by Matilda Hart
“Indeed.” Just as I could not say ‘no’ to you, she thought.
Charles stepped in, a mixture of embarrassment and offense. “Lord Donovan, given your absence, you would be unaware that my sister returns to Liverpool tomorrow, so she is engaged to have one last dinner with myself and Elinor.”
Lord Donovan wiped his brow. “You leave for Liverpool, tomorrow?”
Annabel nodded. She could not draw her eyes from his, and noticed that he was looking at her in the same way.
“Then that is London’s loss, Charles. You have such a beautiful garden here, but you are sending away your fairest flower.”
Annabel blushed, so much so that Charles noticed.
“I do not mean to detain, you Lord Donovan. I am sure that you have much business to attend to now that you have returned to England.”
Lord Donovan nodded, and smiled once more at Annabel. “Then I will no longer impose myself on your family gathering, Charles. Miss Fletcher,” and he reached out and took her hand. “I bid you adieu. I trust that you will open up and bloom in fullness in Liverpool.”
“My lord,” and she curtsied, deep and low, clinging to his hand as a wave of emotion shook her. “I wish you all the best.”
He lifted her up, and she felt the strength in him. “Now, one last matter. In France, I found a small gift for you, Miss Fletcher. A book of sonnets. I trust that you may find some time tonight to read them before your sad dinner with brother Charles.”
Matthews, who had hung back by the door, proceeded to hand to the Duke a small, delicately bound book. He gave it to Annabel, whispering: “The sonnet on lost love is well worth reading.”
Annabel took the book in her hands, rubbing its spine with her finger. “Thank you, Lord Donovan. You are too kind.”
“Too kind,” echoed Charles.
He smiled. “I have also been too improper. It is time I took my leave of you both. Miss Fletcher, I wish you a safe journey.” And with that, he and Matthews departed without another word.
“What an impertinent man,” muttered Charles. “I do not care if the Prince Regent has him selecting his finest wines by hand. To arrive in such a manner, unannounced, and to expect that we would simply turn our own plans over for his, that is the height of rudeness.”
“Oh Charles, sometimes you do so remind me of mother.” Smiling, Annabel walked upstairs with the book in her hand, her spirits lifted by the appearance of Lord Donovan, and the way he could not take his eyes off her. Where he had grasped her hand, she felt a warmth emanate and flow to the rest of her body. She hurried upstairs, and into her rooms, where she quickly told Susan who had just visited the house.
“Lord Donovan was here?” she gasped.
“Yes, and he gave me this book as a gift.” Annabel sat down, flicked the pages of the book until she found an envelope, and hurriedly opened it.
Chapter Ten
The handwriting was fluent and elegant. Annabel devoured the contents, hoping that this was not a gentleman’s way of bringing a close to their chapter of passion:
My Dearest Annabel,
My first thoughts are shameful. I have treated you badly, and I owe you an explanation. Your note to me via Matthews was only delivered to me when I was aboard the ship that was to take me to Calais. The Prince Regent’s business was delicate and immediate, and it trumped – in Matthews’ mind – the importance of your note. To be fair to him, in the past I have received notes from women I have been with, and I have always cast them aside. I read your note, though, with a great passion. I wished I could have gone back in time, and visited you in your rooms like you desired. I wanted to touch you again. I want to touch you now. I want to hold you in my arms and hear you breathe beneath me. It is for those reasons, that I felt I could not trust any letter to the post. No matter how carefully I tried to craft a reply, my passion for you – my desire for all of you – overwhelms me and it drips out on the page. I have many enemies, and I do not trust that anything I send through the post will only be seen by the intended recipient. That, and the business I was on, have been the reasons for my delay in responding. It is not through a lack of feelings for you, quite the contrary. I have only wanted you more. In short, you have captured my heart, my soul, and my body. Each night that I am without you, my body will not let the memory of you go. Matthews thought that the usual arrangements would be in order for our continental trip, but I was sickened by the thought of sharing what I had shared with you with another woman.
I only want you. You alone.
There is much that I will need to confess to you if you will have me – many rumors to dispel and many to confirm as well. That is the way of it with me – I am afraid I am no gentleman, but when it comes to you, I am prepared to lay myself bare before you. However, I am assuming something that I hope to be true. That assumption is that you still have deep feelings for me. I had, as you know, intended to arrange for us to be married. While abroad, I had Matthews make some discreet enquiries through his associates in England. It seems that the Duke of Birkenhead has some distinctly negative feelings about me as a person, let alone as a potential son-in-law. He would not, in any way, shape or form, consent to us being married.
Annabel knew this to be true. She knew that the expectations of her parents, and her wider society, would simply not allow for her to marry the man that she loved and desired. She read on without hope:
Annabel, what I propose next may seem shocking to you. I am a man of immense wealth, and over the past month I have called in many notes and liquefied my assets. I have enough to support a small household and myself. I intend to leave England, to break my employment with the Prince Regent, and reside in Bordeaux. I have bought a lovely country house there, and it is charming. What it lacks is a happy couple to live in it, and I want you to join me. I want you to sever your ties in England and escape whatever pallid and loveless marriage your father is planning for you. Join me, and we can start afresh, with nothing in our lives but love, passion and each other. There will be no duty to crowd out what we both deeply desire – each other.
