Super Summer Set of Historical Shorts

by Laurel O'Donnell

  Finally, after finding a fifth flimsy excuse to wander past the stairway, floral salon, and drawing room—after covertly peeking in the library, music and dining rooms, and strolling around the entire house’s perimeter, twice—he caught sight of Harcourt in an earnest conversation with Sterling near the stables.

  A picnic was scheduled for midday on a nearby knoll, and Morgan happily anticipated sharing a blanket with Shona. Especially since he’d learned his father had departed Davenswood after dinner, and he needn’t fear another unpleasant episode like last night.

  Perhaps she was unwell.

  Had she taken a chill from her dip in the lake after all?

  Or was she suffering qualms about kissing him?

  The latter thought left a bitter taste in his mouth and caused an even more acrid pang to his soul.

  Not wishing to intrude upon Harcourt and Sterling’s privacy, but hopeful the duke might have knowledge of Shona’s whereabouts or condition if she were indeed indisposed, he pretended absorption in the potted topiaries and statuary adoring the terrace’s other side as he waited for their conversation to end.

  A cluster of women shared two benches paralleling the veranda, a tidy hornbeam hedge creating a partition between the chatting gaggle and Morgan.

  He gave them a dismissive glance as he strolled by. Once behind the greenery, he couldn’t see the ladies any longer, though their subdued conversation carried to him.

  “The silly chit got herself compromised last night,” one lady said, no trace of mercy in her pompous tone.

  “I don’t believe it,” another argued in an incredulous whisper. “She’s so bashful. Why, in London, she couldn’t even string two words together when a gentleman came near.”

  “I was in the conservatory, and I tell you, it is so,” the first chinwag insisted. “His lordship did not deny he was her lover, either. Seems terribly unfair the likes of her making such a credible match.”

  “Well, she entrapped him, naturally. How else could someone like her have managed such a coup? And his honor has always been above reproach.” A breathy sigh flitted through the hedgerow. “Such a waste of a title.”

  Had the jealous hens nothing better to do than bandy about some poor woman’s unfortunate, and no doubt highly exaggerated, circumstance?

  Fool. Of course not. These fine citizens live to shred another’s character.

  Rubbing his forehead above his eye patch—it ached bloody awful today—Morgan scanned the lawns again in search of Shona.

  Harcourt and Sterling, still deep in discussion, wandered toward the manor.

  Hands on his hips, his brows pulled into a slight crease, Morgan shook his head then made to go inside once more. He’d taken but two steps when one of the nattering women’s next word yanked him to an abrupt halt, mid-step.

  “I also heard, straight from Miss Rossington herself, that Lady Atterberry wagered her she could engage a lover for the week,” a third voice intoned, this one squeaky with unsuppressed glee. “Who’d have thought that wallflower would’ve succeeded so quickly? And with such a fine specimen of manhood too?”

  Jerking his head so that his good ear was toward them, Morgan edged closer, unabashedly eavesdropping

  “That’s not how it was at all,” another, kinder voice objected. “I was told she wagered she’d get herself kissed before the week was out. And she only did so, because, cruel as always, Penelope said no man would ever want to kiss Lady Atterberry.”

  Is that what Shona had whispered to the pernicious virago?

  Suspicion uncoiled, raising its serpent’s chary head. He’d thought she’d whispered a proper set down to the chit.

  Is that why Shona had kissed him? To win a preposterous wager?

  He would’ve rather believed maidenly curiosity prompted her than an ulterior motive.

  No. What he wanted to believe—needed to believe—was that she’d been as fraught to feel her mouth against his as he’d been to taste the velvety softness of her lips.

  And who was this gentleman she’d been found with?

  How could she possibly have been compromised?

  Morgan had barely exited the greenhouse before the throng entered. True, he hadn’t loitered, but had sought the lake as he’d originally intended. It was possible another had entered after him.

  Fabric rustled as one lady stood, her yellow-ribboned straw bonnet covering a cloud of brilliant red hair.

  Olivia Wimpleton, Allen’s wife.

