by Joyce Alec
Fry obliged and quickly returned. The two men waited in the hallway for her to change. Fry leaned in to Edward and whispered. “Listen to each other,” was all he said before disappearing into the darkness.
Edward reentered the room after she had changed and sat down next to her in front of the fire. The two young loves stared at each other in silence for what seemed like an eternity before Chloé broke the quiet. “I am sorry.” Her eyes dropped, and a lone tear fell onto her lap. “I should not have gone there, I know. But Ms. Harper took me in. And she is a very good Christian woman. She just wants to provide a safe place for those girls to lay their heads at night. Some of them are truly in terrible situations.”
Hearing her words, he knew instantly that she was not one of “those girls.” But it still bothered him that he saw a man touching her. “I saw you in there… with a man,” Edward said, almost guiltily.
She looked hard at him. “Edward, I never…” Then it occurred to her that Fry had been there. She did not want to get the man in trouble, but she felt it was honesty time. “It was Fry,” she said softly. “He found me there and tried to convince me to come back.”
“Fry knew you were there?” he asked, hurt that his steward did not tell him.
“Only just…” she answered. “Do not be mad at him. He was there for you. He is the reason I came tonight.”
“I guess it is my time to say I’m sorry,” Edward croaked, his voice trembling. “For so much.”
They talked for hours about everything, including forgiveness. Neither of them wanted any lies or misunderstandings to taint another second of their lives. They shared a warm brandy and fell asleep in each other’s arms.
***
Charlotte left Almack’s seething. She would not let some French trollop steal her destiny. She would not lose Edward, and she knew exactly how to force his hand. She headed to St. Paul’s Church-Yard where she had a newspaper connection.
Chapter Nine
Early the next morning, Fry knocked lightly on the drawing room door. Edward was awake, just staring at his perfect wife. He still could not believe they were husband and wife. It seemed like a dream. He eased out of Chloé’s warm embrace and opened the door to a flustered Fry.
“Fry, what is it?” he asked the trembling man.
“It’s not good, Your Grace,” Fry answered, handing him the newspaper.
The London Chronicle front page headline read “EDWARD CAYLEY, DUKE OF DORCHESTER, AND CHARLOTTE PALMER ENGAGED!”
Edward was suddenly jolted back to reality. He knew she was horrid, but he did not expect this. He was already married to someone else, and he was going to make sure everyone knew it. He crumpled up the paper and dashed up the stairs, returning moments later in full dress.
“Fry, please let my wife know that I shall return,” he said to Fry with a wink.
“Yes, sir,” Fry answered happily. He could tell Edward had a plan and it must be a good one.
Edward returned hours later with another newspaper. The London Chronicle, which only circulated its papers three times a week released a second edition on the same day. Edward was assured it would be delivered to every person who received the paper that morning.
The front page now read:
THE LONDON CHRONICLE APOLOGIZES FOR GRIEVOUS ERROR IN THIS MORNING’S PAPER HEADLINE SHOULD HAVE READ AS BELOW:
EDWARD CAYLEY, DUKE OF DORCHESTER, TO MARRY Chloé DALTON TONIGHT
He tossed the paper on the table in front of Fry as he sat across from Chloé, laughing and sharing a pot of tea.
“By Jove, Edward!” he exclaimed. “You are a mastermind!”
“What are you talking about?” a confused Chloé asked. Fry pushed the newspaper toward her, and her eyes lit up with tears reading it aloud. “So, it’s official,” she said, looking up to Edward.
“It’s official,” he echoed, bending to kiss her lightly on sweet pink lips.
Edward and Chloé stood under an arbor of red poppies. Chloé’s wedding gown trailed behind her as she stood next to her love, holding his hand tightly as the preacher read from the Bible. The small park across from Edward’s townhome was brimming with the most elegant guests, happily celebrating their favorite couple.
Charlotte Palmer steamed at the back of the crowd. She had spent most of the evening laughing off the “ridiculous” headline in that morning’s paper. Her new patron, the Marquess of Albany, made certain she would never again try to interfere in the happiness of his friend.
The words of the preacher resounded across the candle-lit park, bringing tears of joy, especially to those who knew Edward and Chloé’s entire story.
“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.”
“Always,” echoed Chloé.
“Always,” purred Edward, placing a gentle kiss upon his wife’s hand.
*****
THE END
FREE BONUS CONTENT
HEROES AND LADIES REGENCY ROMANCES
Rescuing a Lady
Text Copyright © 2016 by Caroline Johnson
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
First printing, 2016
Publisher
Love Light Faith, LLC
400 NW 7th Avenue, Unit 825
Fort Lauderdale, FL 33302
www.LoveLightFaith.com
Rescuing a Lady
By: Caroline Johnson
Rescuing a Lady
Chapter One
England, 1839
“It’s gone? What do you mean, it’s gone?”
