A Week in Brighton (Timeless Regency Collection Book 13)

by Jennifer Moore

  The ballroom had emptied considerably when she took a deep breath and turned to Andrew, smiling, ready to talk with him about how completely remarkable the events of the evening had been. But Andrew had suddenly grown stiff, as if he were a soldier in training. He clasped his hands behind his back and—at least it seemed—avoided her eye.

  “Are you quite well?” Had Andrew been injured during the arrest? She wasn’t sure what role he’d played, and the idea that Hayward might have injured him made her heart flare with anger.

  Andrew’s eyes seemed to wander, unsure of where to focus, though they landed on hers and glanced off again a couple of times as he seemed to struggle with words. “I am most grateful that things turned out as they did.” His used his formal tone, something she did not like hearing at all.

  She moved to step closer, to touch his arm, to feel his warmth and reassure him, but he moved backward an equal amount and held up a hand. Her step came up short. Brow furrowed with alarm, she looked up at him but held her ground. “What is it?”

  “The last hour has been a diversion from the words spoken betwixt us earlier this evening. I am quite aware that my sentiments were sprung upon you and that they were not received as a prospective suitor might have hoped.”

  “I was surprised, yes, but—”

  “No, please do not pity me or try to let me down easily. My pride needs a moment to mend before being the object of pity.”

  Object of pity, Andrew? Goodness, no. She hadn’t known what to think or say, or even, in all truth, what she felt. But now, after he’d foisted the idea of love upon her and she’d had time to reckon with it . . .

  “I regret that I did not respond as I should have,” Julia began.

  “I’ll bid you good evening and goodbye. On the morrow, I will return to London.”

  Panic zipped through Julia’s heart. “Why?” she asked, fearing the answer.

  His neck was turning pink. He bowed his head, still avoiding her eye. “I will search out a flat to let. I believe that will simplify matters, making my tutelage under your father easier to give my attentions to, and . . . it will make daily life more . . . comfortable for you.” He bowed deeply and quickly, then spun and walked out, leaving Julia behind and feeling quite sure that she’d broken his heart. If only she could go back in time and respond differently when Andrew had first spoken of his feelings.

  Although if she could relive this evening and tell Andrew in that moment that she loved him in return, she wouldn’t have heard Hayward and Durham talking, and Crown Prince Bernadotte would likely be dead.

  Andrew slipped through the door on the far side of the room and disappeared. Her throat was so tight she could barely breathe, and tears burned in her eyes.

  “Miss Hughes?”

  She turned to look for the man who had spoken her name, a royal footman who stood ten feet off—but why would a servant of the Prince Regent know her name? Surely someone else had called her. However, the footman took another step forward and spoke again. “Miss Hughes?”

  “Y-yes?”

  “The Prince Regent witnessed your conversation with Mr. Gillingham just now, and—”

  Stunned, she frantically looked at the door Andrew had disappeared through, then quickly scanned the room, but she saw no sign of the Prince Regent. “Pardon?” Surely she hadn’t heard correctly.

  The servant moved a step closer, and she realized that he was older than she’d assumed. This was not one of dozens of footmen. He was likely a long-time, trusted servant and adviser. He gave her a paternal smile, then tilted his head, indicating the mirror beside her. “The Prince Regent can watch the room from the other side of this mirror. It’s made with a special paint that allows him to see out, but no one to see in.”

  Utterly tongue-tied, Julia gaped at the man, looking from him to the mirror and back again.

  “He would like to know if you love the young man, Mr. Gillingham.”

  A most unusual question, but then again, she’d never expected any question, usual or otherwise, from royalty. Her feelings for Andrew swelled within her. “Oh, I do. I love him more than anything.” Saying the words released her body of a horrible tension and allowed some warmth to move through her veins again. If only she’d been able to say them to Andrew. “But . . .”

  “Yes?”

