Brides of London: Regency Romance Collection

by Alec, Joyce

  “Then it appears you are not to have the punishment you deserve, Lord Whitfield,” Peter told him, seeing the man weaken with relief, swaying heavily as he mopped his brow again. “Now, whilst I am delighted with this news, it now seems that we have a good deal to set to rights.” He drew himself up and let go of Miss Grey’s waist reluctantly. “I must first speak to Lady Sharrow and then find that dastardly gentleman, Lord Ancrum.”

  “Goodness, Lord Marchmont,” Miss Grey exclaimed, grasping his arm with both hands and looking up into his face. “You cannot mean to call him out.”

  He smiled at her, although his expression remained rather tight. “I shall do what I have to, Miss Grey,” he said darkly. “I will not allow another gentleman to demean you without having to make recompense.”

  “I do not want you to be injured in any way, however,” Miss Grey replied, her eyes suddenly blazing with a fire that he had not seen before. “There is no need to do any such thing, Lord Marchmont. You remaining by my side will be evidence enough that Lord Ancrum has been foolish in his attempts to ruin my reputation, surely.” Her hands tightened on his arm. “And if you do speak to him then have no doubt that I shall go with you. I shall not remain in the shadows whilst you seek to defend my honor.”

  Peter held her gaze and felt admiration for her wash over him again, chasing his anger towards Lord Ancrum away.

  “If it is of any help,” Lord Whitfield added timidly, “I know that Lord Ancrum has the outward appearance of courage but holds none within his heart. Even if you did call him out, Lord Marchmont, he will not appear.”

  Miss Grey’s hands did not let go of his arm. “You must know how deeply I care for you,” she murmured so that only he could hear. “Pray, do not allow yourself to become injured for my sake, not when there is no need to do so. I could not bear to have you removed from my side, whether or not Lord Ancrum is the coward Lord Whitfield believes him to be.”

  Peter let out a long sigh, feeling the final traces of fury being blown away by the tender words from Miss Grey’s lips. “I can do nothing but seek to please you,” he replied softly, seeing the look of relief in her eyes. “I shall seek out your aunt instead, then, and hope that she will not refuse my request to take you as my wife.”

  Miss Grey laughed softly, her hands loosening their tight grip on his arm. “I do not think she shall even consider refusing you, Lord Marchmont,” she promised, leaning into him. “Come now, let us go and seek her this very moment.”

  14

  “I cannot believe that you are going to be wed!”

  Ophelia tried not to laugh as her aunt threw open the drawing room door and practically danced into the room with these words flung out from her. She had never seen her aunt in such raptures before and hoped that this meant her aunt would never again fall into despondency as she had done before—although Ophelia had to admit that she was grateful Lady Sharrow had not done so these last few weeks. To have had her bedridden and tired and refusing to be of aid in any way would have brought Ophelia to the very limits of her strength. It was as though Lady Sharrow had discovered a new strength deep within her that had come from a determination not to allow Ophelia to become a spinster.

  “Indeed, Aunt, I am very pleased,” Ophelia replied as her aunt clasped her hands together in delight. “Although I am sorry for the difficulties that came with last evening.”

  The smile faded slightly from Lady Sharrow’s face. When Ophelia and Lord Marchmont had finally found Lady Sharrow, they had discovered her quite oblivious to all that had gone on. This was simply because Lady Sharrow had decided to sit in a quiet corner with one or two of her companions, having believed Ophelia to be safe in the company of Lord Marchmont and Miss Smallwood and trusting that Ophelia herself would behave impeccably.

  It had come as quite a shock to the lady to know what had occurred, although Ophelia had been glad to see Lady Sharrow recover herself almost as soon as she had heard that Lord Marchmont sought Ophelia’s hand in marriage.

  “Lord Ancrum is nothing more than a rogue,” Lady Sharrow declared firmly, her smile growing dimmer still as she spoke. “I hope that he finds himself in a good deal of difficulty at some time in his life, so that he might know what it is to be so troubled.”