Martha stared in confusion at her stepbrother, whose sickly smile made her stomach churn.
“Simply that, dear sister. It’s gone. Your dowry is gone. I have taken it and used it to further my business. You really aren’t the brightest young lady, are you?”
His mocking smile told her that he was enjoying her distress.
“What am I supposed to do?” Martha cried, struggling to keep her composure. “Gerald, you promised father –”
Gerald snapped, “He was your father—not mine. I may have promised that I would look after you, but how I choose to do so is entirely my prerogative.”
His sneer was back. This did not bode well.
Martha was completely at his mercy. She was a single woman who depended entirely on her stepbrother. She lived in his home, ate his food, and used his money. It was difficult to get anything from him, even something as simple as a pair of new gloves to replace her worn ones. Even then, she’d had to prove that her current pair were beyond repair. It was humiliating, but she’d become used to his tight-fisted ways.
Knowing that her father left her a substantial dowry had been her saving grace, safe in the knowledge that she could one day be free of Gerald in a home of her own. She was not the most beautiful, nor the most eligible lady, but a substantial dowry had made her believe that she would, one day, find the gentleman for her. It had been her father’s dearest wish.
Martha’s heart clenched as she thought of her beloved Papa, so recently departed. If only he were still alive, then she wouldn’t be in this terrible situation. How had Gerald managed to get his greedy hands on her money? It had been her only way out, and now, it seemed, it was gone in a flash.
“I don’t understand…”
Gerald moved forward, his steely gray eyes calculating and shrewd, and his slow steps p
utting Martha immediately on her guard.
“There is an easy way to solve this, Martha. You know what I want.”
Martha tried to calm her trembling, knowing what was coming. This had gone on for too long.
“No, Gerald. I’ve told you time and time again, I will not sign over that parcel of land to you. It’s the only thing left I have from my father. I know it isn’t worth much, so I don’t understand why it’s so important to you.”
A flash of anger crossed Gerald’s face, his hands clenching into fists.
“You will have to do what I say soon enough, Martha, dear,” he spat. “You should know by now that I always get what I want. A few days without food might have you willing and to do as I say. What do you say to that?”
“You can’t starve me,” Martha cried, the very thought filling her with terror. “I am meant to be like a sister to you, Gerald. Why are you so cruel? You’ve inherited your father’s title and money. My father left you most of his fortune to make it easy to care for me. Why must you take the one thing left in my name?”
“That small parcel of land connects my other properties, and I want it.” Gerald screamed. “Just sign it over, and I will see if I can scrounge together a suitable dowry for you.”
Martha replied, her voice cold, “Your actions thus far have proven that I cannot trust you.”
“So you keep saying…” Gerald replied insolently.
He paused for a moment, staring at her. Martha’s breath came quick and fast as she longed for this conversation to be over.
“You do know that when you turn twenty-five years old, that land becomes mine,” said Gerald.
“Gerald, I still have six months until I am twenty-five years old. I do believe that I am still young enough to find a suitable match. You cannot write me off as a spinster quite yet.”
“Very well,” Gerald said, seemingly unperturbed by her refusal. “I will continue to make it very difficult for you to marry, Martha. And don’t think for one moment that I will approve the marriage to a poor farmer. After all, I did promise your father that I would only approve of a good match.”
“And just what do you plan on doing with me after I turn twenty-five?”
“I will throw you out of my house, and you will have to fend for yourself,” said her stepbrother. “If you sign over the land now, maybe I can take pity on you.”
“My father left you everything,” screamed Martha. Martha lifted her chin, regaining control of her emotions. “You promised to take care of me, and you have done nothing but make my life miserable. You raise your hand to me and treat me like rubbish. I don’t deserve this.”
“I don’t see why you are putting up such a fuss. The land earns no income. I don’t see what it is so important to you.”
Martha stared at him, not knowing what to do. Should she sign over the land to improve her current life? Or, should she hold onto the land? It was the last gift she ever received from her father. Martha knew that it would be difficult to find a man who wanted to marry her, but she must try to fling herself into society once more and attempt to find an eligible gentleman. But, who would want to marry a young woman only recently out of mourning and with no dowry? Would she really be able to find an eligible gentleman, with wealth and family connections? How could she make such a man fall in love with her?
“Well?”
Martha uttered the words, “No. I will not let you have my land and lose the only thing my father left me.”
"I see," Gerald said, the smirk back on his face. "I should so hate for any rumors to circulate about you, Martha. That would put off many a gentleman, I am sure.” His parting words hit home as he left the room, leaving Martha trembling from head to toe.
She was doomed.
Chapter Two
“I can do this,” Charles said to himself, gritting his teeth. “I can do this.”
Stepping as confidently as he could onto the dance floor, he bowed to his partner and began to follow the steps, trying to remember each one correctly. A couple of small mistakes, of course, but that was bound to happen.
