Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
1803, Woodscastle in Chiswick
The Gossip
of an Earl
Linda Rae Sande
This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.
The Gossip of an Earl
ISBN: 978-0-9964433-7-1
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright © 2016 Linda Rae Sande
V1.0
Cover photograph © PeriodImages.com and Dreamstime.com
Cover art by KGee Designs.
All rights reserved - used with permission.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.
To my editor, Katrina Teele Fair, and my proofreader,
Sarah Lipinski, for all the help and encouragement
Regency Romances by Linda Rae Sande
The Daughters of the Aristocracy
The Kiss of a Viscount
The Grace of a Duke
The Seduction of an Earl
The Sons of the Aristocracy
Tuesday Nights
The Widowed Countess
My Fair Groom
The Sisters of the Aristocracy
The Story of a Baron
The Passion of a Marquess
The Desire of a Lady
The Brothers of the Aristocracy
The Love of a Rake
The Caress of a Commander
The Epiphany of an Explorer
The Widows of the Aristocracy
The Gossip of an Earl
The Cousins of the Aristocracy
The Promise of a Gentleman
Chapter 1
Prologue
Dear Readers, I hardly know where to start in this retrospective, the last issue of The Tattler under our editorship. Next week, you shall be learning the latest on-dit from someone else, although I assure you that you will be left in good hands (or good ears). You asked how it was possible a nearly thirty-year-old earl ended up betrothed to a younger daughter of the ton in the course of only two days. Truth be told, the courtship lasted two full months. Yes, dear readers, I am guilty of having withheld information from you. In the interest of full disclosure, here is where our tale begins. Do pay attention to the dates. ~ The lead story in the May 14, 1818 issue of The Tattler.
Friday, March 13, 1818 in Lord Weatherstone’s gardens
A man’s lips weren’t so very different from a woman’s, Emelia Comber decided as she glanced in the direction of the nattily dressed gentleman having a word with her mother. Maybe not as pink, of course, but still much like a set of miniature pillows stacked atop one another. From beneath her parasol, she allowed her gaze to sweep over the crush of attendees lest the man take notice of her taking notice of him. And his lips.
Her mother’s laughter had her attention returning to the man. He had obviously said something witty, for Patience Fitzsimmons Comber, Countess of Aimsley, rarely laughed. Tittered sometimes. Giggled on occasion. But she rarely laughed.
Emelia was about to wander in the direction of the refreshment table—not a single footman had walked by whilst she stood waiting for her mother to finish her conversation with … she frowned. She didn’t even recognize the man with the perfect pillowed lips. The dark blonde hair worn just a bit longer than her brother, Alistair, wore his. The eyes so blue, they seemed to pin her into place that one fraction of a second he caught her staring at him. A straight nose that had never been caught unawares by a fist or a feisty horse. A relaxed stance making him appear so at ease in this mass of aristocrats and their families, he may as well have been the host of the soirée.
As to how old he was, Emelia had no idea. From one perspective, he appeared about the same age as her brothers—mid-to-late twenties, perhaps—but when he laughed along with her mother, the creases on either side of eyes and mouth had her wondering if he were ten years older.
Who is he? she wondered at the very moment a footman stopped beside her carrying a tray of champagne in tall flutes.
“Pardon me,” she whispered as she took a glass from his tray. “Would you know who the man is with Lady Aimsley?”
The footman surveyed the crowd, as if he were scoping out where he would next take his tray of bubbly. “Lord Fennington, my lady,” he whispered hoarsely, his gaze continuing past the man in question.
Bless his heart, Emelia thought as she gave the footman a nod of thanks.
“An earl, if I remember correctly. Unmarried and quite vocal in this session of Parliament. Inherited the earldom from his father not quite five years ago. He will be thirty on his next birthday.”
Emelia’s eyes widened. Goodness! Were all the Weatherstone footmen this well-versed in the peerage? Before she could reply, the servant was off to offer champagne to a nearby couple.
Well, an earl minted in the last five years would certainly explain why she didn’t recognize him. She had been in finishing school in Switzerland until just a few weeks ago. Given her travels back to England had included several stops along the way, she had only been back in Aimsley House a few days.
The Weatherstone’s garden party, an early Season event designed to show off the lord’s spring plants, was a favorite of the women who lived in London year-round. The fact that there were so many men in attendance was a reminder that, other than the theatre and Parliament, which had convened in late January, there were few diversions in London this time of the year.
In the middle of a sip of her champagne, Emelia blinked when her mother suddenly turned and waved in her direction, a gloved hand indicating she should join her and the man.
