Falling for the Earl (Regency Romance) (Regency Lords Book 5) (8 page)

Beatrice didn’t remember her mother, who had died just hours after Beatrice’s birth. But the Abbess treasured her likeness of the frail, lovely Lisette who had married a French peer. Tragically, her husband, the Comte de Villegagnon had been one of the first aristocrats to lose his head to
Madame La Guillotine,
as the French revolted against their king and queen, the church, and all sanity. The Abbess, the members of her order and her young niece, had fled as well, to England, where they would be safer, despite being a Catholic minority in a heathen country of Protestants. But the order had thrived thanks to the Abbess’ shrewd business sense and warm-hearted compassion. The sisters made herbal tonics and salves that they sold, however the healing that they offered to the community was given at no cost. Still, it suited the Abbess to be able to have a product which benefitted those who used it while providing the Abbey with a livelihood. The medicines were crafted from the years of experience that the sisters had gained from their knowledge of the herbs.

As she turned towards her
bureau
and sat back down, she focused her attention back on her niece.

“But surely
Maman
would have understood. She married!”

The smile left the lips of the Abbess. Yes, Lisette had married, and had died in childbirth, a widow before her child was born. It was, the Abbess realized, the fate of many women in the world, when childbirth was as dangerous for females, as warfare was for soldiers in battle. Although women were rarely credited for the courage of giving birth.

She sighed deeply. She could not protect Beatrice from all that life would do to her but she had hoped that her niece would find a calling in the Abbey. However, clearly that was not to be.

“She would not have wanted me to wither away inside a convent.”

“I was not proposing that you should wither away,” the Abbess replied drily. She fingered the ornate jewelled cross that hung around her neck. “You are a wealthy young woman, as you know. Although there may be no way of claiming your French lands and inheritance, your mother travelled to England with gold and jewels. You will be a very attractive matrimonial prospect for a husband, but I want you to marry wisely.”

“I want to love the man I marry,” Beatrice said, her full lower lip trembled. It was halfway between a pout and a sob, as if she were already considering the prospect of a marriage to someone she did not love.

“And I want you to marry someone who will be a good husband. A man of good character.” The Abbess did not add that she intended her niece to acquire a title. The heiress to the
de Villegagnon
fortune was not a pauper on her maternal side; Lisette and the Abbess had come from a gentile line,. That breeding and wealth would not be thrown away on someone of inferior rank.  “I am not averse to you marrying,” she said finally.

Beatrice’s hair was hidden by the head-covering that all the novices wore, but her brown eyes could not be concealed and they were bright with joy. “Thank you, Auntie!”

“But I will choose your husband,” the Abbess interjected firmly. “I will choose wisely, with God’s guidance. But I will be discerning. We will pray over this matter.”

Beatrice had already been praying that God would send her a husband. Someone tall and handsome, who knew how to tie a cravat that Beau Brummel would approve of; someone whose locks were arranged in a Brutus hair style, or perhaps a Bedford Crop.

Or perhaps a man in uniform who was fighting with Lord Wellington; soldiers looked so very handsome. But with Bonaparte ruling over France and, it seemed, half of Europe, marriage to a soldier would mean that he was very likely to have to join his regiment and that was not at all a pleasant thought. “A Corinthian!” Beatrice breathed.

“Really, Beatrice, where do you hear these things?” the Abbess inquired. “When you go into the village you are supposed to have your mind on the service to the poor, not on gentlemen.” The Abbess picked up her quill pen. “Run along, now. It’s nearly time for vespers.”

“You will find me a husband soon?” Beatrice asked eagerly.

“Yes. I will let it be known that a member of my family who has not taken her vows has expressed a desire to leave the Abbey and that I am seeking a worthy man for her to marry,” the Abbess replied with a bemused smile.

“Now run along.”

