A Week in Brighton (Timeless Regency Collection Book 13)

by Jennifer Moore

  “I know what you mean.” He’d heard of the dangers of steeplechasing but never thought it would happen to his family.

  “When news reached us of the Battle of Trafalgar, we waited breathlessly but still certain Father would write us to let us know he was alive and well.” She paused and swallowed. “Instead, he was listed among those lives lost. Richard wrote to say he was coming home; as the heir, he understood his responsibilities. But he was on the other side of the world and unable to come home straight away due to his duties and the distance.” Another pause. “We received news of his death as well.”

  A kinship for George crept over Rowan for a fellow “spare” who, with a father and brother gone, had inherited an unexpected responsibility. Had the passage of time made that prospect any easier? Perhaps he’d ask the young man sometime.

  To Miss Montgomery, he said, “Though I haven’t lost a parent, I feel for you both.”

  Quietly, she said, “I know. Would you like to tell me about your brother?”

  “He loved Shakespeare, and lemon tarts. He was perfect in everything. My parents’ pride and joy. The only thing he did that my parents didn’t approve of was fall in love with Ann. But he respected their wishes regarding her.” He paused. “He was mad for the steeplechase. So was I. There was an accident.”

  He stopped and swallowed as a tidal wave rose up in the horizon of his thoughts. He cleared his throat, but nothing prevented its forward rush. He braced for impact.

  Isabella Montgomery put an arm around him and rested her head on his shoulder. Her touch soothed and comforted him. For the first time since the accident, he no longer felt alone or adrift in a sea of numbness. The tidal wave shrank, and by the time it reached him, it had only the strength of a breaker. He breathed.

  “The hurts never goes away,” she said. “But eventually it doesn’t feel as if the pain will kill you.”

  He rested his head on top of hers. A growing urge to pull her into his arms tugged at him. He settled for kissing the top of her head.

  “I suppose we ought to return.” Clicking to the horses, he pulled onto the road leading back to the vicarage. He missed the comfort of Isabella Montgomery’s head on his shoulder.

  Along the way, they passed a couple strolling down the road. A feminine laugh rang out as the couple conversed together.

  “Oh,” Isabella said. “It’s George and Miss Stockton. Do pull over, please.”

  Rowan pulled up alongside the couple and called, “Good morning.”

  The young man turned. “Good morning. Enjoying your drive?”

  “Very much.” Though he had failed to learn the identity of Ann, they had a good lead. And the drive had been exceptionally pleasant, thanks to Miss Montgomery.

  “Mr. Law, have you met Miss Stockton?” George gestured to his companion.

  “No, I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  An uncommonly pretty girl with big brown eyes and brown curls that framed her face looked up at him.

  George made the introductions. “Nancy Stockton, meet Mr. Law.”

  They exchanged greetings. Hmm. Her brown eyes looked similar to the eyes in his Lover’s Eye, but her hair was brown instead of golden blonde, and her Christian name was wrong.

  “A pleasure, Mr. Law,” the girl said.

  “And I believe you know my sister, Isabella,” George continued.

  “We have met.” Nancy Stockton beamed at Isabella. “Are you going to the public assembly?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it. And we hope Mr. Law will join us as well.” Isabella smiled up at Rowan with such cheer that Rowan would not have denied her anything.

  He put on his best debonair smolder. “Only if you both promise to save me a dance.”

  Miss Stockton giggled. “Of course. But I have already promised the first one to George.”

  Isabella lifted her head in her playfully queenly pose when she addressed Rowan: “Perhaps I will save you a dance . . . if I am in perfect charity with you.” Her impish smile broke through.

  George gestured at a narrow road that cut along their path. “This is the turn off to Miss Stockton’s home. I’ll see you two at the vicarage.”

  The two groups bade each other farewell and parted ways. The couple on foot walked without touching but as closely together as propriety allowed.

  “I’ve never seen George so enamored,” Isabella said. “The way he looks at her. It’s quite . . . sweet.”

  Rowan let out a scoff. “He was ready to duel Sir Reginald for someone else only a few days past.”

