She stood, considering, and his breath caught in his throat.
Wisps of her rich mahogany red brown hair drifted around her face, disarranged by his kisses, their curls brushing across her lips, and drawing his eye. Her warm amber-gold eyes were filled with wonder. She had never looked more beautiful to him.
“Then yes, I will marry you. For I cannot conceive of living without you, either.”
It took more than the month required for the banns, before the wedding could be arranged, much to Raphael and Sera’s frustration. It seemed that the marriage of an Earl required some pomp, and that his friends were not going to allow him the chance to do things quietly. Raphael had gladly given the planning over to Lady Galwood and his mother, and allowed them to deal with his sister’s energetic enthusiasm. Gabriel had simply smiled, when Raphael had informed the family of his impending marriage and said ‘I told you she was good for you’, and left it at that. Everyone except Raphael looked at him curiously, but he refused to elaborate.
Porthaven House had rapidly been brought up to an immaculate standard, with the maintenance, which the former Earl had neglected, soon dealt with, upon the liberal application of money. It was a beautiful building, with an elegant ballroom, and terraces that led to a somewhat overgrown, but pleasant garden. Decorated for the wedding, it looked magnificent.
The late June warmth had provided a riot of flowers, and the church, as well as the house, was filled with them – of every exotic kind. Every flower merchant in London, who had ever purchased the flower cards from the favour manufactory, had seen fit to send huge amounts of flowers as their wedding gifts to the ‘Merchant Earl’.
Sera had chosen a simple gown, in a rich amber shade that matched her eyes, and emphasised the red gold highlights in her hair. Madame Beaumarais had outdone herself, with delicate traceries of gold thread embroidery covering the sheer muslin outer layer of the gown. It was the most elegant gown that Raphael had ever seen, and he was quite certain that the styling would be the rage for the next year. But that thought only came to him much later.
For, when she walked into the church, he was thinking of nothing but her beauty, and the love in her eyes. The ceremony was soon done, and many a handkerchief applied to teary eyes in the crowded church. Sera had not thought that there would be so many people – but between Raphael’s friends, and all those she had met in the past year and more of business, the numbers had grown. Stepping out into the sunlight, hand in hand, they were met with a thrown cloud of rose petals which exceeded those seen at Charlton’s wedding, and at Geoffrey’s. The flower merchants had all contributed there as well.
For the rest of her life, the smell of roses would bring this exact moment to Sera’s mind. Once they reached Porthaven House, Sera laughingly picked all of the rose petals from Raphael’s hair and cravat, to tuck them away to keep. It seemed that their wedding breakfast had somehow become a grand Ball and the house was bursting with people.
Sera’s fears about society shunning them in any way were, it seemed, completely unfounded. The crowd of well-wishers appeared unending, and the large ballroom was a crush. She floated through the crowds easily, as if the past three years had not happened. It was the oddest sensation. The best part, however, was Raphael at her side.
Late in the day, as the dancing reached a pause, and people sought refreshment, there was a minor commotion in the entryway, which turned out to be the arrival of the Prince Regent, who had decided, on a whim, to visit the event. He stayed but a short time, congratulating Raphael and Sera, and speaking to a number of people, before sweeping out, a crowd of sycophantic followers in his wake, to attend another event.
Setford, sitting quietly with Lady Farnsworth, smiled at the world in general. His plans were still falling into place nicely.
As the orchestra started up again, Sera and Raphael slipped onto the terrace, and then into the gardens. Winding through the overgrown pathways, they came to a paved area in the centre, where a small fountain played off to one side. The distant strains of a waltz could be heard, as Raphael swept Sera into his arms to dance in the moonlight.
“I could almost imagine that we were in some exotic garden in a distant eastern country. The scents from this riot of flowers, the light from the coloured paper lanterns, even the style of the fountain… it is as if we were somewhere completely other.”
“And would you like to see such places, to go there?”
Raphael’s voice was quiet as he asked, but there was some strong emotion in it. Sera wondered why.
She lifted her head from his shoulder, and looked into his eyes.
“I would love to. From the moment that I first saw all of the exotic things in your warehouses, I wondered about the places they came from. And, when you first took me driving, and showed me the ships, and the docks – I imagined myself sailing away on them. As your wife, with you. And then I told myself not to be silly, for that would never happen.”
“Then I must prove you wrong. Let us make it happen. For I have always wished to see the places that my captains tell me of, but I had not dared to hope that you would wish to travel.”
He swung her around, dancing across the paving, as if floating in the moonlight, until they drifted to a stop near the fountain.
“I would travel to the ends of the Earth, if you were with me.”
His lips met hers, and everything else ceased to matter but the feel of her pressed against him. They had each other, and a world to explore.
The End
Arietta Richmond has been a compulsive reader and writer all her life. Whilst her reading has covered an enormous range of topics, history has always fascinated her, and historical novels been amongst her favourite reading.
