Second Chance Love: A Regency Romance Set

by Wendy Lacapra

  “Although he intends to leave Sartin Trading Company once Mr. Pritchett is settled.”

  “Well then?” Constance smiled. “Problem solved.”

  “Hardly. His mother would be horrified.”

  “Why would his mother be horrified?”

  “She’s Lady Dorothy. Do you’d think she’d celebrate her son’s marriage to me when I’m ten years his senior, his employer, and in trade?”

  “Perhaps not. How rude of Lady Dorothy.”

  Amelia arched a brow. “You distain marriages between pedigree and trade.”

  Constance tilted her head. “I might have said a derogatory thing or two in the past. How appalling—and terribly pompous. Especially when I do so appreciate the fruits of trade.” She adjusted her fur. “Consider me chastened.”

  “Chastened? You?”

  “Is it so unbelievable I care enough to correct my faults?” Constance lifted a brow. “I love you. I’m willing to change. And that, as they say, is the end of that.”

  “I’m astonished.”

  “Are you?” Constance looked genuinely pleased. “I live to astonish.”

  She slanted Constance a glance. “I know.”

  “Now back to your pickle. Wait—the pickle had a name…what was it?”

  “Bellamy. Mr. Matthew Bellamy.”

  “Mrs. Bellamy.” Constance nodded to herself. “I could get used to that.”

  So could Amelia.

  “Do you really think I should agree to become his wife?”

  “Would I have said so if I did not?” Constance shrugged. “I’m willing to change. The question is—are you?”

  Amelia lifted the curtain and cast her gaze out the window. Two by two, couples strolled along the Serpentine. Talking, laughing, sharing the fine autumn afternoon.

  Every single one of them as vulnerable as Amelia felt. Yet, every single one of them had chosen joy.

  If all these strangers—and Matthew—could find the courage to follow their hearts, then so could she.

  ***

  When Amelia departed, Matthew told her he’d wait for a time, but not forever.

  In fact, once she’d gone, he’d been unable to sit still.

  And since neither careening through London in desperate search, nor sitting in his chamber in a self-indulgent sulk would do anything to hasten her final decision, he did the only rational thing—he acted as if she said yes.

  First stop? Lady Dorothy.

  He paced the length of the drawing room of Wentworth house.

  Again.

  When his uncle had been earl, his mother had a suite of rooms, including a sitting room adequate to receive guests. Since the new earl had taken the helm, his mother had been relegated to a higher floor.

  He stared out into the rear garden, where the new countess held court, surrounded by her fashionable friends—the kind of young people who laughed at aging, as if the elderly no longer mattered, as if they themselves, would never age.

  One day, they’d be in for an unhappy shock.

  “Why Mr. Bellamy,” his mother entered the room, “what a surprise!”

  “Mother.” He kissed her delicate, pale cheek.

  “Shall I ring for tea, then?”

  “No need.” They took their seats. “I daresay I won’t be long.”

  “What could you possibly have to say in such a hurry?”

  “Well,” he cleared his throat, “I have found a wife.”

  “Found a wife?” His mother tilted her head. “My dear boy, one does not find a wife. A wife is not a lost handkerchief. Proper candidates must be vetted, their pedigrees carefully considered.”

  “Like livestock, you mean?”

  Another narrowed glance. “Who is this wife you have found?”

  He braced. “Mrs. Amelia Sartin.”

  The clock chimed as his mother sat in perfect, frozen stillness. “For heaven’s sake, Mr. Bellamy. Do not be ridiculous.”

  “Ridiculous?”

  “The sole purpose of marriage is the perpetuation of family.”

  “The sole purpose?” His poor father.

  “She’s past childbearing age, if you haven’t noticed. Nor would she assist your future any more than she’s already done.”

  At least his mother admitted that much. He exhaled harshly. “I don’t know for certain if she is past childbearing age, actually. But, even if she were permanently barren, my choice would not change. And I do not need to marry a pedigreed youth to ensure a decent future.”