  Ophelia wanted to say that it was somewhat unchristian to be stating such things, but found that her tongue was bound, given that she found herself agreeing wholeheartedly with such a remark.

  “But we need not think of that any longer,” her aunt continued abruptly. “I have written to your uncle and I have no doubt that he shall attend us here in London at once, much sooner than he had planned. He will want to meet Lord Marchmont and discuss certain matters with him.” She smiled and walked to the side of the room to ring the bell for tea. “Although you shall be married at home, of course.”

  Ophelia smiled at her aunt, seeing the happiness in her eyes and finding herself glad that Lady Sharrow would no longer be so despondent. “Of course, Aunt.”

  Lady Sharrow sighed happily and settled herself in her chair. “I must hope that this is the one thing that will bring your father back home to England,” she said, sending a jolt through Ophelia’s heart. “I know that we have been very happy here, but I can tell that you miss him.”

  Ophelia, who tried her best to never allow her loneliness over her father’s prolonged absence affect her, managed to smile despite the sudden flood of tears that inexplicably pressed themselves against her eyes.

  “He will return,” Lady Sharrow said with certainty. “My brother will return to greet his daughter and his new son-in-law, I am quite sure.”

  “I must hope so,” Ophelia replied, an ache slowly growing in her throat. “I should be very glad to see him again.”

  Lady Sharrow made to speak, only for the door to open and the butler to announce Lord Marchmont. Ophelia rose at once, brushing her tears from her lashes as Lord Marchmont stepped inside, his eyes fixed upon her immediately.

  “Lord Marchmont,” Lady Sharrow cooed as Lord Marchmont bowed politely. “How very good to see you again.”

  “I could not linger even a moment longer away from Miss Grey’s side,” Lord Marchmont replied, coming closer to Ophelia, who held out her hands to him. He grasped them tightly and looked at her with concern. “You are quite well, I hope?”

  “Quite well,” she replied, squeezing his hands and finding her heart reaching out towards him. “It was only that Lady Sharrow made mention of my father. She believes he will return to England when he hears news of my engagement and I find myself hoping that he will do so.”

  Lord Marchmont’s expression grew tender. “I can understand your hope,” he replied gently. “And I shall pray it will be as you say, Lady Sharrow.” He smiled at Ophelia and let go of her hands. “I have, this very morning, received a letter from my brother.”

  Ophelia’s eyes widened. “Oh?”

  Lord Marchmont grinned, a weight clearly removed from his shoulders. “He is still on the continent,” he replied with a shake of his head as though he ought to have known all along. “He writes to say that he is in full health and that there is nothing to be concerned about.” Shrugging, he spread his hands. “And he also states that the ring he has is nothing more than paste, since he lost the first in a bet of some sort. He was ashamed to admit it and so did not tell me.”

  “So it is as Lord Whitfield said,” Ophelia murmured, seeing Lord Marchmont nod. “That is something of a relief, I must admit.”

  Lord Marchmont let out a long breath. “It is,” he said, smiling at her again. “And I must hope that he, too, will return from the continent in order to be present for the wedding. I have written to him at once, although I cannot be certain that he will arrive in a month’s time.”

  Ophelia laughed gently. “We have not yet had the banns called, Lord Marchmont,” she reminded him. “I would be glad to delay for a week or so if it would give your brother more time.”

  “And, mayhap, your father,” he said, his expression warm
as she held his gaze. “Although I should not wish to wait for too long, Miss Grey.”

  Her breath caught at the look in his eyes. “Might you care for a short walk in the gardens, Lord Marchmont?” Ophelia asked, suddenly feeling the need to be free of the four walls that surrounded her, as well as from the sharp-eyed gaze of her aunt. “It is a fine afternoon and I should like to take a turn about the gardens.”

  Lord Marchmont smiled broadly. “I should like that very much indeed, Miss Grey.”

  Lady Sharrow cleared her throat softly. “Do ensure that you return for tea and refreshments,” she said, looking directly at Ophelia and making it quite clear that she was not to be alone with Lord Marchmont for long.

