Love in the Bargain: A Sweet Regency Romance (Women of Worth Book 1)

by Kasey Stockton

  Rosalynn’s mother played the dignified, graceful duchess to perfection. But according to her daughter, she was alone almost always, her pride and geographical distance keeping her from enjoying much of a social life.

  Though Freya and I had visited each other’s homes numerous times during school holidays, neither of us had ever been invited to Rosalynn’s.

  Mrs. Hurst bustled toward us, beaming. “I think that is everything, girls. Shall we be off then? Gloves next, I should think.”

  Rosalynn leaned in to whisper as we followed Freya and her mother from the shop. “Is she always this cheerful?”

  While Rosalynn had visited our homes on occasion, I had the benefit of spending more time with the Hursts. “Yes,” I said simply. Mr. Hurst was often away on business and Mrs. Hurst ran the home with effortless cheer. Freya mentioned once that her mother was significantly happier apart from her father, but I chose not to disclose that now. Although it was telling, perhaps, that Mr. Hurst had not yet joined his family in London.

  “False,” Rosalynn said with a single nod. “No one in a marriage such as theirs is incessantly happy.”

  But not everyone is secretly unhappy, either, I defended silently. Perhaps in Rosalynn's own discord, she wished to see discomfort in others, too. In doing so, she would not feel as alone. We climbed into the carriage and I reached over and squeezed her hand. She shot startled brown eyes at me and I smiled, hoping to melt a little of the ice she used to guard herself.

  While she slipped her hand away, she gave me a playful smirk. I would count that as a win.

  Chapter Two

  Nearly a week following the shopping excursion with Mrs. Hurst, I raced up the stairs of our townhouse to change for dinner. The look on our butler, Billington’s face was evidence enough that Mother was furious with me and I was bound for another tongue lashing. I had spent the afternoon at Freya’s home with Rosalynn retrimming bonnets when I realized it was nearly time for dinner. I had rushed home, ignoring the knot of dread that grew when I recalled the conversation I’d had with my mother before I left home that morning. She had berated me for spending more time away from home than in it over the past week. The Gibsons’ ball was fast approaching, she had said, and I had yet to refresh my dancing instruction or finish replenishing my wardrobe. The ball was the unofficial start of the Season, and our social schedule was bound to be unceasing from there on out. I had assured her I would return well before dinner, but time had simply gotten away from me.

  Molly assisted me out of my dress and into an evening gown for dinner faster than a horse might race around a track. I sat hard on the vanity chair and watched as her fingers deftly pulled my pins out and retwisted my hair into a loose bun at the nape of my neck while I yanked on my gloves.

  “Thank you, Molly. You are a gem.”

  I raced downstairs and through the hall only to come to an abrupt halt at the drawing room door.

  Mother’s tinkling laugh was joined by a heartier male tone—a tone that most certainly did not belong to my father.

  Peeking through the doorway I caught sight of my mother on the settee near the fire, another woman sitting beside her and a man opposite, leaning against the fireplace with his arms casually folded across his chest. He was about my father’s age, if not older, and his booming laugh was overpowering the women’s.

  Opposite them, I caught my father speaking to a younger man in the corner of the room. The man was listening earnestly to whatever Father was telling him, but spared me a small glance. He turned his attention back to my father before I could so much as smile.

  The dismissal was not quite what I was used to, but I did not mind. It was actually something of a relief to avoid the inevitable rejection I would have to deliver.

  “Elspeth, darling, come here,” Mother said.

  I obeyed, though I hated being called by my full name.

  “I would like to introduce Mr. Fenway and his wife, Mrs. Fenway.”

  I curtseyed to the strangers while my mother continued. “And this is my daughter, Miss Elspeth Cox. She is coming out this Season.”

  “Splendid!” Mr. Fenway said, his round face giving way to more jovial laughter. It was apparent that he was a jolly and good-natured fellow. His thin wife a calming sort, opposite in every visible way.

  “How nice, dear,” she said quietly. “Have you enjoyed many balls yet?”

