An Unlikely Courtship: Regency House Party: Somerstone Read online

  Miss Anne shook her head, curls bouncing around her face. “Oh, no!” She lowered her voice. “Nothing like that. He is a perfect gentleman. It’s just . . .” There was something battling within her, fighting against what she wanted to tell him.

  “You may have full confidence in me, Miss Anne. Whatever it is you wish to tell me.”

  Her hands stopped fidgeting. “It’s Isabel,” she said at last.

  All sorts of conjectures filled Anthony’s mind, but he stayed silent, letting her speak at her own pace.

  “She’s been a mother of sorts to me all my life; she wants to protect me. And I know she thinks I’m ignorant to our family’s financial troubles.”

  Financial troubles? Anthony’s mind raced, sorting through this revelation. He met her gaze, waiting, hoping she would go on. This was, most likely, the very thing he’d hoped to learn.

  She paused for a breath, pursing her lips. “But I’m not as naïve as she believes. I notice things. Like the fact that her wardrobe was made on a much more frugal budget than my own. I suspected something. And yesterday morning I overheard a conversation she had with my father.” Her eyes darted across the room to where Lady Du’Breven sat. “And the countess. Despite my fears about the state of our finances, I had no idea things had become so desperate. I’d never have . . .” She looked down at her light pink gown and shook her head. “Well, it doesn’t matter now. All that matters is what I heard. Isabel has set plans in motion to change my father’s will.”

  His focus was now entirely concentrated on Miss Anne and the words coming out of her mouth.

  “Perhaps you’ve already heard rumors about an increase to my dowry?” She looked at him steadily and Anthony could only nod.

  “Well, they’re true.”

  He shook his head. “But how? If your family’s financial situation is so dire, how is that possible?”

  She heaved out a sigh. “Because Isabel is giving up her own dowry—half to increase mine, half to pay our father’s accumulated debts.”

  Anthony felt as though all of the breath had been sucked from his lungs. It took a moment for her words to sink in. Miss Townshend was giving up her own dowry to benefit her family? He had speculated about a hundred reasons why Miss Townshend might spread rumors about her sister’s dowry, but never had he imagined this. The rumors were true. And not only were they true, but the increase in Miss Anne’s dowry came from her sister’s own selflessness.

  His gaze drifted across the room to where Miss Townshend now stood in conversation with her father. The very sight of her left him feeling unsteady, as if his world had shifted so drastically he couldn’t find his new sense of balance. What person would do such a thing? Could it possibly be true? Or might Miss Anne have misunderstood?

  He turned back to Miss Anne, his mind still foggy. “How can she give up her own dowry? What will she do?”

  “Isabel hopes I can secure a good match and care for Father. And she will become a companion or perhaps a governess.” She sat forward. “So you see, I cannot encourage Mr. Tauney Easton’s attentions any further. I don’t wish to hurt him, but he’s a fourth son.” She blushed a little at her own frankness. “And after what Isabel is doing for me and our father. Don’t you see? I must make a profitable match.”

  The resignation in her voice awoke Anthony from his daze. Two sisters, both equally determined to help their family. It was a truth he couldn’t quite come to terms with, for he’d never known this sort of family loyalty and devotion. He shook his head, pushing away unpleasant thoughts of the past.

  “I can hardly believe it. The way your sister cares for you is quite enviable.” Shame burned through Anthony, thinking of the assumptions he’d made about Miss Townshend, how he’d antagonized her in his attempts to uncover the truth. “It is only matched by your own selflessness.”

  “Oh no. If it weren’t for Isabel, well, I don’t know what would become of us.” Miss Anne ducked her head. “And please, don’t share this with the others. I only told you because I don’t want Mr. Easton to be hurt. I’m sorry for the way it all slipped out.”

  “I assure you of my absolute discretion.”

  A gasp of enthusiasm came from the card tables on the other side of the room. People called out with excitement. “Yes, a dance.” Several giggles. “A waltz!”

  Miss Anne stood. “I won’t monopolize you any further.”

