A Season in London (Timeless Regency Collection Book 6)

by Elizabeth Johns

  “You can open your eyes now,” he said.

  When she opened her eyes, Edward watched Emily’s expression shift from amused patience to astonishment. He looked around at the room, seeing it anew through her eyes. The tall windows had been scrubbed inside and out and the draperies removed so that the morning light spilled in pink and orange. The floors had been cleared of the rugs, and the wood had been sanded and refinished. Canvases of all sizes were stacked up along one wall, and a large wood table sat against another wall. Upon the table basic paint colors were arranged, and next to the paints sat new brushes in all sizes.

  Several easels stood proudly in front of the windows, and in addition to an artist’s stool, sat several other chairs in different sizes that would accommodate whatever Emily needed to sit on. Most importantly were the portraits hanging along the back wall—portraits Edward had helped Jenny take from the attic where they had been practically hidden. Now, displayed on a wall in the light of the morning, they virtually shimmered with color and movement and life.

  “Edward,” Emily whispered in a reverent voice, turning in a full circle to take in the entire view of the room. “How did you do this . . . Is it all for me?” She looked up at him, her eyes moist with tears.

  “Of course it’s for you, dear Emily,” Edward said, unable to stop the grin on his face. “I don’t ever want you to hide your art again.”

  She took the satchel that he’d slung over his shoulder, then removed the painting of the fisticuffs ring. Carefully, she set it on the center easel where the light of the rising sun enveloped it into an ethereal glow. Emily stood in front of it for a moment, just gazing at the canvas and the views through the tall windows that looked over the estate.

  “It’s finally home,” she said, then turned to Edward.

  He was only a step away, watching her.

  Emily brushed at a tear that had fallen on her cheek, then she took the two steps that separated them and threw her arms around his neck. “I can’t believe you did this.” Her voice hitched. “If you hadn’t already proposed to me, I would have to propose to you.”

  Edward chuckled and tightened his hold on her. As he held her close, he breathed in her scent, and never wanted to let her go. If they hadn’t their own wedding to attend, he might never release her.

  “Let’s go make our vows.” He took her hand, and they walked out of the room together, back down the stairs through the silent house. When they stepped outside, the warm wind rushed about their feet. They hurried to the stables where Edward helped her mount her horse.

  “I’ll see you at the church?” she asked, reaching down for his hand at the same time he reached up to take hers.

  “Nothing could make me miss it,” Edward promised. He reluctantly released her hand and stepped away from the horse.

  He leaned against the stable doorframe and watched as Emily rode toward her home, toward the rising sun that guaranteed the most brilliant of days. When she’d disappeared from sight, he finally turned back to his house, the one he’d soon be sharing with his new wife. A smile spread across his face as he strode across the lawn. It was a smile that would be there for a very long time.

  Click on the covers to visit Heather’s Amazon Author Page:

  Heather B. Moore writes historical thrillers under the pen name H.B. Moore; her latest thrillers include Slave Queen and The Killing Curse. Under the name Heather B. Moore, she writes romance and women’s fiction, her newest releases are the USA Today bestseller Heart of the Ocean and the historical romance Love is Come. She’s also one of the coauthors of the USA Today bestselling series: A Timeless Romance Anthology.

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  Chapter One

  A Season in London. What could be more exciting or perfect than that? It had absolutely everything one could want. Balls and parties with the most eligible men looking for equally eligible candidates for matrimony; fine fashions and the latest styles in absolutely everything; evenings at the theater where one’s personal performance might be more important than the one on the stage; the overall feeling that at this time, in this place, one’s life might just begin to change.

  Provided, of course, that one cared about such things.

  Daphne Hutchins did not.

  She did not think any of this sounded remotely perfect or exciting, and she had absolutely no interest in anything the London Season could offer. She would much rather stay in her quiet home in Berkshire, where her only excitement lay in traipsing up to Reading for the limited entertainment a day there could bring.

  London held absolutely no interest for her.

  None whatsoever.

  Especially not a Season there. Nothing could have prevailed upon her in any possible way for her to consider subjecting herself to the embarrassment and inanity of joining in the march of the misses.

  Nothing, that is, except for a determined mother with unequaled skills in the arts and sciences of guilt.

  One would have hoped that eighteen years of experience with these skills and their effects would have made Daphne equally as skilled in the defense against them, but one would be quite wrong.

  As Daphne’s awareness and combative skills increased, so too did her mother’s cunning and tenacity. There was no adequate resistance to her attacks, and none of the Hutchins siblings could pretend otherwise.

  The elder two chose complete avoidance as a manner of coping, which seemed to work well enough. But Ned was a man, despite their mother’s denial of his adulthood, and with that came the freedom to do as he pleased. And Phoebe . . . Well, Phoebe was a different story altogether, and Daphne did not care to consider anything about her.

  The point of the matter was that, despite the rather extensive arguments and apparently uncharacteristic behavior on Daphne’s part against the matter, her things were packed, the carriage loaded, and she, her domineering mother, and absentminded father were on their way to London. All for the express purpose of marrying Daphne off after a triumphant first Season, delayed though it was, and regaining the pleasant reputation the family had enjoyed prior to the Incident.