  “No.” I sat on the chair beside her. “I am to attend the Gibsons’ ball next week.”

  “Lovely.”

  Billington stood at the door and announced dinner. Immediately the young man who had been speaking to my father was by my side.

  “Miss Cox,” Mrs. Fenway said proudly, “allow me to present my son, Mr. Harry Fenway.”

  I stood, curtseying under his scrutiny. Apparently, I had been too quick to dismiss him earlier. He was making up for his previous lack thoroughly.

  “May I escort you into dinner?” he asked. His voice was low and silky. He did not inherit his father’s corpulence, but he certainly received his deep voice.

  Nodding, I took his arm and we followed our parents into dinner.

  I wracked my brain for the name Fenway, but I had never before heard it in my life. Not that I often listened to my parents discussing their friends, but I had thought I was acquainted with most everyone they knew. Evidently, I was wrong.

  Dinner was an intricate menu that veered significantly from our regular cuisine. It was apparent that Cook had ample time to plan and prepare. I was the only member of the house that was unaware of the Fenway’s invitation to dine, it would seem, and given the younger Mr. Fenway’s sidelong glances, it was clear that the invitation had included more than just a meal.

  “How do you know my father?” I asked Mr. Fenway.

  “I don’t,” he answered. He stabbed a potato and popped it in his mouth. “My parents do, though I cannot say how.”

  Cannot say how? “Is it very covert?”

  “No,” he said, smiling. “I simply do not know.”

  Returning my attention to my plate, I pushed boiled potatoes around with my fork, while the young Mr. Fenway polished off his meal at an alarming rate. If he continued to eat at that pace, he would surely catch up to his father in no time. I swallowed the rude remark and filled my mouth with food instead.

  “Elsie is quite accomplished at the pianoforte,” Mother was saying at the other end of the table. “She can draw sufficiently, of course, and arrange flowers to perfection.”

  My ears burned. What was the meaning of this boastful display?

  “Does she ride?” the elder Mr. Fenway asked, his brows pulled together intently.

  Father scoffed. “Of course. Her archery is also impeccable.”

  Mr. Fenway nodded appreciatively. The younger Mr. Fenway turned to me. “It seems you have acceptable accomplishments.”

  “Do you, as well?” I retaliated.

  His head reared back, shock momentarily widening his eyes. “Of course I do. Why would you question it?”

  Why, indeed?

  “If I am to be examined for skill and acceptability, shouldn’t you be inspected also?”

  “Of course not,” he answered, affronted. “I am a man.”

  “Precisely,” I said under my breath.

  The women were excused to the drawing room and Mrs. Fenway asked to hear me play the pianoforte, to which I gladly obliged. Even when Mr. Harry Fenway entered the room some time later and came to stand behind me, dutifully turning the pages of my sheet music, I continued to play, unrelenting, until it was time for the Fenway family to take their leave.

  My arms ached from the continuous playing, but I did not mind. It was far better than making mindless conversation all evening with a pompous, arrogant man.

  “Elspeth, could you not even try to speak to the young man?” Mother asked when the door closed behind our visitors.

  “Whatever for?” I turned on the seat and her livid face pulled me up short, her cheeks rounded, mouth taught.

/>   Mother’s voice was as icy as her expression. “How on earth do you expect to find a husband when you refuse to carry on a simple conversation with a nice young man? You will not hide behind that pianoforte for the entire Season.”

  I glanced at my father but he was retreating to the sofa. He did not involve himself in these conversations anyway. Not unless he wanted to end them.

  “You know how I feel about that, Mother. This is not news.”

  She took on a harassed, exasperated expression. “Your feelings on the matter are unrealistic and ridiculous!”

  “Unrealistic to live out my life peacefully in the manner that I wish?” I asked calmly, trying to balance her anger with level-headed composure. “Ridiculous to think I could possibly be happy without a man to obey? Why must I marry to be happy, Mother? Where is that law written?”

