Seducing Mr. Heywood

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Regency Christmas Wishes Anthology

This book is dedicated to the memory of CB Hayden, who was the director of the ABC News Research Center. My beloved friend and colleague passed away on 6 March 2001, much before his time. CB was always supportive of my writing and full of wonderful ideas. He loved my “wicked” character Lady Sophia in
The Reluctant Guardian
and was delighted to know she would be the heroine of my second novel. (She wasn’t supposed to be, but she was one of those characters who don’t give their creators a moment’s peace!) I miss CB and other good friends who died young more than I can express in mere words. Marion Solheim Smith, Toni Thomas Haas, Ron Coplen, Shirley Miller…I was blessed to have known them, however briefly.

I want to thank my daughter, wall painting conservator Tracy Manning Winterbotham, for vetting the description of St. Mortrud’s Church, and her father-in-law, retired Canon Tony Winterbotham of Portsmouth Cathedral, England, for his help on matters having to do with the Church of England. St. Mortrud and St. Stamia are fictitious saints, but no less interesting, in my opinion. There are many local saints who are unknown to the general populace, and I would not be surprised, one day, to learn there actually is a Saint Mortrud somewhere, and/or a Saint Stamia.

I must asknowledge my friend Ben Heywood, of London, England, and the Soap Factory art gallery in Minneapolis, who so graciously allowed me to use his surname for my hero, Charles Heywood, and his full name, Benedict Heywood, for Charles’s father. In my opinion, any woman would count herself lucky to meet a man like Ben Heywood for Charles Heywood, two outstanding examples
of the caring Beta Male, whether in real life or fiction.

Special thanks go to California public librarian Teri Titus for being so kind as to send me a facsimile copy of
A Short Account of George Bidder, the Celebrated Mental Calculator; with A Variety of the Most Important Questions, Proposed to him at the principal Towns in the Kingdom, and his Surprising Rapid Answers!
I used this fabulous source upon which to base the character of William Rowley, the younger of Lady Sophia’s two sons. George Parker Bidder (1806-1878) was a mathematical prodigy of the Regency period. I also used some of the actual mathematical puzzles that were posed to young George. Don’t bother to work out the examples—just enjoy them—bearing in mind that the transcription of the questions over the years may have introduced typographical errors. Bidder was the genuine article.

And to my agent, Jenny Bent of the Trident Media Group, for always being there for me, my heartfelt thanks for her professional savvy, wisdom, and tact. It was a lucky day for me when we found each other. It has been a pleasure, too, to work with the multitalented Laura Cifelli, a pearl among editors, someone who took a chance on a slightly unusual Regency romance, a story that endeavors—often all at the same time—to be sexy, funny, irreverent, and serious. Thanks, too, to Laura’s able assistant, Rose Hilliard, who always had the answers to my many qustions.

I hope my modest love story between two most unlikely protagonists suspends your disbelief, and that you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! And bear in mind, as you read, that people are so much more than the sum of their parts. People will always surprise you; that is one of the glorious things about life.

—Jo Manning

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

About The Author

Rowley Hall, North Riding, Yorkshire, 1811

Blond, elegant Lady Sophia Rowley, clad in clinging ivory muslin, strode briskly into the drawing room, her cerulean eyes searching for the vicar of St. Mortrud’s. Her signature Floris fragrance, frangipani, perfumed the air in her wake. Where was that gentleman? This vexing interview was not at all to her liking, but George’s lawyer had suggested that she and Mr. Charles Heywood should become better acquainted, in keeping with the late baron’s wishes, if only for the sake of the boys.

There was a young man sipping a glass of what appeared to be George’s best sherry—the bottle was uncorked on the silver tray atop the Elizabethan tulipwood sidetable—a young man gazing fixedly at her portrait over the mantel. Irritation marred Sophia’s perfect features. She hated that painting of her as Diana, the virginal Roman goddess of the hunt, which had been completed but a scant year before the death of the artist. What had Romney been thinking? He must have already begun his descent into senility; it was the only explanation. She, the notorious Lady Sophia Rowley, portrayed as a virgin?

But George had loved it, had loved the way the moon and her hair were the same pale, burnished gold, and had given it pride of place at Rowley Hall. Dear, dear, sweet George. Well, now he was gone, and no longer had a say in the interior decoration of his home, so that annoyance could easily be disposed of. Unfortunately, other annoyances would not be as easily dealt with as the Romney portrait her late husband had so admired.

“Sir?” she called. “Have you seen Mr. Heywood?” Who was this stranger, and where was the vicar?

The young man turned, and Sophia was taken aback at his good looks. The gentleman was not much above average height, slender, and possessed of a pleasing, handsome countenance. Perhaps not so much handsome, she thought, as almost beautiful. He had a clear, fresh, young complexion, direct eyes of stormy gray; a short, straight nose; and curling ash brown hair that tumbled artlessly over a high aristocratic forehead. Not outwardly a very masculine appearing man, not the kind of large, muscular man she usually favored, but attractive, nonetheless. It was a face, she mused, that one would not tire of looking at. He was simply garbed in well-fitting buff inexpressibles and a dark blue coat. His linen was spotlessly white, per Beau Brummell’s dictum, and his brown leather boots were polished to a high shine. Yet, he was no dandy. His cravat—always the mark of a dandified gentleman—was simply tied in an unobtrusive fashion.

“Lady Rowley! I am Charles Heywood, at your service.” He stepped forward somewhat eagerly to greet her; too eagerly, as he unfortunately caught the toe of his boot on a rucked-up end of Oriental carpet. He pitched forward, spilling the contents of his drink in a great, wide arc that splattered a rich umber stain over Sophia’s bosom, seeping into the ivory muslin of her gown. The glass flew, shattering in glittering shards on the polished wood floor not covered by the thick carpet.

Charles Heywood extended his arms to steady himself, even as he lost his footing and landed heavily upon Lady Sophia, knocking her to the floor. An ominous ripping sound was heard and Charles’ left hand inadvertently
grasped the bodice of Lady Sophia’s dress, tearing it below the high waistline. Lady Sophia’s bosom, creamy white and wondrously full, was exposed before Charles fell upon her, knocking the breath out of her with a loud “whoosh.”