Almost unable to swallow, Emelia blinked. The very worst thing a recent returnee to London can do is to attend a garden party, she thought suddenly. She hardly recognized anyone. Despite having lived in Switzerland for the past four years—or perhaps because of it—she was shy. She wasn’t about to simply introduce herself to the younger ladies she might have at one time played with in Grosvenor Square or Hyde Park, or even attended school with the one year she did so in London. And now her mother was insisting she be introduced to Lord Fenningto
n and his gorgeous lips and blue, blue eyes and wavy blonde hair, and his straight, never-been-broken nose.
Taking a deep breath and then swallowing the rest of her champagne in a single gulp, she left the glass on the edge of a footman’s tray and made her way to Lady Aimsley’s side. She gave the man a deep curtsy. Now was not the time to wonder if her yellow sprigged muslin gown with its contrasting pelisse and parasol were appropriate for such an affair. The ensemble had been fashioned by a modiste in Geneva, but the pattern differed from most of the gowns on display on the bright green lawn behind Lord Weatherstone’s mansion.
“Lord Fennington, I’d like you to meet my only daughter, Lady Emelia,” the countess said by way of introduction. “She’s been on the Continent for finishing school these last few years, and is most talented at drawing portraits,” she added when her attention was suddenly caught by another woman. “Would you please excuse me? Lady Torrington has just arrived, and I haven’t seen her in an age.”
Felix Turnbridge, Earl of Fennington, gave a quick glance in the direction of the Countess of Torrington. “Of course. Do give her my regards, won’t you?” he replied before turning his attention to Emelia. The way the countess rushed off only a moment after calling her daughter over to join them would have any witnesses to their conversation thinking she had engineered a meeting for her daughter with the unmarried earl.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
Felix had asked for the introduction. Indeed, he had nearly begged the Countess of Aimsley for an opportunity to meet her daughter. From the moment he had spotted the young lady emerge from the back door of Lord Weatherstone’s ballroom at her mother’s side, he had been intrigued.
The clothes she wore were different from those worn by the other young ladies in attendance, but they were perfect. Her tiny bonnet—almost a hat—allowed her entire face to show and displayed her blonde, coiffed hair to its best advantage. The manner in which she held herself had him realizing she hadn’t been in London very long. Not with her shoulders pulled back as they were, making her appear confident despite her shorter stature—not all slouchy like so many of the other chits preferred to stand—and that erect posture permitted her perfect figure to show to his benefit.
She wasn’t anything like the other chits who flitted about the grounds, garbed in white and wearing bonnets with brims so deep, their profiles were completely hidden. “Hullo. It’s very good to meet you, my lady,” he said with a deep bow. He took her gloved hand and kissed the back of it.
“And you, my lord,” she replied with a deep curtsy. Goodness! If Emelia thought he was handsome from over ten feet away, she had no idea what word to use to describe just how gorgeous he was up close!
“Fennington, please,” he stated suddenly. “I was good friends with your older brother, Adam, back when we were at Eton,” he added, noting how her expression changed when he mentioned Viscount Breckinridge, the future Earl of Aimsley. Probably figuring out how old I am, he thought, hoping she wouldn’t err on the high side. Most people thought him much older than he was, a situation he found he could do nothing about.
Emelia angled her head. “Would I have had the pleasure of meeting you in the past, then?” she asked, quite sure she didn’t recognize the earl. No wonder the man had her mother laughing, though. He was probably regaling her with tales of Adam’s antics whilst at school. Although, when she gave it more thought, her mother might have been left weeping at hearing some of things her oldest brother had done whilst at Eton.
Adam hadn’t been the best behaved son of an aristocrat.
Felix shook his head. “Unfortunately not. Breckinridge and I didn’t become acquainted until we met at Eton,” he replied.
“Oh, of course,” Emelia managed, desperately wondering what to ask next. Given her shyness, keeping up her end of a conversation was a challenge. Who. What. Where … “Do you live in London year-round?”
Rather surprised at the unusual question—chits usually commented on the weather—Felix nodded. “I do. And will you be staying in London now that you’ve finished school?”
Angling her head to one side, Emelia regarded him as she felt a warmth creep up her neck. At any moment, her cheeks would bloom bright pink, but she couldn’t help the excitement that seemed to skitter through her entire body at the thought the earl would be the least bit interested in where she ended up living. “I will, yes,” she replied. And then she realized the conversation ball was back in her court. Well, horses were always a safe subject when it came to men, she thought. “Do you keep a favorite breed of horse here in town? Or perhaps I should ask if you even ride.”
