Harlequin Historical July 2021--Box Set 2 of 2 Page 2

  He led her through the opening notes of a cotillion. ‘Do you attend balls often?’

  ‘I must confess, this is my first.’

  His mouth fell open as they danced apart and towards other partners. When they returned to one another, he appeared much chagrined. ‘Then I suppose any hope of finding you at a ball in London would be impossible?’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ Lottie replied with genuine disappointment.

  ‘If you were in London I would find you at every ball. I’d parade you through Vauxhall Gardens and ensure everyone saw you sitting at my side in my family’s box at the opera.’

  It was fascinating, how he described it. ‘Goodness, that does sound exciting.’

  ‘You would love it.’ He twirled her around in the dance.

  Her gaze met his, even as the room around them seemed to continue to spin. ‘I want to hear of it all.’

  ‘In Vauxhall Gardens a whistle blows at night, and lanterns as far as the eye can see all light up at once.’

  She could imagine the spots of light flickering to life amid a sea of darkness and smiled. ‘Tell me more.’

  He went on to sweep her away into another world of grand entertainments in London and summers spent at the family castle in Scotland. Lottie had always cherished her life in Binsey, and had never once thought it dull. At least not until now, as she heard of the splendour to be found beyond the cottage.

  As she listened to the velvety rich detail being painted in her mind, she could not help but be dazzled as Lord Murray swept her away into another world—one she had never been party to until this night.

  While she did dance with other men that evening, the cotillion was not the only dance set Lord Murray claimed. He secured her for a country dance later, though the steps were so lively there was little talking to be had. Still, they laughed and smiled, eyes locked, her heart racing throughout.

  Facing the end of the evening, and her time in his presence, had been difficult. For this ball had been the most magical thing ever to have happened in her life. And Lord Murray the most fascinating man she’d ever met.

  Never had she known someone whose speech, for better or for worse, was so honest. A refreshing change from the polished conversation she tiptoed around every day. He filled her mind with the experiences he so eloquently described and easily drew her in with his infectious grin. And, while she would never wish away her happy life in Binsey, she couldn’t help but hope to see Lord Murray again.

  * * *

  Evander, Baron Murray, heir to the Earldom of Westix, floated on the proverbial clouds the day following Lady Pensville’s ball. In the past years there had been several ladies who had caught his eye as he’d sought the woman he intended to wed. He’d even called on a few of them the day following a dance, with flowers in his hand. But never had he selected a bundle with more nervous care.

  It was ironic that he should meet such a woman just as he was due to return to Westix Manor in Southampton, to aid his father following the Earl’s return from India.

  Evander considered the flowers on the padded seat beside him. Daffodils for his regard, pink carnations for his affection, and a few sprigs of myrtle to signify love and marriage—a play on what they’d spoken of the night before. However, as he drew his curricle to a stop before Lady Hasgrove’s sprawling estate he thought better of his decision and plucked out the sprigs of myrtle.

  They lay scattered over the rocks lining the curved drive like large flecks of snow. What was worse, removing them left the bundle of flowers woefully apparent of their absence. It looked no better than the miserable weeds he’d plucked at Comlongon Castle in Scotland for his mother and sister when he’d been a boy.

  Damn.

  He kicked himself for not having gone with roses or tulips or bloody lilies. Hyacinths, even. Anything more typically in fashion and more appealing.

  He jumped from the carriage with the intent of reclaiming the small white flowers when a cheerful voice broke through the silent country morning.

  ‘Good day, Murray.’

  Charles, Lord Folton, offered him a congenial grin as he made his way up the path to where Evander was preparing to climb the stone steps.

  ‘Might I hazard a guess that your visit has something to do with a certain lovely vicar’s daughter?’

  Evander drew up short at the sight of the other man, leaving the white flowers where they lay, limp and discarded.

