Guilty Pleasures of a Bluestocking: A Steamy Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 6

  Florentina nodded sagely. “It is.”

  Leonard laughed, then bent to kiss the Dowager Duchess’s cheek. “All is well, Mother. I truly believe Miss Wilds and I will be very happy.”

  His mother nodded, seemingly satisfied with his answer.

  But as Leonard walked upstairs to his office, the realization came to him. His mother’s enthusiasm for the marriage was not about Miss Deborah Wilds. Not really. She had been equally eager to see him married to Edith. Had met him in the entrance hall each time he had returned home from the Chilson manor then, too.

  “How was Miss Wilds today? Did she seem more agreeable?”

  “No, Mother. I know she will never love me, but I’m sure she will make a fine wife nonetheless.”

  “You are right. So rarely do we marry for love. Love does not matter to people like us. Best you put any thoughts of such a thing aside.”

  The words had seemed harsh, but Leonard had known she was right.

  His mother’s reasoning for supporting the two marriages were completely at odds with each other. And yet her enthusiasm for each had been undeniable. What was it about the Viscount of Chilson’s daughters that made his mother so eager to have them in the family?

  Unable to push the question from his mind, Leonard thought to call on his uncle. He sent a message to Phineas’s townhouse on the edge of the village, requesting an audience with him as soon as possible. When the welcoming response came back that afternoon, Leonard set off immediately.

  The day was fine but cold, and Leonard set off on foot, hoping the walk might go some way toward stilling the thoughts that were racing through his mind.

  He turned up his collar against the chill and dug his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat.

  Perhaps I am overthinking things.

  Perhaps there had been nothing more to the Dowager Duchess’ words than a mother wanting the best for her son. Perhaps it had just been as Florentina had suggested, about nothing more than grand weddings and grandbabies to knit clothes for.

  Perhaps this search for the truth about Edith has led me to solve mysteries that do not exist.

  Still, Deborah was right, there was a shadow hanging over their marriage and he would not rest until that shadow had disappeared.

  He jogged up the front steps of Phineas’s house and rapped loudly on the door.

  “Come in, Your Grace,” said the butler, holding out a hand for Leonard’s coat. “Your uncle is expecting you.”

  Leonard found Phineas in the smoking room, sitting by a roaring fire with a pipe in one hand. At the sight of his nephew, he heaved himself from his armchair and caught Leonard in a tight embrace.

  “Wonderful to see you, my boy. You’ve been something of a stranger of late.”

  Leonard sat in the second armchair. “I’m sorry, Uncle. I’ve been rather preoccupied.”

  Phineas chuckled. He sunk back into his armchair, his waistcoat buttons straining across his middle. “So I hear. Word is this Wilds lass had stolen your heart.”

  Leonard smiled wryly. “I see you’ve been exchanging words with my mother.”

  Phineas took a long draw on his pipe. “She just wants the best for you. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  And yet he couldn’t shake a nagging belief that perhaps there was something in it for herself, too.

  “A drink?” asked Phineas.

  Leonard nodded. A drink sounded beyond wonderful.

  Phineas rang a handbell and instructed his footman to prepare two glasses of brandy from the cabinet in the corner of the room.

  Once the two gentlemen were settled with their drinks, Leonard leaned forward and fixed his uncle with inquiring eyes.

  “My marriage to Deborah Wilds,” he said bluntly, “who instigated it?”

  Phineas leaned back in his chair and brought his glass to his lips. “The request came from Viscount Chilson.” He smiled, deep crinkles appearing in the corner of his eyes. “You can hardly be surprised at his eagerness, can you Leonard? Any gentleman of his rank would leap at the chance to have a duke in the family.” He sucked on his pipe and blew out a ribbon of smoke. “Your mother was most happy to receive the Viscount’s letter.” He chuckled. “Seemed relieved even. I think she feared what happened with poor Edith may have turned you off the idea of marriage forever. Not to mention it turning the Viscount off the idea of you.”

  Leonard smiled stiffly, doing his best not to show his discomfort at his uncle’s choice of words. “And what of my marriage to Edith? Was Lord Chilson the driving force behind that also?”

  Phineas put down his glass and rubbed his freshly shorn chin, as though trying to rake through his memories. Leonard felt frustration begin to simmer inside him. His betrothal to Edith had taken place less than three years ago. Surely such an important thing was not so difficult to remember?

  “Yes,” Phineas said finally. “It was Lord Chilson who suggested the match in the first place, I believe.”

  “Why?” Leonard was not the only gentleman in Bath with a dukedom to his name. What was it about him that made Lord Chilson so eager to see him wed to one of his daughters?

  Phineas shrugged. “Why does a gentleman ever seek a good match for his daughter? Wealth. Power. Connections.”

  Leonard sipped his brandy. There was nothing wrong with a father pushing for a good match for his daughters.

