Second Chance Love: A Regency Romance Set

by Wendy Lacapra

“You don’t know that,” his mother replied. “You never, ever speak derisively about family in front of the servants. I taught you better.”

  “We didn’t have servants, mother.”

  “We had Miss. Cotswell and Mr. Blanning.”

  “Not servants.” Two, helpful souls who believed assisting the rector’s family would result in celestial favoritism.

  His mother clucked. “And you should not refer to him as Peter. He’s Lord Wentworth, now—and due your respect.”

  “He is Lord Wentworth. On that much we can agree.”

  His mother sunk her spoon into her ice and indulged in a large mouthful.

  Already off to a bad start.

  He never set out to purposefully antagonize his mother, although his intentions made little difference.

  “I miss my uncle,” he added softly.

  “He is gone.” She sniffed, sitting straight. “The way of things does not pause for our convenience.”

  This, for the loss of her dear brother, who’d saved them both from penury and ruin. He studied his mother. Perhaps frozen sentiment was the reason he’d never seen her back bend.

  He attempted less caustic conversation. “In addition to updating the livery, how else has the new Lord Wentworth busied himself?”

  His mother flashed a dark-eyed reproving look. “I do not appreciate your tone, Mr. Bellamy.”

  Sometimes, Matthew wasn’t sure his mother remembered his first name.

  “Very well, I will endeavor to behave.” And remember his purpose. His uncle’s death had reduced his mother from honored sister to unwanted aunt, dependent on her wayward son. “We must find a better place for you than Wentworth House. I know you prefer town, but I’ve been in touch with a land agent about a seaside cottage—”

  “We must find a better place for you.”

  “The idea,” he said patiently, “is a household where we might both reside. No matter what you believe, my first concern is your happiness.”

  “Honestly,” his mother interrupted. “Your first concern should be the procurement of a wife.”

  He lifted a brow. “I can hardly acquire a wife when I cannot offer her a home, can I? It’s not as if I can ask my future bride to reside with me in my chambers above Sartin Trading Company.”

  She sighed, longsuffering. “Of course not. The very idea. My point is, you should wait until you are betrothed to settle on a permanent residence.”

  He rubbed his temples.

  “Better yet,” his mother continued, “you and your bride can let a place while the two of you decide on more permanent accommodations. Perhaps she will wish to live close to her father or brother’s seat. Oh!” Her eyes lit. “If her relations control a borough, you could end up in Parliament. Just think of that.”

  “As a proxy for some self-indulgent aristocrat?” No, thank you.

  “Careful, else your disdain taint your future.”

  “My future?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Do you think I went through the trouble to get you an invitation to Lady Darlington’s soiree for my own sake?”

  “I don’t need to think. I know.”

  “What kind of a mother do you think I am?”

  The kind ashamed of her son’s choices? He held his tongue and, instead, took her hand. “You needn’t concern yourself with my future wife, nor my future profession. No matter what you may believe, I am competent enough to make those decisions on my own. However, I would rest easier if I knew you had a home where you felt comfortable and secure.”

  She huffed. “You are a good boy—”

  Praise indeed.

  “—But you must see reason. Your wife’s concerns matter most.”

  So much for tender entreaty. “Again, I don’t have a wife.”

  “But you will.”

  He hadn’t had time for such considerations. And since George Sartin’s death, he hadn’t the desire to leave Mrs. Sartin’s side.

  “Allow me to be clear,” he said, voice low. “I do not intend to choose a bride before I purchase a property. In fact, I wouldn’t make a purchase now if not for my concern about you.”

  His mother closed her eyes and placed a gloved hand against her temple.

  He cast his gaze back outside the window.

  Mrs. Sartin, Pritchett and Markham had left the rail and were standing just outside the open door of a crested carriage, facing away. Pritchett engaged two young ladies within while Mrs. Sartin spoke to a dark-haired lady.

  Mrs. Sartin laughed as if amused. Lord Markham did not share her mirth.

