Florence’s Stupendous Spinster’s Society (The Spinster’s Society) (A Regency Romance Book)

by Charlotte Stone

  "I told you there were servants." The man had warm blue eyes and when he took off his hat, she saw he was blond. He messed with the curls and made them more prominent.

  "Where's the butler?" another man asked. Florence noticed he was just as handsome. He was also blond, but his eyes were hazel. "Where are the footmen?"

  She swallowed and looked at the group, noticing that every man in attendance was beautiful and that the women were just as lovely.

  A blonde woman stepped forward and gave Florence a smile. Her blue eyes were stunning and stared at her as though they'd met before, but Florence was sure she'd never seen the woman in her life. Still, she was warmed by the look.

  And then she realized she'd been staring at them all and directed her gaze away, recalling her station. They'd caught her off guard. It was the only excuse she could think of. She quickly moved down the stairs and kept her eyes averted. "I'm the only servant here, miss."

  "I'm Lady Lorena Cullip," she said sweetly.

  "For now," a man murmured from behind her, the words a hard claim if Florence had ever heard one.

  Some of the men chuckled.

  Lorena Cullip. Florence recognized that name from the gossip columns that Elipha asked her to read and then, after a while, Florence hadn't needed to be asked. She'd been just as excited about hearing of the adventures that took place between the Spinsters’ Society and the Men of Nashwood.

  She froze and glanced up and around the room before putting her head back down. It was them. The Spinsters’ Society and the Men of Nashwood were in Helsby's home. Elipha was going to... Florence had no idea how her lady would respond but already she felt foolishly anxious to stare at them all and guess who was who. Short biographies had been published last year on them all and half the ladies of the ton had collected every article about the Men of Nashwood.

  The man who'd first spoken to her stepped forward. "I'm Lord Jeanshire. Who are you?" Jeanshire. Aaron Walsh, the Earl of Jeanshire. He was more beautiful than the papers let on. They all were.

  Recalling that he'd asked her a question, she cleared her throat. "Florence Crew, my lord. Are you here with Lord Helsby?"

  A silence fell over the room so deafening that she was forced to look at everyone, unsure of what she’d said wrong. Their faces reflected different emotions.

  Aaron looked guarded as he took off his gloves and placed them in his pocket. “Helsby is dead. He died two weeks ago. This is my home now. I was his cousin.”

  She gasped. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” She hadn’t heard that Helsby was sick.

  “Who are you here with?” Aaron asked.

  “Lady Elipha Thrup. She was Helsby’s wife’s cousin. Do you know her?”

  He shrugged. “Everyone knows her father, Lord Nolwell, but I wasn’t close to Helsby or his wife, for that matter. Your lady may stay as long as she wishes.”

  She sighed with relief and supposed it was good that Aaron had not been close to the cousin he’d lost. It was also good that he wouldn’t be kicking her and Elipha out on the street. Aaron seemed like a kind man, and Elipha could use his kindness at the moment. Elipha’s allowance had begun to run thin. When she refused to show herself for the holidays with her family, they’d cut her off, fearing she’d run off with a man.

  How ironic that she had, though they’d be glad to know that nothing had come of it. While she’d been pregnant, the Turnbulls had provided food and other needs, but that funding was cut dry when the boy left. Elipha didn’t plan to tell her family about the baby. Yet another secret for Florence to take to her grave, but she did so believing the boy would be happy with his new family. She thought about Helsby’s daughters. “Where are Lily and Mary?” Then she thought better and added, “I’m sure my lady will wish to know.”

  “They’ll be here in a matter of days. Do you know them?” He was watching her intently.

  “I’ve met them occasionally on visits. I’ve even watched them a time or two.”

  His eyes flickered with relief. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day. I’ll need you when the girls arrive. It will be good for them to see at least one familiar face.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  “We’ll speak later. For now, we'll need rooms, Miss Crew. How many are here?"

  Florence counted the bedrooms in her head and was glad for the activity. She was soon becoming herself once more. "There are eight, but my lady is in one of them."