  Morgan darted behind a statue of … Zeus? Apollo?

  He had no idea who the god was or if he was Roman or Greek, but the sculptor had been rather—er, extremely—generous with the deity’s manly endowments.

  And bloody hell. Why was he skulking behind statuary like an errant schoolboy?

  “I’ve heard all the ridiculous twaddle I can tolerate. I refuse to sit here and listen to you malign Lady Atterberry’s character an instant longer. Smudging the sweet-tempered girl’s reputation.” Mrs. Wimpleton shook her head as she angled her parasol over her shoulder. “I simply cannot credit any of you with such unkindness. She’s been nothing but pleasant to each of you. Her life has not been easy. In fact, three years ago, she missed her come-out because her mother beat her so badly. You ought to be ashamed, bandying about such fustian rubbish.”

  My God. Her mother had beat Shona that severely?

  “Olivia, is it true that Lord Sterling actually asked for her hand last night? He’s speaking with her guardian yonder even now.”

  Sterling had offered for Shona?

  The buzzing in Morgan’s head, as if a myriad of bees swarmed within his skull, several stabbing his aching head with their stingers, made it impossible to decipher which woman had asked the question.

  The humming grew louder, muting Mrs. Wimpleton’s response.

  He shook his head, then cursed as thundering pain lanced his skull, threatening to split it in two. If he had an ounce of sense, he’d seek his bed until the throbbing ceased.

  Pressing a hand to his pulsating forehead, he caught sight of the marquis.

  With every fiber of his being, Morgan wanted to hate Sterling.

  But truth be told, he was exactly the sort of chap Shona deserved.

  An honorable man, not given to any vices, a veritable pinnacle of propriety. Not to mention wealthy and too blasted handsome for his own good. Perhaps a jot too serious for her, but Morgan didn’t harbor a doubt that Sterling would treat her well. Reverently even.

  There’d been a hungry glint in his eye when he’d gazed at her yesterday.

  Morgan ought to have recognized the look, for no doubt a matching gleam shone in his.

  At the very least, Sterling found her attractive, but Morgan suspected something more lay in the marquis’s appreciative gaze.

  Sterling cared for her.

  Shona would be foolish not to accept.

  Had she accepted already?

  That would explain her absence—she probably didn’t want to face Morgan or endure the telling glances and whispers of the other guests.

  Except, despite obviously being a sensitive soul, a thread of courage pumped through her veins. He’d seen the merest trace himself, and if nurtured, Shona would eventually cast off her shell of diffidence and blossom into a truly exquisite flower.

  Only he wouldn’t be the man to bring about the transformation.

  He shot Harcourt and Sterling another glance.

  They shook hands and laughed, then Harcourt slapped Sterling on the shoulder before changing direction and striding toward the manor’s front.

  Morgan’s lungs cramped so tight he fought to draw in a steadying breath.

  Suddenly, he had to be alone.

  Had to have time to process this blow.

  Stupid idiot. Fool. Imbecile.

  He’d permitted his emotions free rein and look where that had landed him. Halfway—hell, there was no halfway about it—in love with a woman too far above him.

  Impossible to fall in love in such a short t
ime.

  How many times had he contemptuously uttered those very words?

  How Fate must be laughing at him now. Bent double, howling with glee.

  A disgusted half-snort, half-laugh escaped him as he strode toward the oak grove.

  Why wouldn’t Shona choose Sterling over him? The marquis was everything Morgan wasn’t.

  The day promised to be every bit as warm as yesterday, and perspiration beaded his face at his frenzied pace across the greens. Staying for the rest of the house party was impossible now.

  Head lowered, hands entwined behind his back, he slowed his gait once he entered the oaks’ leafy covering. Swallowing against the bitter disappointment burning his throat, he lifted his aching head and gazed at the lake, a million diamonds reflecting off the pristine waters.

  He’d tasted a bit of heaven, had embraced hope for a few glorious hours.

  Now, he must decide where to go.

  America, perhaps.

