Miss Truelove Beckons (Classic Regency Romances Book 12)

by Simpson, Donna Lea

  “And he is different this year?”

  “Very. He is brooding and moody, and that distasteful remark about childbearing! Really, I was shocked to my very core. Shocked and insulted.” Bella’s narrow, pretty face took on the petulant expression that made her look much more like her mother than she normally did.

  “Really, Bella!” True was going to hold her tongue, but could not resist falling into the mother hen role she had played when her cousin was a little girl. “He meant no harm, you know. It was just a casual aside, and intended as a compliment to women’s strength. You had no reason to swoon, and I do not believe you really did. I saw you peeking when Lord Conroy was supporting you into the blue saloon.” True waggled her finger at her cousin, who looked abashed for just a moment.

  But Arabella was not one to remain so for long. Her mother had drilled into her head that as the Honorable Miss Arabella Swinley, she was entitled to the best of treatment, and she would put up with no other. After all, one must never let the gentlemen have the upper hand, or they would take one for granted, her mother had told her.

  “Mother says that a young lady should appear delicate and fragile at all times! What else was I to do at such a remark? Lord Conroy was most gratifyingly attentive, and very angry with his friend. He called him a base brute for frightening me that way.” Her haughtiness dissolved in one of her quicksilver mood changes, and she giggled.

  “I must tell you, True, what you did not see. It was the funniest thing ever! Lord Conroy pressed my hand and said he would call Drake out for the insult. I tell you this with not a word of lying, I had had to do some quick work to avoid being the cause of a rift between lifelong friends.” She bit her lip and frowned. “That was not my intention. I was trying to show Lord Drake how frail and feminine I am. Mama always said that I am too independent. Gentlemen do not like that, you know. I must hide that until after marriage. That will be the time to assume the mantle of marital power.”

  “Oh, Bella . . . you don’t really believe that, do you?”

  She frowned. “But I do! If I am to be Viscountess Drake, I must show that I am worthy: stylish, delicate, a true lady.” She glanced over at True. “You seem to have found some way to get on with him. I was just the teeniest bit jealous, you know, when I saw you and Drake walking in the garden. Of course, I realized it was the merest kindness to walk out with you. Do you not think him all the more perfect for it? He saw how ill you fit into such elegant company and took you away.”

  Truelove could think of no answer for that.

  “What were you and Lord Drake really talking about on the terrace? It was not just about the war, I swan!”

  “He asked me why I was not married, and I told him about Harry.”

  “And about Mr. Bottleby?” Arabella eyed her with a squinted glance, then smoothed her expression. It would not do to get lines.

  “I . . . I do not think I mentioned Mr. Bottleby’s name.”

  “Why not?” Arabella said sharply. “Why would you not come right out and say you are considering an offer of marriage?”

  True heard the sudden sharpness in Bella’s voice. That was the trouble; London had changed her cousin. Or rather, a prolonged exposure to her mother had changed the girl. Until Arabella was ready to be presented, Lady Swinley had seldom deigned to notice that she even had a daughter. Bella had spent most school vacations at the vicarage, True’s family home. But just before Bella turned eighteen, Lady Swinley had swept down, grasped her in her clutches and carried her off to London to be “finished,” dressed, and presented. Lord Swinley’s subsequent death had put off her presentation one year, but then at nineteen Arabella had been presented and London, or at least the male half, had been prostrate at her feet ever since, to hear her tell it.

  And now, four years later, the sharp shrewishness of Lady Swinley was beginning to be evident in her daughter. Complimented, feted, adored, sought after as a diamond of the first water, Arabella was in a fair way to being spoiled.

  “I did not mention Mr. Bottleby because I need that to be private, right now, until I make up my mind,” True said.

  “You had best say yes,” Arabella said briskly. “It is likely to be the only offer you get at your age. I should not like to be a vicar’s wife, but it will do very well for you.”