  “I never saw him look at anyone the way he looks at Nancy Stockton.”

  “I’m sure hearts are breaking all over England,” he said dryly.

  She laughed again. “You would know—you probably leave a trail of broken hearts everywhere you go.”

  “A gentleman would never tell.”

  In an overly serious tone that suggested her mirth, she said, “Oh, of course.”

  As they reached the vicarage and he handed her down from the carriage, he looked her in the eye. “There is no one else.”

  She paused and, catching his meaning, went very serious. A vulnerability entered her expression. “No one?”

  Earnestly, he said, “Innocent flirtations only. I am not a libertine, nor have I ever courted a young lady enough to raise her expectations. I’ve never given my heart away. Yet.”

  The softness in her eyes endeared her to him further. How could her opinion matter so much after such a short amount of time?

  Could he truly find any manner of peace or joy? Was his heart whole enough to be entrusted to another? To her?

  The day of the public assembly ball arrived. Aunt Missy eyed Isabella as she turned wearing her ball gown.

  “It’s lovely,” Aunt Missy said. “I was beginning to wonder if we should have visited the dressmaker to purchase a new one for you, but this one we made over turned out just right. You are beautiful, my sweet.”

  Isabella made a graceful, overly low curtsy as if she were being presented to the queen. “Thank you, Aunt.”

  “Mr. Law won’t be able to take his eyes off you.”

  If only she were right. But she mustn’t allow herself to think of that. Instead, she quipped, “I think it would be dreadfully uncomfortable with someone’s eyes pasted on me.”

  “Very amusing. You know what I mean.”

  “You are imagining things. Mr. Law is charming to all.” Isabella sat and adjusted a garter holding up her lace stocking.

  “He is indeed very charming to all. But he has special eyes for you.” She nodded to emphasize her point.

  Isabella stuffed down the hope that arose with Aunt Missy’s words. “Well, I am the only unmarried female near his age living under this roof.”

  “Not just here. He was completely aware of you at the seashore and also at church, even when surrounded by young ladies. Several times he looked around for you. He seemed almost anxious and appeared relieved when he located you. And, if you recall, he ran after you the moment you left.”

  “Aunt, we’ve known each other a week. It would be premature to hope that he has formed an attachment for me. Not to mention our difference in social standing. He’s heir to an earldom.”

  “Yes, Joseph told me, but I wasn’t aware that you knew.”

  Isabella toyed with her earring. “He buried his brother only a week before he arrived here, and he doesn’t want the title.”

  “I can imagine he’d rather have his brother.”

  “Yes, indeed. But the fact remains that he is a viscount and will one day be an earl.”

  “Your father was a gentleman and a revered war hero, and you have a decent dowry—not enough to attract fortune hunters, but respectable. If he’s smart, he’ll see what a jewel you are.”

  Isabella wanted to throw her arms around Aunt Missy for her unfaltering but misplaced loyalty. “I know I’m fit to marry landed gentry . . . but an earl?” She shook her head. “Their father has peculiar expectations for his heir; otherw
ise Mr. Law wouldn’t be searching for the girl his brother was forbidden to marry.”

  Aunt Missy rearranged a few of Isabella’s curls hanging down her back. “If all else fails, you can have the satisfaction of seeing his admiration.”

  “We shall see.”

  “Yes, we shall.”

  Each confident in her own prediction, they donned their gloves and went downstairs to the parlor.

  Mr. Law stood talking with Uncle Joseph and George, all looking handsome in their formal evening wear. Where Mr. Law had acquired his clothing was a mystery, but he looked especially striking. How dear his face had become to her!

  This did not bode well for her heart.

  At her approach, he turned. For one long, satisfying moment, he looked her over as a slow, approving smile curved his mouth and lit his eyes.

  Smiling, Rowan Law was, without a doubt, the most handsome man she’d ever seen. He moved to her side and took her hand into his. Holding it, he continued smiling at her. A piece of her heart split off and raced toward him.

  With a soft murmur, he said, “You look exceptionally pretty tonight, Miss Montgomery.”