  She looked toward the door he’d left from. “But he doesn’t know that I return his love. You see, he confessed his feelings for me tonight, before all of this—” Julia waved her hand in a circle to indicate the events just passed. “And I was too surprised to respond. I fear he is returning to London in the morning, and I won’t have the opportunity to correct the situation.” She didn’t realize she’d begun crying until a hot tear dripped off the side of her jaw. She swiped at it and sniffed.

  “That is as His Highness suspected.” The servant looked at the mirror and nodded twice.

  Julia’s eyes widened. “Is he still watching?” she whispered. Of course he was. She should have assumed as much.

  “He is,” the servant said. “And now you and I wait.”

  Julia’s knees felt about as sturdy as tapioca. “May I ask what we are waiting for?”

  “Patience, Miss Hughes. It won’t be long.”

  From the hall, she heard footsteps and men’s voices. The few remaining guests were ushered out by footmen just as the men from the corridor entered—two guards holding none other than Andrew between them.

  “Oh, good gracious,” Julia said. Visions of Andrew in a cell flashed through her mind. “He’s done nothing wrong.”

  “You have nothing to worry yourself about, Miss Hughes,” the servant said as he stepped to her side to face the guards with her. “You may call me Mr. Mayfair, if you’d like.”

  “Thank you,” Julia managed, but his reassurance did little to ease her anxiousness. Once again she was unable to take in much air, to the point that if her life depended upon her ability to extinguish a candle, she mightn’t have been able to.

  Andrew looked panicked, his face and neck both drained of blood and white as wool. He was brought to stand before Julia, who shrugged helplessly and shook her head, palms upraised to let him know that she had no more of idea what was happening than he did.

  No one spoke for a minute, an unendurable era. The ballroom was now entirely cleared of guests, and servants had closed the doors. Finally, the door by the mirror opened, and the Prince Regent appeared. Looking for comfort, Julia sought out Mr. Mayfair. He smiled knowingly, then looked ahead once more.

  “I wanted to thank you both for your most patriotic actions this night,” the Prince Regent said. One side of his mouth quirked up. “Even though it cut my event short.”

  Did one apologize in situations such as this? Julia curtsied and then stayed down, hoping that was correct. She’d never been taught the protocol for meeting with and speaking to royalty. At her side, Andrew bowed, then straightened again.

  “If I’m not mistaken, such bravery deserves a reward,” the Prince Regent went on. “I would quite enjoy bestowing a certain type of reward, one that my valet, Mr. Mayfair here, has investigated and learned would be welcome.”

  As if the matter were a puzzle in her head, the pieces clicked together, and she understood—he meant a reward for her and Andrew as a couple. But Andrew didn’t yet know she shared his sentiments, and he likely felt spurned and hurt.

  “I have already dispatched servants to find Miss Hughes’s father, who, I am quite certain, will be quite pleased over discussing the terms of a marriage contract.”

  Andrew swallowed so hard that Julia couldn’t help but notice the bob in his throat. “Your Majesty, we are not engaged.”

  “I am aware of that, Mr. Gillingham,” the Prince Regent said. “And that is one reason I am speaking to you now—to set that little fact right.”

  “But—” Andrew clamped his mouth shut, surely after realizing how wrong he was to interrupt or contradict the crown.

  The Prince Regent addressed Julia. “I must
ask you to do something for me, Miss Hughes.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty,” she said with another curtsy, this one bobbing down and immediately up again. “Anything you wish.” What types of favors could he possibly ask for when he already had the bidding of hundreds of servants and a nation at his beck and call? If he asked her to climb a mountain to deliver a missive to a sage living at the peak, she’d do it, and happily, if it meant Andrew not going to prison for some made-up offense.

  “Tell Mr. Gillingham here what you told Mr. Mayfair a moment ago.”

  “Tell—oh.” He’d asked the one thing that would be hardest of all: to bare her soul to Andrew right then and there. Her face went hot, and she was quite sure that it had turned a darker hue than Andrew’s neck ever had. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  She turned to face Andrew, feeling every inch as vulnerable as a soldier at a mark, with an entire army aiming their arrows at her. Was this how Andrew had felt when he first shared his love for her? Undoubtedly it was, and it had likely been even harder, for he hadn’t known that his love would be requited, and she did.