  A spurt of irritation flared within True. How like Arabella’s new personality to presume to tell her what to do! “I will not marry because it is the last proposal I shall get. I told you, I had quite given up the idea of marriage until Mr. Bottleby asked. I just am not sure what to do. I do not love him.” And could not see herself falling in love with him.

  “But he has a fortune; you said that yourself, even if it is a small one. What else is there to consider? You don’t think to capture yourself a title, do you?”

  True was hurt by the scorn she heard in her cousin’s voice. That was another unpleasant manifestation of the influence of Lady Swinley. “No, I do not think to capture a title.” She saw Bella relax just a little and frowned in puzzlement. “But neither will I be rushed into making a decision that will change my life. I urge you to be just as cautious. Do not marry Lord Drake just because he is a viscount and will someday be an earl. You need to search your heart, as Father says, and decide if this is what God wants for you.”

  “God does not have to live with Lord Drake. I do!”

  “Exactly right,” True said. “All the more reason to be careful. Be sure that marrying him is what will ensure both of your happiness, because Father says that an unhappy marriage is painful to God, but devastating to a man or woman.”

  Arabella slipped from the window seat and started toward the door, carrying her slippers. She turned back, though, and said, “I have to marry, True. Why should it not be someone rich and handsome and titled? Mother says money and social position are the only things that do not depart in a marriage.” She shrugged, then turned and exited quietly.

  After Arabella left, True sat staring at the pane of glass in front of her. Bella’s voice had held a note of . . . of what? Resignation? Yes, she rather thought it was that. But how sad to go into a marriage resigned to your fate. And how sad for Lord Drake if that was what his bride brought to him. He deserved so much more, as did Bella.

  Finally, True slipped from the window seat and into her bed, to sleep at long last. And to dream . . . of strong hands and golden eyes and a voice that melted her heart.

  Chapter Five

  The day’s excursion to the viscount’s home had been a success, and now they sat on a blanket by the stream as restless Arabella and attentive Lord Conroy wandered off. Lord Drake drifted off to sleep. True daringly smoothed the golden curls from his face and watched as care and worry loosened their hold, and his gaunt face relaxed into the healing balm of sleep. For a sweet hour she listened to his calm breathing, while she gazed down on the stream and felt the peace of Thorne House seep into her. A light breeze sprang up, and the willow branches languidly danced and waved over the water while the ducks busily cruised up and down the waterway.

  How serene it was! And how very beautiful, with old stands of woods in the misty distance over a small stone bridge that crossed the stream. They were in a valley, and she could see, rising on the other side of the narrow brook, fields broken up by hedgerows and copses of scrubby brush. Her companion had told them at lunch that no one had lived here for many years, though the home farm was still in use and the orchards tended, but that he intended to make it his home now that he had resigned his commission. She didn’t think she had ever found a place she liked so well. She could imagine Lord Drake in some hazy future, striding about the place with a brace of children and dogs following him as he came down to the stream to fish for the silvery trout that flashed and sparkled in the depths. In her daydream Drake was healthy and happy, all the gloom of his present convalescence dissipated by years of blissful and tranquil enjoyment of his home.

  Their acquaintance was brief, but she had come to believe that gloom was not his normal
state of mind. He had been deeply affected by the war, as every thinking, feeling man must have been, but he would recover, given time, and his lucky wife, whomever she was, would reap the benefit of being wed to a courageous, good-tempered and deeply moral man. Perhaps it was too soon for her to judge him thusly, but there were some things one knew from the first moment of meeting someone.

  All too soon Arabella’s high, excited voice floated on the breeze as she and Conroy came back from an invigorating walk. Drake awakened, stretching and yawning widely, just as she and Lord Conroy approached.

  It was time to leave. Before they did, though, Arabella insisted, with a saucy toss to her blonde curls, that they have a proper tea first, so they went back up to the house, consumed the rest of the basket of delicacies, and then packed up to go. They were rather later getting on the road than Lord Drake had anticipated. Dark clouds on the horizon gave an ominous hint that the weather was going to turn sometime in the evening hours, and they had best make haste if they were going to beat the rain.

