Miss Truelove Beckons (Classic Regency Romances Book 12)

by Simpson, Donna Lea

  His hesitance was unlike him and True gazed at him shrewdly. He was evading the question. “Papa, you know you will tell me eventually what is bothering you, so you might as well tell me now.”

  Mr. Becket, instead of answering, got up and left the room, coming back a few minutes later with a letter in hand. He squinted down at it, pushed his glasses back up his nose again, read a few lines, and then handed the letter over to True.

  Frowning, she read it through. “Of all the . . . I cannot believe . . . she had the nerve . . . Oh!” She could not even speak, she was so furious, and she felt an angry blush mount in her cheeks.

  “Is it not true, dear? What is she talking about? Who is she talking about?” His lined face sagged with worry, and his eyes behind the glasses held all the love and concern he could feel for his eldest daughter.

  True, mortified to have her private life and feelings put down on paper and made to sound so . . . so tawdry, put one hand to her scarlet cheek. She reread the letter. Lady Swinley wrote,

  Dear, sweet True is being seduced by a nobleman with no motive but to pass away a few pleasant hours with a willing young lady. She has become most unguarded in her behavior, and has displayed her preference for everyone to see and remark upon. Trust me, my dear sir, I know the ways of the ton. He is dallying with her. I saw them kissing and holding each other with my own eyes, and I trust that you will do whatever is necessary to rescue poor, sweet gullible True before it is too late!

  “Well, my dear? Is she lying? I cannot help but think that she must be, and yet I would lay that terrible accusation at no door unfounded. But I could easier believe she is lying than I could believe that you had forgotten yourself so far as to be kissing a man willingly. Did he impose himself on you? And if he did, why did you not come directly home?”

  Oh, dear. What could she tell him? For she had a feeling her cousin had witnessed the embrace on the terrace the night Drake asked her to go for a drive with him the next day, and so in good conscience she could not accuse Lady Swinley of lying. She had heard a rustle as of skirts that night, but had been lost in her own feelings and had not turned. And she had done so very much more, had gone so very much further than even her cousin knew. Such was the price of moral laxity, she feared; the coming revelation would undoubtedly damage her in her father’s eyes.

  “Well, my dear? Does she lie?”

  True stared down at her hands. “No, Father. She did not lie. I have kissed Lord Drake.”

  It took a lot of explaining, for in her father’s mind feminine virtue was a fragile thing as much of appearances as of reality. A woman must not only be virtuous, but appear to be virtuous. He was sorely disappointed in her for allowing a trespass upon her person in such a way, especially since it was not followed by a proposal. Eventually, though, True talked him into believing what she was trying to accept herself, that Lord Drake’s caresses were in the nature of brotherly affection. Finally, her father more comfortable in his heart, she kissed him on the forehead and retired to her bedchamber, tired to the bones from the emotional turmoil of the day.

  But of course, sleep would not come. She was not fooled by Lady Swinley’s insincere expressions of concern for True’s virtue. The only thing that woman was concerned about was to trap Lord Drake for her daughter, and to remove anything or anyone she saw as an impediment to that goal. At first anger toward her cousin burned. She acquitted Arabella of any part of the trick. Her young cousin did not have a devious bone in her body, nor would she stoop to alarming True with worries about her father. It was the mother.

  But on reflection, she began to think that the woman had actually done her a favor. If Drake was torn between True and Bella, unhappiness for all concerned would be the sure result. With only Bella there and his mind healing, turning toward the future, he would soon fall in love, if he was not already there.

  She had known she had to come home, if only to settle her own future with Mr. Bottleby. Poor man, he had been waiting long enough. Her father said that he was on a trip up north to see that his cottage was fit for habitation, and had left a message for her that he awaited her answer, still, and hoped to receive it when he came home, which would be in a week or ten days. They could be married by license, he said, for they would not have time for the banns. If there was reproach implied in the message, True could hardly blame the man. She had kept him waiting long enough, and he was kindness himself to be so patient.

