A Season in London (Timeless Regency Collection Book 6)

by Elizabeth Johns

  “I was hoping to have a few days with you here,” he said.

  “My parents wish to return to London to arrange a match as soon as we may,” she explained, hoping her voice was not shaking as much as the rest of her was.

  “I see. Is there a particular person in mind? One of your other suitors, perhaps?”

  “I do not know,” she said, beginning to feel absurd. She did not wish to speak of other men with him.

  “I had hoped for more time,” he whispered.

  “More time?” she asked, confused.

  “More time for you to recover from your ordeal. More time for you to get to know Evangeline and myself. More time for you to forget your feelings for Lofton.”

  “Please do not mention his name again! Any amiability which existed between us was dispelled some time ago.”

  “Then your heart is not injured?”

  She shook her head. “Only my pride,” she whispered.

  “I would propose another option to you, then, and you need not answer me now.”

  She turned to look at him, and he was watching her with such intensity, her breath caught. Dare she hope?

  “You could stay here and become Lady Falteroy. I hope, in time, you could feel happy here with us.”

  “You would marry me?” she asked. Tears began to fill her eyes.

  “It would be my pleasure, Jane.”

  “I do not deserve such redemption. I do not know what to say.”

  “You need no redemption, Jane.” He wiped away the tear which was falling down her cheek. “Rest on it and decide later.”

  “No. Yes.”

  He looked up in confusion.

  “No, I do not want to decide later. Yes, I will marry you, William.”

  His eyes smiled first before his entire face lit up. He seemed genuinely pleased.

  “I will make you happy, Jane,” he said as he cradled her face.

  “I do not doubt it for one moment,” she replied earnestly, a moment before her mouth was covered with his. It was a promising start, to be sure.

  Chapter Eleven

  Colin led Emma through the house, down the terrace steps, and onto a pebbled walk that led away from the gardens. They walked over a mile into the fading sun, then she felt the breeze from the sea and heard the squawks of seagulls. Colin did not speak until they reached the edge of the marsh.

  “This is where I always came to think when I lived here,” he began.

  “I can understand why,” she replied as she looked around at the marsh, which faded into the sea.

  “It has been rather a whirlwind for our first two days of marriage. I cannot promise such excitement everyday,” he teased.

  “I would not wish for it! But now Christopher’s death is no longer a mystery,” she replied sadly, “and a cold-blooded murderer can no longer kill.”

  “Yes, he would have eliminated anyone who stood in his way, including me.”

  “Must you return to those duties? Will you forever be in harm’s way?” She turned and searched his eyes.

  “Would you mind if I stayed? Do you regret marrying me, Emma?” he asked as he stared out over the sea.

  “How shall I answer a question such as that?” she chided.

  “Honestly.” He turned back to her.

  She could see by the look on his face he was in earnest.

  “How could I? I feel I know you in part already from Christopher’s letters, and I am forever in your debt for what you have done for my family. I only wish we had met in different circumstances . . . and you had not felt it necessary to marry me out of pity or mercy.”

  “Mercy? No.” He looked down and kicked a stone from the path. “True, I never intended marriage, but I did feel responsible for Christopher’s death and therefore wanted to provide some means for your family.”

  “What did you intend?” she asked, searching his face for answers.

  “To draw enough attention to you for suitors to notice you and to provide you a dowry anonymously through your uncle.”

  “Then why did you marry me?”

  He hesitated, then reached up and ran the back of his fingers down her cheek.

  “I saw you, Emma.”

  For several seconds, she stared blankly at him. Her pulse quickened again. His eyes were dark, heated and intent. He touched her ever so gently, and as if being pulled by an unseen force, she moved closer to him.

  “One look at you, one dance with you, and I wanted you. I wanted you to bear my name.”

  “’Tis a poor way to begin a marriage,” she chided, although she now understood the unseen forces nature could exert, following their initial interlude as husband and wife.

  “Is it, Emma? Many marriages have much less. In those first moments with you, I saw a beautiful woman who was willing to sacrifice herself to save her family.” He stared at her knowingly, and butterflies flitted about inside her in anticipation of what would follow. “I also saw a beautiful woman who made me feel alive inside. One whom I could admire and desire.” He cradled her face in his hands before he lowered his head and brushed his lips over hers. “I do not feel poor, Emma,” he whispered into her ear, sending shivers down her spine as he proceeded to place soft kisses on her neck.

  “So you will stay?” she asked breathlessly as his hands slid around her and she melted into him.

  “Just try to make me leave you,” he said as he continued to show her how he felt, making her feel very rich, indeed.

  Click on the covers to go to Elizabeth’s

  Amazon Author Page:

  National bestselling author Elizabeth Johns was first an avid reader, though she was a reluctant convert. It was Jane Austen's clever wit and unique turn of phrase that hooked Johns when she was “forced” to read Pride and Prejudice for a school assignment. She began writing when she ran out of her favorite author's books and decided to try her hand at crafting a Regency romance novel. Her journey into publishing began with the release of Surrender the Past, book one of the Loring-Abbott Series. Johns makes no pretensions to Austen's wit but hopes readers will perhaps laugh and find some enjoyment in her writing.