  That, at least, gratified.

  Two additional young men joined the party, obviously unwelcome. Postures immediately straightened.

  His mother cleared her throat. “I am not going to live forever.”

  He glanced askance. “None of us are.”

  “Even if, like your father, you refuse to spare a thought for your future, my first priority is finding you a suitable bride.”

  “I am nothing like father.”

  Rector Bellamy, though charming and well-loved in his parish, had been reckless with funds. When he had, he spent, when he did not have, he cheerfully went without—recipe enough to support one man through life but little comfort for the family he left behind.

  Were it not for the Sartins—his gaze drifted to Mrs. Sartin’s poised, modish silhouette, still facing away—he wouldn’t have had the means to help his mother.

  His mother followed his gaze to Markham’s carriage. “Well, well, well. Perhaps you aren’t as opposed to the idea of courtship as you protest.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Inside that carriage are three perfectly acceptable young ladies. Three. Are you telling me none rouse the slightest interest?”

  They did not. The woman on the outside, on the other hand…

  Once again, she took Pritchett’s arm. They turned back toward her conveyance. As she came closer, Matthew read weariness in her features.

  He grasped the door latch.

  “Again…her.” His mother’s voice rose. “I’ll release you from her clutches if it’s the last thing I do.”

  Mrs. Sartin’s gaze locked on Matthew. Her cheeks pinked. She whispered something to Pritchett and they quickly changed direction.

  Coincidence? Or had she heard his mother?

  Gentlemanly restraint alone kept him from embarrassing everyone present with an awkward public entreaty.

  “Take me back to Earl Wentworth’s residence,” his mother said with an unapologetic pointed chin. “I’m finished.”

  “Gladly,” he replied.

  He had to get back to the office.

  Now.

  ***

  Amelia folded her arms and leaned back against the window frame staring down at her hands.

  Or, rather, clutches.

  Clutches evidently inserted into a hapless, unwilling, Matthew Bellamy.

  Lady Dorothy’s accusation left her reeling, and completely unable to fully comprehend the nonsense her nephew was spouting.

  Jeremy rapped on her desk like his uncle used to do. “Mark my words—you are going to end up in a terrible pickle.”

  “A pickle?” she asked. “Well, being in a pickle does not sound appealing. Preserving perhaps, but—”

  “I’m serious, Aunt. You cannot go around interfering as you have in the lives of your betters.”

  “Darling, interfering is my—wait.” She paused. “Did you say my betters?”

  “Yes, your betters. You know, men capable of plotting the demise of Sartin Trading Company over a glass of port?”

  She lifted her right brow. “Lord Moultonbury is hardy my better.”

  “Perhaps not morally, but socially, yes. And you insulted him. An earl.”

  “I simply transferred coveted benefit tickets from Moultonbury’s family elsewhere. Tickets are, as chair of the Society for the Benefit of the Infirm and the Aged, my right to bestow—.”

  “But you let him know your slight was intentio
nal.”

  “He displayed insufferable rudeness!”

  “What will people say?”

  She glanced heavenward. “I’ve heard every possible insult before. I am presumptuous. I am unnatural. No matter what Moultonbury’s set comes up with, others—including the Duchess of Shepthorpe and the Queen herself—will continue to find me an exceedingly useful friend.” She pushed off the window frame. “And, next time, they all will line up for tickets—no matter what they think of me. If you were paying attention, you’d see the only inevitable result is my benefit will now be the talk of the town.”

  “Donations? That’s what his was about?”

  “Not entirely. If you hadn’t confessed to witnessing Moultonbury’s wicked wager meant to destroy the reputation of an innocent young lady, I might not have gotten involved at all.”

  “You’d have me believe you risked the censure of the Moultonbury family for Lady Clarissa—a woman you hadn’t been introduced to before today?”

  “Lady Clarissa is alone in the world, much like I was at her age. If it hadn’t been for your Uncle George…” She sighed. She needn’t explain herself. Not to Jeremy. Not to anyone. “You may believe whatever you wish to believe. The truth exists entirely separate from your opinions—and if you don’t understand that, I don’t see how you are ever going to run this company.”