  “People will talk. And despite what you believe, gossip is not merely malicious, it can very well be ruinous.”

  “These things…they are things you care about, not things I care about.”

  She stiffened. “And just what is it you care about, Mr. Bellamy?”

  “A life of purpose. A life of integrity…Amelia…and, yes, even you.” His tone wouldn’t have convinced anyone he cared. He softened his voice. “In case you have not noticed, your rules belong to a world that is not my world.”

  Her already erect spine came in to perfect alignment. “There is only one world.”

  “Is there?” He lifted a porcelain figurine depicting some sort milk maid. “A quaint representation costing more than a years’ salary for most of the members of father’s congregation—not to mention the lady depicted.”

  “Do you think I am unaware? Do you think I am a doddering old fool?”

  “Of course not.” He sighed. “I just cannot comprehend why you insist I must marry a woman with a proper pedigree. You didn’t.”

  She stood and, with a speed at odds with her age, turned away. “I am under no obligation to listen to a lecture.”

  “A lecture was not my intent.” Good lord. Was she crying? “Mother—”

  She waved him away.

  The door opened. The new Lady Wentworth swept into the room. Her impassive gaze raked from head to toe before moving to Matthew’s mother.

  “Oh,” she pouted, “my husband’s aunt and a caller. They can find another room.”

  Matthew stalked over to Lady Wentworth.

  “Lady Dorothy and her caller are not finished. I suggest you and your friends gather elsewhere.”

  “This is my home.”

  “Is it?” He looped his arm beneath Lady Wentworth’s, pulled her into the room, and then shut the door firmly in the faces of her friends.

  “I don’t know who you think—”

  “Listen, Lady Wentworth. I was happy enough to lend Peter funds while he was waiting for probate to finish. If I were to discover you are treating Lady Dorothy like anything less than family, I’ll be equally happy to call those funds due.”

  “You’re Mr. Matthew Bellamy?” She wrinkled her nose. “You don’t look like you’re in trade.”

  His mother came to stand beside him. “If you’ll excuse us, Lady Wentworth.”

  Her gaze passed between them. “Of course.” She swept across the room. “But don’t be long.”

  The door closed. “Heaven preserve us from that soured little profiterole.”

  Beside him, his mother’s shoulders shook. “Don’t cry again, Mother. I won’t insult Lady Wentworth—”

  She looked up and his words stalled.

  She had been weeping—but not this time. His mother—his exceedingly proper mother—was laughing. Her eyes sparkled with shocked amusement.

  “I don’t understand,” he stammered.

  “No,” she sniffed. “I don’t suppose you do. Suffice it to say I was worried. I’m not worried any longer.”

  He shook his head to clear the fog. “Worried?”

  She waved her hands. “I thought you—well, there’s no polite way to put this—I thought you had relegated yourself to a low position . I thought you were hiding in the shadow of that woman and her company. But, just now, I saw…”

  “What did you see?”

  She shrugged. “It won’t make any sense to you—but I saw the best of my father. He, too, was quiet. But he took no nonsense. I don�
�t know why I didn’t see him in you before.”

  She was right. She didn’t make any sense.

  “Now, you may tell me more about your Mrs. Sartin. I cannot promise to love the idea of marriage to a widow in trade, but I will listen.” She chuckled to herself. “And do be sure to take your time.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Amelia bumped up against Matthew’s desk as she felt her way through the darkness.

  “Matthew?” Her voice rang out—a line cast into a vast, empty depth. She bumbled on, hitting the book case and losing her shoe. “Matthew?”

  Still no answer.

  Devilish dark in the office. She felt around with her foot. Hopeless. The dashed slipper was gone. She limped over to the attic doorway and peered beyond the door. Nothing but shadows.

  He wasn’t there. Dread bubbled up in her chest. He wasn’t there. She climbed half-way up the stairs and then sunk down onto the steps. He wasn’t there!

  She dropped her head into her hands and curled over her knees.

