Miss Truelove Beckons (Classic Regency Romances Book 12)

by Simpson, Donna Lea

  “Why then, they are taken care of!” Arabella was pleased that she had finally engaged the dour viscount in conversation. It was going well, she thought. She stabbed at the piece of ham, then remembered herself and cut a minuscule portion and popped it into her mouth.

  “Not when one considers the sacrifices made. I still believe we could be doing more . . . much more.” He glanced over at her curiously. “Are you genuinely interested in the welfare of our returning soldiers, Miss Swinley?”

  She swallowed. Oh, Lord, she thought, I hope he does not have some dreary society he wishes me to join! “I am,” she said, nodding vigorously. “I cannot think of anything more fascinating!”

  Drake smiled, and over coffee told her much more than she ever wanted to know about military life, and the dilemma facing those concerned about returning and injured soldiers. And that was just the beginning, she found. That afternoon she walked with him on the terrace, and he told her all about the Peninsula campaign, Ciudad Rodrigo, Badajoz, Salamanca . . . by the end of the day her head was whirling with dates and names and facts and figures.

  But Lord Drake no longer avoided her company, she saw, with triumph. He sat with her at dinner, even, and they had another “stimulating” discussion. Her mother was right, she found; as long as one listened, nodded and agreed, the gentlemen considered you a brilliant conversationalist. Later she could not have said just what it was they talked about; something about parliamentary reform, she seemed to remember. After dinner, they gathered in the more intimate confines of the rose parlor for coffee.

  • • •

  Drake had been pleasantly surprised by Arabella. Really, the girl was not such a bacon-brained lackwit as he had first thought. The afternoon had been much more pleasant than he had imagined one spent in her company could be. She had listened and asked intelligent—well, mostly intelligent—questions.

  It had seemed a good idea, after the day before, to stay away from True for a while. His feelings were confused, tumultuous, in fact. He and True had walked down to the stream on the property he was buying, and . . . well, he had taken advantage of her. There was no other way to put it; he had compromised her terribly. He had kissed her again, and they had reclined on the bank of the stream in the most improper manner—improper, and yet it had felt so right!—just holding each other for the longest time until they both fell asleep.

  Sleep. In her company, he could sleep without dreams, or at least without nightmares. For he had dreamt, actually; he had wandering, misty dreams of Thorne House, and a golden-haired child who called True “Mama,” and always he was holding her, touching her, even when the child clung to them both.

  He had awoken from an hour’s sound sleep to find that True slumbered in his arms, and the calm he had felt was such as he had never experienced since coming home. And yet, when she awoke Drake could feel her embarrassment in the way she avoided his eyes and apologized for her “unseemly” behavior. Her unseemly behavior! It was all his doing, and yet he was filling her with the hideous burden of guilt.

  It was not right to involve her with him in this way, when she was virtually betrothed to her vicar. And yet, if that was the case, why did she allow such trespasses? Could she care for him? Or was it the pity he had seen in her eyes the first time, when he had awoken from a nightmare?

  He needed to think and he could not do that in her presence. And so that was why he had devoted himself to Arabella Swinley that day. He needed time away from Truelove. He needed to understand himself before he compromised her beyond rescuing, an outcome that seemed almost tempting sometimes, when he thought that his dilemma could be resolved that way, at least. He would have a wife, and she . . . she would have no choice. And that was wrong. He must leave her free to choose or reject her vicar!

  That evening, emboldened by True’s positive reaction to his radical idea and Arabella Swinley’s interest in the ex-soldiers’ plight, Drake summoned his courage as the household gathered after dinner for coffee, and cleared his throat. The rose saloon, much smaller than the blue saloon, was also more conveniently furnished for conversation, with a grouping of chairs and sofas gathered near the hearth. He was standing by the fireplace, which was lit for the first time in the season, as a cold wind had come up; autumn was advancing. Conroy, who had been talking eagerly to Miss Swinley, was the first to glance up.

  “What is it, old man? Look like you’re ready to make a speech.”