  “Please.” A slow flush rose from beneath Jeremy’s collar. “You will never allow me to take my place in this company.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I could never compete with the esteemed Mr. Bellamy. Why even his mother said—”

  “Jeremy,” she interrupted. “If you wish to become more involved, ask. But if you insist on libelous innuendo, there will be consequences. Do you understand the insult you just implied?”

  “Dash it.” Jeremy ran his hand through his hair and cast his gaze to the floor. “I’m upset. I apologize.”

  She gazed at the young man standing across from her, seeing the pink-cheeked little boy she and George had raised. He’d worn much the same expression when caught pilfering cheese from the larder.

  He should be ashamed for lecturing her as if he knew better. But was he wrong about the reasons for her reluctance to give him responsibility?

  She had been clinging to Bellamy, hadn’t she? And, after the soiree, she could hardly deny her attraction.

  She glanced back down at her hands. Clutches, indeed.

  As sole heir to Sartin Trading Company, Jeremy needed to take on more responsibility. And soon, too, if the spark she’d noticed between Jeremy and the blushing young lady he’d met this afternoon fanned to flame.

  She’d just never fully considered what that transition would mean for her.

  And Bellamy.

  Perhaps the time had come. After all, Bellamy, too, had begun to seek a wife.

  “Come, sit,” she said gently. “Go over some of this morning’s reports with me.”

  Jeremy glanced up, hopeful. “Truly?”

  “You are right,” she conceded. “I cannot argue with right. This is your inheritance. You must learn to protect it.”

  He stood tall. “And carry on for Uncle George.”

  Her heart panged with bittersweet pride. “And carry on for Uncle George.”

  She’d survived George’s loss.

  Matthew Bellamy would be merely moving on to better things. She’d take pride in his success.

  Alone.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Mrs. Sartin’s shadow fell across a thin expanse of carpet, and Matthew’s office infused with her citrus scent. Embarrassed by the heart-skip need to drink in her presence, Matthew did not look up. Instead, he pushed his ever-slipping glasses to the bridge of his nose and finished transcribing a receipt into his ledger.

  No matter what he wished, events were conspiring to oust him from his island of content.

  Was this it, then?

  Was this the moment she would tell him he must leave Sartin Trading Company?

  “I suppose you heard my conversation with Mr. Pritchett.”

  A drop of ink balled at the pointed nib of his quill. He rattled the rachis until the drop fell, sending ripples through the well of black liquid. “A private, family conversation is none of my concern.”

  “Nor mine,” she replied. “Yet, here we are.”

  Any illusions she had not heard his mother’s words vanished. What must she be thinking?

  What did he want her to think?

  They’d spent countless days and nights in these offices, hand-in-glove. How had the space become shrunken and ill-fitting?

  Mrs. Sartin’s skirts whispered as she approached, soft sounds of untold secrets, of pleasures he might have known in a different time, a different place.

  Again, he adjusted his spectacles. “You’ve nothing to explain.”

  She sat down on his desk, resting her weight on her elbow as she leaned down into his gaze. “Unusually, I feel I do.”

  His lenses displayed her in crisp focus; everything behind her blurred. Wasn’t this always the way?

  She burned brighter, clearer than anyone else.

  Breathe. “Mr. Pritchett was angry, I could tell.”

  She lifted her brows. “Concerned, yes.”

  “Has he reason to be?”

  “Perhaps.” A small smile played about her lips. “I meddled in the lives of aristocrats. I daresay Pritchett was shocked.”

  “Was meddling wise?”

  “No.” Her smile widened. “But just, absolutely.”

  Just. Her innate sense of fairness—one of the many reasons he held Mrs. Sartin in high regard. “Was this meddling in service of vengeance?”