  Johns attributes much of her inspiration to her mother, a retired English teacher. During their last summer together, Johns would sit on the porch swing and read her stories to her mother, who encouraged her to continue writing. Busy with multiple careers, including a professional job in the medical field, author and mother of small children, Johns squeezes in time for reading whenever possible.

  Visit Elizabeth online:

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  Chapter One

  “You are nearly thirty years of age,” Edward Blackwood’s mother said in her sharp voice while she peered at him through a raised quizzing glass. “It’s time you pull your head out of your books and take up your responsibilities. You are now the master of the estate and must attend to our guests who are here in your honor.”

  The conversations of the guests in the main hall filtered into the library and filled the tense silence between Edward and his mother. She’d invited their closest neighbors to a small dinner party—all to welcome him home. Any party at all, small or otherwise, hardly seemed appropriate in light of their recent family tragedy.

  Edward would never forget the day that the morning post arrived at his hotel in Germany. The words scrawled across the pages had changed his life forever.

  Peter was gone. Gregarious and generous Peter—who was always the life of any event, who had been engaged to be married, and who had been running the family estate these past ten years.

  Since his older brother’s death in a terrible carriage accident, Edward’s mother had suddenly turned her eye to him. Edward was the scholarly one in the family. Eton and Oxford had opened his eyes to the world of literature, and he continued with his education, taking it as far as he could. Of course, he could not take on his ideal position—that of a university professor—but he had been invited to lecture and present his studies of the classics
, in literature and art, equally.

  And so it was when he was on a lecture tour in Germany that the blasted letter found him, bringing heartbreaking news. Peter was dead, and Edward was the heir. He’d returned home well after the funeral, unable to help the traveling delays that beset him. And now, he’d been home less than three days, and his mother was throwing a dinner party.

  On the other side of the library walls were the neighbors chatting in the grand hall, and, according to his mother, waiting to greet Edward, offer their condolences, then proceed into the dining room.

  “And don’t forget, dear Edward, to pay special attention to Emily Foster,” his mother said in a whisper. “Tonight is her first social event since her father’s death. And as you know, Mrs. Foster is my dearest friend. She’s sending Miss Foster with a cousin for the London Season in a few days, and tonight will be testing her fortitude, to be sure. You’ll remember her aunt, Lady Gerrard, and her cousin, Miss Adele Gerrard. They’ve spent a few summers in the country with the Fosters.”

  Edward tugged at his cravat and met his mother’s gaze full-on, which wasn’t an easy task since she was a full two heads shorter than he. He couldn’t give a fig about Emily Foster, a girl he could barely remember anyway, or her cousin Adele. He had a vague recollection of Emily as a dark, curly-haired girl who ran about the gardens like an imp with his brother. They’d played the silliest games, nothing that remotely interested Edward. As a boy, he’d always preferred an interesting book or a long horse ride over running around with the neighbor children. And now he was supposed to console Emily? Her father might be recently dead, but so was Edward’s brother. It seemed life never went as expected, and one had to simply learn to endure.

  “Returning from Germany is fulfilling my duty, Mother,” he said in a measured tone, despite the difficulty he had in keeping his temper in check—his temper and his grief, which had turned out to be a sorry combination. “Taking Peter’s place is also fulfilling my duty.” He released a breath. “It’s not my duty to entertain the neighbors and comfort their daughters!”

  The moment his voice rose above an acceptable pitch, he regretted it. His mother’s eyes widened, and the guests had suddenly quieted. Had they overhead him? Even to his own ears, he’d sounded cruel. Cold and cruel. When in truth, he was never any of those things, but ever since his future turned upside down, he hadn’t quite been himself.

  Edward swallowed against his dry throat and rubbed his hand over his face. He closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on regulating his breathing. Then, he opened his eyes, looked his mother square in the face and extended his arm. “Shall we?”

  She blinked a couple of times, then stepped toward him, and placed her hand on the inside of his elbow. She gave a regal nod, and together, the two exited the library, rounded the short hallway, and approached the gathering of guests.

  It was going to be a very long night, and Edward was already looking forward to when he could return to the library after the last guest had departed and pour himself a healthy measure of brandy. Maybe two.

  Chapter Two

  Emily Foster wanted to flee the estate she now approached in a carriage. It seemed all of the candles in the entire house had been relocated to the main floor and lit. Or perhaps it was the contrast of the bright light to her dark mood that made the Blackwood estate seem afire. With the loss of her father and her mother’s proclamation that she was to go and live with her aunt’s family in London for the foreseeable future, Emily’s mood felt very black indeed.

  London was the last place she wanted to go right now. She wanted to stay home and help the steward with matters of the estate. Her father had always let her join him in his rounds of visiting tenants and speaking with the farmers about their crops and livestock. She’d rather be on horseback than sitting straight-back in a drawing room discussing the latest London scandal. Besides, the steward needed her help. Emily’s brother Stephen had one more year left of Eton before he would take on his new estate responsibilities.

  “Another pin is coming out.” Her mother’s voice interrupted Emily’s gloomy thoughts.

