No. Despite the terrible enormity of Lady Tremont’s lie, it had allowed Ellie and Kit to find their true way to one another, to follow the compass of their hearts without going astray.
“I imagine your young man will be glad of the news,” the solicitor said. “He must think quite highly of you, if he believed, er . . .”
“That he was marrying a penniless orphan?” Ellie said tartly. “As a matter of fact, he does love me, very much. And while this is a very welcome circumstance, it will not matter to our happiness.”
Lady Merriweather cleared her throat. “I assure you, it will make a difference—though I’ve no doubt you would have been happy either way. But it is far easier to be content in life when one has a small fortune at one’s disposal. Speaking of which, I rather fancy the thought of coming to India for your wedding. Perhaps I’ll be your chaperone until you’re wed. What do you say to that?”
Ellie smiled at her. “I think it would suit very well.”
She and Kit had decided to have the ceremony abroad so that his parents might attend—and so that her stepmother might not. After the revelations of the afternoon, Ellie preferred never to set eyes on that dreadful woman again.
“Then it’s settled,” the baroness said. “We set sail next Wednesday. In the meantime, I’ll help you with opening bank accounts and the like. One doesn’t want a sum that size sitting about in bills, after all.”
“Very wise,” the solicitor said. “We can meet tomorrow at the Royal Bank. Two o’clock?”
While her godmother settled the particulars, Ellie contented herself with imagining telling Kit the good news. With the investment from Lord Brumley, she had no doubt the tea plantation would thrive.
And with her inheritance, she had no doubt their family would, too. She closed her eyes a moment, conjuring up a vision—a house with a wide veranda tucked beside a prosperous tea plantation, she and Kit sitting outside, watching their children play. Two—no, three of them—a girl and two boys.
Henderson was there, and Mr. Atkins, who found the heat a blessing to his old bones. The Baroness visited every few years, bringing the children strange, exotic items from England. And surprisingly, Abby would visit as well, along with her ambassador husband, who altogether doted upon her.
Through it all—the year of drought, the monsoons that washed away a third of their crop, the blight five years after that—she and Kit persevered. And, at last, found financial prosperity.
But it was nothing compared to the wealth of love and companionship they would share together till the end of their days.
~*~
More books by Anthea Lawson:
About Anthea Lawson
A USA Today bestselling author and two-time RITA nominee, Anthea Lawson was named “one of the new stars of historical romance” by Booklist. Her books have received starred reviews in Library Journal and Publishers Weekly. A Lord’s Chance is the newest novella in her Passport to Romance collection.
Anthea lives with her husband and daughter in sunny Southern California, where they enjoy fresh oranges all winter long. In addition to writing historical romance, Anthea plays the Irish fiddle and pens bestselling, award-winning YA urban fantasy as Anthea Sharp.
Find out about all her books at anthealawson.com, and join her mailing list, tinyletter.com/AntheaLawson, for a FREE STORY, plus all the news about upcoming releases and reader perks!
For more sweet Victorian romance by Anthea, try the following novellas:
A Countess for Christmas
A Duke for Midwinter
A Prince for Yuletide
To Wed the Earl
A Lady’s Choice
For more romantic adventure set abroad, the *spicy* full-length novel Fortune’s Flower reveals Isabelle’s past, as the Strathmore family adventures in Tunisia in search of a fabled bloom.
A Love to Claim
Rebecca Connolly
Chapter One
London, 1845
Was there ever anything more tedious than a ball? Crowds of people bustling here and there, jostling the unsuspecting guest and upsetting conversations and glasses of punch, and being forced into overpoliteness for fear of appearing uncouth by behaving in the reverse.
And that was only if the ball were hosted by the popular individuals.
God help the poor souls who hosted a ball that no one attended and at which the aforementioned occurrences could not occur due to lack of sufficient numbers to make the evening more hectic. There was no recovering from that sort of thing.
Not that Abigail Sterling cared one whit about popularity, balls, or recovering from a Society misstep. She did not.
Would not and could not.
She had enough to be getting on with in her own personal missteps and perceived follies.
Nearly three years, and she was still getting the occasional comment or remark from those who could not mind their own business or keep themselves informed on the current standings of various members of Society and the gossip that circulated among them. Well-meaning older women and impertinent younger women tended to let their interest in her resurface when there was nothing else to discuss, and it really was ridiculous.
Nothing had even happened! There had been no scandal, no broken engagements, and no jilting by either party! No one was ruined, and no one would be shunned by Society. Lives had certainly been changed, but only three of them, as far as she could count.
Nothing broken but her heart, and that had mended.
Mostly.
The cracks tended to reappear when the insensitive comments did.
She tried her utmost to keep herself aloof when such comments arose, and she could honestly say that she had no more emotional attachment to the situation beyond that of annoyance. No more broken heart, no more pining, and no more tears of any sort. The reminder of her past disappointment rankled but did not provide any sort of upset to her daily living, nor even to her sleep.
There was simply nothing else to talk about where she was concerned, so the gossips revisited it whenever they could.
She really ought to have spent more time away from London, but there was only so much good that avoidance could offer, and she had spent the lot.