  “Vengeance is a bit strong.” She drummed a finger against the desk. “But meddling achieved several advantages. I delivered a set-down to an arrogant young man, helped a young lady in distress, aided the course of courtship, and increased future donations to the Society for the Benefit of the Infirm and the Aged.”

  “Quite impressive.” Did she understand how rare a marvel she was?

  “Not to Jeremy. I’m afraid he’s developed an awed fascination with the wrong kind of influence.”

  “Nothing experience won’t hone, I’m sure.”

  She glanced away. “I suppose you heard him say he would like to take on more responsibility.”

  Pritchett’s words wafted between them—I could never compete with the esteemed Mr. Bellamy—as did his tone of bitter accusation.

  Insult, she’d said. Libelous innuendo.

  Ache spread through Matthew’s sinews. “Yes.”

  “Yes,” she echoed. “Yes does not reveal your thoughts. Do you feel the time has come?”

  “However you wish to proceed, I will understand.”

  She frowned. “I asked for an opinion, not a platitude.”

  What did she want from him? Voluntary resignation?

  His cheek flinched.

  “I see,” she murmured.

  He laid a hand against her arm, stopping her withdrawal. “No. You don’t see.” The very idea of an end to their way of life plunged him into frigid water. How would his stinging lungs survive the reality? “Of course, Pritchett should take an interest in his inheritance. And I understand what that means for me.” This was going to hurt. Like resetting a broken bone. “The best way for him to learn is to take over my position.”

  “You don’t have to leave.” She protested, but her blanche betrayed the truth. “Not right away. I mean—I would like you to stay—for a time. Take Mr. Pritchett under-wing.” She inhaled, parchment-cut sharp. “So to speak.”

  He should refuse. A lengthened departure would only serve to rebreak the unhealed bone. Then again—he glanced around the room—this office was his work. His home. The container that held the happiest and most productive hours of his life.

  And he could refuse her nothing—not while her heat still tingled in his fingertips.

  “His judgement will take time to develop,” he conceded.r />
  “One of George’s favorite phrases.” She smiled sadly. “That, and,” she altered her voice. “You cannot prevent all stumbles; the trick is to learn from the misstep…”

  “…to rise a second time.” Matthew finished.

  “George didn’t shape us over night.” She sounded tired.

  “You required no shaping.”

  She snorted “Only a fool believes they have nothing to learn.”

  He drew his fingers together against her arm—a subtle, stolen caress. “You’re the least foolish person I’ve ever met.”

  Her slightly parted lips were so tantalizingly close—a low-hanging fruit, heavy and ripe.

  “Thank you, Bellamy.”

  “For the compliment?”

  “For seeing the best in me.” Her cleavage tightened as she inhaled. “I’m afraid you are the only one who does.” She lifted his hand from her person and placed his palm against the desk. “There. Clutches released.”

  He made a fist against the blotter. “I hope you understand my mother does not speak for me.”

  “But she is not wrong any more than Pritchett’s desire to learn is wrong. Your work here could very well be perceived as an impediment to a good marriage.”

  Your work here. Not with me. “A good marriage,” he repeated by rote.

  “You’re a fine man, Bellamy.”

  “If I am,” he lifted his eyes, “I have the name Sartin to thank.”

  Her smile trembled. “George made you his own.”

  “Not just Mr. Sartin.”

  She dropped her gaze. “How maudlin I’ve become.” She rearranged the ink bottles on the edge of his desk and sniffed. “Truth is, I detest change.”

  He snorted. “You thrive on change, on challenge.”

  “Not this time.”

  Then don’t let me go. The words wedged in his throat.

  She stood. “I am a selfish being.”

  “You aren’t.” He lowered his voice. “And I won’t leave. Not while you need me.”

  She fixed her gaze on the doorway back to her office. Then, as if pulled by an invisible tide, moved toward the safety of her office.

  “You’ll stay, for a time.” She spoke as if self-reassuring. “For Mr. Sartin’s sake.”

  “Yes.” He’d stay, but not for Mr. Sartin’s sake.