  When Folton had implied the night before that no one had claimed a space on Miss Rossington’s dance card, Evander had assumed this duke’s heir had no interest in the stunning young woman. But if he was calling on her now, after the ball where he too had shared a dance with her...

  Lord Folton cocked an eyebrow at the bunch of flowers, whose slender stems had become rather warm and wilted in the cradle of Evander’s palm. ‘I dare say Lady Langston will be quite put out at what you have no doubt done to her garden to obtain those.’

  Evander gritted his teeth. In truth, he had gone to the garden at the Langston estate, where he was staying with a friend from university. He’d been too eager to see Miss Rossington and hadn’t wanted to bother with attempting to find someone who might sell hothouse bouquets in the country.

  He flicked a glance at the sad little flowers and sighed. ‘It was a notion best left to the foolishness in my head and not put to application.’

  Folton laughed. ‘You aren’t the first man to lose his head over Miss Rossington.’

  ‘Aren’t I?’ Evander levelled a gaze at him, with the intent of seeking out the truth then and there.

  Folton held up his hands in a surrendering gesture. ‘Not me. Miss Rossington, while admittedly beautiful, shares a friendship with me that is not even remotely romantic. She is more sister to me, as we are both without siblings and became something of that for one another as children.’ He clasped Evander by the shoulder. ‘I merely meant the many country hearts she has inadvertently broken in Oxfordshire. She never even realised the poor lads had an interest in her.’ He shook his head in sympathy.

  Evander had been so taken by Miss Rossington, so consumed by her, he had not thought even to ask if she had a beau. ‘So there isn’t anyone she favours back in...?’ What the devil was the name of the village?

  ‘Binsey,’ Folton supplied. ‘There isn’t. And I’ve never seen her take note of any man’s attention.’ Folton gave Evander’s shoulder a squeeze and released his grip. ‘Until now.’

  A thrill surged through Evander. She had certainly shown an interest in him. Though she had danced with several others, he’d noted that with them her smiles had been less bright, her blushes less frequent and her demeanour more reserved.

  ‘Come, I was on my way to see to my aunt.’ Folton led the way up the steps to the massive entrance. ‘How long will you be staying at the Langston estate?’

  ‘I leave later this afternoon, I’m afraid,’ Evander replied with genuine regret. ‘It would appear both our fathers are just returned from India. Mine has summoned me back to our Southampton estate to assist him with some items he’s collected.’

  ‘I see.’ Lord Folton spun about, heading in the opposite direction. Away from the large house.

  Evander frowned in confusion. ‘What the devil? Where are you going?’

  ‘I will call upon my aunt later, as I remain in Bedfordshire several days more.’ Folton turned back to regard Evander. ‘For now, I leave you to Miss Rossington without my company. You are forewarned: my aunt has a tendency to fall asleep at tea.’ Folton winked and made his way down the path with a cheeky wave. ‘Bonne chance.’

  Evander held up his free hand in acknowledgment of the good wishes.

  As he made his way to the steps his nerves jangled. Ordinarily, he was fully in control of his faculties. A man who was put off by nothing and sure of himself in nearly every way. At least until being in the radiance of Miss Rossingt
on.

  She was exquisitely lovely, but it was her wit that made her shine so brilliantly in his eyes. That and the way her eyes lit with wonder as he’d shared stories of London and Scotland. There was something in the starry-eyed way she’d watched him that made him long to take her to those places, to drape her in the finest silks and let her feast on the finest foods, drink the richest wines.

  The butler showed Evander into the large manor, and led him to the drawing room to wait for Miss Rossington with his pathetic bunch of weeds. The room was an odd green colour that resembled asparagus, with small tables cluttered with a multitude of figurines set atop bits of lace that had gone yellow with age.

  The door opened and Miss Rossington entered with Lady Hasgrove. Evander’s heart snagged in his chest. A stream of morning light shone in from the window like a beam from the heavens, falling over Miss Rossington as she smiled up at him.

  ‘Lord Murray,’ she said, in that delicate voice of hers.