  “Make a speech? Drake? Ha!” Lord Leathorne, his red face split in a wide grin, said. “He’d no more make a speech than I would.”

  “Actually, Father, I do have something to say.”

  Arabella colored, and Lady Swinley leaned forward, her eyes gleaming as she shot significant glances at her daughter. Lady Leathorne saw the looks between mother and daughter, and, not sure if she was pleased or alarmed, fastened her gaze on her son.

  “What is it, Drake?” she asked. “Do you have an announcement to make?”

  “I do.” Drake paced in front of the fireplace.

  The room filled with tension.

  Drake stopped and let his gaze drift over the collected company. His mother was watching him, and he could see that she was troubled about something. He was not usually so noticing of that kind of thing, but between his mother and him there had always been a strong bond, a kinship of mind as much as of heart. It had not escaped him early in his youth that his mother’s intelligence far outstripped her husband’s. He had always wondered if that disparity of understanding had made her unhappy, but she had always seemed contented enough.

  True was sitting quietly just in the shadows, her sewing resting on her lap. Lady Swinley and Arabella sat on matching chairs near the window with Lord Conroy on a footstool by Arabella.

  Drake frowned. Lady Swinley had taken her daughter’s hand, and shot her a look of . . . of what? He could not guess at the meaning of a look that seemed almost triumphant. Miss Swinley was pale but composed. Ah, well, it was nothing to do with him. Maybe Conroy, poor chap, had proposed or something. He certainly seemed badly in love with the girl. It would not be a terrible match for his friend, not as bad as he would have supposed before spending the day talking to Miss Swinley. She appeared to have a brain and a heart after all, though she would lead poor Conroy a merry dance, no doubt.

  He cleared his throat. His father had drifted off to sleep in the silence. Oh, well, he would not understand what his son was about to talk about anyway, so let him sleep.

  “I have been thinking of the future. I do not want my time on this earth to be wasted in morbid self-recrimination. It did not come upon me at once when I entered the military, but over the years I began to feel that as a soldier my purpose in life was destructive, and I do not want that to be my legacy. I want to give something to the world.” He paused and shook his head, wryly reflecting that he sounded like he was running for political office. “Oh, Lord, that sounds so very pompous.”

  “No, dear, I understand,” Lady Leathorne said.

  He offered her a smile.

  “Go on, Lord Drake! We are all most interested to hear what you have to say! About your future plans?” That was Lady Swinley, and she clutched her daughter’s hand with a firm grip.

  Drake wondered why she was so interested. She had never shown the slightest bit of interest in anything to do with the war before. Even True had looked up by now, and she was pale, but composed. Drake felt there was an undercurrent in the room that he was not privy to the source of. They all waited for him to go on.

  “Well, I . . . I just wanted to announce . . . that is . . .” Drake felt a sweat break out on his forehead. Infernal fire! Who needed a fire on a mild autumn evening? He had not meant to make a speech out of a simple statement of what he was doing with the school! “Miss Becket and I went for a drive yesterday afternoon, and I came to a decision.”

  A gasp came from somewhere in the room, but he was determined not to let it stop him. He forged ahead. “She, more than anyone else, is responsible for the decisio
n I have come to.” Oh, God, worse and worse. Now all eyes were turned to Truelove, and he had not meant to place her in an awkward position.

  All right. He must marshal his scattering wits as he would his soldiers.

  “I have purchased a property, and am starting a . . . a school for ex-soldiers, to learn a trade. That is it.”

  At that exact same moment, Arabella Swinley gave a ladylike scream and fell into an elegant swoon.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Do you know how close we came to disaster tonight, my temperamental young miss?” Lady Swinley’s voice was a hiss as she followed Arabella to her chamber.

  Forced to withdraw from the parlor after her disastrous attempt at a bit of drama, Arabella was not in the mood for one of her mother’s lectures, but she was also badly frightened. Her mother was more angry than she had ever seen her. She closed the door behind them and turned, her hands trembling at her sides. Somehow she thought this moment would determine her course for the rest of her life, and she did not know if she could face it. Better to plead a headache or a chill and retire to her bed.

