Brooke nodded once. “Yes, we mustn’t take any chances.”
The herd had already been reduced to a minimum by disease and sales to make ends meet. She needed every shilling the cows’ milk brought. Losing another, let alone two or three good breeders...
No, I won’t think of it.
She stopped pacing and forced a cheerful smile. Nonetheless, from the skeptical look Mabry speedily masked, his thoughts ran parallel to hers—one reason she put her trust in the man. Honest and intelligent, he’d worked alongside her to restore the beleaguered herd and farm after Papa died. Their existence, their livelihood, everyone at Esherton’s future depended on the estate flourishing once more.
“It’s only been a few hours.” Almost nine, truth to tell. Brooke scratched her temple. “Perhaps the ladies need a little more time to recover.” If they recovered. “The calves are strong, aren’t they?” Please, God, they must be. She held her breath, anticipating Mabry’s response.
His countenance lightened and the merry sparkle returned to his eyes. “Aye, the mites are fine. Feedin’ like they’re hollow to their wee hooves.”
Tension lessoned its ruthless grip, and hope peeked from beneath her vast mound of worries.
Six calves had been guaranteed in trade to her neighbor and fellow dairy farmer, Silas Huffington, for the grain and medicines he’d provided to see Esherton Green’s herd through last winter. Brooke didn’t have the means to pay him if the calves didn’t survive—though the old reprobate had hinted he’d make her a deal of a much less respectable nature if she ran short of cattle with which to barter. Each pence she’d stashed away—groat by miserable groat, these past four years—lay in the hidden drawer of Papa’s desk and must go to purchase a bull.
Wisdom had decreed replacing Old Buford two years ago but, short on funds, she’d waited until it was too late. His heart had stopped while he performed the duties expected of a breeding bull. Not the worst way to cock up one’s toes...er, hooves, but she’d counted on him siring at least two-score calves this season and wagered everything on the calving this year and next. The poor brute had expired before he’d completed the job.
Her thoughts careened around inside her skull. Without a bull, she would lose everything.
My home, care of my sister and cousins, my reasons for existing.
She squared her shoulders, resolution strengthening her. She still retained the Culpepper sapphire parure set. If all else failed, she would pawn the jewelry. She’d planned on using the money from the gems’ sale to bestow small marriage settlements on the girls. Still, pawning the set was a price worth paying to keep her family at Esherton Green, even if it meant that any chance of her sister and three cousins securing a decent match would evaporate faster than a dab of milk on a hot cook stove. Good standing and breeding meant little if one’s fortune proved meaner than a churchyard beggar’s.
“How’s the big bull calf that came breech on Sunday?” Brooke tossed the question over her shoulder as she poked the fire and encouraged the blaze to burn hotter. After setting the tool aside, she faced the overseer.
“Greediest of the lot.” Mabry laughed and slapped his thigh. “Quite the appetite he has, and friendly as our Freddy there. Likes his ears scratched too.”
Brooke chuckled and ran her hand across Freddy’s spine. The dog wiggled in excitement and stuck his rear legs straight out behind him, gazing at her in adoration. In his youth, he’d been an excellent cattle herder. Now he’d gone fat and arthritic, his sweet face gray to his eyebrows. On occasion, he still dashed after the cattle, the instinctive drive to herd deep in the marrow of his bones.
Another shudder shook her. Why was she so blasted cold today? She relented and placed a good-sized log atop the others. The feeble flames hissed and spat before greedily engulfing the new addition. Lord, she prayed she wasn’t ailing. She simply couldn’t afford to become ill.
A scratching at the door barely preceded the entrance of Duffen bearing a tea service. “Gotten to where a man cannot find a quiet corner to shut his eyes for a blink or two anymore.”
Shuffling into the room, he yawned and revealed how few teeth remained in his mouth. One sock sagged around his ankle, his grizzled hair poked every which way, and his shirttail hung askew. Typical Duffen.
“Devil’s day, it is.” He scowled in the window’s direction, his mouth pressed into a grim line. “Mark my words, trouble’s afoot.”