“Ouch!” his partner, the lovely Lady Augusta, cried, hopping up and down on one foot.
“Oh, I am so dreadfully sorry!” Charles exclaimed, unsure what it was he should do. “I do have such big feet!”
He bent down as if to examine the lady’s ankle, but was stopped by her shocked gasp.
“Of course, of course,” he mumbled, remembering how inappropriate it would be for any man to see a genteel lady's legs. "I do apologize."
He bowed low, only to be knocked completely off balance by a dancing couple and ended up firmly on his behind, right in the middle of the dance floor.
Lady Augusta went crimson from sheer embarrassment and, with as much dignity as she could muster, left the dance floor unattended, hobbling to a nearby chair. She was immediately surrounded by many ladies, who threw a great number of dark glances his way. However, Charles was not immune to the laughter he heard ricocheting around the room, directed solely at him and his ridiculous attempt at a dance. Hearing the first strains of a waltz begin, Charles hastily got to his feet, quickly dusted himself off, and attempted to make his way off the dance floor through all the waltzing couples. The laughter had now turned to jeers as he struggled to find a way through. Eventually, he reached the safety of the French doors and exited the ballroom immediately, his cheeks hot with shame.
“Lady Augusta is quite all right, old boy, no need to worry about that.”
Charles sighed, looking over his shoulders to see his best friend, Matthew, stride towards him.
“Here,” said Matthew, as he handed Charles a drink.
Grateful to his friend for his consideration, Charles grasped the glass of whiskey and threw it back in one large gulp. Shaking his head, he groaned, putting his head in his hands as he sat on the cold bench in the dark.
“At least out here, no one can see me,” Charles mumbled, pushing his hands even further into his hair. “That was truly awful.”
“It really was,” Matthew chuckled, slapping his friend on the back. “What on earth got into you, man? It was only a quadrille; you’ve been practicing that dance since you were in short coats!”
"I know, I know," Charles replied, finally raising his head. "It's just that I was dancing with Lady Augusta. She is quite pretty, and I became quite anxious in her presence," he trailed off as he realized how ridiculous he sounded.
“Ah, the curse of being in a beautiful woman’s company,” Matthew mocked, throwing back his own glass of whiskey. “You are lucky that you’re an earl with considerable wealth, or nobody would dance with you. What you need to do, my friend, is practice.”
“Practice?” Charles echoed. “Practice what?”
“You know,” Matthew began, getting to his feet. “Talking to a lady, walking with her, simply handing her a glass of refreshment—all of the things you seem entirely incapable of doing. Surely you do not want to remain persona non grata to all the ladies of the ton?”
Charles opened his mouth to argue, but then closed it again firmly. Matthew was right. Whenever he tried to talk to a beautiful young lady, his tongue felt like sandpaper in his mouth, his voice becoming a rasping cough whenever he tried to speak. He had lost count of the number of ladies who had walked away from him mid-conversation. Thinking of walking, whenever Charles tried to tuck a lady’s hand under his arm, her closeness gave him such anxiety that he often tripped over his own feet. Charles closed his eyes tightly, trying to push away the memories. He was a lost cause.
“Remember the time you poured a glass of ratafia down Lady Weston’s bodice?” Matthew cried, chuckling as he recalled the scene. “She screamed so loudly that her father rushed in, ready to knock out whoever it was that was ravishing his daughter.”
“I did get a black eye,” Charles said ruefully. “Her father was quite a strong man, as I recall.”
Matthew let out a roar of laughter as tears now began to roll down his cheeks.
&n
bsp; "Then you stood on her precious little pug as you took your leave," he cried, filled with hilarity.
"It was a small thing, and I could hardly see it," Charles cried, coming to his own defense. "I should not think that could be considered my fault."
Despite himself, Charles felt a smile come over his face. He truly was too clumsy for his own good.
After some time, Matthew grew quiet, still letting out the occasional little hiccup of laughter.
“So,” Charles began, thinking seriously once more. “How do I practice all those things?”
Matthew thought for a moment before saying, “Well, I suggest we find a lady of society who is not overly beautiful and who is not likely to ever marry—whether it be through circumstances or age, or lack of desirability.”
Charles wrinkled his nose at the description, but Matthew hadn’t finished.
“You can treat her as an acquaintance, get to know her, practice your conversation, practice your dancing, and take her for walks in the park.”
“Fetch her a glass of ratafia,” Charles interjected, a grin on his face.
“Exactly,” Matthew replied, holding back a laugh. “Then, considering you know you won’t ever marry the chit, you will be sufficiently improved to begin courting whichever eligible lady you choose.”
“Wonderful!” Charles exclaimed, getting to his feet. “I really believe you have come up with a good plan, Matthew.”
“Thank you,” Matthew replied, sweeping an overly exaggerated bow.
“There is only one problem,” Charles continued, raising an eyebrow.
“Oh?”
“We need to find such a lady.”