  He’d thought several times about what he might say to her when he saw her again. Now all those carefully scripted greetings slipped from his mind, replaced instead by an awed reverence for her extreme beauty.

  She was sheer perfection, in a white muslin gown that offset the creaminess of her skin and her glossy dark hair, which she’d twisted into a simple knot. Women were oft so very complicated in their hairstyles these days. There was an elegance to the lack of adornment of Miss Rossington’s appearance which allowed her natural beauty to shine through all the more.

  ‘Miss Rossington,’ he managed. ‘You look well.’ Remembering his manners, he offered a short bow to Lady Hasgrove, whom Miss Rossington was helping to a plush settee. ‘Good morning to you, Lady Hasgrove.’

  The older woman nodded at him once she’d settled back on a cushion with a needlepoint rose, her eyes already beginning to droop.

  Miss Rossington smiled and indicated a chair across from her. Spots of pastel colour dotted the sleeves of her dress at her wrists. Small stains caused most likely by paint of some kind.

  Noticing his attention on her sleeves, she quickly pulled her hands into her lap. ‘Would you join us for some tea?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. And I brought these for you.’ He held out his carefully selected bundle of flowers.

  As her crystal blue gaze fell on the bouquet he saw the flowers through her eyes. The frail stems had given way to the weight of the bulky flowers and now hung in defeat around his fist.

  ‘I suppose they could use some water,’ he muttered. ‘Perhaps I ought to have brought roses. But they seemed far too ordinary a flower for such an extraordinary woman.’

  She accepted them and carefully hid her stained sleeves behind them. ‘Water will do wonders for them.’ After ringing for a servant, she studied the bunch of flowers as he took his seat. ‘I rather like your selection.’

  He settled into the thickly padded pink velvet chair. ‘Do remember I asked you for your honesty. It is admittedly a sad bunch of weeds.’

  ‘Not at all.’ A wistful smile touched her lips with such sweet joy he felt a mirror reaction pull at his own mouth.

  ‘They remind me of home. I have carnations planted under my window that bid me good morning every day.’ She ran her fingertip over the waxy yellow petal of a daffodil. ‘Your regard.’ She touched the pink carnation next. ‘And your affection.’

  A pretty flush of colour touched her cheeks and she kept her eyes demurely fixed on the flowers, before looking up at him with a boldness that struck him in the most delightful way.

  ‘I can think of no bouquet more perfect.’

  A servant entered then, and took the flowers from her to put them in a vase. In that moment he was grateful for his choice of floral arrangement and the way it made her shine. Most women of the ton would regard his choice with an upturned nose. But not Miss Rossington. She was as pure and gracious as she was beautiful. A woman who made him long to shower her with gifts and affection.

  There was no one quite like her, and he swore that despite his imminent departure he would find some way to put himself in her path once more.

  CHAPTER THREE

  April 1810, Binsey, Oxfordshire, England

  Rain pattered against the windowpanes, the droplets melting into one another before trickling down in fat wet trails against the glass. Lottie looked outside to the slick cobblestones, wishing she’d heeded her father’s warning to bring an umbrella. Or at least take the carriage.

  ‘It’s coming down something fierce.’ The shopkeeper of Notions, the local haberdashery, narrowed her brown eyes behind her spectacles, looking at the whipping rain. ‘If you wait until three, Mr Williams will be about and can see you home.’

  A swift glance at the clock on the side table indicated to Lottie that it was only just now half past two. Back home, there was still a button to reattach to Father’s favourite jacket, some tidying up to do and dinner to be made.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Williams,’ Lottie said politely. ‘But a bit of rain isn’t anything I can’t handle.’

  Mrs Williams withdrew some more paper, this one shiny with wax, and bound it round the length of lace she’d just wrapped. ‘I know, you need to be returning to your father. It’s a shame he never sought to remarry. You know, the miller’s eldest daughter is looking for a husband.’