  “Andrew,” she said, then she glanced at the Prince Regent and corrected herself. “Mr. Gillingham.” She cleared her throat. Oh, what she would give to be on the other side of this moment, to have it in the past, and to be in Andrew’s embrace again, with the promise to be able to be within his arms for the rest of her life.

  “Miss Hughes, you needn’t do this,” Andrew said earnestly.

  He did not want her to shackle herself to someone she did not truly love—one more reason to love him even deeper.

  “Mr. Gillingham,” she said, heart hammering against her ribs. “I am afraid I must confess something I failed to express adequately earlier: my utter love and devotion for you.”

  For the first time since before he’d left the ballroom, he looked right into her eyes and did not look away. “Truly?” The single word contained threads of doubt and hope in equal parts.

  “Truly. I can imagine loving no other for the rest of my life.” Another hot tear tumbled down her cheek, this time from joy.

  Joy replaced any stiffness, as if Andrew were shedding a cloak. He simply glowed as he stepped toward her and took her hands in his. “Then perhaps we should listen to our ruler and become engaged?” His lighthearted voice was back, but she heard his earnestness threaded through it.

  “I think that would be wisest,” Julia said, maintaining their mock-serious interchange.

  Whereas not long ago, she’d been ready to collapse under her own weight, she now felt as if she could run all the night long, singing of her happiness, and never tire.

  “Then it’s settled,” the Prince Regent said with a clap of his hands. “I’ll provide handsome rewards for the actions you both took tonight, including a three-month tour of the continent as a wedding trip, a townhouse equipped with three servants for you to live in, and a nice sum of pin money for the future Mrs. Gillingham.”

  Neither could believe their fortune. Both clung to each other’s hands and grinned like fools.

  “However!” The Prince Regent’s voice boomed. He held up a finger, and the couple quelled their excitement to hear him. Julia and Andrew stood meekly, heads bowed. “None of that will come to pass unless one last oversight is corrected.”

  They soberly waited for his command. Unexpectedly, the Prince Regent walked up to Andrew, placed a firm hand on his shoulder and said, “Come now, Mr. Gillingham. It is past time that you kiss your betrothed.”

  Their worry melted into the happiest of grins. “I’d be happy to, Your Majesty.” Andrew stepped closer, took Julia by the shoulders, and pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek.

  When he pulled away, she shook her head. “That will not do, Mr. Gillingham. We must obey the Prince Regent.” She reached up, held his face between her hands, and kissed him back, thoroughly.

  Check out the next romance by Annette!

  Visit Annette Lyon’s Amazon Author Page:

  Annette Lyon is a USA Today bestselling author, a four-time recipient of Utah’s Best of State medal for fiction, a Whitney Award winner, and a five-time publication award winner from the League of Utah Writers. She’s the author of more than a dozen novels, even more novellas, and several nonfiction books. When she’s not writing, knitting, or eating chocolate, she can be found mothering and avoiding housework. Annette is a member of the Women’s Fiction Writers Association and is represented by Heather Karpas at ICM Partners.

  Find Annette online:

  Blog: http://blog.AnnetteLyon.com

  Twitter: @AnnetteLyon

  Facebook: http://Facebook.com/AnnetteLyon

  Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/annette.lyon/

  Pinterest: http://Pinterest.com/AnnetteLyon

  Newsletter: http://bit.ly/1n3I87y

  Rowan Law, the newest Viscount Hadley, had been abandoned. He stood like a statue in the middle of the field, watching the family carriage drive away.

  His father wouldn’t leave him here alone with no money and no idea where to go . . . would he?

  Overhead, a gull wailed. Rowan trudged back toward the road. Very well. He’d been out of line. He’d apologize to Father, eat his humble pie, and try to be more civil. Nothing Rowan said or did would change the Earl of Leiderton anyway.