  But at least Lord Drake looked rested, True thought, gazing at him from her seat with her back to the horses. His eyes were the color of amber, clear and bright, and his conversation was as light and witty as even Arabella could wish.

  Experiences were given, True reflected, as they trundled along the road back to Lea Park, to teach one about life. For instance, meeting Lord Drake had helped her understand what she had only guessed at before. To her the men who fought and died, or lived after risking their lives, were heroes. She had read every newspaper article, every dispatch she could find in her little village. But meeting the major-general had truly shown her what a price the survivors paid for living through a long and bitter war. Physical impairment was the least of Lord Drake’s wounds, True thought. The worst ones went deep into his soul, and cut up the peace of every waking moment.

  And Lord Drake had hinted that even sleep did not “knit up the ravell’d sleave of care.” For him there were only nightmares and dreadful battlefields lurking in his slumber. How long could he expect to fight this battle, the battle of his conscience? She would send up a prayer every night, when she lay herself down to her peaceful sleep, in the hope that God would grant him serenity. At least the hour’s nap on the riverbank had been peaceful and seemed to have lessened his exhaustion.

  The drive back was proving to be quieter than the ride out that morning. When they started the clouds were confined to the horizon, but soon the sky darkened. Minutes later, the driver gave a shout of alarm. One of the horses shied, and there were a few moments of stark terror as it appeared certain that they would upset as they careened toward the steep embankment at the edge of the road, bouncing and jouncing along the rutted surface. Lord Conroy put his arm around True, who clutched at the edge of the open carriage, and she felt some comfort in the steadiness of that gentleman, as Lord Drake did the same for Arabella. The skillful driver brought the carriage to a halt and leaped down with an oath, racing to the horses.

  “Are you ladies all right?” Drake asked, concern etched in the grooves on his forehead.

  True nodded though her heart pounded erratically, and Arabella gamely said, “I think we shall do, presently.” There was a sharp edge of fear in her voice, but no one could ever have accused Arabella of being cowardly, no matter that she liked to pretend to more delicate sensibilities in front of the gentlemen. True was relieved that at that moment Bella had not chosen to follow her mother’s dictates and appear the faint-hearted widgeon.

  The viscount clambered down from the carriage and limped up to where the driver was checking the horses. “What is wrong, Burt? What happened?”

  “Damned rabbit,” True heard the man complain. “Ran right across our path, and Dancer didna like it one bit; shied, she did, and now she’s turned up lame.” The driver swore and spat.

  “Language, Burt. There are ladies present.” Drake’s admonishment was offered in an absentminded fashion as he thrust his hand through his gold-streaked curls.

  True sympathized with his difficulty. They were still over fifteen miles from Lea Park, at least, and the day was darkening alarmingly, with the first few spits of rain leaving spots on the skirt of her dark blue muslin gown and a rumble of thunder in the distance ominously foretelling the immediate future. Even if they could find another horse to carry them onward it would take a while, and night and bad weather could easily catch up with them on the road.

  He limped back to the carriage and with a worried frown said, “I am afraid Dancer is unable to do more than hobble along. Looking at the sky, it appears that we are in for some rain at the very least, and quite possibly a storm. Burt remembers an inn not very far up the road, and I think our best alternative is to put up for the night at the inn and finish our little journey in the morning. What say the rest of you?”

  True was not surprised at his solution and nodded, but Arabella frowned and said, “Surely we could get another horse at this inn and continue.”

  “We could get another horse, yes, but I am concerned about the weather.” He indicated the sky. “It is already starting. Did you not hear that thunder? I would not have you ladies getting a drenching in this open carriage.”

  “Quite right, Drake, I concur. We would best be served by putting up for the night at this inn,” Conroy said. “I am sure you will agree, Miss Swinley, that it is far better to be prudent. It would not do to risk a downpour and have you get a chill.”

  Put in that light, Arabella agreed. There would be no impropriety, she said frostily, with True as her chaperone.

