The Earl's Regret_Regency Romance

by Joyce Alec

  John looked at her hard. “But her mother must certainly be up there with her right now."

  She smirked. "Certainly she won't be up there the entire night..." and with a wink, she turned and walked slowly from the room without another word.

  Perhaps he had gone slightly insane, but he waited until well after it was dark before he made any sort of move toward seeing Lady Agnes. He had spent much of the afternoon pacing back and forth in front of her door, explaining his presence away by saying that he was simply on his way downstairs, or to the study, or to ask his father a question. He knew that others were not as simple as he hoped they were, but none of them asked any further questions.

  He hoped that they would take his strange behavior for concern for Lady Agnes, because deep down at its core, that was what it was.

  It was nearing midnight when he heard her door open from across the hall in his sister's room. Jane was sitting on her bed reading a book, and John was sitting, arms crossed, in a chair right beside the door. He scrambled to his feet and peered out into the hall as quietly as he could.

  He noticed Lady Kensington closing the door behind her softly, waiting for a moment, listening at the door, and then walked down the hall toward the guest wing where she and her husband were sleeping.

  "Is she alone finally?" Jane asked from the bed.

  John looked over his shoulder at her. "She is."

  Jane closed the book and laid it on her side table. "Good. Now, go to the kitchen and get her a hot cup of tea."

  "At this hour?" he asked. "What if she doesn't want it?"

  Jane rolled her eyes and got to her feet. She crossed over to where he stood and peered out into the hall around him.

  "Honestly, brother, it's a wonder that you have been able to woo any woman at all." She crossed her arms across her chest. "You are bringing her something thoughtful to show her that you are thinking of her and trying to help. She will not care what it is. That isn't the point."

  "Right," he said.

  "Now go, before you interrupt her sleep," Jane said and gave him a gentle push out the door.

  He made his way down to the kitchen in the dark, and when he reached it lit a small candle stashed on a shelf in the corner. Thankfully, he had spent much of his childhood watching the cook down in this cool, dark place that he was able to locate a kettle, a teacup, and some fresh tea. He was glad that some coals still burned in the fireplace, so he nestled the kettle down in the coals.

  It only took a short while for the kettle to pour steam into the air, and he laid it on one of the silver trays that had been used for tea time that afternoon. He debated about bringing two tea cups, not wanting to seem presumptuous, but did add some extra sugar and some fresh cream in a small goblet. He had no idea how she liked her tea. And if he was not careful, perhaps he never would.

  Just before he left the room, he snatched a few cakes from the plate sitting on the table near the door, leftover from dinner that night. He had no idea if she had eaten, but perhaps she would enjoy something sweet before she went to sleep; he always did.

  He made his way back through the house with the lit candle, hoping against all hope not to run into any one with a tray full of food and tea. He was glad when he reached her door without seeing anyone else.

  He gently wrapped his knuckles on the door, and he heard her soft, sweet voice carry through the still, quiet night.

  "Who is it?"

  He leaned closer to the door, and said as quietly as he could, "It’s Bridgewater… er…John. I have brought you some hot tea and cakes. Would...would you care for any?"

  He heard movement behind the door, and shortly after, the door knob turned, and the door slowly slid open.

  He was greeted with the sight of a very tired, very pale Lady Agnes, her cheekbones sharp in the shadow thrown on her face by the dim candle.

  She pulled her bed jacket more tightly around her shoulders and peered up at him from underneath a simple linen bonnet.

  And then, to his surprise, she smiled at him.

  "How very thoughtful," she said, in a very low, tired voice. "You did not have to go to such lengths, my lord. My mother told me that you sent your regards, and that brought me great joy already."

  John smiled, in spite of himself. He felt the knot that had been lodged in his chest loosen, and he felt he could breathe slightly easier as he stepped into her room.

  His mother had insisted that she sleep in Beatrice's room, which overlooked the river and the rose garden, as it was one of the nicest views in the manor. They had gone to no small length to ensure her every comfort with a wash basin that was warmed every morning on the table beside the window, as well as a shelf full of all of the latest books for women on fashion and fairy tales. The bed was made with a fresh set of quilts they had recently purchased, intending to give them to her and her family as a gift before they left, and the fireplace in the corner was never without hearty logs and burning coals.

  She stood beside her bed, watching him as he brought the tray inside and set it down on the long, low vanity area beside the bed. The steam was still trickling out of the spout of the tea kettle.

  "Please, sit down," he said, gesturing to the bench in front of her bed. "It will do you no good to spend your strength. I shall make you a cup."

  "Thank you," she replied and made her way to the bench.

  He also knew that seating her by the fire was the best thing for her and her sickness in the first place.

  As he poured the tea into a dainty golden edged cup, he forced himself to have another go at conversation with her. For some reason, being in her presence again had caused his mind to move far too quickly, and he could not decide on anything to say to her.

  He was unsure if she was upset with him. She had given no sign that she was, but he knew that women were often the very greatest at concealing what they truly thought; living with three sisters and his mother taught him that.