  Emily’s gloved hand went to her coiffure, feeling for the errant pin. Her thick, black hair had a mind of its own. No matter how carefully or tightly the maid fixed Emily’s hair, something was unraveling less than an hour later, and the jostling carriage wasn’t helping any. In fact, the ruts in the private lane leading to the Blackwood estate had undergone a space of a few weeks where repairs weren’t kept up on account of the disorganization that took place with Peter’s death.

  The next bounce nearly sent Emily and the other women off their seats.

  “Oh dear,” Emily’s aunt said. “This road would be a disaster in the rain.”

  If Emily’s aunt had noticed, then the condition of the road was poor indeed. Lady Gerrard only chose to see what she wanted to see. She usually avoided any and every unpleasant thing. She and her daughter, Adele, had come for Emily’s father’s funeral, but after the funeral, Lady Gerrard said it wasn’t good to speak of the dead. Which only made their household more depressing as Adele’s constant chatter was frequently one-sided.

  “We should mention the state of the roads to the Blackwoods,” Adele said with what sounded like true distress.

  “No,” Emily said, compelled to speak up. “That would be exceptionally rude, and besides, they have undergone their own family grievances.”

  “You are so wise,” Adele said immediately.

  This didn’t surprise Emily. Adele agreed with everyone and everything. She was two years older than Emily and had already had three seasons in London, none of them with a proposal worthy of a granddaughter of a duke, or so Lady Gerrard had said.

  Emily’s aunt wanted Emily to accompany Adele to all the social events in order to keep Adele company and cheer her up. The task seemed overwhelming at best since Emily could barely keep her own chin up. She also suspected that Lady Gerrard was trying to cast Adele in better light, as Emily was clearly the plainer of the two. There might be some feelings of family duty in there as well, now that Emily’s father had passed away.

  “Here we are,” Emily’s mother said in her quiet voice. Compared to Lady Gerrard, Emily’s mother was a timid mouse.

  Lady Gerrard exited the carriage first, of course, followed by Adele, then Emily’s mother, then Emily. Everything always had to be accomplished in order of precedence, it seemed. When the Gerrards were not staying with them, the Foster household stood on much less ceremony. It had become something of a joke between Emily and her father. When his sister was in town, all was prim and proper, and when she was away, everyone could, what her father called, “loosen their buttons.”

  Emily’s eyes stung at the memory of her father, and she blinked quickly to discourage any real tears from forming. She stepped out of the carriage and looked up at the towering house with its brilliant glow.

  “Oh my goodness.” Lady Gerrard’s voice sounded in Emily’s ear. “What’s that in your hair?”

  Another rebellious pin? Emily reached up to the side of her head just as Lady Gerrard plucked something out.

  “Paint?”

  “Oh,” Emily started. “I was painting this afternoon.”

  “What? An entire wall?” Lady Gerrard shook her head. Then she grasped Emily’s gloved hands. “At least gloves are fashionable.”

  Emily drew her hands away, her cheeks flushing with mortification. Her father had encouraged her painting, and her mother had allowed it so long as it didn’t interfere with working on her other skills of piano and embroidery. But Lady Gerrard had been vocal more than once about her shock that Emily could get so lost in painting, spend an entire day, in fact, producing portraits. Lady Gerrard had also made it clear that portrait painting wasn’t ladylike when one spent so much time on it instead of other, more feminine pursuits. If Emily wanted to paint, it should be of flowery landscapes and delicate bowls of fruit, and only when she had no other obligations to attend to. Painting portraits of brooding anc
estors relocated along a rocky seashore were simply a waste of time.

  Emily hadn’t confessed to her aunt that the two paintings she’d seen were only the start of the dozens more Emily had stored in the attic. Ever since her first governess taught Emily how to wield a brush, she’d been fascinated with the human form and the characteristics and moods that could be shown with a few strokes. Emily had started experimenting and grew more daring at the age of twelve by painting her great-grandmother, copied from another portrait, as a young woman, sitting on a grassy knoll as she looked out over the ocean, watching an incoming storm.

  Her father had praised her, her mother had raised her brows, and Emily took it all as encouragement. So she continued.

  “You’ll be putting away your paints next week,” Lady Gerrard said as they walked up the polished steps of the Blackwood home. “London is no place for that type of messy hobby. We can’t have you greeting men with the smell of turpentine about you.”

  Emily almost smiled at the thought of riding in Hyde Park while she tried to discreetly pick paint splotches from her arm. She well knew that her perfume covered up any errant drops of turpentine that might not have been scrubbed away. At that moment, the front doors swung open, and the butler bowed low and greeted each of them in turn. He then announced to those beyond the names of the newest arrivals.

  Lady Gerrard was announced first, of course.

  Emily didn’t mind the wait in the least. Her attention had been suddenly captured by the interesting appearance of the Blackwoods’ new butler. He had a prominent nose, deep-set eyes, and hair as black as night. His appearance reminded Emily of a gypsy, and an idea for a portrait flashed through her mind. What if she painted the butler wearing gypsy clothes, a long dagger gripped in his hand, as he strode—

  “Emily,” her mother said. “Mrs. Blackwood will be wanting to speak with us. Stop dawdling.”