  Daphne wasn’t aware they’d had any sort of reputation in London for good or ill, but her mother assured her it was so.

  Apparently, Phoebe had ruined that, as well as everything else.

  The Incident had all but destroyed her family, though the full scope of the matter never became public knowledge. Only the barest facts had escaped, though rumors were plentiful enough. Two years and still her mother had never mentioned Phoebe by name within Daphne’s hearing. No doubt her parents spoke of her in private, as Phoebe had always been her mother’s favorite, but she had never come back to Fairview Park, and that was a significant matter to note.

  Everybody still seemed to recall that, while the family had indeed suffered from the indignity, it was Daphne who had suffered the most. It was Daphne who had been broken beyond repair. It was Daphne who deserved the pity and the apology and the indulgence.

  They had all been very good about it—surprisingly so.

  Had being the important word.

  She had wondered how long the effects of the Incident would linger amongst her family. It had been a full year before her mother had proposed the idea of going out on social visits. Then she had gently encouraged Daphne to update some of her dresses, as well as reading a bit less, in favor of other accomplishments. Then had come the not-so-gentle suggestions of potential suitors, reminders of her prospects, and demands that Daphne had flatly refused.

  She was never intentionally difficult . . . Well, all right, by the end she was blatantly difficult, which was a remarkable amount of fun, despite her mother’s distress. Or perhaps because of it.

  Whichever it was, Daphne had obviously worn out what
ever sympathies she had engendered from the Incident and could no longer expect her mother’s patience to endure, provided she had any patience at all. She was no longer “poor Daphne” or “sweet Daphne” or “unfortunate Daphne.” Now she was “ungrateful,” “willful,” and “unfeeling.”

  Which, obviously, made her a perfect candidate for marriage and meant it was time to marry her off.

  Daphne was no simpleton; she knew full well she was not an heiress and could not expect to be fully independent at any point in her life. Should the worst happen and her parents died untimely deaths, Ned would only be able to support her for so long. Until he married, and married well, there was no real hope for either of them. The only way for Daphne to have her true freedom was through marriage, as backward as that was.

  But eighteen hardly seemed the time to panic about such things. Daphne was perfectly capable of making a match in ten years to an elderly gentleman in need of comfort and companionship in his waning life. Comfortable and companionable and easy. Nothing to do with love or hearts or any such silliness. Perhaps she would have children, perhaps not, but it was the picture of a perfect life and marriage in her eyes.

  If her mother ever actually listened to a single word Daphne said, she would know precisely what her daughter wanted instead of quite literally forcing her into the exact opposite course.

  Then again, Daphne had grown quite spiteful in the weeks following the unpleasant announcement of the London Season, so perhaps her mother was not interested in listening to her in any case. And perhaps she had good reason.

  Daphne mostly likely would not have listened to herself had the situations been reversed.

  But she might have done.

  Well, one thing was for certain. There was absolutely no possible way that Daphne was going through all of this without a proper fight. And there was no chance of her making a match this Season, she would see to that.

  While all the other girls worried over making a single mistake that could destroy their hopes, Daphne was going to flaunt those mistakes. All of them. Every single thing she could accomplish without compromising herself or completely ruining herself, she would do. Short of ruining her brother’s own matrimonial prospects by association, she would push every boundary possible. She would not become a household name, but she did intend to make a rather unfortunate name for herself. Men would flee her presence.

  And if she could embarrass her mother on a regular basis throughout the whole of it, so much the better.

  One gloriously failed Season should do the trick.

  Despite her aversion to the reason for their departure to London, Daphne found herself smiling at the thought of her task.

  Which was her first mistake.

  “I knew it!” her mother insisted, pointing a bony finger at her. “I knew your resistance was all for show! Francis!” She elbowed her dozing husband, whose slim frame did nothing to muffle the jab, and he jerked away, spectacles askew. “Did I not say as much?”

  “Yes, m’dear,” he mumbled, rubbing absently at his ribs. He cleared his throat and adjusted his spectacles. “What did you say?”

  Daphne’s mother rolled her eyes dramatically, scoffing. “Never mind,” she told him dismissively, then began muttering incoherently.

  Her husband looked at her in confusion, then turned to face Daphne, expression inquiring.

  Daphne raised a brow, smirking. “Apparently I smiled, and Mama thinks it means I am somehow secretly thrilled with our venture.”

  He raised both brows, gave his wife a look, then returned to Daphne once more. “Well, that seems rather unlikely, doesn’t it?”

  “Francis!” his wife scolded.

  Daphne hid a smile, lest her mother think she was still pleased.

  “Daphne has never been duplicitous, Mary,” Mr. Hutchins reminded her, patting her limp hand weakly. “She truly does not desire to go.”

  It was odd, Daphne thought, but her father’s words, though firm in statement, sounded pitiful in his placating tone of voice. He was a bland sort of man, his hair only a few shades lighter than his skin, and his eyes bore the sort of blankness that spoke of ignorance. She loved him dearly, but he had grown more obtuse with the years, and the endearing qualities he had once possessed were now something of an annoyance.