  Curse Constance and her stupid ideas. Amelia shuddered to think of the coldness she’d shown. Her courage had failed and now Matthew had gone.

  But where to? His cousin’s perhaps? She couldn’t just show up on Lord Wentworth’s doorstep, tearstained and sobbing, though could she?

  She grasped the rail and pulled herself to standing.

  What should she do?

  Go home?

  She pictured her cavernous house, gleaming and expensive…lonely and cold.

  To her office?

  She wouldn’t be able to concentrate if she tried.

  She only wished she could be transported back to this morning. Back to Matthew’s warm embrace and terribly uncomfortable bed. Back into the certainty of his care.

  She’d make a different decision this time. She’d choose courage. She’d choose love. The decision she should have made from the start.

  One by one, she climbed the steps until she stood in the center of his chamber. Less dark, because of the skylight—but still not clear.

  She stumbled over to the bed, losing her other shoe. With a cathartic exhale, she slid between the sheets, happily surrounded by Matthew’s scent.

  All could not be lost.

  She fluffed the pillow beneath her head and rolled onto her side. The faint outline of the lending library copy of Charles Perrault’s fairy tales remained on the bedside table. She reached out and touched the spine as if merely touching the book could transfer otherworldly intervention.

  She needed magic.

  She needed a fairy godmother.

  She grasped the blanket and curled the fabric beneath her chin.

  If, by some miracle, Matthew were to return, she would apologize. And, she would tell him the truth. He was everything to her. So essential, she’d not even known how much she’d come to depend on him—to love him—until her love had grown so big, she feared she would be crushed.

  If he were to give her a second chance, she would not allow a day to pass when she didn’t bless her good fortune and tell him all he meant to her.

  Because being Mrs. Matthew Bellamy wouldn’t just be good fortune.

  It would be the best fortune—better than a duped prince, a pumpkin carriage, and definitely better than a rat-turned-coachmen.

  Miracles sometimes happened.

  And everyone could use a fairy godmother from time to time.

  ***

  Hope carried Matthew back to Sartin Trading Company. Well, hope and a well-sprung hackney carriage. If his mother had such a drastic change of heart, then, surely, anything was possible. However, when he arrived and raised his gaze to the windows, he found no light.

  Scowling, he climbed the stairs and then entered her office.

  Silly to have hoped she would be waiting. Just what had he believed Amelia would do? Come to some reflection-inspired revelation the love between them had been quietly growing for years, built on a more solid foundation than any youthful courtship could be?

  A foundation of mutual trust and mutual respect.

  Amelia’s office was dark. He swung his lamp from left to right. No coat dangled from the wall hook. And, her desktop bare.

  If she had spent even a moment in her office, her desktop would not be bare.

  He opened the door between their offices and strode through.

  Setting down his lamp, he shrugged off his jacket and gloves. How grateful he would be if he could as easily shed his stubborn, clinging anticipation.

  She’d rejected him. Convincing her to change her mind would be neither simple, nor easy. Although he fully intended to try, now was not the time to dash off in desperation.

  If bended knee would help, he’d kneel, but he’d create no mortifying moonlit scene in front of her townhouse tonight. The flower merchants were closed.

  Time to admit temporary defeat, climb his stairs and go to bed.

  He moved to pick up his lamp and tripped over something on the floor. With a frown, he lowered himself to his haunches.

  A shoe.

  An impossibly small shoe.

  Fragile, too.

  He ran his fingers over the silk dotted with tiny, sparkling paste jewels. Jewels clear as glass.

  She’d been simply dressed when she’d left this morning. And he certainly hadn’t seen any shoes lying around last week. He lept up and, taking lamp and shoe together, ascended the stairs. Wavy, orange arms of light illuminated the greatest solace he could imagine—a mass of small, blonde curls covering his pillow.

  So, no desperate chase.

  No bended knee.

  No filling her hall with flowers.

  Just the two of them, here, together. Precisely what he preferred.

