string two civil words together around her, or to show his very real interest in her person? He sighed and turned back to the drawing room.
“I suppose I had better get back in,” he conceded. “I did ask her to dance the last set with me.”
“Well, try to speak up this time, won’t you? Imagine you’re in the House of Lords, pushing for some cause dear to your heart. After all, she is dear to your heart, isn’t she, old chap?” Lord Wiltshire patted his shoulder in commiseration.
“She is also to be my betrothed,” Beckton muttered. “A childhood arrangement.”
The Viscount stopped walking, and the Earl halted his steps.
“No, you didn’t tell me this. How long have you known?”
Lord Beckton sighed. “Since my father was on his deathbed.”
Lord Wiltshire’s brows rose in astonishment. “It has been a whole year, Beckton. Surely you are able to say something to her after all this time?”
Lord Beckton wrinkled his brow. “I do not know if she is aware of it. She was but a girl of thirteen when it was first agreed upon, if my father is to be believed. And even then, I was not apprised of the agreement until he was at death’s door.” He sounded aggrieved.
“Her parents are excessively ambitious, are they not?” Lord Wiltshire asked. “One must be very careful to pay attention when Percy Alexander is about. One slip, and you’ll find yourself footing the bill for extravagances unnecessary for the pursuit of anyone’s happiness but his own, and no way to extricate yourself. And it has always been clear that he has held high hopes of his daughter making a fortuitous marriage.”
“I cannot imagine that she holds any interest in marrying me,” Lord Beckton said. “So far, I have done nothing to encourage any further connection between us.”
“You will have the chance to redeem yourself in another few minutes. Make good use of the time.”
The two friends walked back into the ballroom, where the final set was about to begin. Lord Beckton made his way hastily over to the young woman who was tying him up in knots and said, “Are you free for this dance, Miss Alexander?”
He watched her school her features into placid acceptance and extend her hand to him. He escorted her onto the floor, and as the music started, he said, “Have you enjoyed your evening?”
“Yes. It has been quite a pleasant diversion, more or less,” she replied. “And you?”
“I’m afraid I am a dullard,” he confessed. “I find little pleasure in balls and the like.”
“Perhaps if you attended them more often you would find much to enjoy.”
The Earl sensed that she had curtailed her comment, possibly censoring the things she might otherwise have said to him. And he found he couldn’t ask her to finish her thought, for fear it would prove derogatory. He searched around for something else to say, and finally lighted on the subject of the Luddites. He chanced to look up, as he was advancing his theory for how to settle the question that was currently causing an uprising among the mill workers, and saw the glaze in her eyes that told him he had lost her.
“Do pardon me, Miss Alexander, if I am boring you,” he said coolly. “Perhaps you would prefer that we discuss the weather?” His tone was sharper than he had intended, and he saw her eyes narrow though she did not immediately respond. When she did, it was to say,
“We are not all as well acquainted with the circumstances as you are, my lord. And in any case, I am not normally expected to have a thought or opinion on such weighty matters.”
Her tone was as sharp as his had been, and he found that he rather liked her feistiness. It warmed him in places he knew would frighten her, were she to be aware of her effect on him.
“Surely you jest! I cannot imagine a situation in which your opinions would not be welcomed.”
She eyed him warily, and he raised a brow, finding himself unable to address her obvious suspicion. He knew he was being genuine, but she clearly didn’t believe him, and his silence only seemed to prove her intuition to be accurate.
The Viscount had often told him that his habit of raising a brow in question was often misconstrued as a sign of arrogance. It seemed that in this instance, at least, his friend was correct. He sighed inwardly. He had bungled the opportunity to make a good impression yet again, and was now so self-conscious that he grew silent, in an attempt to preserve what little was left of his dignity, finishing the dance without uttering another word. As soon as the dance was over, she pulled her hand away from his and said,
“You must excuse me, my lord, but I must needs retire. My parents do not like to linger once the dancing is done.”
She hurried away before he could say a word in response, and he watched her disappear from view around a corner. He sighed...once again he had failed to please.
How was he to make sufficient progress to ask the question that would legally betroth her to him, if he couldn’t hold a sensible conversation with Phoebe without boring or offending her? Perhaps it was a good thing that he was returning to London in a few days. Country living grated on him, especially now, when he was feeling so little inclined to appreciate the pleasures of the bucolic life. Maybe when he was back in his own element he would be able to communicate better. He fervently prayed that it would be so.
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BONUS CHAPTER 2:
–
AN EARL FOR THE DESPERA
TE BRIDE
ONE
“I could be a governess! I speak French, I paint watercolours, I play the pianoforte—you know that Lady Darden said I play beautifully—I could be a governess. I’d rather be a governess and earn my own living than marry His Lordship,” Miss Eliza Stanton exclaimed.
“What silly chit of a girl would be a governess when she has the opportunity to become a viscountess? You have no idea what you are saying. No daughter of mine is going to become a mere governess,” Lady Stanton answered matter-of-factly, brooking no disobedience from her daughter who was entirely too impudent.