  "So your mother informed us that you have come down with a cold," he said, and then felt foolish for saying it. Why would he have come all of this way, in the dead of night, with hot tea if she was not, indeed, ill?

  But she was gracious with her gracious as she watched him. "It appears so. Mother thinks it was the trip back from town on Monday... Perhaps there was too much of a chill near the water's edge where we..." she drifted off. "Oh, I'm sorry. I had forgotten that you were not there with us."

  He swallowed, her tiny tea cup clutched in his long, wide fingers.

  "Would you like some sugar in your tea?" he asked, hoping to avoid any more time amidst the strange, uncomfortable silence that had fallen.

  "Yes, please," she said, a smile still on her face, though he had noticed that it had faltered slightly.

  "How much?"

  "Just one small spoonful, thank you."

  He obliged.

  "And milk?" he asked, mixing the spoon inside the cup.

  "No, thank you. I am quite fond of my tea and the simple flavor that it has."

  He carried the small cup to her and handed it to her. "Here you are," he said.

  As she reached for the small cup with her small hands, her fingers grazed his, and the touch was enough to make his heart jump wildly inside of his chest. He was grateful that the color in the room was warm and low, so she would not see the flush in his cheeks.

  He took a seat in the chair at the desk beside the window, a little ways away from her. The moon was bright and hung high in the sky, blue and cool, a stark difference from the warm glow of the fire inside the room.

  He watched as she sipped her tea, the steam coiling gently in the air around her nose as she inhaled the scent of it. She was quite pretty, he realized, the amber light of the fireplace weaving golden strands into her coal black hair, which was loosely hanging in a braid over her shoulder. She certainly did not look ill, sitting there as she did, her eyes focused on the flames flickering in the fireplace.

  For quite a long time, the only sound was the cracking and snapping of t
he flames and the dull thud of his heart pounding in his ears.

  Yet the longer they sat in silence, the harder he found it to open his mouth and break it. He recited several different conversation starters in his mind, but none of them seemed efficient, nor clever, nor amiable. He wished to ask how she felt, and yet, he felt as if he was intruding by keeping her awake and wondered if he should leave. But then, what would the point have been to come all the way up here with the tea in the first place?

  "The is lovely," she said, very quietly, some time later. She still stared into the fire, the empty cup clutched in her hands.

  He immediately got to his feet, thankful, oh so thankful, that she had broken the wicked silence. "Would you care for another cup?"

  She shook her head slowly, though she did not meet his eye. "Oh, that is very kind of you to offer, my lord, but I think I should try and get some sleep." She laughed lightly. "I might not sleep at all if I had any more."

  "Right," he replied, feeling foolish and aimless, looking back and forth from her to the tea tray. "Perhaps something to eat? Have you had anything at all since breakfast?"

  She did turn to look at him now, and there was a bit of distance in her blue eyes. "I did, yes. My mother brought me some warm broth just before I changed into my night clothes." She shifted herself toward him a little more, to give him more of her attention. "But please, feel free to leave them. Perhaps I shall be in want of something if my appetite returns in the morning."

  He felt his jaw clench, and he nodded his head. He cleared his throat.

  "Yes. I should allow you to rest. I apologize for my rudeness, I simply wished to..." he trailed off, feeling both hopeless and desperate to leave all at once.

  "It was very considerate," she said, and he knew she meant it. "Thank you for all of it."

  He took a step toward the door. He longed to stay there with her, to ensure that she was going to get well. Of course he knew that she would get well, but he felt as if he had made so many mistakes in this relationship that the only way he knew how to fix them would be to stay at her side and never leave it from now on, but that was ridiculous, and he needed to be sensible.

  He opened the door ever so slightly. She had not left the bench in front of the fireplace.

  "I do hope you are well tomorrow," he said, only loud enough for her to hear. "Lady Agnes."

  And before she had the chance to reply, for he was not sure he wished to hear her words if they were to disappoint him, he walked into the hall and closed the door behind him.

  He leaned against the wall beside her door, his chest rising and falling steadily. He closed his eyes, wishing with every fiber in his being that the entire encounter had gone differently. He should have been dashing, caring, and romantic. He could have put some more wood in the fire for her to ensure she was warm enough, or he could have brought her a blanket to sit with while she enjoyed her tea. He could have asked after her health more than he had and been more intentional. But he did not, and now it was too late.

  He hoped, as he made his way down the long, lonely corridors to his own room, that perhaps the gesture alone was enough for her to see how he felt.

  But her lack of interaction was perhaps what concerned him the most. For she was not afraid of conversation, even if she was the one making most of it.

  He scolded himself, reminding himself that she was ill and perhaps very tired. It was possible even that the time he had chosen to visit her was entirely wrong in the first place. He was not sure.

  As he lay down to sleep that evening, he wondered, not for the first time, if he had damaged his reputation so far beyond repair that she would never take him for a husband, and all of his affection toward her would never be known.

  He did not fall asleep until the first grey light of dawn had begun to shine through the trees outside his window.