  As Morgan emerged through the oaks, Shona straightened on the natural seat the trunks growing together had created. She’d removed her bonnet and gloves again. It seemed she was destined to breach protocol.

  At Wedderford, she never intended to wear either.

  Well, only when she absolutely must.

  Head bowed, her rugged, broad-shouldered, brave warrior appeared so dejected. So lost.

  Morgan had heard the ugly tattle, of course.

  How could he not with the house full of people eager to blather the latest on dit?

  For the first time in years, she’d cried herself to sleep, waking with puffy eyes and despondency shrouding her.

  Absently grazing her hand over the rough trunk, she permitted herself the luxury of scouring him with her gaze. Every precious detail, every dear nuance, she committed to memory.

  His overly long hair, tied at his nape; the strength of his powerful form; his big hands, balled into fists. His long, muscled legs, braced as he gazed at the lake. Everything about him called to her on a primal level she didn’t even attempt to analyze.

  She wanted to be with him. As simple as that.

  When she was in his presence, she felt complete.

  It didn’t matter that she’d known him mere days.

  If she were the fanciful sort, given to believing romantic nonsense, she might be persuaded to believe she’d found her soul mate. That instant recognition one spirit has when it encounters the one meant to meld with theirs.

  A few days ago, she’d have dismissed such thoughts as nonsensical twaddle. Today, however…

  Before most of the guests had even awoken, she’d sneaked out here. Unwilling to skulk in her chamber—after all, she hadn’t done what she’d been accused of—she wasn’t prepared to endure the other guests’ speculative glances or probing questions at breakfast either.

  Mostly, she’d fretted about Morgan’s reaction. Surely he wouldn’t believe the lie.

  Why not? Everyone else had.

  Except her family.

  Last night had gone from unbearably joyful to wholly horrific in just a few short moments.

  Once Francine Dundercroft’s vile accusation pealed through the conservatory with the intensity of Notre Dame’s clanging bells in a linen closet, the guests had either dived together to chatter in sotto voce whispers or scurried like cockroaches to share the succulent tidbit.

  By the time Lord Sterling had steered Shona into the house, Alexa and Harcourt, along with the Needhams and the Pendergasts had been waiting to whisk them into the library.

  Her stomach toppled again in remembrance.

  Morgan rubbed his nape and, heaving a sigh that lifted his shoulders, angled toward the alcove.

  He stopped short upon spotting her.

  No rakish tilt of his lips or engaging spark in his eye greeted her this time. His expression slammed closed as surely as a shutter yanked across a window. Then was locked securely.

  A man who’d retreated into his carefully-constructed fortress.

  A man accustomed to protecting himself from hurt.

  The man she loved.

  His stance cautious and gaze hooded, he regarded her. Silent. Pensive.

  Yet, tenderness softened the corners of his eye.

  “Hello, Morgan.”

  Shona could’ve pinched herself.

  What a daft, fumbling, inept thing to say.

  Couldn’t she have come up with something more poignant? Even forward or fast?

  Such as, Even though I saw you less than twelve hours ago, I’ve missed you terribly?

  Don’t believe the lies you’ve heard.

  There’s only one man I ever want to kiss me.

  You.

  She’d been wishing he’d appear. Had chosen this spot hoping he would and had almost given up when hours had passed and he hadn’t come.

  “I understand congratulations are in order.” His deep voice, so warm and velvety yesterday, had gone stiff and formal. Raw and cracked around the outside as if he struggled to present an unaffected front.

  Her soul wept for him. Felt the pain radiating from him.

  Running her fingertip along her bonnet’s brim, she shook her head. “Nothing’s been decided yet.”

  Lord Sterling would make a wonderful husband.

  The type she’d never even permitted herself to imagine offering for her. Drab brown wrens didn’t catch the regard of the likes of the Marquis of Sterling.

  She’d nearly fallen off the settee when he’d offered for her right there and then last night. The words flowing so smoothly and confidently and sincerely she almost believed he’d rehearsed them many times.