  But no. She had never run from anything or anyone in her whole life, and this was her mother, the woman who had given her life. They were the only real family each of them had. She squared her shoulders. She would force her mother to talk about money.

  “Mother, you must tell me the truth. How far in the soup are we? Are we badly dished?” Arabella took a deep breath, trying to calm her erratic heartbeat. It was the only reason she could think of for her mother’s unwarranted anger. She sat down at the vanity table while her mother paced. Her faux swoon had been calculated to give her a few moments to think if Lord Drake’s announcement had been that he was to marry Truelove. Thank the Lord it had not been that! How would she face the humiliation of her country cousin plucking a prime plum right out of her hand? But her faint had also ended the evening, though it was not that late. Still, she was so tired! The effort of keeping up with Lord Drake all day, and of walking with him, listening to his dreary conversation about soldiers and battles and death! It was enough to put a lady off male companionship for life.

  “Mother? Did you hear me?” She glanced up at her mother when the woman did not answer. A gnawing fear in her stomach made it growl, though the lack of food that day had probably as much to do with it. She had merely picked, mindful of her “ladylike” appetite, until Lord Conroy, concerned for her health, demanded that she eat a biscuit. He had been much impressed when she had been “unable” to finish even that. Why could Lord Drake not be so easily impressed? Why did capturing his interest require listening to long, desperately boring lectures about the war and the sorry state of all the old soldiers?

  But she must not get distracted from the matter at hand. “Mother, tell me the truth,” she demanded. “How bad is it?” She had imagined a little financial distress, but her mother’s anger seemed to portend something much worse.

  “We are . . .” Lady Swinley paced to the window and stared out into the gloom. “We are badly in need of financial aid, I will admit.”

  “But what happened? I thought Father left us well provided for. There is no entail, since there is no legitimate heir, and so Swinley Manor stays with us. And Swinley Manor farms are prosperous; the steward has sold off some of the timber. We had money!”

  Lady Swinley strode over to her daughter and glared down at her. Her eyes were hostile and her mouth pinched into an unattractive grimace. “Yes, but do you think that will pay for three Seasons for a foolish daughter who will not settle on one of the rich beaus her loving mother has paraded before her? I cannot believe the ingratitude, after all my hard work, and you will not so much as lift a finger to do what you are supposed to do.”

  The attack left Arabella breathless. “But you said . . . you said I need not marry, because I had Lord Drake in my pocket, and then you would not let me marry Lord Sweetan when I wanted to, and—”

  “Lord Sweetan had no money! I wanted you to marry Sir Richard Fosdick, but you turned your nose up.”

  “Sir Richard is ancient!” Arabella cried, leaping from her seat. “I accept that I must marry, but I will not marry a . . . a fossil! I want a man, not a dried-up old prune! I want a man who can take me in his arms and—”

  Lady Swinley’s hand flashed up and the smack across Arabella’s cheek echoed in the quiet chamber. Arabella held her hand to her cheek and stared down at her much shorter mother. “How could you do that?” she cried, tears starting in her eyes.

  Eyes wide, pinched face bleached a ghastly white, Lady Swinley covered her mouth with one shaking hand. “Arabella, my darling girl, I’m sorry. I am overwrought.” She collapsed on the chair near the vanity table. “I cannot face being poor! I’m too old to live in poverty, forced to rely on the charity of the church. The manor is mortgaged to the hilt and if we do not show signs of turning things around, or if you do not marry well and soon, we shall have to leave it and . . . and . . .” She broke down into tears, burying her face in her hands and sobbing.

  Arabella, stunned to see tears coursing down her mother’s lined cheeks and through her fingers, felt a moment of tenderness she had never experienced before. With all her faults, her mother was still her mother. She approached the woman many damned as cold and put her arms around her shaking shoulders. “Don’t worry, Mother, you will not have to leave Swinley Manor. I shall marry, and marry well. I promise I’ll take care of you.”

  And she would start her campaign that very night. Because first, she must eliminate the competition.