  4

  It only took Lady Agnes a few more days to get back on her feet. She was able to attend church with them all that weekend, at her insistence, and all of the color had returned to her cheeks. Everyone in the house was pleased; John was simply feeling ashamed of himself.

  The distance that had grown between them was almost tangible, and he was sure that everyone could feel it. What little progress they had made when they had first met was completely gone, and he expected anyone who spoke to him to draw this to his attention or make note of it in some way.

  He felt uncomfortable in his own home now. Everywhere he looked, he saw evidence of her and her family residing there, and it broke his heart and infuriated him at the same time. He would catch the eye of his sister, Jane, from across the table at meals and would look away immediately; the condemnation there was too much for him to bear.

  Tuesday afternoon brought a bright, vibrant afternoon, and the heat that had been plaguing the manor all summer had returned. The women had all decided to take a picnic down to the riverside, and John was glad to have some space. He planned to spend the entire afternoon in the library once more when his father brought his own thoughts on the afternoon to his attention after lunch.

  "I was hoping we could discuss the wedding in more detail," he said quietly, gently. "It is approaching rather fast, and I believe it would be wise for you and I to do our part and prepare."

  John swallowed hard, and a hollow feeling crept up in his stomach. What could he say to his father? There was nothing to be said about it.

  He joined his father in the sitting room that overlooked the terrace and the river, and John was grateful that the windows had all been opened; a light breeze had drawn some of the stale heat from the room. He sat in the settee across from his father, wishing he could be anywhere but there.

  His father studied his face, the lines around his eyes becoming more evident as he raised his eyebrows at John. "You must be getting excited about the coming union?"

  John resisted the urge to say No immediately. He looked down at his hands clasped tightly together in front of him and sighed. "Father, I don't know. I just...I am..."

  He saw his father's hand reach across the table and lay upon his own. He looked up at his father, who was watching him carefully. Everything in the room was quiet, and he was very aware of his father’s steady gaze.

  “It is a big moment in your life, son. It is perfectly normal to be nervous about it.”

  “It’s not nerves,” John replied, almost too quickly. “It’s hard to explain.”

  His father sighed, not unhappily, and a knowing look appeared on his face. “Ah, now this I do understand.”

  “You do?” John asked, not moving.

  "I remember feeling just as you are right now," his father said, leaning back in his chair. He sighed happily, gazing off into some far distant memory. "The anxiety, the thrill, the constant uncertainty."

  John felt his father's words hit him like an arrow sinking into a target. Could it be that everything he was experiencing, all of these things that he had been wrestling with in his heart and his mind were simply normal?

  He saw his father nod at the look that must have passed over his face. "I understand it all, son."

  "Father, you and mother were betrothed as well, were you not?" John asked, sitting up in his chair straighter. He felt for the first time in weeks that he had hope once more, hope he was not a complete failure.

  "We were indeed," he began, and lifted his glass from the end table beside him, taking a long sip. He smacked his lips in pleasure before putting the glass down once more. "We had only met once or twice before our parents told us. I was one and twenty, and she was not yet fifteen, and it was just before she was to be announced to society. Of course our parents had known all along, much like we did with you and Lady Agnes, but it was quite a shock to me."

  "I understand the feeling," John said, in spite of his reservations.

  "It was such a shock that I had to end things with a lover I had."

  "You what?" He asked, his eyes widening. "You had another lover?"

  His father held up his hand, waving i
t dismissively. "Her name was Lady Marietta Longfellow. Her parents owned quite a large estate up further north and some businesses in London. We had met at a ball when I was eighteen. She was beautiful and charming. She was quite skilled at the piano forte and would often play for all of the guests at the balls."

  He was surprised to hear the wistful way that his father was speaking. It felt as if he was lost in a different time in his mind. While he appreciated that his father was human and experienced normal relationships like he had, he was not sure that he was keen to hear about a woman who was not his mother.

  "I loved her, and I was upset when my parents had not told me that I was betrothed sooner. I do not think that they expected me to wish to marry anyone as soon as I had. I was prepared to ask for her hand, and then they told me..." Some of the joy left his face, and his jaw tightened, but it soon disappeared. "That is part of the reason that your mother and I told you and Lady Agnes sooner. That way, this sort of thing could not happen. Or at least...we hoped it would not."

  John looked curiously at his father. "What do you mean, you hoped it would not?"

  His father sighed, and folded his hands together, leaning toward John. "Your mother and I have become...concerned. We have begun to wonder if something in your life is going on that you are keeping from us all. Including from Lady Agnes."

  John swallowed hard. He was not entirely sure, but it felt as if his father was accusing him of something.

  "You have become quite distant from all of us since Lady Agnes and her family arrived at the estate. I have always known you to be a very agreeable young man, very charming and intentional. And yet, we cannot help but notice that something has changed in you."

  John folded his arms across his chest, already seeing where this conversation was going. First his mother, then his brother, and now his father? If his behavior was this evident to all of them, then surely Lady Agnes would be more than aware of it herself.

  The moment of joy he had a short time before vanished.