  Anthony followed suit. “After what you have shared, Miss Anne, I hope you know I have the highest regard for you. And for your sister. Please let me know if I can ever be of service to either of you in any way.”

  She nodded. “Thank you, Lord Anthony. Your kindness means a great deal to me. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  He bowed as she slipped into the crowd. Servants rolled back the rugs and moved some of the larger furniture. Someone took a seat at the piano and began playing.

  But Anthony found his gaze drawn to Miss Anne’s sister, her head bent in conversation with her father. The sight of her did something to him. Without conscious thought, Anthony crossed the room.

  * * *

  “Miss Townshend, may I have this dance?”

  Isabel looked up in surprise to see Lord Anthony standing over her. She began to bristle, until she met his eyes. There was something different about them, something she couldn’t put a finger on. The cool arrogance, the gleaming self-satisfaction, was gone. But replaced with what? Wonder, maybe. But that hardly seemed likely.

  Her father nudged her from behind. “Isabel,” he murmured under his breath.

  Somehow, like always, Lord Anthony had caught her in a moment where it was impossible to escape. “Why yes, Lord Anthony.” She touched the fading bruise on her temple. “I feel I am enough recovered that I might risk close proximity to you once more.”

  Lord Anthony smiled, but his smile was different too. “Proximity is certain, Miss Townshend, as it’s the waltz.” He held out his hand.

  Isabel, still wary of the sudden change in him, put her hand in his with some reluctance. The rush of warmth that flooded up her arm was so unexpected she almost pulled back. Instead, she allowed him to help her up, that same warmth spiraling toward her heart and making it beat uncomfortably fast in her chest.

  “Are you all right?” Lord Anthony held her hand and turned toward her, his brown eyes so full of sincerity she hardly recognized them.

  She had no defense against this new version of Lord Anthony. His usual flirtatious manner and mocking tone had raised her ire and sharpened her tongue, but now she struggled to say anything at all. “Yes, yes. I am fine. Perhaps the room is a little warm.”

  Lord Anthony led her adeptly through the press of couples to the far side of the room. He released her hand for a moment, his fingers grazing the inside of her wrist as he turned to one of the staff. “The room may be a little warm for dancing. Perhaps we could open the doors to the verandah.” The man nodded and hurried to acquiesce.

  Without warning, Lord Anthony turned to face her, guiding her into the marching position for the opening bars. Isabel hoped he didn’t hear her sharp intake of breath as he set a hand upon the small of her back and wrapped her fingers with his own. They walked forward, following the other couples in the march.

  “Miss Townshend, I do believe this is the first time in our acquaintance that our conversation has remained civil for more than two minutes. Whatever can it mean?” His tone was teasing, but he smiled.

  “That you haven’t said anything terribly provoking, of course.” She smiled without meaning to.

  He inclined his head a little. “Of course. But, though I am tempted to turn to my old ways, I think I shall prolong this cordiality for a little longer.”

  “You will almost force me to rethink my opinion of you.”

  He opened his mouth, and Isabel half expected the old Lord Anthony to emerge, with some sort of banter meant to provoke. Instead he gave her a half smile. “I wish you would.”

  He turned to take her in his arms as the waltz began. Th
eir hands entwined in an arch over their heads, and she was pulled along as they began to spin around the room. His gaze met hers, so fierce she could scarcely breathe. No man had ever looked at her quite this way, as if she was to be admired, adored. Worshipped even.

  Isabel forced herself to breathe, to look away for a moment. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Anne flash by in her pink silk, dancing with Mr. Teirny.

  Lord Anthony drew her in, tightening the pressure on her waist. The warmth of his hand burned through the satin of her gown. “You waltz beautifully, Miss Townshend, if I may say so.”

  The compliment sounded genuine, yet she sensed the words were a cover. He was holding something back. She glanced up, meeting his gaze. “The waltz was quite the thing in London this season.”