  Lottie accepted the parcel from the woman and thanked her—not for the marital suggestion for her father, a woman two years younger than Lottie, but for putting the lace in a waxed wrap so it wouldn’t be soaked by the rain.

  ‘Are you sure you won’t wait?’ Mrs Williams asked with a slight frown.

  ‘It’s truly fine.’

  Lottie thanked her for her consideration and slipped out of the shop into the deluge of driving rain. The chill of the downpour was enough to rob her of her breath. To think that morning it had been warm as she’d walked into the heart of the village to purchase some lace for a gown.

  She angled her head so that her straw hat kept her from being pelted in the face. Not that it did much good.

  All at once a shadow appeared and the rain came to an abrupt end. She looked up to find an umbrella open over her head.

  Someone had come to her rescue. Most likely Mr Williams, returned early from his tasks.

  ‘Mr Williams, that is—’

  Whatever else she might have said died on her tongue as she turned her head and realised her saviour was not, in fact, Mr Williams at all.

  No, this man was taller, but just as familiar.

  Lord Murray.

  He grinned down at her, his green eyes bright against the dull grey sky. ‘Miss Rossington,’ He spoke loudly to be heard over the rush of rain, which was now drenching him as he held the umbrella for her. ‘Please allow me to drive you home.’

  ‘You’re getting all wet,’ she exclaimed.

  And he was—truly. His auburn hair had gone dark with a thorough soaking.

  He indicated the carriage parked only a few feet away.

  Rather than argue, she allowed him to guide her towards the carriage and scrambled inside with as much decorum as anyone could muster when attempting to flee a deluge. He joined her on the opposite seat and snapped the umbrella closed, keeping it tucked into the corner opposite her. Not that any additional drops from its surface would matter when she was already in such a sorry state.

  Her fingers went self-consciously to her hat, which felt to be wilting over her face. Embarrassment scorched her cheeks and made her cast her gaze to where her hands were clasped in her lap.

  She had spent a considerable amount of time hoping to see Lord Murray again, wishing that somehow they might once more be drawn together. But as the months had gone by she’d given up, assuming the whole of England was far too large an area for fate to place them in one another’s company once more.

  Yet now here he was—and she looking no better than a drowned mouse
.

  ‘Thank you.’ She lifted her focus from the sprigged pattern on her gown to Lord Murray, who openly stared at her.

  ‘By God, Miss Rossington, you are truly the most beautiful woman in the world.’ His cheeks coloured with a flush and he gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘Forgive me. I ought to have asked where you should like to go.’

  His compliment took her aback, robbing her of all thought. All breath. All everything. She didn’t want a destination. No, she wanted to spend the entirety of that rainy afternoon in his company, opposite him in the carriage. Their proximity was such that the clean sandalwood notes of his shaving soap prickled at her awareness.

  ‘I... I was going home,’ she replied, offering him the direction, which he relayed to the driver through a small sliding hatch.

  The carriage lurched forward as rain popped along the top of the cabin.

  ‘I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,’ she admitted, studying him now as openly as he had her.

  His thick auburn hair, his high cheekbones and regal nose were all the more apparent in the shadowed interior of the carriage. He smiled at her, and her heart did that strange thing where it seemed to stumble over itself.

  He was even more handsome than she remembered.

  ‘I was hoping to find you.’ He put his elbows to his knees as he leaned closer.

  Heaven help her.

  ‘You came here looking for me?’ Only when the words were out of her mouth did she realise how foolish she sounded. Of course a baron did not go out of his way to seek out the daughter of a parish vicar.

  ‘If I was a clever man, I’d have done exactly that.’ His forefinger reached out and tentatively stroked the damp fabric against her knee. ‘But my father has kept me running around England and I haven’t had an excuse to come here. Until now.’

  That spot went immediately hot. Indeed, the rest of her did too. It was a delicate touch—a brush more than anything. It might have been an accident. But she knew it was not. And that was why it affected her so viscerally.