I know what I am asking. It is much to ask.
But it will be worth it.
On the day that you have receive this note, I will be waiting by the London docks, near the ‘Four Horses’ Inn. The ship nearest there is the ‘Hebrides’, my own vessel. It will set sail as soon as we need it to do so. Bring along as much as you need for sea voyage – anything else can be purchased in Paris on route to Bordeaux. I will await you on the dock.
If you are not there by morning, I will know that you do not feel the same way about me. If that is the case, I will continue on to Bordeaux alone.
Please join me, my love. These last months have been lonely without you. Nothing eases the pain of being separated from you, but the thought of us being joined together again.
All my love,
Donovan.
PS Matthews tells me that you must bring Susan along with you.
Annabel exhaled. Until that moment, she had not been aware that she had been holding her breath. This letter was beyond her wildest dreams. She carefully folded it, kissed it, and placed it back in the book that Lord Donovan had given her. There was one thought that rose across and above the tide of emotions that were sweeping over her: he wants me just as much as I want him. Her heart beat faster as she repeated the thought over, and over, and over. Tears of joy – unbridled joy – spilled down her cheeks as she contemplated a life of passion and freedom with a man she loved, and who loved her. Using the letter as a fan, she cooled her wet cheeks and tried to compose herself.
“Susan!” she called out.
Susan bustled in. “Yes, miss?”
“I need you to do some repacking.”
“Miss?” There was less bustle in her voice.
“I have just been invited – well, we have just been invited to go on a journey with Lord Donovan Hayden to France. So I need you to pack a few small bags of the necessities for a sea voyage, plus maybe, one or two si
mple outfits? Make it three. The rest we can purchase later.”
Susan’s eyes narrowed. “Lord Donovan? France? Miss, what do you mean?”
“I mean to say, I am running away with Lord Donovan to Bordeaux.” Annabel felt giddy, giddy like a child at Christmas. “And you, Susan, have been requested to join us, along with Matthews.”
“Matthews?”
Annabel beamed. “At his request.”
Tears flowed again, this time down Susan’s face. “I will pack immediately. When do we leave?”
“Immediately.”
Susan paused. “We will need a carriage.”
“Yes, and discretion.”
“Leave it to me, miss – you best go downstairs for dinner, and say your goodbyes to your brother and his wife. I dare say, we shan’t see them again for some time.”
The reality of what she was about to embark upon hit Annabel. In her freedom, there would be a wake left behind that others would have to deal with. For a moment, she felt sorry for Charles and Elinor – but, she thought, they have each other, and perhaps soon they would have a family of their own to occupy their time and thoughts.
Annabel went downstairs, and ate with Charles and Elinor. They both remarked on the impropriety of Lord Donovan’s visit, but also on how much better Annabel looked. “I had a small sleep,” was all that she said, “and it seems to have done me no end of good.”
“So long as you sleep well, tonight, Annabel,” chided Charles. “You have a long journey ahead of you tomorrow.”
“I am looking forward to bed tonight,” she replied. “And the journey as well.”
“What? Looking forward to Liverpool?” exclaimed Charles. “What a turn of events this is.”
Elinor nodded. “It is wonderful what a good sleep can do for one’s outlook on life.”
“Indeed,” agreed Annabel. “Indeed.”
Later, she said a heartfelt goodnight to them both, and quickly took to her room. “Are we ready?”
“We are, miss,” nodded Susan. “The packing is done. I took the liberty of giving some of your less favored jewels to one of the footmen, and he has arranged for the carriage to be at the gates. He’ll help carry our bags to the carriage, so as to make less noise.”
An hour or so later, once Charles and Elinor had retired, Annabel and Susan slipped out of the manor. Annabel paused for a moment, waiting for any sign of regret or sadness. None came. Once aboard the carriage, they slipped away into the night. In a few hours, Annabel thought, she would be at the docks and in the arms of Lord Donovan once again.
The carriage jostled its way through the sleeping streets of London, through what her mother would have referred to as ‘bad’ neighborhoods. They halted abruptly, and before she knew it, Annabel found herself fiddling with the carriage door handle and almost falling out of the carriage. She gathered up her skirt, quickly took in her surrounds, and found the ‘Four Horses’ Inn. From there, it was easy to find Lord Donovan. In the pale moonlight, he cut an imposing figure upon the dock nearest the Hebrides. She ran to him, and he, spotting her, sprinted in full stride to reach her. Annabel felt herself being swept up into his powerful grasp, and then their lips crashed together in a passionate kiss.
Lord Donovan put her down. “You came,” he said, breathlessly.
“Of course I did. There is no life here without you. No life here without love.” And they kissed again.
“I love you, Annabel.” He paused, waiting for her to respond.
“And I love you,” she laughed. “I cannot wait to start our lives together. When do we sail?”
“The tide will be right in the morning, the captain tells me. So he and his crew are out for the next few hours, getting supplies and such. Matthews will see that Susan is well looked after at the inn, so we have the ship to ourselves. My quarters – though luxurious – are only awaiting your touch. As am I.” And he kissed her again, deeply and freely.