  And so her answer would be yes. If love was meant for her, it would come with Mr. Bottleby . . . Arthur; he was a good man. He must take up his duties in his new parish very soon, and she would be by his side eager to meet her future, a partnership of service to God and man. She heard Faith come up the stairs and hastily blew out her candle. Somehow, she did not want to talk right then.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I say, Drake, should we not be getting back to Lea Park?”

  Conroy fidgeted around the library as Drake shelved books in the new bookcases Stanley and his team had now finished, relishing the rich look of the scarlet, indigo and olive bindings against the dark wood. He wondered if True would like it. He had planned the new shelving and had contacted a London bookseller about some first editions he wanted, but that was before he had met Miss Truelove Becket. He would want to consult her about her preferences once they were married, for this was a family library he was building, his family library. She was a reader, he knew that, and they had talked of books they had enjoyed and those they wanted to read. He advocated Scott’s adventurous stories while she preferred the domestic tales of Miss Maria Edgeworth and the author of Pride and Prejudice. What a capital wedding present that would make to her! A first edition of—

  “Drake! Should we not be getting back to Lea Park? It is terribly rude to leave Miss Swinley to cool her heels while you muck about with a lot of old books.” Conroy stood glaring down at Drake and nudged a pile of books with his shiny boot toe, sending them spilling in a tumble over the carpet.

  Exasperated, Drake righted the pile and said, “They are my parents’ guests, Con, old man. If you are so set on it, why do you not go back alone?”

  Through gritted teeth, Conroy said, “But, Drake, old man, Miss Swinley was invited because you evidently made a cake of yourself over her last year and raised everyone’s hopes for a match.”

  Drake sat back on his heels on the blue and tan Aubusson carpet and stared up at his friend. Whatever had gotten into Conroy, usually the most even-tempered of fellows? “I did no such thing! Have you ever known me to make a cake of myself over some flighty chit?” He felt a twinge of guilt over his denial, but still! He may have flirted with her a little, but it was doing it up too strong to call it “making a cake of himself.”

  “She is not a flighty chit,” Conroy said angrily. “She is a respectable young lady and has every right to be treated as such.”

  Standing slowly to stretch out his sore leg, Drake gazed at his friend with a speculative gleam in his eyes and said, “So that is how the wind blows, eh? You fancy the pretty Arabella for yourself, and want to get back to Lea Park to cut me out of the running.”

  “Not at all, old man,” Conroy sputtered.

  Drake smiled to himself. If he was not mistaken, his friend was badly smitten with the fair Arabella. “All right, then, we have been here three days. We have hunted and played billiards and I have ordered new renovations, starting with my suite, for Stanley and his men to start. There is no real reason why we should hole up here any longer. We shall return to my parents’ home.”

  Besides, he thought, as he climbed the stairs to give Horace the news that they were leaving, there might be a letter from Truelove to Arabella. He had thought of nothing but Truelove for the three days he and his friend had spent at Thorne House, wondering how she was, hoping her father was all right, wishing he had said something before she left of how he felt. There was a nagging dread somewhere in his mind, a superstitious twinge that not telling her he loved her had been unlucky. It was strange, for he
was not a superstitious man. Some of his fellow officers in the army would not sleep without performing lucky rituals, or would not go into battle without saying certain words, and he had always scoffed at their irrationality, but now he would give anything if he could just go back three days and say “I love you” to Truelove. What if her vicar presented himself to her? Would she have him?

  No, he could not believe that with the intimacy they had created between them, she would not know his feelings. She must! If she did not come back to Lea Park soon enough for him, there was nothing stopping him from traveling down to her home and posing his question. If she did not return within a week, he would do just that.

  • • •

  Lady Swinley paced up and down the carpet of the rose parlor.

  “Mother, you will wear the carpet out with your constant pacing.” Arabella glanced up from a letter she was writing on the small table near the fireplace.

  “I cannot help it,” Lady Swinley said, stopping and frowning at her daughter. “Where is the man? Why is he not back here?”