“Don’t look so disgruntled, Abigail. It’s a ball, not a hanging.”
She glared up at her brother, a high-and-mighty sort where his sisters were concerned, no matter how they could trounce him in nearly all of his gentlemanly pursuits. “It’s all the same to me, Thomas, and you know it.”
He grinned down at her, dark eyes flashing with mischief. “Any social occasion is a hanging for you. You’ll never manage any sort of husband or friends if you don’t change your tune.”
Abigail scowled and looked away, wishing it would not cause comment to tread her brother’s foot loudly and repeatedly in this particular environment. “I have friends enough.”
“Mama’s Spinster Chronicle friends, their husbands, and their offspring do not count,” Thomas countered. “Particularly not Cousin Izzy’s.”
He had a point there. She was honest enough to say that much at least.
She made a small sound of complaint under her breath that made her brother chuckle. “How long must we stay?”
“It’s been three quarters of an hour, Abs,” Thomas pointed out without any semblance of sympathy. “And they’ve not even brought out the meal yet. Unless there is some great emergency preventing you from staying, you must wait that out, at least.”
Abigail groaned without restraint. “But no one is asking me to dance, and so I stand here next to you, of all people, looking as though there is something wrong with me.” She glanced down at her gown and put her hands on her sides, feeling the steady tension of her corset. “Is there something wrong with me? My skirts seem fine enough, and my bodice is in place. . . . My corset could go smaller, if my figure is an issue.”
“I refuse to comment on your figure in a public place, Abigail Sterling,” he retorted hotly, lowering his voice for the benefit of tho
se in the nearest vicinity. “I am your brother, not your lady’s maid, for God’s sake.”
That earned him a dark look. “Then ignore the figure aspect. Is my gown amiss?”
Thomas sighed the longsuffering sigh all brothers know well. “No, Abs. It is a very fine gown and suits you well. I’ll even go so far as to say it makes your eyes stand out as greener than usual.”
She made a face of polite consideration, and appeared a little impressed. That was a suitable compliment, especially from one’s brother, who was more likely to tug her hair from its coiffure than praise anything about her.
Her hands flew to her hair, patting the aforementioned coiffure carefully. “And my hair? I was torn between ribbons or decorative pins, but the ribbons seemed more suited to the occasion.”
The answer she received was a bewildered and indignant look.
She frowned. “I’m guessing you aren’t going to comment on my hair either.”
“You haven’t got a single hair out of place,” her brother assured her, still looking almost ill, “but I am gravely concerned that you seem to think I am one of your sisters. Are you feeling well? Have you a fever?”
He made a show of placing a hand against her brow, and she batted it away, smiling reluctantly. “Wretch. Ned would have taken me seriously, I’ll have you know.”
“I highly doubt that. Ned doesn’t care about anything so tedious unless it comes dressed in a brilliantly scarlet officer’s coat with glimmering gold buttons.” Thomas widened his eyes meaningfully, his mouth forming a strained line that made Abigail laugh aloud.
“Aww,” Abigail eventually replied. “Poor Ned. I’m sure he will make captain soon enough.”
“Not soon enough for my taste,” Thomas muttered, taking a glass from a passing footman and downing it in one ungentlemanly swig. “Our brother is obsessed with furthering his career, and I don’t care.”
Abigail smiled at her brother’s statement, knowing he meant only part of what he said. Thomas and Ned were rather close, as it happened, and Ned and Abigail shared a close bond themselves, being just shy of a year apart in age. That had not stopped Ned from participating in whatever schemes Thomas concocted against the girls of the family, but when he was not a scamp, either at seven or seventeen, he was Abigail’s favorite sibling.
“The point is,” Thomas went on, his tone returning to normal, “that there is nothing in any sort of visible or obvious way as to detract from anyone’s opinion of you.”
“Meaning . . . ?”
“Some people are simply unintelligent, and there it is.”
Abigail coughed a surprised laugh, as did someone near them. She didn’t dare look to verify their eavesdropper’s identity and kept her attention strictly on the dance. “Who told you that?” she hissed between restrained giggles.
“Papa did. Last week.”
Now there was no way to control her laughter, and she turned her face into her brother’s sleeve to muffle the sounds. He reached over with his far arm and patted her shoulder as though she were sobbing against him rather than snickering. “There, there, sister dear,” he murmured with all the condescension of elder brothers. “Come, come, you mustn’t make such a scene.”
Abigail whacked at his shins with her slipper, and he grunted softly, much to her satisfaction.
“What’s this?” a familiar voice inquired mildly. “Sterling siblings causing a scene? Unheard of and preposterous!”
“Uncle Hensh,” Thomas greeted with a bow. “Do excuse Abigail. She’s quite done for.”
Another hand, heavier than Thomas’s, patted her with a bit more force. “Dear girl, kindly stop your incessant giggling and spare your old uncle a dance.”
Abigail gasped for air as she removed her face from the stiff sleeve of Thomas’s eveningwear and faced the well-adored face of their father’s closest friend. “How did you know I was not crying?” she asked, wiping any potential tears of mirth from her.