Not quite a butler, but certainly more than a simple retainer, the man, now hunched from age, had been a fixture at Esherton Green Brooke’s entire life. He loved the place as much as, if not more than, she, and she couldn’t afford to hire a servant to replace him. A light purse had forced Brooke to let the household staff go when Papa died. The cook, Mrs. Jennings, Duffen, and Flora, a maid-of-all-work, had stayed on. However, they received no salaries—only room and board.
The income from the dairy scarcely permitted Brooke to retain a few milkmaids and stable hands, yet not once had she heard a whispered complaint from anyone.
Everybody, including Brooke, her sister, Brette, and their cousins—Blythe, and the twins, Blaike and Blaire—did their part to keep the farm operating at a profit. A meager profit, particularly as, for the past five years, Esherton Green’s legal heir, Sheridan Gainsborough, had received half the proceeds. In return, he permitted Brooke and the girls to reside there. He’d also been appointed their guardian. But, from his silence and failure to visit the farm, he seemed perfectly content to let her carry on as provider and caretaker.
“Ridiculous law. Only the next male in line can inherit,” she muttered.
Especially when he proved a disinterested bore. Papa had thought so too, but the choice hadn’t been his to make. If only she could keep the funds she sent to Sheridan each quarter, Brooke could make something of Esherton and secure her sister and cousins’ futures too.
If wishes were gold pieces, I’d be rich indeed.
Brooke sneezed then sneezed again. Dash it all. A cold?
The fresh log snapped loudly, and Brooke started. The blaze’s heat had failed to warm her opinion of her second cousin. She hadn’t met him and lacked a personal notion of his character, but Papa had hinted that Sheridan was a scallywag and possessed unsavory habits.
A greedy sot, too.
The one time her quarterly remittance had been late, because Brooke had taken a tumble and broken her arm, he’d written a disagreeable letter demanding his money.
His money, indeed.
Sheridan had threatened to sell Esherton Green’s acreage and turn her and the foursome onto the street if she ever delayed payment again.
A ruckus beyond the entrance announced the girls’ arrival. Laughing and chatting, the blond quartet billowed into the room. Their gowns, several seasons out of fashion, in no way detracted from their charm, and pride swelled in Brooke’s heart. Lovely, both in countenance and disposition, and the dears worked hard too.
“Duffen says we’re to have tea in here today.” Attired in a Pomona green gown too short for her tall frame, Blaike plopped on to the sofa. Her twin, Blaire, wearing a similar dress in dark rose and equally inadequate in length, flopped beside her.
Each girl scooped a drowsy cat into her lap. The cats’ wiry whiskers twitched, and they blinked their sleepy amber eyes a few times before closing them once more as the low rumble of contented purrs filled the room.
“Yes, I didn’t think we needed to light a fire in the drawing room when this one will suffice.” As things stood, too little coal and seasoned firewood remained to see them comfortably until summer.
Brette sailed across the study, her slate-blue gingham dress the only one of the quartet’s fashionably long enough. Repeated laundering had turned the garment a peculiar greenish color, much like tarnished copper. She looped her arm through Brooke’s.
“Look, dearest.” Brette pointed to the tray. “I splurged and made a half-batch of shortbread biscuits. It’s been so long since we’ve indulged, and today is your bir
thday. To celebrate, I insisted on fresh tea leaves as well.”
Brooke would have preferred to ignore the day.
Three and twenty.
On the shelf. Past her prime. Long in the tooth. Spinster. Old maid.
She’d relinquished her one chance at love. In order to nurse her ailing father and assume the care of her young sister and three orphaned cousins, she’d refused Humphrey Benbridge’s proposal. She couldn’t have put her happiness before their welfare and deserted them when they needed her most. Who would’ve cared for them if she hadn’t?
No one.
Mr. Benbridge controlled the purse strings, and Humphrey had neither offered nor been in a position to take on their care. Devastated, or so he’d claimed, he’d departed to the continent five years ago.
She’d not seen him since.