Eliza stared at her mother, her blue eyes stormy with outrage and fear. Lord and Lady Stanton were well known among the Mayfair ton, but until this summer, Eliza had been left to stay with the servants at the Stanton country home during the Season. She was neither used to their presence or their attentions.
Her brother Harry had been at Oxford until recently. He had been sent home over some scandal, the details of which no one would disclose to Eliza; he, too, had taken up residence in London. Eliza was not sure what he did in London, but she supposed that, the card game, baccarat chemin-de-fer featured prominently in his activities. All gentlemen gambled; this much Eliza knew. Whether Harry won or lost, she did not know.
What she did know was that, less than a year ago, the portrait that Sir Joshua Reynolds had done of the renowned Marchioness Charlotte Stanton had been taken down from the drawing room wall and replaced with seascapes. She suspected that gambling losses were to blame for the loss of Lady Stanton’s oil paint, but as the earlier matriarch had a haughty, hot-tempered look to her, Eliza found the seascapes more soothing. Something was afoot in the household.
Taking a deep breath she tried to reason with her mother again.
“If being a viscountess means marrying that repulsive, odious man, it’s the far better option!” Eliza declared.
“Nonsense. You will marry the Viscount of Sevile and that’s the end of it. Your father and I agree, and besides Lord Sevile has graciously agreed that you will move into Sevile House this week in order to become accustomed to your new station in life.”
“You’re sending me away? To live there? Before marriage?” Marriage was bad enough, but to reside under the same roof as a man who was not her husband was unthinkable. The gossip would be rampant. Her name would be a byword for scandal. She had never been to London before and now that she had finally arrived, she would become a subject of speculation.
“Lord Sevile’s sister lives there and she is a more than respectable chaperone,” Lady Stanton replied. Her eyes did not meet her daughter’s indignant gaze. “It’s well known that you are a virtuous girl; no talk will attach itself to you. Lord Sevile is most satisfied with your innocence, and he—”
“He has had three wives who died!” Eliza cried out. “I should think they preferred death to marriage.”
“Don’t be insolent, Eliza. His wives died in childbirth. It’s very natural for a man of Lord Sevile’s standing to want an heir, and as a young girl of unblemished reputation, you are naturally a very desirable choice of a wife for him.”
“What if I die also? Will that matter a farthing or will his search simply continue for another girl to bear the heir?”
“You’re a healthy girl, you’ve been brought up in the country. You will bear healthy children. Lord Sevile is confident that you will make an excellent wife. Of course, he will be your guide, as you are young and unschooled in Society,” her mother replied. With a frown she continued, “You must learn to be docile, Eliza; gentlemen do not like their wives to scold them. You must remember that Lord Sevile is the head of the household and you must heed his word. You will promise to obey him; that is a sacred vow and must not be broken. Now, you must write a note to His Lordship thanking him for the honour he has bestowed upon you. There isn’t time for a trousseau, but His Lordship has most kindly agreed that he will provide you with a wardrobe fitting your station as the Viscountess of Sevile.”
“I can’t believe that you would cast me off as if I were of no more account than a servant. Less, rather, for you would at least give a servant a reference.”
“That,” Lady Stanton said tartly, “entirely depends on the servant.”
Surely, this marriage is not about money? Before she had time to complete her though, Lady Stanton dismissed her.
“Go and send that note to His Lordship, Eliza. He expects you to demonstrate your gratitude to him for choosing you to be his wife.”
“I don’t feel grateful in the least. I feel as if I’m being sold off at a matrimonial auction!” Eliza said bitterly, letting an angry voice conceal the tears, which she felt welling up in her eyes.
“Do not say such vulgar things! Really, Eliza, I marvel at your tongue. I assumed that you were well looked after but now I begin to wonder if you have been in the company of servants who have failed to recognize their status in the household.”
Eliza knew that a footman and a housemaid had recently been dismissed from the Stanton country home. Their work had been satisfactory, but Eliza had overheard Harding, the butler, telling them, when he delivered the news that their services were no longer needed in the household, that regrettably, there were no funds to pay them their wages.
“What will you do? Give that as an excuse for not paying their wages, and then dismiss them?”
Her mother’s hand cracked across Eliza’s cheek. Lady Stanton’s lip trembled. She had never struck her daughter before. “Go, Eliza!” she ordered, sounding as if she were close to tears herself. “Write that note. It must be delivered today, do you understand?”
The imprint of her mother’s hand was clearly marked in red upon Eliza’s cheek. “I understand very well,” she said, her voice low. Without another word, she turned on her heels and left the morning room.
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More TitleS By The Author
Regency LORDS Series
1: Mesmerising the Duke
2: Winning the Viscount heart
3: Bewitching the Viscount
4: The Duke’s Secret Desire
5: Falling for the Earl
Regency TALES Series
1: An Earl for the desperate bride
2: The Earl and the girl from the Abbey
3: A Governess for the faithless Duke
4: A Duke’s son to the rescue
5: Captivated by the Earl