  Her face was turning purple now, her lips clamped together and cheeks nearly vibrating. But instead of a scathing retort, she turned toward my father. “Mr. Cox, do something.”

  “What am I to do?” he asked. “I can’t very well force her to speak. And that Fenway was a pompous toad, anyway. He thought himself far above his station to be sure.”

  I thought for certain Mother’s face would explode. “Far above his...? Ugh!” She stormed from the room, leaving us in silence.

  “I did try to converse with him at dinner, Father,” I said, placating.

  “Like speaking to a parrot,” he mused. “He was too busy thinking of himself to listen.”

  Father could be surprisingly astute at times.

  I stood to leave and he stayed me with his hand. With tired eyes, he ran his hand over his face, sighing like the weight of the world sat upon his shoulders. “Elsie, your mother only wants what is best for you.”

  Nodding, I waited for more; for him to say he wanted what was best for me too. But he had nothing else to say. He gave me a crinkly smile and I bid him goodnight, choosing not to examine the uncharacteristic gentleness he had shown.

  I’d never been particularly close to my father. I knew he loved me in the sense that he was my parent and isn’t that what they did? Love their children? At least, I assumed so. Growing up, I was always with my governess or away at school, and when I was home briefly on holiday visits, he was usually busy with his estate business or off in town with my mother. Though he was not a direct influence for much of my life, my father still held a constant place between my mother and I, even when he was not present. I knew as surely as the sun rose that he had the final word. He was in command.

  Molly helped me undress and into bed, and I found myself staring at the darkened ceiling. Was there a man out there that respected women? Really respected them? When Rosalynn had come up with the concept for the Sisterhood of Deserving Females, I had understood it to mean that I mattered, just as much as a boy. We were all human, after all, why shouldn’t that be the case? But like Mr. Fenway’s shock at dinner tonight when I questioned his accomplishments, no male of my acquaintance would bat an eye if I were to simper and acquiesce and publicly announce I was less intelligent because I was female.

  But I knew better. And I was not about to go down without a fight.

  Chapter Three

  The morning of the Gibsons’ ball dawned cloudy and gray. The walk I had planned with Freya and Rosalynn in the park was either going to be postponed or redirected, and I was utterly disappointed. We had intended to stop in at Gunter’s and try an ice.

  “Mrs. Cox is waiting in her sitting room. She requested your presence when you’re dressed,” Molly said, helping me into my walking gown.

  “Do you have any idea what it is about?” Mother was never awake before me. Concern balled in my stomach and began to grow. This could not be good.

  Molly shrugged.

  I took my time in dressing and meandered toward Mother’s sitting room with growing dread. The pleased look on her face when I discovered her nestled on her chaise longue with a blanket over her knees and a breakfast tray beside her only worried me further. It had been a week since the Fenway family came to dinner, and Mother had been uncharacteristically quiet since then.

  “Sit, Elsie.”

  I obeyed, lowering myself on the stiff velvet chair opposite her.

  “I am not going to mince words. I have devised a proposition, and your father has agreed to it.”

  I swallowed, the roaring fire behind me warming my back to an uncomfortable degree. “What is this about?”

  “You.” She picked up her teacup and took a long sip, watching me over the rim with thoughtful eyes. Setting it back on the tray, she speared me with a look. “If you will agree to put in every effort this Season, and I mean every effort, and still come out of it without a single thread of interest in a man, then your father and I will transfer your dowry to you and you may do with it what you wish.”

  I stopped breathing. Could I have heard her correctly?

  “Define ‘every effort,’” I said, cautiously.

  She picked up a strawberry and chewed it slowly. Her eyes closed fractionally and she very much resembled a feline on the hunt. “You must attend every event; accept every dance that is asked of you. You may not decline callers, requests for outings in the park or to the museums, and you must have a pleasant demeanor. I will not have you accept an invitation to dance or ride with a gentleman, only to be surly with the sole purpose of putting him off.”