  Ophelia nodded. “Of course, Aunt,” she murmured, before rising to her feet and walking towards the door, with Lord Marchmont only a step or two behind her.

  * * *

  “I know that you long to see your father again.”

  “I do,” Ophelia admitted, her hand on Lord Marchmont’s arm as they walked through the small gardens. “But it was not only that hope that brought such a swell of emotion to my heart.” Her mouth went dry as she looked up into his face and saw the gentle tenderness in his expression. Swallowing, she tried to find what it was she wanted to say without stumbling over her words. It was not like her to find speaking her mind so challenging, but it seemed that discussing matters of the heart was more difficult than she had expected.

  “I—I find that it is the happiness that comes from knowing I am to be your wife,” she said, finding that she could not keep his gaze, such was the intensity of his expression. He was focused entirely on her, on what it was she was saying, and Ophelia wanted to ensure he knew the full truth of what was in her heart. “I did not think that I should ever find myself so joyous over our betrothal, but now that it has come into being, I find that I am overcome with happiness at the prospect, Lord Marchmont.”

  “Just ‘Marchmont’ will do, Ophelia.”

  Her name on his lips sent her heart soaring to the skies and before she could prevent herself, Ophelia leaned into him, wanting his arm around her as it had been last evening. Lord Marchmont obliged at once, a happy sigh escaping from her mouth as he did so.

  “I confess that I feel somewhat guilty that I did not propose to you as I ought to have done,” Lord Marchmont murmured, her head resting on his shoulder as their slow steps took them towards a wooden bench near a trellis of roses. “Perhaps I should do so now, Ophelia, if you would permit me?”

  Her head lifted as he took a step away from her, her hands trembling suddenly as he captured them both in his, coming around to face her. She swallowed hard, her heart beating furiously as he looked down into her face.

  “Ophelia, I confess to you that my heart is yours,” he said tenderly, his fingers pressing hers. “I have not known any such emotions as this before, nor did I ever expect to feel such things. When we first began to court, I believed you to be entirely unsuitable for me, thinking that we were both markedly different in our character and temperament.” His smile was gentle, his eyes filled with longing. “Even though the course of us returning to our courtship was not one I had planned or found agreeable, I confess that I discovered that you were truly a lady to be admired. Your strength of character, your determination, and your intelligence have captured me, Ophelia. Truly, you are the most remarkable young lady of my acquaintance and I am privileged to call you my own.”

  Ophelia closed her eyes against the rush of joyful tears that threatened, her hands reaching up to press lightly against Lord Marchmont’s chest. “Your company and presence have made me realize that is it often best to consider what I say before I say it,” she admitted, looking up at him now that the threat of tears had passed. “You accept my faults without question.”

  “As you do mine,” he said firmly, letting go of her hand so that he might reach up to cup her cheek. “You listened to my excuses for not speaking the truth to you from the start and forgave my foolishness without question. The strength you showed in working alongside me to determine the truth quite took my breath from me. You are intelligent, wise, and courageous. Your beauty shines out from you and I am captured by it.”

  Ophelia swallowed the lump in her throat that had formed with his tender words and reached up to cup his face with both hands. “And I have discovered that you are a gentleman with such consideration and care for those that are close to you that I could not help but give my heart to you,” she told him, feeling him wrap his arms about her waist and draw her closer. “Your concern for your brother was so great that you could not help but do whatever was necessary to keep him safe. You showed great kindness towards Lord Whitfield, even though he did you a great wrong. You might easily have broken our betrothal in order that he might feel the full weight of his own foolishness, but you did not.”

  Lord Marchmont shook his head. “I could not,” he said fervently, his hands about her waist now as he drew her closer to him than ever before. “I could not imagine being separated from you, Ophelia, not even for a moment. To break our engagement simply to punish Lord Whitfield was not in my power. My heart would not allow it. It could not allow me to do so. You have become so dear to me, Ophelia, that my whole being is filled with an abiding love that will never leave me.”