  And he hadn’t seemed all that miffed about asking for her hand under the humiliating circumstances. She’d known him to be an honorable man, but sacrificing himself to the parson’s mousetrap over a silly chit’s jealous drivel seemed excessive, even to Shona.

  She’d seriously contemplated escaping to Wedderford Abbey at dawn, both to relieve Lord Sterling of his misplaced obligation and to save herself a great deal of discomfort.

  But to never see Morgan again?

  To not explain and pray he’d listen? Pray that he also wanted to pursue whatever this magnetism was between them?

  Nae. That she couldn’t bear.

  The unexpected reaction from Alexa and the others further complicated matters. They believed a match with Lord Sterling something Shona ought to give a good deal of careful consideration to. And toward that end, they’d all agreed to wait and discuss the matter further after the house party.

  Before meeting Morgan, Shona most probably would’ve accepted Lord Sterling’s offer.

  However, now she much preferred to marry another.

  Even though the man of her choice had never hinted at any such thing. Hadn’t known her long enough to.

  “I’ve been asked to carefully consider the match,” she said.

  Morgan relaxed the merest bit, bending one knee and cocking his head. “You will accept Sterling.”

  It sounded like an order he expected obeyed. Inarguable. Irrefutable.

  Her hackles rose at his assumption that she’d acquiesce.

  “He’s your social equal and a man of stellar repute.” Jaw flexing, Morgan pointed his attention to the branches overhead.

  Why wouldn’t he look at her?

  Just what was he about?

  His acceptance of the situation and encouragement to accept Lord Sterling, corroded her newly-acknowledged love.

  “He’ll treat you well, of that I have no doubt,” Morgan murmured, almost as if speaking to himself. As if he tried to convince himself of that truth. “You’ll never want for anything.”

  Except the man my heart has decided to love.

  “It’s not a decision I’ll be rushed into making. There is much to consider. Wedderford Abbey, for one. I don’t want to relinquish the entire running of the estate to someone else, for I’m certain Lord Sterling would prefer to reside in England. Besides, as I mentioned last night, I’ve no agent at prese
nt.”

  Preposterous to assume Morgan would consider the stewardship. Not now. Just as ludicrous to presume she’d accept Lord Sterling’s offer. Knowing another held her affections, it would be unfair to him. She might’ve been happy with him had she not toppled into the lake and fallen in love with her rescuer.

  “Surely Harcourt knows of someone capable.” Morgan turned that one startling blue eye on her, and even the corners of his dear face creased with tense resignation. “You must realize I cannot accept the position.”

  No surprise there, yet regret still caused strange, prickly spasms behind her ribs.

  After setting her bonnet and gloves aside, Shona stood. “As the duke is no longer my guardian, it isn’t his concern.”

  He made a rough sound of disagreement in the back of his throat. His knitted chestnut brows, and the fingertips he drummed against his thigh revealed his preoccupation. He pulled at his waistcoat, the most insecure she’d ever seen him.

  A bit of oak moss dropped from the tree and landed on her shoulder. As she brushed the lichen away, she cocked her head. Did she dare voice the thoughts swirling ’round and ’round in her mind?

  What did she have to lose?

  “Although I cannot argue against any of the things you’ve said about Lord Sterling, I do not love him.”

  “You might come to in time.” Morgan cut her a glance she couldn’t quite decipher. “In any event, some things are more important than love.”

  Marshaling her courage, she gave him a crooked, far-from-confident smile and shook her head. “Not to me. You see, I’ve craved unconditional love my entire life.”

  He might as well know the whole of it. Know her deepest secrets.

  Why love someone if you couldn’t risk vulnerability with them?

  “Through my darkest trials, when I was starved, beaten, my arm broken once, locked in my chamber—for weeks on end, at times—I yearned to be loved. When my mother tried to force me to marry one wealthy, revolting codger after another, even when I realized she was stark mad and plotting to kill my sister, I held on to the feeble hope that someday, someone would cherish me. Accept me just the way I am.”

  She gestured dismissively at the front of her Pomona green gown, her voice thick with the sincerity of her emotional declaration.