Felix knew at that moment Emelia Comber was special. Not just because she was pretty or had a pleasant figure or because she drew portraits or because she seemed interesting. Before this very moment, no chit had ever asked if he preferred a specific breed of horse!
“I own a Percheron. She’s not too large, and she handles well in the traffic,” he replied before finishing off his champagne. “Would you care to join me on a stroll?” he asked as he held out an arm. “I am of a mind to walk for a bit.”
Rather surprised at the invitation, Emelia allowed a nervous grin as she gave a quick glance in the direction of where her mother was engaged in conversation with a group of older matrons. “I would. It’s very kind of you to offer, especially since I’ve never been in these gardens before.” She placed her hand on his arm and set her pace to match his, hoping he didn’t think she was babbling.
“Your mother tells me you’ve been on the Continent. Did I understand her correctly? Geneva?” Felix questioned as he waved to another man in the crowd.
“Indeed. I was there for four years,” she managed, thinking her cheeks must have bloomed an even brighter pink when she realized her mother had been telling the man about her. “I was not the only Londoner, however. I lived in the home of Mr. Burroughs. He’s an expatriate—a banker—and he was my protector during my stay. I shared a room with his daughter, you see.” Now, I’m babbling.
“After Geneva, I do hope you’re not finding London too boring.”
Stunned at the comment, Emelia nearly stopped in her tracks, and then had to when the earl paused to capture two glasses of champagne from the same footman who had spoken with her just moments ago.
Struggling to avert her eyes from the footman’s quick glance in her direction—she was sure his eyebrows were waggling—Emelia thanked Fennington. “I’ve always found London diverting,” she replied before taking a sip of the champagne. Did the man know she had already downed a glass not five minutes ago? At any moment, her knees would begin buzzing. “And finishing school in Geneva is not nearly as diverting as it may sound.”
Felix led her to the edge of one of the gardens, the new shoots of greenery already leafing out and budding to display an array of what would one day be daisies. “Pray tell, why there, and not finishing school in London?” he wondered as they continued around a row of short shrubs that led to another garden behind a hedgerow.
“Oh, I was at Warwick’s for a year,” she countered with a nod. “But … I did not care for it.”
Surprised by the comment, Felix paused and regarded her for a moment. “The school? Or a particular teacher?”
Emelia visibly stiffened. “I’d really rather not say. That is, if you don’t mind terribly, my lord. My discomfort had nothing to do with the school. Many of my friends attended Warwick’s, and they liked it just fine. It just wasn’t right … for me.” She sighed inwardly, wishing she had never put voice to her opinion.
One of Felix’s brows furrowed as he realized he had touched on a rather touchy subject with the young lady. He had given her the perfect opportunity to put voice to her complaint, though, and yet she hadn’t.
How refreshing, he thought.
Faith! Was he really so jaded as to expect every young woman capable of voicing displeasure or complaints or … gossip when invited to do so?
Well, yes, actuall
y.
He supposed he had to suffer it, given his avocation. And given his avocation, her comments now had his curiosity piqued. If it wasn’t the school Lady Emelia found objectionable, then perhaps one of the instructors had been guilty of something that had her fleeing to Europe. Guilty of some wrongdoing.
Had there been inappropriate advances, perhaps?
The idea of a rake taking advantage of the young lady raised his hackles. He had been friends with the older Comber boy whilst they were at Eton. Given neither of Emelia’s brothers would have been in London at the time she attended Warwick’s—both Adam and Alistair were in university at the time—meant her father would have been the only one to defend her honor. Did Mark Comber learn of the issue, though? Or had his countess simply seen to moving her daughter out of London and to her favorite school in Switzerland? The woman had spent some of her own youth in Geneva, and had probably attended the same finishing school.
Felix made a mental note to look into who had been employed by Warwick’s five years ago. An exposé on the school or one of its employees might have appeared in the paper.
In the meantime, Emelia had knelt down to cradle a daffodil in one gloved hand, her nose barely touching the white and yellow petals as her parasol listed off to the side. Felix didn’t know if it was the way the sun lit her face just then, or the expression she displayed, or how her long lashes rested on the tops of her cheekbones, but he was suddenly transfixed.
Emelia Comber was truly pretty. Delicate, like the flower she held. A bit shy. Probably didn’t have a mean bone in her body.
The Gossip of an Earl (The Widows of the Aristocracy Book 1) Page 1