  Her breath caught, her eyes widening as she looked up into his face and saw the truth in his eyes. He loved her. Lord Marchmont loved her in the same way that she loved him.

  “You must know that I feel the same love for you,” she whispered, unable to keep the words from her lips. “I love you with my whole heart, Marchmont. I did not think that I should ever feel such a depth of affection, did not ever believe that I should feel myself so drawn to you, but it is now as though we are bound together. When you depart from me, my heart longs for you, burning through me with a pain that is only relieved when you return.”

  Lord Marchmont lowered his head, resting his forehead against hers carefully. His eyes closed, his breath brushing across her cheek. “You have my love from this day onwards, Ophelia,” he promised. “I shall never leave your side from the day that we wed. I shall be your constant, the one that you can always depend on. I will love you with everything that is within me, sharing each moment with you and allowing the love between us to blossom into something that grows more beautiful with every passing day.”

  For once, Ophelia did not know what to say, her words gone from her mouth as Lord Marchmont leaned down and captured her lips with his. She leaned into him, feeling their hearts beat with one shared love that she knew would never leave them. A great mystery had brought them together, but now they were about to step into another—the mystery of love.

  * * *

  An Earl’s Redemption

  Brides of London

  Prologue

  Miss Lydia Whitaker sat down heavily at her dressing table. Dinner had not gone well and she felt no eagerness to prepare for this evening’s ball, even though she had been ordered to do so by her father, Viscount Templeton. Her mother would be weeping, most likely, over Lord Templeton’s cruel manner, and she herself would have to endure the quiet silence of anger and sadness that would linger between her parents for the next few days.

  It was growing rather wearisome.

  Her mother, Lady Templeton, was too caught up with her own appearance and presence in society to care much for what Lydia needed, even though this was now her third Season in London. The fact that her daughter was still unwed and still seemingly unimportant to the gentlemen of the ton would have been a matter of grave concern to most parents, but Lady Templeton did not seem to care. She often gave Lydia leave to do as she pleased and it was up to Lydia herself to ensure that she remained within the bounds of propriety at all times. She did her best to remain as dignified and as genteel as she could, but having a mother unwilling to introduce her to anyone of importance—for that would take time and effort and Lady Templeton was willing to give neither—was slowly beginning to eat away at Lydia’s
patience.

  Lydia was used as nothing more than a drudge whose sole purpose in life was to comfort her mother when she had difficulties of any kind facing her. She would have to go to her mother’s bedside should her mother take to her bed in anguish and fetch her whatever it was she required. A maid would not do, she had been told many times before, and indeed, Lady Templeton made certain that Lydia did her bidding by simply refusing to move or to even eat until Lydia herself came to her and did as she asked. When she did not use Lydia as her own personal servant, Lady Templeton did not care an iota for her daughter.

  Lord Templeton had only ever had one purpose in life, which was to make sure that his son married and married well. Given that her brother was already married, settled, and had produced the heir within a year of his marriage, Lydia had hoped that her father might show her the same interest that he had shown to her brother, but that had not come to pass. Her brother had been sympathetic and had written to encourage her many a time, but had been unable to come to London on his own to help her given that he had responsibilities of an estate and now, a wife.

  Lord Templeton now came to London for the Season simply so that he might have an enjoyable few months of gambling, drinking, and doing whatever else he wished. And, of course, Lady Templeton would grow weary of being forced to leave whatever soiree they had attended in order to accompany her drunken husband home each night and the arguments would begin in earnest. Lord Templeton would summon Lydia to listen to their arguments, demanding that she tell her mother this or that, whilst Lady Templeton was in the very same room as them both. Lydia knew she was simply a pawn in their games and so had learned to remain entirely silent rather than doing her father’s bidding and speaking to her mother in order to get her to admit some sort of guilt so that the argument might come to an end. But still, Lord Templeton persisted in demanding that Lydia join them whenever an argument was to begin. It was growing tiring but there seemed to be no escape.