  • • •

  A book propped on her lap, True tried to read by the flickering light of her candle. It was impossible, though, when her mind kept going back to the scene in the parlor. She could not get out of her mind how Drake had made his innocuous announcement after such a build-up! What had he been thinking? It was guaranteed that more than one person had thought there was an announcement of marriage in the offing.

  And then Arabella had swooned. Was it genuine this time? She had appeared insensible for a good three minutes or more.

  But what kept True’s mind off Maria Edgeworth’s The Absentee was what she, and evidently others, had thought Lord Drake was going to say. The way he had started, and then bringing her name into it . . . it had every appearance of an announcement that he intended to wed her! Was that why Arabella had swooned when the real announcement turned out to be something so very different?

  Perhaps. Bella and Lord Drake had spent the whole day together talking and walking, and maybe she had discovered all there was in the viscount to love and value. He was gentle and thoughtful, good-natured and intelligent, gallant and . . . and she had no business cataloguing his virtues. Had Bella fallen for the handsome lord?

  True shivered, laid her book on the bedside table, and pulled the covers up over her shoulders, staring at the paneled walls of her elegant chamber. Her mind returned to the afternoon before. They had walked down to the brook and sat down to talk. The sun had been warm and she had felt sleepiness overtake her; before she knew it he was tilting her head back and kissing her with such gentle, persuasive passion, that she had found herself responding, unable to resist. But she could not fool herself. It was not as if she was out of her mind, or anything so ridiculous. She had wanted him to kiss her, had been hoping for it. Ever since the night at the inn when he had kissed her in the hallway, she had been wishing for a repeat of that caress to test her memory of a sweetness singing through her that she had never felt in her life.

  But what had possessed her to lay with him on the banks of that brook, in his arms, reclining as if she were inviting him to . . . her mind turned away from what her actions were an invitation to. He was too much the gentleman to take advantage of her that way. Instead, silence had fallen between them, as if the moment was too precious to spoil with words.

  And they had slept together in the golden sunshine like two children, their arms wrapped around each other. Later—it must have been an hour or more that they stayed i
n that scandalous pose—she had awoken to find his fond gaze on her. She had been hideously embarrassed, her modesty finally awoken from a slumber deeper than her body’s. She hardly remembered if she said anything, but she had scrambled away from him with flaming cheeks at the memory of her lax behavior. She was indeed lucky he was a true gentleman.

  He had escorted her without comment back to the gig—they found the little stable boy dozing under a tree near the horses—and they had returned to Lea Park with Drake chatting happily about the school. Nothing had been said between them of their odd lapse from propriety.

  But the next day he had devoted himself to Arabella. He had smiled at True, and had not avoided her company at any time, but his companionship was solely for her beautiful cousin. True had watched them walk away, golden heads together as they talked and strolled, making a gorgeous matched couple. Had he decided that he needed a helpmeet in his path? Was he intent on giving his mother’s choice a fair trial?

  There was a light tap at her door, and True said, “Come in.”

  Arabella slipped in, her long blonde hair down around her shoulders. She looked hesitant and so very young. She stopped just inside the door, shivering and with an unhappy expression on her pretty face.

  “What is it, Bella? Do you want to talk? Are you recovered?” True patted the bed beside her and Bella crossed the room and climbed on the bed as she had when she was a little girl, and in True’s charge.

  “Oh, True, what am I going to do?” she cried, snuggling close to her cousin and taking her hand.

  Surprised but pleased by this return to the intimacy they had shared as children, True smoothed her cousin’s blonde tresses away from her high, pale forehead. There were worry lines there, and True gently smoothed them too. “What is it, love?” This was the cousin she remembered, the cousin who would come to her with her troubles. When Lady Swinley had descended on the vicarage on Bella’s seventeenth birthday and informed her daughter that they were to go to London, and that this was likely the last vacation she would ever spend at the vicarage, Bella had wept on True’s shoulder and promised that no matter what happened, the vicarage was her home. She was afraid of her mother, she said, and what the woman had in mind for her.