  Grandbabies and grand weddings. It’s about nothing more.

  Chapter 10

  Leonard paced back and forth across his study. He felt oddly unable to let the subject slide.

  Why is Mother so eager for me to marry one of the Viscount’s daughters?

  It wasn’t just because Deborah made him happy. The Dowager Duchess had been just as adamant that his union with his first betrothed be a success.

  Perhaps if I could just see the letters exchanged between Mother and the Viscount.

  Perhaps that would satisfy this restlessness inside him. Perhaps it would be enough to convince himself that the Dowager Duchess truly did want nothing more than to see her son happily wed.

  “How was my dear brother today?” the Dowager Duchess asked over dinner that night.

  Leonard sliced his lamb. “He was well. He sends his love.”

  “I must call on him soon,” she said, bringing her wine glass to her lips and taking a delicate sip.

  “Last time I visited Uncle Phineas, he fell asleep in his chair,” Florentina announced. “I got bored of waiting for him to wake up so I went to help the cook. I learned how to make sponge cake.” She twirled a strand of dark hair around a finger. “But I’ve forgotten now…”

  The Dowager Duchess smiled. “That sounds like my brother.”

  Leonard chewed his meat, deep in thought. “Mother,” he said finally, trying to keep his voice light. “May I see the letter the Viscount wrote you? Inviting you to speak on my marriage to Miss Wilds?”

  The Dowager Duchess hesitated, something passing across her eyes.

  Was her hand tightening around the stem of her wine glass? Or was Leonard just imagining it?

  She took a large mouthful. “The letter?” she repeated. “Why ever do you need to see that?”

  “Curiosity, I suppose,” said Leonard. “Nothing more.”

  His mother shook her head and began to slice her meat into miniscule pieces. “I don’t have it, I’m afraid. I had no reason to keep it. Besides, all the negotiations took place in person, as you well know.”

  Leonard nodded. “Of course.” He returned his attention to his plate, deciding not to push the issue further.

  Lydia Fletcher, Dowager Duchess of Tarsington, listened to her son’s footsteps disappear up the staircase. Had he believed her? She knew it unlikely. She had never thrown away a thing in her life. Every cupboard in this place was crammed with gowns and bonnets, wardrobes piled high with his and Florentina’s baby clothes and toys.

  Lydia also kept all of her correspondence.

  Leonard’s question had
caught her off-guard. She knew she had not hidden her shock well. It was true, of course, that the negotiations involving Leonard’s marriage to the Viscount’s daughters had taken place in person. But Lydia did not want Leonard to go prying into her past. The past needed to stay forgotten.

  Lydia pressed a hand to her chest, feeling her heart thud beneath her palm. Frustration at her son bubbled inside her. What did it matter why he and Deborah ended up together? She could tell the two of them were falling in love. Why couldn’t that be enough for him? Why all this prying, asking questions?

  She felt a sudden swell of anger at her son. She tried to push it away.

  As quietly as possible, Lydia climbed from the dinner table and made her way upstairs to her bedchamber. She locked the door behind her, sliding the key into her pocket. She went to her wardrobe and pulled out a large wooden box. Before she could stop herself, she swung open the lid.

  Inside was every piece of correspondence she had ever received. Letters of love from her late husband, letters of congratulations on her marriage, the births of her children. Hastily scrawled notes from Leonard and Florentina, written in messy, childish hands. And among these happy memories was the string of letters between Viscount of Chilson and herself.

  Why have I kept these cursed things?

  A part of her wanted nothing more than to fling these letters away. See a part of her life she longed to forget disappear in a haze of ash and smoke. But something stopped her. Was it her obsessive need to keep everything she had ever owned? Or was it more than that? Was she keeping these letters as proof of something? Keeping them in the faint belief she might one day need them?

  Lydia pulled one of the Viscount’s letters from the box and squeezed it between her fingers. How easy it would be to tear this into pieces. It would take away the risk of Leonard finding it, of course. But it would solve no other problems.

  She slid the letter back between the others and set the box on her bed. She stared at it for a long time. What to do with it?

  She didn’t trust Leonard not to come looking. He was not one to simply let an issue like this slide. She would need to hide this box. And she would need to hide it well.

  Before the thought was properly formed, Lydia had her cloak over her shoulders and was climbing downstairs in the half light. She could hear Leonard in Florentina’s room, reading to her from her favorite story book.

  Lydia reached the entrance hall and crept toward the front door, her eyes darting, lest their butler should catch her creeping about her own home like a thief. She unlocked the front door carefully, silently. And she stepped into the cold night.

  The lamp by the front gates cast a pool of orange light over the front path, but the grounds beyond were blanketed in inky darkness. A hand out in front of her to guide her way, Lydia stumbled through the wet grass in the direction of the stables.