  "Seven then," Jeanshire said. "The women will have to sleep in the same room. Some of us will have to take couches. The girls will need their own room when they arrive. The solicitor can stay at the inn."

  The fighting started again with the men declaring they would sleep with their fiancées.

  Florence listened, though not entirely. Her mind was still racing with the fact that Helsby was dead. The poor girls.

  A voice came in close to her ear and she jumped, startled, and turned to find a man with black eyes staring at her. His hair, which he wore longer than fashion dictated, hung like a black curtain that stopped at his shoulders. If the other men were handsome then the English had yet to form a word that described this man's stunning appeal. Florence’s entire body shivered as she held his eyes, feeling as though they were seeing into her soul. He had a wide forehead, a broad nose, and strong jaw that already had a shadow for such an early hour in the day.

  And she knew him like her own face, even though she’d only seen it once and many years ago.

  Rollo Kerry lifted a brow and leaned closer. "Can you hear me?" The timber in his voice was low.

  She closed her eyes and took in the scent of him, woodsy and strong. She could hear him, but her mind was too fuzzy to have made out anything he'd said.

  His breath brushed her cheek. "Is there enough wood to light more fires in the house?"

  She opened her eyes and saw him looking her over before returning to her eyes. A light of humor filled his as if he knew just how captivating he was. She forced herself to recall his question as if to prove he had no effect on her, but her one-word reply was breathy.

  "No." She lowered her gaze as her heart began to race. The way she'd looked at him had all but been an invitation to her bed. Servants were always sleeping with whomever they wished, and Florence was not raised to act any different, yet she did. She told herself to be more careful around these men.

  She realized for a moment that he'd not moved but didn't dare look at him again. Instead, she took a step back and heard him chuckle before he turned to the rest of the room.

  "I'm going out to cut wood," Rollo said.

  "I'll go with you," one of the others said.

  She was amazed. The men were willing to cut their own wood, and she listened as others volunteered to help the drivers with the horses since there were no stablemen. She knew the group consisted of some of the wealthiest men in London, ranging from dukes to wealthy gentry, but she'd not suspected any of them to be willing to get their hands dirty. Since there was no housekeeper and Florence was the only servant about, she decided to take charge just a little.

  "There are other beds in the servants’ quarters. If you all are more inclined to take those rooms instead of sleeping on couches. I know they're not as big or of the quality you're used to, but they are clean."

  "I've slept in worse. It's a great idea," one of the men said. Florence looked up to find a man with dark hair and blue-green eyes smiling at her before she looked down again. He was Morris Kidd, the Duke of Cort. "Where are they? A group of us will move them."

  "This way, Your Grace." She led the way toward the back of the house.

  Morris spoke as they went down the narrow hall. "How did you know who I was? Your English is very good. Are you from London?"

  "I'd think she’s a lady from Mayfair with the way she spoke." She had no idea who'd spoken the words and didn't dare look back.

  Florence's cheeks burned nonetheless. "Yes, I'm from London." But she had a brother who’d gone to school and insisted Florence be taught to
read, write, and speak properly. They were lessons that she’d always been grateful for. She hurried along and took them down a flight of stairs in the basement before stopping at the start of the hallway. "The beds are in these rooms.” She placed her hand on the door closest to the stairs. "This is mine."

  "It's dark down here," one of the men said. "Is there a window in your room?"

  She hesitated. "No."

  "A fireplace?" Morris asked.

  "No, Your Grace."

  "The drivers can’t stay down here.” He turned to Florence. “You can't stay down here."

  Florence looked up at the man who'd spoken before and had given her the compliment. Even in the dim lights of the hall, she could see his eyes were lavender and full of something dark that dared her to come play. He was Julius Hext, the Marquess of Darvess.

  The papers had done none of them justice. It was as though the very gods from Olympus had decided to come down together just to mess with the senses of every woman they met. Each one of them could easily be Adonis or Cupid. She reserved the role of Zeus for Rollo. After all, he was called King Kerry.