  Still, he was attempting to aid her, and she was grateful for it, though it would fail in moments.

  “No one simply ‘does not desire’ a Season in London,” her mother insisted, shaking her head quickly.

  Daphne raised her hand. “I do.”

  The glare she received was worth the brief insolence. “No one,” her mother repeated in a tone that could have rewritten the commandments if she’d wished it.

  It was no use, really. Daphne was stubborn, she always had been, but she had inherited that particular trait from her mother, and they were very well matched in this battle. She would never succeed in direct confrontation against the woman. It would take strategy and scheming to get anywhere, and as they were going into London a full two weeks before the Season began, there would be plenty of time for it.

  But for now, she would have to continue at defiant reluctance, moody silence, and anything else she could think of to ruffle her mother’s feathers.

  She groaned and turned to look out of the window. “I’m not going to enjoy this,” she grumped.

  “You’ll enjoy it or I will make you enjoy it,” her mother barked sharply.

  “I’d love to see you try,” Daphne muttered, a laugh escaping.

  “No. You wouldn’t.”

  She smiled. “I have no intention of enjoying a single aspect of anything remotely connected to this idiotic festival. I would rather drink cold tea without sugar and walk barefoot over broken glass for the rest of my life than hunt for a match in this fashion.”

  Her mother screeched in distress while her father moaned. “Daphne, please. Think of your mother.”

  Daphne gave her father a withering look. “Are you suggesting this Season is for her benefit and not mine? I find that hard to believe, as it is my future that will be affected, not hers.”

  “I never had a Season!” Mrs. Hutchins lamented, wringing her hands. “Imagine what could have been if I had!”

  It was probably not the best time to give her father a pointed look, but it seemed the natural thing to do. “Yes, you’ve suffered so much,” Daphne replied in a dry tone.

  Her father seemed to develop a twitch and looked down.

  “And I’ve never put a daughter through a Season, either!” her mother rambled on. “Phoebe would have made such a splash, so beautiful and engaging and bright . . .”

  There was complete silence in the carriage as she realized she had gone too far. Daphne stared at her coldly while her husband shook his head from side to side.

  “Are you telling me,” Daphne ground out slowly, “that I am suffering through this because you never got the chance with Phoebe? That you wish she were in this carriage instead of me?”

  Her mother’s widened eyes revealed her panic, and she reached for her daughter’s hand. “Darling Daphne, I would never . . .”

  Daphne wrenched her hands out of reach and turned away. “Leave me be. And remind yourself what I endured at the hands of your favorite daughter.”

  No one was foolish enough to speak after that, and Daphne felt ridiculous for still becoming so distressed about the whole situation. She ought to have been far enough removed from the Incident to remove the worst of the feelings, but the bitterness had taken root, and she had grown accustomed to it.

  She closed her eyes as the carriage rocked to and fro, suddenly awash in memories.

  Sixteen was too young for marriage. She had always known that, even before anyone had said anything. Her mother hadn’t thought so, which had been all the encouragement she’d needed. And there had been no formal engagement, but it had been forthcoming.

  He had promised.

  They had promised.

  Everyone knew about it. People ou
tside their town and even outside the county had known. Daphne Hutchins was a most fortunate girl, and the envy of quite a few.

  Their understanding had been the worst kept secret in Reading and all its inhabitants.

  Sixteen or not, everybody agreed it would be perfection.

  It was not until after the Incident that the gossip came to light. She was too young, he had a reputation, and it would never have worked. A poor match indeed and a most inappropriate familiarity.

  And her sister . . .

  Poor Daphne Hutchins.

  What a silly, sorry creature.

  There was no one to blame but herself.

  Astonishing how they all turned when circumstances changed. Friends, neighbors, complete strangers looking for any tempting bit of tittle-tattle all sang a different tune after that. The pity was overbearing, the avoidance telling, and the truth, such as it was, hidden beneath the elaboration the rumors had concocted.

  Most people had forgotten about the whole thing by now.

  Daphne could not.

  She didn’t love him any longer, that had died along with her hopes and dreams. The hurt had lasted much longer, and the shame beyond that.

  Somewhere along the way, she had vowed to never be so stupid or silly again. Never so weak or vulnerable or exposed. Never so trusting.

  Never again would her life be so tied up in that of another that she lost herself.

  Daphne Hutchins then was not Daphne Hutchins now.

  And Daphne Hutchins now was not going to leave her happiness in the hands of others, not even for a London Season.

  She had her own plans to see to, her own happiness and satisfaction to attain. She had her own mark to make, and make it she would.

  She dipped her chin briefly in a nod to herself.

  The games were about to begin.

  Chapter Two

  James Woodbridge could have done without the fuss of the Season altogether. It really was not worth all the effort that went into it—not that he’d ever put in any effort for it. Quite honestly, he did not care all that much. The quiet of a country life was all he’d ever imagined, though London certainly had amusements enough. He’d enjoyed a few turns at the festivities, but without any serious intentions, and only because it was the thing that a gentleman in England was expected to do.