  “If you are speaking of Lord Drake, I suppose he will come back when he feels like it.”

  “Ho, my girl, do not act as if this does not concern you.” She approached the table, leaned over and shook a finger in Arabella’s face. “It is almost November! How long do you think we can linger here with no engagement between the two of you and no sign of one in the offing? And with True out of the way, I thought you could be making some headway with the viscount.”

  “I did my best. Is it my fault if the great idiot takes this time to repair to his estate?”

  Lady Swinley pushed away from the leather-topped table with a swift, inelegant movement, betraying her agitation. “You should have secured him before he departed! He was showing you the most particular attention before True left, and her leaving should have secured the deal. Once she was out of the way I thought you would have the freedom to pursue him properly, without her interference. Who would have thought your spinster cousin could cut you out of the running?”

  Arabella glared up at her mother, who stood before the table with an ugly sneer on her face. “She has not cut me out of the running. Lord, but you make it sound like a foxhunt, like I should have Lord Drake’s brush by now.”

  Lady Swinley once again planted her two hands on the table and leaned across it. “I don’t think you’re taking this seriously enough, my girl. We shall be the talk of the ton this coming spring, and not for desirable reasons, if you do not secure that ‘great idiot,’ as you call him, and his thirty thousand a year. How would you like those Stimson chits to wed before you? I hear that Charlotte has accepted Sir Richard Fosdick, and that Caroline is expected to be betrothed before the start of the new Season. But you, with your looks, have not secured even—”

  “My lord,” Arabella said, rising and speaking loudly, trying to drown out her mother’s strident voice before Lord Drake should hear her complaints. “Welcome back. I hope your time at Thorne House was pleasant.”

  • • •

  Lady Leathorne presided over the tea table, dispensing cups of bohea and plates of cakes with her usual aplomb. It was good that Drake was back, and he looked fine, really. But the first question he had asked when he arrived after a three-day absence was whether there was any news of the Vicar Becket, Miss Becket’s father, a man he had never met! He was doing the pretty to Miss Swinley at that moment, while Lord Conroy talked to the earl, but still, the countess could not help noticing that he gave Arabella only half his attention.

  The girl was a vision in a pale plum day dress with dove gray ribbons, her silvery blonde hair shining in the weak daylight that still came through the open curtains. Lady Leathorne had begun, with a mother’s fierce loyalty, to think that Arabella was perhaps not good enough for Drake, but they had spent some time together over the last few days and the girl was remarkably sensible, well-spoken, and no one could fault her breeding or bloodlines. She had not absorbed Isabella’s crassness, it seemed, yet.

  Drake caught her watching him, and came over to her with a murmured word to Arabella. “Mama, you look worried. What’s wrong?” He sat by her and captured her hand.

  How strange, she thought, as she ran her fingers through his mop of tawny golden curls. It seemed only yesterday that he sat beside her with his feet not touching the carpet, his legs were so short, and she did not have to reach up to ruffle his curls. And yet he would be three and thirty on his next birthday, at the end of December. “Nothing, my dear. Are you sleeping well these days?”

  His expression sobered, but he answered her. “Better. I have been a little restless, but that is why I stayed at Thorne House. I want it to be ready for . . .” He did not finish his sentence, but left it hanging in the air between them with just a shrug.

  And she would not push it. It was as close as he had come to stating a future plan. “I see Lord Conroy has taken advantage of your defection to sit by Arabella.”

  Drake glanced over and chuckled. “I fear he is besotted. She is fetching, isn’t she?”

  “She’s beautiful. And really a nice girl, I think. She improves upon acquaintance. What say you?” She shot her son a sideways glance.

  “Very nice. More intelligent than I at first thought, spirited, reasonably good-natured. A man could do worse.”

  Lady Leathorne’s hopes soared. Was he really looking seriously at Arabella Swinley with marriage on his mind? Oh, if he only would!

  Lady Swinley swept into the room that moment. She waved a cream piece of paper that was crossed and recrossed with writing, around in the air. “Marvelous news!” she crowed. “Our little cousin, Miss Becket, has accepted her vicar and is to marry him within the fortnight!”