Nonetheless, his sister, Josephina, remained a friend and occasionally remarked on Humphrey’s travels abroad. Burying the pieces of her broken heart beneath hard work and devotion to her family, Brooke had rolled up her sleeves and plunged into her forced role as breadwinner, determined that sacrificing her love not be in vain.
Yes, it grieved her that she wouldn’t experience a man’s passion or bear children, but to wallow in doldrums was a waste of energy and emotion. Instead, she focused on building a future for her sister and cousins—so they might have what she never would—and allowed her dreams to fade into obscurity.
“Happy birthday.” Brette squeezed her hand.
Brooke offered her sister a rueful half-smile. “Ah, I’d hoped you’d forgotten.”
“Don’t be silly, Brooke. We couldn’t forget your special day.” Twenty-year-old Blythe—standing with her hands behind her—grinned and pulled a small, neatly-wrapped gift tied with a cheerful yellow ribbon from behind her. Sweet dear. She’d used the trimming from her gown to adorn the package.
“Hmph. Need seedcake an’ champagne to celebrate a birthday properly.” The contents of the tray rattled and clanked when Duffen scuffed his way to the table between the sofa and chairs. After depositing the tea service, he lifted a letter from the surface. Tea dripped from one stained corner. “This arrived for you yesterday, Miss Brooke. I forgot where I’d put it until just now.”
If I can read it with the ink running to London and back.
He shook the letter, oblivious to the tawny droplets spraying every which way.
Mabry raised a bushy gray eyebrow, and the twins hid giggles by concealing their faces in the cat’s striped coats.
Brette set about pouring the tea, although her lips twitched suspiciously.
Freddy sat on his haunches and barked, his button eyes fixed on the paper, evidently mistaking it for a tasty morsel he would’ve liked to sample. He licked his chops, a testament to his waning eyesight.
“Thank you, Duffen.” Brooke took the letter by one soggy corner. Holding it gingerly, she flipped it over. No return address.
“Aren’t you going to read it?” Blythe set the gift on the table before settling on the sofa and smoothing her skirt. They didn’t get a whole lot of post at Esherton. Truth be known, this was the first letter in months. Blythe’s gaze roved to the other girls and the equally eager expressions on their faces. “We’re on pins and needles,” she quipped, fluttering her hands and winking.
Brooke smiled and cracked the brownish wax seal with her fingernail. Their lives had become rather monotonous, so much so that a simple, soggy, correspondence sent the girls into a dither of anticipation.
My Dearest Cousin...
Brooke glanced up. “It’s from Sheridan.
Purchase BROOKE: WAGERS GONE AWRY
BLYTHE: SCHEMES GONE AMISS
Conundrums of the Misses Culpeppers, Book Two
Is protecting his honor more important than winning her heart?
Intrepid and outspoken...
Dragged to London for a Season, Blythe Culpepper is dismayed to learn her guardian has enlisted the devilishly attractive Lord Leventhorpe--the one man she detests--to assist with her Come Out. Since their first encounter, hostile looks and cutting retorts have abounded whenever they meet. Still, she cannot deny the way her body reacts when he’s near. So perhaps it’s no surprise that upon overhearing another woman scheming to entrap Tristan into marriage, Blythe risks all to warn him.
Haunted by childhood trauma...
Tristan, the austere and controlled Marquis of Leventhorpe, usually avoids social gatherings. So why, against his better judgement, does he agree to aid his closest friend in presenting the Culpeppers to the ton? Might it be because one particular Culpepper stirs more than his interest? Blythe taxes him to his limits with her sharp wit and even sharper tongue. Yet, he cannot deny the beauty fascinates him.
However, when a past enemy comes calling, using Blythe to settle old scores, Tristan must decide if protecting his honor is more important than winning the heart of the woman he has come to love.
Caution: This book contains a nobleman with a dark past, a strong-minded miss who is willing to cause a scandal if it means she can leave London, a spoiled, aging Welsh Corgi with digestive disruptions that can clear a room, and an entourage of goodhearted sisters and cousins whose antics land them in conundrum after conundrum.