  “And yet a waltz during an impromptu dance at a house party is still rather shocking.” His eyes roamed over her face, searching, scrutinizing. Isabel was unprepared for such an intimate inspection.

  She swallowed, hoping she didn’t sound as breathless as she felt. “The waltz is the result of a wager, one of the groups playing cards. Just a bit of harmless fun.”

  “No question about the fun.” His hand guided her ever closer, his breath warm on her cheek as he whispered in her ear. “But whether it is harmless remains to be seen.”

  8

  EIght: Misfortune or Serendipity

  Anthony reigned in his horse, waiting for the others to catch up as they approached a small stream where they could water their mounts. Tauney Easton came up first and dismounted. He wore a dejected expression, his mouth pulled down in a frown.

  Anthony patted the gelding and led him over to the stream for a drink. The midmorning sun began to beat down on Anthony’s back through his thick riding jacket. Once he picketed his horse, he took a seat under a shady tree and removed his jacket. The air under the tree was still cool, and leftover morning dew in the grass provided a welcome relief as it seeped through his shirt.

  Easton joined him, removing his jacket and folding it carefully. A moment later, Beauchamp walked up with his horse, who appeared to be limping.

  Anthony sat forward. “Is your horse injured?”

  Beauchamp shook his head. “No, but he lost a shoe. I’m not sure I can ride him back.”

  “Get him a drink and come sit. We’ll figure something out.” Though Anthony didn’t say it, they were miles away from help, and their morning ride could very well turn into a day-long venture with a mishap such as this.

  Beauchamp examined his horse’s hoof before joining them under the tree’s canopy. He lay down on his side, scrunching up his own jacket and using it as a pillow as he lay back in the grass. “Why the long face, Easton? I noticed you left the dance a bit early last night.”

  Anthony raised a brow. Had he? Anthony hadn’t noticed. Of course, he’d been quite preoccupied.

  Easton heaved out a sigh, bringing his hands to rest behind his head. “I just don’t understand women.”

  Beauchamp laughed. “They are a mystery that eludes us all.”

  Poor Tauney. He must be referring to Miss Anne. Anthony could only pity the fellow after what Miss Anne had revealed last night.

  Easton drew a hand across his forehead. “It’s only that I finally thought I’d found one who was unpretentious. Whose intentions were sincere. Now, I’m not so sure.”

  “You’re taking it all too seriously.” Beauchamp picked a seeded dandelion growing next to him and blew the fluffy white seeds into the breeze. “You need to relax and enjoy yourself.”

  Anthony felt bad for Easton, but his own thoughts wandered to Miss Isabel Townshend. That such a woman could exist had never crossed his mind. He’d only seen a woman’s beauty and wit employed in the most underhanded and deceitful of ways. And yet Miss Townshend’s character, as revealed through her sister, seemed the very opposite.

  He shut his eyes, remembering the way she’d felt in his arms, his hand at the small of her back. Anthony had danced and flirted with plenty of attractive women, but those moments paled in comparison with what he’d felt for Miss Townshend last night. He couldn’t quite put a name to the feeling; he only knew that she had lit a fire in him—made him feel alive and engaged and very much altered. It was that same feeling that had kept him up all night, tossing and turning, and willing to contemplate something he’d always considered to be completely out of the question: marriage.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers as the feeling melted away. Even if he resolved to change, he’d lost any chance with Miss Townshend. She would never believe he could be anything other than a cad. Regret pumped through his chest, heavy and dark. One night of gentlemanly behavior could not make up for the way he’d treated her.

  He blew out a breath, picking idly at the grass, struck by the notion that he wished to do just that—convince her that there was more to him than his womanizing and rakish behavior. But even if he attempted such a feat, was there any chance she could ever think of him as a true suitor?