Worthy sounded very dull, Beatrice thought. She had hoped that she would be allowed to leave the Abbey and be taken in by someone of the
ton
who would steer her into Society. Someone to supervise her coming out, and chaperone her for balls and social events so that she could meet dashing young gentlemen. She smiled as she imagined how they would kiss her hand when no one was looking, recite odes to her beauty, and tell her that her eyes were as bright as gemstones, and woo her with passion.

Beatrice was not quite sure what passion consisted of, apart from the manner in which it was presented in the pages of the pamphlets that she surreptitiously read at night when she was alone, but it sounded like something that would be very exciting. Yes, excitement was something Beatrice believed she was ready to encounter.

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BONUS CHAPTER 2:

–

BEWITCHING THE VISCOUNT

ONE

Lord Nathaniel Hughes, the Viscount of Wiltshire, commonly referred to as “Hughes” by his friends, was bored. Ever since his close friend, the Duke of Staffordshire, had tied the knot with the beautiful Miss Georgette Danford, he had been questioning his own bachelor status.

The loving bliss the couple exuded had him longing for something other than his current, temporary liaisons with married women. He was by no means looking for a love match, far from it. However, the issue of an heir was of outmost importance. The only problem with his new, inexplicable, yearning was that he did not trust women at all.

Anything else would have been unusual; after all, he had witnessed the treacherous nature of a woman first-hand.

Now, Nathaniel was not prone to the incessant musings that afflicted many gentlemen of his advanced age. That said, at twenty-eight, surrounded by several gentlemen who were already married, he was hard pressed to ignore the need to father a legitimate heir. This was one of the reasons he was now languishing in the Gloucestershire countryside.

Bored to tears in London, he had decided to visit his cousin at Langdon Manor. He had the misfortune to have agreed to stay for three whole weeks when he first arrived. Having spent two weeks in the company of his nieces, he was happy to notice he had now somewhat regained his senses. As he suspected, the delightful little monsters had been exactly what the doctor ordered. Five more days of
Uncle Nathaniel this, Uncle Nathaniel that
and he could rush back to London and freedom.

Luckily, his boredom had been cut short when his dear friend Alden Haddington, the Earl of Beckton, had come calling. He had known Beckton for several years. Both had served in the same regiment under the Duke of Staffordshire. The Earl had particularly strong, disapproving views on Nathaniel’s string of mistresses. The irony was that the Earl was known to have left an equal trail of heartbroken beauties behind him. The only difference being, he had never touched them.

Beckton was currently an esteemed Member of Parliament. Although he was certainly very vocal in the House of Lords, Nathaniel was one of the few people who knew Beckton found the challenge of conversing with the fairer sex, insurmountable. He had yet to finish a sensible conversation with any eligible young woman he had actual designs on. Half the broken hearts he left behind him were due to disinterest, and the rest due to an inability to approach the lady in question.

It was a longstanding joke between them, that at this rate he would die never having known a woman. However, despite their markedly different dispositions, his friendship with Nathaniel had remained strong over the years.

“Nathaniel, are you listening?” the Earl queried bemused. “I see you are studiously avoiding the topic,” he continued as he climbed on to his horse.

“What topic would that be?” Nathaniel replied, puzzled at the sudden line of questioning. His thoughts were elsewhere.

“That of your self-imposed loneliness.”

“Loneliness? That’s a bit harsh, my dear fellow.”

“Begging your pardon, but what would you call burying yourself in the countryside?” Beckton asked with a raised eyebrow. Nathaniel shrugged.

“Well, I am of the opinion that your loneliness would swiftly be solved by a matrimonial arrangement,” Beckton continued dryly.

“Good Grace! I am not yet at my deathbed to be sentenced to such domestic hell,” Nathaniel exclaimed. “An incidental marriage is not something I aspire for in any near future.”

The Viscount had no wish for Beckton to get a whiff of the fact that he had very much been reconsidering his bachelor status for the last couple of weeks. Once the Earl fixated on an idea, he didn’t let it be. Whilst this was useful in Parliament, it was highly annoying to his friends. Nathaniel had no intention of becoming his next pet project.