  “You look well yourself, Mr. Law.”

  His smile turned sheepish. “I imposed on your uncle to purchase a change of clothing.”

  “It was no imposition,” Uncle Joseph called. “Besides, I’m charging you interest for that loan.”

  Laughing at the unvicar-like comment, they piled into the carriage and drove toward the public assembly. Sitting across from Rowan Law made it difficult to keep her focus on anything but him. Fortunately, conversation flowed freely, and they were a merry group by the time they arrived. Carriages lined up for blocks. Other people arrived on foot, gaining entrance sooner than those who drove. Eventually, they pulled up in front of a quaint brick building with light pouring out of the windows.

  After stepping out of the carriage, they entered the public rooms. Candles burned in tall candelabras situated in every corner. A string quartet played a lively country dance that encouraged Isabella to tap her toes.

  Mr. Law turned to her. “Miss Montgomery, before you are surrounded by all the bucks begging for a dance, will you do me the honor of standing up with me?”

  “Of course I will.” Truth be told, she had no wish to dance with anyone else. Ever. Such thinking would not serve her well. But it was too late. Her heart had already made its choice.

  As the current dance ended and the dancers vacated their spots on the floor, Mr. Law took her hand and led her to the dance floor. The quartet struck up a quadrille. Soon they weaved among other dancers. Yet each time she glanced his way, he was looking at her. Oh, be still her heart! Was she a fool to believe he returned her regard? Or worse, to hope for a future with him? Yes, she was. She had only to think of Ann to know that Rowan Law—Viscount Hadley—would never be hers.

  Too soon, the set ended. With Rowan escorting her to Aunt Missy, she passed a lovely blonde lady . . . with laughing brown eyes!

  Her heart leaped and she grabbed Mr. Law’s arm. “Look,” she gasped. Still holding onto his arm, she wormed her way to Aunt Missy. “Who is that lady in the ivory gown with the lovely golden curls? She has brown eyes!”

  “That’s the youngest Farnsworth girl.” Aunt Missy’s eyes widened, and she gasped. “Oh, heavens! Her Christian name is Anissa. She might be called Ann.”

  Next to Isabella, Mr. Law gave a start. “Please, would you find out and introduce us?”

  “I’ll speak to her mother.”

  Aunt Missy wove through the crowd to a woman wearing a turban with ostrich feathers. The two of them spoke for several minutes while Isabella fidgeted and Rowan stood as if made of stone. Without taking his gaze off Aunt Missy, Rowan reached for Isabella’s hand and gripped it. She squeezed it back. Surely, he only needed a friendly touch; he didn’t intend it as a sign of affection. Did he?

  Aunt Missy returned, her face wreathed in excitement. “Her name is indeed Anissa, and they do occasionally call her Ann. She is only just seventeen, though. Is that too young to be the girl you seek?”

  He hesitated and looked to Isabella as if seeking her counsel. She squeezed his hand and released it, lest Aunt Missy, or anyone, notice and think it unseemly for them to hold hands.

  “Possibly.” Mr. Law watched the girl dance. “But we must not discount her just yet.”

  Aunt Missy nodded. “Come, I’ll introduce you to her mother.” She tugged on his arm.

  Isabella watched as Aunt Missy introduced Rowan—ahem! Mr. Law—to the mother of the girl in question. He turned on the charm, as always, and the mother clearly fell for him, blushing and laughing and nodding until the feathers in her turban fluttered like birds in flight.

  Isabella turned away. He could have anyone, of any age. He had only to ask. Why would he want a simple girl such as she?

  The dance ended and Isabella remained turned away. A young gentleman asked her for a dance. She accepted—anything to keep her mind off her hopeless prospects with Rowan Law. She failed.

  Moments later, Mr. Law accompanied a beaming, blonde Anissa Farnsworth to the dance floor. Isabella silently prayed that he would find Ann quickly and gain a measure of peace.

  A cotillion began, and Isabella cleared her mind except to enjoy the pure delight of dancing and to make pleasant conversation with her partner.