  Leaning toward me, she lowered her voice to add severity to her final words. “And while you and your friends have made a silly little pact to avoid marriage and men and all things natural, you cannot go into this agreement without a promise to me that you will open your mind and your heart to the possibility that Miss Hurst and Lady Rosalynn could, possibly, be wrong about matrimony.”

  I tried not to show my mother just how tremendously her statement hit me in the gut. She was offering me the very thing I hoped and wished for, on the condition that I question my very basic beliefs.

  How could I agree to that honestly? If I complied to Mother’s outline, then I would be breaking the pact I had made six years prior.

  But without it, where would I be?

  “And if I don’t agree?” I hated how small my voice sounded. I wanted to sound strong, but instead, my words rang hesitant and insecure.

  “Then we have no agreement and I cannot guarantee anything.”

  “What do you mean by anything?” I asked.

  She adjusted her blanket over her knees, her mouth fixed in a thin smile. “Exactly that. Your father’s estate is not entailed. While that has created the possibility for him to pass it on to you at some point in the future, it also means he may do whatever else he wishes with it. He can leave it to anyone.”

  The threat could not be clearer. If I did not comply, I would be destitute.

  Standing, I looked at my mother’s triumphant face. “How long do I have to decide?”

  “Until tonight. You may tell me on the way to the Gibsons’ ball.”

  Nodding once, I turned and raced for the door.

  “Elsie?” Mother called.

  I glanced over my shoulder, disgusted by her posture, arranged like a lioness reveling in her authority.

  “Do consider this carefully. Once you have made up your mind there will be no turning back.”

  BILLINGTON ORDERED the carriage for me and I took Molly along to Rosalynn’s house at once.

  Freya could perhaps be more sympathetic to my dilemma, but she would never fully understand the predicament my mother placed me in. Mrs. Hurst was not the sort of mother that incited irritation or petty disagreement. She and Freya had a decent relationship. Rosalynn, on the other hand, knew meddling, irritating mothers very well.

  “Good day, Miss Cox.” Potter, Rosalynn’s butler, welcomed me into the foyer. “I believe Lady Rosalynn is in the music room. Allow me to direct you.”

  “Thank you, Potter.” I followed the aging butler, though I knew where to go.

  We moved up a flight of stairs and turned dow
n the hall when one of The Tyrants came toward us. “Send for my curricle,” Lord Cameron demanded of Potter as he passed us.

  “Very good, sir,” Potter said.

  Lord Cameron’s biting demand grated on me more than usual that morning. Why did men with power need to be so autocratic? It would be easier not to detest them if they weren’t perpetually domineering.

  “Lord Cameron,” I called, causing him to halt and look over his shoulder. His eyebrows raised in surprise. Had he not noticed me walking behind the butler? He had the same dark coloring as his sister and the same deep, powerful eyes that made me wish to shrink away. The Nichols family was entirely too intelligent for their own good. Most of the time.

  “It is raining outside,” I explained. “You just commanded for your curricle to be harnessed, so I was unsure if you were aware, but I thought it prudent to pass along the information.”

  “Yes, thank you, Miss Cox.” He glanced from me to the butler and back, an annoyed expression working its way onto his handsome face. “I suppose I’ll take the carriage then, Potter.”

  “Very good, sir,” Potter said from behind me.

  “Good day, Miss Cox.” Lord Cameron bowed, watching me in a curious way.

  I inclined my head and turned back for the music room, nearly bumping into Potter. He deftly moved along and announced me to Rosalynn moments later.

  “Are we not to meet at the park?” She asked as I let myself fall onto her sofa.

  “Does no one in your house look outside in the mornings?”

  She glanced up and took in the windows, surprised, apparently, to find them streaming with rain. “Oh,” was all she said.

  I stared at the window, watching the water make rivulets and streams, racing each other with starts and stops. How was I supposed to explain my predicament to Rosalynn? She would understand, wouldn’t she? For all of her strong ideals, she had a thorough comprehension of everything she was required to know, growing up as a lady of quality and daughter of a duke. Of the three of us, Freya, Rosalynn, and myself, Rosalynn certainly held the highest rank by a landslide.