Read the second installment of the Conundrums of the Misses Culpepper historical Regency romance series for a romping, emotional, and romantic adventure you won't want to put down.
Purchase BLYTHE: SCHEMES GONE AMISS
BRETTE: INTENTIONS GONE ASTRAY
Conundrums of the Misses Culpepper, Book 3
How many times should a man propose before finally giving up?
He thought his adventures were over.
A rogue reluctantly turned rector, Alexander Hawksworth, prefers soirées to sermons and parties to prayers. Though impoverished, he seizes every opportunity to escape parish duties, preferring to hob nob with London’s finest–especially after the precocious and petite Brette Culpepper arrives in Town. When he unexpectedly inherits an earldom, he’s determined to make her his countess. Until he’s accused of murdering the previous earl.
Then she burst headlong into his life.
New to Society, Brette adores the whirlwind social scene, the stream of invitations, the slightly-sensual verbal sparring with the devilishly attractive, much too witty, and oh, so unsuitable Mr. Hawksworth. But her fairytale existence crashes to a halt when rumors circulate she’s a peer’s illegitimate granddaughter, and a newly appointed guardian emerges, intent on forcing her to wed an elderly degenerate.
Time is against them as Alex struggles to clear his name and deliver the woman he loves from an unthinkable fate.
Caution: This book contains a rector too sexy for his own good, a match-making, meddling miss who finds herself in one conundrum after another, an endearing portly Welsh Corgi, and a troupe of well-meaning, interfering cousins and sisters
Read the third installment of the Conundrums of the Misses Culpepper historical Regency romance series for a romping, emotional, and romantic adventure you won’t want to put down.
Purchase BRETTE: INTENTIONS GONE ASTRAY
Enjoy the first chapter of A KISS FOR MISS KINGSLEY
A Waltz with a Rogue, Book One
Can a beautiful spinster trust love again? Especially if the same man asks?
Olivia Kingsley didn’t expect to fall in love and receive a secret marriage proposal two weeks into her first Season. However, one dance with Allen Wimpleton and her fate is sealed. Or so she thinks until her eccentric and ailing father announces he’s moving the family to the Caribbean for a year. Distraught at her leaving, and unaware of her father’s ill health, Allen demands she choose—him or her father.
Heartbroken at Allen's callousness, but thankful he’s revealed his true nature before she married him, Olivia turns her back on their love. The year becomes three, enough time for her broken heart to heal, and after her father dies, Olivia returns to England. Coming face to face with an embittered Allen, she realizes she never p
urged him from her heart, and once again the flames of passion ignite. But is it too late for their love?
Caution: This humorous historical Regency romance contains a dashing, pessimistic rogue, a strong-minded heroine with a temperament as fiery as her red hair, an audacious aunt who says precisely what she thinks, and an uppity villainess who gets her comeuppance at last.
Read the 1st installment in the Waltz with a Rogue historical Regency romance series for a rousing, emotional, and romantic adventure you can't put down.
A lady must never forget her manners nor lose her composure.
~A Lady’s Guide to Proper Comportment
London, England
Late May, 1818
“This is a monumental mistake.”
God’s toenails. What were you thinking, Olivia Kingsley, agreeing to Auntie Muriel’s addlepated scheme?
Why had she ever agreed to this farce?
Fingering the heavy ruby pendant hanging at the hollow of her neck, Olivia peeked out the window as the conveyance rounded the corner onto Berkeley Square. Good God. Carriage upon carriage, like great shiny beetles, lined the street beside an ostentatious manor. Her heart skipped a long beat, and she ducked out of sight.
Braving another glance from the window’s corner, her stomach pitched worse than a ship amid a hurricane. The full moon’s milky light, along with the mansion’s rows of glowing diamond-shaped panes, illuminated the street. Dignified guests in their evening finery swarmed before the grand entrance and on the granite stairs as they waited their turn to enter Viscount and Viscountess Wimpleton’s home.
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