  "My accommodations are fine, my lord."

  “Does your lady know how cold it is down here?”

  In truth, Florence was hardly down here at all. Being the only servant left her always on her feet and often she slept in a chair by Elipha’s bed. She was struck in awe by Julius’ concern for her. She thought herself too far beneath him for it to matter.

  “I should go see to my lady. Please let me know if there is anything else you need.” She left quickly then, going up the stairs and down the hall. Movement outside the window caught her eye, and she watched as four of the men stood out in the snow. Rollo had removed his coat, leaving him in only his shirt and pants. She thought him frightfully cold until she noticed the ax in his hand and was startled when he swung it, splitting a log in two. He went for some time, and Florence pressed her fingers to the glass, outlining his form. Muscle could be seen in his every move, bunching in his arms and thighs. His black hair had been pulled back, but strands had gotten loose and hung by his face, a harsh contrast to the weather.

  His movements were sure, every swing full of power, and Florence wished she had time to capture him with pencil and paper.

  She’d drawn him before a few years ago, but the day and situation had been different. It had been a clear day in London. He’d been on the street by the shops, and Florence had been with Elipha standing a few yards away as she spoke with friends.

  Someone had called his name, and Florence had looked to find a very handsome man with dark eyes look up as a gentleman approached. His hair had been shorter then, but she would recognize Rollo Kerry anywhere.

  “Hello.”

  Florence pressed her hand over her mouth and turned to find Lady Lorena standing behind her, smiling. Other women stood behind her as well.

  Lorena said, “We simply wanted you to know that none of us expect you to serve us while we’re here. It seems hardly fair for one servant to accommodate such a large group, does it?”

  Florence blinked and didn’t know what to say. She had, in fact, thought the group wished for her to see to their needs. Had Elipha been in charge, that was the way it would have been. It wasn’t that her lady was mean-spirited, she simply didn’t see Florence as anything more than a servant.

  A dark-haired woman with blue eyes moved forward. “I’m Alice Wilkins. My father owns a club, and I worked inside it for many years. I’ll be taking over the kitchen. Could you show me where I might find everything?”

  “Yes.” Someone else in the kitchen would give Florence the break she desperately needed. She might even sleep in her own bed tonight, never mind how cold it was.

  “I’ll help you,” a blonde woman with a soft voice said. Then she looked at Florence. “I’m Maura Shaw.”

  “I’ll help, too,” the short redhead said, nearly bouncing with joy. “I’m Genevieve Tift, but everyone calls me Genie.” She smiled. “Except for Francis. He calls me Evie.” Her eyes glittered with warmth at the mention of Francis Cullip, the Duke of Valdeston, who was not only her fiancé but Lorena’s older brother. Why she’d introduced herself with mention of her nicknames, Florence wasn’t sure, since Florence had no plans to call her anything but Lady Tift.

  “We should all go to the kitchen so that we may discuss our plans.” The tallest of them, a beautiful woman with black hair and green eyes, stood by Florence, staring out the window at the men.

  She’d mentioned the discussion of plans, which made Florence wonder why they’d come north at all. She thought the obvious answer would be to wed, but with the fighting she’d heard, she wasn’t entirely sure that was the truth. She knew that the house now belonged to Aaron but not much else. Had they heard about Helsby’s death and come to mourn? Florence’s heart grew sad again.

  When the tall woman’s eyes move to Florence, there was a smile on her face. “I’m Sophia Taylor. Tell your lady that if she wishes to join us for dinner, we would be delighted to have her.” Sophia was the one who wrote the articles for the gossip columns and newspapers.

  Florence had no doubt that Elipha would jump at the opportunity to join them. “Thank you, I will let her know.”

  Sophia’s next question caught her off guard. “How long have the men been out there?”

  Heat scored Florence’s cheeks. She’d been caught staring at the men, though she’d only been staring at one in particular.

  “Florence!” Her name rang from the top of the house. Elipha. Just in time.