  • • •

  The mud, always the muck squishing up under his scarlet tunic! And the pain from the damned saber thrust shot through him. He was going to die. Andromeda’s ponderous weight was burying him alive on the muddy field of Mont St. Jean, and all he could see were the faces of the dead, screaming out for his blood, shrieking like Valkyries for him to join them in hell.

  He couldn’t breathe! Another few minutes and he must perish, suffocated with the hideous guilt of a thousand deaths, those of the enemy, and those of his own men, men who would never see sweethearts nor babies, aged mothers nor frantic wives again. Faces twisted in pain, crabbed hands clawed at him, dragging him . . .

  “Sir! Major! You’re right bedeviled again, sir, an’ ya must wake up.”

  Drake awoke gasping and striking out with his fist, his pillow over his face, the case rent from his desperate clawing to escape the suffocating mud of the battlefield. Abruptly the night demons fled, leaving him shaking and weak with horror. “Oh, God, Horace! I thought I was back there; I thought I was dying again!” He sat, but doubled over and buried his face in the silky counterpane, pounding his fist into the mattress. “I thought this was over! Merciful God, I thought I was cured.”

  “’Pears like you’re not quite over it yet. But ya had a good run o’ nights, sir, and that’ll happen again.”

  Drake flung the covers back and slung his legs over the edge of the bed. “I don’t think so, Horace. I don’t think I shall ever sleep peacefully again. Get my shirt.”

  “But there’s a rain’s set in, sir . . . my lord. You’ll catch yer death, an’ that’s a fact.”

  “I don’t give a damn,” Drake roared, his fierce eyes blazing in an unusual show of temper. “Get my damned shirt and breeches, or I’ll report you for—”

  “To who will you be reportin’ me, sir, beggin’ yer parding. Her ladyship?” Horace stared at Drake, sadness in his brown eyes.

  “Just get my breeches,” Drake said wearily.

  Lady Leathorne, awoken by the angry roar of her son’s voice, watched out the window, fretting. Yes, there he went down to the stable, and clad only in his shirt and breeches and boots! There was a steady, cold drizzle coming down. What did the foolish boy think he was doing? She laid her face against the cold pane a
nd watched as a few moments later Drake galloped from the stables on Thunder, his favorite gelding. No more sleep for him that night, she guessed. Nor for her. She put on her wrap and went downstairs to wait.

  • • •

  “And so Miss Stimson said to Andrew Fetterly, ‘Sir, you have ruined my train, and I would be very grateful if you would refrain from ruining my joke!’ Isn’t that delicious?”

  Drake stared off into space, his handsome face, which in the last month had lost some of its gauntness, spoiled by a brooding expression. Arabella gazed up at him desperately, wondering how one charmed a man who did not even know one was there? No one had ever prepared her for that skill.

  “Lord Drake,” she said, hearing the angry edge to her voice but starting not to care. “Have you been attending?”

  “What? Huh? Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Swinley. You were speaking of a delicious, uh, a delicious . . .”

  They walked together along the riverbank, near an enormous oak tree, and Lord Drake had stopped to caress the weathered bark as if it were the softest of skin. Arabella, bewildered, watched him. What was wrong with him? Was he mad? She had heard his screams the night before; they had awoken her from a sound sleep and a dream of the sparkling London Season and a ball to end all balls. She shivered. And this was the man her mother wanted her to attach herself to for all time?

  He had seemed better for a while, but the last few days had seen him lapse into his dark moodiness. Nathan, or rather, Lord Conroy, as she should call him, said that Drake had had several good nights at his own estate, but the nightmares had resumed at Lea Park. Perhaps that was the key. Once they married they need never stay at Lea Park, or if he did, she did not have to come.

  His handsome mouth turned down into a scowl, Lord Drake slammed his heavy fist against the tree and turned back to her. “Does your cousin . . . does she ever change her mind, say one thing and do another?”