  The instant the last notes of the cotillion ended, she glanced about for Mr. Law. He stood close to the blonde, his eyes searching, his expression earnest. Had he discovered the truth?

  After a few minutes, he escorted her to her mother, bowed, and returned to Isabella.

  As Rowan lifted his sorrowful eyes to hers, she knew. She touched his arm in sympathy. “Not her.”

  “She’s never heard of John Law or Viscount Hadley and has never been courted—she’s only been out since the beginning of this summer.”

  How many times must he suffer through false hope? “I’m so sorry.”

  “I can only hope Old Pete has the answer.”

  She nodded. So much depended on an old record.

  Another gentleman asked Isabella for a dance. She shot a look of apology to Rowan, but he waved her on. He had the good grace to dance every set with a different young lady. Each left the dance floor beaming and walking a little taller. He lifted everyone around him with no motives except for kindness. He cared deeply about people and had a strong code of honor. No doubt, with time and healing, he would accept the new burden placed on him and would do all required of him as a future earl with the same focus and heart he used for searching for Ann. He was gracious and thoughtful, even in the midst of his vulnerability and grief.

  How could she not love him?

  How would she survive when he left?

  The morning after the public ball, Rowan reread the letter a second time to be sure he had understood correctly. Then with a bounce in his step, he went in search of Isabella Montgomery.

  He found her laboring over a new painting. Leaning against the doorjamb, he watched her paint, the expressions that touched her face, the halo around her dark head caused by the light pouring in through the window behind her.

  She was so lovely. So kind. So genuine. And so full of life and joy. How would he ever survive the loss when it came time for him to leave?

  Was this love?

  She looked up and gave a start, then smiled. “I didn’t see you there.”

  “I didn’t wish to interrupt. It was too pleasant to watch you.”

  She huffed a disbelieving laugh. “You must be in desperate need of a diversion.”

  “Are you in need of a diversion?”

  She hesitated. “I had a flash of inspiration and wanted to at least sketch it before it went away. Sometimes inspiration is like chasing a butterfly; if I take too long to go after it, it’s gone.”

  He nodded. Having never been blessed with a creative bent, he didn’t understand fully, but many of his college friends—aspiring writers, poets, and artists—had mentioned simila
r thoughts.

  Her gaze focused on him. “Did you need me for something?”

  “I want to show something to you, but it can wait.” He ought to leave her so she could create in peace. After all, this art show meant a great deal to her. To his eye, she certainly had talent. For her sake, he hoped she had enough to gain the notice of that local art master. Her expression turned focused but peaceful as she fixed her attention to her easel.

  “Purrrow,” said the kitten in her lap.

  She petted the kitten with the back of a finger, probably in an attempt to avoid putting paint on the fur. “Do you like it, Little Muse?”

  The kitten blinked up at her. “Mew.”

  “Muse?” Rowan pushed off the doorway and moved closer.

  “Her name is Muse. I was petting her when I had an idea for a piece to enter in the art show. It’s tomorrow, so this is rather last minute, but I simply had to try. Didn’t I, Muse?”

  “Mew.” The kitten put its head down and closed its eyes.

  “And she seems to respond to it, so I do believe I have finally discovered her name.”

  Isabella Montgomery’s fresh charm captivated him. “It’s a fitting name.”

  She smiled more brightly than ever. “Rowan Law, you have the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.”

  “It’s because I’m looking at you.”

  She laughed merrily and wagged a finger at him. “Don’t ply your famous charm on me, sir. You’ve been looking at me for a week, and you’ve never smiled like that before.”

  “Perhaps I’m finally seeing you for the delight you are.” Or perhaps he was finally healing enough to allow for a measure of cheer. Was it wrong for him to feel peace and serenity so soon after Hadley’s death?

  “What did you want to show me?” she asked.

  “Perhaps I could show you this afternoon when you are available for an outing.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “I ought to be finished by then. Or, at the very least, ready to step away from my masterpiece.” She laughed and indicated her unfinished work.

  “May I see it?”

  “Not until it’s finished.”