Uncle Hensh offered her a sardonic look and extended a hand. “Because I have known you since the day of your birth, Abigail Miranda, and I know very well you are far more likely to be laughing at something than crying at it.”
She lifted a shoulder, placed her hand in his, and curtsied belatedly in greeting. “Oh Lord.”
“Uncle Hensh will do just fine, thank you.”
She turned away from him in the dance, shaking her head. He was getting worse, as he usually did, and any sign of encouragement would only accelerate matters. She had spent a lifetime perfecting a blank face specifically to prevent Uncle Hensh from worsening in his attempts at humor, and now was a perfect opportunity to utilize it.
When she faced him again in the dance, the mask was in place, and this time, it made Hensh laugh. “Oh dear, I’ve upset you. Is there no way to repent of my offense?” he teased, squeezing her hand.
Her lips quirked, breaking the cardinal rule of this particular mask. “Perhaps.”
The pressure on her hand lessened at once. “Now I’m afraid. What would put me back in your good graces?”
“Taking me home the moment this dance is over?”
She felt Hensh laugh beside her, though he emitted no sounds of joviality. “Not at all likely, princess. I know better. Fond as I am of you, I am far more terrified of your mother, and I refuse to subject myself to her interrogation.”
“Coward,” she muttered with a scowl as she parted from him and joined the ladies in a line.
Uncle Hensh shook his head very firmly, still smiling. “Not at all. I simply have a healthy sense of self-preservation and the wisdom to know when to employ it.”
There was no helping her smile at that point. He could irk her as well as her brothers could, but there was no denying that Uncle Hensh was the most excellent of men and possessed a remarkably resilient good humor. But then, he was her father’s friend. He would have to be akin to a saint in order to endure that trial of a connection all these years.
Abigail didn’t have a single friendship that had withstood to her present age, let alone an additional twenty-some-odd years beyond, unless one counted the friendships Thomas considered exempt from such a category. And those were more family friendships than personal ones. She could talk and visit with any of those people for ages on end at any given time, no matter the length of time apart, and feel quite herself throughout the whole.
But as far as her own friends, and not those she had been born into, there was not a single solitary soul remaining by her side.
What did that illustrate for a young woman of twenty-three?
She frowned at the thought.
“What’s that for, Abby-girl?” Hensh asked, breaking into her cycle of self-deprecation with the name he alone had ever used for her.
She managed a smile that was fairly close to natural and hoped it would convince him. “Nothing at all. Thinking too much.”
His raised brow indicated he had not been convinced by the smile. But he tutted audibly, shaking his head. “Thinking in the middle of the dance? I must be an abysmal partner indeed. Come, let’s make this last pass the best one yet.”
They proceeded up the rows of lines with an increased vigor in their steps, and Abigail found herself laughing in real delight by the time they reached the end. She had never been spry, and she doubted Henshaw had ever been either, but somehow they both managed it beautifully.
The dance ended, and they bowed and curtsied to each other. Then Hensh surprised her by taking her hand and looping it through his arm, leading her in the opposite direction of where she had Thomas had been standing.
She did not resist or protest, as she had no objection to being in his company, but she did give him a curious look.
He rubbed her hand and smiled with all the tender warmth in the world. “I can’t stand you being a wallflower, Abigail. Even if you do not dance again this evening, now you will at least be more widely seen.” His expression turned more teasing. “And in my company, you may be sure of garnering an increase in the good opinions
of others.”
“Ah,” Abigail replied with a sly smile. “So this is all for my benefit, is it?”
“Naturally, naturally,” he boasted, puffing his chest out as he nodded at some random person. “I am a slave to my own philanthropy, you know.”
“I’m sure you are.”
Abigail let her gaze run along the various faces around them, an easy smile on her lips, not particularly seeing anyone at all. A show of attention and consideration so as to appear warm and genteel, though she would never be able to tell anyone whom she had seen at this particular event, nor would she care to.
Then, suddenly, there was a face that did not belong, one that she somehow managed to see clearly, though she hadn’t with any of the rest.
Don’t look back. Don’t look back.
Her eyes disobeyed with a flourish as she not only looked back, but dropped her smile as well.
He was gone, thankfully, and her heart, which had leaped into her ears as she had turned, returned to its place within her chest.
“Someone you know?” Hensh asked softly.
Abigail shook her head with a swallow. “I thought so, but it appears I was mistaken.”
Hensh made a noncommittal sound of acknowledgement, covering her hand with his again.
It was a comforting gesture, and she wondered if he suspected the identity of the person she had thought she’d seen. She hoped not, but it was a simple enough deduction to make.
Not many people on this earth would warrant a second look from her.
Not many at all.
“Abigail . . .”
Her heart veered sharply to her right, turning her body with it even as her lungs seized in distress while the rest of her protested wildly, knowing before she saw anything at all what she would see.
And there he was.
She hadn’t imagined him, hadn’t been wrong, hadn’t . . .
He looked exactly as she remembered, though with neatly trimmed facial hair that made him look more a man than he had ever seemed in years past. The same eyes that were neither green nor brown, the barely contained dark hair kept at an almost fashionable length, and the same breadth of slender frame, though perhaps with an improvement.
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