  “I better go. I still haven’t told my lady who is here.” She rushed past the women and stopped. “The kitchen is just down the hall to the right. Everything we have is in the box on the counter.” She turned back around and ran up the stairs before anyone else could stop her… especially Miss Sophia Taylor.

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  CHAPTER THREE

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  "I claim the lady's maid." Rollo swung the ax and the log split in two. William moved in to take the pieces and move them to a wagon while Hugh placed a new one on the stump.

  Hugh glanced up at him with a grin, a laugh in his dark blue eyes. "I saw her before you approached. She's very pretty."

  “Only a fool would have missed it,” William said.

  Rollo agreed. She was very pretty. He even liked her name. Florence. In Latin, it meant 'to bloom', like a flower. He thought of the color of her lips, a dark red like abused rose petals. He grew hard at the thought of touching them and having them touch him.

  Before he embarrassed himself, he allowed his mind to recall her eyes. They were a dark gold, as was her hair. It reminded him of an Italian cantuccini, toasted twice before being enjoyed with an ivory white center that resembled her skin, which looked soft to the touch.

  He wondered at her history. From her speech, he knew she had to be from the city, perhaps even educated.

  “We could share if she’s so inclined,” Hugh called, dragging him not only from his thoughts but his pleasant mood as well. He swung again the moment Hugh moved back and wondered at his annoyance at the thought of Hugh also touching the maid. They’d shared women before, high-priced courtesans in exchange for payment and gifts, maids who’d been willing simply to claim they’d touched one of the Men of Nashwood, but Florence hadn’t seemed that way to him, though he hardly knew her at all. She’d shied away at his advances, and he recalled the compassion that had come into her eyes at hearing about Helsby’s death. It was the sort of kindness that Rollo would have stayed clear of had Florence been an heiress. Manipulative and mean-spirited women didn’t attract him, which was only one reason Rollo had yet to marry. Society was full of them. The other half of the ladies he simply hadn’t found himself attracted to. They all looked the same, wore the same fragrances, held the same endless and pointless conversations. Some fear
ed him too much to speak at all, and Rollo could never see himself attached to a woman who feared him.

  “If she’s that sort of woman, I won’t stop her.” Though he was determined to be the first to woo her. In the cold of Scotland, he could use some warmth in his bed. He’d call on all his charm to see it through. “I'm only telling you two because you're unattached and likely to go after her."

  This was not the first time they’d had a conversation of this sort. While some of the beau monde would believe that the help was nothing more than shadows that moved to do one’s bidding, a man never missed a beautiful woman, no matter her station. Servant or not, he was sure that he was not the first man to see Florence for the woman she was.

  Florence seemed perfect. She was different and wouldn’t pose a threat to his marital status.

  There was something about her he liked, yet when their time came to an end, they could both move on. His instincts told him that she’d not come easily, but that didn’t deter him from his resolve. He wanted her.

  "But you forget that Julius followed her to the servants’ quarters." William came back over to collect the broken pieces. He chuckled. "But don’t worry. he'll probably be willing to share.”

  Rollo stilled and cursed. Julian was the last man he wanted to fight over a woman with. The man liked challenge too much. Rollo knew he’d have to hide his ambition if he wished Julius not to throw his hat into the ring.

  Aaron strolled out the house and gave him an excuse to leave.

  “Give me that ax.” The heat in his eyes showed he did not wish to be fought with over the matter, his resolve almost palpable. Everyone knew that with the current circumstances, he had more tension to work out than anyone else.

  When Helsby died, the Scottish authorities had questioned the group of wealthy lords and gentry, wishing to make sure that there was no foul play, yet asking their questions in a way that wouldn’t offend the powerful men. Helsby’s body had been found in the small farmhouse of Mr. and Mrs. Adcock, who’d been known as good people in the village. Rollo was sure that had the couple not been present to witness Helsby’s suicide, the Scottish authorities wouldn’t have accepted the men’s answers so quickly. Wealthy or not, Columbus Gates had been the Baron of Helsby and would have deserved a full investigation.