  It was a short walk to the inn. When they entered it was just starting to drizzle. Burt was to follow with the carriage and lame horse, and the groom was dispatched to Lea Park to take a message to the sure-to-be-anxious Ladies Swinley and Leathorne.

  The innkeeper’s wife, Mrs. Lincoln, a rotund but neatly garbed woman with a snowy mob cap over equally white curls, welcomed them eagerly. She remembered Lord Drake from some past stop there, and was clearly overjoyed that she was to have the “Quality” staying the night. She showed Arabella and True to a small, clean room and left them with a basin of steaming hot water and towels. Lord Drake, she said, had ordered dinner in a private dining room. It would be served within the hour.

  “This is just too bad,” Arabella said, swishing her hands around in the water. She peered at it. “It does not look very clean. And these towels! Not soft at all. I am sure there must be a better inn somewhere than this . . . this hole in the wall!” With a disparaging look on her face she glanced around at the tiny room that though neat was not of first quality.

  “I think we should count ourselves lucky to have made it here before the weather turned. Come, let us clean up and go downstairs.” True was in no mood for any of her cousin’s nitpicking, since it could be laid at Bella’s door that they were stuck here. She had only been hungry for tea before they left Thorne House because she had just picked at her luncheon. If they had not stopped to have tea, they would not have been so late on the road, and would not have been stopped by their little accident and therefore would not have to put up at this inn overnight. So her cousin had really better not complain!

  Dinner was not French cuisine, as they had eaten the night before at Lea Park, but it was very good English country cooking. Rabbit pie, mutton, and a roasted capon, with a ragout of vegetables, followed by apple pie, was gratefully consumed by all but Arabella, who just picked at the capon and ate a piece of bread and butter before pushing her plate away.

  “Is anything wrong with the food, miss?” the landlady said with an alarmed glance at Arabella’s still-full plate.

  “I am quite sure it is very well in its way,” Arabella said with a gentle smile, as she pushed it away. “But I have a very delicate palate. Mama says I have a true aristocrat’s constitution.”

  The landlady looked offended, though she clearly did not understand what Arabella was talking about. True understood, and sighed with resignation. What it meant was that no matter how hu
ngry she was, Arabella would not eat her fill in front of a potential suitor. She would pick and claim a bird-like appetite, because Lady Swinley had drilled it into her that true ladies were frail and never ate more than a few bites. Of course Lady Swinley herself was a robust trencherwoman, and she did not regulate Arabella’s eating as long as there were no gentlemen present.

  Conroy nodded his approval, but Drake looked puzzled. True thought that he had probably, in his career, not spent a lot of time among tonnish ladies, for he had bought his colors at a young age and spent much time on the Peninsula, or he would have known that most young ladies claimed a poor appetite, and then feasted in private. Arabella was no different, though when she forgot herself she ate as any normal person. Her mother’s influence was spotty, at best. True hoped she would escape the woman’s influence before it became complete and Arabella became an unbearable snob and wholly false creature, governed by society’s expectations rather than her own good sense and strong nature.

  “I cannot imagine why an aristocratic lady should have a poor appetite,” Drake said as the landlady, in hurt silence, directed one of her daughters as she cleared the table. “My mother eats quite well, and I have always thought she was very regal.”

  Arabella, caught in the awkward position of seeming to impugn her would-be suitor’s mother, wisely remained silent. True bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud at the absurd mannerisms ladies were forced to assume by ridiculous social dictates. She was grateful that in her world a young lady was only expected to be neat, modest, and to refrain from “putting on airs,” as the local ladies of her father’s parish called it.

  After dining, the foursome played cards for a while in front of the great, stone fireplace. Rain pattered against the windows, and the blaze made for a cozy atmosphere. True was entertained yet again by the lengths to which a very sharp-witted Arabella would go to appear suitably dim in front of Lord Drake. She was the picture of pretty confusion when, partnered with Drake, she “forgot” a trump card, or needed to have the rules explained one more time, ignoring the fact that Drake was trying very hard to restrain his growing irritation.