They boarded the ship, hand in hand, and Annabel knew beyond anything else, that all that awaited her now was a life filled with passion and love. Donovan drew her close, and whispered, “Now, let us enjoy together the best life I have to offer you.”
THE END
BONUS!! - We want to hear your thoughts. Rate this eBook and get another one FREE!
Click here or copy the link below to leave your feedback.
https://docs.google.com/a/readersclubdeluxe.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSfBstB4hoXbRzGjudZP9Bys9Hmv4t9O8so9_9hzQDu4lAhcOw/viewform
Thank you,
Historical Deluxe,
GET THREE HISTORICAL EBOOKS FOR FREE
Join the “Historical Deluxe” newsletter and THREE eBooks for FREE!
*Get Free Historical Romance eBooks for your reading device and other cool giveaways*
*Discover exclusive deals and discounts before anyone else*
*Be the first to know about hot new releases from your favorite authors*
Copy or click the link below to join
https://readersclub.leadpages.co/hdk/
Touched by A Marquess
Introduction
Lady Alice, recently turned eighteen is beautiful, clever and rich. She also has designs on her sister’s fiancé and, with the impetuosity of youth, has decided to steal him from her.
As the youngest daughter of Duke Beckham, all her brothers and sisters are married off but one: Claire, who is due to marry a Marquess, Lord Clayton Atwater. Claire’s fiancé seems deeply in love with her, but Alice has her own designs on him and neither her maid nor her best friend from childhood can dissuade her in her plans to win him from Claire.
If her scheming is to pay off it will take more than mere flirting. She wants to feel the touch of the Marquess, and Alice will need to risk even her own safety in a bid to gain his affections.
Can Alice’s selfishness be redeemed by love? Or will she destroy herself and those she claims to care about?
‘The course of true love never did runs smooth,’ that was never truer than in ‘Touched by the Marquess’.
Chapter One
‘Your sister is not a bitch, Lady Alice’ says Moira, my maid, as she runs a brush through my hair, pulling – I think – a little harder at the tangles than usual. Of course she is wrong.
Claire Beckham, my sister, is a bitch, and as a result wholly unsuited in her pairing with Lord Clayton Atwater, Marquess, poet, and engaged to be married to Claire in a matter of weeks.
Claire and Clayton: the match doesn’t go much deeper than the first syllables of their names, and the marriage will be shallower still. He will no doubt be forced to find what he needs outside of the marriage, which of course would be a disgrace for him and ruinous for my sister. But then again, despite whatever Moira says, Claire is – without doubt – a bitch.
Lord Atwater arrived yesterday. My eighteenth birthday was last month and was rather overshadowed by the announcement of my sister’s previously ‘secret’ engagement to the Marquess. It came as no surprise to me however – I am finding that to have come of age opens doors in society. Suddenly all the gossip of the civilised world is mine. The major scandals the major cities and every scandal in my own close sphere make their way from friend of friends by post horse and weekend visits and like ripples in a web, the arrival of a fly in one corner can be felt eventually by the spider on the far side. The web of rumour had been buzzing with news of Atwater’s transition from elegant and eligible bachelor to quiet domesticity was a great blow to many who moved in the highest circles of the upper classes.
I have already formed a few small circles of my own and they serve as conduits of news beyond our rather parochial threads on the web. The latest scandals, like the latest fashions, do come late to the North and my father’s lands are about as far North as one can go and still be considered English. But Lord Atwater is one of us, although his spends most of his time in London, his hereditary lands border my father’s.
The Beckhams and Atwaters have a long military history, joined together in conflict with the Scots,
and the title of Duke was granted to my family largely for some sort of thuggery on behalf of the Tudors, I believe. The family archivist is a notorious exaggerator for his employers.
Father often complains about the Unification under one crown. He rather missed his chance to prove himself worthier than the Picts and Celts who roamed North of Hadrian’s Wall. Instead he has had to fight the gout that comes from long hunting parties in the Highlands, with our Scottish neighbour’s the MacAmbraises – themselves heirs to Marquesal holdings – where very little hunting is done and much is made of the abilities of the Scottish distilleries.
‘You are right of course,’ I tell Moira, lying for an easy life – and a gentler brushing of my hair, and she smiles the simple smile of her kind; the Irish are so easily mollified I find, and make better servants than most of the families further South would credit. After all the Irish chose to come over here, which shows excellent taste on their part. They can’t possibly be the barbarians public opinion paints them as.
‘You’ll have your turn, Miss,’ she warbles on. ‘With Claire married there will someone suitable for you in no time.’ This appears to be apropos of nothing, my comment regarding my sister was triggered by a discussion of a dress stolen by her from me to impress Lord Atwater on his arrival.
We were all lined up to greet him in the hallway, my brothers and their wives were in town, and Jane my oldest sister had joined us by herself, which father thought a very great shame. He does miss his grandchildren so much.
We waited and waited and then there he was, Claire on his arm. And he was handsome beyond belief, tall and a little gaunt, how I imagine Byron to be. Dark black hair, pale skin, and his lips pink, almost like a woman’s.