  In the early days of her marriage, she had loved to ride. Had spent many happy hours in the stables, grooming and feeding the horses. It had been many years since she had been inside the stables, but her legs moved through the darkness instinctively, as though remembering a well-trodden path.

  Finally, out of the darkness came the black shapes of the stables and cart shed.

  Lydia paused for a moment. She could hear the faint sigh and grunt of the horses, but no other sounds of life. She pulled open the door of the stables and stepped inside. She reached instinctively for the lamp in the place it used to hang above the door. She exhaled in relief when her fingers touched its still-warm metal.

  Thank goodness our old stable hand is a creature of habit.

  Lydia lit the lamp and lifted it high to illuminate the stables, watching the three horses shift and squint in the light.

  Where to hide the box?

  The place was large, full of shadows. A place Leonard would never think to look.

  There, in the corner behind the barrels of grain.

  The grain barrels had sat in the same place for more than twenty years. Lydia knew there was no chance of anyone moving them. No chance of anyone finding the box if she hid it behind them.

  Lydia returned the lamp to the hook above the door and made her way across the stables. She leaned over one of the barrels and dropped the box in behind it.

  Good. No one would ever find it there.

  She blew out the lamp and hurried back through the darkness toward the manor. With luck, Leonard was still reading to his sister and would have no idea that she had left the house.

  As Lydia stepped inside, she could see the damp patches the wet grass had left on the bottom of her gown. Could see the faint wet footprints she left across the entrance hall. Her gown smelled faintly of horses and hay.

  She hurried up to her bedchamber and locked the door, before anyone could begin to ask questions.

  Chapter 11

  Deborah stood in the dressmaker’s parlor, different colored silks swathed across her body.

  “A traditional blue?” the dressmaker was saying, holding the fabric close to Deborah’s cheek to compare it to her complexion. “Or perhaps something a little more daring. Peach, perhaps, or cream.”

  Were these questions she was supposed to answer? Or was the dressmaker simply musing aloud? Deborah was unsure.

  She stayed still and silent, staring at her reflection in the wide full-length mirror.

  “You will make her the finest bridal gown this town has ever seen,” her father had instructed the seamstress. “Money is no object.” He kissed Deborah on the cheek. “My darling daughter is to be a Duchess, after all.”

  “Nothing too elaborate,” Deborah told the seamstress suddenly.

  The woman’s face fell. She looked at Deborah as though she had just requested to be married in a potato sack. “What on Earth do you mean, Miss Wilds? It’s as your father said, you’re to become a Duchess. It’s only fitting you dress for the occasion.” She gave Deborah a sly grin. “Don’t want to go disappointing your husband-to-be now, do you?”

  Deborah returned the seamstress’s smile faintly. Of course, the last thing she wanted to do was disappoint the Duke, but she knew well he would not be disappointed if she walked down the aisle without glittering with diamonds and laces. Wearing such an elaborate gown did not feel right, given all that happened to Edith.

  Here was that sweeping guilt again. The guilt Deborah felt each time she spent time with the Duke. The guilt she felt each time she thought of his warm smile, his desiring eyes. Thought of how it would feel to have his hands explore her body.

  The guilt that came with knowing this ought to have been Edith’s place.

  Her last meeting with the Duke had been breathtakingly, dizzyingly wonderful. His kiss had been so fleeting, but it had lit a fire inside Deborah that she felt she would have no way of ever extinguishing. A fire that made her long for her wedding night, long for the moment when she would become his, and he would become hers.

  But that dizzying kiss had caused her to lose focus. She was not supposed to be daydreaming about her future husband. She was supposed to be solving the mystery of what had happened to her sister.

  My beloved sister who had seen no other choice but to end her life.

  The brutality of the thought brought Deborah’s search sharply back into focus.

  “Did you make a wedding gown for my sister?” she heard herself ask suddenly.

  The seamstress paused for a moment, a swathe of lilac silk in one hand. She opened her mouth to speak, but kept silent, as though unsure how to respond. “No, miss,” she said finally. “I didn’t. Your sister… She passed before I was due to meet with her.”

  Deborah nodded silently. She regretted asking the question.

  “Perhaps lilac,” the seamstress said brassily, to fill the sudden stilted silence.

  Deborah nodded faintly. “Whatever you think best.” She knew she was not showing as much enthusiasm as the seamstress had hoped. But the color of her wedding gown suddenly seemed achingly trivial.

  She peered into the mir
ror, looking into her own eyes. She needed answers, but where was she to go from here? Was she to risk Lord Elwood’s wrath and question him again? If she did such a thing, it surely would not be long before he went to her father to reprimand her. And she could not risk that.

  Deborah had always had a good relationship with her father, but she had seen glimpses of the anger he was capable of. In the past, his anger at her had only ever been fleeting—times when he had caught her climbing trees, or helping in the kitchen—but the fire in his cheeks, the sternness in his voice made Deborah certain she did not want to see any more of his rage than she already had.