She has written a wide range of work, from business articles and other non-fiction works (published under a pen name) but fiction has always been a major part of her life. Now, her Regency Historical Romance books are finally being released. The Derbyshire Set is comprised of 10 novels (7 released so far). The ‘His Majesty’s Hounds’ series is comprised of 14 novels, with the eighth having just been released.
She also has a standalone longer novel shortly to be released, and two other series of novels in development.
She lives in Australia, and when not reading or writing, likes to travel, and to see in person the places where history happened.
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His Majesty’s Hounds – Book 9
Sweet and Clean Regency Romance
Arietta Richmond
Lady Sybilla Barrington looked out of the carriage window at the imposing sight before her. The unseasonably cold summer had faded into a chill autumn, and the leaves had turned colour early. The scarp before her rose stark against a grey sky as the day faded into evening, and the harsh grey slash of rock cutting into the steep hillside looked the colour of old bone in the last of the day’s light.
Beneath it, built hard against the scarp, the aged stone of Greyscar Keep appeared as solid and unyielding as the rocks that loomed ominously above it. The last pink toned rays of the sun caught glints off the windows, making them seem red. For a moment, it was as if the house were bathed in blood.
The carriage hit a bump in the road, and Miss Millpost’s gentle snores ceased as she started from sleep to look out the window.
“Well I never! If that’s where we’re going, I’m not sure about this at all!”
“It is rather… imposing… isn’t it?”
“Ominous is the word I’d use, my girl. Did you really
actually choose this place, having been here before?”
“I did. I must say, it looks even more dramatic than I remembered it.”
Miss Millpost gave a snort of disapproval, and looked away from the window. Mina, Sybilla’s maid, had taken one look out the window and looked away, shivering and pulling her carriage blanket tightly about her.
Sybilla could not drag her eyes away. She watched as the waning sunlight seemed to slide down the windows, allowing them to darken one by one, as if the blood was running out of the place. She shook her head, chiding herself for her whimsy – her plotting and planning her novel was obviously affecting her perceptions! Writing a gothic novel was one thing – seeing such things in the real world was another entirely.
Still, it was enough to give anyone the shivers, when seen in such a light. She remembered her mother’s expression when she had suggested Greyscar Keep as a location for her writing. But then, the Dowager Duchess of Melton had always disliked this house, so perhaps she was biased.
Sybilla had only visited Greyscar Keep a few times in her life, the last many years ago. But it had left a strong impression on her young mind. An impression enhanced by her mother’s dislike of it. She remembered it as a brooding pile of stone, with magnificent views across the surrounding countryside, and the sense of its age palpable in every part of it. She had, of course, been certain that there must be hidden passages, ancient treasures and dark secrets in abundance.
Now, at 20, and generally accorded a sensible young woman, she found herself still rather enamoured of the idea.
Which made it the perfect place to write her novel.
It had, however, taken her three months to convince her mother and brother of that fact.
At 20, most people of their acquaintance looked at her sadly, pitying her for not yet being married.
She had, perhaps, brought it upon herself, at least to some degree. First, her father and brother had been killed in a terrible carriage accident – an accident which she could not but feel was at least partly her fault. She pushed that thought aside. She would not dwell on it now.
A year of formal mourning had been a welcome escape from the Season that her mother had planned for her. Then the war had ended, Hunter had finally come home, now bearing the title of Duke, and this year’s Season, he had been the focus of the ton’s attention, as the most eligible man in London.
She had not been in the least sorry to be eclipsed by her brother – especially as he had, in the end, chosen to marry her dear friend and neighbour, Lady Nerissa Loughbridge. But her mother was not quite so happy – she had hoped that Sybilla would find a suitor to her taste and be married by now as well.
Instead, whilst her younger sister Alyse was eagerly awaiting her Season next year, all that Sybilla wanted was somewhere quiet – somewhere that she could write her novel, ride good horses, and not ever have to speak of Balls and potential husbands again.
Let her mother fuss over Alyse, not her.
She had worn them down with persistence. She had consulted her brother Charles, who managed Hunter’s estates for him, about which estates might best suit her plan to lock herself away to write. He had suggested Greyscar Keep jokingly, for if she wanted to write a gothic novel to rival those of Mrs Radcliffe, surely the best place to do so was in a gothic monstrosity of a house. He had been shocked when she had taken him seriously, and exclaimed with delight.
With a location chosen, she had needed one further thing, beyond her siblings’ support, to convince her mother to allow it. A chaperone. And when she had almost given up on finding a suitable solution to that issue, one had rather magically presented itself.
Gerald Otford, Baron Tillingford, one of Hunter’s closest friends, from his days as a member of the military unit which had been referred to as ‘His Majesty’s Hounds’ had sent a letter to all of the Hounds. In it, he spoke about an older lady, who had been companion to the Lady who had just married a friend of his. With her charge now married, Miss Millpost was attempting to settle into a genteel retirement in her cottage in the village of Casterfield Downs.