  He practiced, “Father.” Hmm. Perhaps he ought to resort to more formality. “My lord, I apologize for my conduct. I vow to show due respect and to obediently learn how to manage the estate, even at this breakneck pace and ill-planned timing . . .”

  The wind carried away his words.

  They were meaningless anyway.

  Rowan had never been strong or wise or dependable. His brother had been the heir—and the favorite—for a reason. Instead, Rowan prided himself on being fun and witty and charming. One race had changed all that. Now, he could only drag himself through each day in a mindless blur.

  After an hour, Rowan continued to walk alone. Father certainly was taking his bluff further than Rowan expected. He crested a hill sprinkled with shrubs and stopped. Ahead, the wide expanse of the ocean shimmered like a long-distant friend. Endless and impassive, the water sparkled in the sun and spread out in a panorama of white cliffs and long, sandy shores. Timeless. Majestic.

  Rowan closed his eyes and lifted his face to the sun. A flirtatious breeze carried the briny scent of the sea. For a moment a sensation akin to peace came over Rowan.

  How dare he experience anything like peace?

  The thought shattered the undeserved emotion, leaving a hole wide enough for raw, sharp pain to tear its way back inside.

  Clawing at his composure, Rowan fisted his hands and swallowed hard. If only he could cover himself in the safe blanket of numbness that had protected him that first horrific week after Hadley’s death.

  Rowan continued toward the town of Brighton. Brighton. His brother, Hadley, had met Ann here, the only girl he’d ever loved—a girl so far beneath him in social status that Father forbade Hadley to marry her.

  Did she know of Hadley’s death? If only Rowan could send her a personal message—or tell her himself—before she learned the news another, less personal way.

  A muffled mew caught his attention. Was that a cat? A rustling noise lead him to a sapling. At the trunk, a calico kitten struggled against a string snare, twisting and jerking. The kitten let out another mew.

  How well Rowan identified with the small creature, caught in a snare not of its making, destined to strangle while fighting against the noose.

  Rowan knelt. “Here, little one. I’ll free you.”

  Grasping the kitten’s body, he loosened the string and removed it from the furry neck. Then he lifted the kitten into his arms and held the squirming body close. He hadn’t held a kitten in years. The little creature snuggled against him. Judging from the cleanliness of its fur, it either had an attentive mother or belonged to a home.

  “I guess we’re both lost souls,” he said to the little ball of fluff.

  The kitten
studied him with blue eyes. As Rowan stroked the soft fur, a purr rumbled the small body.

  “Here, kitty, kitty!” a feminine voice called. “Mimi? Where are you?”

  Rowan turned. From behind a spreading elm tree across the field, a woman stepped out. At this distance, Rowan had no guesses as to her identity, but her trim figure clad in a light-colored gown moved at a steady clip along what was probably the road on the other side of a hedgerow.

  “Mimi? Here, kitty, kitty!”

  Rowan looked down at his handful of fur and said to the kitten, “I assume the lady belongs to you?”

  “Mew.” The little creature watched him, unblinking.

  “I thought so.” Rowan headed toward the womanly figure looking for her cat.

  “Mimi!” The woman paused and turned a full circle.

  Rowan trotted towards her. When she paused, her bonnet pointed in his direction, he waved. “Ho, there! Are you looking for a kitten?”

  She paused, her stance alert. If he were to wager as to her age, he’d put her somewhere between seventeen and twenty. As he neared, her posture relaxed. “Oh, there you are, Mimi.”

  The young lady glanced at Rowan and returned her gaze to the kitten in his hand, but not before he caught her glance of appreciation. She pushed at one of the dark curls peeking out from underneath her straw bonnet and blushed prettily. He might have changed in many ways over the past few days, but at least he had not lost his appeal to ladies.

  “Thank you, sir.” Her voice rang out in a clear contralto with the cultured tones of a lady. “Wherever did you find my kitten?”

  He waved a hand over his shoulder in the direction of the tree. “Caught in a snare.”

  She reached for the furball. “Oh, you poor little thing! Naughty kitten, running off like that,” she gently scolded.