The Earl laughed, then grew silent and said quietly:

“How much longer are you going to let her treachery dictate your life?” His question was followed by a pregnant silence.

“I do not know what you are referring to,” Nathaniel replied, squirming in his saddle.

Beckton seemed to sense his rising discomfort, and let that particular matter drop by changing the subject. “Sooner or later you will have to produce an heir,” he said instead. “You know as well as I do that your cousin Albert is not the right man to wear your coronet with dignity.”

Nathaniel laughed aloud. His cousin Albert was fat, bald and mostly intolerable. He turned in his saddle to face his friend. “Any woman I would marry would find me insufferable and swiftly be plotting my murder.”

“Beget your heir first,” Beckton replied with mirth, “then you can see how long it takes for one of you to throw the other in the lake.” Both men chuckled ruefully. “Right, I best be on my way. I am due in London in a week,” the Earl exclaimed.

“Rushing off? Do not tell me it is the lovely Phoebe Alexander that is your urgent business,” Nathaniel replied with a knowing smirk. “When are you going to get the courage to tell her she has stolen your heart?”

“Right after you get married and produce an heir, old chap,” Beckton retorted without missing a beat.

“So never then?”

The Earl laughed, bid his friend goodbye and set his horse to a gallop across the manor drive and on to the road towards London.

Nathaniel watched him race on with a wistful smile. He was loath to turn back towards the house. On an impulse, he decided to explore the surrounding landscape instead. This would be a great opportunity to take a break from his nieces. He urged his horse into a trot and was soon deep into the Gloucestershire countryside. The peace of his surroundings was working surprising wonders on his nerves. As he reached the outskirts of the Crown Forest of Dean, he dismounted, tied his horse and continued on foot.

He thought of Lady Anne Smithey, the most treacherous woman he had ever met. An incomparable beauty. Her skin flawlessly pale, her
visage
a vision of innocence and her heart as dark as charcoal.

It had been five years and still the invisible wound she had inflicted upon him had not yet healed. He knew full well that his reputation as a lover was only gained after Lady Anne crushed his young heart. He had set out to conquer every beauty, learn every trick, so as to never be at the mercy of a woman again. And he had succeeded. He had vast experience of women and his expertise had gained him the reputation of the best lover in London. Nathaniel took a deep breath. 
Why am I so restless?

Irritated, he walked past a configuration of trees and then stopped dead in his tracks. Somewhere a woman was singing.

Intrigued, he parted the bushes and walked into a clearing. In front of the clearing, there was a small stream and on the other side was a woman. She was blissfully unaware that she was being watched. With her eyes closed, she sang her heart out. It was Sir. Thomas Moore’s
The
Last Rose of Summer
. She wasn’t the best songstress he had ever heard, but her voice vibrated with the joy and innocence of youth.

Bewitched, the Viscount slowly dropped to his knees, tucked his legs underneath him and drank in the scene before him.

'Tis the last rose of summer,

Left blooming alone;

All her lovely companions

Are faded and gone;

No flower of her kindred,

No rosebud is nigh,

To reflect back her blushes,

Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!

To pine on the stem;

Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go, sleep thou with them.

Thus kindly I scatter,

Thy leaves o'er the bed,

Where thy mates of the garden

Lie scentless and dead.’

As she sang the last words, she seemed to sense that she was being watched and turned around. Time stopped. Nathaniel was transfixed.

Hers was not a classical beauty; her features were too strong for that. But, fire burned fiercely in her eyes. Her softly curved lips looked like they were made to be kissed.

The young woman looked startled and made to dash off. Hurriedly, Nathaniel rose and stretched out his hand besieging.

“Wait!” She stopped dead in her tracks. Slowly she turned around and looked at him. Her eyes were bright with curiosity.

“Surely you would not run away from a man separated from you by a stream?” he asked soothingly. The mischievous lady smiled, and he felt his heart turn.
Not again
.