Except, as Baron Tillingford had pointed out, she was not very settled at all. She was an intelligent woman who liked a challenge, who liked conversation, and who was, apparently, finding a quiet life in a small village rather more dull than suited her. Baron Tillingford had suggested that she would likely be delighted to take up new occupation, should they know of any opportunities which might suit her.
Sybilla thought that she sounded perfect, and had written to her immediately.
Their exchange of letters had resulted in Miss Millpost agreeing to take the position. Sybilla’s mother had, at first, been doubtful, but Baron Tillingford’s assurances had settled her to the idea.
Miss Millpost was very astute, an excellent chess player, well read in a number of languages, and a woman of distinct opinions. Sybilla found her amusing, and kind, under a gruff surface. She was also, Sybilla had discovered, passingly fond of a glass or two of madeira.
Gravel crunched under the wheels as they passed through the gates and onto the Greyscar Keep drive. The last of the sunlight was gone, leaving only the ghostlight of dusk as a pale blush above the scarp. The house itself was plunged in shadow.
Sybilla shivered, wondering if anyone was here. They had sent messages, warning the minimal staff who maintained the place of their impending arrival – but she could see no light. They made the last turn onto the curve of drive immediately in front of the house, and the carriage drew to a stop. The groom they had brought with them jumped down, and opened the carriage door. Simultaneously, a loud ominous creak echoed into the quiet night, and a person, followed by a huge distorted shadow thrown from the single small lantern that they carried, stepped out of the main door of the building.
Mina squeaked. Miss Millpost gave her a disgusted look. Sybilla had to agree with Mina in a way – this was not the most pleasant welcome. She shook that thought aside, determined to be positive – this was certainly going to provide her with a sufficiency of atmospheric detail for her novel!
She led them towards the man at the door.
“Lady Sybilla?”
“Yes.”
“Welcome to Greyscar Keep. I am Mr Westby, the Butler. Please come this way. Mrs Westby, who is the Housekeeper, has your rooms prepared.”
The flickering light of the lantern made his face look ghoulish, but his words at least were ordinary. Leaving their groom and coachman to bring in the luggage, Sybilla, Miss Millpost and Mina followed Mr Westby through the door.
Inside, the entryway was as big as Sybilla remembered, hugely vaulted with a curving staircase going up two floors. The cold marble of the floor echoed with their footsteps, and the shadows seemed to push back against the feeble light of the lantern, as if trying to swallow it.
Mrs Westby was waiting.
“Follow me please, and I will show you to your rooms. Dinner will be served in one hour, in the dining room.”
“Thank you, Mrs Westby.”
They followed. The old stone walls seemed rougher than usual, as the light from the lantern emphasised every bump and hollow, and the seemingly ancient paintings on the walls looked down on them dourly. Their rooms adjoined each other, and were decorated in a style a century out of date. But at least there were warm fires in the grates, and the beds appeared to have adequate blankets.
Settling in, Sybilla wondered how she would ever find the dining room – the halls had seemed different from her memory, somehow.
There was a tap on the door between her dressing room and Mina’s room. When she opened it, she found Mina twisting her hands nervously.
“Oh, Lady Sybilla, why did we come here? Are you sure that this place isn’t haunted?”
“Nonsense Mina. It’s just large, old, and no-one has been here for years, except a few staff. Don’t let your imagination run away with you. I’m sure you’ll feel better after dinner.”
“Yes, Lady Sybilla.”
Mina did n
ot sound convinced.
“Come and sit by my fire a bit, then you can help me freshen up before dinner.”
Mina scurried in and dropped onto a stool near the fire, looking relieved to be with someone else.
~~~~~
Miss Millpost was not impressed. She had expected a decent country house, not this monstrous pile of stone. It looked most likely to be haunted… She shivered. Miss Millpost did not like the idea of ghosts, not at all. The living – now there she knew little fear, but the dead, that gave her pause.
She had to hope that the place had some redeeming features. If it did, she had not seen them yet. She followed Mrs Westby down the hall, behind Lady Sybilla and that silly maid Mina. The weak flickering lantern light cast odd shadows, and drew glints of light from strange objects.
Curiously, she tried to peer in through the doors they passed, those that were open, at least. One room caught her attention, and she suddenly wished to halt Mrs Westby to get a better look – but the lantern continued down the corridor, taking the light with it. Still she was certain that what she had glimpsed was a library. And one with an enormous number of books, or so it had seemed in that quick look that the light had afforded.
Perhaps the place would not be so bad after all. Many things could be forgiven for a good library.
She hurried to catch up, not at all liking the possibility of being left without light in these corridors.
~~~~~
A resounding crash echoed through the halls of Dartworth Abbey. Lord Barton Seddon jerked in his chair, and curled forward into a tight ball against the desk, shaking violently. Under his breath, he muttered quietly, over and over.
Winning the Merchant Earl: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 8) Page 19