  * * *

  Isabel held in a yawn, trying to focus on what Mr. Bloomsbury was saying with little success. She took a bite of eggs, her mind wandering to the previous night. To the waltz—and Lord Anthony. Try as she might, she couldn’t shake the fluttery feeling in her middle. She should be immune to the attentions of such a flirt, one who had made her time at the house party thus far quite miserable. It was naïve to harbor any sort of hope, and she determined to banish the feelings at once. But then she would remember the feel of him taking her hand, his smile, the way he had looked at her—

  “Don’t you agree?” asked Mr. Bloomsbury, taking such a large bite of ham Isabel was astonished at the way he forced it into his mouth.

  “I don’t quite understand what you mean,” she stalled, not having the faintest idea what he’d been speaking about.

  Mr. Bloomsbury swallowed. “As I was saying, I think there are some members of our company who are not quite up to standard. Miss Fairchild, for example.”

  “What on earth do you have against Miss Fairchild?” Isabel scooted back her plate, looking for an opportunity to escape.

  “Have you not heard?” He cringed. “She is the daughter of a stable master!”

  She arched her brows in surprise. “I would never have guessed. Her manners are better than those of other members of this house party.” She had no hope that Mr. Bloomsbury would pick up on her implication. She picked up the napkin from her lap and set it on the table. “And now you’ll have to excuse me.”

  Not bothering to look back, Isabel hurried out of the breakfast room. But a moment later, she heard the door open behind her, and Mr. Bloomsbury’s squeaky shoes indicated his pursuit. “Miss Townshend, wait!”

  Isabel took brisk strides and turned down the third corridor, hoping to escape to her room before Mr. Bloomsbury caught up with her.

  “Miss Townshend!”

  The second door on the left. She began to run, propelled by the thought that, if he caught her now, he’d know the precise location of her room. Her hand was on the doorknob when she saw Mr. Bloombury’s shoe appear at the end of the hallway. She pushed the door open, doing her best to close it quickly and quietly.

  The footsteps halted and Isabel stiffened, pulse pounding in her throat.

  “Why Miss Townshend,” said a familiar voice from behind her. “I believe it breaks every rule in propriety for you to be in my bedroom.”

  Her head whipped around to see Lord Anthony standing before her, a gleam in his sinful eyes. Without thinking, Isabel stepped forward and placed a gloved hand over his lips.

  “Quiet!” she mouthed, her mind frantically searching for a way out of this mess. How could she have miscounted the corridors?

  “Miss Townshend?” Mr. Bloomsbury’s voice came from just outside the door.

  She forced her lungs to take in air slowly, closing her eyes as if that might somehow banish the awkward state she now found herself in.

  Lord Anthony’s hand encircled her wrist,
slowly prying her hand from his mouth, revealing a casual grin. Coming to herself, Isabel pulled her hand back, but Lord Anthony held on for another moment, his thumb brushing the skin just above her glove. She hated the way her blood pulsed beneath his touch.

  “Miss Townshend?” Mr. Bloomsbury’s voice grew distant.

  Before Isabel could exhale in relief, Lord Anthony leaned toward her, all but eliminating the space between them. “Now, just what am I supposed to think when a woman of your beauty and charm enters my bedroom and practically throws herself into my arms?”

  Breathing was impossible with his eyes, the color of burnt caramel, staring into hers. They made her forget all resolve against the feelings that had unwillingly surfaced during their waltz two nights before.

  Isabel gave a shaky laugh as she stepped back, trying to dispel the tension between them. She needed a moment to clear her head.

  “Lord Anthony, I . . .”

  All words, all thoughts fled. Just yesterday she’d spent the entirety of the day reminding herself of his rakish reputation. The man was a cad and an experienced rogue. She loathed herself for falling so easily into the web he had spun for her and every other woman that happened to walk by. His handsome face and devilish grin, his eyes—he knew the effect they had on women. On her.

  He stepped closer, so close that they shared the same air.

  Isabel panicked—she could not think clearly with him so near. The masculine smell of bergamot and leather filled her nose. She glanced past him and saw the four-poster bed where he slept, suddenly alarmed at the intimacy of being alone with a man in his bedroom. She took two quick steps backward, her shoulder blades brushing the door, but Lord Anthony was faster. He reached over her shoulder and placed his hand firmly against the door.