The Wagered Heart: Signet Regency Romance (InterMix) (4 page)

When
she
had stepped out of the shop, the sun shining on her exquisite face, he had stopped dead on the sidewalk. It was odd how now, almost one year later, he could still recall certain aspects of the scene without any difficulty.

He remembered that she was very tall, that her expressive eyes were a clear, true gray, and that she wore a gray gown. That gray gown and the fact that she appeared to be unattended caused him to conclude that the Beauty was probably some poor abigail on an errand.

He realized that everything in his well-ordered world had changed that day. At first, he was not aware that the event had had any effect upon him. He had waited for everything to return to normal—but it had not. Town had palled quickly, and he had returned to Kelbourne Keep, his principal seat, well before the Season was over.

Leaving the lush formality of his garden, he walked over an ornamental stone bridge and entered the extensive, rolling parkland with the vague notion of going to the lake some distance away.

It had taken until last Christmas to realize that he was feeling an emotion he could not recall having experienced since childhood. Shame.

He clearly recalled the moment this realization came to him. The entire extended Wenlock family had been enjoying a festive Christmas dinner. Halfway through the meal, something in the way Emmaline,
his older sister, smiled had caught his attention. Her pleased expression had reminded him of the Beauty.

The thought that followed had hit him like a blow to the chest. How would he feel if a man had treated his sister the way he had treated that young woman on the street that day?

For the previous seven months he had tried to keep this realization at bay by telling himself that his only intention had been an innocent kiss to honor Dame Fortune. But on Christmas day, as he sat at the head of his table with his family around him, a deep shame washed over him.

He was a gentleman not only by birth and rank, but also by the teachings and examples of his own father and mother. At his dinner table that day, with his family completely unaware of his inner turmoil, he finally owned that accosting the young woman, even for an
innocent
kiss, had been beneath him as a gentleman.

Though the long-denied emotion still stung, he had felt a little better for accepting that he had done wrong. But this new self-awareness had only gone so far to assuage the deadly mood that had been his companion for nigh on a year.

He reached the lake and, with a pleasant sense of fatigue, decided to remove his coat and rest on a massive boulder at the water’s edge. Though the boulder appeared upon the land as if placed there by nature, it, like the lake, had been designed by his landscape architect, Humphrey Repton. Kel was very satisfied with the change in the terrain, and it had solved some of the flooding problems another part of the estate had been experiencing for generations.

Tossing his walking stick aside, he drew one booted foot up onto the boulder, and rested his forearm upon his knee. Maybe Emmaline and Maman
were right—they were always after him to marry and plan for the next generation.

After all, he would be thirty in August. Was marriage the answer? he wondered. Maybe it was—he certainly had the perfect wife in mind. Maman had long ago chosen Lady Davinia Harwich to be his future bride.

Lord Harwich’s land, a sizable estate, marched with the Keep. The earl had made it clear that he had no issue with dowering his estate to his only daughter, as the title and other property were entailed to his nephew.

Marriage to the elegant Davinia had always been in the back of Kel’s mind, but it now seemed like something he should bring to the forefront.

Besides, Kelbourne Keep needed a mistress, he thought, warming to the idea.

He watched the swans feeding on the placid lake for some time, feeling soothed by the warmth radiating from the boulder. Turning his head a little, he looked across the distance to Kelbourne Keep.

Beautifully situated on a massive rise, the Keep had a commanding view of the Vale of Kelbourne. His heart swelled, as it always did, when seeing his home from this vantage point.

Since the reign of Edward the Confessor, the Wenlocks, lords of Kelbourne, had wielded great power in this part of the country. Though the last few generations of Wenlocks were soldiers and statesmen, his ancestors had been feudal warriors—or, as his grandmother liked to put it more delicately, “men of a martial inclination.”

A slight smile came to his lips at this as he continued to survey his home. During his childhood, he had spent many carefree days exploring the vast estate. But since inheriting the title, long before he expected to bear such responsibility, he had developed
a love and appreciation of his home that was as deep as it was rarely expressed.

As a young man he had traveled to the Continent and the Mediterranean, finding great pleasure in the beauty of ancient places. He had filled numerous sketchbooks with his attempts to capture some of his favorite sights. But nothing he had seen in his travels had ever compared to the majestic turrets of iron gray stone and the sweeping view of the Vale from his ancestral home.

Suddenly, he was aware that he felt much more the thing. The Keep and all the other Kelbourne holdings needed to be protected for the future. He now saw his duty clearly: it was time for a change in his life.

Rising, he picked up his jacket, flung it over his shoulder, and retrieved his walking stick from the ground. In no hurry, he made his way back to the Keep. He would call on Lord Harwich in the next few days, he decided, and begin paying court to Lady Davinia.

He felt better for having formulated a plan, and arrived back at his library in much improved spirits.

It was still several hours before dinner, so he decided to finish attending to the correspondence he had abandoned earlier.

The last letter in the stack was from his sister, he was pleased to see, and broke the seal quickly.

The duke folded the letter and sat back with a slight frown. He had wondered how long it would take to receive a letter like this. In truth, he had not expected it this soon.

After last Christmas, when Emmaline had informed him that she would be staying with Maman and Grandmère, their paternal grandmother, he had thought she was joking.