  He approached the side of the mattress and set his lamp down on the table, and then the shoe on the floor next to the bed. She stirred.

  “May I join you?” he asked.

  Her blue eyes opened wide. She searched his expression, revealing nothing. Then, she adjusted her position, scooching to the side so there would be room for him to sit.

  He braced himself on the footboard and sat down, stretching his legs opposite hers. “This is…cozy.”

  He took her dainty foot into his hands. “Do you object?”

  “No.” She reclined against the pillows. “You came back.”

  “So did you. Was my return in doubt?”

  She nodded, still wide-eyed and serious, as if he might disappear.

  “Poor sweet.” He rubbed her sole with his thumb. “I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

  “I was worried. I am worried.” She teared. “I’m sorry, Matthew.”

  He wouldn’t lie and say she didn’t need to apologize. She’d hurt him. Instead, he pursed his lips and acknowledged her apology with a nod. “Thank you.”

  “Can you forgive me?”

  “I can.” He stroked the undercurve of her impossibly tiny toes. “Tell me, though…why did you come back?”

  “Because I love you.” She laid a hand on his arm in urgent entreaty. “Tell me I haven’t ruined everything. Please.”

  “Amelia.” Cupped her cheeks. “Amelia.” He angled his head and tasted her lips. “Was there ever a me without you?”

  “Of course there was.”

  “A hazy shadow.” He kissed her again. “I can barely recall the boy.”

  She remained still—not unwilling but reticent.

  “I remember,” she said quietly. “You were so tall and so thin. So young and so lost. You drank up every word of praise as if you’d been denied admiration your entire life.”

  “I had admiration. I had care—after a fashion. What I lacked was an example—someone to look up to, someone whose ideals and ethics inspired.” He smiled. “Then, suddenly, I had two.”

  “A pedestal is a tricky place to balance.”

  “No pedestal. We’ve seen each other at our best…and our worst.” He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “But enough of the past. All that matters is here. Now.”

>   “Yes.”

  Finally, she kissed him back, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, engulfing him in her delectable scent. Would he ever have enough?

  “You make me feel….” Her voice trailed.

  “Beautiful?” he suggested.

  “Alive. You make me feel alive.” She held him so they rested together, cheek to cheek. “But are you sure you want to marry me? You’ve only been with me.”

  “Why should I search for something else when I already have everything I could possibly want?

  She held his face and gazed into his eyes. “I fear I’ve enchanted you.”

  “With your fairy godmother powers?”

  Her eyes crinkled as she smiled. “I am responsible for at least two love matches—though one might need another subtle nudge.”

  “Subtle?” he raised his brows. “You?”

  He thrilled to the sound of her laugh.

  “Amelia, what makes you so sure you’re the fairy godmother and not the deserving maiden?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I’m far too old.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” He reached down beside the bed. “Shall we see which one of us fits the slipper?” He slipped on her shoe. “You see? Perfect.”

  “Pretty.” She tilted her foot this way and that. “Do I win a prince?”

  “A husband. If you’ll have me.”

  “I will.” She smiled—radiance emerging from a rain-thick cloud. She glanced through her lashes. “I owe you another night.”

  “You just promised them all to me.”

  “Did I?” She straddled him.

  The mouth-watering swell of her breasts crushed against him. He went light-headed with desire.

  Heaven.

  “I want you, Mr. Bellamy.”

  “Like this?” He frowned doubtfully.

  “Oh, Matthew,” she gripped his chin, “you have so much to learn.”

  “Good thing I have an excellent teacher.”

  In a slow, teasing gesture, she freed his member from his trousers and then slowly lowered onto his shaft, sheathing him in paradise, in his own happily ever after.

  The End

  Author Note: I hope you enjoyed Matthew and Amelia’s journey to love. And if you are curious about Lord Markham, Lady Clarissa, and the bet that could ruin them both, keep an eye out for Heart’s Desire, available May 2019 and return again to the night of Lady Darlington’s soiree.