“Oh, Kel, they are both past their old, petty grievances toward each other,” Emma had assured him. “Besides, it’s silly for them to have separate houses
in Bath, and expect me to go back and forth visiting them. This is the logical solution.”

But the duke knew better. Maman and Grandmère had never gotten on well, and he could not imagine them doing so now. In spite of Emma’s dry-humored letter, he knew she loathed bickering and tension. Since losing her husband, Charles, Emmaline’s temperament was not as strong as it used to be.

Pulling a penknife from the desk drawer, the duke began to sharpen the nib of his quill. He had no doubt that his sister would be pleased by his letter informing her that she should expect to see him within the week.

Putting the female contingency of his family in a good humor would be the easiest thing in the world to do—he had only to inform them of his plans to marry. That would divert them from their nonsense quickly enough, he mused with a slight smile as he put quill to paper.

T
wo days before her intended departure for Bath, Julia set out to visit her childhood friend, Mariah Thorncroft.

As she walked through the creaking garden gate, Julia looked back at the home she had treasured since early childhood. Her aunt and uncle had always proudly tended the simple yet spacious two-story brick house, and it showed. Seen from the superior vantage point of the lane, the sight of her aunt’s flourishing garden never failed to stir Julia’s heart.

In a purposeful fashion, Julia walked along the narrow road. She carried several books, and her bonnet dangled from her arm by its peach-colored ribbons, which matched her simple muslin gown. The day was warm, and the sunbeams dodging through the tree branches felt good upon her face. Her booted feet made a satisfying crunch on the cobbles as her long strides ate up the distance.

Fledgling birds sang overhead, and Julia smiled at the sight of purple clematis growing next to a twisted oak on the side of the road. With a feeling of delight, she reveled at the evidence of spring all around her.

The walk to Mariah’s house was always one Julia enjoyed, and she took pleasure in every familiar turn
and rise in the road. She loved the village, too, and recalled with amusement how frightened she had been when she had first arrived at her aunt and uncle’s home.

Her papa had brought her to stay soon after her mama had died. Julia had mounted the front steps with trepidation, clutching her father’s hand. Aunt Beryl had opened the door and immediately enveloped her in a secure and warm embrace.

“My, aren’t you a tall girl for only being five years old,” was the first thing Julia remembered her aunt saying.

After the dim, sickroom atmosphere of her parents’ home, life with her aunt and uncle could not have been more different. They allowed her to run, yell, and visit with other children. Aunt Beryl read to her and taught her to sew. Uncle John also spent time with her when he was not away on military duties. He took her fishing and taught her how to draw a bow so the arrow would fly straight and true. They both had always made her feel as if she were their own.

Over the years, her papa would visit occasionally. He had been a quiet man, and looking back, Julia believed he had not the slightest notion of what to do with a little girl.

Sadly, he had been killed in one of the early battles of the war with France. His death had been upsetting, although not as devastating as it would have been had they been closer.

It was not only her deep love for her aunt and uncle, but her profound gratitude for taking her in that caused her to strive to be the very best daughter she could be. The feeling of wanting to be perfect for her aunt and uncle was another reason why her abrupt return from London galled so badly.

She still thanked the good Lord every Sunday that
Uncle John had been returned to them unhurt. Unlike any number of other soldiers who came back from the war, he was fortunate to have no financial worries. Showing much wisdom as a younger man, he had invested money from an inheritance in a sugarcane plantation in Jamaica.

Over the years he had reinvested the profits in various ventures, mostly successful. There was no need to live on a retired soldier’s half-pay, and he was known throughout the district as a very generous man.

Though ostensibly raised as an only child, for her aunt and uncle had not been blessed with their own children, Julia had never been lonely. There had often been long visits with her cousins and various other family members. She had also formed an early, and lasting, friendship with Mariah Thorncroft.

When she reached the age of eighteen, her aunt and uncle had given her a grand reception in lieu of a Season. John and Beryl had little fondness for Town, therefore, Julia had no desire to go there either.

After that, several young men had approached her uncle about paying court to her, but as she had little affection for any of them, her uncle had discouraged their suits.

Over the years Aunt Beryl had helped shape Julia’s opinion on marriage.

“My dear, it is not as it was a hundred years ago. We live in much more enlightened times. There is no reason for an intelligent girl from a good family to feel constrained to marry anyone. I was almost eight-and-twenty before I met your uncle. If we had not met, I would have never married, and would have thought nothing of it,” Aunt Beryl had told her.

So Julia had continued to reside in her relatives’ home, happy and secure with her lot. But over time,
as she had left her ungainly girlishness behind, the gentlemen in the district had begun to display the oddest reactions to her looks.

At the local assemblies, they would stare to the point of gawking. Or they would stammer and stutter over silly attempts at poetry extolling her beauty. She had grown quite accustomed to these awkward responses to her appearance, and they had even afforded amusement on some occasions.

Though village life was generally quiet, there was a considerable amount of social activity in the area. The Thorncrofts entertained, as did Squire Heath. The Allards were also noted for their laughter-filled gatherings, though Aunt Beryl enjoyed society much more than her husband did. He preferred to ensconce himself in his library with his cronies while his wife and niece entertained.

It was not until Caro and Aunt Hyacinth had sent her numerous letters rhapsodizing over the delights of a London Season that Julia had started to consider leaving Chippenham for the spring.